Isle of Glass (8 page)

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. You 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?”

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.

By noon a grey drizzle had begun to fall. They pressed on as
hard as they might, following the white shape of the elf-hound. At last they
surmounted a hill, and the trees dwindled away before them. Jehan whooped for
delight, for there below them in a wide circle of fields stood a village.

It was splendid to ride under the sky again, with no dark
ranks of trees to hem them in and the wind blowing free upon their faces.
Jehan’s gelding moved of its own accord into a heavy canter; the grey mare
fretted against the bit. Alf let her have her head.

They did not run far. A few furlongs down the road, Alf
eased Fara into a walk. He smiled as Jehan came up, and stroked the mare’s damp
neck. “We’ll sleep warm tonight,” he said.

o0o

The village was called Woodby Cross: a gathering of houses
about an ancient church. Its priest took the travelers in, gave them dry
clothes to wear after they had bathed, and fed them from his own larder. He was
rough-spoken and he had little enough Latin, and the woman who cooked for him
had at her skirts a child or two who bore him an uncanny resemblance. But he
received his guests with as much courtesy as any lord in his hall.

“It’s not often we see people of quality hereabouts,” he
told them after they had eaten and drunk. “Mostly those go eastaway round
Bowland, to one of the lords or Abbots there. Here we get the sweepings,
woodsfolk and wanderers and the like.”