The next morning Trevyn awoke to find himself looking into the long, mournful countenance of a horse. Its whiskery nostrils were poised within inches of his face. He reached up to grasp the halter, then scrambled to his feet and looked the beast over. It appeared to be a pack horse that had escaped from some trader’s train—hardly a luxury animal, but suitable enough to carry Emrist to Kantukal. And the pack on its back contained a quantity of very barterable goods.
“I think the goddess is over her pique,” Trevyn called.
Emrist sat up painfully and stared at the horse with distaste. “Don’t press her,” he said finally. “We’re likely to find ourselves in trouble on that beast’s account.”
“Nay, I think the Lady has made us a gift of it. Food, Emrist, we shall have food! Come on, get up!”
He badgered Emrist onto the horse’s back and traded for bread and cheese with the first cottage wife he could find, making a very bad bargain of it; he didn’t care. That day, with Emrist mounted, they went along steadily, reached the Way, and turned south at last, keeping an eye out for kingsmen who might recognize Trevyn. And he was hardly inconspicuous: a golden-haired youth with sword at side leading a mouse-colored, plodding nag on which sat a companion perched atop a packsaddle! Some changes had to be made, and that evening at their campsite they attended to it.
“If you are going to ride,” Trevyn decided, “you must look like a horseman.”
So Emrist had to wear the sword and a cloak, for rank. He would sit on a gaily patterned blanket. Trevyn attached reins to the horse’s halter, hackamore style, and brushed the animal up a bit. In these warm lands, even men of rank went bare-legged and sandal-shod during the summer. Mounted on his nag, Emrist might be able to look the part of a very minor noble.
“And, if it is not too outrageous to be endured,” Emrist suggested tartly, “might we sully that crowning glory of yours?”
A more humble servitor went forth the next morning, a sun-browned fellow with flattened, grimy hair of an indeterminate muddy hue. Trevyn would not have appreciated knowing how much, except for his eyes, he looked like Gwern. There was nothing to be done about the sea-green eyes, startlingly bright in his tanned face. He cast them down, as befits a mannerly slave, and took care to lag a step or two behind his master. A horseman traveling with a slave in attendance was no rarity. Kingsmen passed them with a nod.
In a few days they came out of the jagged hill country and onto the great plain that stretched all the way to Kantukal, a flat, dusty expanse planted with famished beans and vines. They traveled it for over a week. Now and then the road crossed streams trickling deep in baked beds, each with a fringe of bright green grass. Everything else looked faded and worn, like a poor woman’s dress. The occasional kingsmen on the Way seemed interested only in putting this comfortless region behind them. The sun beat down without surcease. Trevyn and Emrist moved steadily through the days, camped gratefully in the cool of evening, and sometimes talked late into the night. The journey had become an interlude for them, an entity in itself; they did not think too much about the end of it. They clung quietly to the fellowship of the road.
It must have been their tenth day on the plain, walking through the sweltering heat of southern Tokar, that Trevyn felt a breeze and smelled salt in the air. Gulls wheeled far ahead. With one accord he and Emrist stopped a moment in the road, staring at the birds and then at each other.
“We are nearing our journey’s end,” Trevyn said. Emrist wordlessly nodded.
By evening they could see the towers of Kantukal rising hazily out of the flat horizon. Beyond the town, more sensed than seen, lay the glimmer of the southern sea.
Trevyn and Emrist camped in a grove of acacia that night. The lamps of Kantukal colored their sky, tree trunks loomed darkly all around, and dread weighted their hearts.
Chapter Five
“We must have a plan,” Trevyn insisted.
With childlike obstinacy, he desperately believed that something could be done to improve their chances of defeating Wael. Emrist sighed wearily, for they had been through this discussion before. Moreover, he had his own reasons for melancholy.
“How can we plan for such idiocy?” he grumbled. “Trust the tide, Freca.”
“I’d rather depend on something I can control. This parchment, for instance.”
“Control?” parried Emrist dryly. “Leave control to Wael, and perhaps he will manage to destroy himself, and perhaps not us.”
Trevyn did not answer, but pulled out the parchment with silent stubbornness and unfurled it in the firelight. He could not be sure, in that orange glow, whether the emblem of the wolf was shining with its own spectral light. He took care not to touch it. He read the heading again, “On the Transferring of the Living Soul,” and the text, and found that it made no more sense to him than ever. Most of it was in a harsh language that neither he nor Emrist understood. Emrist used it as Wael would use the Old Language, without comprehension.
“This is a property of Wael’s cult,” Trevyn said.
“Ay, to be sure. I took it—well, no matter how I come to have it. I have never been sure how to use it. I believe it is not merely a document, but a magical thing, a talisman. Note the sheen of the device.”
“I’ve noted it,” Trevyn replied sourly. “Perhaps Wael wants this parchment back. We could trade it to him for the brooch.”
Emrist gravely sucked his cheeks. “Only as a last resort. It is sure to increase his power. But it saps ours; such an evil thing cannot be used for good without a dire struggle.”
“Ay, I can feel it draw.” Trevyn put it away and sat back with a sigh. “If only I knew Wael’s sooth-name.…”
“Ah,” the magician mocked gently. “If.”
“Who was he born of, Emrist? Where is he from?”
Emrist shrugged. “Who knows? He seems to have some connection with Isle. I think he is probably Waverly, Iscovar’s old sorcerer. But he could have been Marrok, who tried to win the magical sword Hau Ferddas by a spell. Or even old Pel Blagden himself, he who was vanquished in the dragon lairs of inner earth.… Sorcerers are like the mighty folk of legend. Gods fight and are slain, goddesses sorrow and pass away, but in a sense they never really die.”
Trevyn sat up in sudden abeyance, open-mouthed and breathless, utterly forgetting Wael. Something had moved deep in Emrist’s gold-flecked eyes, something that filled him with a pang of loss and longing and, nearly, recognition. “And you, Emrist,” he gulped at last. “What legend from out of the past are you?”
“I am myself, young, spent, and sickly!” Indeed, Emrist looked like no legend just then. He sat huddled by the fire, hunched in pain and perhaps in despair. But after a moment he looked up, caught Trevyn with a clear glance, determined to give the Prince what he could. All he could.
“Do you know the legend of the star-son, Alberic?”
“I know what Hal has told me of Bevan,” Trevyn stammered, shaken anew that Emrist had called him by his true-name. “His comrade Cuin won him Hau Ferddas from the dragons of Lyrdion. Bevan lighted it with the power of his argent hand, defeated Pel Blagden, the Mantled God.… Later he left the sword with Cuin and sailed to Elwestrand. That was over a thousand years ago.”
“Ay, he was a star-son, and Hal, too. But the legend is older than either. Patience a moment.” Emrist settled himself tenderly against a tree, watching the ebb and flow of the fire. Presently he spoke, his eyes still on the iridescent shimmer just above the restless flames.
“The story begins so long ago that the sky was still sea, the sun not yet thought of, and the moon was a pearly island on the tides. In those days the moon-mother gave birth to a star-son, for that Lady is by nature a bearer of sons and needs no help to conceive. But this was her first and best beloved son, though she has had many since. The baby grew quickly to a boy and a young man. But, except for his mother, he lived all alone on the island. So one day, when she found him sad, his mother gave him a silver harp that sang by itself to amuse him and ke
ep him company. And the harp sang of a place where all his unborn brothers lived, the faraway dancing ground of souls, where all selves are part of one. Inconsolable longing took hold of the moon-mother’s son.
“‘All of life is but a decay unto death,’ he exclaimed. ‘Let me go to that marvelous place, Mother, quickly, before I start to wane.’
“‘Death is only a journey and a change,’ his mother protested. ‘Stay! Look, I can give you powers to make your own marvels, and your own fair light to adorn you.’ And she gave the gifts.
“‘Still I must sail,’ said the youth, and left the pearly land. Some say he went on a swan, or on a silver boat like a hollow crescent moon. Others say he sailed on the silver harp itself. Whatever the means, he left to wander, glowing with his own white light, across the midnight deeps like the wandering stars.
“Then the moon-mother faded and went dark. And in her despair, and not recognizing the nature of her own change, she went to the great dragon that girded the deep, the one that Sun drove down later. And she lay with the dragon and conceived. So she waxed again, great with child. But her new babe was born as dark as the unlit lands and grew into a serpent with coils so huge that they forced her to the fringes of her domain.
“One day, as she was walking along the waves, she found her first son’s bones lying among the seashells, his skeletal hand clutching the silver harp. Hungry to take him back into herself, she ate a single finger and conceived. She hid the harp in a cave by the sea. And her child was born as fair as the first, and grew rapidly, and killed the serpent when he was grown. Then heart sickness took hold of him. He cried, ‘I have slain my brother!’ and lay without eating until it looked as if he would die. Then, in despair, his mother went to the sea and fetched the silver harp.”
“Don’t tell me,” Trevyn interrupted. “He went—”
“He set sail, wandering like the evening star that leads in the mother moon.” Emrist stirred the fire, prodding old embers into new flame. “There are many such tales. Sometimes the star-son weds his mother, and her love destroys him. Or sometimes he has a dark twin with whom he quarrels. But he always leaves, and only his seed returns.
“Bevan was one who left Isle. He was born of a goddess, Celonwy of the Argent Moon, sister of Menwy, of whom we have spoken, and also of the maiden Melidwen. His father was Byve, once High King in ancient Eburacon, where fountains flowed and golden apples grew. His hands could command any element, bend steel, open locked doors, scale smooth towers.… Sometimes they shone with pale fire. People stood in awe of him. He never learned to be entirely at home in the sunlit world. He would roam the night like the chatoyant moon every night, singing across the reaches of the dark; it was said to be good luck if one heard him. The loveliness of his voice has become legend. When Hal sang so beautifully at Caerronan, that was Bevan’s legacy in him, that silver voice of mystery and the moon.”
Trevyn started. How could Emrist have known of that night at Caerronan? But Emrist, eyes focused on depths of time, seemed not to notice his discomfiture.
“Cuin left his legacy to your father. A warrior by blood, he traced his lineage to the ancient Mothers of Lyrdion. He loved sunlight and sport and the sweep of a good sword. He knew a fine horse and a fine hawk. And he loved a golden maiden to whom Bevan was betrothed. Still, he followed Bevan into Pel’s Pit.…”
“Why are you telling me this?” Trevyn whispered. The tale dismayed him, though he could hardly say why, and Emrist brooded strangely over the flames.
“I must show you the pattern,” Emrist murmured, “if I can.”
“What pattern?”
“The one that leads back to Veran, the seed of Bevan, and to Bevan himself and beyond. A pattern of strange binding between two distant islands, and between men.… Think, Alberic. Cuin could not follow his comrade across the western sea.” An odd catch had taken hold of Emrist’s voice.
“You are leaving,” Trevyn breathed. He saw the flash of foreboding in Emrist’s eyes and scrambled to his feet in alarm. “Emrist, what—”
Emrist rose quietly to face him, placed a light hand on his shoulder. “More likely it is you who will sail away from me. It seems to me that you are needed to round out the pattern, and the larger pattern, the greater tide. An age of ages may come to end and beginning if you fulfill prophecy—Ylim’s prophecy—and rid Isle of the magical sword.”
“I have always known I must return to Isle someday,” said Trevyn shakily. “Bindings of rank on me … but I’d hoped to serve you yet a while. I’d follow you to world’s end, if that were your pleasure. I wish we could always be together. You are my friend.…”
Emrist met his eyes, unsurprised, accepting. “Who is following whom, Alberic?” he asked whimsically.
“You are he,” Trevyn whispered. His throat ached, as if something fluttered in it, caught. “You are the one I have yearned for … and now our journey’s done.” Bewildered, he sank to the ground, hid his face in his cupped hands. He felt Emrist’s warm touch follow him. The magician settled beside him.
“Freca, I have been happy traveling with you, happier than I have been since I was a child. I know you have felt it too, good friend—and there was little enough time left to me for happiness, wherever I spent my days. I am truly grateful to have known you and to be of use to you. Can you understand?”
“Ay.” Trevyn forced out the words. “You have foreseen your death. And you have journeyed to your death, and you would not tell me.… Why have you told me now?”
“Because I need your promise, Prince.”
Emrist’s tone had turned calm and faintly challenging. Steadied in spite of himself, Trevyn lifted his head to face him, puzzled. “All right. What?”
“In regard to a certain power of Wael’s, the cruelest trick of the Wolf. Wael loves to drive out the soul and replace it with that of a criminal, in the same body. He has done it to the wolves in Isle, and he is likely to try to do it to us. And I am frail, as you know.… So if he should change me in that way, Freca, please use the sword on me, and quickly. It will not be myself that you kill. Do you understand?”
“Nay!” Trevyn swayed as if he had himself been struck; swords of fear ran through him.
“You will understand tomorrow. But you must promise me now, if I am to rest tonight.”
“Is that all I can do, then?” Trevyn asked bitterly. “Endure, and be a slayer with the sword?”
“Times to come, you shall be worth ten of me. There is sky in you, and also deeps where dragons dwell; bring them to light, and you shall master us all. You shall be Sun King, Moon King, Star-Son, and Son of Earth.… But for now you must trust me in this. Promise.”
Trevyn only nodded, for unshed tears swelled his throat. Emrist saw him bite his lip to contain them.
“Grieve later,” he said gently. “I can’t be sure even of doom.”
“What of Maeve? She knows?”
“She knows I have need to be a man. She is strong.” Emrist’s face went bleak at the thought of her, and he turned away, toward his blanket. “Let us get some rest.”
“Wait,” cried Trevyn, clutching at hope. “We could go now, take him in his sleep—”
“With the city closed and the castle guard doubled? Nay, it must be in the morning. Courage, Prince.” But Emrist faced toward the dark, not meeting his comrade’s eyes. Trevyn longed to go to him and embrace him, but he could not bear to weep, or to make Emrist weep, just then. Instead, he spoke numbly.
“Let me prepare you a draught.”
“Nay. I must not be slow-witted in the morning.”
“Then let me rub your legs to ease you.”
Emrist lay on his makeshift bed, still hiding his face, his whole body tense and aching. Trevyn rubbed until the knotted muscles relaxed, until Emrist lay quiet and deeply breathing under his hands, shoulders sagging into sleep. Then he covered him with his ragged blanket and sat beside him with all that they had said turning and turning in his mind. His father.… He could not have let Emrist face W
ael if it were not for Alan’s sake. A heart’s love, newly found, to be as quickly lost.… Suddenly, like a stab, Meg entered his whirling thoughts. Trevyn knew that her sunny bantering would have lifted the leaden weight from his heart, but the memory afforded him no comfort—he had cut himself off from her. Anguish struck him. He longed for Meg more passionately than he had ever wanted anything, far more than he yearned for life itself. Pain twisted his face and bowed his head. By his own doing she was lost to him, even if he survived the morrow.
Chapter Six
“Did you not sleep at all?” Emrist asked in the morning.
“I’ll sleep tonight,” Trevyn answered. “Perhaps.”
They could not eat. They took their horse and went. The city gates were just opening when they reached them, and they entered Kantukal amid a throng of farmers bringing their wares to the morning market. The towers of Rheged’s court rose above the shops and temples, so they found it easily. They paused at a distance and looked in through the iron bars of the gate. Slaves scurried about the courtyard tending to early morning chores. Burly guards watched, lounging. Emrist squared his narrow shoulders, straightened his spine, and sent his nag forward at a fast walk, with Trevyn trotting at his side.
“Who goes?” inquired the gatekeeper lazily.
“Sol of Jabul, on the king’s business. Open up.”
“Come back after midday.” The fellow began to turn away, but he was seized by Emrist’s glance, held motionless like a pinned insect. Emrist’s eyes flashed like jewel stones in a face turned diamond hard.
“Open up,” he ordered softly, “or I will skewer your head for a present to your king, and he will thank me.…” Emrist’s hand went to the sword he wore and slid it in the scabbard. He had no need to show that he did not know how to use it. At the sword sound, the gatekeeper jumped to let them enter. They passed in without a word or a glance. Emrist urged his horse across the courtyard and flung himself down from him as Trevyn tethered him. Then he strode off headlong, with Trevyn trotting after. But once within doors he stopped, and Trevyn came up to him.
The Book of Isle Page 58