The Book of Isle

by Nancy Springer

  The two travelers always returned to the Forest to sleep, or rather for Cuin to sleep and Bevan to roam. Bevan would be pent under no roof after dark.

  "We have marked ourselves with these visits," Cuin said over the fire one night. "We should be pursued."

  "The Forest night is full of voices which conspire to protect us," Bevan replied. "Be easy, Cuin." But Cuin noted that Bevan was more wary in the weeks that followed. He led them on some strange paths; indeed, their trail was as tortuous as a bat's. Moreover, at times they took refuge in the thickest cover, silent for hours at a stretch. Cuin did not know what sense or informant warned Bevan of peril, but he saw proof of their pursuers. One day Bevan turned hastily aside from the Forest track and motioned Cuin behind a line of tall thorns. He held the horses' heads; the beasts stood still as stone while Cuin peered out beneath the branches and watched the priests of Pel ride by.

  Then Bevan took them on another crazy turn toward the setting sun. Still, they made their way mostly southward, far beyond the "long reach" of Pryce Dacaerin and beyond any lands that Cuin had knowledge of—until one day that was not yet midsummer they came to the end of the trees.

  Cuin gaped like a boy. He had never known that a sky could stretch so wide. Before him rolled the sunlit folds of the South Downs. Waist-tall grass flowed in waves beneath the wind like nothing that either of them had ever seen. A towering elm on the farthest rise seemed but a sapling in the shimmering expanse.

  "The hart will not follow us there," Bevan said bleakly.

  Cuin glanced at him curiously. It was seldom enough that the white hart followed them anywhere. More often it dashed off upon its own inscrutable errands. They were likely not to see it for days at a time. But this day it was close at hand, standing not a furlong away, with its silver-crowned head raised high to survey the strange terrain.

  For his own part, Cuin felt an unreasoning lift of heart at the sight of so much sunny sky. But he understood why Bevan looked grim, or so he thought; it would be dangerous to venture out upon those shelterless meadows. "Still there's nothing else for it," Bevan muttered and dismounted. He strode to the deer and spoke to it, and it whirled and darted away amongst the trees.

  "He will await us at Eburacon," Bevan told Cuin, and rode away from the Forest without a glance. They traveled the rolling land, five souls now, until darkness spread its petals in the vast dome of the sky. Cuin had never seen such a soft blossoming of the dusky flower of night. He was almost glad that Bevan pushed on beneath its star-flecked blackness. In these wide, shadowless lands, the pale light of the young moon made plain the way even to Cuin's unaccustomed eyes. It was late when they stopped, and Cuin did not need the comfort of a fire to send him sleep.

  In the morning he realized that these curving Downs were in fact the gentlest mountain that he had ever known. They were camped on its rounded peak, and far away to the east it billowed until its folds were blurred with distance. To the west the drop was steeper, though no less soft, and at its base ran a bright river of silver that curved away into the shadows of wooded hills.

  "Beyond yon Gleaming River lies the kingdom of Welas," Bevan said.

  There, Cuin knew, lived strange, dark folk who spoke their own unintelligible tongue. He glanced apprehensively, but Bevan turned from the westward view with a sigh.

  "Our business does not lie there," he told Cuin, "but to the east. From now on we travel by night." He squinted painfully into the blaze of the rising sun.

  That way lay Blagden Pit, a place strong men chose not to muse on overmuch. To venture even onto the marches of that demesne was foolhardy. Yet, with the perverse pride of one who has embraced the servant's role, Cuin scorned to ask Bevan his plans for those dread parts. In his war-trained mind he supposed that the Prince sought a look at the lay of the land, a quick and covert sortie. That was peril enough, but Cuin shrugged the thought from him. Shadows of Blagden had no place in this high skylit land.

  They spent the day nestled in a dimple of the Downs, taking watch by turns. The horses bloated themselves upon the long sweet grass, and Flessa brought rabbits until they bade her stop. Cuin dozed in the sunshine and listened to the singing of countless laverocs, or larks. He could not feel foreboding in so lovely a place, however different it was from anything he had known. When twilight came, scarcely softer than the day of bright haze and rippling breeze, he mounted his roan and followed Bevan contentedly.

  For a fortnight of nights they traveled. By degrees the high, rolling land lowered and leveled until they were riding across a featureless plain. Cuin's serenity left him, for they were hard pressed to find cover. Every day they spent in fear of enemy eyes. Wherever they camped, whether in the lee of some sparse hedgerow or behind a byre, they could see the priests of Pel scurrying antlike along the nameless tracks that traced the plain. Hooded gore-crows flapped above, their sight sharp to every movement on their dark lord's domain. Cuin cringed lest one of them should be Pel himself, for with his ancient powers of will he could take on what form or delusion he chose; all mortal sight bent to his command.

  Still, nothing went wrong for Bevan and Cuin. On the thirteenth day they sighted thick black puffs of smoke on the horizon and knew that they were near the Pit. That night they made Blagden, and no watcher sounded an alarm. Cuin could not believe that they were unseen. All his senses screamed of a trap yet to be sprung as they rode to the edge in the plain light of a full moon.

  Blagden Pit was a gaping hole in the level green plain—a sinister place even to think of, for how had it come there? Only sorcery could have dug such a den without raising great dikes of earth. At the very base of the pit, a mile below the vast rim, was a stronghold set into the stony flanks of the chasm like a plug in a twisted funnel. Down to it ran a crooked track, through gates at the rim and gates below; a horse could descend that way if it were bold and sure of foot. But no horse could reach Blagden fortress without passing the gates. Bevan dismounted and gave Cuin his reins.

  "You cannot be serious!" Cuin whispered. "What can you hope to gain!"

  "That is as it comes," Bevan murmured. "Perhaps no more than knowledge."

  "If you go there, you'll go without me! Not for any knowledge, gold or fame would I venture into that pit. Likely it is the gate of hell itself, and fire burns beyond the door!" Dread of the place drenched Cuin and filled him like fog; he shook with the chill of it. But Bevan faced him without comment.

  "Nay, you must keep the horses," he said placidly. "Seek cover to the north and let Flessa lead me to you. Farewell." As Cuin only stared in anguish, he frowned, puzzled. "What is the matter, Cuin? You know I move like a shade in the night."

  "Even so," Cuin muttered. "Farewell." And he rode hastily away. He made a wide detour around the Pit and found concealment in a deserted cottage on the farther side. Folk did not care to live near the place, it seemed, and Cuin himself would rather have been far from it. Anger at Bevan and at his own cowardice tied him in knots; he could not eat or sleep. The constant harsh talk of the gore-crows jeered him. He paced away the night and the next day, and started at every shadow, but Bevan did not come.

  He had been caught by the dawn, Cuin told himself, and was loath to move about in daylight. But when the next night was half-spent, Cuin could no longer argue that all might yet be well. He broke camp and rode slowly around the rim of Blagden Pit, desperate for some sign of reassurance. None came. At last Cuin tethered the horses to the northward and, faint with fear, started down the steep and barren slope toward the darkest shadow of that darkened place.

  There were guards about, here and there. Cuin avoided them almost impatiently. He reached the depth at last and recklessly scaled the wall. The gloom was so dense that he expected he would blunder into a sentry before he ever saw him. But he met no one as he dropped within and felt his way to the keep. Then, as he rounded a corner of the hulking mass of stone, the gloom gave way to a red glare. Cuin discovered that he would have no trouble finding Bevan.

  Several hundred men
were facing the fire: unmade men, rather, the servants of the mantled lord. Their cloaked backs were ranged toward Cuin, and his vision shot beyond them. Over a pulsing-hot mass of coals hung a huge basin which pierced the dark with its red-gold gleam. Above it loomed a giant oak, the only tree in Pel's barren pit, a goodly growing thing that was rendered a vile presence in this baleful place. Dark, flapping forms clustered on its branches and circled greedily near the fire. A tall hooded figure loomed like the oak beside the caldron, reddened with its glow. The one who faced it glistened an even brighter red. But not only from the fiery glow; Cuin's heart turned over as he realized that Bevan shone red with blood.

  The priests of Pel yearned at the sight of it. "Let us drink his blood, lord," they chanted huskily, "and feed his heart to the crows."

  "He will yet be one of us," Pel intoned, and ritualistically raised his gleaming knife. But Bevan threw back his head and laughed, a laugh sweet as the fall of silver water.

  "Will you yet be one of me?" he mocked, raising his hands and brandishing the thong that failed to bind his wrists. "You know by now that your blade does me small harm, O Mantled Master. Put me in your pot, indeed, and give me immortal life! For the son of Celonwy is not so easily unhearted as yon poor shells of men."

  "Hang his heart on the oak, lord!" the cloaked crowd roared.

  "Come, mighty shadow!" Bevan coaxed. "Let us see you fail once more."

  "Bring a spear," the hooded figure ordered harshly. Half a dozen cloaked servants scrambled to obey him. A bright lance was brought, and the mantled lord hefted it, testing its balance as he turned toward Bevan…

  Cuin sprang without plan of attack or hope of victory. The startled priests fell before him like grass, shouting the alarm. Through the hubbub Cuin sensed Bevan in swift motion, grappling with the mantled lord… But Cuin could not reach him to aid him. The unmade men were all around him now, and he took cuts. The odds were hundreds against one; it would soon be over—

  A cloud of sudden smoke darkened his sight, smoke so dense and stinging that it turned the combat into gasping confusion. Choking, Cuin felt a hand on his, and even in the smother he knew that warm touch. He and Bevan fled aimlessly into the darkness, and not until they were well beyond the walls did they pause for breath. Cuin hastily pulled off his shirt.

  "Put this on," he whispered, "or you'll leave a blood-spoor. Here…" He could feel Bevan trembling with pain as he helped him on with it.

  "Where are the horses?" Bevan gasped.

  "North," Cuin sighed. "But where is that? I cannot even see a star, in this hellhole. Can you tell, Bevan?"

  "Nay…" Bevan's voice told Cuin that he could hope for no more help from him that night.

  He had forgotten Flessa. When her weight touched his shoulder, he jumped as if he had been stabbed. Then he laughed shakily. He heard her flutter away to the left.

  "Follow the falcon," he muttered, and plunged up the slope, half-dragging his comrade. When they reached the horses at last, he had to hoist Bevan onto his. Shouts arose faintly from the Pit far below. "Which way?" Cuin asked.

  "North, to the Forest," Bevan managed to answer.

  Cuin could see the constant star now. He attempted no subtlety on this flat southern land, but set a course straight as an arrow. The steeds were rested and willing to run. When dawn came, Cuin could see no pursuit for miles behind them. But what he saw beside him made him sick at heart. Bevan lay with his head on the horse's neck, and his face was as gray as the dawn.

  When they came to a watering place, Cuin got him down and peeled off the shirt that was stiff and brown with dried blood. Shock like a sword thrust tore through him as he saw how Bevan was mutilated. This had been no idle torture; Pel had earnestly tried to kill him with stabs and slashing blows that should have slain him a dozen times. Shakily, Cuin tried to wash the wounds, but he knew he had no healer's skill. Sudden tears of helpless agony ran silently down his face and dropped onto the limp form beneath his hands. Bevan stirred, opened his eyes and gazed in wonder.

  "Cuin," he whispered painfully, "I am abashed. I knew you were of mighty heart, but I would scarcely have thought that you could love me."

  Cuin winced at the words, though love indeed was what he felt for this wayfaring stranger from the hollow hills. "Save your strength," he said roughly. "I must get you to a leech, somehow, though I am sure those unhearted ghouls will be hot after us."

  "Nay, to the Forest, Cuin! Once I have lain in the woven shade I will be well. The balm of my mother's blessing flows in the beech and the silver poplar… Is it far, Cuin?"

  "How should I know? But the horses travel well. Come, let us be moving."

  Cuin got Bevan wrapped up a bit and onto his dapple-gray steed, and they were off again. They kept a swift and steady pace through the day, though Bevan clung to his horse's neck and Cuin feared lest he fall. The land changed gradually to gently rising ground, as wild and open as the Downs but clad in shaggy brush. Cuin looked about as they topped every rise; he was comforted to see no pursuit in the distance. And as the sun dipped westward he was the more comforted to spy ripples of darker green before them. The Forest was not far.

  They reached the shelter of the trees by sunset, and Cuin pushed on into the dusk, searching for he scarcely knew what. At dark he found it: pale trees encircling a whisper of water. The carved shrine above the spring marked the sacred place. Cuin laid Bevan in the thick bank of ferns beneath the largest tree. The moonlight rimmed the surrounding grove in silver. Gracefully as maidens the slender circle raised a woven crown to the sky.

  All night Bevan lay still in the fragrant ferns. Cuin sat silently by without even a fire for comfort; Flessa perched as still and unsleeping in the closest tree. The horses quietly cropped the grass. Toward dawn the white hart appeared and lay down serenely near the spring. Only then did Cuin begin to hope, and the hope tore him worse than the despair.

  2

  Bevan did not stir for dawn or sunrise. But when full light had come, a gentle light in that place of shifting shade, he gave a muffled cry of surprise and sat up. Cuin went to him quickly.

  "What is this?" asked Bevan, bewildered. "I do not remember coming here."

  "You have been asleep," Cuin told him. "How do you feel?"

  "How should I feel? Well."

  "You may recall," Cuin said tartly, "that you have been sorely hurt."

  "Ay, that I was, indeed!" Bevan winced, but his mind swerved willy-nilly to his new wonder. "So that is sleep!" he marveled. "It is very healing, but can men need such healing every night?"

  "I have not slept these three nights past," Cuin scolded, "nor eaten in as many days, on your account!"

  "Then eat!" Bevan pointed to where fruit and cakes sat on the shrine close at hand. "Why are you angry, Cuin?"

  "Because you took a fool's path which might have been the end of us both, and because …"—Cuin sank back on the ground, suddenly spent—"because I am a coward, Bevan. I cannot admit even to myself how glad I am to see you alive."

  "You make a quaint coward," Bevan told him softly, "who leapt singly against scores of foes for my sake. Come, Cuin, eat and rest; put care from you for a while. The others will watch."

  "First let me look at you," Cuin said gruffly.

  The wounds were dry and healing cleanly. Cuin bandaged them carefully, then brought the food. He sat beside Bevan to eat his share. Then he lay down where he was and slept within the moment. When he awoke, in late afternoon, Bevan lay beside him dreaming with open eyes as was his wont. Cuin rose to find a neat pile of game at his feet; Flessa had been hunting. He went a bit beyond the grove to make his cookfire. He felt that it would not be right, somehow, to kindle mundane flame within the sacred place. He cleaned and spitted the meat for roasting. Presently Bevan joined him.

  "Tell me what chanced," Cuin said. "When were you captured?"

  "Soon enough!" Bevan grimaced, mocking himself. "You were right to be vexed, Cuin. I thought I had to go there, but it seems to me that I went much ove
rweening. I looked to find no evil in darkness, but the fair black of the raven is not the black of the crow… Even the dark of the moon is shining light to the gloom of that Pit. I fairly lost my way. I had to make a light at last, and then of course they had me at once. They need no better guard than that shadow. It is a substance and a weapon in itself. It frightened me as shades of the dead frighten men; it chokes the heart and bends the mind—"

  "Then you were taken even before dawn," Cuin interrupted.

  "Ay. They beat me, but nothing worse during the day. They prefer to do their bloody rites by night, it seems. Indeed, I did not see the mantled lord until after dark. He puzzled me, that one. I could see no face beneath the hood."

  Cuin shuddered. "I thought I saw you run at him."

  "Only because he came between me and the fire. I could make little of him. I felt cloth, and then he slipped from my grasp like a formless thing. Then I went to the vessel of youth. That is marvelously wrought, gold like blood of the sun and pearls like tears of the moon… Coradel Orre it is called in the language of the elder folk: 'Caldron of Gold.' There is no evil in that basin, but it was withheld from serving me by a strong will, and I was in haste. The fire was amenable to my touch."

  "The smoke served us well. But what could the caldron have done?"

  "What Coradel Orre has given, it can take away," Bevan replied. "The unmade men who live by its doing could die by its withholding. And were it freed from its hooded master, then other men, mortal men the ever dying, might know it and live." Bevan's dark eyes were yearning.

  Cuin stared. "It was for that you went!" he exclaimed.

  "Ay. Could I have found my way to Coradel Orre and schooled it to my will, much sorrow and strife might have been saved, and much glory won… But I have failed. And I warrant you I will not return to Blagden now a while."

  "You might have told me what you were about," Cuin muttered.