Alan sensed his excitement, and glanced at him as they made their bows. He saw Hal fasten a curiously intense gaze on the maiden—a stare, indeed, but full of such soft courtesy that Rosemary returned it without alarm. For a fleeting moment she felt—what she could not tell. But the moment passed quickly, broken by Pelys's warm greeting.
“So, my hearties,” he was saying, “you are looking better already. Have you found a place to sleep?"
Alan answered, for Hal seemed not to have heard. “We are sleeping in the hayloft, my lord, with great thankfulness."
“So you are sleeping with the gray beauty, hah? I hope he is not upset by his adventure of this afternoon."
“Oh!” Rosemary broke in involuntarily. “You are the ones with that horrible horse that tried to kill Rafe!"
“He is well, my lord,” Hal answered, then spoke to the lady with a slow smile. “My horse would not hurt anyone, my lady, unless someone tried to take him from me."
“Have no fear of me,” she laughed. “I plan to stay well away from him."
“Pray forgive my daughter,” Pelys smiled. “She has been frightened of horses since a very early age, and nothing can cure her of it. Sleep well, now."
They watted back to the stables in silence. Alan at once wrapped himself in his blanket and relaxed gratefully in the sweet-smelling hay. But Hal paced restlessly, finally stopping and standing interminably before the tiny window which aired the loft. The moon was at the full, and a bright beam shot past his head and lighted a square of hay, much as it had lighted the filthy straw of his dark Tower cell a year and a half before.
Alan could stand it no longer. The candles of the dancers were still wheeling before his inward eye like circling stars or the blurred turnings of fate. And though he thought he knew the answer, he felt compelled to ask the question. “Hal, whatever is the matter?"
Hal sighed. “You will say that I am out of my mind,” he answered, without moving.
“I already know that,” Alan rebutted lightly. “Tell me. It can be no worse than hearing you talk with the spirits of the night."
Hal smiled slightly at that, and turned toward him, speaking hesitantly. “That girl ... Lady Rosemary ... she is my ... my mendor."
“Your what?"
“My destiny,” Hal tried to explain. “But more than destiny. For every man there is one woman who is his mendor. Rosemary is mine. She is the woman with whom my thread of life is entangled. It was so before time began. It is written in Dol Solden. Whether it is for good or ill, I do not know. Whether for happiness or sorrow, I do not know. But it is so."
“How can you be so sure?” asked Alan, astonished.
Hal did not answer.
“What are you, Hal?” Alan wondered more slowly. “Warlock, or seer, or something more? How did this vision come to you?"
“I do not know, Alan, before all the gods, and my own as well, I do not know!” Hal appealed to his brother with an intensity of pain that startled even Alan, who was used to his moods by now. “By mine eyes, I have been no friend of sorcerers or charlatans.... Sometimes it seems to me that I can see clearly into the mysteries of all lives—except my own."
For her part. Rosemary was puzzled as well.
“Father,” she asked, “who are they?"
She was visiting in his chamber, as she always did before going to her own. He knew at once who she meant.
“By the Lady, I do not know,” he answered. “They told me nothing, but I surmise that they have been traveling. They seem to be fine young men, though much is strange about them. I think I shall enjoy having them here."
He did not say that his curiosity was piqued by these young men as it had seldom been before. Nor did he mention that he, too, had noticed the exchange of glances between Rosemary and Hal. He had long been an inquisitive man, but age and his afflictions had turned his knowledge to wisdom. He had learned to wait in patience for his answers.
Chapter Two
The next few days went by quickly. They saw Rosemary often as she walked or rested amidst the fruit trees and flowers of the castle garden. To Alan's surprise, Hal did not make any excuse to speak to the lady. Instead, he busied himself away from her. There was much work to be done in the aftermath of the feast, and the newcomers made themselves useful wherever they could, whether in the kitchens, the stable or the workshops. The servants soon learned to know and like these strange youths, who wore the swords of nobility and worked like peasants.
But Rafe, the elected captain of the novice guards, did not like them at all. He missed no opportunity to make life unpleasant for them, especially for Hal. His men held no grudge against the strangers, but they were loyal to their captain, and were careful to do Hal and Alan no favors. When the two entered the practice yard, they were surrounded by a wall of silence broken only by occasional taunts from Rafe. Sometimes he challenged them to bouts at swords or quarterstaffs. Rafe fought hard and impatiently, and always lost, which did not serve to improve his temper. With his men he was quite different; skillful, controlled, a fine fighter. Rafe was a good captain, fiercely proud of his men, and Hal and Alan could see why he commanded loyalty.
On their fourth day at Celydon, as they were exercising the horses, Lord Pelys was carried toward them in a chair between two retainers. Lady Rosemary walked by his side. Hal and Alan rode over to give them greeting; Rosemary stiffened at the approach of the horses, but held her ground. As the two reached the fence, Hal gave a soft command Alan had never heard before, and Arundel dropped to one foreknee in a graceful bow, arching his lovely neck and touching his nose to his extended hoof. Lord Pelys laughed delightedly, and even Rosemary could not help smiling. Arun straightened, and Hal slid to the ground.
“What a beautiful creature,” Pelys said admiringly. “But alas, your horse is not nearly so handsome, Alan."
“Speak truth and say he is downright homely,” Alan replied. Alfie shook his bony head menacingly, and rolled his eyes. “But for all his rough looks, and his mischief, and his monstrous appetite, I would not trade him for any horse in Isle.” Gratified, Alfie stood still and arched his skinny neck proudly. Lord Pelys laughed again.
“By my poor old body, I believe he understood every word you said,” he chuckled. “But tell me, Hal, how did your steed come to be so wary of strangers? Was it born in him, or was it a part of his training?"
“Both,” said Hal, stroking the handsome gray. “When I first met Arun, he was only a colt, but no one could come near him. The horse dealer had him tied head and feet in order to control him, though he was nearly dead of starvation, fright and abuse. I bought him and nursed him back to health. He gave me his love, and by his own consent I trained him. At first he would never willingly let any hand touch him except mine, but if I commanded it, he suffered it. Since then he has learned to know other friends, such as Alan. The hand of a stranger he avoids, by his own instincts and my training, so that he cannot be stolen from me. But he is not vicious, and he never has hurt anyone except Rafe, who cornered him."
“I do not intend to come near him, nevertheless,” Rosemary said firmly, betrayed by the fear in her eyes. Hal frowned in pity and spoke to her gently.
“How did you come to be so frightened of horses, my lady?"
“I do not remember. But my father tells me that when I was very young, I was knocked down by one. And to me they still look about twenty feet tall."
“Ay,” said Pelys, “she was only a little thing, playing in the courtyard, when a skittish horse broke its halter and tumbled her over. She was not hurt,” he went on, glancing at her affectionately, “but the fright did not go away. It is a shame, for there are few things you are likely to find so necessary in this world, my dear, as a horse."
Alan had kept an eye on Hal, but he saw no hint of Hal's interest in Rosemary. If anything, he seemed a trifle too courteously aloof.
“Come to see us later this afternoon,” Pelys said as he prepared to go, “and share supper with us."
So Hal and Alan he
aded toward the keep near suppertime, wearing their good clothes. A servant ushered them into a dim little study where Pelys sat with Rosemary. A compass lay on the table before them, and they were examining several yellowed charts.
“So, so, there you are,” cried the little man. “This is my haven of learning, where the lass and I do our lessons. You like it, hah?"
Hal's eyes were darting about excitedly. The walls were lined with books to the ceiling, and all sorts of odd things. Suddenly his eyes fixed on one object, and he strode across the room.
“A plinset!” he cried.
His lordship raised his eyebrows at the strange word, but, turning in his chair, he saw that Hal was reverently touching a stringed instrument hanging from the wall, almost hidden by the bookshelves.
“Ah, is that what it is called?"
“Ay,” answered Hal. “But you are not of Welandais blood, my lord?"
“Nay, nay. That is an instrument of Welas, then?"
“Ay. How did you ever come by it?"
“A minstrel brought it here last winter, and played it marvelously well. He took a fever, and died within a few days, though we nursed him tenderly. That was a hard winter.” Pelys leaned back meditatively.
“I wonder who he was,” murmured Hal.
“He was near middle age, fair of skin and hair, very handsome and gallant, though he did not wear a sword.... I wonder, too."
“Did he not tell you his name?"
“Nay, he smiled when I asked him, and said I was to call him what I liked. So I called him Bard. I believe I could have called him Lord.” Pelys eyed Hal whimsically. “Can you play that instrument, lad?"
“Ay,” answered Hal, dazed.
“Then take it. It is yours. And play us a tune!"
Hal took it down and cradled it in his hands, almost fearfully. “I thank you greatly,” he said, “but you can hardly know the value of the gift. This was fashioned by Llewys Lay-Maker, in the time of Veran, first of the Blessed Kings. It is centuries old, and none better has been made since. A generation ago it would have been kept in the treasure room of the Old Castle at Welden, along with the crowns of kings.” He gently dusted it as he spoke, and as he turned it to the light they could see its graceful carving.
“Then is not now,” said Pelys sadly, yet with keen interest in his eyes. “And no one deserves it better than you, who value it highly. It does no good there on the wall. So take it, lad, and play us a tune."
Hal swallowed, and tuned its eight strings as carefully as if they were made of gossamer. Then he sat down and strummed thoughtfully. The strings sounded in a bittersweet mode as Hal began to sing.
All my days have passed in vision
Of a place beneath western skies
Where peace flows like golden honey
From the comb.
But the east shows forth my burden
With the rays of bright sunrise.
In this land of strife my fate is
Long to roam.
All my nights have passed in dreaming
Of the haunts of the sinking stars,
Where the people of the reaches
Make their home.
But the east blots out night's gleaming
Of fair Elwestrand afar,
Where the elf-ships cleave the silver
Salt-sea foam.
Elwestrand! Elwestrand!
Be you realm but of my mind,
Yet you've lived ten thousand lines
Of soaring song,
Elwestrand. Is the soul more sooth
Than that for which it pines?
Are there ties that closer bind
Than call so strong?
All my journey's passed in faring
Through a bitter glare of gore.
But the gloaming in the west
Imparts its calm.
When the burden seems past bearing,
Sunset speaks of ancient lore,
Of immortal sadness healed
With mortal balm.
Elwestrand! Elwestrand!
Where untamed the white steed runs!
When my life's last light is gone
Will you be mine?
Or, my weary battle won,
When I reach, the setting sun,
Must I farther journey on
Some rest to find,
Elwestrand?
The notes of the song died away, and the four sat in silence for a moment. Pelys stirred, shaking himself from a reverie. “Wherever did you learn to play?” he asked admiringly.
“My mother taught me. She was Welandais."
Although his curiosity was aroused to its highest pitch, Pelys knew instinctively that further questions would be unwelcome. With the courtesy of a true gentleman, he changed the subject. “It has long been my wish that my daughter might have some musical instruction, but there is no one here to teach her. Can you?"
"What?"
“Tut, tut, teach her, lad, of course!"
Hal looked across at Lady Rosemary. “I shall do my best,” he pledged, stupefied.
“Good,” snapped Pelys cheerfully. “Come in the afternoons, whenever you have time. Now let us go in to dinner."
He clapped for his retainer. The meal was waiting in a towertop chamber that caught the light of the setting sun. Hal sat at the table with the plinset in his lap.
“I understand you have been working around the castle,” Lord Pelys remarked as he passed the sweetbreads. “It is not necessary, you know. You are my guests."
Hal was still spellbound, whether from the plinset or the lady Alan could not tell. “We do not like to be idle while others work,” Alan replied. “And we have learned much that is of good use."
“Well, well, since you have chosen to make yourselves useful, you must let me give you some pay.” Hal was stirred back from his trance to protest, but Pelys insisted. “Only a few pence, forsooth! I will not have you destitute. And I will not have you overworking, either,” he added, shaking a menacing finger at the two. “You are not to neglect your exercise, your horsemanship, or your education. I have a library of fine books here, and I would take it kindly if you would use them."
“Thank you, my lord,” they murmured, stunned by this peculiar manner of bestowing favors.
“And I expect you to eat with me now and then,” growled his lordship. “You can't always be eating in the kitchen or the barracks. Moreover, I expect you to start sleeping in beds. I shall have rooms prepared for you."
To Alan's surprise, Hal seemed disconcerted. “With your permission, my lord, might we stay on in the stables? I mean, if Alan will.... It is handy to be near the horses."
Wondering what the real reason was, Alan quickly agreed. Lord Pelys looked pained, but graciously acquiesced.
“Won't you freeze?” asked Rosemary, astonished.
“Perhaps,” Hal answered wryly.
They walked back to the stable that night in silence. Hal stopped at a carpentry shop for a soft rag and a little flask of oil. In the loft he set their lantern well away from the hay and started carefully rubbing the dust and grime from his ancient, precious instrument.
“We could move into the keep if you would rather, Alan,” he said without looking up. “It is a lot to ask, that you should spend your winter in a drafty stable."
“It is not drafty,” Alan lied. “We can be very comfortable here."
“With no fire?"
Alan shrugged wearily. “So we will be cold. I dare say you had your reasons."
“I don't know my reasons!” Hal shouted, flinging down his rag. “I don't know my own mind anymore!"
“Well, if you must shout,” Alan soothed crossly, “that is reason enough."
Hal sighed and went back to his plinset, cleaning and polishing, bringing the rich lights out of the dark golden wood. His frowning face softened, and he whistled tunelessly, lost in some happy dream, Alan thought, of the lady perhaps? It was seldom that Alan saw him so content.
Late that night Alan starte
d awake at the sound of a muffled, inarticulate cry. Hal was sitting up, staring at nothingness, with teeth clenched and sweat beading his forehead, trembling and straining against invisible bonds. Alan reached for him in alarm, and felt all the muscles tensed like steel bands beneath his skin. “Hal!” he cried, shaking him. “What is it?"
The spell broke, and Hal went limp as a snapped string, though quivering worse than ever. “Oh, Alan!” he gasped, covering his face, torn between relief and anguish. Alan held his shoulders, and in a moment his trembling stopped. He lay back, breathing heavily.
“What happened?” Alan asked gently.
“Nothing. A bad dream."
“Hal, you are impossible,” Alan sighed. “Did you know this was coming, then?"
Hal was silent so long that Alan thought he was asleep. “I know nothing,” he said hollowly at last. “Not even the names of my fears."
The next day, Hal took his plinset and walked to the keep to see his lady.
The weeks passed quickly. Hal and Alan almost forgot there was a world beyond the castle island. Late fruit was still being gathered from the sheltered trees within the walls: sorb, pear, quince, apricot and apple. While Alan helped with the work, Hal and Rosemary would settle themselves with the plinset at the sunny roots of a red-tipped tree. Hal's greatest pleasure was the daily music lesson. Rosemary, daughter of Rowana, was a beautiful girl, bright, blooming and sunloving as the plants around her. She was very fond of both Hal and Alan; they were like brothers for her, and perhaps Hal was her best friend.
Hal was content to leave it that way, or so he told himself. It would hardly be worthy of him to make the lady love him, only to leave her on a harebrained quest after a distant throne! But his heart and his loins would not listen to this reasoning, and Hal ached for her every waking hour, so that sometimes he thought he would go mad if he did not speak. And at these times the thought whispered in the back of his mind: why struggle? Why not throw off his burden, settle in this peaceful forest clearing, marry, and be happy? He knew well enough that such happiness was only a dream; but the dream gnawed at him.
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