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

  He gaped at the slim, black-haired youth who stepped into the firelight. "You! You have startled me; I am not accustomed to be so crept up on. How did you come here?"

  "Pardon, my lord." Bevan's face was grave and anxious. "For courtesy I should have come to the guards, but in truth I never thought of it. I am like a cat, my lord; in the night I go where I will."

  "Even as you went to my daughter's prison cell."

  "Even so."

  "Come and sit by the fire. What do you want with me?"

  Bevan sat, but kept somewhat back from the flames. "For some few nights now, my lord, I have prowled about this fortress of Myrdon. The guard is good, but tonight at last I got onto the roof of that great wooden house of theirs. It is some large living thing that they keep captive there. I heard it breathe. I could not see it or speak to it, to tell you more."

  Pryce Dacaerin's ruddy face went bleak with this news. Though he had never seen any of the huge and ancient creatures that men call enemy, he knew that such still roamed in the vast wilds of Isle, especially in the steep lands to north and west. "Did it breathe hot?" he demanded.

  "Nay, my lord. It could scarcely be a fire-drake, not in a cage of wood. A griffin, perhaps, or a wyvern; some cold thing of earth or flood."

  "How ever could that coward Marc have got such a prize?" Pryce muttered.

  "Some trickery." Bevan leaned forward earnestly. "My lord, I would beg a boon now."

  "Speak."

  "When they loose it on you, whatever it may be, bid your men stand back and hold their weapons. Let me face it."

  Pryce gazed on him in pity and surprise. "You are not one who is thewed for war," he said.

  "Nay, my lord, I have no skill of arms, for I would be a friend to all who crave friendship. Let me speak to it, I mean. I hope I can turn its wrath."

  Dacaerin shook his head wearily at this folly. But he had promised the boon and must needs assent. "What was it my daughter called you?" he asked at last.

  "Bevan."

  "One nobly born who has no inheritance," Pryce Dacaerin mused on the name. "What is it that you seek, Bevan? Glory? A taste of fortune, perhaps?"

  "Not glory, surely. Though I will not deny that I also have some quarrel with Marc of Myrdon." Bevan's eyes glowed darkly, like black coals that have flickered for a moment into flame. Then he smiled faintly at some private jest. This lord would never understand his true reasons, he knew… "Shall we but say that I seek the favor of the gods?" he proposed.

  "Then the gods defend you on the morrow," Dacaerin replied dryly, and he smiled sourly as he watched the visitor go. He had seen a long look pass between this one and his daughter, and he judged that either her person or her dowry was on Bevan's mind. Little he guessed that the dark-eyed youth thought most this night of the lonely form of some great creature of earth, imprisoned in the dark beyond Myrdon's walls.

  Early the next morning Pryce Dacaerin set to hurling his kerns against the hard walls of Myrdon. Soon he noted Bevan sitting quietly on his horse at the Forest's edge. It irked Dacaerin that the youth did not offer to fight, but at present there was no work for horsemen, only tight work on scaling-ladders. Pryce shrugged and turned his back on the silent watcher.

  It was mid-morning, and many wounded lay beneath the walls, when Dacaerin's captains brought word that the men of Myrdon were wheeling a huge wooden cage to the gates. Pryce was not loath to fall back as he had promised. If Marc's men then poured out of the gates, so much the better; he could bring his riders to bear on them. He withdrew his troops to the Forest line and waited.

  Presently the clumsy gates creaked open and the cage appeared, so large that it filled the opening. Reaching from above, someone released a latch. The cage was shoved through the gate as Myrdon's men cautiously peered from behind it. Then, with a scuffling and a creaking of wood, the creature bounded forth.

  "Child of the very deep!" Bevan breathed.

  It was a sea-drake, far now from the salt spray on the western cliffs of its home. It had no wings, being a swimming thing, but on its slender head rose a filigree crest. It was all lapped in silver scales which shone blindingly bright in the sunlight; it stood twice house-high, yet pounced as lithely as a kitten. Pryce Dacaerin thought that he had never seen anything so fearsome. He felt his armies shrink at the sight of it. Beyond it the men of Myrdon cheered and followed in its path. But Bevan rode out before it with eyes dazzled by its beauty.

  All men gaped at him, that he could compel his horse to approach such a thing of terror. But as he drew near he slipped down from the steed and let it plunge away. The silver dragon crouched at him, hissing, glaring with flat amethyst eyes. He spoke to it, and then took the rusty sword from his belt and sent it spinning far away over the battle plain.

  "Lunacy!" Dacaerin muttered.

  "O irmelbeteyn, kish elys a that ondde?" Bevan was speaking in the elder tongue of earth. ["Oh my lovely one, what have they done to you?"] The dragon lashed its shining tail as it trembled out its story of rage. The cold, pounding wrath of stormy seawater was in its voiceless communication, and the dark purple danger of the stiller depths, the outrage of an ancient surging elemental force now prostituted by men. But above all, from those pebble-hard violet eyes, Bevan learned of the motherhood of the Old Ones who walked before the Mothers or the mother goddess Duv. For the dragon was daughter of those whose females were smiting strong and never tamed, and she had proudly borne her own get: proudly, until the men of Myrdon came and took it from her.

  "O, irmelbeteyn," Bevan whispered, and his dark eyes filled with pity like balm of the quiet goddess of night. "Oh sweet, wild child of the sea…" Bevan walked forward, and the dragon bellied to the ground to meet him, sent forth a hoarse echoing cry and laid its great head on his shoulder.

  The silence after the cry was like a blow. Men of both armies stood thunderstruck as Bevan stroked the gleaming scales. "They who have hurt you are sheltering in your wake," Bevan murmured, and had no need to say more. The dragon raised his head. Bevan swung to a perch on its smooth shoulders, clinging below the crest of its curving neck. The sea-drake rose to its fullest height, wheeled with deadly grace and charged full upon the forces of Myrdon. Pryce Dacaerin stared for only a moment before he shook himself and his troops into action.

  The sea-drake attacked and slew with desperate power. All about its feet flowed blood of men and beasts. On his lofty seat Bevan was safe from blows but as helpless as one who rides a wave, helpless to aid his mount's reckless revenge. The dragon ran like a tide, breaking herself upon her enemies. Not even at the siege of Eburacon, where Byve High King broke his sword and lost his crown, must such despairing fervor have been seen. Byve had not touched a weapon since that evil night… Bevan winced and shut his dark eyes to the carnage all around him. Strange was the fate that had sent Byve's son to another such scene of bloody rout.

  For the defeat of Marc's soldiers was swift and complete. Picking his way through the mangled results, Pryce Dacaerin found the raven-haired youth sitting with the dragon's silver head in his lap. "Put by your sword if you come here," Bevan said unceremoniously as the lord drew near. "The steel hurts her."

  Without comment Dacaerin gave his weapon to a servant, then squatted by Bevan to study the powerful beast that now lay like a huge lump on the ground. The once-smooth silver body was battered and torn, but Pryce could see no deadly wound.

  "Her heart is gone," Bevan said softly in reply to his unspoken query. "They stole her little one while she hunted in the sea—a tiny thing, scarce bigger than a cow. They lured her hither with it, wore away her strength with the weary miles, and once they had caged her they slew it before her eyes. They tormented her with steel, also; even the sight of iron or steel is agony to the Old Ones. When they loosed her at last, she was ready to avenge herself on anything that bore the name of man."

  "Except you," Dacaerin remarked.

  Bevan made no reply, only caressing the crested head, which was delicately wrought for all its bulk. In a mo
ment the dragon breathed its last and the silver sheen flickered out of its eyes.

  "The rat of Myrdon has taken refuge in his stony nest," Dacaerin broke silence. "Would you come with me to find him?"

  Bevan wondered wryly at this unwelcome token of Dacaerin's regard. Perhaps the older man sensed how little he cared for the ways of war. He would have liked to thwart Pryce's ill-intended courtesy, but the man was Ellid's father. And truly there was some cause to wish Marc dead…

  "Let this dragon not be touched," Bevan said.

  Dacaerin posted guard over the sea-drake's body. Then, with retainers at their backs, he and Bevan entered Myrdon tower. In the great hall, men and women huddled disconsolately under guard, awaiting a life of servitude. Pryce Dacaerin strode past them with hardly a glance and took to the stairs. In the upper chambers some few men still lurked.

  Most of them yielded easily. Marc of Myrdon stood at bay by his treasure-room door, and he did not yield, for he knew that he might not expect even the dubious mercy of slavery. Dacaerin addressed his sword, for his was the blood-right, and blood in plenty met his need. He sent Marc's sword flying with his third stroke, and after that he took his time with his revenge, dealing slashing blows that would not quite kill or even stun. Marc was a screaming lump on the tower floor before he grew quiet at last. Bevan watched with a face gone hard and tight. He had forgotten to hate Marc.

  "Come!" said Pryce when he was finally done. "Let us see to the spoils!"

  He booted Marc's body to one side. It took several men to pry off the mighty bolts on the treasure-room door. Then Pryce and his followers all poured into the dim chamber, jubilant at the sight of the fine-wrought gold piled about the walls. "Would you look at that!" one man exclaimed.

  In the center of the room stood a tall shape like a chalice, gleaming reddish-gold and rimmed with pearls; altar-high it was, and of a great weight. Set into the top was a stone larger than a man's head, earth-colored, round and smooth. Bevan stood darkly at the door, but when his gaze fixed on this he walked to it and placed his hands upon it, priest-like. A voice deep as the depths of time sounded through the room: "Hail to thee, High King of Isle! Hail to thee, heir of Byve and of Veril and the mighty sons of the Mothers!"

  Men jumped and stared, but Bevan stood still as the stone.

  "Cherish the white hart, son of Byve," it intoned in accents eerie with antiquity. "Let thine eyes never behold the sea, lest the blood of the Otherworld flow to full tide in thee. May thine heirs ever stand the stay of Isle against the evil from the east. The blessing of the Great Mother be on thee. Thrice Hail to thee, High King of Isle!"

  Like one released from a trance, Bevan dropped his hands and stepped back from the stone.

  "Keep this to yourselves," Dacaerin told his men sternly and sent them out of the room. He shut the heavy door behind them and turned to Bevan. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

  "This must be the Stone of Destiny," Bevan murmured, "that stood of old amidst the fair fountains of Eburacon…"

  "That cries out in a human voice to proclaim the coming of a Very King," Pryce finished impatiently. "This I know. But what are you?"

  Bevan sighed and faced him. "Byve High King did not die at the sack of Eburacon," he replied. "I am his heir. But little I thought to claim it. Strange is the fate that brought the Speaking Stone under my hands."

  "Not so strange, indeed. The rats of Myrdon were lackeys of the mantled lord in that time; likely he threw them this bauble as a sop." Dacaerin spoke absently, as if struggling with many thoughts. "But you need not have touched it this day, my lord."

  Bevan regarded him dryly. "I am no lord at present," he retorted, "nor entirely a fool. But I believe I could not have kept away from it. I was as one drawn."

  "Even so." Pryce collected himself. "What may be your plans, Bevan of Eburacon?"

  "Plans?" Bevan nearly smiled. "I am a creature of the wilds, my lord. Does the deer plan its seasons?" He turned to the massive door and opened it with a touch. Dacaerin jumped to follow him out.

  "When you have need, Bevan, let me aid you," he said eagerly.

  Bevan scarcely nodded. Pryce Dacaerin strode toward the door, but as he passed the Speaking Stone, he hesitated. Cautiously he laid a hand on it, then snatched it back as stinging pain shot through him. He cursed under his breath, and furtively glanced toward the doorway to see if Bevan had noticed. But the raven-haired youth had vanished.

  It was scarcely to be expected of human frailty that Dacaerin's men should keep secret the wonder of the Stone. Within minutes after they left the treasure room, the tower of Myrdon buzzed with excited talk.

  The most loyal of Dacaerin's men said that it was he who would be the High King, for who could think it of a slender-thewed youth with no skill in arms? He had been but the means of the Stone's speech, a priest or seer. These men insisted that the Stone had said "heir" to Byve High King only meaning a successor. Pryce Dacaerin was the man so destined: had he not stood by even as the Stone prophesied?

  Others thought of Bevan's weaponless power that had turned the dragon, and these declared that he must be a true heir of the very blood of Byve. One man who had been in the treasure room even swore that the Stone had said "son of Byve." He was heartily laughed down, for had not Byve been dead these hundred years and more? If ever he had a son it was a brat, for he had never been wed to men's knowledge. But even a brat of Byve would have been a power to be looked to. Talk swirled for many days around the slight remembered form of Bevan.

  Pryce Dacaerin had thoughts like these and many more. If his daughter were to marry the youth, would it make her a Queen and himself a King's advisor? Or should he try to appropriate the Stone's words to himself and build himself a throne of them? Pryce Dacaerin had accumulated his own sizable holdings by seizing a chance where it offered, and he had undone many a worthy opponent. Moreover, he somewhat disliked the slender, dark-haired youth. He had sensed Bevan's aloofness, his distaste and his graceful evasions. But he had also sensed the Prince's arcane powers, so different from his own, and he was wary of challenging him openly. Still, he failed to think what other power threatened him and all of Isle.

  For the news of the Speaking Stone traveled, as news will, in ways mysteriously rapid, until it came to the attention of the cloaked god who dwells in the darkest of valleys, of the mantled lord who was ancient when Pryce Dacaerin was a babe. And this mantled one rose up in anger and agitation: for he knew quite well that the Stone of Destiny did not speak for so meager a man as Pryce Dacaerin.

  5

  Caer Eitha was nothing more than a boxlike walled fortress of stone, set in a clearing lonely as an island amidst the encircling sea of Forest. Pryce Dacaerin had named the unlovely stronghold after his wife, as a man will who rates his women with his possessions. He ruled other such strongholds which he called after his daughter and his sister, his mother and her kin. The device of the red dragon flew over them all. Without doubt Pryce Dacaerin was the most powerful man in Isle of that day. Marc of Myrdon was a mad fool to challenge him. But yet his reach had come to the limits of its grasp, and still no man called him King.

  It was to Caer Eitha that Cuin son of Clarric took his cousin Ellid. By the time he brought her home a scowl had settled on his handsome face, for Ellid had been like a stranger: quiet, solitary and aloof. She had not kissed him even for greeting. Her mother also noted the change in her, and said that she was fatigued from her ordeal. Cuin wished that he could think the same, but suspicion nagged him; the more so because he scorned to give it voice. Only in temper his doubts found their outlet.

  A week after their homecoming, Cuin noted Ellid wandering all alone toward the Forest. Frowning, he hurried after her; it was not the first time she had broken bounds of late.

  "You should not go out alone, Ellid," he said sharply when he had caught up with her.

  "I am not afraid," she answered, though with none of her former fire in her voice.

  "And what of me? I am in charge of you
until your father returns. If any ill should come to you, he will flay me." Cuin stood staring at her, tight-lipped with exasperation. He knew she was unhappy; nothing but misery could make Ellid so tame. He would far rather she would weep outright than face him so silently. His love for her nearly choked him.

  "If you would walk," he said gruffly at last, "I will get Flessa and come with you."

  Flessa was Cuin's falcon. A shade of a smile moved Ellid's still lips, for she knew that Cuin had better things to do than go a-hawking with such poor company. But he saw that smile as a light in the wilderness. "Wait but a moment," he exclaimed, and ran to fetch the bird.

  They roamed along the fringes of the Forest. They scarcely spoke, but Cuin was content that she walked at his side. Rabbits were feeding in the grass beneath the trees. Twice Cuin unhooded the flame-red falcon and loosed it, and it returned faithfully with the game each time. But the third time it swerved from its course like a spark caught in the wind and shot away toward the treetops.

  Cuin gave a cry of anger and sorrow; many hours of patient work were in the training of that bird. "Stay here—nay, go back!" he told Ellid, and plunged after it amongst the trees. But Ellid was one, like her cousin, who took direction ill. "I am coming," she retorted, and entered the Forest on his heels.

  They struggled along in panting haste. Soon they saw the falcon sitting high in a tall pine, bright as fire in the sunlight. Cuin whistled and swung the lure, but the bird flashed away forthwith toward the denser cover. Cuin muttered to himself. A deep ravine interrupted the way. They scrambled down quickly and toiled up the opposite slope, hoisting themselves by their hands. Then Cuin gasped and almost fell. A white hart leaped to the bank just above, leaped again and vanished.

  Ellid sprang to where it had stood like one who has sprouted wings. "Bevan?" she cried in a voice like larksong. Struggling below, Cuin heard the soft answering call: "Here." When Cuin came to his feet, he found the black-haired stranger standing beneath a silver beech, and the lady kissing him—such a kiss as Cuin had never known from her.