The White Hart (The Book of Isle 1) Read online

  "Ruric still guards his gold," Cuin murmured, "together with his warriors and his stalwart sons. But who has said that they may not take the one who comes for the sword?"

  "Who, indeed!" Bevan smote his thigh with his eager palm. "Cuin, you voice the question closest to my heart. Who governs the Old Ones and the Elder Folk of earth? Neither dragons nor shades of dragonish men bow to the Mothers or the Great Mother Duv. What constrains those who make their abode in Lyrdion?"

  They rode on in silence; in silence the falcon flew to Cuin's shoulder and in silence the white hart paced by Bevan's side. Presently they reached a place of fire, and on a hilltop of that charred waste they turned to watch the sun set over the tors of Lyrdion. Blood-red light bathed the peaks. As they watched, a shape of winged brightness flashed between them and the sun. Soaring above the crags, the dragon circled, then breathed fire at the fiery sun and vanished. Even at a distance Cuin could not mistake that huge form.

  "Ruric," he whispered. "The nephew-slayer. How my heart is torn, Bevan. Can you not feel it too, that he is magnificent?"

  "If there is One who governs these things," Bevan replied slowly, "then it may be that such a One can bring beauty even out of evil."

  They camped that night still in sight of the seaward tors. Cuin slept long, for a great exhaustion was on him, but Bevan wandered with the silver-crowned stag. The next day they turned inland, and left Lyrdion's lonely demesne for a winter's hard journey through the barren northlands of Isle.

  Book Three

  The Summoning

  Dark is the cloudy Pit, and dark

  The mantled host that people it.

  Bright is the new-sung King, and bright

  The weapons that his legions bring.

  Warriors shout and banners soar

  When the White Hart goes to war.

  Deep are the powers of Pel, and deep

  The stony caves that form his hell.

  High flies the golden sword, and high

  The falcon o'er the wyvern-hoard.

  Bold youth rides with ancient lore

  When the White Hart goes to war.

  Black is Blagden dell, and black

  The evil that its slopes expel.

  Argent is the Hand, and Argent

  Shines the Crown of his demand.

  Pel shall pay the long-kept score

  When the While Hart goes to war.

  1

  In the fireside talk and the chieftains' Great Books, men were to call it the Winter of Bloodied Snow.

  Nothing like it had been known in legend or living memory. In the freezing season when weather customarily kept the peace between even the bitterest enemies, in harshest winter, mantled bands struck like doomsters out of the comfortless Forest. The strange dark raiders seemed not to care for conquest, plunder, or the taking of women. Even though the surprise and terror of their onslaught often breached every defense of the small clan strongholds, still they would soon speed off again into the surrounding wilderness. But what they carried away with them seared the minds of the survivors. They took captives and the bodies of the dead; and of the latter they left behind the hearts.

  Some few of the wiser folk, or those that listened best to the old tales of the siege of Eburacon, knew the meaning of the cloaked skirmishers and whither they took their grisly spoils. Fire glowed red in the depths of Pel's Pit, these deemed, and they tried to warn the others of the more horrible danger to come. But most were taken quite unprepared when the faces of former comrades glared out at them from beneath the shadowy hoods of the mantled raiders. Those who would not raise sword against them paid dearly; but those who saved themselves paid dearly too, for some went mad. It was not a thing lightly borne, to see a friend or brother fall and then to fell him yet a second time.

  The southlands of Isle fared worst at the hands of Pel's priests, though scattered attacks were felt as far north as Wallyn. The far-flung domains of Pryce Dacaerin escaped much harm, for they were a hard month's journey to the north of the Pit. Pel Blagden's chiefest treasure constrained him to keep to his own terrain; Coradel Orre made clumsy luggage, but he was helpless to augment his armies without it. Through many generations of terror the mantled lord had never attempted conquest of Isle, for only the overthrow of peace-loving leaders was necessary. The unhindered avarice of the others was more than sufficient to engender the strife which fed Pel's rites and sated his appetites. Like the dark, flapping gore-crows, Pel's servants followed the scent of war. But there was no need for more bloodshed than the petty lords provided of their own accord.

  Thus Pel Blagden had spread terror from time to time through many eras of men, and between times he had let terror be. And so short is the memory of man that only some few folk in Isle realized the meaning of the preparations of the mantled lord: that Bevan of Eburacon had set his will against Blagden, and that in the spring he would summon the chieftains of Isle to uphold him in his challenge. Great would be the gathering at Caer Eitha.

  Through the long, dread-filled winter months Ellid sat at her window and sewed. She who had always been a restive needlewoman stitched diligently on bright-colored clothing to show Bevan royally in the eyes of the coming assembly. She feared for him with every fresh news of Pel's priests, and she prayed to the Mothers for his safe return. Yet, though she longed for him, in a sense Ellid did not miss Bevan; he had never been a part of her daily life. But more than she cared to admit, she missed Cuin.

  She kept herself much aloof, even from the friendly groups around the great hall fires. More than once her mother came to her in concern.

  "Why are you so much alone?" Eitha asked her one evening. "The lads and lasses wonder at you."

  "My father has bade me keep my maidenhood of fair repute," Ellid replied bitterly.

  Eitha sighed. Her husband had become harsh of late, almost a jailer to his wife and daughter. For the sake of peace Eitha bore Dacaerin's temper silently, but with her daughter she did not hesitate to speak her mind.

  "There is no harm in honest companionship," she said huffily. "What ails you, lass? Surely your black-haired Prince would not take it ill if you drew nearer the fire!"

  "Nay, no whit!" Eitha was still suspicious of Bevan, and to divert her Ellid spoke more of her true thoughts than she had intended. "I am worried about Cuin, Mother. Why is Father so enraged with him?"

  Eitha sighed again and had no answer to offer. Silently she went away. Ellid sat and sewed; then she pricked her finger and wept. Cuin, her cousin and lifelong friend. When again might she hear his husky voice or sense behind his silence his constant regard? He, too, was in peril, but even if he lived and came again to her, she could offer him small comfort. Father and lover had severed her from him.

  The thaw came, and Pryce Dacaerin sent out many messengers, as he and Bevan had arranged. Then true spring came at last. Soon visitors began to arrive. Clarric of Wallyn was among the first, seeking news of his son. Dacaerin gave him a cold welcome and colder comfort, but he answered mildly and settled in serenely to await the tide of time. Others rode in daily: petty lords and clan chieftains from all along the Wildering Way as far south as the Downs; from the western wooded hills toward Welas and from eastward as far as the Waste; from along the white-flecked Rushing River and the dark river to the south called Pel's Moat.

  Most of these Pryce Dacaerin expected, but some he did not. There came a King of the barbaric tribes that roamed the far Northern Barrens; he and his retinue were fierce black-braided men whose broad chests jingled with jewels. Bevan, he said in his sonorous dialect, had healed his little daughter by the power of his comely hand. Also, there came an emissary of the Firthola, the strange fair folk of the bleak northeast who ventured upon the chilly Deep in boats. And the King of the ancient wanderers of Romany rode in on a sturdy pony of their special breed, ending his long journey from the eastern Waste.

  At last in rode Cuin and Bevan, with weathered gear and a bulky bundle and the gleam of purpose in their eyes. Daring her father's wrath,
Ellid ran out to meet them both.

  "The Mothers smile on me!" she exclaimed, laughing, grasping their hands. "For many long days I have watched for you two, and today my patience is rewarded!"

  Bevan regarded her with a rare smile, gazing at the golden lights in her eyes. "All such good ever come to you, Cousin," Cuin told her cheerfully. "And how does mine uncle?"

  "Ill," replied Ellid sourly. "But here comes one who loves you better." Clarric came forward and hugged Cuin hard, kissing him. Then he herded him into the keep, leaving Ellid still holding Bevan's hand.

  "You have grown yet again," Clarric said gravely, looking at his son. "There is restraint in your bearing and knowledge in your eyes. What did you find at Lyrdion, Cuin?"

  "Much to fear and some little to love," Cuin replied, "and a goodly dose of humility, Father! I will tell you someday, but the time rolls upon us too fast now for tales. What have you heard here?"

  Clarric rolled his eyes. "Plots thick as porridge. Come, I will tell you." They went to his chamber to talk. In a darker chamber, not far away, Bevan kissed Ellid's eyes.

  "There is some talk afoot of making mine uncle King in your stead," Cuin told Bevan late that night, after Ellid had gone to her bed. "Among his stewards, in particular, such feeling is strong. And many of the southern lords serve him well."

  "That is just," Bevan replied. "Pryce Dacaerin is a valorous man. What does he think of this talk?"

  "I cannot say. I have saluted him, but he only glares at me. As far as I know, he has said nothing to encourage or deny. His mind is a mystery even to my father."

  "He will stay his word until he sees how the tide turns," Bevan decided. "He stands much to gain either way… We can but meet them head on as we have planned, Cuin."

  "Even so. But do not forget that there are those who are reluctant to battle against the mantled lord. Some even say that you are to blame for arousing his wrath."

  Bevan grimaced wryly. "If only we could frighten him away with fire, like the demons of air!" he remarked bitterly, then left abruptly for his midnight wanderings. Cuin sighed and went to lie in his wakeful bed.

  The next day the Summoning began in earnest. An odd assortment of men clustered around the great hall hearths and lounged against its rough-hewn pillars. On the dais, under close guard, was the cloth-draped form of the pedestaled Stone of Destiny.

  Some fifteen kinds of priest were present, priests of Duv and of Bel and of many of the children of the gods; even priests of the wise and chaste goddess Celonwy. These all vied with each other to sanctify the proceedings, and their chanting went on for more than an hour. Presently Pryce Dacaerin ordered that the Stone be uncovered for them. They laid hands on it importantly, but none laid hands on it for long.

  Then Bevan came forward. Ellid had made him a pearly white tunic of fine linen; it flashed on him like swordlight, but no more than the flashing of his thunder-dark eyes. Priests and onlookers alike froze to silence.

  "Enough!" Bevan told the priests in a low voice that was heard by all. "My people loathe your empty words. Get you hence." They scurried to their places, and Bevan was left alone on the dais beside the Stone, surveying the assembly of those that by right were his subjects. "Are there those among you who would try the Speaking Stone?" he demanded.

  Men shuffled their feet and glanced sidelong at their neighbors. But then Kael of the northern tribes strode forward, flinging his shining braids over his shoulders. "I am a King," he said. "I will try." He seized at the Stone, then shouted and jumped away.

  "It burns!" he cried. Some men laughed, but Bevan faced him soberly. "You are my good and honest friend, my lord. Chance another will bear you out."

  "It stings, right enough," Clarric spoke up mildly, "for I have had a look at it before. It may be that there is not a man in this great hall who could long lay hands on it." His words were like a goad, though gently spoken, and many came forward to prove him wrong. But none could bear the pang even for a space of a breath.

  "Let our host of Dacaerin try!" one of the southern lords shouted at last, but Pryce shook his head in a way that suffered no argument. "Another of that illustrious line, then. Cuin? Where is the sister-son?"

  "Here," replied Cuin from his place by the wall, and he vaulted to the dais to let his words be heard. "But I take no part in this quaint game. It would be traitorous in me even to think it, knowing what I know and seeing what I have seen. There is one before you, men of Isle, who stands your King in birth and in deed. Let the son of Byve make proof of his greatness!"

  All eyes were fixed on Bevan where he stood like a shimmering white flame in that dim place. Lightly he extended his shining hands and laid them on the Stone. The deep voice that then spoke sounded through the great hall, and many men trembled with the strangeness of it.

  "Hail to thee, High King of Isle!" the Stone saluted him. "Hail to thee, heir of Byve and of Veril and the mighty sons of the Mothers!"

  Bevan stood peacefully as snowlight with his hands on the Stone.

  "Beware of treachery, son of Byve!" it told him. "Forget not thyself in love of man or maid, but think most of thy duty to thine inheritance. Look always to strengthen Isle now and for generations against the evil from the east. The blessings of all the people of Duv be with thee. Thrice hail to thee, High King of Isle!"

  Silence fell; the light faded from Bevan's hands and he stepped back from the Stone. The gathering sat as if stunned. Only Cuin seemed unsurprised.

  "Behold your King," he said quietly, "who in every wise deserves your fealty, you who are leaderless."

  A hubbub of talk sprang up at this, and a big, slow-seeming lord from the southlands near Pel's Moat rose to speak the commonest thought. "Leaderless we may be, and feeling the lash of Pel's scourge," said he, "but who is this young warlock, that we should look to him? No matter what his parentage, he deserves no better fealty than the force of his right arm can win him."

  "Surely you have heard of his fame at the battle of Myrdon," someone replied.

  "Ay; to face a dragon is valor; I do not deny it. But did he draw a sword there? I think the mantled lord would not turn as tamely as the dragon."

  "Hear me a moment, my lords." Mild-mannered Clarric ascended the dais, and even the most quarrelsome lords grew silent and hearkened to him men named Wise.

  "Consider, chieftains of Isle. I have a son, a valiant young warrior, heir to Pryce Dacaerin"—Clarric coolly met Dacaerin's hard gaze—"and he cleaves to this son of Byve like a lymer for faithfulness. That alone should tell you something, though my lord Bevan is not one to boast, it seems… But Cuin has told me that eight of Pel's priests who tormented my son at the oak were slain by the power of Bevan's sword. Moreover, Bevan and Cuin have been to Pel's Pit, even to the place of fires, and have returned alive to the upper air."

  Talk buzzed again. "Is that true, my lord Cuin?" one of Dacaerin's stewards demanded. "That Bevan of Eburacon saved you from the servants of the mantled lord?"

  "See the proof," Cuin replied, and slipped off his tunic. Even hardened fighters gaped at the marks of torture on his young form. Bevan winced and moved from where he had stood silent all this time.

  "Speak further truth, Cuin," he remonstrated, "and say that they treated me even thus in Blagden, and that you leaped against a multitude to aid me." But Cuin's reply was lost in the gasp that went up all around.

  "Say you so?" the steward shouted above the din. "Then is your case lost, lord! We can have no blemished King!"

  "That is a saying of small men who would be easily rid of their liege." Bevan's melodious voice, though not raised, sounded through all the others; the great hall fell to silence at his words. "Who among us is not blemished in some way, my lords? But nevertheless, you shall have satisfaction. The son of Celonwy is not so easily marred." Bevan pulled off his pearly white shirt, and Cuin sank to his seat in amazement; on Bevan's graceful body the skin was as smooth as if it had never known sorrow.

  "I wrapped you up! You ran red with blood!" Cuin whi
spered.

  "Pel Blagden bloodied me, indeed," Bevan smiled at him, "but it was the Great Mother Duv who had the healing of me. Listen, you men of Isle!" Bevan rounded suddenly on the assembly. "For how many more ages of strife will you let the mantled terror stalk among you? Pel Blagden is a god, it is true, but he has spurned his right to reverence, and even an immortal can be slain. All that is needed is that you should stand together against him. Lend me but the numbers to hold off those heartless minions of his, and I will challenge him myself."

  They all stared at him wide-eyed, but no man laughed; such was the force of his straight, slender presence. "How can you say that?" a southland lord asked at last, though not harshly. "You who look not to be a warrior? Who do not even carry a sword?"

  "I also am a son of the immortals," Bevan replied, "and I have weapons you know little of." He lifted his fair-formed hands. White flames rose from his fingertips, bathing the dim hall in achingly bright light; men winced in wonder. "Yet though they are sword-bright of themselves, my hands are not swordless," Bevan continued with quiet intensity. "A mighty sword has come to me, a brand far ancienter in power than even our ancient adversary." He flicked the light from his hands and reached through the sudden shadows to the bundle Cuin tendered him.

  "Hau Ferddas!" Bevan cried, holding it aloft. The sword shone bright as his argent hand, but in color red-gold as the upward-striving sun. In its blood-red glow no one noted the flush of angry chagrin that surged to Pryce Dacaerin's face.

  "Hau Ferddas," Bevan repeated more softly. "The Mighty Protector; the Peace-Friend which renders the wielder invincible in battle. Look on it well, men of Isle." And indeed all men stared for long moments, at the sword and at the raven-haired youth who held it. Great smooth gems gleamed on the weapon's hilt, and above them the golden blade soared like a tower above a rock, high and massive. Yet Bevan held it easily.