The Book of Isle

by Nancy Springer

  "If I am truly to be a King, I can find a crown." Cuin faced him steadily. "But I'll not use yours, Bevan. Take it."

  Bevan smiled faintly at the stubborn glint in Cuin's eyes. "I will take the crown if you will keep the sword. Pact?"

  "Pact," Cuin acceded, and they touched hands. Bevan took the crown on his arm and once more turned to depart, but suddenly Cuin could not bear the silence. He seized Bevan and embraced him hard. "Forget not that you are loved here," he whispered fiercely.

  "I will not forget," Bevan replied softly, "but I will not return, Cuin; think not so. Farewell, good friend. Farewell, Ellid." Quickly he strode onto his ship and threw away the plank. Cuin went to stand by Ellid's side.

  "Go with all blessing!" she called.

  The ship started like a stag and leaped away from the shore. Cuin and Ellid waved, but Bevan stood like a shining figurehead in the bow. His hair parted like raven's wings in the breeze of his passing; his dark eyes were rapt. Far out in the bay the silver sea-drakes arched their glistening necks above the water in salute. The swift boat skimmed between them, then swirled away until it was but a shape of grace on the water, soon lost in the sparkle of the sea.

  Cuin and Ellid blinked and faced each other with stunned eyes. "How could he leave you without a tear?" Cuin murmured.

  "By the Mothers, I scarcely knew him," Ellid replied heavily. "Nor has he known me, though I would have cleaved to him till death. Come, let us go. I cannot be soon enough gone from this place."

  They walked wearily to the horses. "I dare say you will want me on a pillion now," Ellid muttered.

  Cuin took her by her waist and set her on her steed for answer. "Let you ride like a Queen of the Mothers," he told her, "now and always. Hold your head high, Ellid." He went and tugged the golden sword from its place on the shore, wrapping it in his cloak. Then he stopped and stared at Ellid. Her head was bent, and great silent tears were slipping down her face. He went to her and held her hand, looking up at her in unspoken query.

  "Cuin," she sorrowed. "Dear Cuin. All powers forbid that I should hurt you ever again! But I am of as many minds as there are sparrows in the trees, and my heart is stone within me."

  "There will be time," Cuin told her gently. "Time for your healing, and time for me to woo you as you deserve, I who once thought you no more than my right… But do not think of me this day. I will attend you to your mother's home, no more. Are you ready?"

  She nodded, and they turned their horses to the north. By his side she rode through the dying days, and he reached out to her only with his glance.

  Epilogue

  A year later, when leaves once again hung golden on the trees, Cuin rode with Ellid to a little valley he had entered once before. On his head Cuin wore a golden crown. It had been a strange and bloody summer, and Ellid had held her head high against fearful strain; there had been talk of burning her as a witch who had destroyed her husband. Cuin had risen to power largely to protect her. At first he had sought only that the renegade stewards of Dacaerin should submit to the authority Eitha had given him. But battle led to battle, and then friends who remembered him from Blagden had upheld him and named him their High King. Even Kael had been drawn in. The outlaw chieftains were mostly quieted now; the realm was held in uneasy truce and winter would enforce it. But Cuin dreaded the coming of spring, and he craved the counsel of the seeress.

  Ancient Ylim looked not a day changed from his last sight of her. She still sat before her loom. "Welcome, Cuin Kellarth! Welcome, Ellid Ciasifhon," she greeted them. Her smile was all in her eyes.

  "Sweet is the sound of those names in my ear, Ylim," Cuin replied.

  "Why so, Cuin?" Ellid asked. She looked around with wide and wondering eyes at the placid old woman and the cottage and commonplace scene that all glowed like new-created things.

  "It is the elder tongue, such as Bevan spoke," Cuin told her. "It gladdens me even to hear it, though I know it not."

  "Steadfast man and lightwing maiden," Ylim beckoned, "come and look on my web, for that is why you are here, is it not?"

  The stag was gone, lost behind a curtain of bloody red. But then the hue softened to that of firelight and richest sunlight and red-gold like the mighty sword of Lyrdion. Indeed, the sword was there, and past it flashed a bright form of winged beauty. "Flessa!" Ellid cried.

  "Men still call me Falconer King," Cuin marveled, "though the bird is gone from me."

  "Nay, she cleaves to you yet." Ylim regarded them with her all-knowing gaze. "Ellid Ciasifhon was always your comfort, even when she knew it not."

  "Something of me is in all such flying things," Ellid murmured, "and of them in me."

  "Even so."

  "Still, it was not your hope and vision, Ylim," Cuin said slowly, "that we should be together."

  "Not while Bevan of the Argent Hand yet walked the sunlit lands," the seeress replied promptly. "I grieve that he is gone; great is the evil that he could have thwarted, he and his heirs. But the One is not like a twig or a leaf that can be turned aside from its purpose. Out of tragedy yet that power will shape good."

  Ellid sank down by Ylim's knee. "Grandmother, I do not understand," she whispered. "What is the evil from the east?"

  The old woman's eyes grew cloudy. "A veriest blight and bane," she mourned, "spreading and shadowing even from the Source, evil as much greater than evil of Pel as the wolf is greater than the rat… But let it not frighten you, little daughter." She placed a dry, wrinkled hand on Ellid's head. "It will not be for many lives of men."

  "Yet already the One sought to prepare us?" Cuin exclaimed.

  "Ay. Men would have rallied around Bevan and his heirs… Surely it is no fault of yours, Cuin, that you bear human scars and raise hands of merely human power! You and yours will reign long and bring peace to Isle, make a green and sunny land of it. But in the end peace will fail; not even Hau Ferddas will save it."

  "That is a saying of no hope," Cuin muttered.

  Ylim almost laughed; her ageless face creased into a smile. "I have looked far to find you doom! But now it seems I must look yet farther to find you hope! Forget not that the One labors ever for our weal. In those distant days, the heirs of Bevan shall return from Elwestrand. The first of them shall be Veran, but the greatest of them shall be Hal. And his comrade on these shores shall be a scion of your line."

  "Then Bevan lives?" Ellid exclaimed.

  "Of course he lives."

  "And still it is meet," Cuin asked softly, "that I should be King?"

  "Did not the Very King tell you so? Ay, it is meet. Yet look not to bloodstained Lyrdion or shadowed Eburacon, but build your court afresh at the place of laverocs, a spot of fair omen. And doubt not that it is meet for you to wed the Very Queen, she whom you have loved for these many years. There is some harm in it, for she is your kin; such was the custom of shameful Lyrdion. But you are both of good heart, and Isle shall rejoice in your sons."

  Ellid and Cuin glanced at each other with glowing eyes from which all trace of uncertainty had gone. Cuin reached for her hand.

  "We have no need of hollow rites," he said.

  "Come to my bed this night," Ellid answered him softly.

  They turned and wandered wordlessly from the cottage; already Ylim had gone back to her loom. It was a two days' ride to Caer Eitha, but they would make it last for three. Well might bode the begetting of a King amidst the regal gold and russet leaves.

  THE END

  The Silver Sun

  Based on her earlier novel,

  The Book of Suns

  Bright shadows of an Otherplace

  Pass across my sight, deflect

  The turnings of my days. Above

  The weaving trees, a tortured face,

  A burning tower. Beyond the green-flecked

  Fire, a sword, a dauntless love,

  A gold-winged steed. What fey embrace

  Of Otherfolk makes dreams direct

  My ways? The raven and the dove,

  The seer a
nd his desire, grace

  The circling seas and seasons. Chance

  We shadows also join the dance?

  — a song of Hervoyel

  Book One

  THE FOREST

  * * *

  Chapter One

  The Forest was the abode of warlocks, folk said, and goblins, and other creatures even worse. Still, Alan bent his staggering steps toward the Forest, as a desperate man will. Robbers had stripped him of everything—horse, weapons, even his clothing. The peasants could not spare him more than a beggar's crust. But within the Forest wilderness, Alan hoped, he might be able to find something to eat and a covering for his naked body.

  He had not reckoned on his own dizzying weakness. The world swam before his eyes, and trees encircled him with a green blur. He sensed movement and angry shouting, but he did not care. Then the sting of a sword-flat across his back jolted him into full awareness.

  Alan found himself facing a big, angry captain at the head of a mounted patrol. The next blow of the captain's sword knocked him to the ground. He lay sprawling, with no strength to flee or defend himself. Closing his eyes, Alan braced himself against the punishing blade.

  But as suddenly as the blows had begun, they ceased. Alan looked up. What he saw was to remain clear in his memory for as long as he lived.

  The burly captain had turned pale with fear. His chin quivered above a glinting blade pressed against his fleshy throat. But more fearsome than the sword's point, Alan thought, was the one who held the sword. He was a youth with the face of a warrior, straight of brow and strong of jaw—but there was more than a warrior's power about him. His eyes were steel gray, and there was some quality in his hard gaze that caused the captain to tremble and flinch, that caused Alan himself to struggle to his feet in hazy alarm. Yet he could not name the fear that he felt.

  The gray-eyed youth spoke a few words that Alan could not understand, while his glance flashed with an eerie intensity of will that shocked Alan anew. Though the stranger had not moved, holding his sword to the captain's throat, the horses plunged away from him. The captain's men could not control them. Squealing and shying, they bolted into the Forest with their hapless riders on their backs. The stranger knocked the captain's sword from his limp fingers, slashed his reins and sent his horse careering after the others.

  Alan stood watching, swaying with hunger and pain, vaguely thinking that he should leave as well. He did not have the strength to move a step. But the gray-eyed youth seemed to sense his hesitation. Quietly he dismounted from his big, gray horse and walked to face Alan. “My name is Hal,” he said, “and I will befriend you, if I may. Will you come with me?"

  Alan was absurdly glad that a choice was offered to him, though he could not have turned away without falling. He nodded and reached out toward the other, shaking with the effort. He could scarcely see. He felt a gentle hand take hold of him, and he gulped burning liquid from a flask. Hal wrapped him in a cloak and helped him into the saddle of his gray steed, then mounted behind. They sped away into the Forest.

  “It will not take those ruffians long to come after us,” Hal muttered, and Alan decided he liked the sound of that low voice.

  The ride was a haze of pain for Alan. The horse was strong and swift, and the Forest whirled by. Alan barely noticed when they came to a rocky stretch of waste, but he did notice when they entered the Forest again, for his rescuer guided the horse slowly and carefully over the ground. Then they stopped in a dense stand of cover. Before long Alan heard approaching hoofbeats. The captain and his demoralized troop swept past. The big man had found his sword, and his face was as red as his red roan horse.

  Hal chuckled, and Alan grinned in spite of his pain. They moved on, more slowly now. Alan lost track of time until at last they stopped and he felt himself lowered to the ground.

  He needed another pull from the flask before he was able to sit up and look around. He was by a small spring which flowed into an open forest meadow. The horse was grazing, and Hal knelt, rummaging in the saddlebags. He drew forth strips of bandage, a dark little jug and a rather old hunk of bread. To Alan the bread was a vision of bliss, and he grasped at it with the impatience of a child.

  “Eat slowly,” Hal cautioned. His gray eyes were darker now, but sorter, as gentle as they had been hard before.

  Alan bit into the precious bread. He scarcely noticed as the blood-stiffened cloak was peeled away from his wounded back. Hal carefully washed the sword stripes, applied ointment from the jug, than laid on pads of cloth. He bandaged these on with strips of cloth around Alan's body and shoulders. Alan was surprised that he could not eat much of the bread, but it did not matter. A blanket was wrapped around him, and he slept

  It seemed only a few minutes later that he was awakened by a gentle shaking. But it was after nightfall. A small campfire was crackling nearby, and over it sat a kettle from which issued a delicious aroma of meat.

  “Can you sit up?” asked Hal. “Here, lean against this tree.” The blanket served as a pad for Alan's sore shoulders. The fire warmed his bare legs. Hal filled a battered metal dish with stew, and handed it to him, along with a spoon and a cup of water.

  Alan spoke with difficulty. “Hal, have you eaten?"

  The other shook his head. “After you. There is only the one bowl and spoon."

  Alan ate eagerly. The venison, roots and berries seemed to him food fit for a king's board. But he could not eat more than a few mouthfuls.

  “I have not yet thanked you for saving my life,” he said as he rested against the tree.

  Hal lowered his gray eyes, flushing, genuinely ill at ease. “Never mind that,” he mumbled. There was no hint about him now of the power that had cowed the captain and his armed troops. Alan had never believed in warlocks; it was his hunger-fogged brain, he thought, that had imagined strange words and a stranger glance half a day before. Still, the horses had run away in spite of curbs and cuffs.... What sort of oddity was his new companion, that he could sow such fear with a glance?

  “How did you come to be in such a pass?” Hal broke the silence. “Were you robbed?"

  “Ay.” Alan was still too weak for much speech.

  Hal phrased his next question with diplomacy. In those days, when men could be outlawed for stealing a loaf of bread, it was not wise to pry. “Were you going anywhere in particular when you were robbed?"

  Alan shook his head. Like Hal, he was a homeless wanderer. It was odd that two such youthful outcasts should meet.

  “Will you travel with me, then, when you are better?” Hal poked at the fire, and Alan could not see his lowered eyes. “My horse is as good as a man in many ways,” Hal added, “but rather quiet. Sometimes it is lonely...."

  “Certainly I will travel with you,” replied Alan promptly. For Alan was brave, and inclined to deal generously with life. He saw a shy smile touch Hal's face, and then he went to sleep on his bed of moss without a doubt or a fear. He never afterward questioned his answer.

  Alan felt much stronger when he awoke the next morning. He put on the patched tunic Hal gave him, and ate some leftover stew. He put a pinch on the ground, first, for the god.

  Hal glanced at him curiously. “Whom do you serve, Alan?"

  “No one!” Alan smiled sheepishly. “I am not bound by any god of grove or cave or temple. But a lifelong habit is hard to break.... My fathers worshiped the Star Son."

  “Ah.” Hal's face was unreadable. “He is not too demanding, this Star Son?"

  “Nay,” Alan answered grimly. “Not like the Sacred Son of the Easterners, who inflicts suffering worse than his own.” He spoke harshly, for he was remembering someone he had once known. He could not tell that, behind the cloudy sheen of his gray eyes, Hal remembered as well.

  After breakfast they scrubbed the pot in the stream, then wandered through the forest glade. It was late spring; the trees were covered with bright leaf, and the grass sparkled like the water. Hal and Alan lay down and basked in the sun. The warmth baked much of the stiffness
from Alan's wounds, and he stirred contentedly.

  Hal spoke lazily. “I dare say we shall be having company soon."

  “Company?” Alan was almost asleep.

  “The outlaws that control this part of the Forest."

  “Outlaws?” Alan was startled awake.

  “From what I hear they are decent folk, though rough in ways....” A bird whistled from within the Forest. “There they are now. Let me speak for us."

  Alan nodded, his mouth dry. Then he froze in consternation as Hal whistled an answering birdlike call. For a moment the Forest stood in shocked silence. Then came a sharp spoken command, and from the brush stepped eight men, from as many directions, each with drawn bow. Their leader, a tall man whose deerskin cap could not entirely hide his naming red hair, strode forward.

  “Get up,” he ordered sharply.

  Hal arose, keeping his hands in plain sight. “We are unarmed,” he said.

  “And ye,” the outlaw snapped menacingly at Alan.

  “My companion is injured!” Hal protested. Alan struggled to his feet, wincing as a wound tore open. Bright blood stained his tunic. Hal turned to help him, and he hotly reprimanded the outlaw.

  “Ket the Red, I expected better from you! Did I not give you the signal of friendship?"

  Ket's jaw dropped, his face a mixture of astonishment and chagrin. “He speaks truth. Lower yer weapons,” he called to his men. And then to Hal, “How did ye know my name?"

  Alan's bleeding had already slowed, and Hal spoke more calmly. “I lived a year with the band of Craig the Grim, in the southern Forest. We heard much good of you.” He pressed a fold of cloth over Alan's wound. “I beg pardon for my sharp words, but I feared for my friend. May I care for him?"

  “Ay, surely!” said the outlaw hastily. At the camp, two outlaws stood watch while the others helped fetch water and bandages. Only when Alan was attended did Ket speak again.

  “What are yer names?"