A Princess of the Chameln Read Online Free PDF Page A

him around the tree to where Telavel stood and bowed her head against the mare’s dark mane. She felt the hard ache in her throat that took the place of tears. She had seldom wept since her parents’ death. The child’s outburst was not much worse than the everyday tensions of Achamar. She found no peace between her struggle with books, the angry silences of the Council Hall, and the soft insincerity of the dressing rooms.
    When her mother’s presence was withdrawn, the bored ladies of Lien turned towards Aravel and her distaste for the world of the Chameln. From one hour to the next Aidris was dressed in long robes and cossetted, then mocked, secretly or openly. Even Riane, her favorite, carried tales, betrayed the child’s and the growing girl’s confidence a hundred times.
    â€œAidris . . . I’m sorry . . .”
    Sharn Am Zor plucked at her sleeve. He had lost all his willfulness; he looked woebegone and frightened. She put an arm around him; Sharn was always forgiven, poor wretch.
    â€œWhere is everyone?” he whispered, “I thought I saw . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œA movement in the leaves . . .”
    They peered round the oak, examined every part of the encircling green, every tree and bush.
    â€œAre there . . .” said Sharn hoarsely, “Are there little people . . . you know, dwarfs and greddles . . .”
    Aidris knew it at once for a childhood fear, like the fear she had once had of the dark.
    â€œOf course there are,” she said. “Nothing to be afraid of. There used to be greddles at the palaces in Achamar. The last of them was an old woman, I think her name was Ninchi. A greddle is like a dwarf, it is a kind of misbirth, a creature to be pitied because it cannot grow as others do. But there are the Tulgai. Have you not heard of them?”
    â€œThey—they’re hairy . . .” said Sharn.
    â€œThey are a tribe of small hairy folk who roam the great border forests; their leader is the Balg. They are hunters, skilled in forest lore. They still use the Old Speech, and some say they know the speech of the birds and animals, but I think that is only a tale. The Tulgai are part of our own folk, and if we came amongst them, they would do us honor. Every year, Nazran says, they leave tribute for the Daindru at Vigrund, the border town.”
    â€œWell, I would not mind them!” said Sharn firmly.
    The storm had passed; watery sunlight came through the oak leaves.
    â€œThe others will be searching for us,” she said.
    â€œWe are safe in Ystamar, the valley of the oak trees,” said Sharn.
    â€œHush,” said Aidris, “it is a holy place. If you speak of it, you will not come to it.”
    The spell of the oak tree held them fast. They seemed to be outside of time, and it did not help Aidris’s real anxiety.
    â€œMount up!” she said. “We must find our way.”
    â€œBack through the wood?” whispered Sharn.
    â€œNo,” said Aidris. “No . . . we dare not. We will go to the lake people, to Musna, the lake village.”
    When they were mounted, there was room to walk the horses round in a ring, under the oak’s spreading boughs. They made a game of avoiding pursuit—around, around again, as if Aidris might lead off back into the wood, then around a third time. . . .
    â€œNow!” she cried.
    They peeled off, Sharn leading, left the shelter of the oak and galloped between two birch trees, heading for the lake. There was a jagged sound, a rending of the air as if they had crashed back into the real world by riding through a glass wall. Moon, the pony, danced about on the broad path at the water’s edge but Sharn forced her to the left, with Telavel at her heels. Aidris looked back and saw a blue rider, a figure in cloak and hood on a dark horse, blowing a silver hunting horn. The call was “Gone Away.”
    She bent low and urged Telavel up beside the white pony.