The ground rose slightly as it met the ridge; pine trees grew right up to the very face of the gray wall. The horses’ hooves clattered over a stone embankment, and then they were through the cliff and gazing on a breathtaking sight. Despite the raindrops pelting down around them, Quentin stopped to marvel at the vision before him. A vast rolling meadow of rich mountain green spread out on either side of the stream, here narrower and more deep. Enclosing the meadow and towering above it on all sides rose smooth, flat walls of stone, now blue under the black sky. At the far end of the meadow, which Quentin adjudged to be fully a league wide and half a league long, stood an enormous house of white stone, glimmering like the white sails of a ship on an emerald sea.
“That is Inchkeith’s home,” said Durwin, “and we are just in time.”
A clap of thunder rolled across the ridge to echo its booming voice throughout the meadow. The long grass began to dip and rise like the waves of Gerfallon in the fitful wind.
They galloped out into the wonderful meadow, the rain, sharper now, stinging their cheeks. Quentin felt a thrill of excitement as lightning tore the sky in a jagged flash. The resounding roar filled the blue canyon and rumbled out across the valley behind them.
Inchkeith’s house was as large as a small castle, an impression strengthened by the single stately tower which served as entrance and gatehouse before a generous, stone-paved courtyard. Several smaller structures clustered close about the main house; these were also of the same white stone. The stream, running deep and quiet in its course through the meadow, formed a graceful waterfall as it spilled out over the sheer rock face behind the master armorer’s manor. At the further end, where the water ran down into the meadow, a large wheel turned slowly in the swift current.
There was no one to be seen as the travelers pounded to a halt before the tower, A portcullis of finely wrought iron barred their way into the courtyard beyond.
“He keeps no gateman,” observed Durwin, “because he expects no travelers and has but few guests.”
The hermit slid down off his palfrey and strode to the archway.
In a nook in the stone hung a knotted rope. Darwin grasped the rope and pulled twice very quickly. A bell pealed in the courtyard.
“That should bring someone running,” said Durwin. The rain was falling harder; in a few moments they would be soaked to the skin. Out across the meadow, back the way they had come, great white sheets of shimmering rain were wavering toward them, driven like sails before the wind. Water was pooling up around the horses’ feet and streaming down the walls of the manor.
“Who seeks admittance to my master’s house?” Quentin had not seen the slight young man run out of a doorway across the courtyard. He held his cloak over his head and peered at them through the iron grillwork of the portcullis.
“Tell your master that Durwin the Holy Hermit of Pelgrin and his friends Quentin and Toli are here to see him on King’s business. Tell him we respectfully request the hospitality due travelers. And you had better tell him quickly, or we will be in a most unhappy disposition.” He wiped away the trickle of water sliding down the side of his nose.
The young man seemed to weigh a decision carefully. “You do not seem disposed to be unruly. Come in out of the rain while I fetch word to the master.” He disappeared into a recess beside the portcullis and instantly the heavy iron gate began to lift, smoothly and without so much as a squeak or a creak. It was obviously made with the utmost skill.
The damp travelers hurriedly stepped under the arch of the gatehouse to wait until the young servant returned. Quentin and Toli dismounted and stood dripping in the dark tunnel of the archway.
Quentin was struck by the spare simplicity of all he saw around him. Not a post nor portal possessed an inch of ornamentation. Around the perimeter of the courtyard not an item was out of place, and the yard itself was spotless. The edifice of Inchkeith’s manor house was all clean lines and square corners; clearly it had been erected with exacting care. Not a crack or crevice was to be seen anywhere.
To Quentin’s eye the effect was reminiscent of the architecture of Dekra, though not at all derivative of it. He was impressed with the clean appearance of all that met his eye; it spoke of a hand that left nothing undone, and a mind that saw to the smallest detail.
He heard a shout and saw the young servant waving to them from inside the arched entrance to the manor hall. They dashed across the corner of the courtyard and joined him under the sheltering portico. “Come along with me. Take no heed for your horses; I win send someone to care for them and bed them. My master asks that you join him at table in the great hall if you are so inclined.”
“Indeed we are!” Quentin fairly shouted. He was hungry, cold and wet. A hot meal seemed like the most wonderful thing he could have dreamed at the moment. “Lead on!”
The skinny, long-boned young man led them along the short passage to the hall’s entrance, pushed open the iron-bound wooden door and ushered them in. The hall was ample and gracious, but marked with the same unadorned, almost severe style as the exterior. Quentin gazed around in admiration. Several servants were moving about in preparation for the meal. A single long table with benches along either side overlooked a wide and generous hearth in which a well-made fire burned cheerily. It spoke of a well-drafted chimney, for there was, Quentin noted with pleasure, not a trace of soot on the walls or ceiling of the hall anywhere. Everything was as clean as if it had never been used, and yet it was warm and homey.
The appearance of Lord (for so Quentin now considered him) Inchkeith’s abode drew a picture in Quentin’s mind of a stern and exacting personage of regal bearing, a man of quick temper and a will as strong as the iron gate at his door, a man of precise and flawless judgment, one who would never suffer imperfection or blemish lightly. A man of power, strength and grace. A man of relentless, fervent perfection, obeyed by all around him with unspoken efficiency and unfailing courtesy.
“Durwin! You old mumblebeard!” a hearty voice boomed out behind them. “Welcome! Welcome, fair friends! Welcome to Whitehall!”
Quentin turned, expecting to see the man of his imaginings. The picture so carefully drawn in his mind collapsed utterly as Quentin, with a rude shock, beheld the Lord of Whitehall.
THIRTY-THREE
“YOU SHOULD have allowed me to accompany you today,” said Myrmior. “I could have helped you against them.”
“No.” Ronsard shook his head sternly. “You are too valuable an ally. You will help us more with your knowledge of the Ningaal ways than with your strong sword arm. If you had been killed today, as many good men were, we should have no one to guide us in preparing against them.”
“I submit to your will, Lord Ronsard. I will obey. But I wanted you to know that I was not afraid, and that when the time comes for me to lift blade against my former enslavers, I will do so with all courage.”
“We do not doubt your valor, brave Myrmior. You will ride with us in due time, no doubt. But Ronsard is right. You are worth more to us as a guide to the Ningaal’s mind and heart, than as a sword wielder. You are unique; stout blades we have many.”
Lord Wertwin sat nearby and did not speak. His heart was heavy with the loss of many fine men that day; he had borne the brunt of the battle and was now bereft of almost half his company.
After the daring rescue of Wertwin’s troops by Theido and Ronsard’s forces, they had all returned to make camp for the night upon the greensward. As they sat huddled in consultation, the ring of the hammer upon the anvil and the moans of the wounded could be heard throughout the camp as smith and surgeon saw to the repair of weapons and men. Sentinels had been posted and fires had been lit for the night’s vigil. Theido, Ronsard, Myrmior and Wenwin turned once more to the brutal events of the day.