The Crown of Dalemark by Diana Wynne Jones

arriving at last. There were clatterings and a light rumbling from the thinning mist below. It could be quite a number of people. Everyone turned that way. The first thing to appear was a lop-eared glum-looking mule. Then a darkness behind it resolved into the rounded canvas cover over a cart, the whole thing painted a sober dark green. The bearded man driving the cart looked as sober as the rest of his turnout. As the cart tipped forward onto the level land beside the waystone, he looked up and reined in the mule as if he were surprised to see anyone there at all. Maewen read the name in sober gold lettering: Hestefan the Singer. Now this was interesting. Her mind shot to Dad’s family tree. He could be one of her own ancestors. And she had had no idea that Singers still roamed the land as late as two hundred years ago.
    â€œThis is a surprise, Hestefan,” Navis said. “Did Noreth inspire you to follow her, too?”
    He was even more ironic than he had been before, but Hestefan answered quite simply, “I thought I’d come along. Yes.” His voice rolled out foggy breath, full and trained-sounding, but not very deep.
    â€œBut,” Mitt chipped in, “Fenna’s not fit to travel, is she?”
    A boy stuck his head out of the back of the cart. “We’re not fools,” he said. “We left her in Adenmouth.” The gathering sunlight struck red on his head. Maewen could not take her eyes off him. She knew him, too. He was the unknown Singer-boy from the portrait in the palace.
    â€œAnd Lady Eltruda was good enough to lend us a mule,” Hestefan said.
    â€œLady Eltruda is always generous,” Navis said. He seemed to mean this. At least he did not sound nearly as ironic as usual, saying it. “And what of others following? Did you pass any large numbers of folk hurrying to join Noreth?”
    Hestefan slowly shook his head. “We were the only ones on the road.” Maewen caught the Singer-boy, and Mitt, too, looking at her as if they were afraid she would be very disappointed at this news.
    Then everyone was looking at her expectantly.
    â€œEr—” Maewen said. “Well, I suppose we’d better be getting on, then.” Thinking that she had better lead the way, she turned her horse toward the green path stretching from the waystone. Then she paused. Wend was on foot. “Will you be able to keep up?” And serve you right if you can’t!
    Wend put a horrible old baggy cap on his head and smiled his restrained smile up at her. Maewen was growing to hate that smile. “I walk the green ways every day, lady. Unless you gallop, I shall be beside you.”
    I wish he wouldn’t talk like that! Maewen thought as the small party set off.
    Nobody talked much at first. Maewen was glad of the silence. She had so much to sort out. For one thing, she was still full of quivering animal wariness, first from thinking Wend was mad and then from finding he seemed to have told her the truth. On top of that was the sheer shock of being, really and truly, two hundred years in the past. And one thing sorted itself out of that: This expedition, with herself in place of Noreth, had to be very important. The mere fact that two of the people who had been important enough for their portraits to hang in the palace were on it made this certain. It was frightening—too much responsibility for an ordinary girl who just happened to look like this Noreth. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Noreth escapes and comes back to take over later. But if that were going to happen—
    Here Maewen came hard up against a question which had been nagging at the back of her head from before she laid hands on the golden statue, from the moment Wend first mentioned Noreth. If Noreth was that important, why haven’t I seen her name in a history book somewhere? And I haven’t, not even once. Dad never mentioned her. None of the guides said a word about her, and they were