Hal was stunned. It was as if a bloody corpse had been thrown into the peaceful pool that was Celydon. “What?” he stammered. “I—I have heard nothing about them."
“Oh, they leave off their pumpkin hats before they ride,” Ket growled. “They have been spying about at the alehouses, looking for a fellow with a sword much like yers, Hal.” Ket eyed the black and silver blade meditatively. “But they say he is a fair-haired man of middle years, perhaps carrying a kind of lute.... Still, they may have heard talk, as my men have, of a young blood with more scars than anyone deserves. Ye must be wary, Hal."
“Ay, well,” Hal sighed, “I will be gone by the morrow, Ket."
“I have seen ye often, riding with Alan and the lady Rosemary,” Ket remarked obliquely. “Ye wished to stay?"
“I must go.” Hal sat a moment in silence. “I am not loath to tell you what you have already guessed, that I love the lady well, and my Lord Pelys also. If you had not by good fortune come to me, I would have come to you, for I have been troubled, and I have a great favor to ask."
“I will do whatever I can,” Ket vowed.
Hal scratched at the dirt with a stick, trying to name his fears. “There is Nabon of Lee, for one,” he said slowly. “From what I hear, he is making ready his armies to have his revenge on Pelys. To the north, Guy of Gaunt waits to pounce on whatever remains of both of them, which may stay Nabon's hand yet awhile.... But danger is more common than such warmongering lords. All I can say is, pray look after my lady and my lord while I am gone."
“'Tis a small enough request from one friend to another,” Ket smiled. “I will do my best. Where will ye go?"
“Where the road takes me. I shall see you from time to time, I dare say."
They chatted for a while longer. Then Hal returned to Celydon Castle and greeted Alan with a wry smile. “Let us pack our things."
“It's already done,” Alan retorted. They loaded their horses. Flann was shocked and sorry to find that they were going. But he could tell that they wanted no fuss, and bid them a quiet farewell. They went next to the barracks, and spoke to Rafe and Will. Rafe faltered, trying to tell them what knowing them had meant to him.
“I believe you understand me more completely than anyone except Alan,” Hal told him quietly. “I hope we shall meet again."
Rafe set his jumbled thoughts aside and voiced his feelings as best he could. “All the gods defend you, Hal. And if ever I can aid you in any way, pray call on me ... my friend."
They asked Will to give their regards to their other friends in the barracks, the kitchen and the workshops. Then they reluctantly went to take their leave of Pelys and Rosemary. Hal cradled his plinset in his arms.
The lord and lady were at breakfast in Pelys's chamber. “The sun shines, and the wind blows warm, my lord,” Hal said. “It is time for us to go."
Rosemary gave a cry of sorrow. “But where, Hal? And when shall we see you again?"
“Where the road leads me, my lady,” Hal replied softly. “When we shall meet again, I do not know, but surely I will come to you if I am alive.” He held out to her the precious instrument in his arms. “This is too old and valuable to suffer the weather and the chances of travel. Will you keep it for me, till I return?"
“But what will you have then, to comfort and cheer you?” Rosemary knew how Hal depended on his plinset when he fell into one of his desperate moods. “Wait but a moment,” she said, and ran from the room.
Pelys regarded them quietly with his eyes that always searched for truth. “So you are leaving us,” he said thoughtfully. “I am sorry to see you go, you two. You have brightened my winter greatly. I thank you from my heart, both of you, for a great many reasons.” Hal and Alan were embarrassed, and glanced at each other sidelong. Pelys changed his tone abruptly. “Now, now, don't just stand there, you two! Give me the hands, quickly!"
Grinning, they extended their hands to him as they had when first they met him. “Ay, so you have taken up woodcarving, Alan, and smithying. What were the results?"
Alan brought from his pocket a hunting knife he had made for Corin, complete with its tooled leather scabbard. The polished handle in the shape of a horse's head shone darkly. Pelys admired it, and looked appraisingly at Alan.
“I believe you can do anything to which you turn your hand,” he remarked. “Hal's works are of a different sort.... But am I never to know the meaning of this?” He pointed to the small scar on each left wrist.
Rosemary entered quietly and stopped near the door. Hal and Alan looked at each other. Then Hal spoke.
“It happened, my lord, that this summer past there was a terrible and wonderful night when I was greatly in need of Alan's comfort and love. Yet I felt that he had good reason to hate me. But he told me a marvelous thing, that he wished I were his brother and my blood ran in his veins.
“In the country of Welas, the West Land, where my ancestry lies, it is the custom that two men who wish to be brothers may make themselves so by a ritual that requires their trust and confidence in each other. Each must put a knife to the other's left wrist, where the heart's blood flows, and cut. And the wounds shall then be pressed together, thus."
He and Alan joined left hands somewhat as wrestlers do, so that their fists pointed skyward and their wrists pressed together. Each attempted, playfully, to pull the other over. This gesture, at once a contest of strength and a demonstration of affection, had become their habit of greeting each other.
“And so we did,” said Hal.
“And so,” finished Alan, “we are indeed brothers, as you say, my lord, though some may not see it so."
For once in his life Pelys was at a loss for words. Rosemary moved from her place at the door and came to his rescue. She held an intricately seamed leather sack with a long carrying strap. It was provided with tight fastenings, and it was so sturdily sewn and so well waxed as to be practically waterproof. Into this the plinset would fit as snugly as a turtle in its shell.
“Take this case, Hal,” she said, holding it out to him. “It will keep your instrument from harm. But you must bring it back to me when you can, for it is not yet finished."
Wonderstruck, Hal accepted the finely wrought case. On the front, over the place where the strings would lie, shone a sunburst, delicately picked out in metallic thread, but only half done. He had never dreamed that she was making a gift for him. His eyes, full of emotion, met hers for a long moment. No words were exchanged between them.
“Tush, tush,” Pelys broke the silence. “The day is growing older by the moment. Go on if you are going, you two!"
They needed no further urging to move toward the door. “All blessing be with you, my lord, my lady,” said Hal.
“Thank you both for everything,” added Alan.
Then they were gone. As their footsteps faded down the stairs, Rosemary bolted for the door, weeping. “Come here!” Pelys snapped at her, as sternly as he had ever spoken to her. Surprised, but still weeping, she came slowly to stand before him. He reached up and took her by the shoulders, shaking her.
“Are you a woman or a child?” he scolded her. “Would you have him face his journey with a heavy heart? Dry your eyes, quickly! We go to the battlements, to wave them on their way.” He clapped for his retainer.
Hal and Alan rode out of Celydon as soon as they could, bidding only a quick farewell to the old gatekeeper. They turned north, toward Rodsen, back the same way they had come the fall before. As they topped the rise near the Forest, Hal drew Arundel to a stop. He could not bear to look back, but neither could he bear not to. Slowly he wheeled Arundel, and on the topmost platform of the keep he saw two tiny figures, one standing, the other seated. Even at that distance Hal could not mistake them, and as he smiled his relief, they waved. Hal and Alan waved back, then sent their horses cantering over the rise.
“Now, daughter,” said Pelys, in a voice that was once again gentle, “you may weep as much as you like.” And with his arms around her she did just that.
That night,
miles to the north, Hal and Alan lay down under the light of a young moon and a spring sky crisply studded with stars. Hal slept well; better than he had in months. He was on his way again, and he was relieved that Rosemary had not taken the parting as hard as he feared. The winter of inaction and inner struggle was behind him; the future was all that concerned him now.
But in Celydon, sleep came hard to Rosemary after a day spent first in weeping and then in trancelike misery. Though she was outwardly calm, her thoughts were whirling. The young moon which peeped in her window mocked her with its serenity. Finally, like a pot suddenly boiling over, she threw off her covers, stamped her bare feet and padded off to her father's chamber.
He was sitting up reading, and he smiled as she entered almost as if he had been expecting her. He patted the bed, and she sat, sighing. “I can't get to sleep,” she mumbled.
“Tut, tut, Rosie,” he said, touching her hair. “Out with it. What ails you?"
“Oh, Father,” she burst out, “why did he not speak? Why did he go? Was I mistaken, and does he not love me at all?” She buried her face in her hands.
“Whoa, lass,” said the old man, gently placing his hand on her trembling shoulder. “One thing at a time. First of all, do you love him or not?"
She glared at him in astonished annoyance. “Of course I love him!” she shouted.
“Good!” smiled Pelys. “Fine spirit!” He grew more serious. “Never be ashamed to say it, Rosemary, and never regret it, no matter what may chance. But does he love you? What do you think?"
She was almost ready to burst with irritation, but sensing that he was testing her, she replied quietly, “I have thought so."
“Then think so still,” Pelys said. “Trust your feelings, daughter. And, for what my opinion is worth,” he added, “I think so too."
A wave of relief swept over her. “Father, do you really?"
“By my beard, girl, would I say it if I did not? I thought so before Winterfest. Indeed, I will even declare that if he is not very much in love with you, then I am a suckling babe, for I am as sure of it as I was of your mother's love for me."
Some color came back into Rosemary's pale cheeks at her father's tender words. She no longer spoke in desperation, but only in weary puzzlement. “Then why did he go? Or, if go he must, why did he not speak?"
“Well, well, is it not obvious, Rosie, that there is something he must do? And that being so, would he speak to you before he had done it? He is above all a man of honor. And what has he to offer you? Only a wandering life full of danger and heartbreak. Nay, nay, do not mistake me,” he continued as she started to protest. “There is not a better man in Isle, and I warrant you he will make his mark before long."
“But why did he not trust us?” Rosemary insisted. “Why did he not tell us where he must go, and why?"
“I dare say he has his reasons.” Pelys fixed his daughter with a faintly humorous gaze. “Do you not have faith in him, Rosie?"
“Oh, Father!” she exclaimed in exasperation.
“So, I take it that you do. Then do you not think he will keep his promise, and return?"
She smiled slowly. “I dare say he will.” Then she sighed. “But it is likely to be a long time."
“Well, then I shall say one more thing. Even if he had home and fortune waiting for you, and no barrier between you two except his own honor and wisdom, I think still he would not yet have spoken, for one reason: you are not yet ready. You are only newly awakened to love, daughter. Savor it, and let it season. Your life is yet very young, and though you are but two years younger than him in fact, you are many years younger in wisdom. He has known many a sorrow, if I mistake not, and this is your first. Do not pout at me, miss, for I speak simple truth, and it is hardly your fault. Indeed, you have made me proud of you, these months past."
“Proud of me!"
“Ay.” He put his arm around her once again. “You have become a woman and a lady. He will think of you with pleasure while he is absent."
“Indeed, Father, it is a marvel that he thinks of me at all.” She was dreamy-eyed. “My heart knows that he loves me; yet it is hard for my mind to believe. He is such a man as I have never known.... A warrior, yet gentle, wise and passionate, full of mystery and poetry and strange knowledge. Whatever does he see in me?"
Pelys smiled. “Always lovers wonder this. I remember how I marveled at the love of your mother, for she was a young beauty who had her choice of many, and I was a crippled thing more than twice her age.” Rosemary patted him in affectionate protest.
“For the most part,” Pelys mused, “we wonder thus because lovers are blind to the loved one's faults. But in your case, I believe you hit not far from the mark. I have seen many fine young men in my time, Rosie, but never one as rare as he. There is a mystery in his eyes.... I confess, I do not understand him, yet I know very well, lassie, that you could not have chosen a better man. If the gods let him live, perhaps someday we shall know him better. Till then, we can only wait for him to fulfill his quest."
Book Three
THE WEST LAND
* * *
Chapter One
The next day Hal and Alan turned westward, hoping that the kingsmen had been thrown off their track. They would cross the Broken Lands at the narrowest point to the Westwood, the other great Forest of Isle. Once within that shelter, they would turn southward toward Welas.
Their road to the Westwood lay across the lands of Guy of Gaunt. They were not in great danger, however, for the cover was good. The Broken Lands were crisscrossed by many streams which wound through wooded ravines, and the hills between bore crowns of trees. A hint of coming leaves cloaked their branches like a green mist, and a whisper of bloom clung to the hedgerows. This was the heartland of Isle at the dawning of the year; the spell of its beauty was strong. Hal and Alan traveled in quiet happiness. They were well provisioned, and reached the Westwood before they felt much need of fresh supplies.
By then the beeches had put out achingly bright green buds, and deer were everywhere. Hal and Alan rode steadily southward, trading meat for bread when they felt the need. Spring had become summer before they turned the corner of Isle. Gradually the land grew steep and precipitous, until one day the Westwood ended. They found themselves on the bare, rocky shoulder of the first mountain, looking down into Welas.
Hal's eyes sparkled as he pointed out the places that had been the food and drink of his mind since he was a little boy, but which he had never seen. Below them spread the lowlands of Welas, and in the distance shone the curves of the Gleaming River. To the westward was the dark mass of Welden, ancient home of the Blessed Kings of Welas, now defiled by the presence of Ulger, Iscovar's henchman. Mountains surrounded the lowlands on three sides, and in the distance one of them rose above the rest. Hal pointed to it reverently. “That is where we are going,” he stated.
“Why?” Alan asked. “Do you expect to find your grandfather there?"
Hal hesitated. “It is hard to say what I expect to find there. That is Veran's Mountain.” He stopped, as if that alone said all.
“Veran's Mountain?"
“Veran did what no one else has done: he ventured upon that mountain and returned unharmed."
“Indeed, is that so?” Alan gave him a wry glance, wondering what sort of strange peril Prince Gray Eyes was planning to lead them into now. He phrased his next question delicately. “What is so special about that mountain?"
“Folk of that time said it was the home of the gods, and worshiped it. Those who ventured upon its slopes came back witless. Some never returned at all. But Veran returned, and brought with him a bride so beautiful that folk called her the daughter of the gods, though she died a mortal death."
A year earlier, Alan might have laughed at this talk of gods. But now he looked at Hal sharply. “And you, Hal? Do you believe that yonder mountain is the home of the gods, who gave Veran their daughter and their blessing?"
“I believe in the One. But I have seen....” Hal fum
bled for words to explain his dreams. “I have seen other folk, fairer than sun or moon or circling stars. That mountain calls me, Alan."
To get there or indeed to get anywhere in Welas, they had to travel the lowlands, which were held by the captains of Iscovar's conquest of twenty years before. These were harshly oppressive lords, struggling to rule a rebellious people. Their men patrolled the county constantly, alert and heavily armed. Hal and Alan decided to ride by night. But even so, it was not long before Alan found himself caught up in an anguished search.
One evening at dusk, as they were making ready to travel, Hal vaulted onto Arundel and trotted half a mile to a spring for water. Only a tiny village stood near the trickle of water, and Alan did not think any harm of the venture. But Hal failed to return. Uneasily, Alan rode after him, and found the torn earth where Hal had spun away from an ambush, and the straight trail where he had led his pursuers across the countryside, away from his friend. There might have been tracks of half a dozen horses, Alan thought. He felt sick. But darkness was falling, and he could not follow the track.
He spent a restless night at their campsite, hoping against reason that Hal would return. The next day, scorning fear, he followed Hal's tracks until he lost them in the rocky uplands of some lord's sheep pasturage. He circled in ever wider spirals through that day without finding a sign of his brother. Perhaps Hal had managed to shake the lordsmen from his track, but he had most assuredly lost Alan as well.
Alan scoured the countryside through days of rising panic, scarcely troubling himself to avoid the lordsmen. The few words of Welandais Hal had taught him were painfully useless to gain him any information. Finally, quite desperate, he turned Alfie toward Veran's Mountain. If Hal was alive and at liberty, perhaps he had resumed his interrupted quest.
For the weeks of the journey Alan rode mercilessly hard, ate little and slept only from exhaustion. Alfie grew thin, and his eyes rolled constantly, showing the frightened whites. But Alan fixed his bloodshot eyes on Veran's Mountain, cursing feverishly as it scarcely seemed to grow larger at all. He set his course straight toward it, impatiently outriding the lordsmen who pursued him.
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