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 sword 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 wo
uld 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.
“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—”
The Sable Moon Page 22