No more it was. A yellow sun beamed down past a few errant clouds, warming them with a summer warmth where they stood at the edge of a wood, on an extended plain covered with long green grass. No breeze was stirring. A large tent—almost more pavilion than tent—had been set up not more than fifty yards away; and a group of tall, lean men, half of them with unstrung bows hanging from their shoulders and long quivers full of arrows dependent from their broad leather belts, stood in a group.
They were dressed in tunics and tight leather leggings such as Jim and Brian were used to see Dafydd wearing, each man in solid blue, green, or brown clothing, their talking now interrupted by discovery of the presence of Jim and the others. They stared at Jim and these other new arrivals; and Jim, his own eyes all but blinded by the comparative brilliance of the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, and the gold of the sun overhead, stared back at them. But one among them stared only briefly before starting with long strides toward the newcomers; and he was Dafydd.
"It's all right… all right…" Jim heard Hob's small, high voice behind him, saying; and he looked over his shoulder to see the tiny hobgoblin stroking the scaly neck of the QB. The latter seemed to have grown half again as large as usual, suddenly, as people and many higher mammals do when ready to fight—drawing themselves up, expanding their lungs, and bristling whatever hair they possessed.
Hob went on talking softly, steadily, to the QB, stroking the long neck over and over again while the QB seemingly unaware of the hobgoblin, arched that same neck, his narrow tongue flickering in and out of his half-open mouth, which now showed wickedly curved fangs.
"It is wrong for me to be here…" the QB was hissing. "Only one villainously against the Legends would come to this place…"
"James! Brian!" said Dafydd sharply, stopping in front of them. This was the other Dafydd speaking—the one who was a Prince in this Drowned Land, rather than the ordinary archer of the land above. He was still the friend they knew, but everything—including his way of speaking—was different, more formal, commanding. "What do you here—and with this—"
He broke off suddenly.
"QB!" he said. "You? Here in—" He broke off; and—being recognized, the QB abruptly recognized Dafydd from his last time in Lyonesse, on the trip with Jim and Brian. His back flattened somewhat, his fangs became less prominent. "I crave your indulgence, my Lord Questing Beast," Dafydd went on, "—if I may call you so?"
"You may, of course." The QB was still not fully at ease. He still had a tendency to hiss the letter's when he spoke. "I am indeed a Lord of Lyonesse by virtue of my being mentioned in the Legends of our King."
The hissing faded out, however, as he spoke. He had gone back almost to his ordinary size and tone of voice, and with the closing of his mouth the wicked fangs now disappeared; but he was still tense.
"However, all call me the QB, and I prefer it so."
"Then with your indulgence I will do so—indeed, it makes matters somewhat easier. And, James, and Brian, will you both forgive me if I also address you before our people here simply as Sir James? Here in the Drowned Land, the title of Lord is only for our King—except in such instance as the QB here, who is a special case. Many of our people recognize a word or two of English; and in a moment I must name you to my cousins and friends; and to our new young King, the one surviving son of our King who has now died. The boy is young to take the throne, but there can be no other choice."
"Was it not said of that King we saw you with on our last trip, all his children were dead?" Brian said.
"All but this youngest. He has been kept safely hidden. His death was announced, for that he was so young and there has been dissension between the Colors. Come, let me take you to him. I am his Regent. I and the other loyal Leaders have met here urgently to decide what to do next—I have much to tell you, but no time to do it now. I must also make you known to the Leaders-of-Colors—there is no word for their authority in English—none even in Wales in the land above. Think of them as each speaking for something like a clan where all wear a certain color to their clothes."
This last sentence came out of Dafydd in a clear, carrying voice. It was obvious to Jim that he had said it as much for the information of the men with him, who understood English, as to Brian and Jim. For once, it was Brian who answered first to deal with the situation.
"This is your land," Brian said. "We are visitors. Your ways shall be our ways while we are here."
"Then I will now name you to my cousins and friends; and to our new young King, for whom I am Regent," Dafydd went on, in the same carrying tones. He lowered his voice abruptly to a level for Jim's and Brian's ears alone. "All the Leaders here are of clans loyal to him; and we are met to decide what to do next; for—"
He raised his voice once more. "—our land is at war with itself over who shall sit on the throne in this dangerous time."
Jim, Brian, and the QB were all silent. Even Hob had stopped murmuring comforting words to the QB and stood motionless, with the motionless horses.
"So, James, Brian, QB—may I beg your indulgence to follow me back to the gathering and stand with me; and that there you stay silent, unless it is necessary to declare yourself one way or another. In that case, I would hope that you would follow me in all I say and do. Is that agreeable to you?"
Brian looked at Jim. Hob looked at Jim. To his surprise, even the QB looked at him, waiting.
"Count on us," said Jim, out of a throat that had become a bit tense in recent minutes, itself. He did not like blind promises; and if it had not been Dafydd ap Hywel who was asking now, his instinct would have been to refuse.
Dafydd turned and strode off, back toward the waiting group of men before the tent. The rest of them followed.
"Gentlemen!" he said, in a short, sharp voice Jim had never heard him use before. All those standing there, who had been gazing at the sudden new arrivals, turned their attention back to the tall man in sky-blue.
But now Dafydd, back with the Drowned Landers, was giving all his attention to a boy among them, who seemed no more than thirteen years old, and had been unnoticed by Jim among the grown men surrounding him. He wore the same kind of clothes as the others, but his were colored all the shades Jim could see on the men present, as well as some shades not otherwise represented. Black and white both—for two—were not there.
"Sire," said Dafydd to the boy, in English, "may I name to you Sir James Eckert, Baron de Malencontri, and Sir Brian Neville-Smythe of Castle Smythe, both from the land above? Both blooded friends of mine, and trustworthy as knights are said to be, but seldom are. Also, may I name to you the Lord Questing Beast of our neighboring land of Lyonesse, also a friend. He is one at arms with us and these two knights in the matter of the shadows of the Dark Powers we have been feeling over our lands; and which some of us here have blamed for the unhappy time that has come upon our own kingdom."
"I am pleasured to know them," answered the young King—unexpectedly, also in fluent English.
"Now," said Dafydd, "I will tell those with us in our own language what the Lord King and I said in yours."
He turned to those watching, and spoke. Dafydd had always had a soft, lilting way of speaking, to Jim's ear. But when he spoke the ancient tongue of his ancestors now, it became different. The lilt was still there, but it was as if each word had been edged with steel. But that difference could be thought about later. The important matter was that Jim did not understand a word of it.
Oh, fine, he thought; then instantly realized that there was no problem, since he was no longer in Lyonesse. Morgan le Fay could neither see nor touch him here. He could safely work his magic inside his ward, and then open the ward to let that out to be effective in this land. He had learned the magical trick to understanding strange languages sometime since—concepting what he could hear—not the words spoken, but the meaning in the words just before they were uttered.
He made it so now; and started understanding.
The tight group of men listene
d with noncommittal eyes as Dafydd continued to speak, only occasionally turning to stare at the QB, Jim, and Brian—but with something less than welcome… but Jim became conscious he was missing the thread of Dafydd's speech.
"—The small Natural upon their horse of baggage," wound up Dafydd, as Jim heard in translation, "is the hobgoblin of Sir James's castle; and for all his small size, courageous and of loyalty beyond testing."
They ignored Hob.
"You are welcome, messires," said the boy, himself speaking in the tongue of the Drowned Land, in a high, clear voice, looking at the men before them. "Welcome, Lord Questing Beast. You are all doubly welcome if you have come to aid our cause."
"I'm afraid, Sire," said Jim, in the only language available to him, and with the first words that came to his mind, "we came for a number of reasons. But without going into those, all else that concerns us most certainly can't succeed unless your cause does also; so our aim, like yours and that of these gentlemen here, is to make things safe and right once more, both here and in Lyonesse."
"Kindly said," answered the boy; this time back in English and with what struck Jim as remarkable composure for someone his age. But, having said that much, he spoke no more and looked up at Dafydd's tall form.
"Sire," said Dafydd, "it would probably be best if, in spite of the urgency of the moment, I should take a small time to discover the details of what brought my friends to us; and this will be best done if I and they step aside. It will be a short interruption, only, I promise you and these gentlemen, who have traveled both far and fast to be with you now. Let me ask those of you—"
He broke off and looked around at the circular group of men in the different colors of clothing.
"—Are there any who would wish to speak against my taking this time from our discussion?"
For a moment it seemed that none of those looking back at him would speak. Then one man wearing green, as tall as Dafydd, with a mustache and beard, both trimmed short and showing flecks of gray among their stiff, brown hairs, turned his eyes from the QB to the boy; and began to speak in the language of the Drowned Land—not to Dafydd, but directly to the young king.
"Sire, may I remind you that some of us here have left our own places suddenly, to come without delay to you; and we must return as soon as possible. Moreover, is not one of our great concerns the monsters growing in numbers daily in the Borderlands? And is not this Questing Beast only another such? But your Regent has asked us to accept him immediately as one of us in our privy planning!"
The youthful monarch, however, was equal to being put in the middle of the disagreement.
"It has been my particular wish," he said in his high voice, "that my Regent should, for my good and that of all my people, rule in such matters."
A silence followed this.
"Is there any other who would speak?" asked Dafydd.
"Yes, by Saint Gildas!" burst out one of the men in brown, speaking the local language. Noticeably among the tall figures around him, with blue or gray eyes, their brown hair cut short on their long-shaped heads, which had seemed to be standard for most of the Drowned Land people Jim had seen—this speaker, while also long-headed, had his brown hair cut only in front and wore it down to his shoulders in back. He was also dark-eyed and short, almost stocky. His face was either tanned or deeply flushed; and his voice was angry. He shoved his way forward among those around him.
"I do not like strange beasts from Lyonesse being pushed upon us. The matter between us and the Sea-Purple is bad enough, without nightmare creatures and unasked visitors from the land above joining in our speaking! I tell you this plainly!"
"Now," said Dafydd—and his voice had gone back to that cool, almost lazy, dangerous tone Jim had heard from him before when things got tense, "—you would not be questioning whether I am a good Regent for our King, are you, Gruffydd?"
But the boy stepped quickly in front of Dafydd, facing the man called Gruffydd.
"Our royal ancestors were of the sky-blue!" he shouted. "Dafydd ap Hywel is my blood cousin. Before he died, my father offered Dafydd to take the throne in my place. If he had done so, he would stand here now as your King and mine. But he refused. So now I am King and have chosen him as Regent. Am I your King, then, or am I not? If I am your King, he is your Regent—and I say then there shall be no more discussion of those who have just joined us, or of Dafydd speaking aside with them. Am I your King?"
For a bare second there was no movement. Then, all together, including the man in brown, they knelt before him on one knee and bowed their heads.
"Rise," said the boy-King; and turned his back on the men as they did so, to face Dafydd, Jim, and those with him. "My Regent, take what time you need. I shall stay here, so that our friends may not think you talk behind their back."
Daffyd bowed his head and shoulders.
"Thank you, Sire," he said. "The time will not be wasted." He switched back to English. "Sir James, Sir Brian, my Lord QB, will you, of your favor, accompany me?"
Amid the continued silence of all those with the King, Dafydd led Jim and the rest to the tent. The horses followed, the destriers by training and the sumpter horse because she was still on the lead rope; they were, however, left outside, though Dafydd's beckoning finger summoned Hob with the rest inside the tent. There was little enough there. Some branches had been thrown down and covered with bedding, in a corner. Outside of that, the only furnishings were a bare wooden slab on trestles, set up as a table, and a large leather container, half sack, half jug, and some cups.
"Dafydd, James!" exploded Brian, once they were seated and the leather container proved to contain a red wine.
Both the other men looked at him inquiringly.
"For the love of all the Saints!" Brian said. "Will you tell me what all that talk in foreign speech was about?"
"It was not foreign, you know, Sir Brian," said Dafydd mildly. "English is the foreign tongue here."
"English? Foreign?" said Brian, becoming even angrier. He got himself under control. "Anyway, it was damned discourteous to speak it before a gentleman who did not understand it. You tell me what was said, then, James!"
He looked at Jim, who understood. It was not that Brian expected Jim to suddenly have developed an understanding of the Drowned Land language. It was simply that since Jim was a magician, he must, in some occult way, have known what had been said.
"I think Dafydd is just about to explain that and more to the rest of us," said Jim peaceably.
"I, too," put in the QB, "would like to know what the speaking was about."
"You did not?" Dafydd looked at him with surprise.
"You must remember," the QB said, "that while some of your people in the Drowned Land have from time to time come to Lyonesse—though there is danger for them to do so—none of Lyonesse have ever come to this country of yours."
"Never?" Dafydd gazed at him.
"Never," answered the QB. "Why should they?"
"They are human, as we are."
"But all their existence, like Lyonesse itself, owes its being to the Legends of King Arthur. Like those, they are part of the Legends. In fact, I did not believe it possible for me to be here. I had thought that none of us from there could live beyond its borders. I am still amazed to find myself with you and still existing; and I can only think that some special effort of the Old Magic has made it possible."
It was a solemn speech; and it had its effect on the rest of them.
"However," said Jim, after a moment, "you are here."
"That cannot be argued."
"It is a wonder," said Dafydd; "but one we should seek to understand another time. You all probably saw that there were some who were not happy that I should go aside with you as I have. The shorter the time before we rejoin them, the better. Let me swiftly tell you of the situation here, and my own place in it."
"I had hoped you would be free by now, Dafydd," said Brian.
"I thank you for that hope," Dafydd said. "But, barring a mira
cle, it is not likely that I will be free to join you soon. The King needs me by his side. He is a remarkable lad, as you will discover—you may have felt some touch of his abilities in the way he spoke up, but a short time past. However, words will not solve all things. I, and those who wear the sky-blue, outnumber and are more than a match for any two or three other Colors. Add in those who follow the Throne and it needs be a strong gathering of other Colors to challenge us."
"Why the need for gatherings like this, then?" said Brian. "Send home those who are not with you. Let it be known you will be happy to face all comers; and go about business as usual."
"We are not knights, Sir Brian, here in the Drowned Land," said Dafydd, with the touch of a sad smile. "We do not take arms lightly, nor lives if we can avoid it, even those of men who oppose us."
"Neither do I," piped Hob.
"Hob," said Jim.
"Sorry, my Lord. I won't speak again, my Lord."
"When I say that, however," Dafydd went on, "I must also say there are some of us who do not fit that rule. It so happens that the Leader of the Sea-Purple, and those of certain other Colors who have joined with him, now cry out that with monsters and strangers increasing in numbers hourly in the Borderlands, we need more than a King so young to lead us."
"But harkee!" put in Brian. "Would it not be possible to challenge this man of the Sea-Purple to put all to test on a single combat and meet him yourself—or have a champion—I would not refuse a request to fill that office for you, myself. It might cost one life; but surely that is a cheap price to pay for unity. What does this Purple Leader look like?"
"You saw him outside the tent," said Daffyd. "It was he who spoke just now against my Lord QB and yourselves."
"That man was wearing brown!" said Jim.
"It was only because he came here under shelter, as guest of the Browns."
"You let your foremost enemy walk freely into one of your councils?" Brian stared. "Surely, Dafydd, that is not wise, or good?"
"As I have said," Dafydd answered, "we and our ways are different here, Sir Brian. He is on honor to act honestly as our guest, and we trust him in that; as he would trust me, were I amongst those who had joined them as they talked. It is all the Drowned Land that is threatened by what is happening in the Borderlands; not just we around the Throne."