The Silver Sun 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 Silver Sun

  The Book Of Isle, Book Two

  Nancy Springer

  Based on her earlier novel,

  The Book of Suns

  Bright shadows of an Otherplace

  Pass across my sight, deflect

  The turnings of my days. Above

  The weaving trees, a tortured face,

  A burning tower. Beyond the green-flecked

  Fire, a sword, a dauntless love,

  A gold-winged steed. What fey embrace

  Of Otherfolk makes dreams direct

  My ways? The raven and the dove,

  The seer and his desire, grace

  The circling seas and seasons. Chance

  We shadows also join the dance?

  — a song of Hervoyel

  Book One

  THE FOREST

  * * *

  Chapter One

  The Forest was the abode of warlocks, folk said, and goblins, and other creatures even worse. Still, Alan bent his staggering steps toward the Forest, as a desperate man will. Robbers had stripped him of everything—horse, weapons, even his clothing. The peasants could not spare him more than a beggar's crust. But within the Forest wilderness, Alan hoped, he might be able to find something to eat and a covering for his naked body.

  He had not reckoned on his own dizzying weakness. The world swam before his eyes, and trees encircled him with a green blur. He sensed movement and angry shouting, but he did not care. Then the sting of a sword-flat across his back jolted him into full awareness.

  Alan found himself facing a big, angry captain at the head of a mounted patrol. The next blow of the captain's sword knocked him to the ground. He lay sprawling, with no strength to flee or defend himself. Closing his eyes, Alan braced himself against the punishing blade.

  But as suddenly as the blows had begun, they ceased. Alan looked up. What he saw was to remain clear in his memory for as long as he lived.

  The burly captain had turned pale with fear. His chin quivered above a glinting blade pressed against his fleshy throat. But more fearsome than the sword's point, Alan thought, was the one who held the sword. He was a youth with the face of a warrior, straight of brow and strong of jaw—but there was more than a warrior's power about him. His eyes were steel gray, and there was some quality in his hard gaze that caused the captain to tremble and flinch, that caused Alan himself to struggle to his feet in hazy alarm. Yet he could not name the fear that he felt.

  The gray-eyed youth spoke a few words that Alan could not understand, while his glance flashed with an eerie intensity of will that shocked Alan anew. Though the stranger had not moved, holding his sword to the captain's throat, the horses plunged away from him. The captain's men could not control them. Squealing and shying, they bolted into the Forest with their hapless riders on their backs. The stranger knocked the captain's sword from his limp fingers, slashed his reins and sent his horse careering after the others.

  Alan stood watching, swaying with hunger and pain, vaguely thinking that he should leave as well. He did not have the strength to move a step. But the gray-eyed youth seemed to sense his hesitation. Quietly he dismounted from his big, gray horse and walked to face Alan. “My name is Hal,” he said, “and I will befriend you, if I may. Will you come with me?"

  Alan was absurdly glad that a choice was offered to him, though he could not have turned away without falling. He nodded and reached out toward the other, shaking with the effort. He could scarcely see. He felt a gentle hand take hold of him, and he gulped burning liquid from a flask. Hal wrapped him in a cloak and helped him into the saddle of his gray steed, then mounted behind. They sped away into the Forest.

  “It will not take those ruffians long to come after us,” Hal muttered, and Alan decided he liked the sound of that low voice.

  The ride was a haze of pain for Alan. The horse was strong and swift, and the Forest whirled by. Alan barely noticed when they came to a rocky stretch of waste, but he did notice when they entered the Fore
st again, for his rescuer guided the horse slowly and carefully over the ground. Then they stopped in a dense stand of cover. Before long Alan heard approaching hoofbeats. The captain and his demoralized troop swept past. The big man had found his sword, and his face was as red as his red roan horse.

  Hal chuckled, and Alan grinned in spite of his pain. They moved on, more slowly now. Alan lost track of time until at last they stopped and he felt himself lowered to the ground.

  He needed another pull from the flask before he was able to sit up and look around. He was by a small spring which flowed into an open forest meadow. The horse was grazing, and Hal knelt, rummaging in the saddlebags. He drew forth strips of bandage, a dark little jug and a rather old hunk of bread. To Alan the bread was a vision of bliss, and he grasped at it with the impatience of a child.

  “Eat slowly,” Hal cautioned. His gray eyes were darker now, but sorter, as gentle as they had been hard before.

  Alan bit into the precious bread. He scarcely noticed as the blood-stiffened cloak was peeled away from his wounded back. Hal carefully washed the sword stripes, applied ointment from the jug, than laid on pads of cloth. He bandaged these on with strips of cloth around Alan's body and shoulders. Alan was surprised that he could not eat much of the bread, but it did not matter. A blanket was wrapped around him, and he slept

  It seemed only a few minutes later that he was awakened by a gentle shaking. But it was after nightfall. A small campfire was crackling nearby, and over it sat a kettle from which issued a delicious aroma of meat.

  “Can you sit up?” asked Hal. “Here, lean against this tree.” The blanket served as a pad for Alan's sore shoulders. The fire warmed his bare legs. Hal filled a battered metal dish with stew, and handed it to him, along with a spoon and a cup of water.

  Alan spoke with difficulty. “Hal, have you eaten?"

  The other shook his head. “After you. There is only the one bowl and spoon."

  Alan ate eagerly. The venison, roots and berries seemed to him food fit for a king's board. But he could not eat more than a few mouthfuls.

  “I have not yet thanked you for saving my life,” he said as he rested against the tree.

  Hal lowered his gray eyes, flushing, genuinely ill at ease. “Never mind that,” he mumbled. There was no hint about him now of the power that had cowed the captain and his armed troops. Alan had never believed in warlocks; it was his hunger-fogged brain, he thought, that had imagined strange words and a stranger glance half a day before. Still, the horses had run away in spite of curbs and cuffs.... What sort of oddity was his new companion, that he could sow such fear with a glance?

  “How did you come to be in such a pass?” Hal broke the silence. “Were you robbed?"

  “Ay.” Alan was still too weak for much speech.

  Hal phrased his next question with diplomacy. In those days, when men could be outlawed for stealing a loaf of bread, it was not wise to pry. “Were you going anywhere in particular when you were robbed?"

  Alan shook his head. Like Hal, he was a homeless wanderer. It was odd that two such youthful outcasts should meet.

  “Will you travel with me, then, when you are better?” Hal poked at the fire, and Alan could not see his lowered eyes. “My horse is as good as a man in many ways,” Hal added, “but rather quiet. Sometimes it is lonely...."

  “Certainly I will travel with you,” replied Alan promptly. For Alan was brave, and inclined to deal generously with life. He saw a shy smile touch Hal's face, and then he went to sleep on his bed of moss without a doubt or a fear. He never afterward questioned his answer.

  Alan felt much stronger when he awoke the next morning. He put on the patched tunic Hal gave him, and ate some leftover stew. He put a pinch on the ground, first, for the god.

  Hal glanced at him curiously. “Whom do you serve, Alan?"

  “No one!” Alan smiled sheepishly. “I am not bound by any god of grove or cave or temple. But a lifelong habit is hard to break.... My fathers worshiped the Star Son."

  “Ah.” Hal's face was unreadable. “He is not too demanding, this Star Son?"

  “Nay,” Alan answered grimly. “Not like the Sacred Son of the Easterners, who inflicts suffering worse than his own.” He spoke harshly, for he was remembering someone he had once known. He could not tell that, behind the cloudy sheen of his gray eyes, Hal remembered as well.

  After breakfast they scrubbed the pot in the stream, then wandered through the forest glade. It was late spring; the trees were covered with bright leaf, and the grass sparkled like the water. Hal and Alan lay down and basked in the sun. The warmth baked much of the stiffness from Alan's wounds, and he stirred contentedly.

  Hal spoke lazily. “I dare say we shall be having company soon."

  “Company?” Alan was almost asleep.

  “The outlaws that control this part of the Forest."

  “Outlaws?” Alan was startled awake.

  “From what I hear they are decent folk, though rough in ways....” A bird whistled from within the Forest. “There they are now. Let me speak for us."

  Alan nodded, his mouth dry. Then he froze in consternation as Hal whistled an answering birdlike call. For a moment the Forest stood in shocked silence. Then came a sharp spoken command, and from the brush stepped eight men, from as many directions, each with drawn bow. Their leader, a tall man whose deerskin cap could not entirely hide his naming red hair, strode forward.

  “Get up,” he ordered sharply.

  Hal arose, keeping his hands in plain sight. “We are unarmed,” he said.

  “And ye,” the outlaw snapped menacingly at Alan.

  “My companion is injured!” Hal protested. Alan struggled to his feet, wincing as a wound tore open. Bright blood stained his tunic. Hal turned to help him, and he hotly reprimanded the outlaw.

  “Ket the Red, I expected better from you! Did I not give you the signal of friendship?"

  Ket's jaw dropped, his face a mixture of astonishment and chagrin. “He speaks truth. Lower yer weapons,” he called to his men. And then to Hal, “How did ye know my name?"

  Alan's bleeding had already slowed, and Hal spoke more calmly. “I lived a year with the band of Craig the Grim, in the southern Forest. We heard much good of you.” He pressed a fold of cloth over Alan's wound. “I beg pardon for my sharp words, but I feared for my friend. May I care for him?"

  “Ay, surely!” said the outlaw hastily. At the camp, two outlaws stood watch while the others helped fetch water and bandages. Only when Alan was attended did Ket speak again.

  “What are yer names?"

  “I am Hal, and this is my friend Alan."

  “Ye're not brothers, then?"

  “Nay!” It was Hal's turn to be surprised. “Why do you ask?"

  “Why, by the Lady, ye look alike!"

  Alan and Hal regarded each other quizzically. Ket was right. Their light, sun-streaked hair, their high cheekbones and angular jaws were the same. Alan's mouth was a bit wider and more expressive than Hal's, but only at their eyes did all resemblance cease. Alan's were clear and open as blue skies, while Hal's were shadowy and full of mystery. What Hal's feelings were about this strange coincidence, Alan could not tell. He only shrugged as he turned back to Ket.

  “I have no brother,” he continued. “Alan and I first met yesterday."

  “Yesterday? And how did Alan come to be hurt?"

  Alan broke his silence, knowing that Hal could not very well recount his own exploit. “Let me tell you, Ket. I was not paying proper attention, I suppose, when that troop of lordsmen came along. I was far too hungry...."

  Alan described his predicament and his rescue, glossing over the fright of the horses; he did not know how to explain that. The outlaws listened intently, and laughed heartily when he mentioned the captain's red face.

  “So that was how the big bastard came to be pelting through the Forest yesterday, with his britches soiled and his helmet askew, and his face red as a beet!” cried Ket. “We saw, but we little knew the r
eason. ‘Twas sweetly done, lad.” Then he sobered. “They'll be looking for ye, long and hard. Ye must be wary."

  Hal winced at the praise, and he changed the subject “Ket, if you are no longer angry with me, I would like to ask your help. I have shot a deer. Half is for you. And I would like to trade a haunch and the hide for bread and eggs and such, if you will tell me where."

  “Ye shot a deer! But I see no bow, nor did we find the remains of a kill."

  “Here is the bow,” said Hal, drawing it out of a bag. It was less than half the length of the outlaws’ bows, very thick and powerfully curved. Ket the Red whistled. “It takes a strong arm to draw that,” he said, and eyed Hal narrowly, with mingled suspicion and respect. “But where is the deer, and how did ye hide the offal?"

  Hal laughed. “I cannot give away the secrets of Craig the Grim, even to you,” he said. “Let us say that it was well hidden. But as for the deer, it is here.” He parted the bushes to reveal the hanging carcass.

  There followed some argument. Ket maintained that it would be too dangerous for Hal to go to the village, because of the affair of the previous day, “and also,” he added kindly, “because ye're far too young, for all that ye're of man's height, lad.” He offered to go, or send one of his men. Hal would hear nothing of it.

  “You are all well known in these parts, especially you, with your flaming hair,” he retorted. “Every time you appear, you are in great danger. But who is likely to recognize me from any description our husky friend may have given? Since I must be a lad today,”—Hal took a significant pause—“I'll be just another farm lad. I shall leave the horse in the Forest, and walk. Only tell me where to knock."

  “For the matter of that,” asked the outlaw, mildly, “where is the horse?"

  Alan knew by now that Hal's steed grazed loose. Hal whistled, a single low note. There were no hoofbeats to be heard, and the outlaws exchanged amused glances. But suddenly the horse was there, as if he had materialized from the gray trunks of the trees. Silently and gracefully he moved to Hal's side, an alert, questioning look in his fine eyes.