The White Hart

by Nancy Springer

  So when the setting sun blinded him one evening, blazing in his eyes, he cursed; he hated it. He hated to remember that Hal and Trevyn had passed beyond the sunset, to the uttermost west, whence there was no return.… What figure rode toward him, emerging out of the sunset, a form armed in silver but haloed in rays of gold? It shimmered before Alan’s blinking eyes like a vision of the glorious past that he had nearly forgotten in the gory present. It was Hal! But it could not be Hal.… Hau Ferddas thudded to the ground, and Alan stood without noticing, watching the rider draw nearer. A shout sounded in his ears, someone seized him and tugged him back from the fray, but he only stared. The approaching horse was white, its forehead blazing white, on its breast a crescent of silven It sprang fiercely, almost joyfully, into the midst of the wolves, scattering them with its hooves. The rider laid about him with the flat of his sword. Golden hair shone under the silver helm, and gray-green eyes flashed beneath. It was not Hal, then, but someone like him, a hero of elfin stature whom Alan did not know. He had spied the enemy leader now, the big wolf that always sat and grinned; he sent his horse lunging toward it. But the wolf shied away, yapped once, and all of the wolves loped off. The men cheered, but the rider sat his horse and watched the gray beasts go without pursuing them.

  Alan pulled away from the arms that held him, walked forward without realizing he had taken a step. His bloody sword hung from his limp hand and dragged in the dirt as he stumbled around bodies of men and beasts. The rider heard him coming, glanced around, and snatched off his helm as he slid to the ground. “Father!” he exclaimed, coming toward him.

  “Trevyn?” Alan whispered.

  “Ay, to be sure!” The young man gripped him, for Alan swayed where he stood. “What, have you forgotten me already?”

  “Nay, indeed. But you have changed.” Alan looked as pale as if he had seen a ghost. “And I felt quite sure that you were dead of shipwreck.”

  “Why? Did I not tell you I would return?” Trevyn smiled, teasing, trying to rouse Alan to some touch of joy. But Alan only fumbled at an inner pocket and brought forth a jeweled brooch, a sunburst of gold.

  “I picked this up along the shore,” he explained dully.

  “That brooch,” said Trevyn with feeling, “has taken part in more mischief than I can fathom! Guard it carefully, and keep it away from the sea. By the tides, I shall tell you a tale of that brooch! But first I must tell you a tale of these wolves. Let us go where we can talk.… Father, you look spent. Take my horse.”

  Trevyn had to help him onto the cat-eyed steed. As they prepared to leave, Ket came up and merely glanced at Trevyn in greeting.

  “Liege,” he addressed Alan, “shall I have the men advance their position?”

  “Do what you like,” Alan told him numbly, and turned away. But Trevyn shook his head, and Ket silently acknowledged.

  Trevyn walked off by Alan to the cottage where he had established his post of command, a mile away. Ket ordered the men to stay where they were for the time. Then, discreetly, he also made his way toward the cottage, to watch over Alan as he had done for many weeks, and to speak with Trevyn when he could.

  Inside the cottage, Alan sank onto a seat without moving even to clean the blood from his hands. His clotted sword rested between his knees, naked under its coat of gore. Trevyn quietly found wine and poured his father a tumbler full, which he handed to him with some biscuit. He did the same for himself and found himself a bench along the wall.

  “You will have heard by now that I met with these wolves before I left Isle.”

  Alan scarcely nodded. Dazed from weariness, Trevyn thought. He went on.

  “I was a fool not to tell you of them. I hope I have gained better wisdom since then, but at least I can offer knowledge.”

  As briefly as he could, Trevyn recounted his adventures, speaking not so much of what he had done as of what he had learned. He brought forth the parchment that was headed by a leaping wolf and explained its meaning. Silence rang hollowly in the room after he finished. It was a long moment before Alan stirred and spoke.

  “You have studied in sorcery?”

  “After a fashion, ay.” Trevyn frowned in puzzlement. His father hardly seemed to have heard him.

  “Well, you’ll use no sorcery here.”

  Trevyn gaped in astonishment, fighting to keep his composure. “You face a wizard,” he said carefully. “How will you defeat him?”

  “With a bright blade.” Alan’s hands twitched on the jeweled hilt they grasped.

  “Do you plan to slay every wolf in Isle?” Trevyn protested. “They are victims of Wael’s treachery as much as we ourselves!” But Alan exploded into sudden fury.

  “You think I don’t know my enemy!” he shouted. “By the Wheel, I will be King in my kingdom, and those that have shed my people’s blood shall feel my wrath! And you, if you cross me! There shall be no sorcery, or talk of sorcery, in my land. Heed me well!”

  “That is a sword full of ancient sorcery in your hand,” Trevyn told him quietly.

  With an inarticulate roar, Alan lifted the weapon and rushed against the bright figure of a brash youth who had threatened his power. His son was dead; nothing remained to him except his rage and his power.… “Dounamir!” Trevyn gasped. “Father!” But even the Old Language had no power on Alan’s hearing anymore.

  Frozen and incredulous, Trevyn watched him come. Though his own sword hung at his belt, he could not move to draw it, not against Alan.… He was too stunned to flee. But as the invincible blade of Lyrdion whistled toward his head, Ket burst in and caught Alan’s descending arm. “Alan, ye’re as mad as a mad dog!” he cried. “Look before ye! Who is it that ye smite!”

  Startled, Alan looked, and saw anguish in the eyes of—his son! Shaking, he dropped Hau Ferddas clattering to the floor and sobbed into his bloody hands. Trevyn went to his father, motioning Ket away. Ket hesitated, then seized the sword and retreated.

  Alan wept tears of blood, or at least so it seemed. They ran in red streaks down his face, as if they had been torn from his heart. Trevyn clutched him tightly. “It has been hard for you, far too hard,” he faltered. “The whole land in shadow, and you most of all, being King.… And that accursed sword—”

  “There is no excuse for me,” Alan choked. “I was half lunatic before I ever touched the sword. Trev, I have wronged you—”

  “Hush.”

  “And not only you.” Words burst from Alan in a feverish torrent, like his red torrent of tears. “Your mother has had nothing from me these many months but hard looks.… And Rafe! He who stood by me all through this hellish business, dead days ago, with no thanks for his constancy but the rough side of my tongue—”

  “Hush,” said Trevyn more firmly, swallowing his own sorrow. “Rafe needed no thanks from you.… Father, of all people in Isle you have been hardest beset, and I must badger you yet again. In very truth, our fate depends on the morrow. May we speak of it once again?”

  “Nay.” Alan quieted and faced his son with desperate honesty. “Nay, there is no need. It is as Ket has said; I am unfit. The command is yours. If anyone questions your authority, send them to me. But I think they will all be glad enough to obey you.”

  Trevyn regarded him with aching heart, finding nothing to say. “Will you sleep now?” he asked at last.

  “By my troth, ay!” Alan murmured in wonder. “Ay, I shall sleep well.” He started toward his bed, but turned to stand before Trevyn a moment longer. “I believe I forgot to say welcome!” he told him, and grasped his shoulders and kissed him.

  Chapter Two

  “It’s just as well,” Ket said when Trevyn told him of the change of command. But Trevyn disagreed.

  “It’s not a bit well,” he sighed. “But he shall be well, Ket, mark my words.… What have you done with that great, bloody sword?”

  Ket looked at the ground. “I’ve hidden it—and I’ll reveal it to no one, Prince. Not even t’ ye.” His brown eyes flashed up, pleading for understanding. Trevyn smile
d wearily.

  “You’re wise,” he acknowledged. “You know I’m no more proof against its spell than Father was. But what of yourself, Ket? How long do you think it will be before thoughts of the thing eat away your reason and contentment?”

  “Better me than ye,” Ket snapped unhappily. “I’ll call council.”

  “Wait!” Trevyn exclaimed. A familiar form was approaching through the dusk. Gwern trudged up to stand by his elbow, raising his straight, shaggy brows in blank inquiry at the stares he was receiving from two sides.

  “Gwern,” Trevyn declared, “I believe you might finally become useful in your own peculiar way.”

  “Ay,” Ket muttered. “Ay, it can’t touch him; even a fish can feel that.” He disappeared into the gathering darkness and reappeared shortly with the sword, offering it to Gwern as if he could not wait to be rid of it. The weapon lay blanket-wrapped on his outstretched hands with the covering slipping away from the blade. Gwern stared as if he were confronted with something indecent.

  “Take charge of the sword, Gwern,” Trevyn instructed. “Don’t let anyone have it, least of all my father. A deadly magic is in it.”

  “I’ll bury it, then,” said Gwern. “Earth is good for such ills.”

  “Nay, some fool will dig it up again. You must keep it by you.”

  Gwern shrugged and grasped it, not at the hilt but by the midpoint, as if it were a stick. He lifted it with a grunt and bundled it under one arm, blade backmost. Trevyn made fast the wrappings that hid the bright metal.

  “What a nuisance,” Gwern remarked, hefting the bulky thing.

  “Guard it at all times,” Trevyn charged him. “See to it, Gwern.” The son of earth sighed and wandered off with his unwieldy burden.

  Later that evening, Trevyn sat around a fire with Ket, and Craig, and Robin of Firth, and lords and captains of all the southern towns—far older men than Trevyn, all of them. Yet they looked to him for guidance.

  “If there is any question of my right to command,” Trevyn told them, “the King has said it must come to him. I hope there will be none, for he is sleeping.”

  “There shall be none,” growled old Craig, glancing about him with a hint of menace. No one gainsaid him.

  “Good,” Trevyn stated. “Now, I shall not tell you how I came by certain knowledge, for it makes far too long a tale. But be assured of this: it is not beasts we fight here. By sorcery, the souls of brigands and murderers have been spirited into the bodies of the wolves. An ancient wizard named Wael has done this, to smooth the way for an invasion by his master, Rheged of Tokar. So it does not avail us to slay the wolves: when one is killed, it is a simple matter for Wael to transfer the captive soul to another. And if he lacked wolves, I dare say he could use another scheme.”

  “Lack wolves!” Ket exclaimed wryly. “Why, there are more wolves in Isle than men! The Westwood is full of them, and the mountains of Welas, and the Northern Barrens—”

  “Exactly.” Trevyn smiled at him.

  “So what is to be done?” someone asked.

  “I must confront Wael and strive to reverse the spell. Failing that, I might be able to strike a bargain with him. I have something he wants.”

  “Wael would be the big one,” Robin said. “The laughing wolf.”

  “Ay. So far he has no more than trifled with you, waiting for the Tokarian fleet. But he knows me, and fears me a little. I expect him to strike with all his force in the morning. So draw the lines tight.”

  Throughout that night the captains roused tired men and instructed them to fall back toward Alan’s position, forming a compact group in preparation for the morrow. When all was ready, a few hours before dawn, Ket and Craig and the others went to snatch a bit of sleep. But Trevyn wandered, fighting to keep the calm he had brought from Elwestrand, trying to dream himself back to a certain night on Elundelei. He settled at last on the roots of an elm, near the cottage where Alan slumbered, and looked for a legend in the moon and wandering stars.

  At the first light of day the men stood ranked, tensely awaiting the attack. Trevyn rode the lines on his lithe white horse to steady them. But full day dawned, and no wolves came.

  Alan awoke hours after sunrise to the same eerie silence. It did not seem odd to him at first. He smiled drowsily in the bright sunlight and turned to look for Lysse. He had embraced her in a dream, and for a moment he could not understand where she was, where he was, or why. When he remembered, he could not explain his own happiness. Hastily he washed his hands and face in the cold water that awaited him. Only when he reached for his sword and found it missing did Alan recall the events of the past evening. No wonder he had slept late; he would not be leading any battles now.

  Slowly, ashamed in spite of his joy, he moved to his cottage door. The mass of his men stood ranked not far away, waiting. Even closer at hand lounged the lanky, red-haired form of Ket. It was no use going weaponless, Alan decided, with a battle forming. “Do you think I might have a sword?” he hailed him.

  “I have your own sword here, my lord,” Ket said quietly, not quite looking at him. He brought it over. It was the one with the lion’s-head hilt, the one he had worn for years, and Ket must have spent half the night polishing it, Alan judged, when he should have been getting his rest. Alan peered at his seneschal. “Why are you my-lording me?” he asked.

  “For the sake of respect, I was told.” Ket studied Alan’s face and smiled his slow, warm smile. “Ye don’t remember!”

  “I seem to remember being the worst kind of an ass,” Alan sighed, “but the details are lost to me, praise be. Will you forget the respect now?”

  “As you say,” Ket drawled. There was little need for words between these two old friends. But the greatest of debts constrained Alan to speak.

  “And for what you did last evening, Ket—a thousand thanks.”

  Ket flushed, and helped Alan into his helm without comment. Trevyn cantered up and dismounted, facing his father with grave affection. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m as likely to be a dolt as ever, Trev.” Alan grinned broadly. “Since my gladness is out of all proportion with the occasion. Would you look at that tree!”

  “Why, what about that tree?” Ket gasped, staring at the muscular elm as if it might conceal a wolf.

  “Look at the way it spreads deep and high, joining earth and sky. It has flesh and skin, flowing blood and reaching fingertips; it’s as alive as I am. And it shall remain, it or its seed, long after we are gone.”

  Ket’s face sobered at this strange talk, but Trevyn nodded. “Ay,” he said softly, “and once you have hold on such truth, nothing can utterly destroy you.”

  “In regard to destruction,” Alan rejoined lightly, “what am I to do today?”

  “Keep clear of the fighting if you can; your reflexes are not likely to be at their best. Take this oddity of a horse, and lend your presence to the lines.” Trevyn handed him the reins. “The men are anxious about you; it will hearten them to see you.”

  “And you? Should you not be mounted?”

  “Nay.… Can you lend me that brooch, Father, the ill-fated one? Perhaps it’ll give Wael a moment’s pause.”

  Alan brought out the jeweled pin and watched Trevyn fasten it to his cloak. “Why, what are your plans?” he asked worriedly.

  “I can’t really plan for Wael.… Though I admit, I wish I could remember a—a certain name, as it was promised I would. But I have a spell or two to try on him. We’ll spar at spells, that is all.”

  “Are you sure—” Alan began, but even as he spoke a shout went up. The wolves had appeared, running to the charge. “Take care, Father!” Trevyn cried, and sprinted to the battle line.

  On a rise, a bit apart from the other wolves, the yellow-eyed leader sat. Trevyn strode out to face him, feeling very alone and yet not entirely alone; something shielded him, kept the snarling brutes he passed from snapping at him. Alys, perhaps? He hardly dared to hope it. He walked up to the big, gray wolf with his naked swor
d leveled at its chest, and it sat unmoved, grinning at him.

  “Are you ready, Wael?” Trevyn asked curtly.

  “Ready!” Lupine laughter curdled the air. “What readiness might I need for a pup like you!”

  Trevyn’s mind still darted in search of the elusive name. He fiercely constrained it to focus on the task at hand. Slowly, strongly, he began to recite the words that Hal had taught him, grim words of the old Eastern tongue, that would compel these wretched spirits back to their proper bodies: “Zaichos Karben, arb ud Grezig.…” Souls moved to obey; Trevyn could feel their stifling heaviness in the air around him. Behind him, the wolves faltered in their attack, and men cheered. But Wael’s will strove with Trevyn’s. His yellow eyes narrowed with strain and his borrowed body tightened beyond the sword’s point. Forcing himself to concentrate on the struggle, hoping somehow to breach his enemy’s power, if only for an instant, Trevyn brought forth the parchment from his tunic and fingered it as he continued with his counterspell. Crushing strength opposed him, and he felt the sway of the balance; he seemed neither to win nor lose.

  “If you did not have that scroll you thieved from me,” Wael panted, “your strength would be no equal to mine.” Though he dreaded that Trevyn might try to turn the talisman’s power to his own account, Wael hoped the Prince would value the parchment and preserve it with greatest care. But Trevyn glanced at the thing with loathing so sudden and intense that it drove all spellwords and strategy from his mind.