Isle of Glass Read online

  Alf shook his head. “Alun never frets. He simply follows me with his mind.”

  “Is he watching now?”

  “No. He’s asleep.”

  Jehan glanced about uneasily at the whispering dark. “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly.” Alf smiled. “Come, lad! He can’t see any secrets. He’s a man of honor.”

  “But he follows us!”

  “Me, to be more precise. Sometimes he borrows my eyes.”

  Jehan’s had gone wild. When Alf touched him, he started like a deer. Those were Alf’s eyes upon him: Alf’s own, strange, familiar eyes. No one else lived behind them.

  They flicked aside before he could drown. He swayed; Alf held him. “Jehan. Alun is like me. My own kind. As you and I share speech, so we share our minds. It comforts him. He gave me all he had; should I refuse to let him be with me?”

  The other battled for control. “It’s not that. It’s...it’s...I can’t see him!”

  “Would you like me to tell you when he’s here?”

  “Please. I’d rather know.”

  “Then you will. Sleep, Jehan. I’ll keep the first watch.”

  He would have argued, but suddenly he could not keep his eyes open. Even as suspicion stirred, he slid into oblivion.

  o0o

  The road wound deeper into the forest, growing narrower as it proceeded, and growing worse, until often the travelers were slowed to a walk. Jehan rode with hand close to sword hilt; Alf’s every sense was alert, although he said once, “No robber, unless he’s desperate, will touch us: two strong men, well mounted, and one big enough for two.”

  Jehan laughed at that, but he did not relax his guard. Nor, he noticed, did Alf. Even as that disturbed him, it brought comfort.

  The second night under the trees, they camped in a place they could defend, a clearing that rose into a low hill, and at the top a standing stone. Jehan would not have chosen to stop here; but he glanced at his companion and grimaced. Here he was, riding with an elf-man, a proven enchanter, and he was afraid to sleep on an old barrow.

  It did not seem to trouble Alf. He made camp quietly and ate as much as he would ever eat, and sat afterward, silent, fixing the fire with a blank, inward stare.

  When he spoke, Jehan started. “Alun is here.”

  The novice shuddered and closed his eyes. For a moment in the fire he had seen a narrow hawk-face, a glint of grey eyes, staring full into his own.

  Alf’s voice murmured in his ear. “Alun sends greetings.”

  Jehan opened his eyes. There was no face in the fire. “Is he still...”

  “No.” Alf rose and stretched, arching his back, turning his face to the stars. Below, in the clearing about the mound, the horses grazed quietly.

  He laid his hand on the standing stone. It was cold, yet in the core of it he sensed a strange warmth.

  So it was in certain parts of St. Ruan’s: cold stone, warm heart, and power that sang in his blood. The power hummed here, faint yet steady. It had eased the contact with Alun, brought them mind to mind almost without their willing it.

  Yet there was something...

  Jehan; the horses; a hunting owl; a wolf.

  He called in all the threads of his power and looked into Jehan’s wide eyes. The moon was very bright, turning toward the full; even the novice could see almost as well as if it had been day.

  Alf cupped his hands. The cold light filled them and overflowed. Slowly he opened his fingers and let it drain away.

  “What does it feel like?” Jehan’s voice was very low.

  He let his hands fill again and held them out to Jehan. The other reached out a hand that tried not to tremble. “It— I can feel it!”

  Again Alf let the light go. It poured like water over Jehan’s fingers, but he could not hold it. “I could make it solid, weave a fabric of it. I tried that once. Moonlight and snowlight for an altar cloth. It was beautiful. The Abbot wanted to send it to Rome. But then he realized that it was made with sorcery.”

  “What did he do with it?”

  “Exactly what he did with me. Blessed it, consecrated it, and put it away.” Alf lay down, propped up on his elbow. “But now I’m out. I wonder what will happen to the cloth.”

  “Maybe,” said Jehan, “Dom Morwin should send it to Rhiyana. The Pope wouldn’t appreciate it, but the Elvenking would.”

  Alf considered that. “Maybe he would.”

  “He’d certainly appreciate you.”

  For answer Jehan received only a swift ember-glance. They did not speak again that night.

  7

  The third day in the forest dawned bleak and cold. They ate and broke camp in silence, shivering. Jehan’s fingers were numb, his gelding’s trappings stiff and unmanageable; he cursed softly.

  Alf moved him gently aside and managed the recalcitrant straps with ease. Jehan glanced at him. “You’re never cold, are you?”

  “Not often,” Alf said. The task was done; he took Jehan’s hands in both his own. His flesh felt burning hot.

  Startled, Jehan tried to pull away. Alf held him easily. “You don’t need to add frostbite to your ills.”

  Jehan submitted. The warmth no longer hurt; it was blissful. “You’re a marvel, Brother Alf.”

  “Or a monster.” Alf let him go. “Come, mount up. We’ve a long way to go.”

  o0o

  The cold did not grow less with the day’s rising. Jehan thought the air smelled of snow.

  Alf rode warily, eyes flicking from side to side. More than once he paused, every sense alert.

  “What is it?” Jehan asked. “Bandits?”

  The other shook his head.

  “Then why do you keep stopping?”

  “I don’t know,” Alf said. "Nothing stalks us. But the pattern isn’t...quite...right. As if something were concealing itself.” His eyes went strange, blind.

  Jehan looked away. When he looked back, Alf was blinking, shaking his head. “I can’t find anything.” He shrugged as if to shake off a burden. “We’re safe enough. I’d know if we weren’t.”

  That was not particularly comforting. But they rode on in peace, disturbed only by a pair of ravens that followed them for a while, calling to them. Alf called back in a raven’s voice.

  “What did they say?” Jehan wondered aloud when they had flapped away.

  “That we make enough noise to rouse every hunter but a human one.” Alf bent under a low branch. The way was clear beyond; he touched the mare into a canter. Over his shoulder he added, “We should leave the trees by tomorrow. There’s a village beyond; we’ll sleep tomorrow night under a roof.”

  “Is that a solemn promise?”

  “On my soul,” Alf replied.

  Which could be ironic, Jehan reflected darkly. His gelding stumbled over a tree root; he steadied it with legs and hands. Ahead of him, Alf rode lightly on a mount that never stumbled or even seemed to tire.

  Elf-man, elf-horse. Maybe this was all part of a spell, and he was doomed to ride under trees forever and never see the open fields again.

  He was dreaming awake. His hands were numb; the sun hung low, and it was growing dark under the trees. He would be glad to stop.

  Alf had begun to sing softly. “Nudam fovet Flaram lectus; Caro candet tenera...”

  He stopped, as he often did when he caught himself singing something secular. And that one, Jehan thought, was more secular than most.

  “‘Naked Flora lies a-sleeping; whitely shines her tender body...’ ”

  When he began again, it was another melody altogether, a hymn to the Virgin.

  o0o

  That night, as before, Alf took the first watch. The air was cold and still; no stars shone. Nothing moved save the flames of the fire.

  He huddled into his cloak. He heard nothing, sensed nothing.

  Perhaps he was a fool; perhaps he was going mad, to watch so when no danger threatened.

  Sleep stole over him. He had had little since he left St. Ruan’s, and his body was beginning to
rebel. He should wake Jehan, set him to watch. If anything came upon them—

  o0o

  Alf started out of a dim dream. It was dark, quiet.

  Very close to him, something breathed. Not Jehan, across the long-dead fire. Not the horses. A presence stood over him.

  He blinked.

  It remained. A white wolf, sitting on its haunches, glaring at him with burning bronze-gold eyes.

  A white girl, all bare, glaring through a curtain of bronze-gold hair.

  “What,” she demanded in a cold clear voice, “are you doing here?”

  He sat up, his hood falling back from a startled face. Her eyes ran over him; her thought was as clear as her voice, and as cold. God’s bones! A monk’s cub. Who gave him leave to play at knights and squires?

  His cheeks burned. Unclasping his cloak, he held it out to her.

  She ignored it. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

  Suddenly he wanted to laugh. It was impossible, to be sitting here in the icy dark with a girl who wore nothing but her hair.

  And who was most certainly of his own kind.

  “I was sleeping,” he answered her, “until you woke me." Again he held out his cloak. “Will you please put this on?”

  She took the garment blindly and flung it over her shoulders. It did not cover much of consequence. “This is his cloak. His mare. His very undertunic. Damn you, where is he?”

  Alf stared at her. “Alun?”

  “Alun,” she repeated as if the name meant nothing to her.

  Her mind touched his, a swift stabbing probe. “Yes. Alun. Where is he?”

  “Who are you?” he countered.

  She looked as if she would strike him. “Thea,” she snapped. “Where—”

  “I’m called Alf.”

  She seized him. Her hands were slender and strong, not at all as he had thought a woman’s must be. Her body—

  The night had been cold, but now he burned. Abruptly, fiercely, he pulled away. “Cover yourself,” he commanded in his coldest voice.

  His tone touched her beneath her anger. Somewhat more carefully, she wrapped the cloak about her. “Brother, if that indeed you are, I’ll ask only once more. Then I’ll force you to tell me. Where is my lord?”

  “Safe,” Alf replied, “and no prisoner.”

  Thea was not satisfied. “Where is he?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She sat on her heels. Without warning, without movement, she thrust at his mind. Instinctively he parried. She paled and swayed. “You’re strong!” she gasped.

  He did not answer. A third presence tugged at his consciousness, one for which he could let down his barriers. Slowly he retreated into a corner of his mind, as that new awareness flowed into him, filling him as water fills an empty cup.

  Thea cried a name, but it was not Alun’s.

  Alf’s voice spoke without his willing it in a tone deeper and quieter than his own. “Althea. Who gave you leave to come here?”

  She lifted her chin, although she was very pale. “Prince Aidan,” she answered.

  Alf sensed Alun’s prick of alarm, although his response was quiet, unperturbed. “My brother? Is there trouble?”

  “Of course there’s trouble. He’s not had an honest communication from you in almost a month. And I’m not getting one now. What’s wrong? What are you hiding?”

  “Why, nothing," Alun said without a tremor. “If he is so urgent, where is he?”

  “Home, playing the part you set him and growing heartily sick of it. He would have come, but your lady put a binding on him. Which he will break, as well you know, unless you give him some satisfaction.”

  “I’m safe and in comfort. So I’ve told him. So you can tell him.”

  Thea glowered at the man behind the stranger’s face. “You’re a good liar, but not good enough.” Suddenly her face softened, and her voice with it. “My lord. Aidan is wild with worry. Maura has been ill, and—”

  For an instant, Alun lost control of the borrowed body. It wavered; he steadied it. “Maura? Ill?”

  “Yes. For no visible cause. And speaking of it to no one. So Aidan rages in secret and Maura drifts like a ghost of herself; I follow your mare and your belongings, under shield lest you find me out, and come upon a stranger. Why? What’s happened?”

  Alf watched his own hands smooth her tousled hair and stroke her soft cheek. “Thea, child, I’m in no danger. But what I do here is my own affair, and secret.”

  She did not yield to his gentleness. She was proud, Alf thought in his far corner, and wild. “Tell me where you are.”

  “Inside this body now,” he answered her.

  “And where is yours? What is this shaveling doing with all your belongings? Have you taken up his?” He nodded.

  “Why?” she cried.

  “Hush, Thea. You’ll wake Jehan.”

  She paid no heed to the oblivious hulk by the fire with its reek of humanity. “Tell me why,” she persisted.

  “Someday.” He touched her cheek again, this time in farewell, and kissed her brow. “The bells are ringing for Matins. Good night, Althea. And good morning.”

  Alf reeled dizzily. His hands fell from Thea’s shoulders; he gasped, battling sickness. For a brief, horrible moment, his body was not his: strange, ill-fitting, aprickle with sundry small pains.

  She fixed him with a fierce, feral stare. But it was not he whom she saw. “You dare—even you, you dare, to bind me so... Let me go!”

  His eyes held no comprehension. She raised her hand as if to strike, and with a visible effort, lowered it. “He bound me. I cannot follow him or find him. Oh, damn him!”

  In a moment Alf was going to be ill. He had done—freely done—what he had never dreamed of, not even when he let Alun use his eyes. Given his body over to another consciousness.

  Possession...

  He was lying on the ground, and Thea was bending over him. She had forgotten the cloak again. He groaned and turned his face away.

  “Poor little Brother,” she said. “I see he’s bound you, too. I’d pity you if I could.” Her warm fingers turned his head back toward her.

  His eyes would not open. Something very light brushed the lids. “I’m covered again,” she told him.

  She was. He looked at her, simply looked, without thought.

  Thea stared back. She was the first person, apart from Alun, who had seen no strangeness in him at all.

  His own kind. Were they all so proud?

  “Most of us,” she said. “It’s our besetting sin. We’re also stubborn. Horribly so. As you’ll come to know.”

  “Will I?” He was surprised that he could speak at all, let alone with such control. “Since you can’t approach Alun, surely you want to go back to his brother.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Go back to Aidan? Kyrie eleison! I'm not as mad as all that. No; I’m staying with you. Either Alun will slip and let his secret out, or at least I’ll be safe out of reach of Aidan’s wrath.”

  “You can’t!” His voice cracked like a boy’s.

  “I can,” she shot back. “And will, whatever you say, little Brother.”

  He rose unsteadily. He was nearly a head taller than she. “You can’t,” he repeated, coldly now, as he would have spoken to an upstart novice. “I’m on an errand from my Abbot to the Bishop Aylmer. I cannot be encumbered with a woman.”

  To his utter discomfiture, she laughed. Her laughter was like shaken silver. “What, little Brother! Do I threaten your vows?”

  “You threaten my errand. Go back to Rhiyana and leave me to it.”

  For answer, she yawned and lay where he had lain. “It’s late, don’t you think? We’d best sleep while we can. We’ve a long way still to go.”

  No power of his could move her. She was not human, and her strength was trained and honed as his was not. Almost he regretted his reluctance to use power.

  She had no such scruples. Like a fool, he tried to reason with her. “You can’t come with us. Yo
u have no horse, no weapons, not even a garment for your body.”

  She smiled, and melted, and changed; and a white wolf lay at his feet. And again: a sleek black cat. And yet again: a white hound with red ears, laughing at him with bright elf-eyes.

  He breathed deep, calming himself, remembering what he was. In the shock of her presence, he had forgotten. He picked up his cloak and stepped over her, setting Jehan and the fire between them, and lay down.

  He did not sleep. He did not think that she did, either. With infinite slowness the sky paled into dawn.

  o0o

  Jehan had strange dreams, elf-voices speaking in the night, and shapes of light moving to and fro about the camp; and once a white woman-shape, born of Alf’s song and his own waking manhood. When he woke, he burned to think of her. He sat up groggily and stared.

  A hound stared back. Her eyes were level, more gold than brown, and utterly disconcerting.

  Alf came to stand beside her, brittle-calm as ever. “What—” Jehan began, his tongue still thick with sleep. “Whose hound is that?”

  “Alun’s,” Alf answered.

  The novice gaped at her. “But how—”

  “Never mind,” said Alf. “She’s attached herself to us whether we will or no.”

  Jehan held out his hand. The hound sniffed it delicately, and permitted him to touch her head, then her sensitive ears. “She’s very beautiful," he said.

  Alf smiled tightly. “Her name is Thea.”

  “It fits her,” Jehan said. Something in Alf’s manner felt odd; he looked hard at the other, and then at the hound, and frowned. “Is she what’s been following us?”

  “Yes.” Alf knelt to rekindle the fire.

  Jehan fondled the soft ears. She was sleek, splendid, born for the hunt, yet she did not look dangerous. She looked what surely she was, a high lord’s treasure, bred to run before kings. He laughed suddenly. “You’re almost a proper knight now, Brother Alf! All you need is a sword.”

  “Thank you,” Alf said, “but no.” The fire had caught; he brought out what remained of their provisions, and sighed. "What will you have? Moldy bread, or half a crumb of cheese?”

  8

  The trees were thinning. Jehan was sure of it. The road had widened; he and Alf could ride side by side for short stretches with Thea running ahead. Like Fara, she seemed tireless, taking joy in her own swift strength.