The Book of Isle

by Nancy Springer

  “Softly, sir, he’s a handsome piece; if I put him on the block he’ll bring me a pretty price.”

  “I cannot wait for the bidding; I have business at home. Name your price.”

  The slave trader named a price. It was high, but the young man doled out the gold without demur. The slaver undid Trevyn from the string, leaving his hands tied.

  “He is mine now,” the young man said.

  “Ay.”

  “To do with as I like.”

  “Ay, to be sure!” The slave merchant laughed and cracked his whip.

  “Good.” The young man brought out a slender knife, such as scholars use to sharpen their pens with, and began carefully to cut Trevyn’s bonds.

  The slaver shouted, and his face went white. “Nay, young master! He’s a wild ’un—he’ll go to kill me!” But the thongs were cut, and the young man stepped back without comment. Trevyn rubbed his chafed wrists and studied the shaking slaver, who was backing cautiously away. No courage in the man without his fellows, it seemed! He would gladly have settled his score with this tormenter, and it was no cold caution that restrained him. He could not say why he stayed his hand, unless it was somehow because of the young man who stood quietly beside him. He could have leveled him with a single blow, by the looks of him, but the fellow had freed him fearlessly.… Trevyn turned and nodded farewell to the old man who had befriended him. Then he looked to his new master.

  “Here,” the young man said, handing him a sort of loincloth; hardly the raiment of a prince, but Trevyn put it on gladly. His feet were healed by now and his back mostly healed. The traders had been obliged to tend to him, not wanting to bring him to market looking like a scandal. Still, the young man winced and muttered to himself when he saw the stripes.

  “This way,” he said when they were both ready. They walked together through the marketplace. “My name is Emrist,” he told Trevyn. “Not that it matters, I suppose,” he added vaguely. “Though, of course, you can hear.…”

  They turned out of the marketplace into a crooked alleyway that wound up terraced slopes between houses perched precariously on their foundations. At the top of the steep hill they paused for breath. If Trevyn had looked back, and if he had known, he could have seen Rheged’s men entering the marketplace to search for him.

  He and his new master traversed a ragged country cut by rocky ridges into patchwork gardens, vineyards, and orchards. They stopped often to rest, for Emrist was not strong. Toward noon they shared bread and cheese and a flask of weak wine. It seemed to Trevyn that Emrist was not a rich man. He went afoot, though easily tired, and his tunic and sandals looked plain and worn. Trevyn wondered how he had got the gold to buy him, and, indeed, why he had bought him at all. For his manner was gentle, and he did not seem to be the sort of person who would lightly own another.

  By early afternoon they had moved into wilder country, where habitations were fewer and growth cluttered the meadows until they were really young forests. The look of the land made Trevyn wary, and he was not entirely surprised when robbers ran at them, screeching, out of the brush. There were four of the rustic brigands, each armed with a wicked-looking sword. If Trevyn had been by himself he might have run; his fray with the slavers had taught him caution. But there was Emrist to be thought of.… Trevyn lunged under a whistling sword, wrested the weapon from its owner, aware that Emrist had already fallen. He killed the robber with a swift stroke to the throat and turned on the other three, frantically beating them back from Emrist’s prostrate form. In a moment they rallied and circled him; he took some cuts then. But he had been trained to use the sword against odds and soon felled them. Though it sickened him to do so, he made certain that each robber was dead before he turned his back on them.

  Emrist was sitting in the roadway, holding his head and looking pale as a wraith. “What are you?” he whispered. “You fought like a King’s man.”

  Trevyn laid down the bloody sword before he went near him, not wishing to alarm him. He kneeled and probed his master with careful fingers. A welt was rising on Emrist’s head, but nothing else was wrong that Trevyn could find. Yet Emrist reeled and went limp under his touch. Though he hated the thought of staying any longer in these unfriendly parts, Trevyn could see nothing for it but to make camp. He slung Emrist over his shoulders and carried him into the woods, looking for shelter.

  If it had not been for fear, the night would have seemed luxurious to Trevyn. He found everything he needed on the bodies of the slain robbers. In the shelter of a rocky scar he made a fire with their flint and steel. He set rabbit snares with the lacings of their sandals. Later he warmed himself against the night chill in a looted cloak while he carved his dinner with a looted knife. It was the first fresh meat he had eaten in over two months. Bits of bread, too, had been in the robbers’ pockets. Trevyn saved them for the morrow.

  Throughout the night he sat by the fire with naked sword in hand, starting at every shadow. Strange chance, he mused, that he, a king’s son, should have become a robber of robbers. At his side lay Emrist, also wrapped in “borrowed” cloaks. From time to time the young man moaned and gazed half fearfully until Trevyn soothed him with a glance and a touch of cooling water. Strangest of chance that bound him to this slaveholding Tokarian! Not that he could ever desert a helpless man, but—was a courteous word so rare in this eastern land, a friendly glance so precious, that Emrist had sent such a flood of comfort to his heart?

  Emrist awoke fully in the morning, and though he sat up painfully, the dazed look was gone from his eyes. Trevyn gave him the bread and the little wine that remained. He ate slowly, but finished it all. “Did you not sleep at all?” he asked.

  Trevyn cast a wry glance at the woods all around them.

  “Ay, it is an evil place,” Emrist agreed. “I would rather be far away from here.” He hesitated. “Good friend, it should be no more than a half-day’s journey—do you think you could help me home?”

  Trevyn nodded his willingness, then pointed inquiringly. Emrist laughed.

  “Of course, you do not know the way! Or you would have taken me yesterday, hah?” Trevyn grinned and nodded. “Well, it’s not hard,” Emrist continued. “We just follow the road. It turns to a track, then to a trail, then at last to a little path through the forest, and it ends at the house, in the clearing atop the hill. My sister will welcome us. She must be frightened by now, though she is a strong-hearted woman. There are no neighbors to comfort her. Even the robbers do not come near the haunt—” Emrist stopped short. He had spoken with dreamy happiness about his sister and his home, but now he believed that he had said too much. He stared at Trevyn in open terror.

  “I beg you, do not leave me,” he whispered.

  Trevyn shook his head and laid a hand on his master’s arm in assurance. He filled their flask at a nearby stream, and he cut Emrist a staff to lean on. Trevyn still wore his looted cloak, and he belted his captured sword to his waist, but the rest of the robbers’ gear they left behind. Trevyn helped Emrist pick his way back to the road and strode beside him restively as he slowly moved away from the scene of carnage. They could not leave this place soon enough to suit him. After a while they had put it well behind them, and Trevyn’s impatience quieted. But Emrist’s pace grew slower yet, and soon Trevyn had to support him with a hand under his elbow. It was not yet midday when Emrist began to topple. Trevyn caught him easily and did what he had expected to have to do before then: rolled his cloak as a pillow for Emrist’s head and slung the man upon his back.

  Even carrying his master, Trevyn could now move far more quickly. He strode along, sharpening all his senses for any sign of danger. That his new master lived in a haunted place had been the best of good news to him. No evil would trouble him there. Only people versed in the mysteries of the Beginning could brave the haunt, and only those of good heart. But what sort of man, then, must this Emrist be that he lived among the shades?

  At long last he felt the heaviness of Otherness around him and passed through the
haunt to a feeling of warm welcome, even a sense of coming home. Everything was just as Emrist had said. The track had long since dwindled to a trail, and now a mere path wound up a steep hill amid tall, silent trees. Trevyn followed it until he saw light ahead and the gables of a building. Bent under Emrist’s weight, he entered the clearing. An old man looked up from his gardening, stared, and scuttled inside. A moment later a dark-clad woman came running out.

  “What has happened? Oh, Em!” she was crying, but as Trevyn only stared at her she took control. “This way,” she gestured, and he followed her inside, up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, she indicated a room furnished only with a table, a cot, and a sturdy wooden chest. Trevyn laid Emrist on the shabby bed and gently turned the man’s limp head to show the bruise. The woman nodded. “I shall care for him.”

  In the doorway stood the old man and an equally ancient woman, both shaky and gaping. Their mistress spoke to them firmly. “Dorcas, pray find our friend something to eat. Jare, prepare a room for our guest. I shall see you later.” She almost shooed them all from the room. As Trevyn turned to leave, he saw Emrist’s sister reach to unlock the wooden chest at the bedside.

  In the kitchen old Dorcas set about heating Trevyn some dinner. She was obviously frightened of him, so he kept away from her, sitting still and looking about him. The house was simply but strongly built of stone and timbers, with a low roof and small windows—not a rich man’s home, by any means. Emrist’s bed had been hard enough, his chamber bare of comforts, and Trevyn saw nothing downstairs either that betokened ease. No rugs or draperies softened the floor or walls. Instead, traces of mice lay about, and cobwebs covered the windows and rafters. On the table sat some greens and a few onions. Little food for much labor, especially for the old ones. Trevyn could understand why the cleaning was neglected. And Emrist was sickly, it seemed.… But had he come all this way, then, just to serve such as these?

  The old woman brought him a bowl of thick bean soup, setting it hastily before him and backing away as if wary of his reaction. But Trevyn was eager enough to eat it, and Dorcas watched him with less alarm; a hungry man was something she could deal with. Presently her husband, old Jare, came downstairs with a bundle of clothing, offering it to Trevyn as hesitantly as his wife had offered the soup. Trevyn took a tunic and tried to slip it over his head, but it was too small and threatened to tear. Smiling, he shook his head and handed it back. The old man retreated back up the stairs. His wife busied herself banging pots in the scullery. Suddenly, achingly, Trevyn felt the limitations of his muteness. These two would welcome no help from him for a while yet. He wandered to where a rude bench stood against the wall and draped himself over it, only for a moment, to rest.…

  Hours later, Trevyn awoke with a start to a gentle touch. Dark had fallen, and flickering oil lamps cast a dim light. Over him stood Emrist’s dark-haired sister, rendered mysterious by the night. “He wishes to speak with you,” she said, and Trevyn rose swiftly to follow her.

  Emrist sat propped up by pillows, with flasks and tumblers on the table near his bed. He looked much stronger, though pale. Trevyn knelt at his bedside, so that their eyes met.

  “I never expected to see you here,” Emrist said in tones low with wonder. “I thought perhaps you would bring me as far as the—barrier—and then drop me and bolt. If chance had favored, Maeve here might have found me. For that I would have owed you thanks enough. But this—it stuns me.”

  Trevyn gestured deprecation. Emrist regarded him long and thoughtfully.

  “Surely you have a name, but I do not know it,” he said. “I will call you Freca, if I may, for you are a brave youth.”

  Keen interest sprang up in Tervyn’s mind. It was an elwedeyn name—that is to say, in the Old Language. Even as he nodded his consent, Trevyn looked on Emrist with new eyes. Emrist returned his gaze, and puzzlement creased his brown.

  “I cannot believe you cannot speak!” he exclaimed. “There is song in your movements and epic in your glance. What are you, Brave One?” Trevyn stiffened in consternation; he had shown too much. But Emrist went on. “It does not matter, you know, that I have bought you. You are no slave. You are a free man. Fill your stomach with us as long as you will, or go where you will.” He turned to his sister. “Is it not so, Maeve?”

  “Even so,” she answered.

  Something let go inside Trevyn. Shackles he had not known were gripping his spirit melted away. He forgot his muteness, but his thankfulness was too great for words; this man had just healed the deepest hurt he had ever known. He seized Emrist’s hand and clung to it like a child, felt tears fall. He hid his face in the sheet. Frail fingers touched his hair.

  “Ay, they were foul enough to you,” Emrist said, and his voice held a sharp edge of wrath. “All because you would not hang your head and play the dog. But you stood like a caged eagle. You were free before I met you, Freca.”

  “He is spent, Em,” said Maeve in her cool woman’s voice, “and so are you. Let me show him to his room, and then I will come to fix you a draught.”

  Trevyn was more dazed than tired, but he followed her willingly. She led him to a room even barer than Emrist’s. Still, the bed beckoned with pillows and blankets. Trevyn settled himself swiftly and lay puzzling while his tears of relief dried on his face. What was he to do? He did not know where to go. Surely he had come to this place for some reason other than to leave.… There was something special about Emrist. Also, the man needed him; for some secret reason, he needed a mute slave. Well, he would have a mute servant, Trevyn decided, at least for a while. There was the price of his redemption to be considered—much gold from a man who was not rich. He would like to make it up to him somehow. For the time, Trevyn wanted nothing better than to serve this Emrist in whatever way he could.

  Chapter Three

  For the next several days Trevyn worked feverishly, heaving rocks out of the garden for old Jare, snaring rabbits and quail for Dorcas. After a few days, Maeve gave him a plain tunic of coarse cloth, and knee breeches, and crude sandals of leather and wood. Scarcely finery, but it made him feel the more indebted. Only at mid of day, when the sun beat down, would he cease from his voluntary labors to bathe in a dark, mirrorlike pool that lay in a hollow amidst the towering forest trees.

  By the time Emrist got up from his bed, a week after his injury, Trevyn had made his mark on the household. The cobwebs were gone from the rafters. Old Jare whistled tunelessly under his breath. Dorcas set more food on the table, and even the stoical Maeve moved about her tasks humming contentedly. Emrist was still weak; for a few days he came downstairs only to sit and watch. But on a rainy day, seeing Trevyn restlessly rubbing the grime from the small window panes, he spoke to him.

  “It seems you will stay with us yet a while, Freca.”

  Trevyn was almost startled into speech, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.

  “You are a very beaver for industry,” remarked Emrist. “It is not necessary, you know. We won’t turn you out.”

  Trevyn only grinned at him. Emrist sighed.

  “Well, since you have decided to be of use, come help me today. It’s time I was getting back to work.”

  With considerable curiosity as to what that work might be, Trevyn followed him up the stairs. They entered Emrist’s chamber, and Trevyn waited for him to go, perhaps, to the locked chest. But instead Emrist strode to a corner and wrestled a moment with a rough wooden plank of the wall. Reluctantly, a panel slid, and another narrow staircase was revealed.

  Eagerly, Trevyn followed his master up to the dusty garret. The place was close and windowless, though some light seeped in through the leaky wallboards. Emrist lit a pungent oil lamp that sent soot streaking toward the already blackened rafters. In its yellowish glow, Trevyn could see great numbers of parchments and leather-bound books ranked on splintery shelving. Fans of dried plants rustled overhead, and all kinds of formless rubble lay on the floor. Under the low peak of the roof stood a worktable cluttered with pots and urns and litt
le jars, a brazier, and some metal caldrons. Trevyn recognized a scholarly disorder similar to Hal’s, but somehow warmer and more secret. Emrist poked at some of his earthenware jugs.

  “Potions for my interminable illnesses,” he grumbled, “old now, and weak. And dried-up paints and dyes, and spoiled perfumes, and messes I have forgotten the meaning of.” He rumaged through the containers, picking out a score or more and heaping them in Trevyn’s arms. “Take them out among the trees and let the rain have them. Wash the jars and bring them back. But do not put your fingers to your mouth, hah?”

  For many weeks thereafter Trevyn worked with Emrist in the cramped garret. Sometimes he ground minerals or dried plants in the mortar, taxing work that Emrist was glad to leave to him. Emrist was too easily tired to go roaming in the woods, so Trevyn would search out the plants he needed. Trevyn often wondered what to think of his master, who seemed to have knowledge of every kind of magical lore. Day after day the frail man compounded potions with long labor and greatest care. But no one came to buy his charms from him, not in this haunt, and Trevyn had found none of the strange trappings of sorcery among his things such as Hal had described from his days in Nemeton. No censers and ceremonial robes, no black-handled swords or talismans of bright metal. In fact, Trevyn doubted if high magic could be performed in the littered garret, which Emrist refused to let him clean. Spirits of ancient might would only come to surroundings suitable to their greatness.

  Still, Trevyn wondered. Sometimes the two of them made candles in many subtle colors, delicately-scented tapers molded from the rare and precious beeswax no ordinary person could afford. He found traces of chalk on the floor sometimes, in strange star and circle designs. And always on the worktable a kettle of salt stood—big, stone-white crystals. Salt could never be used in any evil spell and was essential to any good one.