The White Hart

by Nancy Springer

  In time Trevyn became convinced that Emrist was not merely a dabbler in hidden lore but a master working cautiously toward some definite goal. One day, when supper was late because of a balky kitchen fire, Trevyn observed Emrist surreptitiously prodding the sodden wood into flame with a mere flick of his fingertips. Another time, Trevyn awoke in the dark of night to see his master padding down the corridor with only his raised forefinger, glowing eerily, for a light. After that, seeming to intuit that Trevyn knew his secret, Emrist showed his power more openly. He would set a streamer of nonconsuming fire in midair to read by or send objects scooting across the garret into his servant’s startled hands. He could bring forth miniature whirlwinds out of stagnant air and showers of rain from clouds of arid smoke. He could make rocks split, make dirt heave and roil like bubbling broth. These were his simpler magics; to command any of them, he spoke no word, but only gestured with his graceful hands. Trevyn felt sure that Emrist was not practicing, that he did not need practice, such was the ease of his power. He had observed his master eyeing him in the light of strange, leaping flames, and he felt that Emrist must be testing his fortitude for the next step toward the hidden goal.

  Apparently, Emrist was satisfied. One day he began to summon the spirits of the elements, speaking to them in words of the Elder Tongue. Trevyn felt the ancient call and power of that language go through him like a tide of fire; all his heart must have leaped to his eyes. Emrist froze in midspell, staring at him. “Selte a ir,” he whispered, still in the same tongue. “Speak to me.”

  Trevyn only answered his stare. So long had he shackled his tongue, not speaking even to the little creatures of the forest, that his own will constrained him to silence like a brank. Even as his heart went out to Emrist, he felt that constraint stubbornly strain against the command his master had spoken. Command or plea? Hurt was in Emrist’s eyes.

  “Do you not yet trust me, Freca?”

  Brave one, he had named him. Trevyn felt himself plentifully brave to fight, to endure, to strive, but not to love. At that moment he would far sooner have faced the fiercest of warlocks than the gentle sorcerer before him. His cowardice bound him helpless, sickened him. He lowered his eyes and sank his head in his hands. Emrist’s face, had he seen, went bleak with disappointment and pity, but his voice was calm.

  “Ay, they served you ill enough,” he said softly, more to himself than to Trevyn. “No wonder you clench yourself against them still. Bide easy, Freca. Time will have the healing of you.”

  But time only locked Trevyn more into his muteness; time and Maeve, in a way. Emrist’s sister was a sturdy woman who moved impassively about the never-ending work of her household. Trevyn could not guess her age; her face was unlined, but hardened with years and toil and some quality he could not name. Her body was always hidden in folds of dark cloth, even in the heat. She spoke seldom. Trevyn paid her little mind after the first few days, and he never expected to see her naked in the light of a waxing moon.

  She came to him in his bedchamber, with her dark hair falling softly around her shoulders. Trevyn woke with a start and gaped, unable for a moment to think who she was. Moonlight and her nakedness had changed her; she was all sheen and surface, pearly and unfathomable, her breasts like argent globes, full and high. Her face was as blank as Gwern’s, her eyes pools of purple shadow. She sat on the bed by his side and wordlessly ran questing fingers along the smooth skin of his neck. He trembled under her touch, gulping and scarcely moving as she drew back the covers and fitted the alabaster curves of her hips onto his. Her body was thick and firm, supple from her labors. He sighed and shifted his hands to her breasts, letting her take him.

  In no way could Trevyn consider Maeve his conquest. She cradled his body as a harper cradles his harp, played upon him expertly, played against him with catlike warmth and grace, and both of them as mute as the watching moon. Later she left him with catlike indifference, drifting out without a backward glance. After she was gone, Trevyn’s thoughts turned unaccountably to Meg. What was she like under her baggy blouses and full peasant skirts? Fleetingly, he envisioned rosebuds and dew; he remembered the butterfly tremor of her lips when he had kissed her. Maeve’s lips had been as firm as her competent hands. Suddenly, Trevyn was fiercely glad that he would not or could not speak. He wanted never to whisper endearments to Emrist’s white-breasted sister.

  In the days that followed, Maeve moved about the house as serenely as ever, with no change in her manner or her sober face. Trevyn found it difficult to think of her as the same woman who came to him, palely shimmering, at night. She came for the seven nights of the swelling moon; Trevyn found himself longing for Meg whenever he embraced her. When the moon had reached the full, she left him to come no more. He did not expect her or seek her out in nights that followed. She had pleasured him to satiety. He wondered guiltily how much Emrist knew, for he had sometimes suspected that the sorcerer had uncommon means of knowledge, and he had constrained himself to keep even his thoughts buried deep. But Emrist showed no sign of knowledge or displeasure.

  The two of them still spent their days in the garret, invoking the disembodied essences of the elements. Trevyn practiced walking through their focus of being in the room. He found that the moistness of water did not wet him or blasts of air so much as ruffle his hair, just as he had long since learned that he would not be slain by the spirits of the dead. The invocation of fire pained him, terribly; he bore it, and found that his flesh did not shrivel. In a way, earth was more difficult to withstand. Dense, alien, crushing, an almost hostile presence choked him. Trevyn struggled for breath, but he felt Emrist’s eyes upon him even through his heavy covering of insubstantial soil, and shame stiffened his spine.

  After that day, Emrist sat for a week in the garret staring at nothing that Trevyn could see, waving him away when he came near. Trevyn was used to such trances. Hal had been accustomed to lose himself in visions of Elwestrand or the loveliness that had once been Isle. So Trevyn judged that Emrist was also refreshing himself in some such private retreat, gathering himself for the next drive at the hidden goal: He had seen how spell-saying sapped the magician’s small physical strength.

  In fact, Emrist was visiting a less pleasant place than he imagined. But Trevyn was glad enough to leave him alone, to escape the stifling garret and work in the outer air. It was the height of summer. Though cool breezes were still to be found beneath the trees, the sun beat down fiercely on the garden. Old Jare suffered from it and kept to the shade, but Trevyn gloried in the sunlight. He stripped to his loincloth as he carried water for the wilting squash and beans. His skin turned golden brown and shone with his sweat; his hair, long uncut, lay startlingly bright against his bronzed neck.

  Maeve stood at the upper windows sometimes and looked on. She did not stir when one day Emrist came up and stood beside her.

  “So you take your pleasure in watching these days,” he remarked placidly.

  “Ay,” Maeve replied. “It’s far enough away here that I cannot see the scars. They hurt me even to look at. Praise be, they didn’t show in the moonlight.”

  “Have you noticed the scars of his legs and shoulders?” Emrist asked. “Not the whip welts—”

  “I know the ones you mean. The vermin branded him also, it seems.”

  “Nay, it was not the slavers who did that. The whip stripes lie over the brands, and you know the odd, jagged shapes of them—do you think perhaps some animal attacked him and the wounds were seared for safety?”

  Maeve was not listening. “Yet he moves with grace and joy in spite of it all,” she murmured. As her eyes followed Trevyn, her brother was startled by the softness, almost the beauty, that transformed her time-tempered face to that of the girl he scarcely remembered. Emrist frowned in consternation.

  “Do not place your contentment too much on him, Maeve,” he admonished her softly. “Only the One knows what may happen in the next few days.”

  Her face hardened, and she turned from the window to face him. “
I always knew that he came but to go,” she answered. “You are ready, then?”

  “Ay, but I have decided I must do that alone. Freca would stand me in good stead; he is like a lion for bravery. But his soul has been bruised, and I think he is younger than he seems—” Emrist spoke with fumbling haste. “I will not risk scarring him anew.”

  “But, Em,” Maeve protested in exasperation, “have you forgotten why you bought him, a mute? To help you, no matter what the risk? The stakes are too high to think of one soul overmuch.”

  “Using him would make the stakes higher yet. Have you not sensed that he is of the old order? His eyes speak the Elder Tongue, though his mouth cannot. That is why I say he will be leaving us. He has some destiny to fulfill; I think he came here only to heal.”

  “Of course I know he is a special one,” Maeve flared. “More special than you imagine. But what of your own special destiny? You must not spend yourself without support. Let me stand by you.”

  “You know Wael scorns and hates womankind,” Emrist replied grimly. “Fear, perhaps, in scornful guise, for woman’s love is a strong magic.… But most likely he would not come before you. Or if he did, your presence would only add fuel to his fire.”

  “Ay, the more cursed he,” answered Maeve impatiently. “Well, then, send Freca on his way and get another mute! Only a few months will have been lost.”

  Emrist shook his head. “I must invoke Wael tonight.”

  “Why, in the name of the One?” She was ashen.

  “Because I have seen—they have found the brooch of the Islendais Prince.”

  That day, when Trevyn entered the garret, he found Emrist reading from a parchment dark with age. Trevyn made shift, as he had often done before, to glance at the title, and what he saw shook him like a blow. “On the Transferring of the Living Soul.” The crabbed old letters seemed to sear themselves on his eyes, for at their head leered the emblem of a leaping wolf.

  “I need nothing, Freca,” Emrist said without looking up, and Trevyn turned and went in a daze. He wandered out of the house and into the forest, stopping when he reached a quiet place to sit and compose his reeling thoughts. It did not occur to him to break his silence, to speak to Emrist and ask his help. His long silence had made him a spy in this household, and now his shame guarded the secret.

  Trevyn’s curiosity had often been piqued by his snatched moments with Emrist’s lore. The properties of wingless flight.… The seeking of sprites.… The science of griffins and firedrakes.… Any of these things, and many more, he would gladly have studied. But he had not let Emrist know that he could read, for a mute who can read and write is a mute in tongue only. Trevyn had refrained from reading in secret; he clung at least to some shreds of his honor. But in this matter of the wolf, where life and kingdom might someday be at stake, he found his honor to be of smaller concern. He returned to the house with a calm face and a plan.

  He lay awake that night until all sound in the household had long since ceased. Then he arose and made his way stealthily to Emrist’s chamber. He was not too afraid of awakening Emrist; he knew that the magician took draughts to sleep, to counter the pains of his frail body. Trevyn crept into the room, heading for the garret and the ancient parchment. But surprise tingled through him. Emrist was not in his bed, nor had the coverings been disturbed. The bright moon showed that plainly. The forbidden chest stood open, nearly empty. Trevyn ran up to the garret. Emrist was not there; nor did Trevyn’s hasty search find him the parchment he needed.

  For all Trevyn knew, Emrist might venture out every night. Sorcerers were supposed to be partial to moonlight and stars. Yet Trevyn’s very sinews sang of danger, and he descended the stairs hastily to the kitchen. Emrist was not there. Trevyn went outside and studied the night with all his senses, searching for a sign. Then he set off rapidly into the woods.

  At some distance from the house, just when Trevyn was doubting the direction he had chosen, his night-sharpened eyes glimpsed a ghost of murky light somewhere ahead. He hurried on, sometimes wondering if he really saw it, so faint was the yellowish glimmer amid the white moonlight. Then he reached the brown woodland pool, which lay in the shadow of a steep rise, and his way was made clear to him. The light seeped from behind a tangle of vines and bushes halfway up the wooded scar; it streaked its pale shadow across the mirrorlike surface of the water and mingled with the reflected moon like an arrow piercing a swan. Trevyn skirted the pool and silently climbed up the rise, came to the entrance of a concealed cave that was curtained by living greenery.

  Within, the air looked thick with sultry light. A malodorous smoke seeped out with the light and almost set Trevyn to coughing. Once he had caught his breath and accustomed his stinging eyes to the sulfurous gloom, he could see Emrist within. The magician wore a flowing, shimmering black robe that must have come out of his mysterious chest, for Trevyn had never seen it before. He had a rude stump of wood for a table, and on it stood black, flaring candles, smoldering saffron-colored bits of incense, an earthenware mug of water, and a tarnished metal dish of salt. Emrist held the parchment with the lupine seal, reading it, the lines of his face taut with strain. It seemed he was preparing for the summoning of some particularly difficult spirit.

  As Trevyn watched, full of foreboding but uncertain what to do, Emrist began his incantation. He raised his mobile hands and half closed his eyes in concentration, chanting words in some tongue unknown to Trevyn, words even harsher than the unlovely language of Tokar: “Zaichos kargen—Roch un hrozig—ib grocchus—” On the parchment before him, the emblem of the leaping wolf glowed eerily bright.

  Trevyn felt something coming through the air from the south and east, something of such darkness that he thought it would blot out the moon. It smote him with fear, terrible fear such as no spirit had ever caused in him, fear even beyond screaming. He silently trembled against the unfeeling earth as the focus of evil passed beside him and into the cave. Then he heard Emrist catch his breath, and, moving with leaden reluctance, he forced himself to look within. A shape of nightmare was growing in the shadows of the cave, a being of obscurest gloom that displaced the haze of Emrist’s making. Trevyn felt its terror as a crushing weight that robbed him of breath or movement. It was a spectral wolf, substance only of blackness, huge, looming, floating forward, with eyes and bared teeth of flame. Emrist snatched up a handful of salt and flung it at the thing, spoke to it in the Ancient Tongue, words of exorcism: “Este nillen, gurn olet, kenne Aene.” [“Be no more, evil thing, in the name of the One.”] But his words were a trembling whisper, and had no effect. With a wrenching effort, Trevyn glanced at his master and saw him sway on his feet. The shape of shadow and fire was nearly on him, and his words stopped with a choke as he caught at the cave wall for support.

  Sudden fury swept up Trevyn like a gale tearing a ship from its moorings. By the One, he would not again be unmanned by some wolfish apparition! He leaped into the inner thickness, to Emrist’s side, and words long pent burst from him with a power he had not known he possessed: “Begone, vile phantom, and trouble him no more! Begone, dark thing!” In his passion, Trevyn lunged at the grinning specter to throttle it, but he blinked; his hand passed through emptiness, and his enemy vanished.

  Beside him, Emrist leaned against earth with lidded eyes. Trevyn lifted him and, grasping a candle in his free hand, supported him out of the cave and down the slope to lay him by the pool. Emrist gasped painfully at the clean night air. Trevyn cradled his head in silence, dabbing water on his face and rubbing his bony chest. Presently, Emrist’s breathing eased, and he opened his eyes. Wonder grew in them.

  “Alberic!” he exclaimed in the Old Language. “No wonder Maeve went to you! I should have known it long ago.”

  Though he had never heard the name before, Trevyn understood its meaning: elf ruler, spirit ruler, eagle King and unicorn King. But he did not know why Emrist should call him by that name.

  “Nay,” he replied gently in the same tongue, “my name is Trevyn.”
r />   “Your sooth-name is Alberic,” Emrist murmured, gazing up at him.

  Trevyn could not doubt him. Though Emrist was not much older than himself, he seemed old as Isle just then, and wise as any seer. A warm ache of gratitude filled Trevyn, making him blink and tighten his arms around the frail man. Once again Emrist had given him back to himself and like a father had named him.

  “Blood, what am I thinking of!” Suddenly urgent, Emrist struggled to sit up. “My lord, you are in great peril.”

  “Ay,” Trevyn agreed regretfully, “that wolfish thing will tell its master of my whereabouts. I must leave, and quickly.”

  “Worse than that. They have got your brooch!”

  Trevyn frowned in puzzlement, knowing he had left his brooch with Meg. “Who?”

  “Rheged and that warlock Wael. They have had men hunting you these many weeks, and yesterday I saw that they had found it—” Emrist lost coherence in his earnestness. “And I, the dolt, not to realize it was you! Haven’t you felt it tug, my lord? He can draw a soul to him from any such belonging, and the body of necessity with it, just as he drew the wolf-boat by a splinter of the figurehead—”

  Trevyn’s brow creased anew. “I have felt nothing. Can the Sight have misled you, Emrist?”

  He mused. “Perhaps it was sight of future, not of present—but the peril is the same. I heard them gloating, and I saw the brooch in their hands. It was in the half-sun shape of Veran’s fame, golden, with jeweled rays, a kingly thing. There was no mistaking it.”

  Trevyn struck his forehead with his palm. “They are mistaken even so,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “It’s my father’s! He only lent it to me.… Tides and tempests, Emrist, I must get it back at once! What could happen to him?”

  Emrist’s eyes, full of horror, gave him answer enough. “I will come with you,” he said.

  Trevyn bit his lip in dismay, for he knew Emrist’s traveling pace. Though he was reluctant to hurt one to whom he owed every thanks, his fear for Alan firmed his answer. “Nay. I must go with all speed.”