Free The Wanderer by Cherry; Wilder, Katya Reimann

passage and heard the riders pass by, returning to the south.
    She went about near the cave gathering bracken for the lord’s bed. Their eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the grotto. Gael watered the horse from the sacred spring, pouring water from the old leather dipper into a hollow of the rock. Then she rinsed her kerchief in the clear water and dressed the lord’s wound again and gave him drink. The lord spoke his name:
    “I am Blayn of Pfolben.”
    Even Gael Maddoc knew this name. Pfolben was the great lord of the Southland and this was his son.
    “My sword,” he said. “My sword was taken from me, but it will come again.”
    She thought his wits were scrambled from the blow on the head. He smiled at her.
    “It is a magic blade from the Burnt Lands,” he said. “It is bound to my service.”
    Gael stared at him and felt her own head swim. She said no word but knew that she, too, was bound to his service from
that hour. They spoke further, and then Hem Blayn allowed her to fetch her mother. Shivorn Maddoc brought food and blankets; the young lord hardly needed their whispers of safety and secrecy.
    The story was one of mutiny. A rebellious band of officers and men from the southern border fortress of Lowestell had rejected their commander and ridden away, taking Blayn with them as a hostage. They were quickly rounded up and disciplined; two officers, the sons of other southern lords, were imprisoned as traitors. Before it came to a search, Blayn of Pfolben emerged from hiding and rode home.
    He rewarded the family of Maddoc, who had hidden him in the Holywell. On the third night, Gael, after she had seen to his horse, brought the lord up the dark path to their cottage. Blayn of Pfolben, who had the common touch, sat easily at their fireside while Shivorn dressed the cut on his leg, which was healing well. He spoke to Rab Maddoc, man to man, and insisted that he take two gold pieces—they had not seen very many; the yellow glitter held them a little in awe. Blayn clapped young Bress on the shoulder and promised him a place at Lowestell when he was grown. He patted Kenit the cat and returned to the sacred grotto once more. Next morning he rode out to the south, and Gael went with the lord to be his kedran.
    They set out with Blayn mounted on Daystar, his fine bay horse, and Gael running behind. Ahead loomed the fortress of Lowestell, war booty of Blayn’s grandfather, for it had been seized from Val’Nur in the Great King’s War and never returned. Blayn’s banner had been read by the sentinels, and a captain came riding out with a small escort.
    The captain, a huge man on a huge grey horse, had the look of one who did not like his duty.
    “Hem Blayn,” he said, “you must declare yourself.”
    “Captain Ulth,” said Blayn, “I am safe. I made my escape from the rebels.”
    “The young lords Cahl and Keythril …”
    “False friends,” said Blayn, “for they carried me off as hostage to their enterprise!”
    “Some would say they are true friends,” said the Captain, “for they will say no word of your part in the mutiny!”
    “Godfire!” cried Blayn. “I had no part in it. I was held captive! My sword was taken from me! I escaped, wounded and unarmed, and I was cared for by this good kedran wench, Maddoc, and her family.”
    So the whole company looked at Gael Maddoc, and it was as if she saw herself for the first time in their eyes. She was a great strapping creature with a shock of red hair and a Chyrian face that no one could call more than good humored. She had been scrubbed clean, of course, and wore her uniform from the summer training and her father’s best boots.
    She blushed, her heart thumped, but she stood tall and remembered the questioning she had gone through once before, at Hackestell. She could speak up in a clear voice, choosing her words carefully in the common speech. “Courage!” she told herself. “It is my destiny, as the Lady Pearl of Andine foretold. This