The Sable Moon

by Nancy Springer

  “Alys,” he whispered. No uproar ensued, no trembling of the mountain beneath him. “Alys!” he repeated, more loudly. Only intense stillness answered him. Even the eagles seemed stilled. The silence prickled at him, and he called no more. He sat without a fire as the purple twilight deepened into velvety night, not quite black. The strange Strand stars came out, the big, mothlike stars that formed pictures he did not quite understand: the Griffin, the Spindle, the Silver Wheel. Trevyn stared at them, and after a while, almost without conscious decision, he lay down on the grass and slept.

  He was awakened by a touch of something—not a hand, something within. He looked up to see Ylim standing over him, a white gown floating around her, the half-revealed flesh of her breasts palely shining, full as the globes on the tree. With stumbling haste, he sprang up and away from her.

  “Nay!” he declared. “Not again, not while Meg lives. It was shameful enough with Maeve.” But she laughed at him softly.

  “Have no fear; that is not my function. Come, you called, did you not?”

  “Are you Alys?” he whispered.

  “In a way. I can speak for her, and for Aene. But if you wish to truly meet Alys, you must come within.”

  “Within,” he murmured weakly.

  “Come,” she chided, “you ate of the fruit, did you not, and still are standing? I knew you when you were a fleck on the outer rim of the Wheel. And now you fall asleep on the doorstep of the Hub.”

  Her tender scorn reminded him somehow of his mother. Half stung, half comforted, he followed her into the obscurity of the narrow cavern. He felt his way along the walls as the floor dropped with dizzying steepness under his feet. Ylim threaded her way swiftly before him, seeming not to need a light, through darkness so deep that he could not see even the white sheen of her dress. The passageway twisted and burrowed into the heart of the mountain. Then, just as Trevyn thought the depth and darkness would crush him, it took a gentle upward turn and leveled. Trevyn blinked in a whisper of pearly light. He could not find the source or tell the limits of the chamber. Shadows stirred all around him. In a moment his confused eye picked out the figure of a woman who sat on a glimmering curve of crescent throne, encircled by the most delicate of light: Ylim—nay, Maeve—nay, Megan! He started toward her, then stopped and swallowed at his half-formed tears as the vision flickered away.

  “I can only appear to you in forms you understand, or partly understand,” said a voice both distant and loving, feminine and fierce. Between the horns of the throne there appeared a blue-eyed cat, then a white swan; a silver harp; a ghostly, graceful ship. Finally there appeared the hazy form of a mandorla, shape of mystic union, floating above the crescent but still within its circular aureole. “Welcome, my well-beloved son,” said the voice of the goddess.

  Trevyn stood awed, but rebellion flared in him at that. “Well-beloved son! Then why do I bear scars?” he retorted curtly.

  “Suffering is the mark of a Very King. Though you will be something more.… I demand suffering of those to whom I give my favor. Still, do not blame me for your whip weals. You could have found ways to prevent them, if you had let yourself be less than you are. If you had contented yourself to be a twittering, fluttering thing, such as most men are, instead of an eagle, you would have been spared much. The choice was yours.”

  “I was not aware of any choice,” stated Trevyn stiffly. But the goddess of many names laughed softly at him.

  “There is always a choice.… And now you are here. Is this what you have come for? To scold me?”

  Trevyn stood strangling on his anger, vexed the more by the goddess’s imperturbable good humor. It was as if, in motherly style, she did not consider his wrath worth ruffling herself. With an effort, he kept himself from stamping like a child in response. “I came to ask you about Wael,” he said flatly at last. “He is my enemy; is he yours?”

  “He has taken my creature, the wolf, that worships me, and turned it into a horror.” For the first time Trevyn discerned an edge in the goddess’s disembodied voice, and he warmed to her anger. “Wael was born as one of my children; everything is. But he has willfully dishonored me. Ay, he is my enemy. But he is not the worst enemy you face, Alberic.”

  Trevyn ignored that. He did not want another such lecture as Emrist had given him. “Then tell me, Goddess,” he asked more politely, “how am I to defeat him?”

  “Where are the dragons of Lyrdion?” she riddled in return. The mandorla twirled like a spindle, shimmering above the throne. Trevyn kept precarious hold of his temper.

  “I know of a magical sword that came from Lyrdion.”

  “But I said nothing of magic or a sword. When you find the dragons of Lyrdion, you will know how to deal with Wael.”

  Trevyn shook his head at this nonsense. “I will need magic to face him.”

  “What is magic? The tricks Wael does? There is more magic in a stunted sour-apple tree than in all his sorcery. Be that tree, Prince, root and branch, leaf and flower, and you will know how to deal with Wael. Be whole, and you will know how to deal with Wael. Watch.” The mandorla glowed brighter, and Trevyn became aware of its continuation, its beyond, the circles that formed its segments on opposing sides. Silver and gold they shone, softly at first but then with a flaming, spinning glory that stunned him beyond taking note of his surroundings. The sharp-ended curve where they met blazed with unfathomable, unsearchable candescence. Essence of sun and moon were in it, essence of earth and sky.…

  “Aene,” Trevyn whispered, hiding his eyes.

  “So, there are some things you recognize readily enough.” The mandorla subsided to a dusky shimmer, and Trevyn was once again able to face it. “Still, you will never be able to think of me as something other than female”—the voice changed to deeper, manly tones—“or male.”

  “Adaoun?” Trevyn murmured confusedly.

  “Call me Wael, if you like. He is in me too.” Trevyn started badly at that. But then Emrist sat for a moment on the crescent throne, smiling at him in reassurance. Adaoun; his father; Hal; a figure he did not at first recognize: it was himself, with a wolf curled at his feet. He watched himself lean down to pat it. “And in you,” the voice added.

  “Wael?” Trevyn protested. “If I knew his true-name, I would banish him off the earth.”

  “I have already told you his true-name half a dozen times. When you really know your own sooth-name, you will remember his.”

  The mandorla expanded, engulfed him, disappeared into the darkness on all sides. He knew it still surrounded him. Perhaps it surrounded the world. But all he could see was a simple circle before him, a halo of pale light culminating in the crescent of the throne. On impulse, Trevyn walked over to it, wondering vaguely of what metal or material it was made that it gave off such a pearly glow. He laid a hand on it and felt nothing beneath the hand—only a shock that flung him back and sent him tumbling into oblivion before he thudded against the wall.

  He awoke, hours later, to find himself still confronted by the same whispering, muted light. It came from Bevan, who sat beside him on the floor, his face sober but not overly concerned.

  “That was a bit bold,” he remarked, “even for a Prince of Laueroc.”

  Trevyn sat up, rubbing a lump where his head had apparently hit something. “Have you been here long?”

  “In a sense, I am always here.” At Trevyn’s sharp glance, Bevan smiled. “All right, no more riddles.”

  “Are you real?” asked Trevyn sourly.

  The star-son shrugged. “Feel me, if you like. But what is ‘real,’ Prince?—All right, all right! Let me lead you out.” He got lithely to his feet and helped Trevyn up with a warm and glowing hand.

  Bevan walked with him all through the three days’ journey down the mountain, though Trevyn made poor company, not talking much, only muttering to himself from time to time. “Am I to return to Isle?” he asked Bevan abruptly at one point.

  “That is entirely up to you,” the other coolly replied.

&nb
sp; “Everything is up to me, and nothing is up to me!” Trevyn shouted. “I don’t understand!” Bevan cupped his graceful hands, a peculiarly soothing gesture, and Trevyn subsided.

  “It’s all very well for you, all this mystery, Star-Son,” he added tartly after a while. “The moon is your mother. But I am the son of—of a Sun King and an elf.” Trevyn winced; the words rang with the wrong effect, even to his ears. “What does—what does She have to do with me? The one whose name I am not going to mention, lest I fail to utter it with proper respect and have something thrown at my sore head.”

  Grave Bevan almost had to laugh at his petulance. “You are also a child of the ash-maiden, and of earth,” he said, restraining his mirth. “And all things are in Alys and Aene, and both are one, and both are in you; how can you separate yourself from anything? You are a star-son, as much as I. You are the child of the round-bellied mother whom we call Celonwy, the full moon, who mothers forth all things of earth. You love the maiden Melidwen, who sails her crescent boat across the sky. And Menwy of the Sable Moon—you haven’t met her yet, but you will. The sea is her domain.”

  “I’ve met the others?” Trevyn asked, startled.

  “Of course you’ve met them. Even if you’ve never loved a woman, there is still the goddess within.”

  They made their way down through the shelving, flowerstudded pastureland and across the lush meadows beyond to a grove of silver beech where a man sat playing a peculiar stringed instrument to a group of wide-eyed children. A young-looking man, Trevyn thought, though gray streaked his hair. It occurred to him that Hal could not have touched a scholarly tome since he had been in Elwestrand. The former King of Welas rose to meet them, greeting Bevan with a silent touch of the hand.

  “What did you find for answers?” he asked Trevyn.

  “More questions. Where are the dragons of Lyrdion, and what is the magic of a rowan tree. Bah!” Trevyn flopped down amid the staring children, they who were as beautiful as he, every one of them. Hal strummed his plinset thoughtfully, picked out a jangling tune.

  “What is the stuff of magic? Clay,

  and boughs that bleed, and roots that bind:

  Ardent alder brown-tipped,

  red of hue beneath the bark;

  Ruddy kerm the holly-like,

  the terebinth, the oak-twin;

  Mountain rowan quick-beamed,

  high-flying, horse-taming,

  Royal canna arrow-swift,

  golden ivy spiral-twining,

  Birch for birthing, heather, and

  the white bloom of the bean for breath.”

  “What tune is that?” Trevyn asked. “Not one of yours, surely.”

  “Nay, it’s an old, old tune I brought with me from Isle.” Hal smiled ruefully. “Not a very good one, either.”

  “No wonder I’ve never heard it. Bah! Uncle, I’m done.”

  “Done?” asked Hal quietly.

  “Done with striving, done with questioning, done with even trying to understand. There is no place for Wael in this western land, praise be. Let him go. For the time. Though I still fear …”

  “What?” Hal sat beside him. The children shyly scattered, and Bevan saluted and wandered away between the lustrous tree trunks.

  “That I will not remember to return, or wish to, come spring.”

  “Trust, Trevyn. Trust yourself, or trust the tide. It’s all the same.”

  The Prince sighed shakily, like a child who has just ceased to weep, and rolled onto his stomach and went to sleep in the grass, knowing that Hal would awaken him in time for supper. Hal sat beside him without a sound. And out of Trevyn’s mingling dreams formed yet another unicorn, a graceful, deerlike one with azure eyes and a spiraling golden horn. Hal glimpsed an odd curve centered in the eyes, a spindle shape—he could not be certain. The creature gravely bowed its heavy horn to him, then turned and stepped softly away on delicate lapis hooves, away toward the salt-flavored grass by the sea, as Hal looked after.

  Chapter Three

  Far across that sea, Tokar’s treacherous attack on Isle had finally been launched. Four months of peace had passed since Trevyn had left Kantukal; it had taken Wael that long to make his preparations, so much had he been weakened by his defeat. Isle’s ordeal would have been much worse if part of Wael’s power had not been splintered along with a gilded figurehead. But his most essential power resided in another leaping wolf, the emblem on the parchment that set forth the Wolf’s favorite spell. The talisman’s potency sustained that spell even from Elwestrand, enabling Wael to run with his minions in the wilds, harrowing Isle with a horror that left folk floundering and helpless. For generations afterward, Islenders were to speak of “the Winter of Shadows,” and tell its tales to their children when the mood for fear was on them.

  The terror began silently, slowly. Later, no one could say exactly when or where. Some thought the first victim must have been the woodcutter who was found one day in the Forest above Nemeton with his throat torn out and coarse gray hairs stuck to his bloodied ax. Others said it was the lad from Celydon who never came back from herding the cows in the farthest meadow. Or the three guards from Whitewater who started through the Forest on horseback and never finished their journey. Robbers, folk had concluded at the time, though robbers had not troubled those parts for many years. But then rumors began of shadows, of gray, stalking forms seen amid the Forest trees at the approach of night, glimpsed by the cottage wife as she stooped for fuel or by the tenant gathering the rabbit from his snare. Fanciful talk, many said, for wolves were not likely to show themselves so boldly early in the season, when food was still plentiful. But when Rafe of Lee heard the reports of wolves, he frowned and arranged for extra patrols of the Forest purlieus.

  It was the patrol, Brock Woodsby said, that saved his family and himself. Rafe’s men heard the goodwife scream as they rode near the cottage and rushed in to find Brock, torn and bleeding, battling half a dozen gray brutes with the poker. The goodwife, shrieking, flung brands from the fire, and Megan wielded a table plank with a fierce abandon that had kept her thus far untouched. Meg had not screamed; this was the first time since Trevyn’s departure that she had found good reason to be violent, and she was rather enjoying herself.

  The wolves chose not to face swords. They scattered quickly, bursting through the windows, streaking toward the Forest. The patrollers could not follow; they were busy stamping out the flaming firewood that threatened to burn down the cottage. Moreover, their horses had bolted, and they were obliged to make their way back to barracks on foot. Brock left his family behind barred doors and went along, for doctoring and to speak to his lord.

  “It was the lass they wanted,” he told Rafe. “Right in at the door they came, and went for her with scarcely a glance at the wife or me. By good chance, Meg had a pot of scalding milk in her hand, and she threw it at them, kettle and all; that blinded them for a bit. But then they went at her again as bad as ever. They weren’t starved wretches, my lord; they were as sleek and strong as pit dogs fed for the fight. I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I, no whit!” Rafe gulped. “Do you think the girl would be safe here at the manor fortress?”

  “I’ll send her up at once. Thank ’ee.” Brock departed, and Rafe went straight to his table to write to Alan.

  To my Dear Friend and Golden Protector, Alan, Liege King in Laueroc, Greeting,

  the missive ran, for Rafe loved a courtly flourish.

  I sorely crave your presence and advice in this matter of the wolves, of which my young lord the Prince may have told you. They have become bolder now, even entering in at the cottage door, seeking to rend the maiden Megan, which must be on the Prince’s account, whom she holds dear. My mind is at pains to know the meaning of this thing, of which question the Prince could offer no, answer. Now others remark it; the land is rife with talk of the daring of the beasts; my men fear them, though they will not say it; and my heart is full of unreasoning distress, though I feel the fool even to write it! Pray c
ommend me to your lady, and pray counsel me in this matter as swiftly as you may see fit. In love and service, Rafe, from Lee, the second week of December, the twentieth year of reign.

  A messenger took this swiftly to Laueroc, to the King. Alan puzzled over it for some time before he heavily climbed the stairs to Lysse’s sunlit tower chamber and handed it to her. “Did he say anything to you?” he asked her.

  “Trevyn?” She wondered why he would not speak their son’s name.

  Alan only nodded.

  “Nay, he said nothing to me of wolves,” Lysse replied. “Rafe seems disconcerted.”

  “Ay, I must go to him, I suppose. Rafe was always one to shout at a pinprick, but still …” Alan eyed his wife, frowning. “You told me we would have hard times. Did you see any trouble of this kind?”

  “Nay. And the Sight is lost to me these days; I cannot advise you, my lord.” Lysse spoke without self-pity, and kept her eyes on her hands so as not to accuse him, for she knew quite well that the cause of her loss was that he withheld his love from her. Alan knew it also, and knew she would not judge him, and found himself irked by her fineness even as he longed to comfort her. The leaden lump that was his heart had no comfort to offer. After standing awhile and finding nothing to say, he turned and left her without a word.

  Within the hour he took horse toward Lee and kissed her ceremoniously from the saddle. It was the first kiss she had received from him since his return from Nemeton. She wondered if she would ever see him again; her loss was so great that she could not tell. Still, she noted that the green Elfstone she had given him shone proudly on his chest. And as he turned from her, the rayed emblem at its heart blazed back at her with sudden brilliance. Lysse thankfully accepted this sign for her sustaining, and felt it warm her as she watched her husband ride away.

  When Alan came to Lee, Rafe greeted him with fervent relief. There had been more attacks: a peddler dragged from his cart, a young wife torn as she searched for her cow. The wolves struck in the evening hours, and, except in Meg’s case, in the open. The patrols saw them often, grinning from twilight shadows, but then darkness and the Forest would swallow them up. Hunts had been organized to no good effect; twice Rafe’s men had located wolves, but their horses shied from the attack and their quarry mocked them.