The White Hart Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NANCY SPRINGER

  “Wonderful.” —Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “The finest fantasy writer of this or any decade.” —Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Ms. Springer’s work is outstanding in the field.” —Andre Norton

  “Nancy Springer writes like a dream.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Nancy Springer’s kind of writing is the kind that makes you want to run out, grab people on the street, and tell them to go find her books immediately and read them, all of them.” —Arkansas News

  “[Nancy Springer is] someone special in the fantasy field.” —Anne McCaffrey

  Larque on the Wing

  Winner of the James Tiptree, Jr. Award

  “Satisfying and illuminating … uproariously funny … an off-the-wall contemporary fantasy that refuses to fit any of the normal boxes.” —Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “Irresistible … charming, eccentric … a winning, precisely rendered foray into magic realism.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Best known for her traditional fantasy novels, Springer here offers an offbeat contemporary tale that owes much to magical realism. … An engrossing novel about gender and self-formation that should appeal to readers both in and outside the SF/fantasy audience.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Springer’s best book yet … A beautiful/rough/raunchy dose of magic.” —Locus

  Fair Peril

  “Rollicking, outrageous … eccentric, charming … Springer has created a hilarious blend of feminism and fantasy in this heartfelt story of the power of a mother’s love.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Witty, whimsical, and enormously appealing.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “A delightful romp of a book … an exuberant and funny feminist fairy tale.” —Lambda Book Report

  “Moving, eloquent … often hilarious, but … beneath the laughter, Springer has utterly serious insights into life, and her own art … Fair Peril is modern/timeless storytelling at its best, both enchanting and very down-to-earth. Once again, brava!” —Locus

  Chains of Gold

  “Fantasy as its finest.” —Romantic Times

  “[Springer’s] fantastic images are telling, sharp and impressive; her poetic imagination unparalleled.” —Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Nancy Springer is a writer possessed of a uniquely individual vision. The story in Chains of Gold is borrowed from no one. It has a small, neat scope rare in a book of this genre, and it is a little jewel.” —Mansfield News Journal

  “Springer writes with depth and subtlety; her characters have failings as well as strengths, and the topography is as vivid as the lands of dreams and nightmares. Cerilla is a worthy heroine, her story richly mythic.” —Publishers Weekly

  The Hex Witch of Seldom

  “Springer has turned her considerable talents to contemporary fantasy with a large degree of success.” —Booklist

  “Nimble and quite charming … with lots of appeal.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “I’m not usually a witchcraft and fantasy fan, but I met the author at a convention and started her book to see how she writes. Next thing I knew, it was morning.” —Jerry Pournelle, coauthor of Footfall

  Apocalypse

  “This offbeat fantasy’s mixture of liberating eccentricity and small-town prejudice makes for some lively passages.” —Publishers Weekly

  Plumage

  “With a touch of Alice Hoffmanesque magic, a colorfully painted avian world and a winning heroine, this is pure fun.” —Publishers Weekly

  “A writer’s writer, an extraordinarily gifted craftsman.” —Jennifer Roberson

  Godbond

  “A cast of well-drawn characters, a solidly realized imaginary world, and graceful writing.” —Booklist

  The Book of Isle

  The Complete Series

  Nancy Springer

  CONTENTS

  THE WHITE HART

  Book One - The Speaking Stone

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Book Two - The Six Souls

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Book Three - The Summoning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  THE SILVER SUN

  Book One - The Forest

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Two - Celydon

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Book Three - The West Land

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Book Four - The Dark Tower

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Five - Laueroc

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Epilogue

  THE SABLE MOON

  Book One: Fate And The Maiden

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Book Two: Mother Of Mercy

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Three: Ylim’s Loom

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Book Four: Menwy And Magic

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Epilogue

  Festivals

  Glossary of Names

  Glossary of Terms

  THE BLACK BEAST

  Book One: Frain

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Two: Fabron of Vaire

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Book Three: Tirell of Melior

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  THE GOLDEN SWAN

  Book One: Dair

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Interlude I: from the Book of Suns

  Book Two: Maeve

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Interl
ude II: from the Book of Suns

  Book Three: Frain

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Interlude III: from the Book of Suns

  Dair Reprise

  Chapter One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The White Hart

  Prologue

  Long ago, so long ago that the enchantment of the Beginning was yet on it, there was a little land called Isle. It might have been the world entire for all the people knew; vast oceans encircled it even as the thick-woven Forest surrounded each village. Beyond the Forest, on the Wastes or the Wealds or the mountain Marches of the sea, the Old Ones yet walked; and gods, ghosts and all delvers in the hollow hills were no strangers to the woven shade just beyond the castle gates. It was in those times that The Book of Suns got its start, though the Sun Kings knew it only dimly; and a far-flung fate got its start when a lady fair as sunlight loved the Moon King at Laveroc.

  Book One

  The Speaking Stone

  I sing the lady, the lightwinged maiden.

  Golden as sunlight is Ellid Dacaerin;

  Soft as dawn is the daughter of Eitha.

  Bright as a sword is her soaring fancy;

  Bold as a falcon her spirit flies.

  Swift as the deer her sorrow leaves her;

  Light as its leap her laughter rises.

  Dauntless as fire is the dragon-daughter;

  Fair as fire the light of her face.

  Dearer than gold is the maid of Decaerin;

  Warmer than gold is the glow of her eyes.

  Longer than life is the troth of the lady;

  Wider than worlds is the worth of her love.

  1

  It was a night of the dark of the moon, and darker yet within the narrow tower of Myrdon. Ellid shivered in her scant bed of short straw as much from dark as from cold. Never had she been so benighted. In her father's great hall the torches and tapers flared always to ward off the things that moved in the night: the wailing white ladies and the treacherous pouka who lured unwary travelers to death in pits or dismal fens. The black spaces of night swirled with such as these, and in the lofty chamber of her captivity Ellid sensed the swift denizens of air all about her. Naked as she was in the abyss of night, she shrank from their presence to no avail.

  Yet when she heard noises of scraping and knocking close at hand, Ellid did not scream. Not for any peril would she have stooped to summon the rough men who laughed and feasted below. She only stiffened and hearkened intently. The sounds came from the high, barred window, now only a memory in the gloom. "Who is there?" Ellid whispered, and started violently when a soft answer came through the dark.

  "A friend," the voice replied, a manly voice but sweet as singing. "Pray, lady, make no cry."

  Hanging between hope and consternation, Ellid kept silence. She heard a grinding noise as the bars came loose and a thump as the stranger dropped to the floor. He moved toward her uncertainly, then stopped.

  "Lady," he said in low tones, "it is black as Pel's Pit in here; I must make a light. Do not be afraid."

  Ellid stared. "Mothers protect me!" she breathed. A pair of shining supple hands took form in the gloom, hands rimmed with ghostly light. Pale flames wavered at the fingertips. The hands cupped and lifted; Ellid glimpsed a face behind them, dark hollows of eyes and a chiseled jaw. The jaw tightened as the hands dropped.

  "The vermin!" muttered the visitant. "That they must strip you!"

  He came closer until he could touch the rough wall beside her; his hands left their light on the stone, like the specter of a star. By its faint glow Ellid could see the stranger but dimly. Still she deemed that he was slender and only little taller than herself. He knelt before her.

  "This will not hurt," he said in his low, melodious voice, and she felt his fingers on her wrist. They were warm, as flesh of man is warm; she took some comfort in that. Inexplicably the fetters dropped from her arm. The stranger rose and stepped back from her. Ellid crouched against the stone like a creature at bay. Even naked as she was, she thought better of her own luck than of this eerie visitor in the night. He was no warrior in size; she could rush him, stun him against the stone perhaps, if he be in fact of human kind… But even as she narrowed her eyes to spring, he pulled off his tunic and offered it silently to her.

  She stood and put on the rough garment. It reached scarcely to her knees, but its warmth was like an embrace. The stranger brought a coil of rope and slipped a loop around her.

  "I shall lower you slowly," he told her. "Feel your way with care—and unless all ill should chance, await me at the bottom. Are you ready?"

  She knew now that she was obliged to trust him. She scrambled up and out the window without a word, hastening lest he should try to touch her and help her. Not even stumps of bars were in the window to hinder her. She clung to the sill as the rope tautened, then leaned against its slender strength as she felt her way downward. For the first time that night Ellid was thankful for the dark, not only that it hid her escape but that she might not see the dizzying drop below her. She strove not to think of it, nor of the weird hands that supported her, but of her enemies, the men of Myrdon. She went cannily, skirting windows, hugging the wall. When she felt cool earth under her bare feet at last, she tested it for long, incredulous moments before she loosened the rope from her shoulders at last.

  Ellid gave a tug, and felt the answering tug from far above. She could not have said why she did not hasten away. Far better even to stumble alone through the night, many would have said, than to cleave to a warlock, one whose hands broke iron and shot fire. But it was not for cowardice that Ellid was called daughter to Pryce Dacaerin. She held the rope taut and awaited him to whom she owed some debt of thanks; she awaited one with warm hands and a soft voice.

  Almost as quickly as her thoughts, he was beside her, skimming down the rope. To her renewed astonishment he pulled it down after him, so that it came tumbling about him. Quickly he coiled it and stowed it over his shoulder. Then, reaching surely even in the midnight darkness, he took her hand and started away. No speck of light showed on the walls; most likely the sentries had all joined the drunken feast that resounded from the great hall beyond the tower. The gates were barred, of course. Ellid's strange escort lifted the heavy beam and gently shoved open the timbered doors. Then he and the lady slipped through, and no cry followed them.

  The first faint light of dawn found them leagues away, for the stranger walked quickly and surely even in the densest shadow of the trees. Ellid followed close behind, unable to see the sharp flints which cut into her bare feet, head lowered against branches which threatened to pierce an eye. The gray shade which presently filtered into the Forest showed her only the back of him who walked before her, naked above leather breeches and smooth as steel. But as they topped a ridge, quite suddenly they met the rising sun. It blazed full on their faces as the ground dropped away at their feet. Ellid lifted her arms thankfully, but her companion winced and turned away. "Come," he said. "All the world can see us here."

  He plunged down the steep slope, and she followed, regarding him curiously. He was slender, and quite young, perhaps as young as she. His wide-set eyes were as dark and glowing as coals. His hair was shining black, and his skin lustrous pale, like moonlight; his blood pulsed like a tide within. She had seen his lip come flashing red as he bit it. His face was faultless and strange, like a face in a dream. Ellid had never seen such stark beauty in a man; even in the daylight she looked askance at him.

  In the shadows of the deep ravine they found a narrow stream. The youth knelt to fill his flask. Ellid sat and dabbled in the water with her smarting feet.

  "Does the light hurt you?" she asked, breaking her long silence.

  "I shall grow accustomed to it in time," the other replied gruffly. "Still, we must soon find shelter, my lady. Light is unluck
y for the hunted."

  Ellid inwardly steeled herself and struggled to her feet. But the search was not long. At the top of the next rise grew a grove of tall fir trees, with branches that swept heavily to the ground. Beyond was a sunlit space. The stranger lifted a thick green limb for Ellid to creep beneath.

  "This is well," he said as he came in beside her. "We can see what comes to all sides. My lady, will you eat?" He offered her a small cake of oats and honey, such as the countryfolk placed on the ancient shrines. Ellid looked at it in surprise, but ate it gratefully.

  "I owe you many thanks," she said as she finished, "for freeing me."

  Her companion made a sound of genuine sorrow. "Ah, lady," he told her intensely, "I would have helped you days ago! I have followed since the day they stole you from your father's demesne… Strong towers of stone make men careless, but on the road their guard was good. I could not get close."

  The guard had indeed been good. Ellid's face twisted wryly at the thought of the ten days' journey in the shameful cart, the jeers, the cuffs, the floggings and the stinking food. The first day they had cropped her hair to humiliate her. And at journey's end they had stripped her even of her humble shift… Her face flamed to remember it. The eyes that met hers were clouded with misery.

  "My lady, did they ravish you indeed?"

  Ellid laughed harshly. "Nay! Nay, that at least they did not. To men such as these, spoiled meat is of no account, and I dare say they think my worthiness to my father is the same. So they took care to keep the wares whole, though they were none too gentle in the transport."

  "And I none too gentle in my rescue," the dark-eyed stranger added bitterly. "To you who deserve all good, I have offered a beggar's shirt and a borrowed crust and the hard stones for treading."

  "Ellid Lightwing the bards have called me! Could they but see me now!" Ellid smiled ruefully at her painful, bloodied feet. "Yet my lot has bettered a thousandfold. I owe you all thanks." She spoke to him quite courteously. "What may I name you, who have befriended me?" But he turned away his raven-dark eyes.

  "I answer to Sirrah," he muttered, "like other sons of men."

  Ellid frowned in puzzlement and said no more, for she knew she would give him no slave's title. The April sun was warm through the fir boughs, and the thick bed of their dropped needles was soft. Ellid stretched out her aching limbs. As she dozed off to sleep she saw the black-haired youth settle himself against the trunk of the tree, watching over her.