“Alan,” she said, using his mortal name for the first time since he had entered the valley, “that which you told me yesterday...."
“Ay.” He kissed her eyes. “I love you well, Lysse."
“That is the name of what I also feel.” The tears at last overflowed her eyes and began to wet her cheek. “I love you, Alan of Laueroc."
Agonized, as if obeying something greater than himself, Alan leaned to kiss her. But before their lips could meet, he paused and asked her a yearning question with his glance.
“I will never flee from you again,” she answered him aloud.
On the rim of the mountain Hal waited patiently, the rising sun warm on the back of his neck. Finally, from around the bend of the trail came the sound of hoofbeats. Hal stiffened, then relaxed and sighed with relief. Alan carried Lysse in the saddle before him, cradled close to his chest.
But when they reached the top of the rampart, Alan wordlessly set her down. “Wait,” she said, and from around her neck she lifted the pendant she always wore. Alan lowered his head, and she slipped it onto him, centering the darkly glowing green stone on his chest. “The past and future of your people and mine glimmer in that stone,” she said. “Wear it in hope of a better dawn."
Alan shook his head with a gesture of pain. “Oh, my love, my future is dark to me. My hopes are dreams, without substance."
“Dream them still,” she answered, “and let your deeds shape the substance. Remember me in your dreams, Alan! Farewell!"
Alan bent in his saddle to kiss her for what he felt sure was to be the last time.
He and Hal lifted arms in final salute to the People of Peace assembled below. Then they rode over the rim, and a wall of rock hid from their sight the secret valley which they knew they might never see again. Alan blinked hard as he faced the rising sun, but he did not look back.
Chapter Four
Summer's green was just tipped with the pale gold of early autumn when they left the mountaintop valley of the elves. The sun shone brightly, and the air was fresh and crisp. But the trees were all to be bare, the sides dark and windy, the earth sodden and cold with autumn's rains before they again found welcome.
They traveled south and east, along the curve of the mountains which rose between Welas and the sea. Their progress was slow, for they followed no beaten track. They wound their way as best they could along ridges and into ravines, picking their path between great rocky crags and ancient ruins. Somewhere in these deserted reaches of Welas Hal hoped to find his grandfather. His bright eyes probed the landscape eagerly at every new vista, though for days on end they would not see a living thing.
They traveled openly, by daylight. The henchmen of the lowland lords seldom ventured into these parts, for many outlaws lurked among these peaks. Hal, confident that he and Alan would not be attacked, rode fearlessly. Alan followed sullenly, caring little for the danger. He had fallen into a black moodiness, seldom saying a word. Lysse was a constant torment at the back of his mind. He did not plan ever to see her again, for he was sure he could not deny her the immortality of an elf. His declaration of love had been a cry wrung from his tortured heart. He bitterly berated himself for his weakness, and he cursed this stark and soaring land from which Lysse's voice seemed continually to echo, “Remember me."
As the weeks wore on, the journey began to jangle Hal's nerves as well. They were frequently soaked by rain or chilled by bitter winds. Even the fires which warmed them at night seemed cold without the cheer of conversation. But finally, after two months of travel, a shout pierced the mountain wall. Suddenly, as if dropped from the dismal sky, a group of swarthy, fur-clad men blocked their path. Overhead, more rough-looking men lined the jagged cliffs. Resistance was impossible, but Hal had no such intention. He looked on them undaunted, waiting for the question he knew would come.
“Who are you to roam the mountain ways without fear?” asked the leader harshly. “What is your business here?"
“My business is with your liege, the Blessed King,” Hal boldly declared. “To him I will tell my name, and no other."
The man muttered and moved toward him threateningly, but an outlaw called down from the rocks above, “Hold! Do you not see the sign upon his back? ’Tis Veran's token, the Setting Sun!” A chorus of voices called affirmation.
“Is this true?” the leader asked him.
Bewildered, Hal brought the plinset case around so that the man could see. Rosemary's half-completed sunburst shone brightly even under the cloudy sky. The man stared at it for a long moment, then faced Hal with a searching gaze from which all hostility was gone.
“Are you indeed of Veran's blood?"
“Good outlaw,” answered Hal quietly, “I can tell you nothing until the King has given leave."
“Any spy could wear Veran's emblem,” growled one rough man.
“By the Mothers, it is a risk we must take,” replied the leader. “My Lord Galin is at the outer defenses; he cannot advise us. We must take them to the fortress."
He turned back to Hal and Alan. “We shall take you to him whom you seek. But you must surrender your weapons, my lords."
Hal unbuckled his sword and handed it over. Alan followed more slowly with his. The man gazed at the finely wrought blades.
“If those be lost, or come to harm,” Hal warned him in a low voice, “no mountain in Welas will be big enough to hide you."
“I am a King's liegeman, not a robber,” the fellow replied with dignity. “And I have seen this sword before.” He held up Hal's gray-glinting brand.
“Where?” Hal asked swiftly.
“I can tell you nothing until the King has given leave,” the man parried grimly. “Now come with us, my lords."
They spent the night in a deep cave hidden in the flanks of the mountain. There were many such hollows and tunnels within the crags, protected by cleverly concealed fortifications. Central to the earthworks, nestled into the bosom of the forbidding mountain, was an ancient stronghold known as Cair Indel, the Deepest Haven. There the old King had taken refuge. And on the morrow, Hal and Alan were led to his shelter.
Torre was an old man, and life had not been kind to him. Kingdom, daughter, sons—all were gone. And with them went the light of day, or so it seemed to Torre, for he spent the long hours brooding in his dark cavern at the navel of the mountain. He often dreamed of the bright days of his past along the Gleaming River, when his beautiful wife Megolyn was still alive, when his sons Galin, Glondil and Gildur were strong, bold youths, and his daughter Gwynllian was his cherished pet. But he could never quite fool himself; he knew that those days and those faces were gone forever. He could dream, but the grim, cheerless Now returned inexorably each time.
Out of the shadows of his gloomy chamber came a figure from the past. Smiling a welcome, he looked to envision one of his dead sons. But this was not Glondil or Gildur; this young man had Gwynllian's eyes.
Torre sat bolt upright, scarcely daring to believe his eyes saw truly. Yet he knew in his heart that this figure was alive. The young man moved with the powerful grace of a warrior, and his weathered clothing could not obscure the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his chest. He held his head high, and the straight lines of his jaw and brows reminded Torre of the sons who had once been his pride. But those eyes! Their gray depths held him spellbound. Here was a man of great power and strong will. Here he saw also a dream, and the torment of time. But above all, Torre recognized Gwynllian in the gray eyes. This youth was of his blood. He was sure of it.
“Who are you?” he whispered. He reached out, and his uncertain fingers met firm muscle and solid bone. The vision was real.
The young man knelt before him, and the leather bundle which had ridden on his back slipped down to rest on the floor. In the dull light an embroidered sunburst glowed eerily brilliant. The aged King became aware that in the far corners of the room his people were gathered, listening.
“Torre, son of Tamar, of the ancient line of the Blessed Kings of Wel
as, I crave your blessing,” the young man said. His voice was melodious, and though he spoke softly, the great hall vibrated with his words. “I love best to be called Hal, the name my mother gave me. She loved you well, and often spoke of you.” Hal broke off, hardly knowing what to say to the fierce-looking old man who sat glaring like a blinded eagle in a darkened aerie. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “don't you know me?"
“My grandson,” the old man faltered, “my grandson!"
His fumbling hands touched Hal's hair in the gesture of blessing. Then tears began falling from Torre's bright black eyes, and Hal found himself awkwardly kissing the King on both his parched cheeks, encircling Torre's thin shoulders with his strong and comforting arms.
Outside of Torre's chamber, Cair Indel was all in an uproar. Excited servants had brought out word of the Prince's coming, and the news ran like spring torrents among the soldiers and servingfolk of the keep. Some, who had noted the half-sun emblem on Hal's leather case, eagerly hailed him as an heir of Veran. But others called him impostor, and many thought of him as a hated Easterner. The fortress buzzed with ardent and wrathful talk.
When Hal and Alan emerged from the keep, a sudden silence came over the crowded courtyard, and all eyes were fixed upon them. Hal, deep in thought, seemed not to notice it until suddenly a voice boomed out: “Donkey prince! Filthy son of the fiendish Iscovar of Isle! Can a jackass beget anything else, be the mother the finest blooded mare?” From the crowd came a muttering of approval.
Hal's head snapped up as if he had been stung by a whip. Under the gaze of those steely gray eyes, the crowd grew silent and seemed to shrink back.
“Hear me, men of Welas.” Hal's gaze skewered the listeners. “If I am weak or craven, then judge me. If I am bloodthirsty, cruel, or savage, judge me. If I am treacherous, foolhardy, stupid or arrogant, then judge me sternly.” He had spoken softly; now he shouted. “But judge me not that I am the son of that blood-black King!” The echoes died away as he stood panting with emotion. “I do not deserve it. As the One is my witness, I do not. I cannot explain how it came to be. The greatest fear of my life is that I might somehow, someday, come to be something like him.” Hal spoke passionately, but with dignity. “He is vile, villainous, sick and evil beyond belief and beneath contempt. I tell you this, I who know him well. See the proof!” In one wrenching movement Hal ripped off his patched tunic, leaving the tattered remnants swinging from his muscular arms. The crowd gasped in shock; no one spoke.
Hal went on more calmly. “This is but a paltry thing. Thousands of broken men would have been thankful to escape with my light punishment. But if there is anyone here who thinks that I bear love or likeness to the Islandais King, then let him think again.” Spent, he turned to go, but there was a stir in the shadows of the doorway where he stood. The onlookers gasped and fell to their knees. “Sire!” Hal exclaimed. The old King was coming forth from the darkness of his refuge.
All clad in black, but with his thick hair blazing white against the lowering sky, Torre tottered with outstretched hands and stricken face toward Hal. “My child, my child,” he whispered as Hal reached out to help him, “what has the brute done to you?” His withered hands touched the scarred shoulders tenderly.
“It is a small matter. Grandfather, and long healed.” Hal cursed himself for having distressed the old man. Alan, who had knelt to the King along with the rest, now rose and came forward, unfastening his cloak. Hal took it gratefully and set it around his shoulders as Alan bowed before Torre. The King scanned him with keen black eyes. “So! This is your brother?"
Hal looked at him in surprise. “My blood brother, ay. This is Alan of Laueroc. But how did you know?"
“Perhaps later I will tell you. But where is your great gray steed? I have not seen him yet."
Hal exchanged a puzzled glance with Alan. “In the stable. I will get him, sire."
“Nay, let us go together. I have not been out of doors, Hal, since I received the news of your mother's death. I had forgotten how bright and pleasant the sun can be."
Alan cocked a wry glance at the gloomy sky, then watched as Torre and Hal disappeared in the direction of the stable, the old man leaning on the young one's arm. He would leave them alone to share a score of lost years.
He did not see Hal again until they dressed for the evening meal. When they went downstairs, they found Torre with one who had not had the advantage of such leisure, a dark man who looked tired and travel-soiled. Though his body was youthfully trim, his face was lined, and he regarded the newcomers with weary skepticism as Torre introduced them. “Hal, Alan, this is Galin, my eldest and, I fear, my only living child. I had no sister-sons to honor the Mothers, so Galin is my heir, and through Gwynllian you are his, Hal, as Iscovar knows well enough. Galin, this is Alan, heir of Laueroc, and his blood brother Hal, Prince of Welas, he who is King to be."
“With much help, perhaps,” Hal acknowledged.
Galin did not smile. “You should not have called me in for this, Father,” he said. “It is dangerous to leave the outer defenses without my leadership. The lads could have ridden out to see me."
“I see no lads,” retorted the old King stiffly, “but two seasoned travelers and warriors. The men will do very well without you, Galin. You are becoming as set in your ways as I. You must be growing old."
“Ay, old and fussy,” muttered Galin.
“And on my account,” added Torre half-humorously. “Out in all weathers to protect my royal person. I am indeed grateful, my son.” He cast Galin a soft glance from under his shaggy eyebrows. “But I grow lonesome for your company."
“You had two other sons,” Hal interposed quietly.
“Ay.” Torre's eyes focused on the past. “Glondil was killed in the attack on Welden. We buried him in an unmarked grave along the road of our flight. But Gildur, my youngest son, I never saw after that terrible night. The assault, you know, was very sudden and treacherous. Gildur ran to the treasure room to save a few precious things, the heritage of our people. He should never have tried. We who escaped did so with nothing except the clothing on our backs. For months I hoped he would walk into this room.... But in the course of time I came to believe he must have been captured and killed."
Galin stirred restively. “Perhaps, Welandais Prince, you will tell me how you came to be wearing my brother's sword?” Almost contemptuously he returned their weapons to Hal and Alan, pulling them from a pouch at his feet.
Dazedly, Hal accepted the black and silver sword from his hand. “Gildur's sword? I cannot say! An outlaw gave it to me."
“Then why do you say, Gildur's sword?” Galin snapped. “I had another brother."
“And he was killed. But somehow these things came to Isle, and to my hands.” He drew the antique plinset from its leather case. “Was this not one of the precious objects from the treasure room of the Elde Castle?"
“Ay,” Torre whispered, “ay.” He took it into his ancient hands tenderly. “This is the first plinset, crafted by Llewys Lay-Maker for Claefe, Veran's queen, she whom he brought from the Mountain of the Gods. But wherever did you get it?"
“I found it in the study of the Lord of Celydon, in the Broken Lands; a good man. He had it from a minstrel who had died of fever under his care.” Hal phrased his next question carefully. “What sort of man was my uncle Gildur?"
Torre only swallowed, and Galin answered for him. “Glondil and I were dark, like our father, and his uncle the Thunderer, and Veran, and the others. But Gildur was golden, like Ban, and Claefe, and your mother. He was a musician, and a dreamer."
“He loved the ancient legends and lore,” spoke Torre reprovingly. “In the days of our kingdom's glory, he would have been revered as a great bard. It is hard when a man of peace cannot be respected for his own talents."
“The minstrel was a fair man, not yet past middle age,” mused Hal. “It could have been Gildur.” He took back the plinset, idly striking a few chords.
“Do you play it!” Torre exclaimed.
“Ay, Sire."
“Who taught you?"
“My mother.” Hal raised his eyebrows at the shocked stares he received from both Torre and Galin. “Why?"
Galin answered in bewilderment. “Gwynllian did not know how to play."
They ate their dinner in puzzled silence. After they had pushed their plates aside, Hal spoke as if replying to an audible query.
“If Gildur lived, and for some reason could not come to you, perhaps he went to my mother."
“Probably we shall never know,” sighed Torre. “But it is good to think that he might have lived—that he might not have been tortured to a slow death."
“The minstrel of whom I spoke died abed, among good and loving folk.” Hal traced on the table with his finger-tip, studying some invisible design. “Besides the plinset, what was my uncle Gildur likely to take?"
“There were the crowns, of course. The silver one Veran brought with him from the land of the Setting Sun. It was never worn; legend reserves it for the Very King who comes at the close of the age. But Veran wore the crown of the Rising Sun, made for him of the yellow gold of the mountain which bears his name, whence he brought the green Elfstone, and his bride."
Hal and Alan exchanged a surprised glance. Galin drummed his fingers impatiently, but the old King went on serenely with his thoughts. “Indeed, the most precious thing in the room, especially to Gildur, would have been the Book."
“The Book?"
“Ay. A thick tome, written in Veran's own hand, in a strange language. Only the Blessed Kings could read it. Then Ban died while Taran was still in Branwyn's womb, and the secret of the strange language died with him. But much of what was in the Book has come down to us by word of mouth."
“Dol Solden!” breathed Hal. “The Book of Suns! It is written down here on earth!"
“Ay, we have many strange prophecies. The fall of the House of Veran was foretold, though little did I fear, when I was a youth, that it would happen in my time. But it was said that a leader would come, a young man of Veran's line, who would possess wisdom, vision, and the knowledge of the lost language. He would come on a silver steed of elfin blood and bear with him the emblem of his destiny. The marks of suffering would be on his body and the sheen of moonlight in his eyes. He would be called Elf-Man, Healer, Ruler, and Sunset King. With the aid of his people he would turn back the Eastern blight, and bring peace at last for the closing of the Age."
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