They cut Col's body loose, wrapped it in Hal's cloak and laid it in a shallow depression of the hard ground. They covered it against harm with loose rocks, piling them into a cairn. The bodies of the kingsmen they dragged into the brush. Horses were tethered nearby, as foul-tempered as their masters; Hal searched the saddlebags for food and then let the beasts go loose. He and Alan wanted no part of the kingsmen's gear. They stamped out the fire. It was the mid of a cloudy, moonless night, but they were eager to be gone from this place in spite of the dark.
“Come on, Corin,” Alan murmured, and seated the boy before him on Alfie.
They rode through the night and the next day, heading north between the Forest and the sea cliffs. Bit by bit, through the day, Corin's story came out.
“Smiths have magic, you know, when it comes to metals,” he explained. “When your broth had given him strength, my father was able to cure himself by the touch of your sword. Later, we were hungry, and he used it to conjure food. A gray goshawk came, and dropped a coney by our feet."
“It seems,” Alan remarked to Hal, “that there is more than one magical sword."
“A sorcerer can work wonders with a stick,” Hal snapped. “And those warlocks who den with Iscovar can smell such sorcery even from Nemeton."
“The magic in that sword is magic of perfect craftsmanship,” Corin fold them haltingly. “That fine smithcraft went into it at its making, and there is no evil in such power.... But Father did not like to use it often, just the same. There is more honor in catching your own fish than in drawing on another man's magical net."
“There is no fishing off these cliffs,” Alan grumbled. The salt breeze was cold. Even the last stunted remnants of the Forest were behind them now, and only a ragged, treeless expanse faced them. They were riding the Marches now.
“We kept on walking north, to get well away from Whitewater,” Corin said, much later. “And also Father was afraid of your anger, though I told him.... Well, and also the land grew harsher and harsher. There was no tilling it. Father thought we might walk as far as the Barrens, and wander with the warlords. He had grown fond of walking, I think. But those black and orange ghouls came up behind us.” Corin stopped.
“So they followed the smell of sorcery from Nemeton,” Alan said. “But how could they have known it was your sword, Hal? Or if they did not know, why would they care?"
“I can't say, either way,” muttered Hal. “I know nothing of my own sword."
It was nearly dusk when they found a hollow sheltered by four standing stones. Here they decided to spend the night, protected from the never-ending sea breeze and from prying eyes as well. The mention of sorcery had put Alan on edge; he was imagining invisible trackers, relentless pursuit. What Hal was feeling, he could not tell.
They had Corin help with the camp chores, hoping that the work might ease his sorrow. Hal served up his best rabbit stew, with precious bread plundered from the enemy saddlebags; but the lad scarcely ate. Afterward Alan offered him his blanket. The boy politely refused.
“I cannot sleep,” he said. “Do not let me hinder your rest; I shall sit by the fire."
They had to respect his wish to be alone. But Alan slept fitfully in spite of his fatigue, and it was not long before he rose to find the lad huddled over the coals of the fire, sound asleep, with tears still wet on his eyelashes. Gently Alan wrapped him in his blanket and laid him down. Then he himself hunched over the dying coals, warming himself in his cloak. Hal awoke from a doze and silently joined him.
“I'm glad he's asleep,” he murmured, studying their new companion. “What a plucky young nuisance he is, Alan! To rip himself out of those bonds—his wrists are mangled nearly to the bone—and heave himself out from under that headless body, and come to our aid with a dead man's sword.... And he can't be more than thirteen."
“Twelve, he told me. But he's likely to have the girls after him in a year or two. He's a handsome rascal, and well grown."
“Poor fellow,” Hal whispered. “What are we to do with him, Alan? This is no life for him."
Alan shook his head helplessly. He supposed they would have to worry about that later.
But they had to worry about Corin sooner than they expected. At daybreak, when they arose, Corin did not wake, and his forehead was hot to the touch. Hal frowned. “He needs his sleep worse than he does his breakfast, but he shall have both. Let us ride till he awakes."
So Alan gathered him up, blanket and all, and took him onto Alfie with himself. The lad moved and muttered restlessly, but did not wake. It was midmorning when he suddenly started from his doze and looked around him, bewildered. Arundel moved up alongside Alfie as Hal reached over to Corin's forehead, asking him how he felt.
“Things keep going around,” he answered. “Sometimes I can see your face, but then it fades into a fog."
Corin did not want to eat, but they persuaded him to drink some meat broth strengthened with Hal's herbs. As soon as they took to the saddle again, he lapsed into a sleep that was half faintness.
They rode all day, turning inland in search of some nameless succor, and not stopping until after dark. Corin awoke at intervals, but his eyes were glazed and he said little. He drank water and broth, but could eat nothing. They took turns sitting up with him that night. By dawn he was delirious with fever, moaning and calling for his father. Hal was dismayed. “My brews have no effect,” he said. “He needs shelter, and the help of a wiser healer than I."
They rode on, desperately looking for some sign of human habitation. In late afternoon they found a camp of Gypsies. The dark folk gave them as much assistance as they could. They had blankets, food, shelter from the wind and a little medicine. They got some bread into Corin, and some more broth. They all took turns sitting by him, giving him water and swabbing his burning forehead. But he was no better.
“He is not fighting it!” Hal exclaimed.
Corin indeed seemed to be sinking into despair. He cried out for his father, and from time to time he shouted in desperate anger, “Murderers! Murderers!” Hal spoke with the Gypsy chieftain.
“Is there any holding nearby, or manor, or town, where the folk would be willing to help us, and where a healer might make his home?"
The Gypsy shook his head. “As you value your lives, do not go west, for Arrok's raiders scour the Marches even as far as the Forest, though his holding is in Rodsen. If you continue north, you will come to the trade town of Firth, on the Great North Cove. The lord there, Roran, is a good man, just but merciful, and kind to those in need. Surely be has a healer. But it is a seven-day journey. I doubt the lad will last."
“We will make it in three,” Hal said grimly. “Tell me the way."
They left the Gypsy camp before day had quite broken, with Corin blanket-wrapped and with water, food and medicine in their saddlebags. They rode at a steady, loping run through that day, stopping only to give Corin drink. The miles melted away and the land swept past them faster than it ever had before, although to them the pace seemed slow. They went on until they could no longer see to ride, then stopped to boil some meat for broth. When the moon rose they went on again, and did not stop until the next nightfall. They gnawed bread in the saddle. Arundel and Alfie cantered tirelessly. Alan's heart bled for the steeds, but Hal spoke to them in his strange language, and they raised their heads and surged on like colts fresh out of pasture. Though the land they rode was still flat or rolling, jagged peaks now rose between them and the sea. They were moving into the Northern Barrens.
By the end of the second day Corin had ceased to cry out for his father. He lay as still as death in their arms, scarcely breathing, and they could feel the heat coming off his face as off a fire.
“We must make it by tomorrow,” Hal said.
They pushed on through the night. The horses were stumbling with fatigue, but kept up the best pace they could without urging. By dawn they were toiling up a long, steep rise. Corin was on Arundel. Several times Alfie faltered and almost fell, but he never ba
lked. Alan patted his neck constantly, and Hal talked to both horses. Arundel's head hung low, but he ran steadily on.
By midmorning they had topped the rise, and saw Firth far below. Within the hour they swept through the town gates. Scarcely pausing for the folk in the streets, they made their way straight to the lord's keep.
“Open up! It is a matter of life or death!” cried Hal.
The timber doors creaked open. A groom ran to take their horses. A servant appeared to lead them to the lord.
“Let no one except you touch the gray,” Hal cautioned the groom. He set off after the servant, carrying Corin, Arundel's knees trembled, and his fine head hung almost to the cobblestones. But Alfie sank to the ground, where he lay flat on his side. Alan groaned, torn between Alfie and Corin; then he ran after Hal.
A doorkeeper gave them entry into a stone chamber. The inner walls were completely hung with rich tapestries. In the center of the room, in an intricately carved chair, sat a dark, fierce-looking man dressed in thick velvets. He glanced at them as they entered, saw the limp bundle in Hal's arms and at once strode across the room to them, leaving the man with whom he was talking. He laid his hand on Corin's burning forehead, looked at their haggard faces and clapped his hands loudly. Several servants came running.
“Call Bleys at once,” he ordered. “Prepare rooms and food for these gentlemen, and whatever they need. Hurry!” As the servants disappeared, he turned to Hal and Alan. “Bleys is as fine a physician as can be found north of Nemeton. If he cannot help the lad, then he is beyond mortal aid. I am anxious to know your story, but I shall wait until your needs are seen to. I shall speak with you later."
“A thousand thanks, my lord,” said Hal quietly.
“Here is Bleys now. May all good come to the lad.” Lord Roran went back to his seat as they followed the healer out of the room.
Bleys was an old man, gray-bearded but still hale of body and clear of eye. He took them to a large chamber where servants were busy building a fire and piling linens on a large bed. A tub was brought and filled with warm water, and Corin was tenderly bathed, then laid in the bed and dosed with warm milk and medicine. After that there was nothing to do but moisten his burning face with a cool cloth, give drink from time to time and wait. As soon as he saw Corin cared for, Alan slipped away to the stables.
He found Alfie lying on a thick bed of straw in a roomy stall. He had been rubbed dry and warmly covered. Arundel was in the next stall, also lying down, and he whinnied at Alan cheerfully enough. But Alfie lay without raising his head, and his whole body was tense with pain. Alan sank into the straw and took the horse's head on his lap, and Alfie nuzzled his hand.
Without warning, tears began rolling down Alan's cheeks, as he clutched the horse's neck and begged him, “Don't die! I need you....” He knew that if Alfie died he would never forgive himself, even though it was for Corin's sake. For a long time he hugged and patted his horse, stroking the lean neck, telling him what a very good horse he was, who galloped so bravely night and day, and who hadn't needed a tether in over a month now, and who never ran away anymore. “Alfie the Great-Hearted,” he said. “That's what we'll call you."
After a while he left the stables and headed back toward Corin's room. The tears still lay wet on his face, and many people stared at him, but he was beyond embarrassment. As he strode through the keep, Lord Roran of Firth entered the corridor and stopped in concern when he saw him.
“Is the news bad?"
“Nay, my lord. The boy was still the same when I left him. I have been to see my horse....” For a moment Alan could not go on. “Pardon, my lord,” he said finally. “For three days and nights I have not slept, and I begin to act foolishly. The horse is nearly dead from galloping, and it grieves me."
“How far have you ridden?” asked Lord Roran gently.
Alan told him, “Four days ago we were at the place where the Forest meets the sea."
Lord Roran whistled. “He must be no ordinary horse."
“Nay, my lord,” answered Alan, then had to cover his face with his hands. Hal looked out of Corin's doorway, came and put his arms around him.
“Is Alfie dead?"
Alan shook his head. “Nay,” he managed to say, “but likely to be.” He stood breathing deeply, trying to calm himself.
“He will not die,” said Hal with conviction. “He is far too stubborn. If only I could say the same for the lad."
“How is the boy?” asked Lord Roran.
“The same. There is nothing to do now but wait."
“Then come with me,” said Lord Roran firmly. “You both need rest and nourishment. Your dinner awaits you."
“With your leave,” Hal said, “I shall go to the stables first"
His Lordship nodded, and he and Alan went on. “I do not yet know your name,” he said.
Alan told him.
“And your brother?"
“His name is Hal.” Alan paused. “You called him my brother, and indeed in a manner of speaking he is, but not by birth."
“By the tides, I felt sure he was your brother. And Corin, is he no relationship to either of you?"
“None. We found him just four days ago."
“You found him? How is that?"
They came to a warm room with two beds, where a variety of food was set out on a small table. As they sat, Alan told briefly of Corin's rescue.
“The filth!” Lord Roran muttered as Alan told of the kingsmen. “The black-cloaked, dirty-handed, mother-hating filth!” He pounded the table with his fist, and his face flushed an angry red. As Alan continued, his expression turned from rage to astonishment.
“The two of you killed six kingsmen?” he exclaimed.
“Even so.” Alan was too tired to think of taking offense.
“But how?"
“We surprised them, and two of them we took off at once.... Then Corin got loose somehow, and got ahold of a sword, and stabbed a villain in the knee even before he was able to get up. Hal whistled for the horses, and they helped us dispatch the rest."
“Remarkable horses,” Lord Roran murmured in bewilderment. Obviously Alan was too wrung out to be bragging or lying. Roran listened in stunned silence to Alan's account of their four-day ride.
“Then Corin's sickness is as much one of the heart as of the body,” he said at last.
“Ay. He thinks his father died on his account."
Hal joined them, and in answer to Alan's worried glance he only shrugged: Alfie was still the same. The lord of Firth dished out the meal. There were excellent soups, wheat bread, jellies and cold meats. In politeness Hal and Alan tasted everything, but they ate little.
“Will you sleep now?” asked Lord Roran when they were finished. “This is your room, but I shall have cots set up for you near Corin if you would prefer."
That was done, but they could not sleep. Restlessly they divided then time between Corin's bedside and the stable, pacing through the long afternoon. Alfie remained on his side in the straw, scarcely moving, cramped with exhaustion. Corin grew weaker and more wasted, his tongue parched and his face burning to the touch. He seemed scarcely to breathe, and a dozen times they feared that he was already dead.
At dusk Lord Roran came in, and with him a lad about Corin's size, but as dark and hawklike as himself. It was Roran's son, Robin. They looked at Corin with pity in their eyes, and Bleys flung wide his hands in a gesture of despair.
“He need not die,” the healer said. “He came to me soon enough, and took the medicine well. But he is sunk in his grief, and remembers no joy in his life."
In the reaches of Hal's mind a spark of hope flickered. He spoke, knowing quite well that what he asked was preposterous. “At the beginning of this Age, there was a small flowering plant in the south and west of Isle, called by some folk Elfin Gold, by others Veran's Crown. It is said that since Herne first sailed up the Black River it is no longer to be found. Have you ever heard of it?"
Lord Roran's face was blank, but Bleys showed in
terest. “I have heard of it. We have a room here full of quaint things collected by the third lord, Rob Roy. It seems to me that I have seen a small jar in there, full of dried plants. ‘Bloome of Veran's Crowyn,’ it said."
Hal leaped to his feet. “A single plant will save Corin's life. I swear it!"
In a moment they were all in the crowded, dusty room, frantically searching every corner, shelf and case for the little jar which said “Bloome of Veran's Crowyn.” It was Robin who found it at last, triumphantly emerging from under a cobwebby table. They hurried with it back to Corin's room. The servants had followed Hal's directions; a brazier burned by Corin's bed, and on it a small pot of water boiled. Hal carefully removed from the jar a single brittle plant—root, stem, leaf and flower. Whispering what might have been a prayer, he crushed the little thing and dropped it into the boiling water.
Slowly a faint, clear aroma filled the room, essence of springtime, youth, birdsong and May sunshine. Without knowing it, everyone relaxed, their minds wandering back to the time when they were happy and young. Roran straightened in his seat, and spoke in wonder. “What magic is this? I thought I was a lad again, and my father still alive."
Alan thought of riding the green hills of his native Laueroc on his first pony. Hal remembered his mother's eyes. And Corin stirred in the sickbed and spoke.
“Father,” he said dreamily, “hear the larks, how they sing.” He sighed and smiled, turning his face to the imagined sunlight.
Bleys tiptoed to his side, and spoke in a hushed whisper. “His forehead is cool. He sleeps peacefully."
“The gods be thanked,” Alan breathed, and started to weep again. But he was not ashamed. Except Corin's, not an eye in the room was dry.
Before they went to bed, Hal and Alan took one more walk to the stables. Alfie still lay in his straw, but fast asleep, breathing deeply and contentedly.
“Hal,” Alan asked gratefully, “what manner of wizard are you?” But Hal shook his head.
The Book of Isle Page 24
