“I know. When do we sail?”
“In the spring. There will be a ship at the Bay.”
“Far better fortune than I deserve,” Alan said softly, “if Hal awaits me. But Lysse, when I took the wrong path, when I laid hold of that great, bloody sword, I felt sure it severed me from him. For all time. How can I feel so sure now that I shall see him again?”
“Mother of mercy,” she chided, “can’t you tell? Isle is like a clean-washed stone, like a bright leaf after rain, and your small transgressions are gone in the tide of time, like all others. Alan, the haunts are gone from the land.”
“What?” he whispered.
“The shades have gone to rest, even the stubborn shades by the Blessed Bay. All penances are done. And the dragons have left their gloomy lairs.”
“Ay, Trevyn seems to be in charge of them now. I wish I understood.… Love, glad as I shall be to sail to Elwestrand, I am glad we need not go soon. I would like to get to know my son.”
After Trevyn was up and about for a few days, he and Meg took horse toward the place she had named. Liegemen and a few maids rode with them, for decorum’s sake, and Corin, out of friendly curiosity, and Ket. Craig and Robin and the other lords had long since sped back to their demesnes. There was a tremendous amount of work to be done; unguarded cottages had been robbed, repairs had been neglected, and spring planting had gone almost entirely undone in the eastern half of the realm. Already Alan had sent messengers to Tokar demanding ransom for Rheged, not in treasure, but in food, to avert famine. And the very day of the final battle he had sent patrols throughout Isle to prevent plundering and to spread news of peace. But there was little need of such reassurance. Folk sensed comfort as if it were a fragrance in the air and returned quickly to their homes. Even Trevyn’s dragons, blundering northward along the eastern shore, did not seriously upset them. All along the road to their rendezvous, the Prince and his retainers were greeted by happy folk. It seemed to awe them that he carried a young wolf in his arms.
They rode gently, in easy stages, letting Trevyn regain his strength. Late on the seventh day they neared the river crossing, and Trevyn peered ahead with a faint frown. Against the glowing sunset sky he could see the figure of an eagle, his eagle, perched atop a tall tree, or group of trees, that he felt certain had not been there before.
“What the—” he muttered.
“Gwern’s grove,” Megan replied from her palfrey beside him. She rode in her lovely white dress, the only one she presently owned, though she had Trevyn’s promise of more from a certain Gypsy seamstress. She had found her fears mistaken; the gown did not need daily washing. In fact, dirt did not seem to touch it at all. The paradoxical fabric, floating and crisp, seemed no more prone to mundane soil than a cloud wisp or the caught light of the moon.
The company splashed through the river branch, through water well above the horses’ knees. Afterward, drops sprinkled down like strings of pearls from Meg’s hem, and stayed there. A few fell to the ground and lay glimmering. Trevyn looked at them in mild surprise and let them be. Meg already wore another such magical jewel, the pink moonstone he had brought her from Elwestrand, with the mandorla at its heart. But Corin and the others picked up the gems with gasps of wonder.
“Magic!” Corin breathed. Then no one said more, not even the irrepressible Meg. They had entered under the woven shade of the Wyrdwood.
They rode through sheerest stillness. No underbrush rustled against their saddles; no branches scraped. The trees towered immensely, in form like the pillars of earth, the trunks smooth and unbranched to thirty feet above their heads. Hooves fell soundlessly on the leaf loam of a hundred seasons, so it seemed. Within a moment, the riders were swallowed by soft, random spaces like the honeycomb caverns of deep earth where dragons used to dwell, like the shadowy roots of the sea where the sun swims back to the east. Birds sang somewhere in the pinpoint foliage far above. Trevyn signaled a stop, looking all about him, to depths and heights, with eager, straining face.
“We’re likely never to come out of here,” Corin blurted, breaking silence. He had looked behind him and seen no trace of the way he had come; now he held the reins with sweaty hands. But Trevyn scarcely heard him, lost in longing and awe.
“By the Mothers, he’s here! I can feel him.…” Trevyn bit back a sob. Silent tears ran down his face. “Gwern …”
“The place suits him,” Meg said softly.
“Ay, it’s a god’s grove. And Gwern has invited his fellows, it seems. I feel Bevan here as well.” Trevyn struggled to compose himself. Memories gripped him and made him feel weak, memories of Emrist and of Elwestrand.
“Trev,” Ket burst out, “please. We’re frightened.”
Surprised, he scanned their pale faces. Meg sat serenely, but a couple of the maids had started to whimper.
“We’re not lost!” Trevyn exclaimed. “Why, we’re nearer to heart’s home than we’ve been since birth.… All right, follow me. There is always a pattern. This way.” He led off through the motionless dance of the trees.
He took them in a sweeping spiral, gradually closing in on an unseen vortex at the center of the hushed grove. They rounded the last gentle curve and arrived. Sunlight streamed down into a clearing amid the giants. There a single sapling grew, its leaves translucent jewels that sent flakes of color skimming like dragonflies across the grass. Resting in the sun-dappled shade sat a pair of wedding guests, Alan and Lysse. Beside them, at the sunlit base of the slender tree, lay a unicorn, moon-white, with a golden horn.
“Is that beastie yours, too, lad?” Alan asked Trevyn when they had embraced.
“Mine and everyone’s.” He took Meg by the hand and led her to meet his mother.
They all camped there that night, feasting on plain food that tasted better than it had any right to, talking beneath the light of a swelling moon, answering innumerable questions. Trevyn heard about Megan’s travels and her lupine friend. Lysse found that she liked the girl better by the moment. Alan heard at last the full history of his jeweled brooch, and he learned that he had sworn a spell upon his green Elfstone.
“Things that show the sun crest are your talisman, as the parchment with the wolf emblem was Wael’s,” Trevyn explained “And your gem is magical in its own right, mightily so.… Only a King could have managed it. But I think nothing less could have woken me.”
“I’m no sorcerer,” Alan protested.
“But you’ve always been great in power, you and Hal. You never used your magic, that’s all.… And you called me by my sooth-name. That was prettily done.”
“It should have been done far sooner,” Alan grumbled. “But it was hard for me to know you as the Very King who shall succeed me.… What is your talisman to be, Alberic?”
By way of answer, the unicorn came and laid its head in his lap.
They all sat half drunk with wine of magic and love. By dawn they lay drowsily, but still softly talking. At first light, Trevyn regretfully left the others and went off by himself.
By closing his eyes, he quickly found Gwern’s grave, hidden under a blanket of luxuriant flowers. Though he hated to do it, he upended them with his dagger and dug away industriously, muttering at the mess he was making of himself. But he found the sword of Lyrdion before too long and lifted it, intending to hide it among his gear until he had a chance to take it to the sea.… A flash like the blaze of the rising sun went up from the weapon, and everyone in the grove came running.
“Bevan, you nuisance,” Trevyn quietly rebuked the air, “why did you do that?”
His family and friends gathered around, absorbing the scene. “I thought Gwern lay there!” Alan exclaimed, looking at the open grave.
“Nay, Gwern lies nowhere, except—everywhere, here. All powers of loveliness seem to be met here today.” Obeying an impulse, Trevyn lifted the great sword skyward. Hau Ferddas shone like a fair, golden bird, effortlessly soaring, as warm in his hand as a living thing. The gems on the hilt were pools, were eyes, were magic mir
rors. The metal of the blade shimmered like a silken gown.
“What, more marvels now?” Alan breathed. “Suddenly that sword has become as fair as sunshine, a token of all honor and goodness, in your grasp.”
“Bevan’s doing,” Trevyn said. “So that we should see it as it was for him, and understand.”
“And this is the weapon you must take to the sea?” Alan murmured incredulously.
“Ay, that I must. At another place or time, it could yet become a horror.” He scowled at the invisible spirit of the star-son. “And this has not made it any easier!” He swaddled the sword in its fabric bonds.
They all seemed to realize at once that they were exhausted. Of one accord they trooped back to their campsite and quickly fell asleep. But they only slept for a few hours; in late morning they were awakened by the approach of more riders. Rosemary appeared, looking lovely in cloth of russet and cream. Two countryfolk followed her. Ket ran to meet her, and Megan ran to embrace the others; they were her mother and father. Goodman Brock had earned fame for his courage and tenacity in holding his land and helping his neighbors throughout the siege of wolves. But he looked uncomfortable on horseback, and stunned to see his daughter in such finery. He scrambled down from his mount and gave her a cautious kiss, then stood disconsolately while his wife went off, chattering, with the other women. Because he felt out of place, he glowered when Trevyn greeted him.
“Whew!” Trevyn whistled. “I believe you’re remembering a cocky young fool—”
Brock had to smile at that. “Why, nay, I recall no foolishness,” he declared. “But I have heard much talk of a certain marvelous Prince.” He gulped, and lost his smile again. “Is that a unicorn?”
“It’s quite peaceable,” Trevyn assured him. “Come, meet my father.”
As it turned out, Brock had business with Alan. “Folk have gotten together and named me a sort of steward at Lee,” he explained gruffly, “to do for them until ye can name a new lord, Sire, since Rafe left no heir. So I’m to report t’ ye.”
“So you’re the people’s chosen leader!” Alan said thoughtfully. “Why don’t you just stay on, then, Goodman? Be lord yourself.”
“I!” Brock protested. “I’ll make no velvet-clad lord, Sire. I’ve no manners, no learning—”
“I’ll send you a scribe. The velvet’s not required. But stay a steward, then, if you don’t want the title. The work’s the same.” Alan beckoned at him. “Come and help me with these kettles.” The King was hungry, and trying to hurry along breakfast.
They all ate, finally, porridge and honey and a few boiled eggs, and in the process of dealing with the sticky meal everyone became well acquainted. Brock no longer felt out of place by the time they were done. “Now, then,” Alan asked, “since we’re all here, will someone tell me how these weddings are to take place?”
“By the old style, I suppose, of consent,” Trevyn answered. “Or you could marry us by royal decree.”
“Wait a bit,” Rosemary told them. “I believe there’s one person yet to come.” She was the Rowan Lady, and she sensed whatever moved within the Forest. So they waited.
“Here I am, dears,” a voice said after a while, and with one accord they all rose, though they had seen no one. Then, walking straight and strong, a very old woman came toward them out of the grove.
“Ylim!” Trevyn exclaimed, though he had never seen her in that form. Alan stared; he had raised a cairn over that body, but he had never known her name.
“In this place, I am Alys.” She stood, not smiling and yet not unkind, folding her gnarled hands on her muslin apron. “But I must come to you in a form you understand, or partly understand.”
“In the valley beyond Celydon,” said Rosemary softly, “you would be the ancient seeress, the weaver.”
“Ay. You are wise, Lady. Ylim is only a servant of Alys.… But here I am all, or nearly all. This is a place of power, my own power and power of my son.… The best of all places for these weddings.”
“And will you stay now?” Trevyn asked. “Are you truly back in Isle?”
“Ylim will stay.” She smiled at that, mostly with her deep and glowing eyes. “Alys was never gone.”
Without much talk or need for thought, all was made ready for the nuptials. In a few minutes, Trevyn and Meg stood paired before the goddess beneath the young and growing tree, he in the whitest tunic the elves had given him, she in her dream dress with a spray of rare white heather in her hand. Ket and Rosemary stood behind them, more soberly clad, but arm in arm. Young Dair lay quietly in Alan’s arms.
“There’s small need for words,” Ylim said. “Symbols show more.” From her apron pockets she drew yards of lace—of her own weaving, Trevyn knew, and of pattern as intricate as all creation, simple as love, white as the unicorn. With a length of this she encircled Megan’s brow, crowning her like a blossom, then sent a streamer over to Trevyn, weaving her to him.
She worked quickly, scarcely moving, directing the lacework by gesture rather than touch. When she had finished, Trevyn stood at the center of a pattern that spread to include the jeweled tree, and a stag that wandered by, and everyone present; even the unicorn held a loop of lace with its horn. For his own part, Trevyn felt once again captured and tied, even more entangled now than he had been in Tokar. But Meg stood tranquilly.
“The bonds will remain only in your mind,” Ylim said. “Kiss your bride, Alberic.” He felt as if he could scarcely move, but he leaned over to comply. His lips met Meg’s smoothly. And as they kissed, the lace parted into bits, fell like snowflakes to the ground. Ever afterward, the most delicate of flowers grew there, flowers found nowhere else in Isle. But Trevyn could never remember what pattern the lace had made; he had forgotten to look. And those who had looked, when he asked, each gave a different answer.
“All blessings on you, Meg and Trevyn, Ket and Rosemary,” said Ylim the ancient seeress, and turned, and left. Trevyn still stood kissing Meg. Moments after Ylim had gone, he raised his head with a start. “Wait!” he exclaimed, but silence answered him.
“I forgot to ask her about anything,” he complained. “About Maeve, about Dair!”
“Wait and see.…” The voice of Alys floated back.
Epilogue
On a bright day of the following May, the twenty-first anniversary of Alan’s coronation, all the lords in Isle and Welas gathered at the gentle summit near Laueroc where Adaoun had marked the beginning and ending of an Age by wedding and crowning the Sunrise and Sunset Kings. It was not so many years before, Alan mused, that he had taken Lysse to wife on that spot and Hal had wed Rosemary. But the weight of those years had slowed him, nevertheless, and made him glad of promised rest. He brought the great crown of Veran from the treasure room, the rayed crown like the sunburst emblem of the Elfstone. He took it to the appointed place and waited for his son.
In the presence of the watching multitude, Trevyn came before his father, scorning heavy robes, clad free as the wind in a soft linen tunic and deerskin boots. He dropped to one knee, and Alan placed the ceremonial burden on his head. Then he rose, and Alan girded him with his own newly forged sword, silver of hue, with a running unicorn for hilt. He presented his son to the assembled lords.
“Here is your King now,” he told them, “and I am King no more.”
A great, golden bird circled overhead, scattering the meadowlarks. The lords took up the omen with a shout. “Hail, Eagle King!” they cried. “Hail, Liege King of Laueroc!” They lifted clasped hands in salute.
“You’re far more than that,” Alan murmured to his son.
“Ay,” Trevyn agreed without a trace of hesitation. “I might just as well be called Unicorn King.”
“You’re silver and gold, as Hal foresaw.”
Four rode out the next day: Alan, Lysse, Trevyn, and Meg on a round little mare she called Bess. The weather was fine, and they went at a leisurely pace, taking four days to pass the settled land. Meg was thrilled by the wilderness beyond. Riding through a changin
g pattern of slope and rocky tor, thick-woven forest and silky meadow, sunlight and shade and shadow, she drew in beauty with every breath, nourishing the budding life she carried within her—for Meg was with child.
On the seventh day of their journey, the four came to the Bay of the Blessed, a place of deepest green shade and silvery water, a place meant for moonlight. A boat swam like a dusky swan in the shallows. Alan tethered it and found the plank to board it. Then he and Lysse turned to face their son and daughter-in-law.
“How do you want to manage this matter of the sword?” Alan asked quietly.
Trevyn brought the magical weapon out of the wrappings it had worn all winter. It shone as fair as the first flower of spring. Impulsively, he offered it to his father. “You’ve had the most sorrow from it. Will you hurl it away?”
“Trevyn,” Alan chided. “All you’ve been through, and you still try to meddle with fate? I don’t dare to touch it. Do you want to borrow my boat?”
Trevyn shook his head. He knew what a pang of longing it would send through him to stand on the deck of an elf-ship. He stood thinking for a moment, then nodded, and pointed at a precise spot on the taut surface of the Bay. “There,” he said.
The lustrous water broke like a veil, fell apart in fragments. From the rent a sea-drake with scales of dark crimson raised its dripping head, glaring out of flat carnelian eyes. Meg gulped and took a step back.
“One of Menwy’s people,” Trevyn explained, and he flung the sword with all his strength, sent it spinning through the air like a shining wheel. Fearlessly the dragon caught the weapon in its great mouth, held it as a dog holds a bone, and dove. The watchers on shore saw ripples trail it into the western sea.
“I hope we don’t encounter such creatures on the way,” Alan breathed, somewhat shaken.
“You’ll never know,” Trevyn answered. “You’ll remember nothing but peace. Go joyfully, and regret nothing.” He embraced Alan and then his mother, kissing them. Alan gripped his hand.
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