The Book of Isle

by Nancy Springer

  “Alan,” she whispered, “by the mighty Wheel, tell me now, truly: do you love me still, or not?"

  The cruel lie, rehearsed a thousand times, came to Alan's mind, but wrestle with it as he might, it would not leave his tongue. For a breathless moment he struggled, shaken to the roots of his being; then the answer exploded from him. “Ay!” he shouted, and the hills of his native land rang with it. “Sweet Lysse, I do!” Shaking, his voice subsided to a whisper. “Oh, Lysse, I am so sorry ...."

  “Why?” She placed gentle hands upon his bowed shoulders. “For you know I love you, too, Alan of Laueroc."

  “Because I cannot have you.” He spoke decidedly, with the perfect calm of longstanding pain. “I will not doom you to death, you whom I love, or tear you from your people. Go, Lysse, sail to fair Elwestrand which is your birthright, you and your brothers and sisters. Live there long after I am dead and turned to dust. I cannot kill you, Lysse!"

  “I will not go,” she told him with dogged patience, as if she must explain to him the clearest facts of his life, even the rising and setting of the sun. “Nor will my father ask me to; he knows I must be with you. If you ride away from me I will follow, and if my horse fails me I will walk, winter or summer, to be by your side. I love you. Is so simple a thing so difficult for you to accept?” In her eyes, to the deepest reaches of her soul, there was no hint of faltering or sorrow.

  Alan gazed into those incredible eyes, and saw there a love as marvelous to him as it was incomprehensible, for he scarcely felt deserving. Breathlessly, he sensed the deepest strength of his soul stirring within hin, surrendering foolish pride and false honor to the love that rules the heart. With tears of relief flowing freely down his cheeks, Alan took Lysse's chin in his hand and kissed her deeply on the lips. All the jagged pieces of his life fell into place, and he was finally at peace with himself and with his world.

  Chapter Five

  On that last night before the fateful day, the strong stone walls of Laueroc Castle seemed to choke Hal, so that he felt he must move out of doors, under the stars and the full moon. With Arundel for company, he built a little fire in a copse of trees on the town common. Sitting beside it, he bowed his head and thought of Alan, wishing that his thoughts could draw him there.

  Lysse and Alan were still deep in talk. “Silly,” she was chiding him fondly. “To think that any good could come to me, without you! My immortal life would have become a curse, for the Ages of the elves are at an end. My brothers and sisters, like me, will find mortal love in Elwestrand, and will die happy that their ancient loneliness is ended. And perhaps a finer race will come out of it all."

  “Why did you not tell me!” he cried. “You or Hal..."

  “The choice had to be yours, without telling. Though I know Hal has suffered with you."

  “Dear Hal,” he murmured, holding her close against him, “For months I have been longing to speak to him."

  “Come, let us go to him. The night moves on apace.” He still held her and sighed, but she laughed at him tenderly. “You shall have me the rest of your life!"

  They found Hal with his head on his knees beside a dwindling campfire, keeping a dozing vigil, as Alan had often known him to do in times of wounds or sickness. The silver circlet on his head had slipped rakishly over one ear, and Alan knelt to gently straighten it. Hal looked up, scarcely daring to believe he was in the world of the waking, whispering, “Alan!” He reached out to embrace him, but his arms stopped in midair as he remembered that, lately, Alan did not care to be touched.

  Alan groaned to himself with aching heart, realizing what distance he had put between them. Lysse kissed Hal on the cheek, then kissed Alan squarely on the lips. “I shall see you on the morrow,” she said, and disappeared into the night. Alan still knelt before Hal, meeting his eyes. He reached into his tunic.

  “I have something that belongs to you,” Alan said, “that I have been longing to give you.” He drew out the silver ring he had taken from his father's skeletal hand. He had not worn it since returning to Celydon from Laueroc almost a year before, but evidently he had often polished it; the tiny circle shone brightly even in the moonlight. Alan handed it to Hal, warm from his body beat, and looked at the ground, searching for words.

  “I know,” Hal whispered, saying for him the unspeakable. “I know, my brother. I watched my father die in torment on my account, in the Dark Tower."

  Alan's head snapped up. “How long have you known?” he gasped.

  “Since two days before we left. It was written in The Book of Suns, which my old nurse showed to me that afternoon in the garret. But you have known since you went to Laueroc, that first time."

  “Ay. My father left a letter for me."

  “Then it is that which has been hidden in your eyes since then?"

  “Ay."

  “Nothing more?"

  “Nay. At least, not at first."

  Hal was impatient, and his voice echoed the pain of ten months of needless misery. “Oh, Alan, Alan, why did you not tell me?"

  “Because of the seven generations,” Alan explained earnestly. “Because of—of that by which I made you swear. You have often told me that, if you were not the son of that fiendish King, no power on earth could make you seek the throne—that you wanted nothing from life but peace and a little love. For the sake of all the poor folk in this oppressed land, I could not tell you, Hal! You were the only one who could save them!"

  Hal shook his head. “No power on earth, nay. But an even heavier burden found me after I said that, Alan—heavier, but somehow easier to bear: the burden of prophecy.” A tiny smile played around the corners of his lips. “It was not only your mighty oath that saved my life. It was a song Rosemary sang to me that reminded me of the other burden that came with my birth. 'Bearing balm of Veran's flower, Man born blest with elfin dower.' Adaoun's image came to my mind, and his eyes upon me compelled me to live until you came with Veran's comfort."

  “You mean,” asked Alan with a dry mouth, “that I could have told you?"

  “By my wounds, I wish you had!” declared Hal with a bitterness that struck Alan to the heart.

  “May I die for it, Hal, I didn't know,” Alan choked, and then he broke and wept like a child with the frustration of almost a year of estrangement. “I didn't know,” he moaned.

  Hal's arms went around his shoulders; the brothers clutched each other tightly. “Of course you didn't know,” Hal said fiercely, hating himself, “You did what you felt you must. Oh, Alan, I am sorry. Why did I tell you that!"

  “Small blame to you,” Alan gulped, still struggling for breath. “The way I've been acting. I'll warrant you had forgotten I could care.” He flung his head up and faced Hal with a tear-streaked face in which the whole of his soul showed plain and unashamed. “Hal, I love you so .... I had to put some distance between us, or the secret in my heart would have driven me mad.” His head dropped wearily to Hal's shoulder, and Hal held him in silence, swallowing at the lump in his throat.

  “I knew my father was unfaithful,” said Alan at last, sitting up and wiping his face with his sleeve. “We quarreled about it. He had married my mother in policy, not in passion, but she was a good, gentle woman, and I loved her deeply. Now I know that your mother was his mendor, and he was fated, to love her, despite loss of honor—despite the shadow of death .... But then I blamed him bitterly. Still, when I first knew you, I hoped—I wished like a boy—that you might be my brother. When you told me you were the King's son, it nearly broke my heart, for who could have dreamed that Leuin's lover, all those years, had been the Queen herself? And then to find that my dream had come true, and not to be able to tell you!"

  “Did Iscovar know, I wonder?” murmured Hal, changing the subject, for Alan was still close to tears.

  “He knew. My father—our father—says in his letter that Iscovar was unable to beget children, due to the same disease of lust by which he died. He knew you were Laueroc's son, but his need of an heir constrained him to keep the se
cret. For a long time, my father's—our father's—power was great enough to protect himself, the Queen, and you. But little by little, by means too foul to be answered in kind, the King weakened Laueroc, until at long last he had his horrible revenge."

  “Horrible, indeed. But no wonder he hated me,” Hal muttered. “The more so because he could not do away with me .... Did you tell anyone else, Alan? Cory perhaps?"

  “Nay, no one. I kept my peace most obstinately. But if I had known the needless pain it would cost you, I would never have done it. Dear Hal, I wish you would kick me! It would make me feel so much better."

  Hal threw back his head and laughed. The two of them were walking at random now, arms around each other's shoulders, as they had at other happy times. “Poor Alan! I believe I begin to understand. All that crustiness ...."

  “Was the only way I could hide the longing in my heart from you. If I had let myself show love for you, my secret would have popped out in an instant. Then I was vexed that I could manage it no better, and being vexed with myself I grew vexed with you and the whole world. But even that is not the worst of it."

  “Nay,” agreed Hal wryly, “on top of all that, your eyes caught the glitter of this pretty bauble I wear on my bead."

  Alan winced as if he had been struck. “By my troth, you know me better than I knew myself,” he whispered.

  “But why, Alan? You were not really planning to seize the throne from me."

  “Nay, of course not! But in spite of my best intentions, the thought would nag at the back of my mind, and it nearly drove me mad with shame and frustration. To add to my shame, I knew that I had only to ask you, and you would have given me your crown as freely as you give your love! But of course I could not ask any such thing. If only I could have come to you, talked to you—but to explain my malady would have been to explain the cause."

  “That, by birth, you have as much right to the throne as I do."

  “Ay. Such nonsense. Your right to the throne has always gone far beyond the right of birth, and I have always known it."

  “Do you still desire it?” asked Hal quietly.

  “Nay! Mothers, nay. Blain cured me of that."

  “Then you shall have it, Alan.” Hal faced him, smiling, with warm affection in his voice. “You fought for me, I know .... But I fought, in large measure, for you."

  “You are babbling nonsense. Hal!” Alan exclaimed. “You know I can't take your crown!"

  “Who said anything about my crown!” Hal teased, “Think more of your crown!” He took Alan by the shoulders, his eyes bright with joy and mischief. “What, Sunrise King, do you not yet know yourself? Just as I am the last of the line of Veran, the sunset of the Age, so are you the sunrise of the new Age, the first of the Liege Kings of Laueroc! Do you not think that two brothers such as we can rule together? Our capital is to be in Laueroc, centered between east and west—though you know I shall look most often to Welas. After my death, the two peoples shall be united under you and your heirs, as they ought to be. And the blood of the elves shall enrich your line, as it did the Blessed Kings before you. By all that is lovely, you shall be a bright dawning for this land after a long, dark night."

  “You are serious!” Alan whispered.

  “Quite serious. It is written in The Book of Suns, though I knew it long ago. Torre let it slip, and you, modest soul that you are, soon forgot it."

  “But how can I rule? You are Mireldeyn."

  “And you alone are Elwyndas. Your power is equal to mine—remember? Is it so hard to accept?"

  Alan shook his head, stunned. “But Hal, what of your heirs?"

  “I shall have none.” The joy went out of his voice. “I am to be the last of the line of Veran, the last of those Very Kings—though there will be others, Alan, mark it. But Rosemary and I will have no children. That is the prophecy."

  “Oh, Hal, I am sorry.” Alan gently touched his shoulder.

  “That is the advantage of prophecy, you see, Alan.” Hal tried to smile. “If I had not known this, your crown would have been obliged to wait until my death. But now we can both be crowned and wed to our ladies together, on the morrow.” He faced Alan whimsically, brushing the ever-unruly hair from his brother's brow. “Have children, Alan—my second self—and I shall love them as my own. It is for Rosemary that I mind it most. I do not know what comfort to give her."

  “You yourself are her best comfort. So you plan to tell her?"

  “Ay. If there is one thing I have learned in the past year, it is not to keep a secret from a loved one. Secrecy breeds fresh sorrow, but sharing is joy in itself. Still, I have not told her yet. I did not wish to mar her wedding day."

  For an hour Hal and Alan walked together, voicing random thoughts, reluctant to give up their rediscovered companionship on this last night of their single lives. “It is past midnight,” Hal finally said. “Let us get some sleep. It will not do for us to be tired, not tomorrow."

  They returned to Hal's fire, in embers now, and laid out their blankets. Nearby, Alfie and Arundel peacefully grazed.

  “We could go inside, you know,” Hal remarked. “There is no need to sleep out."

  Alan laughed quietly into the darkness. “Strange. So many times we camped together, each longing for a warm room and a soft bed; and now ...."

  “Ay. One last time .... Well, good night."

  “Good night."

  In her castle chamber. Rosemary lay still and miserable on her canopied bed. There was scarcely a rustle, but like a green-and-golden spirit of summer Lysse stood beside her.

  “Sleep, my sister,” she said. “Be content. Alan is here, and all will be well."

  Rosemary sat bolt upright. “Oh, has he come at last!” she cried.

  “Ay, that he has.” Lysse smiled a secret smile.

  “And—are we to be sisters, truly?” asked Rosemary more calmly.

  “Indeed, we are."

  “Oh, Lysse, I am so happy,” said Rosemary softly. Lysse looked into her eyes for just an instant; then with all her heart she embraced this generous mortal woman, her first and lifelong friend in the strange race she was fated to join.

  The next morning, Cory slept late, for even in his dreams some dejected part of his brain told him there was little use in waking up. A rough shaking roused him at last.

  “Alan!” he cried, dazed with joy and surprise.

  “Come on, you sleepyhead!” shouted Alan, grinning with delight. “This is my wedding day, and you must be my best man. Aren't you going to help me make myself presentable?"

  “Your wedding day!” Corin sat up, squeezing his head in disbelief. “But who?"

  “Lysse."

  Corin thrashed his way out of bed, shaking his head. “Lysse!” he sputtered. “You lucky dog! You lucky, lucky dog!” Hastily he dressed, muttering to himself in bemused happiness. “Confound it, is that what you and Hal were quarreling about?” he finally demanded.

  “Well, after a fashion, ay."

  “It was! But why?"

  “Because I was a dolt, forsooth!” Alan retorted cheerfully. “But come on, we have lots to do. I'll tell you about it later.” He strode out, and Corin trotted after him, still shaking his head.

  A few hours later, Robin and Cory stood waiting in the castle courtyard, smiling at each other from time to time. Already their eyes were glazed from the events of the day. They wore tunics of finest fawn-colored wool, gifts from Adaoun, and they held the reins of his other gifts: steeds of the elwedeyn breed. Cory's was creamy gold in color, and Robin's a gray so dark as to be almost black. These had never known saddle or bridle, but at Adaoun's gentle command they now bore intricately woven blankets. The youths led them by soft hackamores, such as were worn by Alfie and Arundel beside them.

  As the sun reached its height, Hal and Alan came out and mounted. They carried no weapons or warlike gear, except their swords, suspended from the chain-link belts Roran had given them years before. They wore shirts of pure-white wool, delicately embroidered in multicolor de
signs of every living thing. Bright cloaks fell back from their shoulders. Their heads were bare and high. On his right hand, Hal wore a large, dark gem set in silver, with a strange glow emanating from its heart. Alan no longer tucked the green Elfstone beneath his shirt, but proudly centered it on his chest. From time to time, he and Hal glanced at each other in silent, sober affection—men with the look of eagles, great in stature beyond their physical size, regarded with awe by poor and prosperous alike, each other's equal in power and valor. They waited together for their destiny.

  Soon, Rosemary and Lysse rode out with glowing eyes, in gowns of a simplicity which set off their beauty as no jewels and laces ever could: long, sweeping dresses of purest white, somehow made without a seam. Their hair swung long and free, crowned and intertwined with roses of soft pink, yellow and creamy white. Flowers of the same hues adorned pretty little Asfala and Lysse's darkly golden Faen. They sat sideways on blankets of summer green, and their white skirts trailed down below their feet. Hal took Rosemary by the hand, and Alan clasped hands With Lysse, and they rode four abreast through the town, with the rest of the company following. The townsfolk, and countryfolk from miles around, watched them pass with quiet joy, then fell in line and followed after.

  On a green, tree-crowned hill outside of town, a hill Alan remembered from his earliest years, Adaoun waited for them. He was to perform the ceremonies by greater right than any priest of any god, for he, sung in the First Song, had not forgotten Aene. He needed no temple except the blue sky above, which had always been his roof.

  The weddings were simple and eloquent. Each loved one and each lover stated their devotion in the words which best came to mind; then they vowed troth, honor, and duty until death. Hal and Rosemary exchanged the rings that had been worn by Torre and Megolyn, sent to him at Torre's dying request. Alan and Lysse exchanged the rings that had wed Veran and Claefe. Each couple Joined hands to seal their promises, and the crowd stirred and murmured in pleasure.