A Princess of the Chameln by Cherry Wilder Page B

wrapped in warm earth from the seed boxes in the cellars. “Let it grow,” she said in her mind, firmly, reverently, using the Old Speech. “Let it grow for my deliverance and for the good of the Chameln and their lands.”
    She looked about for a sign, but there was nothing particular to be seen except the beauty of the winter day. Telavel, covered almost to her hocks in a quilted blanket, nibbled at a twist of cold grey grass. Aidris drew out the stone from under her cloak and warmed it in the palm of her hand, under her glove.
    She thought of her long involvement with the stone. She had learned first of all to hide it skillfully, moving it from place to place so that it was never found. Then she had learned not to approach it too often, not to question or weep, not to expect messages or miracles.
    She felt the stone warm on her hand and drew it out and looked into it. There were two tall red candles in gold candlesticks and sprays of evergreen. It looked like an altar for the Goddess at the Winter Festival. There was shadowy movement, the sleeve of a robe came into view, the whole scene blurred, breaking into sparkling points of light, then cleared again. Three objects lay between the candles; a hand, the Lady’s hand, moved each one forward for her to see. A small bound book in the style of Lien, with purple-brown leather cover and a silver fastening; a dagger in a green sheath; a cluster of yellow stones on a long gold chain. The three objects were tapped, each one, with a forefinger, then the two hands opened in an offering gesture.
    â€œOh the book!” said Aidris, pointing. “I will choose the book!”
    There was a gesture, hands together, of greeting and farewell; the picture faded. She was schooled by this time to feel no disappointment. It was like a game played on New Year’s Eve, with coins and charms in the fruity-bread. She hoped the book meant “good fortune in the coming year.”
    II
    A day at the end of the Willowmoon, the month of planting, she was sky-larking in the stableyard with Maith and the grooms. Kira, the senior kedran, looked out of the topmost window of the manor house.
    â€œSomething to be seen!”
    Aidris ran indoors, panting, wet from the water fight, and began to climb the kitchen stairs. She ran onto the second landing and into Nazran’s study. As she stood at the window Kira came down from the attic and presently Maith and the Countess Maren came to stand behind them. A troop of cavalry were crossing the plain: thirty warriors of Mel’Nir mounted on their battle chargers.
    â€œIf they turn off the road?” said Aidris.
    â€œGoddess help us!” said Lady Maren.
    â€œNo sense in taking chances,” said Kira. “If they turn off the road, those draught horses will give us a few moments grace. Dan Aidris and Maith will go on foot through the orchard and into the near forest.”
    The mounted warriors moved like a ponderous war-engine; one could almost hear the beat of their hooves, the harness of men and animals jingling as they went along. They passed the point where they might have turned off towards the manor house and rode on until they were hidden by the trees.
    â€œSomething afoot!” said Maith. “Countess, shall we send into Vigrund town and try for news?”
    â€œTomorrow,” said Lady Maren.
    Aidris knew that this tomorrow meant “a day like today,” another peaceful spring day at Thuven. She was restless and wished they might send for news at once, but she said nothing.
    Tomorrow did not come. The next day she was awakened very early, before sunrise; Lady Maren stood there in her nightgown holding a candle.
    â€œI have brought your milk posset,” she said. “You must dress quickly and go down to the hall. Nazran is here. I have to tell you . . .”
    â€œWhat? What has happened?”
    â€œDan Esher is dying . . . dead . . .”
    â€œAn attack?”
    They were