The Silver Sun

by Nancy Springer

  Alan was grinning in wonder. “I'll warrant you knew what I was about all the time."

  “I had a notion,” she acknowledged, smiling.

  “But grandmother,” Alan added, “I have no brother."

  “I would have sworn from the first that you were brothers!” she insisted.

  The two looked at each other, smiled and shook their heads. Hal changed the subject. “Grandmother, we must be over the wall before dawn. You have helped us till now. Help us in this."

  She frowned. “They will still be looking for you. But if you are to beat the dawn, I dare say you must go."

  She gave them directions, and they gratefully took their leave. “It may be that you will meet us again, if we live,” Hal told the peculiar old woman. “Remember us, I pray you.” And he kissed her withered cheek. Then they went out again, into the shadows.

  The moon was low as they slipped away. A certain house, Margerie had told them, built against the town wall, could be climbed, and the occupants would not raise the alarm. Her instructions helped them avoid their pursuers, but nearly doubled the distance. Though they moved quickly, it was almost dawn when they came to their destination.

  They climbed rapidly but as quietly as they could on the heavily thatched roof. They knew that not a quarter of a mile away, at the town gates, the castle guards and lordsmen were gathered. By the time they reached the peak of the roof, the black sky had turned to gray. Hal stood on Alan's shoulders and pulled himself up onto the wall, then hoisted Alan up beside him. Keeping low, they hastily slipped over the outer edge and dropped to the grass twenty feet below.

  They could not take time to catch their breath after the impact. They ran, panting, to the copse where, they hoped, the horses waited. No alarm followed them; the gray dusk of dawn had served to hide them from sight. Arun welcomed his master with a joyful snort, and Alfie had not so much as pulled his tether. Both youths thankfully took saddle.

  “My sword,” said Hal. “It was in the blanketroll."

  “I know,” Hal replied tensely. “They stuck it there when they were casting lots for it. But it's not there now."

  Alan gaped. “It could not have fallen,” he protested at last, “or not without my hearing it.... I never thought to secure it, in my hurry."

  Hal said no more. Silently the pair turned their horses and drifted away like ghosts in the morning fog. They picked their way with care, keeping woodland between themselves and Whitewater. But once they were out of sight of the town, they touched heels to their horses and galloped toward the Forest.

  “Did you get your herbs?” Alan asked, suddenly remembering Corin.

  Hal only shook his head, looking grim. But when they clattered into the camp, before the sun was well up, they found it deserted. Some hunks of raw meat sat in Hal's kettle near the ashes of the fire, and the deer bones lay strewn where Alan had left them. Nothing else was there.

  “Where is the smith who was sick enough to die?” Alan wondered aloud.

  “He and his son can't have gone far,” Hal said crossly. “Hide that offal—nay, I'll do it. Have a look around."

  “Why?” Alan picked up the kettle. “We can't help them any more than we have already."

  “Because the young rascal has my sword, Alan! Find them!"

  But Corin and his father were nowhere nearby. Several circles told Alan that. He rejoined Hal, smarting inwardly because of the loss of the sword.

  “There were traces near the ford,” he reported evenly.

  “They've gone north then, as the boy said. All right, let us be after them.” Hal vaulted onto Arundel, but Alan stood still.

  “Better to go westward, into the Forest,” he argued. “The lordsmen will be hot after us, and we'll be easy game on the open Waste."

  Hal leaned on his saddle, staring at his comrade. “You are right,” he said softly, “but nevertheless I must go after my sword."

  “How do you know that Corin has it?” Alan cried, furious because he suspected the boy himself. “Anyway, you have a weapon. You cannot go poking around, hunting that boy, when half the castle will be out after us! Are you mad?"

  “Perhaps.” Hal smiled a crooked smile. “I have sometimes wondered. Even so, I must go north.” He turned away. “Are you coming?"

  “Why not?” snapped Alan. With this new challenge, his mood had swung like a pendulum from frightened to reckless. Still, he spoke bitterly. “I have already courted death a dozen times since I last slept, for your sake. Once more is of small importance."

  Hal keenly felt the justice of the reproach, and bit his lip to stop the stinging of his eyes. He stiffened his back and sent Arundel down the twisting path to the Ford of Romany. Alan and Alfie followed close behind. The horses edged their way across the treacherous ford, snorting, then plunged wide-eyed up the opposite bank.

  Within a few furlongs, the Forest dwindled into patches of stunted trees, and then into true Waste, where only sparse grass and occasional bushes grew. There was poor tracking on this stony turf, and no sign of Corin and his father. Also, Alan had not overestimated the danger of pursuit. He and Hal had not been riding an hour before they were seen. With a shout, six patrollers were after them. But Arundel and Alfie were swift. They sped off toward the west, and by midday not a lordsman was in sight behind them.

  Still, Hal and Alan did not dare to stop until they had reached the sheltering Forest. All day they galloped over the high, rocky plain and said no word. Alan, though not easily angered, was stubborn in his wrath. His face had gone as stony as the Waste, and Hal glanced at him and kept silence. Even when the blue-green mass of the Forest welcomed them in the distance, they gave no sign.

  Chapter Four

  They entered the Forest at last in the gray dusk, and camped near a rocky upland stream. Supper was cooked and eaten without a word. Evidently Hal was distressed, for he ate lightly, dropped things and poised at the fire. But Alan was not yet ready to break his punitive silence. Finally, Hal threw a stone into the fire and abruptly asked a peculiar question.

  “Alan. Is your birthday on the first of May?"

  Alan's jaw dropped, and he was startled into response. “Ay! But how in the world —"

  Hal interrupted him. “So is mine. And I think we are the same age. Seventeen?"

  Alan nodded. Hal spoke rapidly, with lowered eyes: “There are many things I should have told you when we first rode together, if you were to follow me.... I feared to cause you pain, but now you have followed me blindly, and it has made you angry. I had better show you something of myself, Alan."

  As he finished he slipped off his tunic, and Alan cried out in shock. Hal's entire torso was covered with scars, mutilated into a texture like a tapestry of suffering. The marks of whips scored him, and brands from hot irons, and the white, unhealing lines of canes. If Alan had ever been vexed with him, he had forgotten it now. Without realizing he had moved, he was around the fire and kneeling before him, grasping those wounded shoulders. “Who did this to you?” he choked, in a tone between rage and despair. “Tell me, and I will kill him, I swear it!"

  “Softly,” whispered Hal, much moved. “Softly, good friend. He is far beyond your reach, or mine."

  Alan sat down, breathing hard. As his boiling blood cooled somewhat, he realized how he had assailed the wall of secrecy that had always surrounded Hal. He attempted to withdraw.

  “I spoke hastily,” he began. But Hal stopped him with a smile.

  “Of all men that walk the land, I love you best,” Hal stated, with dignity that allowed for no embarrassment. “I have known so since we met, and I do not wish to have any secrets from you.... But bear with me, for this is painful to me."

  Hal slowly put on his tunic, lacing it tight before he continued. “I had better get the worst over with first. Those wounds you saw were given to me by order of my father."

  “Your father!"

  Hal nodded. “There is no great love between us,” he said wryly. “The man is a fiend.” He forced the words out, strai
ning. “His name is Iscovar. And he sits on the throne of the Kingdom of Isle."

  For Alan, it was as if the night sky had fallen in. Everything went black, pierced by flashes like falling stars. Involuntarily his whole body stiffened, and he drew back as if he had seen a serpent. His jaw clenched as he stared in horror at this gray-eyed youth whom he had thought to be his friend.

  Hal cried out as if he were in physical pain. “Alan, do not look at me so! By my wounds, I would rather be the most pitiful beggar in all of Isle than the son of that man!” He covered his face with his hands and bowed his head, moaning like a child who has lost the only warmth he has ever known.

  Alan went to him at once. No force of will or of men's bidding could have kept him away. Putting his arms around Hal, he spoke to him brokenly.

  “I am all amazement and confusion. You should be my bitterest enemy. Yet I know you, what you are: the best man I have ever known, and the best friend. I do not know how it can be that such crop sprang from such seed. But it is so."

  Gratefully, shakily, Hal touched his hand. They sat in silence, collecting their thoughts.

  Alan had good cause to hate the name of Iscovar, King of Isle. In former times, folk said, Isle had been like a paradise. Every man served his own gods and tilled his own land, and the deer grazed up to the cottage doors. There were kings and chieftains, to be sure, but their warriors were their comrades, and then people were their kin. When they fought, it was the high, free strife of which the bards used to sing. But for the most part they kept the peace of the High King, who rode the land with his magical sword.

  Then the invaders had sailed in from the east, and not even the mighty sword had been proof against them. It was undone by sorcery, folk said, or thrown into the sea. With ruthless force the Easterners raped Isle by way of the Black River, slaying the chieftains and herding the folk like so many cattle. So the people became slaves to the manor lords, seldom free to tend their own poor plots. And though great tracts were cleared, and the ground as fertile as it had ever been, hunger and disease stalked the land.

  The Easterners came in the name of their god, the Sacred Son, and many were the warlocks and priests in their ranks. The leader was named Herne; he called himself the Sacred King. He divided the conquered land among his captains, and with every new lord went a priest. To people who had suffered, these spoke of the sanctity of torment, and many believed them, for their magic was strong. Only in the west and north Herne could not take hold. In these mountainous parts lived a proud, fierce people, scions of tribal Kings and the ancient Mothers. They could defend their rocky land forever against the invaders. So, since no great wealth seemed hidden in these barren parts, Herne left them to their denizens.

  The Sacred King built his castle by the Black River, and in it a tower that came to be the terror of all the land. There Herne imprisoned those who had displeased him, so that their agonies might ease the torments of the Sacred Son. Folk called it the Dark Tower, or the Tower of Despair; everyone knew the place that was meant.

  Seven generations passed. Herne gave way to Hervyn, to Heinin, Hent, Iuchar, Idno and Iscovar. The invaders had abandoned their harsh, guttural language, by and large, for the gentler speech of Isle. Some wed Islandais women, and here and there a lord ruled who was just, even kind, to his folk. Such lords were likely to be quickly overthrown by their more ruthless neighbors. Like their despotic Kings, most lords remained cruel.

  But in the southwest of Isle, in meadow-ringed Laueroc, one such line of kindly lords had grown very powerful indeed. Perhaps Laueroc's people were akin to the warlike folk of Welas, the West Land that lay just beyond the Gleaming River, where the Blessed Kings still ruled in Welden. The folk of Laueroc looked often that way, and they loved their lords. Their armies were always victors, but never aggressors.

  King Iscovar, however, had turned his attention to the west. He had captured the gentle lord of Laueroc, spirited him to the Dark Tower and placed one of his henchmen in his stead. And years earlier, by treachery, he had conquered proud Welas. That kingdom also now must bend the knee before Iscovar and his heirs.

  “Your given name is Hervoyel, then,” Alan mused, still grappling with disbelief.

  “Don't call me that. My mother always called me Hal."

  Alan knew well, as did everyone in Isle, the story of Hal's mother. She was Gwynllian, daughter of the royal house of Welas, a tall maiden with hair the color of autumn forests and eyes the stormy gray-green of the autumn sea. Through many lands she was famed for her beauty. When Iscovar came with his vast armies and laid siege to Welden, he offered peace on one condition: that she should be his bride. He knew that her son would be heir to the throne of Welas, for the West Land reckoned lineage in the old way, through the woman.

  Torre, the Blessed King, Gwynllian's father, saw no hope for victory, but left the choice to her. Though bitter at her fate, she was proud to be the means of peace for her people. She was wed within the week. No sooner did Iscovar have her well away than his troops turned to take Welden and the whole of Welas. Torre, with his sons, fled to hiding in the mountains. The commanders of the army became the manor lords of Welas, and a noble named Ulger became known as the Wolf of Welden. Iscovar went on with his bride to his castle at Nemeton.

  “What did he—what did Iscovar call you, Hal?"

  “Nothing. Not once in my life has he ever spoken to me by any name."

  “Was there not a time,” asked Alan gently, “when you were very young, perhaps, that he—favored you in some way...."

  “Never."

  Hal went on to explain, as best he could, how he had lived in the court of Iscovar, King of Isle. It was a jungle of intrigue, theft, bribery, extortion and petty cruelty. He had no friends. The boys with whom he took his schooling, sons of his father's henchmen, liked to torment him with their various forms of senseless hostility. He learned early that he must take care of himself. He was strong, and he soon became a skillful, quick-witted fighter, with or without weapons. Yet, though he taught the school bullies to let him alone, he never fought except in defense.

  This was his mother's influence; she had taught him to love peace and singing. Hal and his mother were very close, and kept much to themselves. They avoided the King. They had two faithful servants who had come from Welas with Gwynllian: an old nursemaid, Nana, and her husband, Rhys. The rest of the hundreds of servants in the castle they could not trust. Many of them were spies bribed by the various lords, or by the King himself, to spy on the lords’ spies.

  “When we could, we fed the widows and orphans that the King had created,” said Hal bitterly, “and provided for the care of the poor, maimed wretches that emerged from his Dark Tower. Certainly he knew what we were doing, but he said nothing. It is not his way to speak—only to torment.

  “So, on my sixteenth birthday, my mother died. I was out practicing in the yard when Rhys shouted for me, and I ran in to find her in writhing torment. She grasped for me, and tried desperately to speak, but could not. She died in my arms. Obviously she had been poisoned, but no one could say by whom. The next day, with little ceremony, she was buried. The King did not come.

  “The following day, Rhys was seized in order to be flogged, then killed by the bowmen for target practice. I swallowed my pride and went to the King, begging for his life. He flew into a rage at what he called my insolence, and I was taken to the Tower. I am sure now that poor Rhys's death was only for this purpose, to torment me. The condition of my release was that I should sign a writ of obedience to the King. Even he knew that I would not break my word. When I refused to sign, I was hung in chains by my wrists and flogged. There was no daylight in that hole, but I think this went on for two days and nights. From time to time they varied the treatment with canes, or clubs, or burning irons, but the effect was the same."

  Alan looked sick, and Hal reached out to him. “Indeed, it was not as bad as it could have been. I was the heir to the throne, and the King had need of me if his vassals were to serve him. So
he could not have me blinded, or castrated, or maimed.... They simply flogged me. After a while it became apparent that I was growing indifferent to the flogging and that they would have to try something else, so they took me down."

  Hal paused to steady himself before he continued. “What they did next could only have come from the mind of the fiend himself. They brought before me a goodly man, handsome, near middle age but powerful and trim of body. They told me that he was to be tortured, slowly, to the death, unless I put a stop to it by signing the King's writ. At this he cried out, “Do not heed them, my Prince!” They hit him across the face to silence him, and the blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. I stared, for to my knowledge I had never seen him before.

  “They started the tortures. After a while it seemed that he was senseless, and they left the room. He spoke to me at once, urging me never to give in to the King, but to escape him and fight him if I could. For, as he said, I was the only hope of the people of Isle. In wonder, then, I asked him his name, and he told me: Leuin, seventh lord of Laueroc."

  Alan gasped sharply, and Hal faced him with pity in his eyes. “Your father, Alan?"

  “Ay,” Alan managed to say. “Is he—is he —” He could not say the word.

  “Ay,” replied Hal softly. “He is dead."

  Alan groaned and lay back in the grass, breathing hard. After a few minutes he spoke. “In my mind, I knew he was dead. But in my heart, I always hoped that by some chance he was yet alive."

  He sat up. “Tell me what they did to him,” he demanded, fists clenched.

  “Oh, by any god, Alan, nay!” Hal pleaded. “Remember him as he was! This much I will tell you: never once did his courage fail him. For five days and nights, as nearly as I can tell, they tortured him with every fiendish machine in that dark place of horrors, but always he was steadfast in his endurance.” Hal spoke like one who, in spite of himself, must yet relive a bad dream. “If I cried out with him in his agony, or turned away my head, I was flogged. But the worst of it was that they tortured him even more cruelly then, thinking I would weaken. So I learned, for his sake more than for mine, to sit, and watch, and make no sign, though my blood ran cold. They let him keep his tongue, hoping that he would plead with me for his life, and they sometimes left us alone together for this purpose. But instead he always encouraged me. He told me that he was ready to die, that any life the King granted him would not be worth the living. He urged me, as before, never to yield to the King. And he spoke often of you, Alan. ‘I have a son,’ he would say, ‘just your age, born on the day of your birth. His name is Alan, and you and he are much alike in many ways, I think. I have sent him to safety with kinsfolk in the north, and I hope he may strike a blow for my people someday. He is a bold lad, and great of heart. I do not mind dying, so long as I know he is alive.’”