“Father,” protested Galin, “you cannot be serious!"
“And with him,” continued King Torre, unperturbed, “would come his brother, a man great beyond the borders of blood or nation, a man of heart, like Veran before him. He would come on a steed of golden bay, and he would be called Elf-Friend, the Golden One, and Sunrise King. The emblem of his destiny would reside in the green Elfstone, gift of the ash maiden."
Alan sprang up, overturning his seat, and strode to the door, where he stood breathing deeply. Hal picked up the bench without comment.
“Why, what is this?” inquired Torre blankly.
“Your pardon, sire, for my churlishness,” said Alan, returning, his face still dark with emotion. “Something that you said is painful to me. Here is the stone of which you spoke.” He pulled it from under his tunic, and slipped the chain over his head to hand it to the old King. But Torre stopped him.
“Hold it up to the light."
Alan obeyed, and gasped at what he saw. In the depths of the gem, glowing golden and growing like a living light, blazed a half circle of radiant beams, brilliantly symmetrical. Brighter and brighter it burned, till it far outshone the torchlight, and even Galin gaped in wonder. Trembling, Alan lowered his hand, and the vision faded.
“What manner of sign is that?” he whispered.
“According to legend,” explained Torre, “this is the stone given by Claefe to Veran, brought by her from the land of the Rising Sun. It shows the sun emblem at the center, after which the crown of Veran was fashioned. Would you tell me how you come to wear it?"
“You seem to know as much about it as we do,” Alan muttered.
“More,” remarked Hal. “It seems that Adaoun did not tell us all that he might."
“Adaoun!” exclaimed the old King. “Then it is true!"
“What is true?” growled Galin. “Am I sitting in the company of madmen?"
“Elves,” replied Hal quietly. “Veran's memory is still young atop the tallest mountain."
He tried to give them some feeling of the glow of timelessness that hung in the air of the elfin valley, of the bright glimmer of wonder which clung to the very grass of the place. He did not mention Lysse, and Alan sat silently, with lowered head. When Hal was done, Galin and Torre gazed for a moment with strangely intent but peaceful faces, as if a whiff of that mountaintop air had drifted their way.
Then they had many questions, and in the course of the evening Hal and Alan related most of the events in the two and a half years since Hal had escaped from the Dark Tower. Hal described plans for claiming the throne, and the talk turned to troops and strategy. Charts and maps were brought out. Hal sensed Galin's wariness changing to hope, if not to belief.
It was late when they finally left Torre. On their way up the spiral steps to their tower rooms, Galin addressed Hal with respect, even hesitation.
“Hal,” he asked, “do you believe all these—ah—prophecies?"
“Not that they will necessarily come to pass, nay. Things are not often as they ought to be. But I must fight to bring them about, not for my own glory, but for the sake of my people. It is the burden of my birth to prevent another such fiend as my—father—from ever sitting on the throne of Isle again. The course of my life was plain to me long before I had heard of The Book of Suns.” Hal paused on the landing. “Will you lend me assistance, Uncle?"
“Ay, I'll lead my men on your behalf,” answered Galin gruffly.
Hal glanced at him again. “With your heart, my lord, or only to please your father?"
Galin stood a moment marveling at the perception in those gray eyes. Then he stretched out his weathered hand. “With all my heart, Welandais Prince,” he vowed. “If ever a brighter dawn is to come our way, it will be through you."
In his chamber at last, Hal flopped gratefully on his narrow cot. It had been a long, heartspoken day, and he felt drained by it. But Alan paced the floor restlessly, involved in some sort of inner struggle. Hal watched him askance. Were the months of silence at last to be broken?
“It is harder than I had imagined, Hal,” Alan remarked haltingly, “all this destiny. I feel that a great weight of expectation is put on me. And yours is far heavier. Small wonder that you found it so difficult to bear."
“You were a greater help to me than I can say.” Hal rose to pace beside him. “You are a very special, wonderful person, Elwyndas. Is that so hard to accept?” Then, as Alan gestured impatiently, he plunged on. “Listen to me only a moment, Alan. Why should prophecy trouble us, indeed? Does it change anything? We never intended to do less than our best."
But Alan was not to be put off. With courage born of his misery, he spoke a name they had not mentioned in months. “But the prophecy concerns me and—and Lysse, does it not?"
“Ay,” replied Hal quietly.
“What does it say?"
“Only that she is your mendor, as Rosemary is mine."
“But —” Alan nearly choked, but once started he was far too stubborn to stop. “I do not intend to have her. I must never see her again."
“Do you not love her, Alan?"
“Ay!” Alan banged his fist so hard against the stone wall that the blood ran freely down his wrist. “Mother of mercy, Hal!"
“You have told her so, have you not?"
“Ay.” Spent, he spoke dully. “It was an act of great weakness. I should never have spoken to her."
“Nay, Alan, nay!” Hal seized him by the shoulders, almost shaking him. “Never regret it! Your love is your talisman. It was your brave love which taught you the Elder Speech and took you to the place where only Veran had gone before—and he a god-man, from out of the west. Never have I envisioned a man with a greater gift of love than you, Alan. Yet, all things won, would you let it go down to defeat from pride?"
Stung, Alan threw off his hands. “Would you have me deliver her over to death?"
“You are her mendor, too!” Hal cried. “Do you not think the choice should be hers? There are many fates worse than death, even to an elf!"
Alan threw him a black glare and stamped across the room to stand by the narrow window. As he looked into the midnight sky, he remembered the elves’ lake: serene, dark, unfathomably deep. Tumult swirled through him, and he grew short of breath.
From behind him Hal spoke wearily. “Alan, must we quarrel? This thing that turns you from me—I've been miserable these months past—I beg pardon if I've meddled where I have no say."
“Say what you will,” Alan muttered perversely, and like a string that has been tuned too tightly, he broke. For the first time in his months of anguish, he wept. As Hal's arms steadied him, he could feel the tears dissolving the hard knot of bitter pride that filled his chest and replacing it with hope. Dimly he realized that even the impossible might happen, that Lysse's hand might yet rest once again in his. Faintly, he heard her reassuring voice: “Wear this in hope of a better dawn. Remember me!"
Hal rubbed the hardness of Alan's shoulders, feeling tight muscles slowly relax and tortured gasps turn to deep, quiet breathing. But the gray-eyed Prince did not think of the ash maiden. Instead, Torre's words, already forgotten by Alan, echoed joyously in Hal's mind: “...and he would be called Elf-friend, the Golden One, and Sunrise King...."
Chapter Five
Three days after the comrades came to Cair Indel, the eve of November was celebrated, the ancient Feast of Fires. Galin rode in for the occasion, and Hal took his plinset and sang the lays his mother had taught him. For the old King, it was the merriest holiday in many years. But to Hal and Alan it seemed a gloomy affair compared to the previous year's feast at Celydon. Food was scarce at Cair Indel, for these mountains were not farmed. The meal was acorn cakes and dried apples. Torre's chamber was dimly illuminated by torches and rushlights. Like all of the rooms at the fortress, it was bare of hangings or decoration. The stone was cold, and the rude furnishings few.
In the weeks that followed, Hal spent many hours with Torre. The old King was a deep well of hi
story and all kinds of lore, but it was not only his learning that drew Hal to him. It was father love such as he had never known. Torre cherished his grandson, and Hal looked to him like a boy. Alan watched the two of them with a smile. All the bad humor had gone out of his system, and he marveled at the change in Torre. Years had dropped away from the old King since Hal's coming. He walked strongly, without support; his hands were steady, his voice clear and true. Torre, who did not bestow friendship lightly, treated Alan with a friendly distinction that was more than the politeness of a host. Alan justly felt honored, and he was glad of Hal's happiness. But even Alan did not know how often Hal's thoughts turned toward Celydon.
Winter came. The mountains put on thick cloaks of snow, and the air developed teeth. Torre came out often, even in the biting cold, to help Hal and Alan with the horses; he loved to look at Arundel. But one freezing day, Hal did not come to the exercise yard. Alan met Torre, frowning. Hal was on the battlements, he explained, staring eastward in a kind of a trance, and not at all reasonable. Torre did not seem put out. “Mothers, then let us go to him,” he remarked.
They climbed up the icy steps. Hal was gazing into the gray distances of winterbound Welas.
“What is it, Hal?” Torre asked. His voice caressed the name.
Hal did not answer, and Torre and Alan settled themselves to wait. Hal hardly seemed aware of their presence. After a few minutes, words burst from him, but not, they sensed, in answer to their query.
“Rosemary!” Hal cried. “She's in danger!"
“Where? How?” Alan demanded, but once again Hal seemed not to notice. His face was straining.
“The wolves!” he blurted a little later. “Why doesn't she see the wolves! Asfala sees them.... What can Pelys be thinking of, to let her ride out alone!"
“Thinking of you,” Alan murmured.
“She flees,” Hal said with immense relief. “But why into the Forest, into the trees? A horse cannot outdistance wolves among trees!” He grew tense again, biting his lip in consternation. “Asfala is small, she twists among the trees, but her legs are short, the snow is deep. Why did she go that way?” Hal panted; he was Asfala, and the wolves, and Rosemary, bent low over the filly's neck. To Torre and Alan, it seemed that the chase lasted an hour. They stood rigidly, waiting.
“A haven!” Hal shouted. “A refuge, a—a sacred grove....” His voice trailed away in sheer wonder, and his shoulders sagged as he went limp with ecstasy. “Of course, she went there,” he murmured. “It is her natal home, which she has never seen. Did the wolves drive her there, or was it she who led them?” His voice sank to a whisper; the listeners could hardly hear him.
“The lady has ridden her steed into the circle of rowan trees. The wolves cannot follow, for there she is mistress; more, she is essence. The wolves circle in the sacred dance. Now Ket and his men come, with bows and clubs, to drive them off. The wolves scud away, and the outlaws stand agape; they also cannot enter the Rowan circle. But, in time, the lady leaves it to join them.” Hal spoke in a dreamy chant, an onlooker aside from self. “Ket asks her name, though he knows it well enough, and she tells him: Rosemary, daughter of Rowana of Celydon. She senses that she is a daughter of her mother, in this place. Ket kneels at her feet. He loves her. He nearly weeps with love; he will love her until he dies. But she is mine; he knows she is mine. She is the Lady, and I am the Very King."
“Ay,” breathed Alan, remembering a dream he had forgotten, once seen on an ancient woman's loom. “Ay. The Lady of All Trees dwells on the Forest island of Celydon."
Hal turned to him, shocked out of his trance, shaking at his own words, terrified. “Name of Aene, Alan, what did I say?"
“Truth.” Alan put an arm around him.
“I called myself Very King!” Hal whispered, ashen.
“Merest truth, Mireldeyn,” Alan told him whimsically. “Think no more of it."
“Will the lass be all right?” Torre asked, bemused.
“Ay, Ket will see her home.” Hal turned to the old King remorsefully. “Grandfather, how long have you stood here while I babbled nonsense?"
“I heard no nonsense,” Torre retorted, “and I am not yet too old to stand for a while. Moreover, it has been said before now that the Lady of the Forest must wed the Very King, as the Forest is the soul of Isle and the Very King its heart. But what are the rites of this Lady? What must she do?"
“She does not do; she is.” Hal seemed to know the answer in spite of himself. “She lives, as the Forest lives."
“Why did she not tell us, or show us?” Alan murmured. “How blind we were then, Hal!"
“She does not know it herself, Alan! She is more being than knowing. She is the fruit tree and the dappled deer.” Hal shook his head, blinking back tears. “Aene's power go with her! Knowing is only pain."
“Come in to the fire,” said Torre gruffly.
It took Hal a few days to shake off the lethargy of his trance, and for a few nights he paced the corridors, afraid to sleep because of what his dreams might be. He hated the thought that Ket might someday kneel to him.... But the warmth of Torre's love drew him away from his fears more quickly than be would have believed possible. In the evenings he sat by the hearth and sang for the old man.
The quiet winter months passed slowly for Hal and Alan, in spite of their contentment. There was much to be done in the year ahead, and they longed to be on the road once again. If Iscovar's physician reckoned rightly, this would be their last year of preparation for the war to come. Hal paced for nearly a month at the thought of it, until one day be smelled spring even in the icy mountain air. “The snow is melting and the grass is green in the lowlands,” he said, “though the crags here are still white. It is time for us to go."
Torre came to watch them pack. “You roam about the land,” he chided, “without shields, helms or mail? Your fighting skills are great, but it is a wonder you have not both been killed."
“We have tried to avoid fighting,” Hal explained. “We could appear to be only wastrels, or farm lads, when we chose. Though truly it was not often a matter of choice."
Torre shook his head. “Two years ago, perhaps, you could do that; but no one would mistake you now for farm lads.” He studied their powerful shoulders and chests, noting their purposeful movements and steady bearing. “You are warriors, and leaders of warriors. There is no disguising it."
“Just as you say,” Hal acceded cheerfully. “But what are we to do about it?"
“We have gifts,” came a voice from the doorway. They turned in surprise to see Galin, but the King smiled. Galin's voice, as always, was somber. But Alan thought he saw a nicker of emotion in his black eyes.
From the corridor came a procession of servants, bringing Hal and Alan the accouterments of combat. Galin and Torre first presented tunics of fine chain mail, lightweight but very strong, crafted of the mountains’ best metal. Then they brought half-helms with a noseguard attached; these were much less hot and heavy than full helms, and could be stored in the saddlebags until needed. The mail could be worn under an outer garment, if Hal and Alan wished to hide it.
Last, Torre and Galin gifted the comrades with shields. These also were lightweight yet strong, and rather small, so as not to hamper freedom of movement. They were of a graceful shape, the point not too long but somewhat rounded. In the center of each was embossed a half-circle sunburst, like that on the plinset case, or like the emblem of Veran's crown in the heart of the green Elfstone. Hal's shield and helm shone silvery gray, like his sword and his steed. Alan's were of the same metal, but treated with an overlay which made them glow a brilliant gold, like sunlight.
The two soon gave up trying to express their thanks. They knew that Torre understood, and beneath Galin's toughened exterior they felt his love as well as his reluctance to show it. So in mutual silence and regard they saddled their steeds, slung on their bedrolls, and prepared to leave.
“I shall miss you both,” said King Torre. He stood tall, and in his eyes glowed
the hope of a new dawn. As they rode down the gorge they looked back at him. With his dark eyes sparkling, his thin lips pressed tight, his snow-white hair bristling in the crisp air, he seemed a roused bird of prey, poised to strike his enemies, swift and deadly. In farewell he raised the clenched fist of war.
Galin rode with the brothers as far as the lower defenses. From the foothills they could see the lowlands in the hazy distance. Hal was right; green patches were beginning to appear.
“Farewell,” Galin said simply as they turned to leave. Then suddenly he added, “Hal, Alan, I never told you —"
“We know,” Hal assured him, smiling at the love in his thunder-dark eyes.
“Go with all blessing,” he said.
They left the mountains behind them and rode toward the lowlands, Iscovar's demesne. Galin watched them go. He was troubled by the emblem on their shields—was it the rising sun of a new dawn for his land and his people, or was it the setting of their sun forever? There was a mystery in Hal's eyes which he did not understand, but which caused him both hope and fear. Something in Hal, he knew, was more than man, even more than legend—but even an elf-man could be killed. With the difficulty that comes of pride, Galin bowed his head and begged the Mothers to keep his kinsman from harm.
Book four
THE DARK TOWER
* * *
Chapter One
Hal and Alan set their course straight toward Nemeton, for they needed to establish communication with the castle before they could lay their final plans. Hal hoped his old nurse was still alive. “She was always clever, and tough even in tenderness,” he grumbled, to temper his concern. “Still, I wish I knew what happened to her, after Rhys was killed."
The Book of Isle Page 35
