The White Hart

by Nancy Springer

  “Grove of the dead?” Hal turned to regard his nephew with a tiny smile on his angular face. “Elwestrand is but another step on the way to the One, for all that it lies beyond the sunlit lands.”

  “It must be dark,” Gwern said doubtfully.

  “Nay, indeed!” Hal cried. “It shines like—like the fair flower of Veran used to shine, here in Isle, before the Easterners blighted it.… Elwestrand is lilac and celadon and pearly gray-gold and every subtle glow of the summer stars. And glow of dragons from the indigo sea, every shade of damson and quince and dusky rose. The elves remembered it all in their bright stitchery—all that this world was, and this Isle, before the Eastern invasion, before man’s evil shadowed and spread.” Hal turned back to his window on the west, pressing his forehead against the bars.

  “My kindred the elves sailed to Elwestrand,” Trevyn told Gwern more softly. “All of them except my mother.”

  “Now they live amidst the stuff of their dreams,” Hal said from his window.

  “But does no one return from Elwestrand?” Gwern asked.

  “Who would wish to return?”

  “Veran came from Elwestrand, did he not?” Trevyn spoke up suddenly.

  “Who is Veran?” Gwern pounced on the name.

  Hal turned to answer with patience Trevyn could not understand. “He from whom I derive my lineage and my crown, the first Blessed King of Welas. He sailed hither out of the west; perhaps he came from Elwestrand.” Hal looked away again. “But when I go, I will not return.”

  “Elwestrand,” Gwern sang in a rich, husky voice.

  “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?”

  Hal wheeled on him sharply. “How did you know that song?” he demanded. “I made it, years ago.”

  “Elwestrand,” Gwern chanted, and without answering he darted out of the door and skipped down the tower steps, still singing. Hal silently watched him go. Trevyn watched also, hot with jealous anger. For he, too, had felt the dream and the call, and it seemed to him as if Gwern had stolen it from him.

  “Why do you abide him so tamely?” he burst out at Hal, startled by his own daring. “He is—he is uncouth!”

  Hal shifted his gaze to his nephew, and as always that detached, appraising look made Trevyn shrink, inwardly cursing. Hal threatened nothing, but he saw everything, and Trevyn had dark places inside that he wanted to hide.… Hal frowned faintly, then turned his eyes away from the Prince to answer his question, seeming to see the answer in the air.

  “He is magical,” Hal said. “He is like a late shoot of those who were lost to Isle centuries ago when the star-son Bevan led his people out of the hollow hills. Magic left Isle then, and I believe nothing has been quite right since—though I have sometimes thought that Veran brought some back to Welas—and your mother’s people, in their own clearheaded way—”

  “Magic!” Trevyn blurted, astonished to hear longing in Hal’s voice. He knew how his uncle had always avoided the touch of magic. The Easterners had made magic the horror of Isle. At Nemeton their sorcerers had performed barbaric sacrifice to the Sacred Son and the homed god from whom they drew their powers. Hal had been reared in the shadow of that cult, and he and Alan had worked for years to stamp out such black sorcery.

  “I know I have taught you not to meddle with magic.” Hal sat by his nephew. “It is perilous. But all fair things are perilous. Dragons breathe fire, and the horn of the unicorn is sharp. Even this Gwern might be perilous, in his own rude way.” The Sunset King smiled dreamily. “But it must bode well, I think, that he has come to us. Who or what can he be, I wonder? I don’t really expect to find him in the census.”

  As, in fact, he could not. So Gwern stayed on at the castle; the Lauerocs kept him there for want of anything better to do with him. The peculiar youth did not seem suited for any work, but Alan claimed he was no more useless than most of the other courtiers. He was fey, sometimes shouting and singing with barbaric abandon, sometimes brooding. He always went barefoot, even in the chill of late autumn, and often he slept outdoors, beyond the city walls, on the ground. He generally looked dirty and uncombed. He observed few niceties. If he spoke at all, he spoke with consummate accuracy and no tact. But he was handsome, in his earthy way, and the castle folk seemed to find him amusing, even attractive. Trevyn fervently disliked him. Striving as he was for adolescent poise, he found Gwern’s very existence an affront.

  Yet, with no malice that Trevyn could prove, Gwern attached himself to the Prince, following him everywhere. Often they would fight—only with fists, since Gwern knew nothing of swordplay. Trevyn could hold his own, but he never succeeded in driving Gwern away from him. The mud-colored youth confronted him like an embodied force, inscrutable and haphazard as wind or rainclouds, leaving only by his own unpredictable whim.

  “Father,” Trevyn begged, “make him stop hounding me. Please.”

  “You’ll see worse troubles before you die,” Alan replied. “Find your own cure for it, Trevyn.” He loved his son to the point of heartache, but Trevyn would be King. Above all, he must not become soft or spoiled. Alan had seen to his training in statesmanship, swordsmanship, horsemanship.… The discipline was no more than Alan expected of himself, his own body trim and tough, his days given over to royal duty, early and late. So when Trevyn saluted, soldierlike, and silently left the room, Alan could not fault his conduct. Great of heart that he was, it did not occur to him that Trevyn showed too little of the heart, that he concealed too much.

  Trevyn was almost able to hide his anger even from himself, minding his manners and tending to his lessons as Gwern dogged him through the crisp days of early winter. But frustration swirled and seethed through his thoughts like a buried torrent. In time Trevyn found Gwern obstinately intruding even into his dreams at night. Gwern and a unicorn; Gwern standing at the prow of an elf-ship, with the sea wind in his face.…

  “I!” Trevyn shouted in his sleep.

  He felt sure that Gwern longed to go to Elwestrand, as he did. But he swore that it was he, Prince Trevyn, who would go, and alone, and to return, as no one had done before him. Someday he would do that. But he could not possibly take ship before spring. The winter stretched endlessly ahead.

  Trevyn did not stay for winter. When the first snowstorm loomed, he slipped from his bed by night and made his way to the stable. He loaded food and blankets onto Arundel, Hal’s elwedeyn charger, the oldest and wisest of the royal steeds. The walls and gates were lightly guarded, for it was peacetime, and who would look for trouble in the teeth of a storm? Warmly dressed, Trevyn rode out of a postern gate into the dark and the freezing wind. By morning even Gwern would not be able to follow him.

  It was so. Dawn showed snow almost a foot deep, and more still falling, blindingly thick, in the air. Folk struggled even to cross the courtyard. It was nearly midday before Alan could believe that Trevyn was missing, and then he could not eat for anger and consternation. He paced the battlements for hours. But Gwern had known as soon as he awoke what Trevyn had done, and he had run to the walls screaming in rage.

  “Alan, don’t fret so.” Hal came up beside his brother, encircled his shoulders with a comforting arm. “Arundel will see the lad through.”

  “Trevyn has gall,” Alan fumed, “taking the old steed out in such weather. Are you not worried, Hal, or angry?”

  “Why, I suppose I am,” Hal admitted. “But I like Trevyn’s spirit, Alan. He plans his folly with sense and subtlety. You’ll have to keep a looser rein on him after this.”

  Alan snorted. “Worse than folly; it’s lunacy! What sort of idiocy must possess the boy? I thought he was my son!” Alan paused in his pacing long enough to glare at his lovely green-eyed wife.

  “He i
s your son, right enough.” Lysse smiled. “Look at Gwern for your answers.”

  “Gwern!” Alan glanced down from the battlements to where the dun-faced youth stood in the courtyard pommeling the air in helpless rage. “Gwern is the nuisance that drove him away, you mean? That is no excuse.”

  “Nay, I mean that Gwern’s passion matches Trevyn’s own. The boy is no boy, Alan, but nearly a man, and he left in anger. What would Gwern do if you shackled him with lessons and books?”

  “I do not understand.” Alan stood scowling at his golden-haired Elf-Queen. “Are you speaking from the Sight?”

  “From elf-sight and mother-sight.” Her misty gray-green eyes widened in proof. “Trevyn hides his feelings from us constantly, Alan, but he cannot hide them from Gwern. Read Gwern like a weathercock for your son. Remember how surly he has been these weeks past?”

  “What,” Alan asked slowly, “does Gwern have to do with Trevyn?”

  Lysse shrugged helplessly. “Gwern is Trevyn’s wyrd,” said Hal.

  “Weird enough,” grumbled Alan, choosing for the moment to ignore the esoteric word. Lysse was staring into nothingness, her eyes as deep as oceans. “Even now Trevyn hides his mind from me,” she murmured. “I can tell that he is alive, nothing more. But Gwern knows more. All morning he has faced east.”

  Alan wheeled to look at the youth again; it was true. Lysse went back into her trance, her eyes like springtime pools in her delicate face.

  “Lee!” she exclaimed at last with satisfaction. “He goes toward Lee, and Arundel knows that way well. There will be a messenger from Rafe, mark my words. But do not tell Gwern.”

  “Lee!” Alan protested, astonished. “But how can you be so sure? Celydon also lies eastward, and Whitewater, and Nemeton. Not to speak of the whole Great Eastern Forest.”

  “Something awaits him at Lee,” Lysse stated with quiet certainty. “Do not tell Gwern! I want to see what happens.”

  Chapter Two

  Meg had never, not even in her silliest daydreams, fancied herself to be pretty. She knew that she had a comical, pointy face and a sharp nose like a benevolent witch. Indeed, witch was what some folk called her, all because the birds would alight on her hands. She did not mind being different, and it pleased her that the dappled deer did not fear her touch. But she minded being skinny. Some girls could make do with comeliness that bloomed below the neck, but not her, she told herself. Her skirts fell straight from her waistless middle, and she always had to sew ruffles inside the front of her blouses to give some fullness—though not fullness enough.

  Still, she had never, not even in her grimmest nightmares, imagined herself looking such a fright as now. Slogging along through the snow in her old pair of men’s boots, skirt torn and draggled, shawl clutched from her shoulders by the lowering Forest trees. Hatless, with her hair frazzled by the wind, eyes red and weepy, sharp nose running from cold and exertion and emotion. Flushed and panting, she struggled along, knowing it would be lunacy to stay out after dark, but too stubborn to give up.

  She found her cow at last and stood frozen a moment in astonishment that overcame her hurry. Mud! A gooshy, oozing, undulating pool of mud filled a hollow of the frost-bound Forest. From the center of the expanse, round brown eyes looked back at her. Only the cow’s head showed above the surface. Wisps of steam rose around her.

  “Come on, then, Molly,” Meg called gently.

  The cow did not budge.

  Meg coaxed, pleaded, extended a bribe of oats. Molly did not even twitch an ear. The day was moving on apace. Meg rolled her eyes heavenward and went in after her.

  “What is even more appealing than yer plain, everyday Meg?” she muttered viciously to herself. “Why, a Meg covered with mud, that is what! World, are ye watching?”

  As she had hoped, the bottom of the mud hole was solid. She forced her way through the twenty feet of brown pudding that separated Molly from the shore and took her by the halter. Molly would not move. Meg could hardly blame her, for the mud was deliciously warm and the air increasingly cold.

  “Come on, Molly, we can’t stay here all night!” she cried helplessly, tugging at the cow. Then she jumped, and screamed.

  Where before there had been only snow and the dark trunks of trees, now there was a rider on a beautiful silver horse—a young man, blond and very handsome. As Meg’s eyes met his of stormy green, she felt an instant of utter abeyance, as if heart and soul had stopped to gaze with her. Then she came back to self with a pang, feeling how ill-prepared she was to meet him, up to her elbows in mud. Still, she saw no amusement in his face.… She could not know that, for his part, he had felt an odd leap of heart on seeing her. He could hardly account for it himself, and irritably shrugged off thought of it.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he told the girl.

  Meg tossed her head at that. She did not consider that she had been frightened, only—well, startled. Perhaps he had been frightened himself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Can you get out?”

  “Ay, to be sure!” she snapped. “But I’ll not leave without this cow.”

  Trevyn rolled his eyes at her tone. “Humor me,” he urged with exaggerated courtesy, “and come out. Please.”

  She fought her way toward the edge, retracing her steps. It was harder than she had expected. The ooze clung to her skirt as she inched along, panting. Trevyn dismounted and glanced around for a stout stick to offer her. “None strong enough,” he muttered.

  “Give me a hand,” Meg gasped.

  She meant that literally. Trevyn had not wanted to touch her. Grimacing, he grasped her by her muddy wrist and hauled her out, splattering himself with chunks of goo. She stood on the verge, breathing hard, rubbing her face and peering at him. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she declared.

  “The mud? I’ve heard about these holes in the southern Forest. Some are clear water, steaming hot. Too bad your cow couldn’t have chosen one of those.” He unpinned his cloak as he spoke, evidently steeling himself for action.

  “Ye’re going to go in after her?”

  “I suppose I’m going to have to,” he replied ungraciously. “Arundel—” He spoke to the horse in the Old Language.

  “What?” asked Meg, straining to understand the peculiar words. But then she cried out in protest as the young man took off his cloak and sliced into it with his sword. It was a thick wool cloak lined with crimson satin, more beautiful than anything she had ever owned. Trevyn stopped at her cry, looked at her quizzically.

  “Is the cloak worth more than your cow?”

  “That is not fair!” she answered hotly. “Molly is—is—she’s family! I dare say she is not a great worth, but—” Meg fell silent and regarded Trevyn curiously. His tunic was of linen, and his sword was inlaid with gold. It was not that which gave her pause; she had seen finery before. But this youth had a proud air about him, though he had not yet reached his full growth. He was not in her lord’s service; she would have noticed him if he were. Perhaps he was some lord’s bard or herald, or even a lord’s son? “What’s yer name?” Meg asked.

  Cutting strips from his cloak, he answered her without looking up. “Trevyn.”

  “Oh,” she replied. “Are ye from Laueroc, then? I have heard that many young men there are named after the Prince.”

  “I am not named after the Prince,” Trevyn stated, quite truthfully. “But ay, I am from Laueroc.”

  “Are ye in the Kings’ service, then? What are ye doing in the Forest?”

  “Will you ask one question at a time!” He smiled at her as he knotted his makeshift rope. “Indeed, I am at the Kings’ service, but I am here on my own business. What is your name?”

  “Meg.”

  “Margaret?”

  “Nay. Megan.”

  “Ah.” Trevyn slipped off his tunic and folded it as a pad for Arundel’s neck. The girl stared at him. She had not thought that a man could be muscular and graceful at the same time. Trevyn laid his sword belt aside, fastene
d the rope around Arundel’s shoulders, took the other end, and started into the pool of mud. Meg aroused herself. “What must I do?” she called after him.

  “Help Arundel pull.”

  Trevyn reached the cow and looped the rope around her horns. Then he grasped Molly around her heavy shoulders, braced his feet, and started to lift. As he wrestled the cow from her mucky bed, he called to Arundel in that strange tongue Meg had heard him use before. The horse threw his weight against the rope, and Meg tugged with all her might. Molly lurched forward, and Trevyn moved with her, lifting, shoving. Within moments she was out. Meg ran to her, kissing her broad, pink nose and feeling for injuries. Then she turned to Trevyn, who was gingerly putting on his tunic, scowling at the brown blobs on the fine white cloth.

  “Thank ye so much.”

  He smiled sourly, scraping mud, and suddenly she laughed, a sweet, healthy laugh. “Are we not pretty, though!” she cried, so infectiously that he gave in to good humor and grinned at her. But then he buckled on his sword and frowned, glancing around at the trees that stood, black and silent, on every side.

  “What’s to be done now?” he asked flatly. “Dark is scarcely an hour away.”

  Meg stopped laughing with a sigh. “I must get home, dark or no dark. My mother will be frantic with worry even now.”

  “There’s more to think of.” Trevyn leaned against a tree, judiciously. “Have you considered how Molly came to be here?”

  “I have not had time to consider!” Meg bristled at his tone. “I’ve been hours and hours after her. She has never come this far before.”

  “She was chased.” Trevyn pointed at the snow all around the margin of the pool. “Wolves. See their tracks?”

  “Ay, those prints look fresh,” Meg agreed reluctantly, “but why would wolves hunt Molly? It has been a mild autumn, and there are rabbits enough about.”

  “The wolves have been singing of larger game today,” Trevyn said evenly. “Their voices have filled the Forest.” Meg looked into his shadowy green eyes and saw foreboding there that she could not understand.

  “What’re ye saying?” she demanded, half frightened, half angry. “That the beasts are of a mind to attack? There is nothing in the Forest that will harm me.”