It was to Caer Eitha that Cuin son of Clarric took his cousin Ellid. By the time he brought her home a scowl had settled on his handsome face, for Ellid had been like a stranger: quiet, solitary and aloof. She had not kissed him even for greeting. Her mother also noted the change in her, and said that she was fatigued from her ordeal. Cuin wished that he could think the same, but suspicion nagged him; the more so because he scorned to give it voice. Only in temper his doubts found their outlet.
A week after their homecoming, Cuin noted Ellid wandering all alone toward the Forest. Frowning, he hurried after her; it was not the first time she had broken bounds of late.
"You should not go out alone, Ellid," he said sharply when he had caught up with her.
"I am not afraid," she answered, though with none of her former fire in her voice.
"And what of me? I am in charge of you until your father returns. If any ill should come to you, he will flay me." Cuin stood staring at her, tight-lipped with exasperation. He knew she was unhappy; nothing but misery could make Ellid so tame. He would far rather she would weep outright than face him so silently. His love for her nearly choked him.
"If you would walk," he said gruffly at last, "I will get Flessa and come with you."
Flessa was Cuin's falcon. A shade of a smile moved Ellid's still lips, for she knew that Cuin had better things to do than go a-hawking with such poor company. But he saw that smile as a light in the wilderness. "Wait but a moment," he exclaimed, and ran to fetch the bird.
They roamed along the fringes of the Forest. They scarcely spoke, but Cuin was content that she walked at his side. Rabbits were feeding in the grass beneath the trees. Twice Cuin unhooded the flame-red falcon and loosed it, and it returned faithfully with the game each time. But the third time it swerved from its course like a spark caught in the wind and shot away toward the treetops.
Cuin gave a cry of anger and sorrow; many hours of patient work were in the training of that bird. "Stay here—nay, go back!" he told Ellid, and plunged after it amongst the trees. But Ellid was one, like her cousin, who took direction ill. "I am coming," she retorted, and entered the Forest on his heels.
They struggled along in panting haste. Soon they saw the falcon sitting high in a tall pine, bright as fire in the sunlight. Cuin whistled and swung the lure, but the bird flashed away forthwith toward the denser cover. Cuin muttered to himself. A deep ravine interrupted the way. They scrambled down quickly and toiled up the opposite slope, hoisting themselves by their hands. Then Cuin gasped and almost fell. A white hart leaped to the bank just above, leaped again and vanished.
Ellid sprang to where it had stood like one who has sprouted wings. "Bevan?" she cried in a voice like larksong. Struggling below, Cuin heard the soft answering call: "Here." When Cuin came to his feet, he found the black-haired stranger standing beneath a silver beech, and the lady kissing him—such a kiss as Cuin had never known from her.
"We do your cousin discourtesy," Bevan said to her gently when he could speak.
"Cuin!" Ellid exclaimed, and reached out to the silent watcher. But Cuin turned away from her outstretched hand. "I will wait," he mumbled and strode off blindly, his bird forgotten.
"We have grieved him," Ellid said sorrowfully. "But I have grieved him aplenty this fortnight past. Now he knows the reason."
The two sat and talked for a time. Bevan told her much news, even of the Speaking Stone. "It is a hard saying, that I may not look upon the sea," he mourned.
Ellid glanced at him askance. To her, as to most folk, the sea was a name of horror. Ages past, it was said, the gods had driven monstrous beings from the face of the land, and the dark waves of the flood teemed with them yet. The huge dragon that ruled the deep, folk said, was grown so great that all of Isle would make but a stepping-place for his clawed foot. If ever he should arise… Ellid shuddered, but then recalled that she had also once feared the night.
"I wish I could have taken the silver sea-drake back to her proper abode for her rest," Bevan said. "But your father honored her well. When I left they were raising great barrows for her and for the slain. Myrdon will be leveled when they are done."
"Isle will be well rid of it," Ellid replied. "That was a stronghold fit for nothing but war and uses of war. My father has no desire of such."
Bevan's delicate mouth quirked, for he did not have such a high opinion of her father. "It may be I shall not see you now a while," he told her obliquely.
"Why?" she asked, startled.
He hardly knew why, what peril pursued him or what call drew him, but he felt he must travel. "I do not like the rising sun," he answered lightly. "It seems to me that I must follow the setting sun a while. Now that I have the steeds, I can better learn to know this strange land of men."
Ellid was puzzled but said no more. Bevan kissed her deeply and arose. "Come," he said. "We must go to Cuin, though he will give us cold welcome."
They found him sitting not far away. Bevan squatted before him. "I did not think to affront you thus, my lord," he told him quietly. "When I lured you off, I never guessed that the lady would follow. Though I should have known she might."
Cuin raised his head slowly to stare. "Lured me? What do you mean?"
Bevan called, a strange call, and raised his wrist. The falcon appeared with blazing speed to his summons. Even Cuin winced as the talons drove at Bevan's white flesh, but Flessa alighted gently and folded her shining wings. Bevan held her up before his face, studying her, the golden blinking eyes scarcely inches from his own.
Then he handed her back onto Cuin's leathern sleeve. "She would have returned to you unsummoned," he told him. "You need no leash or hood to constrain her to cleave to you, Cuin son of Clarric the Wise."
Cuin only eyed him coldly for reply and rose to stand at Ellid's side. "Come, Cousin."
"The blessing of the Mothers go with you, my lady," Bevan called softly as they walked away. When Ellid turned to look, he was gone. Not even a footfall could be heard to mark his going.
Ellid and Cuin walked in silence until they reached the meadow. "I am sorry that I could not tell you," she said at last. "I love him well, Cuin."
"Yet I have stood by you these many years," he said roughly.
"You are my good and faithful friend, Cuin. Pray stand by me still. No one must know of this."
Cuin was ready to burst with anguish and vexation, but still he could not refuse her request. "Even so," he promised heavily at last. "But will you tell me what he is, Ellid, that you tender him your regard?"
"He is what you have seen," she replied with eyes wide and bright as sunlit skies. "He is master of bird and beast and all things of earth."
Cuin only glowered for answer, and left her at the gates. He climbed to his comfortless chamber, where he hooded his bird and leashed her to her perch. Then he sat with blood-red jealousy coloring his sight. How could Ellid prefer such a beardless beggar over him! But Cuin did not weep for the loss of his lady, for he deemed he was not bested yet, and he was far from ready to quit the field. Cuin was the son of one titled Wise, and though he did not yet know his father's serenity, he had learned the value of tenacity. He would stay by his lady's side; when she needed him, he would be there. Perhaps she would yet find that her old love could serve her the better.
Cuin set his straight jaw as he set his course, and his rugged, fighter's face went hard as rock. His was to be a silent perseverance. He suffered by the warrior's code, and he never thought to woo his lady with the ardor that burned his heart.
The news that Dacaerin's men brought back from Myrdon did nothing to ease Cuin's wrath: silver dragons, forsooth, and speaking stones! He could only think that he had some trickster warlock for a rival, and he boiled inwardly at the mention of him. Moreover, Pryce Dacaerin seemed to be as much taken by Bevan as Ellid herself, and as much cooled toward Cuin. His wife, Eitha, a comely, peace-loving woman, went about her work with a puzzled frown. Cuin held his tongue, curbed his temper and bided his time. He saw Ellid as
often as he could, if only to sit with her, walk by her side, bid her good day… And as for Ellid; she dreamed.
It was the beginning of June when the dark men came, a dozen in a troop. Dacaerin would refuse hospitality to no travelers, though he did not like the looks of these folk who went close-cloaked even in the warmth of summer. Their leader was one who called himself Ware, an emissary of some unfamiliar southern lord who sought the newcome heir of Byve to "do him honor." To this one Dacaerin replied honestly that he had not seen Bevan in nearly a month and did not know where he might be. Ellid and Cuin kept silence. Though the swarthy strangers tried hard to be pleasant, something about them spoke so loudly of peril that even the servant-folk shied from them. There was small doubt in Cuin's mind as to what sort of "honor" they wished to pay Bevan.
They stayed for several days, lazing about and listening at doors. As each day passed, Cuin became harder pressed to maintain his disinterested courtesy. He believed he knew where Bevan was to be found, for he read Ellid like a weathercock; never had he known her to take such an interest in sunsets. And though Cuin knew that he could not betray Bevan to these dark folk without hurting Ellid to her core, still the thought pricked at him: how sweet a way to be rid of his rival! The niggling desire, so alien to his stalwart nature, pestered him almost to distraction. The sight of a cloaked visitor became poison to him; he dodged them as if they were pox-ridden. But it seemed that they were everywhere. "Enough!" Cuin cried to himself on the fifth day. "I will go to my father's house and leave this den of madness."
In haste, without provisions or farewells, he mounted his horse and sent it swiftly toward his family's estate of Wallyn that lay a week's journey to the west. But, once out of sight of Caer Eitha, he slackened his pace. It would scarcely avail him to lame his horse with days of travel before him. The track, like all tracks he knew, lay through the ancient Forest that cloaked all the land between men's puny sunlit strongholds. The old trees were tall and thick with all sorts of clinging growth. They shadowed the road so that it ran like a tunnel, lost in gloom to front and rear. Cuin went warily and more than warily, muttering at himself for hearing noises. He had traveled this way before; it was not as if he were a callow novice… !
Within an hour the cloaked riders came at him out of the gloom to the rear. Cuin rounded on them and drew his sword, but they were eight to his one; he could not kill any, or even draw blood, though some of his blows struck home. They disarmed him deftly and hurried him away from the road. Presently they came to a clear circular dingle around a giant oak, and there they stopped.
"Now," demanded one whom Cuin knew as Rebd, "where is he?"
"Where is who?" Cuin demanded in turn.
"He whom you go to meet! Is it for pleasure that you ride beneath the woven shade? Where is the black-haired Prince?"
"I ride toward Wallyn," Cuin replied, furious that he must explain his business to such as these. But the cloaked men barked with cold laughter.
"Without so much as a crust?" retorted Rebd.
"Come, my young lord, tell us where he bides. Consider that we will have it out of you soon enough."
"By my troth," Cuin flared at the threat, "you shall have nothing from me except my curse and the sharp point of my sword when next we meet!" But the cloaked men laughed at this, also.
"He who is sacrificed at the oak cannot curse the priests of the mantled god. Indeed, you will be one of our number this day unless you tell us what we need to know."
Cuin stared speechlessly. He could put the bold face to pain and loss of life; these were things he had been reared to endure. But Rebd spoke of an evil he had thought long gone from the world of men.
"Tell us of Byve's heir," Rebd commanded.
"I have nothing to tell you," Cuin muttered. What could he say to them? Not for any hatred would he deliver Bevan over to such as these. If they should find that Ellid held him dear! Cuin would have died rather than so endanger her, but not even the mercy of death was to be his lot, it seemed.
The cloaked men held Cuin and stripped him to the waist. Their hands were cold like fish on his flesh; he shuddered from their touch. They tied his wrists and strung him up to a limb of the ancient oak. They kindled fire before his dangling feet.
Think of Ellid, he charged himself.
They heated their sword blades in the fire and seared him with the flats, drawing them slowly over his chest in the shape of ancient runes of evil. Their dun-gray faces were the faces of corpses beneath their hoods.
Think of Ellid, fair as a falcon in the sunlight. These will make of me a thing she would flee in terror and loathing… No matter, as long as they touch her not. Think of Ellid.
"The oak has need of blood," Rebd said.
They switched their cooling swords to the blade and traced the loops of his ribs with the points. Warm trickles of his blood splattered to the leaf-mold below. Rebd swung Cuin around like so much meat and slashed a shallow circle just below his straining shoulder blades.
Think of Ellid and say no word—
"Son of Clarric," Rebd remarked, "we will let you know what sort of a thing you will be when you render service to the lord of the oak." He went to throw off his cloak, and for the first time Cuin cried out and turned away his face; he could not bear to see. Let them tear the heart from him if they would, but to look on one who walked the land without it…
"Tell us of the son of Byve, lordling."
"I have nothing to say to you," Cuin whispered with averted eyes.
"Then must we hang your heart from the oaken bole."
Cuin heard them coming; he tightened himself against them as he tightened his eyes against the sight of them. Think of Ellid—but his thoughts were interrupted by a voice soft and startling as a cat's leap.
"You seek me, servants of the mantled lord?"
Cuin's eyes flew open. Rebd was before him, a shape of horror, indeed, but Cuin's sight moved beyond him and the others to where Bevan sat his steed with drawn sword. Even as Rebd whirled to face him, he sent his horse plunging into the hollow. To Cuin's dazzled sight it seemed that Bevan shone with white fire. He charged through the cloaked priests of Pel before they could move to prevent him, and he freed Cuin with a mere touch to the rope. The dark men set upon Bevan then. He swung at them with his sword that flickered with pale flame. Terror of him seemed to work upon them; they shrank from before his clumsy strokes. But they came at him from behind, and Cuin did not see how he could prevail.
Sudden strength of rage ran through Cuin. Shouting, he pulled a brand from the fire and thrust it full into that thing he had not been able to face: the dark, unhealing cavern that was Rebd's back. Rebd screamed and fell. Cuin seized his sword and flung himself at the others, frenzied at the memory of his own blood. Two he skewered, and Bevan or his steed had felled two more when the remaining three lost their nerve and fled on foot behind their bolting horses.
Without a word Bevan leaned down and beheaded those who lay in the dingle. Cuin could have stood the sight of their blood, but it shook him that there was none. Dizzily he clung to the rough trunk of the oak, and then he slipped down to lie at its roots. He saw Bevan leave the hollow, riding hard after dark, scurrying figures. Then he thought of Rebd, and fainted.
He awoke to the touch of cool water. He found himself sitting against the oak, a blanket padding his wounded back, and Bevan kneeling before him bathing his cuts and burns. The water floated thick with herbs, Cuin noted, and there seemed to be some healing virtue to it. Already the pain of his hurts grew less. But beyond Bevan lay the still and headless form of something less than man. Cuin closed his eyes as sickness seized him. He heard Bevan moving about, then felt the stem of a flask between his teeth. He gulped, and found the liquor as potent as any he had ever tasted. When he looked again, Rebd's body was cloaked like the others.
"What goes here, my lord Cuin?" Bevan asked quietly. "Tell me not my lady is in peril from such as these."
"There are four more like this at the fortress," Cuin mu
ttered wearily, "but she was well when I left."
"What, then, did she send you to me? Surely she knew you would be followed."
"Nay, I am here of my own accord." Cuin met his eyes candidly. "You must know that I have borne you small love, lord. When these dark folk were forever asking for you, it galled me to distraction that I could not with honor oblige them… So like a fool I set flight willy-nilly toward my father's house, thinking only to escape hearing your name for a while. But these quaintly thought that I was your friend."
"I wish you were, Cuin son of Clarric," Bevan said softly. "Indeed, you have befriended me well this day. But small wonder that you hate me. I have reft from you your birthright, she who is of all things most precious."
"You have taken from me nothing that I ever owned," Cuin replied heavily, though he could not have told where he had got that knowledge.
"That was well said." Bevan regarded him gravely. "In very sooth she is as free as the wind. No man can own her."
Bevan tore strips of bandaging from his old shirt. He padded Cuin's wounds and wrapped them tightly to stay their sluggish bleeding. Once done, he wordlessly fetched Cuin's shirt and tunic.
"Is there a place hereabouts," Cuin asked him, "where I can lie hidden? I have not strength now to ride to Wallyn."
Bevan eyed him quizzically. "Think, my lord: Why did I ride after those unmade men of the mantled lord? I have neither talent nor taste for killing even such as these. Yet all are silenced, and you can return to Caer Eitha at once. Indeed, return you must, unless you would henceforth be pursued by these cloaked priests of Pel."
Cuin gulped as Bevan's words struck in. If he became quarry for these dark hunters he would never with safety see Ellid or home again. "I must put the bold face to them," he muttered.
"Even so." Bevan was using his water to wash the blood from below the tree. He hid the rope and scattered the ashes of the fire. "If it is any comfort," he added as he worked, "I think they can but slay you, not unmake you as they threatened to do into a heartless one like them. Only Pel has that power. It is strange how a good thing can come to evil use. The golden vessel which gifted the gods with endless youth now quickens the sinews of these poor mutilated things."
The White Hart Page 5
