Patricia A. Mckillip - The Riddle-Master of Hed (Fantasy Masterworks 19)

Morgon of Hed met the High Ones harpist one autumn day when the trade-ships docked at Tol for the seasons exchange of goods. A small boy caught sight of the round-hulled ships with their billowing sails striped red and blue and green, picking their way among the tiny fishing boats in the distance, and ran up the coast from Tol to Akren, the house of Morgon, Prince of Hed. There he disrupted an argument, gave his message, and sat down at the long, nearly deserted tables to forage whatever was left of breakfast. The Prince of Hed, who was recovering slowly from the effects of loading two carts of beer for trading the evening before, ran a reddened eye over the tables and shouted for his sister.

But, Morgon, said Harl Stone, one of his farmers, who had a shock of hair grey as a grindstone and a body like a sack of grain. What about the white bull from An you said you wanted? The wine can wait

What, Morgon said, about the grain still in Wyndon Amorys storage barn in east Hed? Someone has to bring it to Tol for the traders. Why doesnt anything ever get done around here?

We loaded the beer, his brother Eliard, clear-eyed and malicious reminded him.

Thank you. Where is Tristan? Tristan!

What! Tristan of Hed said irritably behind him, holding the ends of her dark, unfinished braids in her fists.

Get the wine now and the bull next spring, Cannon Master, who had grown up with Morgon, suggested briskly. Were sadly low on Herun wine; weve barely enough to make it through winter.

Eliard broke in, gazing at Tristan. I wish I had nothing better to do than sit around all morning braiding my hair and washing my face in buttermilk.

At least I wash. You smell like beer. You all do. And who tracked mud all over the floor?

They looked down at their feet. A year ago Tristan had been a thin, brown reed of a girl, prone to walking field walls barefoot and whistling through her front teeth. Now she spent much of her time scowling at her face in mirrors and at anyone in range beyond them. She transferred her scowl from Eliard to Morgon.

What were you bellowing at me for?

The Prince of Hed closed his eyes. Im sorry. I didnt mean to bellow. I simply want you to clear the tables, lay the cloths, reset them, fill pitchers of milk and wine, have them fix platters of meat, cheese, fruit and vegetables in the kitchen, braid your hair, put your shoes on and get the mud off the floor. The traders are coming.

Oh, Morgon ... Tristan wailed. Morgon turned to Eliard.

And you ride to east Hed and tell Wyndon to get his grain to Tol.

Oh, Morgon. Thats a days ride!

I know. So go.

They stood unmoving, their faces flushed, while Morgons farmers looked on in unabashed amusement. They were not alike, the three children of Athol of Hed and Spring Oakland. Tristan, with her flighty black hair and small, triangular face, favored their mother. Eliard, two years younger than Morgon, had Athols broad shoulders and big bones, and his fair, feathery hair. Morgon, with his hair and eyes the color of light beer, bore the stamp of their grandmother, whom the old men remembered as a slender, proud woman from south Hed: Lathe Wolds daughter. She had had a trick of looking at people the way Morgon was gazing at Eliard, remotely, like a fox glancing up from a pile of chicken feathers. Eliard puffed his cheeks like a bellows and sighed.

If I had a horse from An, I could be there and back again by supper.

Ill go, said Cannon Master. There was a touch of color on his face.

Ill go, Eliard said.

No. I want ... I havent seen Arin Amory for a while. Ill go. He glanced at Morgon.

I dont care, Morgon said. Just dont forget why youre going. Eliard, you help with the loading at Tol. Grim, Ill need you with me to barterthe last time I did it alone, I nearly traded three plow horses for a harp with no strings.

If you get a harp, Eliard interrupted, I want a horse from An.

And I have to have some cloth from Herun, Tristan said. Morgon, I have to have it. Orange cloth. Also I need thin needles and a pair of shoes from Isig, and some silver buttons, and

What, Morgon demanded, do you think grows in our fields?

I know what grows in our fields. I also know what Ive been sweeping around under your bed for six months. I think you should either wear it or sell it. The dust is so thick on it you cant even see the colors of the jewels.

There was silence, brief and unexpected, in the hall. Tristan stood with her arms folded, the ends of her braids coming undone. Her chin was raised challengingly, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes as she faced Morgon. Eliards mouth was open. He closed it with a click of teeth.

What jewels?

Its a crown, Tristan said. I saw one in a picture in a book of Morgons. Kings wear them.

I know what a crown is. He looked at Morgon, awed. What on earth did you trade for that? Half of Hed?

I never knew you wanted a crown, Cannon Master said wonderingly. Your father never had one. Your grandfather never had one. Your

Cannon, Morgon said. He raised his hands, dropped the heels of them over his eyes. The blood was high in his face. Kern had one.

Who?

Kern of Hed. He would be our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. No. One more great. It was made of silver, with a green jewel in it shaped like a cabbage. He traded it one day for twenty barrels of Herun wine, thereby instigating

Dont change the subject, Eliard said sharply. Where did you get it? Did you trade for it? Or did you ... He stopped. Morgon lifted his hands from his eyes.

Did I what?

Nothing. Stop looking at me like that. Youre trying to change the subject again. You traded for it, or you stole it, or you murdered someone for it

Now, then Grim Oakland, Morgons portly overseer, said placatingly.

Or you just found it laying in the corncrib one day, like a dead rat. Which?

I did not murder anyone! Morgon shouted. The clink of pots from the kitchen stopped abruptly. He lowered his voice, went on tartly, What are you accusing me of?

I didnt

I did not harm anyone to get that crown; I did not trade anything that doesnt belong to me for it; I did not steal it

I wasnt

It belongs to me by right. What right, you have not touched on yet. You asked a riddle and tried to answer it; you are wrong four times. If I bumbled through riddles like that, I wouldnt be here talking to you now. I am going down to welcome the traders at Tol. When you decide to do some work this morning, you might join me.

He turned. He got as far as the front steps when Eliard, the blood mounting to his face, broke away from the transfixed group, moved across the room with a speed belied by his size, threw his arms around Morgon and brought him off the steps face down in the dirt.

The chickens and geese scattered, squawking indignantly. The farmers, the small boy from Tol, the woman who cooked, and the girl who washed pots jammed the door at once, clucking.

Morgon, groping for the breath the smack of the earth had knocked out of him, lay still while Eliard said between his teeth, Cant you answer a simple question? What do you mean you wouldnt be talking to me now? Morgon, what did you do for that crown? Where did you get it? What did you do? I swear Ill

Morgon lifted his head dizzily. I got it in a tower. He twisted suddenly, throwing Eliard off balance into one of Tristans rosebushes.

The battle was brief and engrossing. Morgons farmers, who until the previous spring had been under Athols placid, efficient rule, stared half-shocked, half-grinning as the Prince of Hed was sent rolling across a mud puddle, staggered to his feet, and, head lowered like a bull, launched himself at his brother. Eliard Shook himself free and countered with a swing of his fist that, connecting, sounded in the still air like the distant thunk of ax into wood. Morgon dropped like a sack of grain. Then Eliard fell to his knees beside the prone body and said, aghast, Im sorry. Im sorry. Morgon, did I hurt you?