The White Hart

by Nancy Springer

  “I will take no power from a thing so evil,” he grated. “Fire of Menwy have it!” His fingers flicked, and the parchment puffed into flame. Wael shrieked in despair, lunged to save it, but even as his lupine body leaped the scroll vanished, leaving only a shower of ash. Wael’s self and his spell left Isle like smoke whisked away by a strong wind. Terrified and confused, the wolves sped toward their Forest home; they were only pitiful animals now.

  The largest one lay impaled on Trevyn’s sword, mutely suffering, its golden eyes bewildered. Beside it lay the Prince, as still as death, though not a mark showed on him. Alan reached him first, and killed the wolf, for mercy—it had been a long time since he had killed so gently. But he could not rouse his son.

  Not long afterward, Gwern appeared anxiously at Alan’s cottage door. Trevyn lay on the narrow bed, stripped to the waist, and Alan held him while Ket tried to give him wine. But the crimson liquid spilled over him, and he never moved. Alan was weeping.

  “He’s not dead,” Gwern stated, a bit too loudly. “Why do you weep?”

  “Have you seen these welts?” Alan choked.

  Gwern looked at the whip scars and shuddered like a horse when the fly bites. His claylike face moved, and he turned away without a word. Alan railed on.

  “I’d like to know who gave him those stripes.… I’d hunt them down and rip them apart with my fingers! Sweet Mothers, all things gained, and then it seems all falls to ruin again. What ails him, Gwern? We can’t help him.”

  Gwern came closer and studied the Prince. “Shadows,” he said at last. “Years ago, you would have cured him with the little yellow flower.”

  “Veran’s gold? None has bloomed hereabouts for hundreds of years. We had some in jars, but it all turned to dust when Hal went.” Alan’s face twisted with the pain of the memory. Then he stiffened, noticing for the first time the bundle that Gwern carried. “Mother of mercy!” he breathed. “Get that accursed sword away from me!”

  “Trevyn told me to keep hold of it,” Gwern said.

  “Then do so, but keep it far from me! I feel it draw.…” Alan shook where he sat cradling his son in his arms. Only that inert form kept him seated, Ket sensed. “It cozens me like a woman, and I thought I was past such folly! It shames me. Get it away, Gwern!”

  “I’m going.” Gwern retreated a few paces. “May I borrow Trevyn’s horse? I’ll go get Meg.”

  “Meg?” Alan straightened, his fear suddenly gone. “Take any horse you like. How can you find her?”

  “Easily enough.” Gwern slouched out of the door and was on his way within the minute.

  “Meg,” Alan murmured. “There is healing in her lightest touch.” He felt the almost forgotten stirrings of hope.

  For the five days of Gwern’s absence, Trevyn lay, and ate nothing, and drank scarcely anything, and never came to himself. Sometimes he thrashed and moaned in black dreams, crying out against the wolves, or against the slavers, cursing them. Once he pleaded, “Let him be.…” Later he whispered, “Oh, my sorrow, what did they do to him after I had gone and left him?” Alan talked to him constantly, stroking his brow, calling to him, trying to calm him. If he succeeded, it was only to see Trevyn sink into a deeper stupor.

  There had been no sign of the wolves, no messengers, no action of any kind. Alan’s army camped at his feet and waited, almost breathlessly, for news of wolves, or war, or the Prince. Unmistakably, the shadow that had been on the land was gone. For the first time in months, the men really felt sunshine, felt it with a relief too deep for rejoicing, even if rejoicing had been fitting, with the Prince so ill.… Every man of the thousands gathered there longed to aid Alan in some way. Ket spent his time stumping in and out of the cottage, almost as sleepless as Alan. “Let me watch the lad for a while,” he would say gruffly from time to time. But Alan would not yield his seat for long, not to anyone.

  As Trevyn weakened for lack of food or rest, he began to call Meg. He would stare past his father, gazing at some insubstantial form of horror, and sob out her name as if he called on his god for succor. “Name of Aene, may she come soon,” Alan breathed.

  She came in the twilight of the fifth day, cantering through the staring soldiers without an answering glance, looking like a dark-cloaked queen of ancient legend with her pale face proudly raised over her moon-marked steed. She might have been as starved as Trevyn; her hair clung tremulously by her hollow cheek. But the sun brooch at her throat shone bright. Alan left his place at Trevyn’s side to meet her, helped her from her horse with outstretched arms, and led her to his son.

  The Prince tossed restlessly, moaning, “Meg—Meg—forgive—” Yet, he did not see her. The girl sank down beside him, grasping his faltering hands. “Sweet Prince, be whole!” she begged, but he looked past her without a sign.

  “Call him, lass,” Alan urged.

  “Trev! ’Tis I, Meg!” she beseeched him, but to no avail. Trevyn flinched away from her touch, and sweat stood out on his face.

  “He doesn’t know you,” Alan whispered.

  “Trevyn!” Meg pleaded. But he turned away from her, hiding his face and cursing the slave pits of Tokar.

  Alan felt as if, hope won and healing in sight, all his world had fallen to ruin yet once more. Groaning, he fell to his knees at the bedside, clenching his fists in fury and despair. If Trevyn should really die … The forbidden thought went through Alan with a force that laid open the deepest reaches of his soul.

  He sprang to his feet, gripping the glimmering Elfstone that hung on his chest, his gift of hope from Lysse at their first parting. “Alberic!” he cried, though a moment before he had not known the name or its meaning. “By all that is beautiful, by all things that render you fealty, I charge you—govern yourself! Pelle mir—look at me, Alberic!”

  Slowly and painfully, Trevyn focused his eyes on him. “My sire,” he breathed.

  “Trevyn,” said Alan, quite gently, “you have a visitor. Welcome her.”

  Meg sat biting her lip in misery at her failure, stunned to silence by Alan’s passion. But as Trevyn’s eyes turned upon her, she instantly knew what she must do. Like dawn after shadows, her wan face lit with the smile she knew he loved. “Hello, Trev,” she said.

  He only stared at her with widening eyes and speechless mouth, and she accosted him tenderly but saucily. “What, fair Prince, d’ye not remember me? Me and my sister Molly, the one with the red hair?”

  Trevyn could not quite find his voice. “Meg!” he whispered hoarsely, and reached out to her. She came and sat beside him on the bed, and he flung his arms about her. “Oh, Meg!” The cry was like a moan, and she bit her lip again, for he was weeping. “Hush, Trev; ye’ll be all right,” she faltered, and her hands came up to cradle his head.

  Alan went out. An hour later, when he looked in again, Trevyn lay deeply asleep with his head on Megan’s lap; she sat absently stroking his golden hair. Alan smiled shakily. “Meg, lass, you look spent,” he whispered. “Come, let’s find you some food and a place to rest.” He gently placed Trevyn’s head back on its pillow and took the girl out, an arm around her thin shoulders.

  During the night, Gwern trudged stoically in, still toting his swaddled burden of sword. During the night also, Megan slipped out of her tent and away, to the confusion of the sentries, who had been given no orders concerning her. Alan slept until an hour or two after dawn, then heard the news with wholehearted vexation and dismay, in manner so much like his old, ardent self that Ket wept. When that was taken care of, they went to the cottage and found Gwern dozing by Trevyn, his bare, grimy feet planted on the bedframe. This time, somehow, Alan managed to ignore the sword. He and Ket sat companionably, waiting for Trevyn to awaken.

  It was nearly noon before Trevyn rolled over and looked around, confused. Alan went to him, his face still drawn and gray with strain in spite of his rest. “Go to bed,” Trevyn told him promptly. “What day is it? How was I hurt?”

  “It has been nearly a week.” Alan smiled at him dryly. “You weren’
t wounded. I think Wael gave you some bad dreams.”

  “Thunder, ay!” Trevyn shuddered at the memory. “But something comforted me.…” Suddenly he sat bolt upright, nearly falling in his excitement. “Meg! Was she really here?”

  “Ay, she was, Trev.” Alan spoke unhappily. “But she’s gone again. I can’t imagine what ails the girl.”

  “I can.” Trevyn settled back with a sigh and a frown, then caught sight of Gwem snoring beside him and smiled in spite of his disappointment. “Can’t I even have a bed to myself?” he complained.

  “You like him better than you used to,” Alan asked, “don’t you?”

  “I—” Trevyn did not know how to admit that he loved Gwern like a brother. “Well, he went for Meg, did he not?” he barked at last.

  “Ay.”

  “Let him sleep, then. What’s to eat?”

  But he was too weak to eat much, or even sit up for long. He dozed off again shortly, and awoke in late afternoon. Busy, clattering sounds drifted in from outside; the men were breaking camp. Alan stumped in to face his son with a worried frown.

  “I’ve just had a messenger from Corin, Trev. Tokarian warships have been sighted off the Long Beaches; they may have landed by now. I must march my men eastward.”

  Trevyn gaped at him for a long moment, digesting this news, adjusting his sense of time; then he let out a shout that roused Gwern.

  “Tides and tempests!” he cried. “Do you mean to tell me that all the time I’ve been lolling about, an army has been lolling about with me?”

  “I did seem to remember something about a Tokarian invasion,” Alan retorted stiffly, “and I sent Craig off with half the men. But now I must go, and quickly.” Alan’s tone softened. “I am sorry, Trev—we’ve scarcely had time to talk. But I must go myself. I owe my people some kingship, after—after all my foolery. I’ll leave a company with you—”

  “Mothers, nay!” said Trevyn emphatically. “Take every man. Gwern and I will be fine by ourselves. I’ll ride after you in a few days.”

  “You should rest for at least a week.”

  “I’m stronger already. Look.” Trevyn slipped out of bed and stood, tottering. Alan eyed him doubtfully. But Gwern extended a hand to steady him, and unexpectedly spoke.

  “I’ll feed him well,” he volunteered, “and he’ll stay here till he’s healed. He’s never been able to get the best of me yet,” Gwern added darkly.

  “We’ll see, in the morning,” Alan hedged.

  But in the morning Trevyn walked to the table to eat, and Alan made ready to march with all his men, muttering. He had called his son Alberic, King That Shall Be. But it was hard to let go of the little boy that once was. For his own part, Trevyn seemed as protective of his father.

  “Be wary,” he warned. “Rheged is full of treachery. And Wael is probably with him.”

  “I thought you dispatched him!” Alan exclaimed.

  “Nay, I only slew his borrowed body, poor thing.… And I believe I did away with the transferring of living souls when I destroyed the parchment. But Wael still has plenty of tricks left.”

  “I don’t mind any magic, now that that shadow’s gone,” Alan grumbled. “Trev, lad, be gentle with yourself.…” They embraced, and Alan strode to the golden charger Rhyssiart, took saddle. Trevyn stood on the doorstep and raised a hand in farewell as his father jingled off at the head of his army. The men saluted him as they passed, and Trevyn bit his lip, feeling his knees forsake him; he couldn’t weaken now! Gwern slipped a casual hand under his elbow.

  “Thanks,” Trevyn hissed between clenched teeth.

  They stood until the last of the troops had passed. Then Trevyn staggered inside and collapsed on his bed, groaning. “I must be out of my mind,” he lamented. “Gwern, you are an execrable cook, and I know it.”

  “I’m no cook at all,” Gwern stated in his factual way.

  They ate cold food for three days, until Trevyn was well enough to make himself some soup. Then they spent another three days in almost constant baking and roasting, preparing supplies for their journey. They had no way of knowing what was happening in Nemeton, but Trevyn felt sure there must be fighting. Peasants wandered by their windows in bewilderment, some fleeing the rumored invasion, some returning to their homes since the threat of the wolves had passed. The proper owners of their cottage came back to it and peeked timidly in.

  “We’ll leave in the morning,” Trevyn assured them.

  He and Gwern spent the evening packing. Trevyn worked silently, frowning in thought. “Meg is wandering somewhere in all this confusion,” he said suddenly, when they were done. “How am I ever to find her, Gwem, since she won’t come to me? How did you find her to bring her here?”

  Gwern kept uneasy silence for a moment, moving his big hands, fumbling for words. “She is to the east, somewhere near Nemeton,” he said finally. “I can feel the focus of her being in much the same way as I am always drawn to you, but—it is through your love for her that I sense her. When I see her, it is through your eyes.”

  “And you love her,” Trevyn murmured.

  “Through your heart.”

  Trevyn stood staring at him, afraid to put into words something unfathomable he had felt. “But you must be yourself, Gwern,” he protested at last. “You always have been. Everyone is.”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  Chapter Three

  They left the cottage at dawn and rode toward Nemeton, with Trevyn on his strange, cat-eyed steed and Gwern on his colt. They rode all day, steadily but not hard, since Trevyn had still not regained his full strength. His own frailty troubled him, and starting the journey brought all his concerns to the fore.

  “Confound it, Gwern,” he grumbled by the campfire that evening, “do you know anything about the dragons of Lyrdion?”

  “Nay.”

  “Confound it!” Trevyn exclaimed again. “How am I ever going to defeat Wael? I can’t remember—I am nothing more than I was the last time I faced him and nearly died of it.”

  “But it was not Wael that hurt you the last time,” Gwern remarked reasonably.

  “It wasn’t?” Trevyn whispered. “Then—Menwy? Why, that black—” With difficulty he restrained himself from applying the epithet of female dog to the goddess.

  “She had to work through your hatred.” Gwern neither reproved nor explained. That toneless voice calmed Trevyn.

  “Well, if I can’t use her—Gwern, the problem remains the same. I am no match for Wael. And I must face him again, soon or late, whether he awaits me at Nemeton or not.”

  “Perhaps you will not have to face him alone,” Gwern said. Trevyn turned to him curiously, sensing—what?

  “What do you have in mind, Gwern?” he asked slowly. But Gwern shrugged and would not answer, sitting blank-faced by a hulking bundle of sword.

  The next morning they traveled on. To make for easier fording of the Black River, they headed slightly north. Three days later they crossed the main river and reached the point of land between its arms at the southern fringe of the Forest. Trevyn tried to stun rabbits for their supper as they rode, but his stones all missed. Muttering, he wished out loud that he had a hunting bird like the one he had lost, some time back, fighting with Gwern.

  “Look!” Gwern pointed. “An eagle.”

  The great golden raptor, shining like the sun, skimmed just over the treetops, its wings nearly five feet in span. “It must have come all the way from Veran’s Mountain!” Trevyn exclaimed. “Laifrita thae, little brother, you have seen far; what news?” He held up an arm for the bird, calling it to him. But the eagle swooped past his outstretched wrist and on toward Gwern, striking with a screech at the base of his neck where it met the shoulder. Curved talons drew blood, and Gwern, utterly startled, fell off his horse with a thud. The eagle flapped heavily away, and Trevyn jumped down from his own mount, hurried to Gwern. The youth was sitting up, looking browner than ever with leaf mold and rubbing his head in surprise.

  “I’m sorry!�
� Trevyn exclaimed. “I never in a thousand years would have expected that.… Are you all right?” He tried to examine Gwern’s cuts, but Gwern pushed his hand away, gently enough.

  “Scratches. I’m just stunned. Can Wael be setting the eagles against us now?”

  “I hope not!” Trevyn shuddered. Gwern looked up thoughtfully.

  “The eagles are the messengers of the goddess. But I can’t think how I might have offended her.”

  “Still, I didn’t smell any stench of Wael,” Trevyn mused.

  They rode on a little farther and camped in a Forest glade not too far from the river. They set a snare and had a rabbit for their supper. But in the morning Gwern groaned and struggled to rise from his bed. His face looked flushed under its habitual coat of grime. Trevyn pushed him back to his blanket, feeling the heat of his forehead with alarm. The cuts the eagle had given him looked swollen and raw.

  Trevyn cursed. “By blood, Gwern, that’s what you get for never washing!” he shouted in conclusion, and trudged to the river, grumbling. He returned with pans of water and bathed Gwern’s cuts and face. They did not ride that day. Trevyn spent the time cooking soup, but Gwern hardly ate any. He drank water from time to time. Trevyn made trip after trip to the river, bringing cool water, laying a cool cloth on the infected cuts. He didn’t sleep much that night, tending Gwern almost as frequently as he had during the day. But by the following morning Gwern no longer knew him. His wounds had swollen to double size, and he cried and moaned in delirious pain.

  Trevyn tried the only crude treatment he knew. Braving Gwern’s struggles and screams, he sliced the scabs open, squeezed out the pus, and seared the cuts with a hot blade. To do this, he had to sit on top of Gwern and pin down his flailing arms; later, he went off in the woods, and retched, and wept. Still later, in a sort of penance, he sat for hours by Gwern, patiently washing him, peeling away the tattered clothing that seemed to have adhered to his skin. Beneath the rags he found scars. It took him a while to realize that the marks were identical, line for line, with his own scars from the slave whips and the wolves. When he could no longer deny it, he wept again. That night, every time he tried to sleep, he seemed to hear Gwern’s screams under his knife-wielding hand.