The Silver Sun (25 page)

“Perhaps later I will tell you. But where is your great gray steed? I have not seen him yet."

Hal exchanged a puzzled glance with Alan. “In the stable. I will get him, sire."

“Nay, let us go together. I have not been out of doors, Hal, since I received the news of your mother's death. I had forgotten how bright and pleasant the sun can be."

Alan cocked a wry glance at the gloomy sky, then watched as Torre and Hal disappeared in the direction of the stable, the old man leaning on the young one's arm. He would leave them alone to share a score of lost years.

He did not see Hal again until they dressed for the evening meal. When they went downstairs, they found Torre with one who had not had the advantage of such leisure, a dark man who looked tired and travel-soiled. Though his body was youthfully trim, his face was lined, and he regarded the newcomers with weary skepticism as Torre introduced them. “Hal, Alan, this is Galin, my eldest and, I fear, my only living child. I had no sister-sons to honor the Mothers, so Galin is my heir, and through Gwynllian you are his, Hal, as Iscovar knows well enough. Galin, this is Alan, heir of Laueroc, and his blood brother Hal, Prince of Welas, he who is King to be."

“With much help, perhaps,” Hal acknowledged.

Galin did not smile. “You should not have called me in for this, Father,” he said. “It is dangerous to leave the outer defenses without my leadership. The lads could have ridden out to see me."

“I see no lads,” retorted the old King stiffly, “but two seasoned travelers and warriors. The men will do very well without you, Galin. You are becoming as set in your ways as I. You must be growing old."

“Ay, old and fussy,” muttered Galin.

“And on my account,” added Torre half-humorously. “Out in all weathers to protect my royal person. I am indeed grateful, my son.” He cast Galin a soft glance from under his shaggy eyebrows. “But I grow lonesome for your company."

“You had two other sons,” Hal interposed quietly.

“Ay.” Torre's eyes focused on the past. “Glondil was killed in the attack on Welden. We buried him in an unmarked grave along the road of our flight. But Gildur, my youngest son, I never saw after that terrible night. The assault, you know, was very sudden and treacherous. Gildur ran to the treasure room to save a few precious things, the heritage of our people. He should never have tried. We who escaped did so with nothing except the clothing on our backs. For months I hoped he would walk into this room.... But in the course of time I came to believe he must have been captured and killed."

Galin stirred restively. “Perhaps, Welandais Prince, you will tell me how you came to be wearing my brother's sword?” Almost contemptuously he returned their weapons to Hal and Alan, pulling them from a pouch at his feet.

Dazedly, Hal accepted the black and silver sword from his hand. “Gildur's sword? I cannot say! An outlaw gave it to me."

“Then why do you say, Gildur's sword?” Galin snapped. “I had another brother."

“And he was killed. But somehow these things came to Isle, and to my hands.” He drew the antique plinset from its leather case. “Was this not one of the precious objects from the treasure room of the Elde Castle?"

“Ay,” Torre whispered, “ay.” He took it into his ancient hands tenderly. “This is the first plinset, crafted by Llewys Lay-Maker for Claefe, Veran's queen, she whom he brought from the Mountain of the Gods. But wherever did you get it?"

“I found it in the study of the Lord of Celydon, in the Broken Lands; a good man. He had it from a minstrel who had died of fever under his care.” Hal phrased his next question carefully. “What sort of man was my uncle Gildur?"

Torre only swallowed, and Galin answered for him. “Glondil and I were dark, like our father, and his uncle the Thunderer, and Veran, and the others. But Gildur was golden, like Ban, and Claefe, and your mother. He was a musician, and a dreamer."

“He loved the ancient legends and lore,” spoke Torre reprovingly. “In the days of our kingdom's glory, he would have been revered as a great bard. It is hard when a man of peace cannot be respected for his own talents."

“The minstrel was a fair man, not yet past middle age,” mused Hal. “It could have been Gildur.” He took back the plinset, idly striking a few chords.

“Do you play it!” Torre exclaimed.

“Ay, Sire."

“Who taught you?"

“My mother.” Hal raised his eyebrows at the shocked stares he received from both Torre and Galin. “Why?"

Galin answered in bewilderment. “Gwynllian did not know how to play."

They ate their dinner in puzzled silence. After they had pushed their plates aside, Hal spoke as if replying to an audible query.

“If Gildur lived, and for some reason could not come to you, perhaps he went to my mother."

“Probably we shall never know,” sighed Torre. “But it is good to think that he might have lived—that he might not have been tortured to a slow death."

“The minstrel of whom I spoke died abed, among good and loving folk.” Hal traced on the table with his finger-tip, studying some invisible design. “Besides the plinset, what was my uncle Gildur likely to take?"

“There were the crowns, of course. The silver one Veran brought with him from the land of the Setting Sun. It was never worn; legend reserves it for the Very King who comes at the close of the age. But Veran wore the crown of the Rising Sun, made for him of the yellow gold of the mountain which bears his name, whence he brought the green Elfstone, and his bride."

Hal and Alan exchanged a surprised glance. Galin drummed his fingers impatiently, but the old King went on serenely with his thoughts. “Indeed, the most precious thing in the room, especially to Gildur, would have been the Book."

“The Book?"

“Ay. A thick tome, written in Veran's own hand, in a strange language. Only the Blessed Kings could read it. Then Ban died while Taran was still in Branwyn's womb, and the secret of the strange language died with him. But much of what was in the Book has come down to us by word of mouth."

“
Dol Solden!
” breathed Hal. “
The Book of Suns!
It is written down here on earth!"

“Ay, we have many strange prophecies. The fall of the House of Veran was foretold, though little did I fear, when I was a youth, that it would happen in my time. But it was said that a leader would come, a young man of Veran's line, who would possess wisdom, vision, and the knowledge of the lost language. He would come on a silver steed of elfin blood and bear with him the emblem of his destiny. The marks of suffering would be on his body and the sheen of moonlight in his eyes. He would be called Elf-Man, Healer, Ruler, and Sunset King. With the aid of his people he would turn back the Eastern blight, and bring peace at last for the closing of the Age."

“Father,” protested Galin, “you cannot be serious!"

“And with him,” continued King Torre, unperturbed, “would come his brother, a man great beyond the borders of blood or nation, a man of heart, like Veran before him. He would come on a steed of golden bay, and he would be called Elf-Friend, the Golden One, and Sunrise King. The emblem of his destiny would reside in the green Elfstone, gift of the ash maiden."

Alan sprang up, overturning his seat, and strode to the door, where he stood breathing deeply. Hal picked up the bench without comment.

“Why, what is this?” inquired Torre blankly.

“Your pardon, sire, for my churlishness,” said Alan, returning, his face still dark with emotion. “Something that you said is painful to me. Here is the stone of which you spoke.” He pulled it from under his tunic, and slipped the chain over his head to hand it to the old King. But Torre stopped him.

“Hold it up to the light."

Alan obeyed, and gasped at what he saw. In the depths of the gem, glowing golden and growing like a living light, blazed a half circle of radiant beams, brilliantly symmetrical. Brighter and brighter it burned, till it far outshone the torchlight, and even Galin gaped in wonder. Trembling, Alan lowered his hand, and the vision faded.

“What manner of sign is that?” he whispered.

“According to legend,” explained Torre, “this is the stone given by Claefe to Veran, brought by her from the land of the Rising Sun. It shows the sun emblem at the center, after which the crown of Veran was fashioned. Would you tell me how you come to wear it?"

“You seem to know as much about it as we do,” Alan muttered.

“More,” remarked Hal. “It seems that Adaoun did not tell us all that he might."

“Adaoun!” exclaimed the old King. “Then it is true!"

“What is true?” growled Galin. “Am I sitting in the company of madmen?"

“Elves,” replied Hal quietly. “Veran's memory is still young atop the tallest mountain."

He tried to give them some feeling of the glow of timelessness that hung in the air of the elfin valley, of the bright glimmer of wonder which clung to the very grass of the place. He did not mention Lysse, and Alan sat silently, with lowered head. When Hal was done, Galin and Torre gazed for a moment with strangely intent but peaceful faces, as if a whiff of that mountaintop air had drifted their way.

Then they had many questions, and in the course of the evening Hal and Alan related most of the events in the two and a half years since Hal had escaped from the Dark Tower. Hal described plans for claiming the throne, and the talk turned to troops and strategy. Charts and maps were brought out. Hal sensed Galin's wariness changing to hope, if not to belief.

It was late when they finally left Torre. On their way up the spiral steps to their tower rooms, Galin addressed Hal with respect, even hesitation.

“Hal,” he asked, “do you believe all these—ah—prophecies?"

“Not that they will necessarily come to pass, nay. Things are not often as they ought to be. But I must fight to bring them about, not for my own glory, but for the sake of my people. It is the burden of my birth to prevent another such fiend as my—father—from ever sitting on the throne of Isle again. The course of my life was plain to me long before I had heard of
The Book of Suns
.” Hal paused on the landing. “Will you lend me assistance, Uncle?"

“Ay, I'll lead my men on your behalf,” answered Galin gruffly.

Hal glanced at him again. “With your heart, my lord, or only to please your father?"

Galin stood a moment marveling at the perception in those gray eyes. Then he stretched out his weathered hand. “With all my heart, Welandais Prince,” he vowed. “If ever a brighter dawn is to come our way, it will be through you."

In his chamber at last, Hal flopped gratefully on his narrow cot. It had been a long, heartspoken day, and he felt drained by it. But Alan paced the floor restlessly, involved in some sort of inner struggle. Hal watched him askance. Were the months of silence at last to be broken?

“It is harder than I had imagined, Hal,” Alan remarked haltingly, “all this destiny. I feel that a great weight of expectation is put on me. And yours is far heavier. Small wonder that you found it so difficult to bear."

“You were a greater help to me than I can say.” Hal rose to pace beside him. “You are a very special, wonderful person, Elwyndas. Is that so hard to accept?” Then, as Alan gestured impatiently, he plunged on. “Listen to me only a moment, Alan. Why should prophecy trouble us, indeed? Does it change anything? We never intended to do less than our best."

But Alan was not to be put off. With courage born of his misery, he spoke a name they had not mentioned in months. “But the prophecy concerns me and—and Lysse, does it not?"

“Ay,” replied Hal quietly.

“What does it say?"

“Only that she is your
mendor
, as Rosemary is mine."

“But —” Alan nearly choked, but once started he was far too stubborn to stop. “I do not intend to have her. I must never see her again."

“Do you not love her, Alan?"

“Ay!” Alan banged his fist so hard against the stone wall that the blood ran freely down his wrist. “Mother of mercy, Hal!"

“You have told her so, have you not?"

“Ay.” Spent, he spoke dully. “It was an act of great weakness. I should never have spoken to her."

“Nay, Alan, nay!” Hal seized him by the shoulders, almost shaking him. “Never regret it! Your love is your talisman. It was your brave love which taught you the Elder Speech and took you to the place where only Veran had gone before—and he a god-man, from out of the west. Never have I envisioned a man with a greater gift of love than you, Alan. Yet, all things won, would you let it go down to defeat from pride?"

Stung, Alan threw off his hands. “Would you have me deliver her over to death?"

“You are her
mendor
, too!” Hal cried. “Do you not think the choice should be hers? There are many fates worse than death, even to an elf!"

Alan threw him a black glare and stamped across the room to stand by the narrow window. As he looked into the midnight sky, he remembered the elves’ lake: serene, dark, unfathomably deep. Tumult swirled through him, and he grew short of breath.

From behind him Hal spoke wearily. “Alan, must we quarrel? This thing that turns you from me—I've been miserable these months past—I beg pardon if I've meddled where I have no say."

“Say what you will,” Alan muttered perversely, and like a string that has been tuned too tightly, he broke. For the first time in his months of anguish, he wept. As Hal's arms steadied him, he could feel the tears dissolving the hard knot of bitter pride that filled his chest and replacing it with hope. Dimly he realized that even the impossible might happen, that Lysse's hand might yet rest once again in his. Faintly, he heard her reassuring voice: “Wear this in hope of a better dawn. Remember me!"