Isle of Glass Page 3

  Even Kilhwch had warned him. Wild young Kilhwch, with his father’s face but his mother’s grey eyes, and a little of the family wisdom. “The border lords on both sides make a fine nest of adders, but Rhydderch is the worst of them. He’d flay his own mother if it would buy him an extra acre. Work your magic with the others as much as you like; I could use a little quiet there. But stay away from Rhydderch.”

  Kilhwch had not known of the baron’s invitation to a parley. If he had, he would have flown into one of his rages. Yet that would not have stopped Alun.

  His shield was failing. One last effort; then he could rest. He arranged his body as best he might, broken as it was, and extended his mind.

  The normal rhythm of a border castle flowed through him, overlaid with the blackness that was Rhydderch and with a tension born of men gathering for war. Rhydderch himself was gone; a steward’s mind murmured of a rendezvous with a hill-chieftain.

  Alun could do nothing until dark, and it was barely past noon. Thirst burned him; hunger was a dull ache. Yet nowhere in that heap of offal could he find food or drink.

  He would not weaken again into tears. His mind withdrew fully into itself, a deep trance yet with a hint of awareness that marked the passing of time.

  o0o

  Darkness roused him, and brought with it full awareness of agony. For a long blood-red while he could not move at all.

  By degrees he dragged himself up. As he had reached the corner, so he reached the gate. It opened before him.

  How he came to the stable, unseen and unnoticed, he never knew. There was mist the color of torment, and grinding pain, and the tension of power stretched to the fullest; and at last, warm sweet breath upon his cheek and sleek horseflesh under his hand.

  With all the strength that remained to him, he saddled and bridled his mare, wrapping himself in the cloak which had covered her. She knelt for him; he half-climbed, half-fell into the saddle. She paced forward.

  The courtyard was dark in starlight. The gate yawned open; the sentry stood like a shape of stone.

  Fara froze. He stirred on her back. He could not speak through swollen lips, but his words rang in his mind: Now, while I can hold the man and the pain—run, my beauty. Run!

  She sprang into a gallop, wind-smooth, wind-swift. Her rider clung to her, not caring where she went. She turned her head to the south and lengthened her stride.

  o0o

  Only when the castle was long gone, hidden in a fold of the hills, did she slow to a running walk. She kept that pace hour after hour, until Alun was like to fall from her back. At last she found a stream and knelt, so that he had but little distance to fall; he drank in long desperate gulps, dragged himself a foot or two from the water, and let darkness roll over him.

  Voices sounded, low and lilting, speaking a tongue as old as those dark hills. While they spoke he understood, but when they were done, he could not remember what they had said.

  Hands touched him, waking pain. Through it he saw a black boar, ravening. He cried out against it.

  The hands started away and returned. There were tightnesses: bandages, roughly bound; visions of the herb-healer, who must see this tortured creature; Rhuawn’s tunic to cover his nakedness. And again the black boar looming huge, every bristle distinct, an ember-light in its eyes and the scarlet of blood on its tusks. He called the lightnings down upon it.

  The voices cried out. One word held in his memory: Dewin, that was wizard. And then all the voices were gone. Only Fara remained, and the pain, and what healing and clothing the hill-folk had given.

  Healing. He must have healing. Again he mounted, again he rode through the crowding shadows.

  At the far extremity of his inner sight, there was a light. He pursued it, and Fara bore him through the wild hills, over a broad and turbulent water, and on into darkness.

  o0o

  The fire burned low. Soon the bell would ring for Matins.

  Alf rose, stiff with the memory of torment, and looked down upon the wounded man. No human being could have endured what he had endured, not only torture but five full days after, without healing, without food, riding by day and by night.

  Alf touched the white fine face. No, it was not human. Power throbbed behind it, low now and slow, but palpably present. It had brought the stranger here to ancient Ynys Witrin, and to the one being like him in all of Gwynedd or Anglia, the one alone who might have healed him.

  Who could not, save as humans do, with splint and bandage and simple waiting. He had set each shattered bone with all the skill he had and tended the outraged flesh as best he knew how. The life that had ebbed low was rising slowly with tenacity that must be of elf-kind, that had kept death at bay throughout that grim ride.

  He slept now, a sleep that healed. Alf envied him that despite its cost. His dreams were none of pain; only of peace, and of piercing sweetness.

  4

  Consciousness was like dawn, slow in growing, swift in its completion. Alun lay for a time, arranging his memories around his hurts. In all of it, he could not see himself upon a bed, his body tightly bandaged, warm and almost comfortable. Nor could he place that stillness, that scent of stone and coolness and something faint, sweet—apples, incense.

  He opened his eyes. Stone, yes, all about: a small room, very plain yet with a hearth and a fire, burning applewood, and a single hanging which seemed woven of sunlight on leaves.

  Near the fire was a chair, and in it a figure. Brown cowl, tonsure haloed by pale hair—a monk, intent upon a book. His face in profile was very young and very fair.

  The monk looked up. Their gazes met, sea-grey and silver-gilt; warp and woof, and the shuttle flashing between. Alf’s image; the flicker of amusement was the other’s, whose knightly hands had never plied a loom.

  As swiftly as fencers in a match, they disengaged. Alf was on his feet, holding white-knuckled to the back of his chair. With an effort he unclenched his fingers and advanced to the bed.

  Alun’s eyes followed him. His face was quiet, betraying none of his pain. “How long since I came here?” he asked.

  “Three days,” Alf answered, “and five before that of riding.”

  “Eight days.” Alun closed his eyes. “I was an utter and unpardonable fool.”

  Alf poured well-watered mead from the beaker by the bed and held the cup to Alun’s lips. The draught brought a ghost of color to the wan cheeks, but did not distract the mind behind them. “Is there news? Have you heard—”

  Alf crumbled a bit of bread and fed it to him. “No news. Though there’s a tale in the villages of a mighty wizard who rode over the hills in a trail of shooting stars and passed away into the West. Opinions are divided as to the meaning of the portent, whether it presages war or peace, feast or famine. Or maybe it was only one of the Fair Folk in a fire of haste.”

  A glint of mirth touched the grey eyes. “Maybe it was. You’ve heard no word of war?”

  “Not hereabouts. I think you’ve put the fear of Annwn into too many people.”

  “That will never last,” Alun murmured. “The black boar will rise, and soon. And I...” His good hand moved down his body. “I pay for my folly. How soon before I ride?”

  “Better to ask, ‘How soon before I walk?’ ”

  He shook his head slightly. “I’ll ride before then. How soon?”

  Alf touched his splinted leg, his bound hand. Shattered bone had begun to knit, torn muscle to mend itself, with inhuman speed, but slowly still. “A month,” he said. “No sooner.”

  “Brother,” Alun said softly, “I am not human.”

  “If you were, I’d tell you to get used to your bed, for you’d never leave it.”

  Alun’s lips thinned. “I’m not so badly hurt. Once my leg knits, I can ride.”

  “You rode with it broken for five days. It will take six times that, and a minor miracle, to undo the damage. Unless you’d prefer to live a cripple.”

  “I could live lame if there was peace in Gwynedd and Anglia and Rhiyana, a
nd three kings safe on their thrones, and Rhydderch rendered powerless.”

  “Lame and twisted and racked with pain, and bereft of your sword hand. A cause for war even if you put down Rhydderch, if knights in Rhiyana are as mindful of their honor as those in Anglia.”

  Alun drew a breath, ragged with pain. “Knights in Rhiyana pay heed to their King. Who will let no war begin over one man’s folly. I will need a horse-litter, Brother, and perhaps an escort, for as soon as may be. Will you pass my request to your Abbot?”

  “I can give you his answer now,” Alf replied. “No. The Church frowns on suicide.”

  “I won’t die. Tell your Abbot, Brother. The storm is about to break. I must go before it destroys us all.”

  o0o

  Dom Morwin was in the orchard under a grey sky, among trees as old as the abbey itself. As Alf came to walk with him, he stooped stiffly, found two sound windfalls, and tossed one to his friend.

  Alf caught it and polished it on his sleeve. As he bit into it, Morwin asked, “How is your nurseling?”

  “Lively,” Alf answered. “He came to this morning, looked about, and ordered a horse-litter.”

  The Abbot lifted an eyebrow. “I would have thought that he was on his deathbed. He certainly looked it yesterevening when I glanced in.”

  “He won’t die. He won’t be riding about for a while yet, either. Whatever he may think.”

  “He sounds imperious, for a foundling.”

  “That, he’s not. Look.” Alf reached into the depths of his habit and drew out the signet in its pouch.

  Morwin examined the ring for a long moment. “It’s his?”

  “He carried it. He wanted you to see it.”

  The other turned it in his hands. “So—he’s one of Gwydion’s elven-folk. I’d wondered if the tales were true.”

  “Truer than you thought before, at least.”

  Morwin’s glance was sharp. “Doubts, Alf?”

  “No.” Alf sat on a fallen trunk. “We’re alike. When he woke, we met, eye, mind. It was painful to draw back and to talk as humans talk. He was...very calm about it.”

  “How did he get here, as he was, with his King’s signet in his pocket?”

  “He rode. He was peacemaking for Gwydion, but he ran afoul of a lord he couldn’t bewitch. He escaped toward the only help his mind could see. He wasn’t looking for human help by then. I was the closest one of his kind. And St. Ruan’s is...St. Ruan’s.”

  “He’s failed in his errand, then. Unless war will wait for the winter to end and for him to heal.”

  “He says it won’t. I know it won’t. That’s why he ordered the horse-litter. I refused, in your name. He wanted something more direct.”

  “Imperious.” The Abbot contemplated his half-eaten apple. “The border of Gwynedd is dry tinder waiting for a spark. There are barons on both sides who’d be delighted to strike one. And Richard would egg them on.”

  “Exactly. Gwydion, through Alun, was trying to prevent that.”

  “Was? Your Alun’s lost, then?”

  “For Gwydion’s purposes. Though he’d have me think otherwise.”

  “Exactly how bad is it?”

  “Bad,” Alf answered. “Not deadly, but bad. If he’s careful, he’ll ride again, even walk. I don’t know if he’ll ever wield a sword. And that is if he does exactly as I tell him. If he gets up and tries to run his King’s errands, he’ll end a cripple. I told him so. He told me to get a litter.”

  “Does he think he can do any better now than he did before?”

  “I don’t know what he thinks!” Alf took a deep breath. More quietly he said, “Maybe you can talk to him. I’m only a monk. You’re the Lord Abbot.”

  Morwin’s eyes narrowed. “Alf. How urgent is this? Is it just a loyal man and a foster father looking out for his ward, and a general desire for peace? Or does it go deeper? What will happen if Alun does nothing?”

  When they were boys together, they had played a game. Morwin would name a name, and Alf would look inside, and that name would appear as a thread weaving through the world-web; and he would tell his friend where it went. It had been a game then, with a touch of the forbidden in it, for it was witchery. As they grew older they had stopped it.

  The tapestry was there. He could see it, feel it: the shape, the pattern. He lived in it and through it, a part of it and yet also an observer. Like a god, he had thought once; strangling the thought, for it was blasphemy.

  Gwydion, he thought. Alun. Gwynedd.

  In his mind he stood before the vast loom with its edges lost in infinity, and his finger followed a skein of threads, deep blue and blood-red and fire-gold. Blood and fire, a wave of peace, a red tide of war. A pattern, shifting, elusive, yet clear enough. If this happened, and this did not; if...

  Grey sky lowered over him; Morwin’s face hovered close. Old—it was so old.

  He covered his eyes. When he could bear to see again, Morwin was waiting, frowning. “What was it? What did you see?”

  “War,” Alf muttered. “Peace. Gwydion—Alun— He can’t leave this place. He’ll fail again, and this time he’ll die. And he knows it. I told him what the Church thinks of suicide.”

  “What will happen?”

  “War,” Alf said again. “As he saw it. Richard will ride to Gwynedd and Kilhwch will come to meet him; Rhiyana will join the war for Kilhwch’s sake. Richard wounded, Kilhwch dead, Gwydion broken beyond all mending; and lords of three kingdoms tearing at each other like jackals when the lions have gone.”

  “There’s no hope?”

  Alf shivered. It was cold, and the effort of seeing left him weak. “There may be. I see the darkest colors because they’re strongest. Maybe there can be peace. Another Alun...Rhydderch’s death...a Crusade to divert Richard: who knows what can happen?”

  “It will have to happen soon.”

  “Before spring.”

  Morwin began to walk aimlessly, head bent, hands clasped behind him. Alf followed. He did not slip into the other’s mind. That pact they had made, long ago.

  They came to the orchard’s wall and walked along it, circling the enclosure.

  “It’s not for us to meddle in the affairs of kings,” Morwin said at last. “Our part is to pray, and to let the world go as it will.” His eyes upon Alf were bright and wicked. “But the world has gone its way into our abbey. I’m minded to heed it. Prayer won’t avert a war.”

  “Won’t it?”

  “The Lord often appreciates a helping hand,” the Abbot said. “Our King is seldom without his loyal Bishop Aylmer, even on the battlefield. And the Bishop might be kindly disposed toward a messenger of mine bringing word of the troubles on the border.”

  “And?”

  “Peace. Maybe. If an alliance could be made firm between Gwynedd and Anglia...”

  “My lord Abbot! It’s corrupted you to have a worldling in your infirmary.”

  “I was always corrupt. Tell Sir Alun that I’ll speak to him tonight before Compline.”

  o0o

  Alun would have none of it. “I will not place one of your Brothers in danger,” he said. “For there is danger for a monk of Anglia on Rhiyana’s errand. Please, my lord; a litter is all I ask.”

  The Abbot regarded him as he lay propped up with pillows, haggard and hollow-eyed and lordly proud. “We will not quarrel, sir. You may not leave until you are judged well enough to leave. Which will not be soon enough to complete your embassy. My messenger will go in your stead.”

  For a long moment Alun was silent. At length he asked, “Whom will you send?”

  Morwin glanced sidewise at the monk who knelt, tending the fire. “Brother Alfred,” he answered.

  The flames roared. Alf drew back from the blistering heat and turned.

  “Yes,” Morwin said as if he had not been there. “The Bishop asked for him. I’ll send him, and give him your errand besides.”

  “Morwin,?’ Alf whispered. “Domne.”

  Neither heeded him. Alun nodded slowly. "I
f it is he, then I cannot object. He shall have my mare. She frets in her stall; and no other horse is as swift or as tireless as she.”

  “That’s a princely gift.”

  “He has need of all speed. How soon may he go?”

  “He’ll need a night to rest and prepare. Tomorrow.”

  Alf stood, trembling uncontrollably. They did not look at him.

  Alun’s eyes were closed; Morwin stared at his sandaled feet.

  “Domne,” he said. “Domne, you can’t send me. You know what I am.”

  The Abbot raised his eyes. They were very bright and very sad. “Yes, I know what you are. That’s why I’m sending you.”

  “Morwin—”

  “You swore three vows, Brother. And one of them was obedience.”

  Alf bowed his head. “I will go because you command me to go, but not because I wish to. The world will not be kind to such a creature as I am.”

  “Maybe you need a little unkindness.” Morwin turned his back on Alf, nodded to Alun, and left.

  The Rhiyanan gazed quietly at the ceiling. “It hurts him to do this, but he thinks it is best.”

  “I know,” Alf said. He had begun to tremble again. “I’m a coward. I haven’t left St. Ruan’s since—since—God help me! I can’t remember. These walls have grown up round my bones.”

  “Time then to hew your way out of them.”

  “It frightens me. Three kingdoms in the balance; and only my hand to steady them.”

  Alun turned his head toward Alf. “If you will let me go, you can stay here.”

  The other laughed without mirth. “Oh, no, my lord! I’ll do as my Abbot bids me. You will do as I bid you, which is to stay here and heal, and pray for me.”

  “You ask a great deal, Brother.”

  “So does the Abbot,” Alf said. “Good night, my lord of Rhiyana.”

  5

  “‘she’—that is, the Soul of the World—‘woven throughout heaven from its center to its outermost limits, and enfolding it without in a circle, and herself revolving within herself, began a divine beginning of ceaseless and rational life for all time.’ So, Plato. Now the Christian doctors say—”