The Crown of Dalemark by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

forever on about Amil the Great. The really frightening thing was that, as Maewen now seemed to be Noreth, she was the one who was going to vanish utterly from the face of history. She shivered and tried not to think about Kankredin.
    Well, Amil the Great comes along soon. I just have to hand over to him, she thought. That was a much better thought than the idea that she was all alone here having to make history—or fade out of history permanently. I’ll simply go on until he turns up. She raised her head and began trying to see where they were.
    The green road curved gently ahead, sloping upward a very little, carving its way into the mountains by what seemed the easiest route. At first it ran between high hillsides of brown rock and Maewen could not see very far. The shapes of mountains do not change, she reminded herself. When I see them, I’ll know. Even though two hundred years ago there was no big refinery at Kredindale, and Weaversholm was probably hardly a town, there would be something to give her bearings.
    But there was nothing to see for some miles, except every so often a rowan tree, leaning like a guardian over the path, or a stream carefully channeled under it. Corners had been built up to keep the road level. Maewen wondered about this road. There was nothing like this that she knew of in her day. Did Wend mean it when he said he kept the green roads? She looked at him, striding beside Hestefan’s mule. Two hundred years old. He had to be. He had to be of the Undying, then.
    She looked round again to find the path coming out on an upland and, like a relief, blue peaks and khaki shoulders of mountains in all directions. They swung slightly right. Maewen stared at the high horseshoe top of Aberath Tor and knew at once where she was. In the far North, right up near Adenmouth somewhere. She and Mum and Aunt Liss lived— would live—just twenty miles west of here. But it was no good rushing off home at a gallop. She might find the house—it was old—but there would be strangers living in it. A miserable, lonely thought. And she had been right. Wend had pitched her in right at the start of Noreth’s royal ride, and Noreth had been kidnapped, so she was in for days of this. Oh—damn!
    Maewen turned another glowering look on Wend. And this made her notice that the rest of the party was not entirely happy either. Mitt and Navis rode side by side, but this was so that they could argue in low voices. As she looked, Navis snapped, “I never believed you could be such a prig!”
    Mitt answered, “Call me names! It was you took advantage!”
    â€œIt was not taking advantage,” Navis retorted. “Surely, with your background, you must have some idea of what it means to be married to a hopeless drunkard!” He turned haughtily away, found himself looking at Hestefan, and turned haughtily from Hestefan, too, as if Hestefan displeased him as much as Mitt did.
    Hestefan took no notice. He just stared dreamily at the mule’s ears. Probably he was a dreamy type, but just then he looked as if he was having rather bitter dreams. The boy—Moril, she had gathered his name was—sat equally dreamily beside Hestefan, plucking at his big old cwidder, but he was no happier. He did not have quite the tragic look that Maewen remembered from the portrait, but she could see he was brooding on something miserable. Whatever this was might have had something to do with Mitt. In between arguing with Navis, Mitt made various friendly remarks to Moril, and Moril either pretended not to hear or else gave a short, snide answer that stopped any conversation dead.
    Nobody but Maewen seemed to have met Wend before. After their latest argument Navis tried to talk to him and ignore Mitt. Wend’s replies were so polite and humble that Navis raised both eyebrows and gave up. Serve Wend right! thought Maewen. Then she thought, This won’t do! What a dreadful way to start an