Nancy Springer - Isle 03 - The Sable Moon

PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS NEW YORK

Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of

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For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of theAmericas ,New York,N.Y.10020

ISBN: 0-671-83157-7

First Pocket Books printing February, 1981

10 987654321

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Printed in-theU.S.A.

I am a crescent moon.

I am a rustle of padded paws,

I am a seed in the earth,

I am a dewdrop.

I am a hidden jewel,

I am a dream,

I am a silver harp.

I am a fruit on the Tree,

I am a beast of curving horn,

I am a swollen breast,

I am the argent moon.

I am soft rain,

I am rivers of thought,

I am sea tides,

I am a turning wheel.

I am the waning moon.

I am the mare who rides men mad,

I am the sable moon.

I am the howl of the wolf,

I am the hag,

I am the flood of destruction.

I am the ship that rides the flood,

I am the crescent moon.

I am the dark, bright, changing moon.

Book One

FATE AND THE MAIDEN

Chapter One

Prince Trevyn was seventeen years old, and still struggling out of childhood like an eaglet out of the shell,

when he first met Gwern. It was not a happy meeting.

Trevyn had galloped far ahead of the others, because his half-fledged falcon had led him a crazy course

over the grassy downs. Muttering to himself and whistling at the bird, he topped a rise and saw a herd of

yearling colts in the dingle below. Small heads, arched necks, level backs, and high-set, windswept

tails—young though they were, everything about them marked them unmistakably as steeds of the royal

breed. A stranger stood with them, stroking a chestnut filly on the nose.

"You, there!" Trevyn shouted hotly. "Let the horses alone!"

The fellow glanced at him without moving. Trevyn sent his mount plunging down the slope toward him.

"Let the horses alone, I say!" he called again as he approached.

The stranger, a youth of about his own age, met his angry eyes coolly. "Why so?"

Trevyn almost sputtered at the calm question. Did the dolt not know that he was Trevyn son of Alan of

Laueroc, that he was Prince of Isle and Welas, sole heir of the Sun Kings? The elwedeyn horses had

been the special pride of the Crown ever since his kindred the elves had presented them, before his birth.

No uninstructed hand was permitted to touch them. Indeed, they would not lightly suffer the touch of any

hand. The royal family commanded their love through the use of the Old Language that had come down

to them from the Beginning. . . . Quietly, Trevyn ordered the chestnut filly away from the stranger. It

unnerved him that she permitted that hand upon her at all.

The stranger looked up at him with eyes like pebbles, expressionless. "Why did you do that? Are these

horses yours?"

"Ay, they are mine," replied Trevyn, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. Perhaps the yokel was a

half-wit. There was something odd about his face.

"You are a fool to say so." The fellow turned away indifferently and stroked another horse, a

cream-colored one. "These horses belong to no one."

Trevyn's temper flared, all the more so because the other was right, in a sense. Galled, he sprang down

from his mount and jerked the stranger by the arm. "Get away, I say!"

Still expressionless, the youth pulled from his grasp and lashed back with a closed fist. In an instant, both

of them were flailing' at each other, then rolling in a tussle on the grass. Trevyn wore a sword, and after a

bit he wished he could honorably use it. The stranger was as hard and resilient as an axe haft, and his

blows hurt.

Before the fight reached a conclusion, however, the combatants found themselves hauled apart. "Now

what," inquired a quiet voice, "is the cause of this?"

Trevyn blinked out of a blackened eye. It was his uncle, Hal, the King of the Silver Sun; and though he

did not look angry, Trevyn hated to cause him sorrow. Trevyn's father, King Alan, fated him as well, and

he looked angry enough for two.

"Surely," Hal remarked, "this row must have had a beginning?"

"He was bothering the horses," Trevyn accused, and pointed, childlike, at the stranger.

"The horses don't look bothered," Alan scoffed harshly.

The horses, apparently pleased by the excitement, had formed a circle of curious heads. The chestnut

filly stretched her neck and nuzzled the stranger youth's hand.

Hal and Alan exchanged a surprised glance. "Fellow," Alan addressed the stranger, "what is your

name?"

"Gwern." The youth spoke flatly.

"And who are your parents?"

"I have none." Gwern did not seem to find this the least bit remarkable.

"Who were you born of?" asked Alan with more patience than was his wont. "Who was your mother?"

For the first time Gwern hesitated, seeming at a loss. "Earth," he said at last.

Alan frowned and tried another tack. "Where is your home?"

"Earth," Gwern replied.

They all stared at him, not sure whether or not he was deliberately courting Alan's anger. He stared back

at them with eyes like stream-washed stones, indeterminately brown. He was brown all over, his skin a

curious dun, his hair like hazel tips. He was barefoot, and his clothing was of coarse unbleached wool,

when most folk of these peaceful times could afford better. What was he doing in the middle of the

downs, with the-nearest dwelling miles away?

"Take him along home," Hal suggested mildly, "and I'll look him up in the census."

When he was king, Trevyn promised himself, he would set such nuisances in a dungeon for a week or

so, to teach them some respect. Take him along home indeed!

Alan shrugged and turned back to his son, less angry at Trevyn now. "Who struck first?"

"I pulled him away from a horse, and he struck me."

"Pulled him away from a horse? And why? If an elwedeyn horse sees fit to bear him company, lad, you

also had better learn to abide him. The horses are well able to defend themselves, and they're better

judges of men than most chamberlains. Think before you fight, Trevyn." Alan was

disgusted. "So now you have a black eye, and you have lost your hawk. Get on home."

They all rode silently back to the walled city ofLaueroc , with Gwern behind Hal on his elwedeyn

stallion, overrolling meadows where the larks sang through the days. For miles before they came'* to it

they could see the castle anchored on the billowing softness of the downs like a tall ship on a shimmering,

grassy sea. Atop the highest swell its ramparts vaulted skyward, and from its slender turrets floated flags

of every holding in Isle. In every window, even the servants' windows, swung a circle of cut and faceted

glass to catch the sun and send colors flitting about the rooms.

Centuries before, Cuin the Falconer King had raised the fortress at Laueroc with pearly, gold-veined

stone brought all the way from the mountains of Welas. He had not wanted to mar his new demesne with

diggings. The land at Laueroc, in Trevyn's time, was still nearly as scarless as the day it was born. The

castle lay on its bosom like a crystal brooch, and two roads wound away like flat bronze chains. There

were no buildings outside the walls. In the topmost chamber of the westernmost tall tower, athwart the

battlements, King Hal made his study and solitary retreat.

Trevyn climbed up there after him when they had stabled the horses, and to his dismay Gwern followed.

It troubled him that the dirt-colored stranger should come so familiarly to his uncle's room. Hal was more

than Sunset King; he was a bard, a visionary and a seer. In all the kingdom, only three persons

approached him with the love of equals: Queen Rosemary, his beloved; his brother Alan; and Lysse, the

Elf-Queen, Trevyn's mother and Alan's wife. Trevyn held him in awe. When he entered the tower

chamber he silently took his seat, knees loaded down with tomes of history, awaiting Hal's leisure. But

Gwern poked and prowled around the circular room, disturbing Hal's scholarly clutter. And Hal stood

gazing out of his high, barred window, seeming not to mind.

"What do you see?" Gwern asked suddenly. Trevyn winced at his effrontery. The King of the Silver Sun

had always looked to the west, toward Welas and the reaches of

the sunset stars, and Trevyn had never dared to ask him why. But Hal turned around courteously.

"I see Elwestrand, what else?" he replied, the sheen of his gray eyes going smoky dark. "And a fair sight

it is."

"Where is Elwestrand?" Gwern craned his neck, peering.

"Nay, nay,'* Hal explained eagerly, "you must look with your inner eye. Elwestrand is beyond the

western sea." His voice yearned like singing. "I have seen a tree with golden fruit, and a great white stag,

and bright birds, and sleek, romping beasts. I have seen unicorns."

"Elwestrand is the grove of the dead," Trevyn told Gwern sharply, jealous that Hal would speak to him

so equably.

"Grove of the dead?" Hal turned to regard his nephew with a tiny smile on his angular face. "Elwestrand

is but another step on the way to the One, for all that it lies beyond the sunlit lands."

"It must be dark," Gwern said doubtfully.

"Nay, indeed!" Hal cried. "It shines like—like the fair flower of Veran used to shine, here in Isle, before

the Easterners blighted it. ... Elwestrand is lilac and celadon and pearly gray-gold and every subtle glow

of the summer stars. And glow of dragons from the indigo sea, every shade of damson and quince and

dusky rose. The elves remembered it all in their bright stitchery--all that this world was, and this Isle,

before the Eastern invasion, before man's evil shadowed and spread." Hal turned back to his window on

the west, pressing his forehead against the bars.

"My kindred the elves sailed to Elwestrand," Trevyn told Gwern more softly. "All of them except my

mother."

"Now they live amidst the stuff of their dreams," Hal said from his window.

"But does no one return from Elwestrand?" Gwern asked.

"Who would wish to return?"

"Veran came from Elwestrand, did he not?" Trevyn spoke up suddenly.

"Who is Veran?" Gwern pounced on the name.

Hal turned to answer with patience Trevyn could not understand. "He from whom I derive my lineage

and my crown, the first Blessed King of Welas. He sailed hither out of

the west; perhaps he came from Elwestrand." Hal looked away again. "But when I go, I will not return."

"Elwestrand," Gwern sang in a rich, husky voice.

"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?"

Hal wheeled on him sharply. "How did you know that song?" he demanded. "I made it, years ago."

"Elwestrand," Gwern chanted, and without answering he darted out of the door and skipped down the

tower steps, still singing. Hal silently watched him go. Trevyn watched also, hot with jealous anger. For

he, too, had felt the dream and the call, and it seemed to him as if Gwern had stolen it from him.

"Why do you abide him so tamely?" he burst out at Hal, startled by his own daring. "He is—he is

uncouth!"

Hal shifted his gaze to his nephew, and as always that detached, appraising look made Trevyn shrink,

inwardly cursing. Hal threatened nothing, but he saw everything, and Trevyn had dark places inside that

he wanted to hide. . . . Hal frowned faintly, then turned his eyes away from the Prince to answer his

question, seeming to see the answer in the air.

"He is magical," Hal said. "He is like a late shoot of those who were lost to Isle centuries ago when the

star-son Bevan led his people out of the hollow hills. Magic left Isle then, and I believe nothing has been

quite right since—though I have sometimes thought that Veran brought some back to Welas— and your

mother's people, in their own clearheaded way—"

"Magic!" Trevyn blurted, astonished to hear longing in Hal's voice. He knew how his uncle had always

avoided the touch of magic. The Easterners had made magic the horror of Isle. At Nemeton their

sorcerers had performed barbaric

sacrifice to the Sacred Son and the horned god from whom they drew their powers. Hal had been

reared in the shadow of that cult, and he and Alan had worked for years to stamp out such black

sorcery.

"I know I have taught you not to meddle with magic." Hal sat by his nephew. "It is perilous. But all fair

things are perilous. Dragons breathe fire, and the horn of the unicorn is sharp. Even this Gwern might be

perilous, in his own rude way." The Sunset King smiled dreamily. "But it must bode well, I think, that he

has come to us. Who or what can he be, I wonder? I don't really expect to find him in the census."

As, in fact, he could not. So Gwern stayed on at the castle; the Lauerocs kept him there for want of

anything better to do with him. The peculiar youth did not seem suited for any work, but Alan claimed he

was no more useless than most of the other courtiers. He was fey, sometimes shouting and singing with

barbaric abandon, sometimes brooding. He always went barefoot, even in the chill of late autumn, and

often he slept outdoors, beyond the city walls, on the ground. He generally looked dirty and uncombed.

He observed few niceties. If he spoke at all, he spoke with consummate accuracy and no tact. But he

was handsome, in his earthy way, and the castle folk seemed to find him amusing, even attractive. Trevyn

fervently disliked him. Striving as he was for adolescent poise, he found Gwern's very existence an

affront.

Yet, with no malice that Trevyn could prove, Gwern attached himself to the Prince, following him

everywhere. Often they would fight—only with fists, since Gwern knew nothing of swordplay. Trevyn

could hold his own, but he never succeeded in driving Gwern away from him. The mud-colored youth

confronted him like an embodied force, inscrutable and haphazard as wind or rainclouds, leaving only by

his own unpredictable whim.

"Father," Trevyn begged, "make him stop hounding me. Please."

"You'll see worse troubles before you die," Alan replied. "Find your own cure for it, Trevyn." He loved

his son to the point of heartache, but Trevyn would be King. Above all, he must not become soft or

spoiled. Alan had seen to his training

in statesmanship, swordsmanship, horsemanship. . . . The discipline was no more than Alan expected of

himself, his own body trim and tough, his days given over to royal duty, early and late. So when Trevyn

saluted, soldierlike, and silently left the room, Alan could not fault his conduct. Great of heart that he was,

it did not occur to him that Trevyn showed too little of the heart, that he concealed too much.

Trevyn was almost able to hide his anger even from himself, minding his manners and tending to his

lessons as Gwern dogged him through the crisp days of early winter. But frustration swirled and seethed

through his thoughts like a buried torrent. In time Trevyn found Gwern obstinately intruding-even into his

dreams at night. Gwern and a unicorn; Gwern standing at the prow of an elf-ship, with the sea wind in his

face. . . .

"I!" Trevyn shouted in his sleep.

He felt sure that Gwern longed to go to Elwestrand, as he did. But he swore that it was he, Prince

Trevyn, who would go, and alone, and to return, as no one had done before him. Someday he would do

that. But he could not possibly take ship before spring. The winter stretched endlessly ahead.

Trevyn did not stay for winter. When the first snowstorm loomed, he slipped from his bed by night and

made his way to the stable. He loaded food and blankets onto Arundel, Hal's elwedeyn charger, the

oldest and wisest of the royal steeds. The walls and gates were lightly guarded, for it was peace¬time,

and who would look for trouble in the teeth of a storm? Warmly dressed, Trevyn rode out of a postern

gate into the dark and the freezing wind. By morning even Gwern would not be able to follow him.

It was so. Dawn showed snow almost a foot deep, and more still falling, blindingly thick, in the air. Folk

struggled even to cross the courtyard. It was nearly midday before Alan could believe that Trevyn was

missing, and then he could not eat for anger and consternation. He paced the battlements for hours. But

Gwern had known as soon as he awoke what Trevyn had done, and he had run to the walls screaming in

rage.

"Alan, don't fret so." Hal came up beside his brother, encircled his shoulders with a comforting arm.

"Arundel will see the lad through."

"Trevyn has gall," Alan fumed, "taking the old steed out in such weather. Are you not worried, Hal, or

angry?"

"Why, I suppose I am," Hal admitted. "But I like Trevyn's spirit, Alan. He plans his folly with sense and

subtlety. You'll have to keep a_ looser rein on him after this."

Alan snorted. "Worse than folly; it's lunacy! What sort of idiocy must possess the boy? I thought he was

my son!" Alan paused in his pacing long enough to glare at his lovely green-eyed wife.

"He is your son, right enough." Lysse smiled. "Look at Gwern for your answers."

"Gwern!" Alan glanced down from the battlements to where the dun-faced youth stood in the courtyard

pommeling the air in helpless rage. "Gwern is the nuisance that drove him away, you mean? That is no

excuse."

"Nay, I mean that Gwern's passion matches Trevyn's own. The boy is no boy, Alan, but nearly a man,

and he left in anger. What would Gwern do if you shackled him with lessons and books?"

"I do not understand." Alan stood scowling at his golden-haired Elf-Queen. "Are you speaking from the

Sight?"

"From elf-sight and mother-sight." Her misty gray-green eyes widened in proof. "Trevyn hides his

feelings from us constantly, Alan, but he cannot hide them from Gwern. Read Gwern like a weathercock

for your son. Remember how surly he has been these weeks past?"

"What," Alan asked slowly, "does Gwern have to do with Trevyn?"

Lysse shrugged helplessly. "Gwern is Trevyn's wyrd," said Hal.

"Weird enough," grumbled Alan, choosing for the mo¬ment to ignore the esoteric word. Lysse was

staring into nothingness, her eyes as deep as oceans. "Even now Trevyn hides his mind from me," she

murmured. "I can tell that he is alive, nothing more. But Gwern knows more. All morning he has faced

east."

Alan wheeled to look at the youth again; it was true. Lysse went back into her trance, her eyes like

springtime pools in her delicate face.

"Lee!" she exclaimed at last with satisfaction. "He goes

toward Lee, and Arundel knows that way well. There will be a messenger from Rafe, mark my words.

But do not tell Gwern."

"Lee!" Alan protested, astonished. "But how can you be so sure? Celydon also lies eastward, and

Whitewater, and Nemeton. Not to speak of the whole Great Eastern Forest."

"Something awaits him at Lee," Lysse stated with quiet certainty. "Do not tell Gwern! I want to see what

happens."

Chapter Two

Meg had never, not even in her silliest daydreams, fancied herself to be pretty. She knew that she had a

comical, pointy face and a sharp nose like a benevolent witch. Indeed, witch was what some folk called

her, all because the birds would alight on her hands. She did not mind being different, and it pleased her

that the dappled deer did not fear her touch. But she minded being skinny. Some girls could make do

with comeliness that bloomed below the neck, but not her, she told herself. Her skirts fell straight from

her waistless middle, and she always had to sew ruffles inside the front of her blouses to give some

fullness—though not fullness enough.

Still, she had never, not even in her grimmest nightmares, imagined herself looking such a fright as now.

Slogging along through the snow in her old pair of men's boots, skirt torn and draggled, shawl clutched

from her shoulders by the lowering Forest trees. Hatless, with her hair frazzled by the wind, eyes red and

weepy, sharp nose running from cold and exertion and emotion. Flushed and panting, she struggled

along, knowing it would be lunacy to stay out after dark, but too stubborn to give up.

She found her cow at last and stood frozen a moment in

astonishment that overcame her hurry. Mud! A gooshy, oozing, undulating pool of mud rilled a hollow of

the frost-bound Forest. From the center of the expanse, round brown eyes looked back at her. Only the

cow's head showed above the surface. Wisps of steam rose around her.

"Come on, the*n, Molly," Meg called gently.

The cow did not budge.

Meg coaxed, pleaded, extended a bribe of oats. Molly did not even twitch an ear. The day was moving

on apace. Meg rolled her eyes heavenward and went in after her.

"What is even more appealing than yer plain, everyday Meg?" she muttered viciously to herself. "Why, a

Meg covered with mud, that is what! World, are ye watching?"

As she had hoped, the bottom of the mud hole was solid. She forced her way through the twenty feet of

brown pudding that separated Molly from the shore and took her by the halter. Molly would not move.

Meg could hardly blame her, for the mud was deliciously warm and the air increasingly cold.

"Come on, Molly, we can't stay here all night!" she cried helplessly, tugging at the cow. Then she

jumped, and screamed.

Where before there had been only snow and the dark trunks of trees, now there was a rider on a

beautiful silver horse—a young man, blond and very handsome. As Meg's eyes met his of stormy green,

she felt an instant of utter abeyance, as if heart and soul had stopped to gaze with her. Then she came

back to self with a pang,, feeling how ill-prepared she was to meet him, up to her elbows in mud. Still,

she saw no amusement in his face. . . . She could not know that, for his part, he had felt an odd leap of

heart on seeing her. He could hardly account for it himself, and irritably shrugged off thought of it.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he told the girl.

Meg tossed her head at that. She did not consider that she had been frightened, only—well, startled.

Perhaps he had been frightened himself.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Can you get out?"

"Ay, to be sure!" she snapped. "But I'll not leave without this cow."

Trevyn rolled his eyes at her tone. "Humor me," he urged with exaggerated courtesy, "and come out.

Please."

She fought her way toward the edge, retracing her steps. It was harder than she had expected. The ooze

clung to her skirt as she inched along, panting. Trevyn dismounted and glanced around for a stout stick to

offer her. "None strong enough," he muttered.

"Give me a hand," Meg gasped.

She meant that literally. Trevyn had not wanted to touch her. Grimacing, he grasped her by her muddy

wrist and hauled her out, splattering himself with chunks of goo. She stood on the verge, breathing hard,

rubbing her face and peering at him. "I've never seen anything like it," she declared.

"The mud? I've heard about these holes in the southern Forest. Some are clear water, steaming hot. Too

bad your cow couldn't have chosen one of those." He unpinned his cloak as he spoke, evidently steeling

himself for action.

"Ye're going to go in after her?"

"I suppose I'm going to have to," he replied ungraciously. "Arundel—" He spoke to the horse in the Old

Language.

"What?" asked Meg, straining to understand the peculiar words,. But then she cried out in protest as the

young man took off his cloak and sliced into it with his sword. It was a thick wool cloak lined with

crimson satin, more beautiful than anything she had ever owned. Trevyn stopped at her cry, looked at her

quizzically.

"Is the cloak worth more than your cow?"

"That is not fair!" she answered hotly. "Molly is—is—she's family! I dare say she is not a great worth,

but—" Meg fell silent and regarded Trevyn curiously. His tunic was of linen, and his sword was inlaid

with gold. It was not that which gave her pause; she had seen finery before. But this youth had a proud

air about him, though he had not yet reached his full growth. He was not in her lord's service; she would

have noticed him if he were. Perhaps he was some lord's bard or herald, or even a lord's son? "What's

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