Isle of Glass

by Tarr, Judith

  Beneath it all, he was young, lean as a panther, with skin as white as Alf’s own. A youth, just come to manhood and very good to look on.

  Almost too much so. Even with all his hurts, that was plain to see. Alf tore his eyes from that face. But the features haunted him. Eagle-proud, finely drawn beneath beard and bruises. The cast of them was uncanny: eldritch.

  Resolutely Alf focused on the tormented body. He closed his eyes, seeking in his mind for the stillness, the core of cool fire which made him what he was. There was peace there, and healing.

  Nothing.

  Only turmoil and a roiling mass of pain. His own turmoil, the other’s agony, together raised a barrier he could not cross. He tried. He beat upon it. He strained until the sweat ran scalding down his sides. Nothing.

  He must have groaned aloud. Jehan was standing beside him, eyes dark with anxiety. “Brother Alf? Are you all right?”

  The novice’s presence bolstered him. He nodded and breathed deep, shuddering.

  Jehan was not convinced. “Brother Alf, you’re sick. You ought to be in bed yourself."

  "It’s not that kind of sickness.” He reached for a splint, a roll of bandages. His hands were almost steady. “You’ll have to help me with this. Here; so.”

  o0o

  There was peace of a sort in that slow labor. Jehan had a feeling for it; his hands were big but gentle, and they needed little direction.

  After a long while, it was done. Alf knelt by the bed, staring at his handiwork, calm at last—a blank calm.

  Jehan set something on the bed. Wet leather, redolent of horses: a set of saddlebags. “These were on the mare’s saddle,” he said. “And the mare...she’s splendid! She’s no vagabond’s nag. Unless," he added with a doubtful glance at the stranger, “he stole her.”

  “Does he look like a thief?”

  “He looks as if he’s been tortured.”

  “He has.” Alf opened the saddlebags. They were full; one held a change of clothing, plain yet rich. The other bore a flask, empty but holding still a ghost of wine, and a crust of bread and an apple or two, and odds and ends of metal and leather. Amid this was a leather pouch, heavy for its size. Alf poured its contents into his hand: a few coins and a ring, a signet of silver and sapphire. The stone bore a proud device: a seabird in flight, surmounted by a crown.

  Jehan leaned close to see, and looked up startled. “Rhiyana!”

  “Yes. The coins are Rhiyanan, too.” Alf turned the ring to catch the light. “See how the stone’s carved. Guidion rex et imperator. It’s the King’s own seal.”

  Jehan stared at the wounded man. “That’s not Gwydion. Gwydion must be over eighty. And what’s his ring doing here? Rhiyana is across the Narrow Sea, and we’re the breadth of Anglia away from even that.”

  “But we’re only two days’ ride from Gwynedd, whose King had his fostering at Gwydion’s hands. Look here: a penny from Gwynedd.”

  “Is he a spy?”

  “With his King’s own seal to betray him?”

  “An envoy, then.” Jehan regarded him, as fascinated by his face as Alf had been. “He looks like the elf-folk. You know that story, don’t you, Brother Alf? My nurse used to tell it to me. She was Rhiyanan, you see, like my mother. She called the King the Elvenking.”

  “I’ve heard the tales,” Alf said. “Some of them. Pretty fancies for a nursery.”

  Jehan bridled. “Not all of them, Brother Alf! She said that the King was so fair of face, he looked like an elven lord. He used to ride through the kingdom, and he brought joy wherever he went; though he was no coward, he’d never fight if there was any way at all to win peace. That’s why Rhiyana never fights wars.”

  “But it never refuses to intervene in other kingdoms’ troubles.”

  “Maybe that’s what this man has been doing. There’s been fighting on the border between Gwynedd and Anglia. He might have been trying to stop it.”

  “Little luck he’s had, from the look of him.”

  “The King should have come himself. Nurse said no one could keep up a quarrel when he was about. Though maybe he’s getting too feeble to travel. He’s terribly old.”

  “There are the tales.”

  “Oh,” Jehan snorted. “That’s the pretty part. About how he has a court of elvish folk and never grows old. His court is passing fair by all I've ever heard, but I can't believe he isn’t a creaking wreck. I’ll wager he dyes his hair and keeps the oglers at a distance.”

  Alf smiled faintly. “I hope you aren’t betting too high.” He yawned and stretched. “I’ll spend the night here. You, my lad, had better get back to your own bed before Brother Owein misses you.”

  “Brother Owein sleeps like the dead. If the dead could snore.”

  “We know they’ll rise again. Quick, before Owein proves it.”

  o0o

  Jehan had kindled a fire in the room’s hearth; Alf lay in front of it, wrapped in his habit. Even yet the stranger had not moved, but he was alive, his pain gnawing at the edge of Alf’s shield. But worse still was the knowledge that Alf could have healed what the other suffered, but for his own, inner confusion. How could he master another’s bodily pain, if he could not master that of his own mind?

  If I must be what I am, he cried into the darkness, then let me be so. Don't weigh me down with human weakness!

  The walls remained, stronger than ever.

  3

  As Alf slept, he dreamed. He was no longer in St. Ruan’s, no longer a cloistered monk, but a young knight with an eagle’s face, riding through hills that rose black under the low sky. His grey mare ran lightly, with sure feet, along a steep stony track. Before them, tall on a crag, loomed a castle. After the long wild journey broken by nights in hillmen’s huts or under the open sky, it should have been a welcome sight. It was ominous.

  But he had a man to meet there. He drew himself up and shortened the reins; the mare lifted her head and quickened her step.

  The walls took them and wrapped them in darkness.

  o0o

  Within, torchlight was dim. Men met them, men-at-arms, seven of them. As the rider dismounted, they closed around him. The mare’s ears flattened; she sidled, threatening.

  He gentled her with a touch and said, “I’ll stable her myself.”

  None of the men responded. The rider led the mare forward, and they parted, falling into step behind. The stable was full, but a man led a horse out of its stall to make room for the mare. The rider unsaddled her and rubbed her down and fed her with his own hands; when she had eaten her fill, he threw his cloak over her and left her with a few soft words.

  Alone now, he walked within a circle of armed men, pacing easily as if it were an honor guard. But the back of his neck prickled.

  With an effort he kept his hand away from his sword. Fara was safe, warding his possessions, among them the precious signet. He could defend himself. There was no need to fear.

  The shadows mocked his courage. Cold hostility walled him in.

  It boded ill for his embassy. Yet Lord Rhydderch had summoned him, and although the baron had a name for capricious cruelty, the envoy had not expected to fail. He never had. They ascended a steep narrow stair and gathered in a guardroom. There the men-at-arms halted. Without a word they turned on their captive.

  His sword was out, a baleful glitter, but there was no room to wield it. Nor would he shed blood if he could help it. One contemptuous blow sent the blade flying.

  Hands seized him. That touched his pride. His fist struck flesh, bone. Another blow met metal; a sixfold weight bore him to the floor, onto the body of the man he had felled.

  Rare anger sparked, but he quenched it. They had not harmed him yet. He lay still, though they spat upon him and called him coward; though they stripped him and touched his body in ways that made his lips tighten and his eyes flicker dangerously; even though they bound him with chains, rusted iron, cruelly tight.

  They hauled him to his feet, looped the end of the chain through a ring in the
ceiling, stretched his arms taut above his head. His toes barely touched the floor; all his weight hung suspended from his wrists.

  When he was well secured, a stranger entered, a man in mail. He was not a tall man, but thickset, with the dark weathered features of a hillman, and eyes so pale they seemed to have no color at all. When he pushed back his mail-coif, his hair was as black as the bristle of his brows and shot with grey.

  He stood in front of the prisoner, hands on hips. “So,” he said. “The rabbit came to the trap.”

  The other kept his head up, his voice quiet. “Lord Rhydderch, I presume? Alun of Caer Gwent, at your service.”

  “Pretty speech, in faith, and a fine mincing way he has about it.” Rhydderch prodded him as if he had been a bullock at market. “And a long stretch of limb to add to it. Your King must be fond of outsize beauties.”

  “The King of Rhiyana,” Alun said carefully, "has sent me as his personal envoy. Any harm done to me is as harm to the royal person. Will you not let me go?”

  Rhydderch laughed, a harsh bark with no mirth in it. “The Dotard of Caer Gwent? What can he do if I mess up his fancy boy a little?”

  “I bear the royal favor. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “Your King’s no king of mine, boy.”

  “I came in good faith, seeking peace between Gwynedd and Anglia. Would you threaten that peace?”

  “My King,” said Rhydderch, “will pay well for word of Rhiyana’s plotting with Gwynedd. And Anglia between, in the pincers.”

  “That has never been our intent.”

  Rhydderch looked him over slowly. “What will your old pander pay to have you back?”

  “Peace,” replied Alun, “and forgiveness of this insult.”

  Rhydderch sneered. “Richard pays in gold. How much will Gwydion give for his minion? Or maybe Kilhwch would be more forthcoming. Gwynedd is a little kingdom and Kilhwch is a little king, a morsel for our Lion’s dinner.”

  “Let me go, and I will ask.”

  “Oh, no,” said Rhydderch. “I’m not a fool. I’ll set a price, and I’ll demand it. And amuse myself with you while I wait for it.”

  There was no dealing with that mind. It was like a wild boar’s, black, feral, and entirely intent upon its own course.

  Alun pitched his voice low, level, and very, very calm. “Rhydderch. I know what you plan. You will break me beyond all mending and cast me at my King’s feet, a gauntlet for your war. And while you challenge Rhiyana, you prick Gwynedd to fury with your incessant driving of the hill-folk to raid beyond the border. Soon Anglia’s great Lion must come, lured into the war you have made; you will set the kings upon one another and let them destroy themselves, while you take the spoils.”

  While he spoke, he watched the man’s face. First Rhydderch reddened, then he paled, and his eyes went deadly cold. Alun smiled. “So you plan, Rhydderch. You think, with your men-at-arms and your hill-folk and all your secret allies, that you are strong enough to take a throne and wise enough to keep it. Have you failed to consider the forces with which you play? Kilhwch is young, granted, and more than a bit of a hellion, but he is the son of Bran Dhu, and blood kin to Gwydion of Rhiyana. He may prove a stronger man than you reckon on. And Gwydion will support him.”

  “Gwydion!” Rhydderch spat. “The coward king, the royal fool. He wobbles on his throne, powdered and painted like an old whore, and brags of his miraculous youth. His so-called knights win their spurs on the dancing floor and their titles in bed. And not with women, either.”

  Alun’s smile did not waver. “If that is so, then why do you waste time in provoking him to war?”

  A vein was pulsing in Rhydderch’s temple, but he grinned ferally. “Why not? It’s the safest of all my bets.”

  “Is it? Then Richard must be the most perilous of all, for he is a lion in battle—quite unlike my poor Gwydion. How will he look on this plot of yours, Rhydderch? Rebellion in the north and a brother who would poison him at a word and the dregs of his Crusade, all these he has to face. And now you bring him this folly.”

  “Richard can never resist a good fight. He won’t touch me. More likely he’ll reward me.”

  “Ah. A child, a warmonger, and a dotard. Three witless kings, and three kingdoms ripe for the plucking by a man with strength and skill.” Alun shook his head. “Rhydderch, has it ever occurred to you that you are a fool?"

  A mailed fist lashed out. Alun’s head rocked with the force of the blow. “You vain young cockerel,” Rhydderch snarled. “Strung up in my own castle, and you crow like a dunghill king. I’ll teach you to sing a new song.”

  The fist struck again in the same place. Alun choked back a cry. Rhydderch laughed and held out his hand. One of his men placed a dark shape in it.

  In spite of himself, Alun shrank. Rhydderch shook out a whip of thongs knotted with pellets of lead. Alun made one last, desperate effort to penetrate that opaque mind.

  No use. It was mad. The worst kind of madness, which passes for sanity, because it knows itself and glories in its own twisted power. Alun’s gentle strength was futile against it.

  He felt as if he were tangled in the coils of a snake, its venom coursing through his veins, waking the passion which was as deep as his serenity. As many-headed pain lashed his body, his wrath stirred and kindled. He forgot even torment in his desperate struggle for control. He forgot the world itself. All his consciousness focused upon the single battle, the great tide of his calmness against the fire of rage.

  The world within became the world without. All his body was a fiery agony, and his mind was a flame. Rhydderch stood before him, face glistening with sweat, whip slack in his hand. He sneered at his prisoner. “Beautiful as a girl, and weak as one besides. You’re Rhiyanan to the core.”

  Alun drew a deep shuddering breath. The rage stood at bay, but it touched his face, his eyes. “If you release me now, I shall forgive this infamy, although I shall never forget it.”

  “Let you go?” Rhydderch laughed. “I’ve hardly begun.”

  “Do you count it honorable to flog a man in chains, captured by treachery?”

  “A man, no. You, I hardly count as a villein’s brat; and you’ll be less when I’m done with you.”

  “Whatever you do to me, I remain a Knight of the Crown of Rhiyana. Gwydion is far from the weakling you deem him; and he shall not forget what you have done to him.”

  “From fainting lass to royal lord in two breaths. You awe me.” Rhydderch tossed the whip aside. “Some of my lads here like to play a little before they get down to business. Maybe I should let them, while you’re still able to enjoy it.”

  The rage lunged for the opening. Alun’s eyes blazed green; he bared his teeth. But his voice was velvet-soft. “Let them try, Rhydderch. Let them boast of it afterward. They will need the consolation, for they shall never touch another: man, woman, or boy.” His eyes flashed round the half-circle of men. “Who ventures it? You, Huw? Owein? Dafydd, great bull and vaunter?”

  Each one started at his name and crossed himself.

  Rhydderch glared under his black brows. “You there, get him down and hold him. He can’t do a thing to you.”

  “Can I not?” asked Alun. “Have you not heard of what befalls mortals who make shift to force elf-blood?”

  The baron snarled. “Get him down, I say! He’s trying to scare us off"

  One man made bold to speak. “But—but—my lord, his eyes!”

  “A trick of the light. Get him down!”

  Alun lowered his arms. “No need. See. I am down.”

  Eyes rolled; voices muttered.

  “Damn you sons of curs! You forgot to fasten the chain!” Rhydderch snatched at it. Alun dropped to his knees.

  He was still feral-eyed. A blow, aimed at his head, missed. He tossed back his hair and said, “Nay, I was firm-bound. Think you that the Elvenking would risk a mortal on such a venture as this?”

  “You’re no less mortal than I am.” Rhydderch hurled Alun full-length upon the
floor. Swift as a striking snake, his boot came down.

  Someone screamed.

  Pain had roused wrath; pain slew it. In red-rimmed clarity, Alun saw all his pride and folly. He had come to lull Rhydderch into making peace, and fallen instead into his enemy’s own madness. And now he paid.

  That clarity was his undoing; for he did not move then to stop what he had begun. Even as he paused, they were upon him, fear turned to bitter scorn.

  After an eternity came blessed nothingness.

  o0o

  He woke in the midst of a choking stench. Oddly, he found that harder to bear than the agony of his body. Pain had some pretense to nobility, even such pain as this, but that monumental stink was beyond all endurance.

  Gasping, gagging, he lifted his head. He had lain face down in it. Walls of stone hemmed him in—a midden with but one barred exit. The iron bars were forged in the shape of a cross. Rhydderch was taking no chances.

  A convulsion seized him, bringing new agony: the spasming of an empty stomach, the knife-sharp pain of cracked ribs. For a long while he had to lie as he was. Then, with infinite caution, he drew one knee under him.

  The right leg would not bear his weight; he swayed, threw out a hand, cried out in agony as the outraged flesh struck the wall. His other, the right hand, caught wildly at stone and held. Through a scarlet haze he saw what first he had extended. It no longer looked even remotely like a hand.

  His sword hand.

  He closed his eyes and sought inward for strength. It came slowly, driving back the pain until he could almost bear it. But the cost to his broken body was high. Swiftly, while he could still see, he swept his eyes about.

  One corner was almost clean. Inch by inch, hating the sounds of pain his movements wrenched from him, he made his way to it. Two steps upright, the rest crawling on his face.

  Gradually his senses cleared. He hurt—oh, he hurt. And one pain, less than the rest, made him burn with shame. After all his threats—and empty, they had not been—still—still—

  He found that he was weeping: he who had not wept even as a child. Helpless, child’s tears, born of pain and shame and disgust at his own massive folly. All this horror was no one’s fault but his own.