“There is no magic here,” he said, “except that which you yourself have wrought."
Chapter Seven
Though Hal and Alan slept soundly, they awoke early and ran at once to Corin's room. The sun was just rising, and all was calm and still. Corin lay sleeping, very pale, but with a peaceful face. By his side sat Lord Roran. He smiled at the two as they entered.
“I sent Bleys to bed,” he whispered. “He is an old man, and needs his rest."
The keep faced to the south and east. Hal and Alan sat in a deep niche in the stone walls and looked out the window, now and then speaking to each other in whispers. Below them spread the shops and houses of the town. They could see the streets they had ridden so hastily the day before, and the town gates they had entered. To the east was the waterfront, where stood the masts of tall ships, for the Firthola were a seafaring folk; they worshiped brother and sister gods, Dunn of the islands and Dana of the tides. They had small interest in crops or herds, so they had built their stronghold on the Great North Cove, an arm of the sea which penetrated far into the barren northland.
The landscape was bleak enough, and the few small trees in view were dropping their brown leaves. But the rising sun which was finding its way through the haze turned everything to a golden shine, and gleamed on the gray sea water. Even these barren northern lands could be lovely. Hal and Alan felt a sense of peace and belonging which had not been theirs for many days.
As the last of the morning mist vanished and the sun shone clear and strong, Corin stirred and woke. They went to him. He looked into their still-tired faces, first puzzled, then dismayed.
“Ay,” said Alan gently, “it is true; your father is dead.” He sat on the bed and took the boy into his arms.
Corin lay very still, but he did not weep. At last he said, “Is your father alive, Alan?"
“Nay, Cory,” said Alan softly. “He died a year ago."
“How?"
“He was killed, even as yours was."
“And your mother?"
“She died of fever when I was ten years old."
Corin thought for a moment, then turned to Hal. His face was firm. “And you, Hal? Is your father dead, too?"
“Nay, Corin, I have no father."
The boy was perplexed. “Then he is dead."
“Nay, he is alive. But he hates me, and would kill me if he could."
Corin was astonished, but then pity came into his eyes, as he realized that the only thing worse than the death of a loving father was to have no loving father at all. He searched for comfort for Hal.
“But your mother, does she not love you?"
Hal smiled, and his eyes focused on the past. “Ay, Cory, she loved me well."
“She is dead, then.” The boy was discouraged.
“Ay, she is dead.” Hal's eyes darkened, then glimmered with a brighter sheen as he looked away into the deeps of time. “But much that is sad can also be lovely, Corin. Let me tell you a tale.” He settled himself at the boy's feet.
“Very long ago, when the enchantment of the Beginnings was still strong, the silver-crowned star-son Bevan fought the mantled god Pel Blagden and vanquished him into the dark reaches of inner earth. But the golden cauldron of eternal youth was shattered by that contest of wills, so that those who had called themselves immortal faced their long-delayed death. Bevan, who was still young, would not accept his doom, and took ship to seek life across the western sea in Elwestrand. And his mother, Celonwy of the Argent Moon, died when her time came at the Blessed Bay, the estuary of the Gleaming River, where he bad left.
“Then her brethren came out of the hollow hills where they had lived since the Mothers of Men took charge of Isle. In all their ancient glory they came, and in daylight, as men had not seen them for ten hundreds of years, and they took a last long ride to the Bay to join their sister. They went in cloaks of green samite with golden fringes that touched the ground; jewels dropped like dew from the foreheads of the maidens. From every rath there rode a gold-torqued king and a golden-girdled queen with all their court, and sleek spotted hounds paced at their sides. The men wore tunics of pearly white and wine-red, and some carried silver harps; columbine twined their heads. They were named Follen the Stag-son, and Geryon the Western King, and Fearn of the Seven Stones, and many, many more. Among me maidens was one who went in midnight hue, Menwy of the Sable Moon; her black horse was all trapped in tiny silver bells. And all of those riders were fair and young at the start of that processional, and old and yet fair at the end.
“They rode on steeds of white and wheat-color and barley-red and musteline and gray. The horses’ hooves were tipped in gold, and wherever one stepped there sprang up a flower in the form of the crown that Bevan had renounced. For the gods loved Bevan, though he had cost them their immortality, because he had avenged the dishonor done when Pel turned his power to evil. So as they rode they left Bevan this legacy, and it bloomed and remained long after they had gone to dust around the Blessed Bay.
“Five hundred turnings later, Veran sailed back to Isle with the crown of Bevan his ancestor, and found the lowlands of Welas growing golden with the flower that folk now call by his name. But not long after, Herne and his henchmen struck Isle like a blight. Wherever they came the fair flower sickened and died, for that was the end of that age of peace. But some were gathered by wise folk, and kept and dried; and even after all the years its virtue is what gives you life today, Corin.” With an effort, Hal brought his gaze back to the boy. “Those mighty ones of old made shift to leave the veriest spring and surge of their lives in their legacy, and because they cheated death of it, their shades still wander the dark fir woods near the Blessed Bay, unable entirely to rest. Your life was bought ages past, Cory."
For a moment the room rang with awed silence. “Never have I heard that tale,” Roran exclaimed, “even from the bards of Romany. Are there no gods left in Isle, then?” His voice was yearning.
“Those gods were only mortals who were rich in the power of the Beginnings,” Hal said quietly. “It may be that there are true immortals somewhere.... But what are gods, my lord? The fragments we worship?"
Roran did not have to answer, for a serving maid entered with a steaming dish on a tray. His lordship helped her place it by the bed, and Corin looked with surprise at the richly clothed, handsome man who spread a napkin like a servant. Alan made the introduction. “Cory, this is Roran, Lord of Firth, in whose home you lie. My lord, may I present Corin, son of Col the Smith.” Corin attempted a recumbent bow, and Lord Roran shook his hand.
“You are a brave lad,” he said, “and I hope you will soon be better. Now try a cup of soup and some bread. It is very light, baked especially for you by Hulde in the kitchen, and if you don't eat it she'll cut off your head and use it in the meat pie."
After Corin had eaten, they left him under Bleys's care, for he was still very weak. Hal and Alan bathed in hot water, a rare luxury, and breakfasted, and went out to the stables, where they found Alfie on his feet again and devouring incredible amounts of hay and oats. The groom shook his head in disbelief. “Never have I seen such an appetite,” he said. “I fear he will make himself sick."
“No fear,” Alan said, grinning. “He has a stomach of iron. I only hope that Lord Roran can afford his keep."
For the day they left Alfie and Arundel in the stable to rest, and they themselves spent their time lazily, napping almost as much as Corin did. On the following days they took the horses into the exercise yard, and themselves joined the young men of his lordship's garrison in the practice yard. There they played at mock swordfighting, quarterstaff bouts and many other sports. Though they were younger than most, they found that they could more than hold their own.
The days passed smoothly and quickly. Corin ate well, and rapidly regained his strength. Hal and Alan spent most of their spare time with him. When they were not there, often Robin was, and the boys talked readily of favorite pastimes. Sometimes Alan tried to teach Cory chess and Hal talk
ed with Robin. He was interested in the dark, lively boy, so much like his father—fierce and hawklike, passionate, yet kind and just. Though they did not realize it, Hal and Robin were somewhat alike. Both were sometimes moody and temperamental. Alan, with his more even disposition, preferred Cory, who was a courteous boy, intelligent but not quick. Two boys more unlike than Cory and Robin would be hard to find: one the lightest of blonds, sturdy, thoughtful and methodical; the other dark, slender, talkative, emotional and spontaneous. Yet they took to each other, for they were both of good heart.
By the end of the week Corin was up and walking around a bit, and in a few more days he was almost back to normal, spending most of his time with Robin. Hal and Alan began to look anxious, wanting to be on their way toward Welas, but not knowing how to leave.
One day in the middle of the second week, Hal was riding Arundel in the exercise yard. He did not use saddle or bridle. Horse and master thought and moved as one, and as they cantered and circled, spun and leaped against imaginary enemies, both enjoyed themselves.
Lord Roran came and leaned on the fence. His was a heart too great for envy, so he looked on in pure wonder as Hal trotted over to him and dismounted. “If that stallion were trimmed and groomed,” he said, “he would outshine any horse in my stable."
Hal thanked him for the compliment. “I keep him rough not only against the weather, but so that folk may desire him the less.” Then, simply because it hung heavy on his mind, he said what he did not know how to say. “We must be leaving soon.” He spoke miserably.
“Where will you go, Hal?"
Hal shrugged evasively. “Where the road leads me."
Lord Roran frowned. “I do not mean to pry, Hal, but from what you told Corin, I understand you do not have a home."
“There is no door open to me."
“And Alan; does he ride with you because he, too, is homeless, or for friendship?"
“Both."
Roran knew instinctively that his offer would not be accepted, but he made it nevertheless. “Then why do you not stay here? I would be proud to shelter two such valiant youths as you."
“I could be happy here,” Hal said quietly, “but I cannot stay. I—we—have a....” He searched for a less formal word, but could not find one to suit. “We have a quest."
“But what of Corin?” asked his lordship, growing excited. “He is too young to go wandering around Isle. Already his young heart has had as much peril and sorrow as it can well bear at this time. He needs rest, and warmth, companions of his own age and the guidance of older folk. Let him stay here,” said Lord Roran eagerly, taking Hal by the arm. “We are all fond of him, especially Robin. And I believe they are good for each other, and learn from each other. The lad will be treated as my second son...."
Hal regarded the fiery man with great relief and wondering affection. “You have read my mind,” he replied. “It has been a great worry to me, the care of the boy. The choice, of course, must be his, but I will be surprised if he does not choose to stay."
They talked it over with Alan, and he, too, was relieved and pleased, though he knew he would miss the boy. That evening, when they were all gathered together, Lord Roran put the case to Corin, inviting and indeed beseeching him to become a member of his household. Corin turned to his first friend.
“Alan?” he questioned him. “Must you go, indeed?"
“Ay, we must go,” Alan answered. “I shall miss you, Cory, but it will gladden me to know you are well cared for by good and loving folk, not out in cold and danger."
“Pray abide with us, Cory,” Robin begged softly.
“It would hurt my heart to leave you, Robin,” Cory said, “yet I long to be with Alan as well. But if I must choose between you, I will stay, for that is what you all wish."
“I would like you to stay,” Alan agreed firmly.
So it was settled. And since there was no sense in torturing Corin with preparations, they left early the next morning. Roran and his lady presented each of them with new clothing, new fur-lined leather boots, and handsome chain-link supporters for their swords. They wore warm new cloaks, and they found their horses packed with extra blankets and a plentiful supply of food, almost more than they could carry.
Hal and Alan mounted quickly. Though it was still autumn, it was bitterly cold in these northern reaches of Isle. Their farewells were short. “The love of the gods go with you,” said Corin.
“Farewell, you rascals,” said Lord Roran. “Remember, this is one door that is always open to you, no matter why or when."
“Be careful!” called Robin.
As they rode away, they looked back. Their friends stood in a row, waving, and as they turned to go they saw Lord Roran take Cory's hand.
They headed south and west, back across the rocky ridge of the Cove, toward the Marches. For two weeks they angled across a sere, almost uninhabited expanse. This was Arrok's domain, and his mounted men roamed it constantly. Hal and Alan rode watchfully, ate their food cold and slept by turns, shivering through the chill nights, for to light a fire would have been to invite unwelcome guests. Arrok was a warlord by blood, from the metal-worshiping tribes of the Northern Barrens, and he was still more raider than overlord. His own people were his enemies, for he had betrayed them by extortion and conquest. So he turned his warriors both against them and against the gentler folk of Isle.
Twice Hal and Alan sighted his patrollers in the distance and were able to speed away from them, out of sight beyond the horizon of the flat land. But presently the land turned rolling, with thickets and groves of stunted trees. Alan glanced at Hal with a tired smile, for soon they would be out of the Marches and into the heartland of Isle. But, beyond a rise, five of Arrok's men rode quite close to them before they saw them.
The warriors came at them, whooping, out of a brush-screened dimple of the stony land. Hal and Alan did not turn or come to bay, but shot away southward, almost upsetting the startled riders. The patrollers thundered after them, jabbering excitedly at the thought of a chase. But after a while they were silent, finding they could not gain.
They galloped for hours, into the afternoon, with Hal and Alan holding their horses to a steady, rhythmic pace and the pursuers straining behind them. By midafternoon, even at the lope, they had left Arrok's men half a mile behind them. At dusk, they would speed the pace to lose them.
But as the sun dripped, Alan called tensely, “Alfie's taken a stone in his hoof, I think. He's lame."
The horse was hobbling, though still galloping as fast as he could. Hal frowned and loosened his sword in the scabbard. Arrok's warriors drew closer behind them.
“Look!” Alan exclaimed. “How can that be Forest?"
A solid-looking mass of varicolored trees rose invitingly in the distance. Hal whistled softly.
“We must have come farther east than I thought,” he called. “Courage, Alfie!” He spoke to the horse in his strange language, and Alfie lowered his lean head to plunge painfully on.
The pursuit was almost upon them when they reached the trees at last. Hal spun Arundel and drew his sword, thankful for the protection at his flanks. Alan guided Alfie to a sheltering trunk and did the same. But Arrok's men turned away at the fringes of the Forest and galloped back toward Rodsen. Hal blinked into the setting sun.
“Huh!” he grunted, puzzled.
Alan was already off of Alfie, checking his hooves and legs. He removed a sharp stone and led the limping horse deeper into the Forest, patting him. Hal followed on Arundel. In a moment they found themselves descending a steep wooded slope to a hidden valley.
“Is it a haunt, Hal?” Alan murmured.
There was a change in the air, hardly definite enough to be called a fragrance, but something clear and fresh. They straightened and smiled at each other in wonder. When they reached the floor of the valley, they found an ordinary scene: a clearing with a bubbling brook, some sheep and a milk cow, a small cottage, a garden plot. Yet something was very special about this serene dell. The
velvety grass fairly shone in the lee of the forested slopes, as if lit from within. Tiny golden flowers in the grass sparkled like jewels. The water in the brook shimmered silkily, and the very wood of the cottage glowed like finest ivory.
“Hal,” whispered Alan, “is this valley enchanted?"
Hal was about to reply when out of the cottage came a woman, very old, yet straight and strong. She carried a pan of bread for her flock of chickens, but stopped and smiled when she saw them. At her smile, Alan's suspicions vanished.
“Mireldeyn, Elwyndas, come in!” she called. “It has been a long time since I had company."
“Think of nothing, ask nothing, but only enjoy,” Hal told him as they forded the brook and dismounted near the cottage.
The woman fed them eggs, and porridge with honey; the simple meal seemed to them the ambrosia of the gods. They spoke of birds, perhaps, that come and go in their seasons, and of trees, the royal apple and the noble rowan, and of the Lady, the Rowan Lady on her Forest island of many trees, and of the Very King. All knowledge was theirs, and yet they could never remember exactly of what they spoke. That night they slept under a crescent moon, and their dreams were the color of springtime, though autumn burned all around them. The next day the old woman sat at her loom. Her web was green and golden, silver and black, but Hal and Alan could scarcely bear to look at it; afterward they knew only that it was lovely. They worked outdoors, tending the garden and gathering wood for the fire. Evening fell scarcely looked for, and the passage from day to darkness seemed a rhythm smooth as breathing.
They could easily have stayed there forever. In the valley, all of Hal's plans and cares were forgotten, for time did not nudge at him; time was like a still pool into which he looked, sitting apart. He could almost have forgotten that other world just beyond the trees, where thin streams of moments forever rushed and circled past. But the old woman knew of that world, perhaps better than her guests. The next morning she packed their saddlebags with fresh bread, eggs and cheese. Without ceremony they went on their way, and they still did not understand the meaning of their names. They slowly climbed the steep slopes, picking their way through the trees. There was no beaten path.
The White Hart Page 25
