Authors: Nancy Springer
She sang, without thinking whether it would help or harm, one of the old jingles that had lately become prophecies of hope for the people of Isle. She had heard it from one of Ket's men in the Forest.
Bearing balm of Veran's flower,
Man born blest with elfin dower.
Eye to make the evil cower.
Breaker of the darkest tower.
Silver is the springtime shower,
Rids the land of wintry power.
Elfstone green on chain of gold.
Bright dawn forged in Veran's mold.
Sword in sunlight blazing bold
Drives the wolves from out the fold.
Each his own to have and hold.
Rising sun has conquered cold.
Rosemary stopped, not sure what she had done. Hal spoke in the language that was strange to her. Though suffering still strained his face and the sinews of his body, his eyes no longer stared at present horror. Instead, they looked far away and inward, at a place where he longed to be.
Veran's balm.... Rosemary clung desperately to a hope of which she scarcely knew the meaning, and she begged for Alan's swift return.
Alan had plucked the little plant tenderly, even in his frantic haste, and with a whispered apology he stowed it carefully in his pouch. But he rode Night Storm away at breakneck speed. It was midmorning, and precious hours could never be regained.
“The single hope of Isle depends on you,” he told the steed in the Old Language.
Night Storm ran through the day on numb legs that moved under him by the force of a will scarcely his own. Alan's skillful hands guided him around the obstacles that the exhausted horse no longer noticed. The night was harder yet. Stormy plunged and stumbled, and Alan talked to him constantly, encouraging him through almost every stride. Not too far ahead, a normal three days’ ride from Celydon, he knew that Corin was waiting with Alfie. Night Storm had to make it that far.
But the horse did not think he could. Never had he been so pushed to the limits of his strength. If it had been Rafe who lay on the sharp edge of death, perhaps he would have discovered by himself the strength that lies beyond the limits. But love of Hal or Alan was not in him, and there came a time when the authority of the Old Language no longer moved him. He stumbled, fell and lay still.
Alan jerked his leg out of the way in time. He said nothing. He loosened the girth and tugged the saddle clear. He poured his remaining water over Night Storm's head and down his throat. Of his own gear he threw aside water flask, food, boots—everything except his sword and his precious pouch. Then he went to the horse's head.
“Now,” he ordered, “up!"
Stormy did not even twitch an ear.
Desperation had made Alan ruthless. He straddled the inert body, drew his sword and deliberately struck the horse on the flank with the flat of the blade.
With a scream of fury, Night Storm scrambled to his feet. Never, from the time he was a tiny foal, had he met with any treatment but deepest respect. Now his only thought was to crush, maim, kill the one who had done this indignity—but the man was not within his reach. A weight was on his back, and a coldly mocking voice said, “Now, you coward, run!” And, unbelievably, the sword struck again.
Night Storm whirled away like the wind of his name. He did not realize that day had dawned, that the blackness before his eyes was not the blackness of night. Blinded by exhaustion, hatred and shame, he ran until he felt his heart would burst. He ran for fear of the punishing sword. He ran in unreasoning hope of leaving the terrible man behind. He burned with mortification and the angry desire to prove his greatness, to win revenge with his own suffering and death. He ran until, incredibly, he was pulled to a stop. But his legs which could still carry him along would not support him, standing. Blackness engulfed him as he fell gently to the ground, conscious of nothing until Corin woke him.
Miles away, darkness had come before Alan's eyes also. He laid down his head and entrusted to Alfie the task of taking him with all speed to Celydon.
He came with the first sunlight of the new day. Rosemary heard the clatter of Alfie's swift hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard below, and in a few minutes Rare had helped Alan to the bedside. Alan was a ghastly sight, with blackened, bloodshot, sunken eyes in a hollow face that twitched with sleeplessness. But Hal was like a spirit barely visible in daylight. So wasted was his body that he only seemed to live in the tortured soul that cried from his gray eyes. Fever burned him like torment, but it was not that which troubled him. He still cried out softly, in unintelligible words, and would have moved if he had had the strength.
Servants brought a brazier with boiling water, and Alan shakily placed the little flower in it, whispering words Rosemary did not understand. But she sensed it was a prayer, and bowed her head. In a moment a feeling of peace and comfort crept over her, and the anxious lines of strain fell from her face. She looked at Hal, no longer in desperate suspense, but in breathless hope; her mind's eye saw him sleeping sweetly. Alan knelt, leaning on the bed, and from under his tunic he pulled a green stone. “Lysse,” he breathed, as if to a presence in the room, “you and your people, help him.” Alan pressed the cool stone to his lips, and though his eyes showed unconsolable longing, Rosemary saw that the quivering nerves of his face had stilled.
Hal stirred and sighed, murmuring something she did not understand, something about Adaoun. Then his lids closed gently over eyes deep and calm as a mountain lake. Alan, scarcely breathing, reached out to stroke his peaceful face, and Rosemary also came close to touch. She smoothed the pillow and drew up the covers around Hal's neck, but Alan buried his face in the blankets and wept for sheer relief. Rosemary touched his shoulder, then left him there with Rafe.
“He is sleeping quietly,” she told her father, where he sat keeping Robin company in Corin's absence. Then, feeling not at all strange, she went to the stable, to where Arundel and Alfie shared a large box stall. “He lives,” she told them. “He lives. Do you understand me?"
Arundel arched his lovely neck, and over the serene waters of Celydon he sent a great, ringing neigh of triumphant joy.
Chapter Five
Alan never remembered going to sleep after his four-day ride. When he awoke, much later, he found Rafe sitting by him anxiously, as if he were the invalid. He ducked Rafe's offers of food and hurried to Hal's chamber. Hal was awake, with Rosemary in attendance, but too weak to do more than gaze with faintly wondering eyes. Alan could see that he scarcely knew where he was.
In the days that followed, Alan and Rosemary tended Hal constantly. Rosemary held the cup or the spoon while Alan raised the helpless head on the pillow. Alan lifted and bathed the frail body while Rosemary changed the sheets. Together they put on fresh bandages and dressing. Within a few days Hal started to mend. His wounds closed and dried, and he gained some flesh. He moved sometimes, trying to care for himself. Once in a while he whispered a few words in answer to some query of theirs. He slept most of the time. But when he woke, his eyes were puzzled, wondering how he had come from the horrors of the torture chamber to the care of these loving people.
On the third day, Corin came back with Night Storm. Alan met him at the gates. “Hal is much better,” he told him gladly, and told it to the steed in the Elder Tongue, with fervent thanks. Stormy lifted his handsome head, and for a moment Corin's sober face glowed with happiness. Then he asked about Robin.
“He is mending well,” answered Alan, wincing guiltily. He had only been to see Robin once. The youth had been seriously hurt, and deserved more attention from his friends, but even Corin had been torn from his side. Alan could only hope he understood. Snared in his thoughts, he burst out, “Cory, it had to be you. You had traveled that way with me, and knew the place I named."
“Of course,” replied Corin in surprise, and peered at Alan. “Your troubles are not yet over, are they."
“I'll take the horses to the stable,” said Alan gruffly. “You go to Robin."
“And Hal."
“Nay, not Hal. He is not yet ready."
Another person came to the castle that day, anxious about Hal, a daring and unaccustomed visitor: Ket. Rafe brought him to the lady, and he was glad enough to give her his news. The kingsmen, after searching near Whitewater for a few days, had backtracked into the Forest, and Ket's men had dispatched them. Rosemary thanked him for his good tidings, but explained that Hal was not yet strong enough to see him.
“Would it help if you spoke to him in that—that secret language of yours?” Rosemary asked Alan, privately.
“Perhaps. But it would be like pulling a flower into bloom. He will come to himself in his own time, and his own peculiar way."
Hal's way was to dream. He no longer slept quite so much, but spent hours staring into the distance with clouded eyes. Alan sat silently by, hours on end, as if his wordless presence could somehow be of help; he did not dare to offer any other help. Rosemary looked in on them from time to time, and then quietly went away. She sensed that she was not needed—not yet.
Sometimes, in his trance, Hal would whisper words in the Elder Tongue, snatches of song and legend. He spoke of Bevan of Eburacon, and later of Veran, and Brand, and Brent; all the Blessed Kings. He spoke of Adaoun and Claefe, even of Lysse. Alan watched and listened day by day, waiting for the name of Mireldeyn.
“
Elwyndas
,” Hal murmured. “
Elwyndas, mir belledas kellarth
."
His trance broke like a thread, and he sat bolt upright with a cry; tears rolled down his face. Hastily Alan caught at him, afraid he would fall.
“My brother, my brother!” he choked. “How could I have forgotten!” He stared wildly into Alan's eyes, and Alan put his arms around him, trying to steady him with his embrace. In a moment, Hal let his head fall to his brother's shoulder.
“You gave me your blood,” he sobbed.
“Some time ago,” Alan acknowledged. “I would do it again if I thought it would help. Softly, Hal."
“It all rolls on me now, like a tide,” Hal groaned. “The accursed Tower, and Roran, and you riding away.... And Robin, wounded! And Arundel!” Hal stiffened in anguish.
“They are nearly healed,” Alan told him earnestly. “Robin is longing to see you, but we thought it would distress you. Softly, Hal!"
“Softly!” Hal pulled back to face him as if facing his judge. “I had forgotten them; I had forgotten you and—and Rosemary....” His voice trembled with the magic of the name.
“Hal,” Alan charged him gently, “do not be so hard upon yourself. You have been hurt to death; indeed you have passed through death's dark realm with only your innermost strength of will to sustain you. You have been spent in body and spirit. It is not strange that your heart has rested, these days past."
“Still....” Hal faltered.
“Still, nothing!” Alan barked in exasperation. “Not another word, brother. Lie back; you are ailing."
Hal settled into his pillows with a tremulous smile. Alan stood by his side.
“If you like, I will send her to you now,” he added.
Hal nodded. Alan touched his hand, then strode off to find Rosemary.
The next day he and Hal talked for hours, retracing the events since they had taken different paths. Hal recalled little of his illness, but one thing he did remember: the pitiless majesty of Elwyndas. “You made me swear....” he murmured.
“By the burden of your birth.” Alan said it for him.
“Why, Alan? Was not the pledge of our love enough?"
“My love would have let you leave me, or forgiven you for breaking your word. You knew that,” Alan explained grimly. “But the burden of your birth has no escape and no forgiveness to offer. I could bind you by nothing less.” Alan's eyes were lowered. “Do you hate me for it, Hal?"
“You brought me Veran's balm,” answered Hal, and that one sentence said all.
But in the week that followed Alan saw less of Hal, as Rosemary and the others saw more. When Hal and his love were together, Alan roamed the castle aimlessly, unable to set his mind to anything except the thoughts of Lysse that tormented him. He was glad of Hal's happiness, and of the healing comfort that Rosemary gave him, but Alan had no such solace. Sometimes Rosemary glimpsed the darkness in his face, quickly hidden, a sadness too noble to be called envy, and she wished she could bring him to his lover. She never guessed what distance of more than miles separated Alan and Lysse.
She was astonished daily at the change in Alan. There was a new knowledge in his eyes; wisdom, indeed. Rosemary had always thought of him as a straightforward, generous fellow, his greatness shining in his face and deeds. But now he had known some sorrow which was not easily defeated, and the bearing of it had given him stature that made him seem more Hal's brother than ever before. Rosemary wondered about the strange green stone she had seen, the pendant that hung, hidden, by his heart. Whence had it come, and what was the meaning of its glimmering light?