Authors: Nancy Springer
“Both,” said Hal, stroking the handsome gray. “When I first met Arun, he was only a colt, but no one could come near him. The horse dealer had him tied head and feet in order to control him, though he was nearly dead of starvation, fright and abuse. I bought him and nursed him back to health. He gave me his love, and by his own consent I trained him. At first he would never willingly let any hand touch him except mine, but if I commanded it, he suffered it. Since then he has learned to know other friends, such as Alan. The hand of a stranger he avoids, by his own instincts and my training, so that he cannot be stolen from me. But he is not vicious, and he never has hurt anyone except Rafe, who cornered him."
“I do not intend to come near him, nevertheless,” Rosemary said firmly, betrayed by the fear in her eyes. Hal frowned in pity and spoke to her gently.
“How did you come to be so frightened of horses, my lady?"
“I do not remember. But my father tells me that when I was very young, I was knocked down by one. And to me they still look about twenty feet tall."
“Ay,” said Pelys, “she was only a little thing, playing in the courtyard, when a skittish horse broke its halter and tumbled her over. She was not hurt,” he went on, glancing at her affectionately, “but the fright did not go away. It is a shame, for there are few things you are likely to find so necessary in this world, my dear, as a horse."
Alan had kept an eye on Hal, but he saw no hint of Hal's interest in Rosemary. If anything, he seemed a trifle too courteously aloof.
“Come to see us later this afternoon,” Pelys said as he prepared to go, “and share supper with us."
So Hal and Alan headed toward the keep near suppertime, wearing their good clothes. A servant ushered them into a dim little study where Pelys sat with Rosemary. A compass lay on the table before them, and they were examining several yellowed charts.
“So, so, there you are,” cried the little man. “This is my haven of learning, where the lass and I do our lessons. You like it, hah?"
Hal's eyes were darting about excitedly. The walls were lined with books to the ceiling, and all sorts of odd things. Suddenly his eyes fixed on one object, and he strode across the room.
“A plinset!” he cried.
His lordship raised his eyebrows at the strange word, but, turning in his chair, he saw that Hal was reverently touching a stringed instrument hanging from the wall, almost hidden by the bookshelves.
“Ah, is that what it is called?"
“Ay,” answered Hal. “But you are not of Welandais blood, my lord?"
“Nay, nay. That is an instrument of Welas, then?"
“Ay. How did you ever come by it?"
“A minstrel brought it here last winter, and played it marvelously well. He took a fever, and died within a few days, though we nursed him tenderly. That was a hard winter.” Pelys leaned back meditatively.
“I wonder who he was,” murmured Hal.
“He was near middle age, fair of skin and hair, very handsome and gallant, though he did not wear a sword.... I wonder, too."
“Did he not tell you his name?"
“Nay, he smiled when I asked him, and said I was to call him what I liked. So I called him Bard. I believe I could have called him Lord.” Pelys eyed Hal whimsically. “Can you play that instrument, lad?"
“Ay,” answered Hal, dazed.
“Then take it. It is yours. And play us a tune!"
Hal took it down and cradled it in his hands, almost fearfully. “I thank you greatly,” he said, “but you can hardly know the value of the gift. This was fashioned by Llewys Lay-Maker, in the time of Veran, first of the Blessed Kings. It is centuries old, and none better has been made since. A generation ago it would have been kept in the treasure room of the Old Castle at Welden, along with the crowns of kings.” He gently dusted it as he spoke, and as he turned it to the light they could see its graceful carving.
“Then is not now,” said Pelys sadly, yet with keen interest in his eyes. “And no one deserves it better than you, who value it highly. It does no good there on the wall. So take it, lad, and play us a tune."
Hal swallowed, and tuned its eight strings as carefully as if they were made of gossamer. Then he sat down and strummed thoughtfully. The strings sounded in a bittersweet mode as Hal began to sing.
All my days have passed in vision
Of a place beneath western skies
Where peace flows like golden honey
From the comb.
But the east shows forth my burden
With the rays of bright sunrise.
In this land of strife my fate is
Long to roam.
All my nights have passed in dreaming
Of the haunts of the sinking stars,
Where the people of the reaches
Make their home.
But the east blots out night's gleaming
Of fair Elwestrand afar,
Where the elf-ships cleave the silver
Salt-sea foam.
Elwestrand! Elwestrand!
Be you realm but of my mind,
Yet you've lived ten thousand lines
Of soaring song,
Elwestrand. Is the soul more sooth
Than that for which it pines?
Are there ties that closer bind
Than call so strong?
All my journey's passed in faring
Through a bitter glare of gore.
But the gloaming in the west
Imparts its calm.
When the burden seems past bearing,
Sunset speaks of ancient lore,
Of immortal sadness healed
With mortal balm.
Elwestrand! Elwestrand!
Where untamed the white steed runs!
When my life's last light is gone
Will you be mine?
Or, my weary battle won,
When I reach, the setting sun,
Must I farther journey on
Some rest to find,
Elwestrand?
The notes of the song died away, and the four sat in silence for a moment. Pelys stirred, shaking himself from a reverie. “Wherever did you learn to play?” he asked admiringly.
“My mother taught me. She was Welandais."
Although his curiosity was aroused to its highest pitch, Pelys knew instinctively that further questions would be unwelcome. With the courtesy of a true gentleman, he changed the subject. “It has long been my wish that my daughter might have some musical instruction, but there is no one here to teach her. Can you?"
"What?"
“Tut, tut, teach her, lad, of course!"
Hal looked across at Lady Rosemary. “I shall do my best,” he pledged, stupefied.
“Good,” snapped Pelys cheerfully. “Come in the afternoons, whenever you have time. Now let us go in to dinner."
He clapped for his retainer. The meal was waiting in a towertop chamber that caught the light of the setting sun. Hal sat at the table with the plinset in his lap.
“I understand you have been working around the castle,” Lord Pelys remarked as he passed the sweetbreads. “It is not necessary, you know. You are my guests."
Hal was still spellbound, whether from the plinset or the lady Alan could not tell. “We do not like to be idle while others work,” Alan replied. “And we have learned much that is of good use."
“Well, well, since you have chosen to make yourselves useful, you must let me give you some pay.” Hal was stirred back from his trance to protest, but Pelys insisted. “Only a few pence, forsooth! I will not have you destitute. And I will not have you overworking, either,” he added, shaking a menacing finger at the two. “You are not to neglect your exercise, your horsemanship, or your education. I have a library of fine books here, and I would take it kindly if you would use them."
“Thank you, my lord,” they murmured, stunned by this peculiar manner of bestowing favors.
“And I expect you to eat with me now and then,” growled his lordship. “You can't always be eating in the kitchen or the barracks. Moreover, I expect you to start sleeping in beds. I shall have rooms prepared for you."
To Alan's surprise, Hal seemed disconcerted. “With your permission, my lord, might we stay on in the stables? I mean, if Alan will.... It is handy to be near the horses."
Wondering what the real reason was, Alan quickly agreed. Lord Pelys looked pained, but graciously acquiesced.
“Won't you freeze?” asked Rosemary, astonished.
“Perhaps,” Hal answered wryly.
They walked back to the stable that night in silence. Hal stopped at a carpentry shop for a soft rag and a little flask of oil. In the loft he set their lantern well away from the hay and started carefully rubbing the dust and grime from his ancient, precious instrument.
“We could move into the keep if you would rather, Alan,” he said without looking up. “It is a lot to ask, that you should spend your winter in a drafty stable."
“It is not drafty,” Alan lied. “We can be very comfortable here."
“With no fire?"
Alan shrugged wearily. “So we will be cold. I dare say you had your reasons."
“I don't know my reasons!” Hal shouted, flinging down his rag. “I don't know my own mind anymore!"
“Well, if you must shout,” Alan soothed crossly, “that is reason enough."
Hal sighed and went back to his plinset, cleaning and polishing, bringing the rich lights out of the dark golden wood. His frowning face softened, and he whistled tunelessly, lost in some happy dream, Alan thought, of the lady perhaps? It was seldom that Alan saw him so content.
Late that night Alan started awake at the sound of a muffled, inarticulate cry. Hal was sitting up, staring at nothingness, with teeth clenched and sweat beading his forehead, trembling and straining against invisible bonds. Alan reached for him in alarm, and felt all the muscles tensed like steel bands beneath his skin. “Hal!” he cried, shaking him. “What is it?"
The spell broke, and Hal went limp as a snapped string, though quivering worse than ever. “Oh, Alan!” he gasped, covering his face, torn between relief and anguish. Alan held his shoulders, and in a moment his trembling stopped. He lay back, breathing heavily.
“What happened?” Alan asked gently.
“Nothing. A bad dream."
“Hal, you are impossible,” Alan sighed. “Did you know this was coming, then?"
Hal was silent so long that Alan thought he was asleep. “I know nothing,” he said hollowly at last. “Not even the names of my fears."
The next day, Hal took his plinset and walked to the keep to see his lady.
The weeks passed quickly. Hal and Alan almost forgot there was a world beyond the castle island. Late fruit was still being gathered from the sheltered trees within the walls: sorb, pear, quince, apricot and apple. While Alan helped with the work, Hal and Rosemary would settle themselves with the plinset at the sunny roots of a red-tipped tree. Hal's greatest pleasure was the daily music lesson. Rosemary, daughter of Rowana, was a beautiful girl, bright, blooming and sunloving as the plants around her. She was very fond of both Hal and Alan; they were like brothers for her, and perhaps Hal was her best friend.
Hal was content to leave it that way, or so he told himself. It would hardly be worthy of him to make the lady love him, only to leave her on a harebrained quest after a distant throne! But his heart and his loins would not listen to this reasoning, and Hal ached for her every waking hour, so that sometimes he thought he would go mad if he did not speak. And at these times the thought whispered in the back of his mind: why struggle? Why not throw off his burden, settle in this peaceful forest clearing, marry, and be happy? He knew well enough that such happiness was only a dream; but the dream gnawed at him.
Sometimes when he was away from her, Hal could forget the struggle within him. But at night it harrowed him with worse dreams. Leuin of Laueroc's tortured face would call to him through the smoke and glare of burning towers, through screams of men and horses, through dripping veils of blood. Sometimes Hal thought that the lord of Laueroc was still dying in torment, never to rest. The nightmares were almost unbearable, and to avoid them be would pace the courtyard until late at night, like a feral creature courting the moon. Even there Leuin's gentle voice reached him: “Hal, be brave!"