The Sable Moon

by Nancy Springer

  “Farewell, Mother,” Trevyn murmured, and embraced her hastily. Rosemary stood among the horses, her russet head bowed to Arundel’s neck; Trevyn knew she was hardly aware of his departure. But Gwern stood silently by. Trevyn froze with one foot on the boarding plank, feeling suddenly, absurdly, naked and incomplete. Gwern, whom he had wanted so badly to begone—Gwern had not moved from his place.

  “Nay, I cannot leave earth. You must sail alone.” Gwern stolidly answered the unspoken question. A hint of pain shadowed the claylike mask of his face, and Trevyn found himself utterly taken aback, astounded by that pain, astounded by the answering pang that put its grip on him.

  “I didn’t know,” he whispered.

  “Stay, then,” urged Alan.

  “Nay, I must go.” Hesitantly, Trevyn offered Gwern his hand, and the barefoot, brown-haired youth gripped it without comment. Trevyn turned and strode onto the gilded ship.

  He kept his head low, but Alan saw the tears that streaked his face. The ship started from its place like a hound unleashed, churned away from the shore. Alan put his arm around Lysse—to give comfort or to receive? He raised his hand in salute to his son. Gwern stood like a stump.

  “All good come to you, Beloved!” Lysse called.

  Trevyn straightened and waved to them. They watched after him until the ship turned the headland and was lost to view, vanishing like spook lamps into the dusk.

  “A wolf is an animal that roams the night and sings to the moon,” Lysse said softly. “There is no great harm to it.”

  “East!” Alan muttered. “The wolf-boat goes east. No good lies that way.”

  It was not until weeks later that the goodwife found Trevyn’s brooch among Meg’s belongings. Fluttering, she summoned her husband. They hated to scold Megan, for she had turned silent and moody since the Prince had gone away. But the brooch was valuable, and they were frightened.

  “Ye cannot keep this, Meg!” the goodman cried. “Likely ’tis solid gold!”

  “’Tis mine. He gave it to me.”

  “He only lent it t’ye! Did he say for ye to keep it?”

  “If he wanted it back, he could have come for it.”

  “Who are ye to say where he must come or go? He is the Prince! Why would he give ye such a thing? Folk will say ye stole it!”

  Meg had looked sullenly down, but now she straightened and flared back at her father. “What was I to do? Run to his castle, peradventure, and beg an audience?”

  “Ay, daughter, ’twas a hard spot, that I’ll not deny.” Brock’s voice was softer. “Still, ye should not have hid it away. We must take it to the lord; ’twill be safer with him.”

  Rafe regarded Meg with compassion while Brock told the tale. He had last seen her in a dress fit for a princess, glowing with the beauty that only love gives. Now she silently stared at the floor, and Rafe could see that her cheeks were pale. The pallor of love withheld, he judged.

  Goodman Brock could not be less than honest. “And there is the cloak, my lord, as well,” he concluded. The girl’s eyes flashed up, and Rafe quickly hid the pity in his own, for he knew she would not welcome it.

  “I think there is no need to say anything of the cloak.” Rafe saw, without appearing to see, Meg’s relief; this remembrance at least would be left to her. “I know my liege, and I am certain he would not begrudge it to you. But this brooch”—Rafe turned it delicately in his hands—“bears the emblem of the Sun Crowns. The King must know of its whereabouts.” Rafe climbed down from his audience chair and headed toward a table where lay parchment, pen and ink, sand, and sealing wax. “Come, Meg, let us write a letter to Trevyn’s father.”

  Within a week, a messenger came to Laueroc and presented to the King the following curious missive:

  On this, the ides of May, in the Nineteenth year of his reign, to Alan, Heir of Laueroc, and Rightful and Most Gracious Ruler of Isle, Greeting.

  It being that a thing I hold may not be mine in truth, I hereby state my willingness to relinquish it, obedient to the word of my Liege and King.

  It being that my lord the Prince graciously lent me his brooch to fasten a cloak thereby, and his returning not therefor, I have cherished the brooch on his account until this time.

  It being that this brooch is of precious substance and molded in the likeness of the Royal Emblem, I have rendered it into the safe keeping of my lord Rafe of Lee until my Liege the King has seen fit to judge the ownership thereof.

  With many thanks to my lord the Prince for his gracious favors on my behalf, and especially for the sake of the cow Molly.

  Your humble servant, Megan By-the-woods.

  By the hand of her good lord, Rafe of Lee.

  Alan read this three times, then stumped off to find Lysse.

  “What do you make of this?”

  She read it and handed it back with a wistful smile. “Poor lass. I wonder what she is like.”

  “Either very honest, or else commending herself to our attention. Can he have got her with child, do you think?”

  “I think—I would have felt such a child.”

  “Perhaps.” Alan sighed. “Well, Rafe can tell us if anything is amiss. I will have him send the brooch to us.”

  “Nay.” Lysse laid her hand on his arm. “Let the girl keep it.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Whatever for?”

  “There will be hard times ahead for all of us.” She faced him steadily. “Hard enough for you and me, my love, but we have much to sustain us. It may be that—she does not have so much.”

  Alan cupped her chin in his hand and regarded her closely. “Have you seen something?”

  “Nay, nothing clearly. It is only feeling.”

  He knew that feeling. His life had been a long battle with such heavy feeling since Hal and Trevyn had left. Call it foreboding, but not yet so dark that it benighted his thoughtful curiosity. He penned a reply to Rafe, commending the girl to his watchful care, then placed Meg’s letter in his files. Months later, he still remembered her name.

  Book Two

  MOTHER OF MERCY

  Chapter One

  This gaudy craft was a dead thing, Trevyn decided, with no power of its own. Certainly it was not a living, swimming being like the elf-ship he had seen. He felt no vitality in its timbers, as often as he lay and lost himself in study of the mystery of its motion. He could discern no surge from behind or below, no gathering of heart at the bottom of the billow or of breath at the top. As the weeks went by, Trevyn became certain that the source of the power lay far ahead. He was in a bright bauble drawn by invisible wires, smacking crudely against the waves, for all the world like a child’s toy being dragged across a vast watery yard. He thanked the One that the sea remained calm.

  As yet, Trevyn had known nothing of the nausea that makes sea crossings a misery. To pass the time, and to keep from growing weak with the long voyage, he exercised for hours every day. Then he paced the deck as he studied the sky and sea. His course was to the south and east. Every morning at daybreak the rays of the rising sun haloed the hulking form of the wolfish figurehead. To Trevyn it seemed unfair, even treasonous, that the emblem of his father’s royal greatness should bedeck the wolf, which to him had become a symbol of lowest evil. Since he could command neither the ship nor the sun, he learned to turn his back on this moment.

  Trevyn had examined the figurehead closely on his first day out and had found it to be nothing more than gilded wood with glass eyes and pearly teeth. But at night it seemed to him that the lupine form was lit with more than reflected sheen. Amid the gleaming of the starry sea, he could not be certain. Yet the thing gnawed him with slow fear, even colored his dreams with its frozen leap, and he went near it no more. Another thing troubled Trevyn: that Meg from time to time would intrude her thin face before his inward eye. He strove to forget her, and turned his back on her image as on the wolf. Yet, had he noticed, where Meg’s image was the dread of the wolf was not.

  By the sixth week of the voyage, Trevyn began
to see birds hunting the sea, wheeling ahead and to the left. He looked that way eagerly, searching the horizon for land. In the seventh week he spied it, a low, dark smudge where sky met sea. Trevyn judged that the land was no more than a day’s voyage away, though the ship’s course lay counter to the sighting.

  But the sun next day came up in a sultry, coppery glow. The wolf loomed against it featureless and terrible, like a faceless specter in a dream. Trevyn stared at it in spite of himself, this thing that he could neither fight nor flee, and he paced the deck in unrest. The sky was filled with omen, a clamor heard with inner ears. Soon dark gray clouds blotted out the murky sun, and the storm clamored in truth. Rain fell, hiding the land like a molten curtain. Wind harried the rain, and the swell grew. The glittering ship plunged on stupidly, like a fish hauled in by a heavy hand, smashing through the heaving water. Spray flew as constantly as the rain; Trevyn wondered where he still found air to breathe. The ship did not swamp, for it rode very high, but it spun and teetered dizzily. Trevyn could not stand on the deck, and he did not want to be trapped below. He crawled to the filigree rail, and there he clung.

  When night came, scarcely to be distinguished from the dark day, Trevyn knew that the ship would break. He did not care how soon. Nausea had long since purged him of any desire and left him limp. When the shock came and timbers flew like the spray, Trevyn was torn away from the rail and hurled through a confusion of water and rubble. Feebly he fought and thrashed, clawing at illusion, gulping at water and air. His gear hampered him. He rid himself of boots, sword, purse—even his father’s brooch. He seemed to be sinking into a dark and alien place. Then he was quite naked, and found that he could breathe again, and opened his eyes.

  Unaccountably, the sea was calm. Not far away, the wolfish figurehead glinted, its gilded form eerily etched on the dark water by the flickering lightning of the retreating storm. Trevyn shied away from it, but it did not come at him. Straight as an arrow it made off, dragging through the water like a stick through sand, and Trevyn knew that it laid a line toward the rising sun. He wheeled a quarter turn northeastward and swam toward the remembered sight of land.

  He paddled through blackness unlit even by a star. The sea was warm in these southern parts, far warmer than the day of soaking rain and chilling wind. Trevyn relaxed in its embrace, surrendered to its flow, scarcely feeling the effort of his motions. The sea was a mother, a lover for whom he yearned. He laid his face upon her bosom as on a pillow, and more than once he breathed her watery essence into his lungs. He stirred in her at random, kicking out like an infant in the womb, cushioned by warm liquid from any harm, so it seemed, for all eternity. How cruel it was, then, how unfathomably harsh, when a pounding rhythm took hold of him and forced him away from this deepest haven, rushed and battered him, tossed and shoved him through a weary stretch of time and space, abandoning him at last in a strange place from which he might never return.

  Trevyn crawled up the beach, just out of reach of the grasping sea surf, and collapsed onto the cold, hard sand.

  He awoke with a shock to full daylight and the sound of rough voices. Four muscular, sun-scorched men stood around him, seized him as soon as he opened his eyes. He struggled to throw them off, but he was weak and dazed; a hard cuff to the side of his head stunned him. The men bound his wrists behind him with thongs and jerked him to his feet, prodding him to make him walk. Trevyn stumbled and fell to his knees, then sprang up as a lash bit his shoulders. His captors roared with laughter. “It works every time,” one said.

  They walked along the seaside, driving him before them. He would bring a fine price, they said, by the goddess of many names! Some lord would pay well to have such a handsome, yellow-headed oddity in his household. If he had been shipwrecked, there should be more. They would search the beaches well.

  It did not surprise Trevyn that he could understand them, for he had studied many languages. He knew now that he was in the country called Tokar—a villainous place. Though he had expected nothing more, he felt desolate, like an abandoned child. Corruption flourished in Tokar; the rulers were sunk in greed. Isle had endured such eastern rulers for seven generations, until Hal and Alan had shed their blood to free her.… And now he, a Prince of Isle, had come to the realm of Herne’s sorcery and Gwern’s goddess, it seemed. Well, he was freeborn, with a freedom dearly bought, and he would not yield it easily, Trevyn silently vowed. Not to slavers or to any god or goddess that bore a name.

  Throughout the day the slave traders tramped the beaches, prodding Trevyn before them or tugging him along behind. He gave them as much trouble as he could, dragging and blundering along. Even making allowances for his weakened state, they soon found it necessary to discipline him with the lash. They felt no particular desire to put welts on their merchandise, but a balky slave would be no bargain to anyone. By nightfall, when they had gained nothing for their day of searching except growling stomachs, they were mightily tired of Trevyn. They hurried him through the dark, flogging him to his feet when he fell, giving up finally and half carrying him to the slave pen. Sick as he felt, Trevyn thrashed when he heard the noise of bolts and bars being undone, nearly struggled free. Cursing, the slavers quieted him with dizzying blows. They seized him by the arms, cut his bonds, and flung him forward. Trevyn fell through emptiness, hit the bottom limply, and lay still. Above him he heard the bars slide into place and the bolts clang to. He turned his face to the dirt, letting despair take him.

  From the hushed silence rose a murmur of voices; there were other people in this place. A hand touched Trevyn, feeling him over blindly. He did not stir.

  “Better move aside, lad.” It was an old man’s voice. “They’re liable to send something down on top of ye.”

  Trevyn moved, crawling forward, and hands guided him to a stony wall. There he huddled. The night was filled with voices and noises; he did not heed them. Dimly he sensed bodies pressed close beside him, as naked as his own. They stank, as did everything in this den, but he did not recoil. The night air was chill, and his companions, whoever they might be, were warm. Trevyn settled himself on dank earth and slept.

  He awoke the next day to shouts and scramblings. Chunks of bread were falling through the high, barred trapdoor. Below it, the slaves sprang and shoved for a share. Trevyn blinked, but before he could stir his stiffened limbs the bread was all taken. He sat up slowly to watch the others eat. An old man approached him, picking his way carefully over the uneven floor. He stood before Trevyn and spoke with dignity. “I am old and have small need of this. Eat.” Trevyn took the bread and broke off a mouthful. The rest he gave back. He chewed his morsel very slowly; it was heavy stuff and sank in lumps to his stomach. When he had finished, the old man still stood before him, offering the bread. “Eat.”

  Trevyn shook his head, but the old man did not move. A few paces away, a big slave stirred dangerously. “If ye’ll not eat it yerself, graybeard,” he growled, “then give it to one who will.” Yet the old man scarcely glanced at him. Turning his back contemptuously on the other, he squatted beside Trevyn and poised the bread under his nose.

  “Eat!”

  Trevyn ate. Bit by slow bit, the bread disappeared. The other slaves watched in silence, but no one made a move to hinder. When the bread was gone, Trevyn sank back and lay very still, afraid he might retch. But he kept it down, and toward evening he felt strength coming of it. He sat up and looked around.

  “Whence d’ye come?” a slave asked him, but he only smiled and shook his head. There were about a dozen men in the pit, of all ages and sizes. Some had black hair, some brown or russet, but none were as blond as he. They stared at him curiously. “Were ye shipwrecked?” another ventured, but again Trevyn gave no spoken reply. Almost insensibly he had resolved to be a mute in this land, so that he would not betray himself. And also in silent, inward rebellion.… Throughout the long day on the beaches he had uttered no sound. That had been his father’s stubbornness in him; they could enslave him, but, by blood, they could not mak
e him cry out. Now Trevyn realized that his bravado might stand him in good stead. Better even to be a mute slave than a dishonored prince held for ransom, or dead, or worse.

  The slavers kept Trevyn in the pit with the others for a week. The food was only bread in the morning, raw turnips or carrots at night, and dirty water that seeped down the walls into shallow stone cups. But even on this diet Trevyn gained strength, for he was allowed to rest. Indeed, he paced the stony floor with boredom and restless rage. Every once in a while some wretch was hurled down from above as he had been. Many had been slaves all their lives and picked themselves up almost as if they were used to it. Others looked as miserable as he had been. But none, Trevyn noticed, had been beaten as cruelly as he.

  The morning of Trevyn’s eighth day in the pit, a narrow ladder dropped through the trapdoor and a slave merchant shouted at the slaves to come up. They went docilely, almost numbly, took their places, and were roped into a line as if they were indeed nothing more than trade goods. Hatred and pride would not let Trevyn go so tamely. Let them come get him, he grimly thought. Heart pounding, he waited.

  “That towheaded lout must be deaf as well as mute,” he heard one slaver say.

  “If he has eyes, he knows well enough what he’s to do,” another snapped. “If he weren’t so good-looking, I’d kill him now and save someone else the trouble.”

  Three of them came down after him. He crouched, hands at the ready; by any god, they had better beware of him now that he had the use of his hands! They came at him from three sides. He lunged at one … and then they pinned him more deftly than he would have believed possible, tied his wrists with cutting force. One of them glared angrily, a bruise forming on his swarthy face.

  “Give me that whip,” he said, reaching for it.

  “We’re already late starting,” the other replied testily. He turned on Trevyn. “Get up the ladder, you, or we’ll leave you here to starve!”