Authors: Nancy Springer
Then the invaders had sailed in from the east, and not even the mighty sword had been proof against them. It was undone by sorcery, folk said, or thrown into the sea. With ruthless force the Easterners raped Isle by way of the Black River, slaying the chieftains and herding the folk like so many cattle. So the people became slaves to the manor lords, seldom free to tend their own poor plots. And though great tracts were cleared, and the ground as fertile as it had ever been, hunger and disease stalked the land.
The Easterners came in the name of their god, the Sacred Son, and many were the warlocks and priests in their ranks. The leader was named Herne; he called himself the Sacred King. He divided the conquered land among his captains, and with every new lord went a priest. To people who had suffered, these spoke of the sanctity of torment, and many believed them, for their magic was strong. Only in the west and north Herne could not take hold. In these mountainous parts lived a proud, fierce people, scions of tribal Kings and the ancient Mothers. They could defend their rocky land forever against the invaders. So, since no great wealth seemed hidden in these barren parts, Herne left them to their denizens.
The Sacred King built his castle by the Black River, and in it a tower that came to be the terror of all the land. There Herne imprisoned those who had displeased him, so that their agonies might ease the torments of the Sacred Son. Folk called it the Dark Tower, or the Tower of Despair; everyone knew the place that was meant.
Seven generations passed. Herne gave way to Hervyn, to Heinin, Hent, Iuchar, Idno and Iscovar. The invaders had abandoned their harsh, guttural language, by and large, for the gentler speech of Isle. Some wed Islandais women, and here and there a lord ruled who was just, even kind, to his folk. Such lords were likely to be quickly overthrown by their more ruthless neighbors. Like their despotic Kings, most lords remained cruel.
But in the southwest of Isle, in meadow-ringed Laueroc, one such line of kindly lords had grown very powerful indeed. Perhaps Laueroc's people were akin to the warlike folk of Welas, the West Land that lay just beyond the Gleaming River, where the Blessed Kings still ruled in Welden. The folk of Laueroc looked often that way, and they loved their lords. Their armies were always victors, but never aggressors.
King Iscovar, however, had turned his attention to the west. He had captured the gentle lord of Laueroc, spirited him to the Dark Tower and placed one of his henchmen in his stead. And years earlier, by treachery, he had conquered proud Welas. That kingdom also now must bend the knee before Iscovar and his heirs.
“Your given name is Hervoyel, then,” Alan mused, still grappling with disbelief.
“Don't call me that. My mother always called me Hal."
Alan knew well, as did everyone in Isle, the story of Hal's mother. She was Gwynllian, daughter of the royal house of Welas, a tall maiden with hair the color of autumn forests and eyes the stormy gray-green of the autumn sea. Through many lands she was famed for her beauty. When Iscovar came with his vast armies and laid siege to Welden, he offered peace on one condition: that she should be his bride. He knew that her son would be heir to the throne of Welas, for the West Land reckoned lineage in the old way, through the woman.
Torre, the Blessed King, Gwynllian's father, saw no hope for victory, but left the choice to her. Though bitter at her fate, she was proud to be the means of peace for her people. She was wed within the week. No sooner did Iscovar have her well away than his troops turned to take Welden and the whole of Welas. Torre, with his sons, fled to hiding in the mountains. The commanders of the army became the manor lords of Welas, and a noble named Ulger became known as the Wolf of Welden. Iscovar went on with his bride to his castle at Nemeton.
“What did he—what did Iscovar call you, Hal?"
“Nothing. Not once in my life has he ever spoken to me by any name."
“Was there not a time,” asked Alan gently, “when you were very young, perhaps, that he—favored you in some way...."
“Never."
Hal went on to explain, as best he could, how he had lived in the court of Iscovar, King of Isle. It was a jungle of intrigue, theft, bribery, extortion and petty cruelty. He had no friends. The boys with whom he took his schooling, sons of his father's henchmen, liked to torment him with their various forms of senseless hostility. He learned early that he must take care of himself. He was strong, and he soon became a skillful, quick-witted fighter, with or without weapons. Yet, though he taught the school bullies to let him alone, he never fought except in defense.
This was his mother's influence; she had taught him to love peace and singing. Hal and his mother were very close, and kept much to themselves. They avoided the King. They had two faithful servants who had come from Welas with Gwynllian: an old nursemaid, Nana, and her husband, Rhys. The rest of the hundreds of servants in the castle they could not trust. Many of them were spies bribed by the various lords, or by the King himself, to spy on the lords’ spies.
“When we could, we fed the widows and orphans that the King had created,” said Hal bitterly, “and provided for the care of the poor, maimed wretches that emerged from his Dark Tower. Certainly he knew what we were doing, but he said nothing. It is not his way to speak—only to torment.
“So, on my sixteenth birthday, my mother died. I was out practicing in the yard when Rhys shouted for me, and I ran in to find her in writhing torment. She grasped for me, and tried desperately to speak, but could not. She died in my arms. Obviously she had been poisoned, but no one could say by whom. The next day, with little ceremony, she was buried. The King did not come.
“The following day, Rhys was seized in order to be flogged, then killed by the bowmen for target practice. I swallowed my pride and went to the King, begging for his life. He flew into a rage at what he called my insolence, and I was taken to the Tower. I am sure now that poor Rhys's death was only for this purpose, to torment me. The condition of my release was that I should sign a writ of obedience to the King. Even he knew that I would not break my word. When I refused to sign, I was hung in chains by my wrists and flogged. There was no daylight in that hole, but I think this went on for two days and nights. From time to time they varied the treatment with canes, or clubs, or burning irons, but the effect was the same."
Alan looked sick, and Hal reached out to him. “Indeed, it was not as bad as it could have been. I was the heir to the throne, and the King had need of me if his vassals were to serve him. So he could not have me blinded, or castrated, or maimed.... They simply flogged me. After a while it became apparent that I was growing indifferent to the flogging and that they would have to try something else, so they took me down."
Hal paused to steady himself before he continued. “What they did next could only have come from the mind of the fiend himself. They brought before me a goodly man, handsome, near middle age but powerful and trim of body. They told me that he was to be tortured, slowly, to the death, unless I put a stop to it by signing the King's writ. At this he cried out, “Do not heed them, my Prince!” They hit him across the face to silence him, and the blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. I stared, for to my knowledge I had never seen him before.
“They started the tortures. After a while it seemed that he was senseless, and they left the room. He spoke to me at once, urging me never to give in to the King, but to escape him and fight him if I could. For, as he said, I was the only hope of the people of Isle. In wonder, then, I asked him his name, and he told me: Leuin, seventh lord of Laueroc."
Alan gasped sharply, and Hal faced him with pity in his eyes. “Your father, Alan?"
“Ay,” Alan managed to say. “Is he—is he —” He could not say the word.
“Ay,” replied Hal softly. “He is dead."
Alan groaned and lay back in the grass, breathing hard. After a few minutes he spoke. “In my mind, I knew he was dead. But in my heart, I always hoped that by some chance he was yet alive."
He sat up. “Tell me what they did to him,” he demanded, fists clenched.
“Oh, by any god, Alan, nay!” Hal pleaded. “Remember him as he was! This much I will tell you: never once did his courage fail him. For five days and nights, as nearly as I can tell, they tortured him with every fiendish machine in that dark place of horrors, but always he was steadfast in his endurance.” Hal spoke like one who, in spite of himself, must yet relive a bad dream. “If I cried out with him in his agony, or turned away my head, I was flogged. But the worst of it was that they tortured him even more cruelly then, thinking I would weaken. So I learned, for his sake more than for mine, to sit, and watch, and make no sign, though my blood ran cold. They let him keep his tongue, hoping that he would plead with me for his life, and they sometimes left us alone together for this purpose. But instead he always encouraged me. He told me that he was ready to die, that any life the King granted him would not be worth the living. He urged me, as before, never to yield to the King. And he spoke often of you, Alan. ‘I have a son,’ he would say, ‘just your age, born on the day of your birth. His name is Alan, and you and he are much alike in many ways, I think. I have sent him to safety with kinsfolk in the north, and I hope he may strike a blow for my people someday. He is a bold lad, and great of heart. I do not mind dying, so long as I know he is alive.’”
“He spoke of me thus?” said Alan shakily.
“He spoke of you thus, more than once.” Hal was silent a moment before he went on. “When they saw he would soon be dead, they put him to death in a way that they hoped would break my spirit. They tore him limb from limb on the rack. His last words were to me, and they were these: ‘All good go with you, Hal. Be brave. And if ever you see my son, tell him that I love him.’”
Alan choked and turned away, hiding his face with his hands. Hal put his arms around him, and at last Alan gave in to his grief, weeping long and hard, as he had not wept since he was a child. When he could speak, his words were as bitter as his tears. “We parted in wrath on my side, sorrow on his,” he said. “He would not tell me why he was sending me north, and I did not want to go. It was not until I had arrived that I learned he had been taken by the King. I never had a chance to tell him....” His voice broke, and he could not go on.
“He knew your love,” comforted Hal softly. “He needed no telling. Always he spoke of you with great joy and pride."
Alan got up and went to wash his face in the stream. Hal put more sticks on the fire. When Alan returned, he looked as pale as if he had himself been through torture. “How did you get out?” he asked in a low voice.
“When they killed him on the rack, I fainted—not for the first time. This time, when I awoke, I was alone, curled up on some filthy straw in a little cell. I suppose they had not yet decided what to do with me next. In the cell wall was a small, barred window. Looking out, I saw the full moon rising, shining on the ivy that covered the tower walls. In that instant I knew what I must do.
“I was very weak, but my worst weakness was not of the body. I felt that my spirit was almost gone, that I could not hold out much longer. And so, although I could scarcely stand, I somehow managed by strength of desperation—perhaps by some good sorcery, from where I do not know—to force apart the bars enough to let my body through. I climbed down the Tower wall by grasping the ivy. Once down, I stumbled to the stables; Arundel broke his halter to come to me. I somehow got on his back, and we were off. I think we traveled for three days, but most of the time I knew nothing. I had no idea where we were until we came to the Forest, and to Trigg, one of the outlaws with Craig the Grim."
Hal smiled, remembering that lucky meeting. “Trigg is a slow country fellow, but he has a heart as big as the sky. He was nearly in tears with coaxing Arundel when I came to myself. After I spoke to Arun, he got me to camp at last, and the outlaws cared for me well.... But it was a month before I could stand, and late autumn before I had regained my full strength. So I stayed through the winter with them, and finally left them early this past spring."
Hal and Alan were walking up and down the banks of the stream, talking softly, arms around each other's shoulders. Though they had not rested since Hal's capture, neither had any thought of sleep.
“I had been traveling about a month when I met you,” Hal finished. “But how did you come to be wandering?"
“Some of my father's retainers took me to my mother's kinsfolk, near Rodsen,” replied Alan. “Then they went their ways, to find service where they might. But my mother's people feared the King's wrath. They shunted me from one household to another throughout the winter, until I was glad enough to relieve them of my presence, with the coming of spring. I had some notion of going back to Laueroc for revenge, though I did not feel really ready to get myself killed.... But the robbers interrupted my journey before I was much farther south than Gaunt.
“Tell me, Hal, when did you suspect who I was?"
“When you told me your name,” Hal smiled. “For I knew before then that you were brave, steadfast in suffering like only one man I had ever met—and you look like him, Alan. And Leon Aleron, whose sword you wear, was your cousin, was he not? And Alfie, Alf Longshanks, was your great-great-grandfather, who won himself a willful bride —"
“Ay, the lady Deona, fair as gold and stubborn as steel. Lauerocs since then have all looked like her, folk say."
“So I could have asked you your birthday weeks ago,” Hal went on, “and discharged my duty to your father. I told myself I would not, for you were not yet well. But in truth, Alan, I did not speak because—because I was afraid."