Nancy Springer - Isle 01 - The White Hart

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Nancy Springer
The White Hart
Book of the Isle 01
PROLOGUE
Long ago, so long ago that the enchantment of the Beginning was yet on it, there was a little land called
Isle. It might have been the world entire for all the people knew; vast oceans encircled it even as the
thick-woven Forest surrounded each village. Beyond the Forest, on the Wastes or the Wealds or the
mountain Marches of the sea, the Old Ones yet walked; and gods, ghosts and all delvers in the hollow
hills were no strangers to the woven shade just beyond the castle gates. It was in those times that
The Book of Sunsgot its start, though the Sun Kings knew it only dimly; and a far-flung fate got its start
when a lady fair as sunlight loved the Moon King at Laureroc.
BOOK ONE:
THE SPEAKING STONE
I sing the lady, the lightwinged maiden.
Golden as sunlight is Ellid Dacaerin;
Soft as dawn is the daughter of Eitha.
Bright as a sword is her soaring fancy;
Bold as a falcon her spirit flies.
Swift as the deer her sorrow leaves her;
Light as its leap her laughter rises.
Dauntless as fire is the dragon-daughter;
Fair as fire the light of her face.
Dearer than gold is the maid of Decaerin;
Warmer than gold is the glow of her eyes.
Longer than life is the troth of the lady;
Wider than worlds is the worth of her love.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a night of the dark of the moon, and darker yet within the narrow tower of Myrdon. Ellid shivered
in her scant bed of short straw as much from dark as from cold. Never had she been so benighted. In her
father’s great hall the torches and tapers flared always to ward off the things that moved in the night: the
wailing white ladies and the treacherous pouka who lured unwary travelers to death in pits or dismal fens.
The black spaces of night swirled with such as these, and in the lofty chamber of her captivity Ellid
sensed the swift denizens of air all about her. Naked as she was in the abyss of night, she shrank from
their presence to no avail.
Yet when she heard noises of scraping and knocking close at hand, Ellid did not scream. Not for any
peril would she have stooped to summon the rough men who laughed and feasted below. She only
stiffened and hearkened intently. The sounds came from the high, barred window, now only a memory in
the gloom. “Who is there?” Ellid whispered, and started violently when a soft answer came through the
dark.
“A friend,“ the voice replied, a manly voice but sweet as singing. ”Pray, lady, make no cry.“
Hanging between hope and consternation, Ellid kept silence. She heard a grinding noise as the bars
came loose and a thump as the stranger dropped to the floor. He moved toward her uncertainly, then
stopped.
“Lady,“ he said in low tones, ”it is black as Pel’s Pit in here; I must make a light. Do not be afraid.“
Ellid stared. “Mothers protect me!” she breathed. A pair of shining supple hands took form in the gloom,
hands rimmed with ghostly light. Pale flames wavered at the fingertips. The hands cupped and lifted; Ellid
glimpsed a face behind them, dark hollows of eyes and a chiseled jaw. The jaw tightened as the hands
dropped.
“The vermin!“ muttered the visitant ”That they must strip you!“
He came closer until he could touch the rough wall beside her; his hands left their light on the stone, like
the specter of a star. By its faint glow Ellid could see the stranger but dimly. Still she deemed that he was
slender and only little taller than herself. He knelt before her.
“This will not hurt,“ he said in his low, melodious voice, and she felt his fingers on her wrist. They were
warm, as flesh of man is warm; she took some comfort in that. Inexplicably the fetters dropped from her
arm. The stranger rose and stepped back from her. Ellid crouched against the stone like a creature at
bay. Even naked as she was, she thought better of her own luck than of this eerie visitor in the night. He
was no warrior in size; she could rush him, stun him against the stone perhaps, if he be In fact of human
kind… But even as she narrowed her eyes to spring, he pulled off his tunic and offered it silently to her.
She stood and put on the rough garment. It reached scarcely to her knees, but its warmth was like an
embrace. The stranger brought a coil of rope and slipped a loop around her.
“I shall lower you slowly,“ he told her. ”Feel your way with care—and unless all ill should chance, await
me at the bottom. Are you ready?“ She knew now that she was obliged to trust him. She scrambled up
and out the window without a word, hastening lest he should try to touch her and help her. Not even
stumps of bars were in the window to hinder her. She clung to the sill as the rope tautened, then leaned
against its slender strength as she felt her way downward. For the first time that night Ellid was thankful
for the dark, not only that it hid her escape but that she might not see the dizzying drop below her. She
strove not to think of it, nor of the weird hands that supported her, but of her enemies, the men of
Myrdon. She went cannily, skirting windows, hugging the wall. When she felt cool earth under her bare
feet at last, she tested it for long, incredulous moments before she loosened the rope from her shoulders
at last.
Ellid gave a tug, and felt the answering tug from far above. She could not have said why she did not
hasten away. Far better even to stumble alone through the night, many would have said, than to cleave to
a warlock, one whose hands broke iron and shot fire. But it was not for cowardice that Ellid was called
daughter to Pryce Dacaerin. She held the rope taut and awaited him to whom she owed some debt of
thanks; she awaited one with warm hands and a soft voice. Almost as quickly as her thoughts, he was
beside her, skimming down the rope. To her renewed astonishment he pulled it down after him, so that it
came tumbling about him. Quickly he coiled it and stowed it over his shoulder. Then, reaching surely even
in the midnight darkness, he took her hand and started away. No speck of light showed on the walls;
most likely the sentries had all joined the drunken feast that resounded from the great hall beyond the
tower. The gates were barred, of course. Ellid’s strange escort lif ted the heavy beam and gently shoved
open the timbered doors. Then he and the lady slipped through, and no cry followed them.
The first faint light of dawn found them leagues away, for the stranger walked quickly and surely even in
the densest shadow of the trees. Ellid followed close behind, unable to see the sharp flints which cut into
her bare feet, head lowered against branches which threatened to pierce an eye. The gray shade which
presently filtered into the Forest showed her only the back of him who walked before her, naked above
leather breeches and smooth as steel. But as they topped a ridge, quite suddenly they met the rising sun.
It blazed full on their faces as the ground dropped away at their feet. Ellid lifted her arms thankfully, but
her companion winced and turned away. “Come,” he said. “All the world can see us here.”
He plunged down the steep slope, and she followed, regarding him curiously. He was slender, and quite
young, perhaps as young as she. His wideset eyes were as dark and glowing as coals. His hair was
shining black, and his skin lustrous pale, like moonlight; his blood pulsed like a tide within. She had seen
his lip come flashing red as he bit it. His face was faultless and strange, like a face in a dream. Ellid had
never seen such stark beauty in a man; even in the daylight she looked askance at him.
In the shadows of the deep ravine they found a narrow stream. The youth knelt to fill his flask. Ellid sat
and dabbled in the water with her smarting feet
“Does the light hurt you?“ she asked, breaking her long silence.
“I shall grow accustomed to it in time,“ the other replied gruffly. ”Still, we must soon find shelter, my
lady. Light is unlucky for the hunted.“
Ellid inwardly steeled herself and struggled to her feet. But the search was not long. At the top of the
next rise grew a grove of tall fir trees, with branches that swept heavily to the ground. Beyond was a
sunlit space. The stranger lifted a thick green limb for Ellid to creep beneath.
“This is well,“ he said as he came in beside her. ”We can see what comes to all sides. My lady, will you
eat?“ He offered her a small cake of oats and honey, such as the countryfolk placed on the ancient
shrines. Ellid looked at it in surprise, but ate it gratefully.
“I owe you many thanks,“ she said as she finished, ”for freeing me.“
Her companion made a sound of genuine sor-row. “Ah, lady,” he told her intensely, “I would have
helped you days ago! I have followed since the day they stole you from your father’s demesne… Strong
towers of stone make men careless, but on the road their guard was good. I could not get close.”
The guard had indeed been good. Ellid’s face twisted wryly at the thought of the ten days’ journey in the
shameful cart, the jeers, the cuffs, the floggings and the stinking food. The first day they had cropped her
hair to humiliate her. And at journey’s end they had stripped her even of her humble shift… Her face
flamed to remember it. The eyes that met hers were clouded with misery.
“My lady, did they ravish you indeed?“
Ellid laughed harshly. “Nay! Nay, that at least they did not. To men such as these, spoiled meat is of no
account, and I dare say they think my worthiness to my father is the same. So they took care to keep the
wares whole, though they were none too gentle in the transport.”
“And I none too gentle in my rescue,“ the dark-eyed stranger added bitterly. “To you who deserve all
good, I have offered a beggar’s shirt and a borrowed crust and the hard stones for treading.”
“Ellid Lightwing the bards have called me! Could they but see me now!“ Ellid smiled ruefully at her
painful, bloodied feet. ”Yet my lot has bettered a thousandfold. I owe you all thanks.“ She spoke to him
quite courteously. ”What may I name you, who have befriended me?“ But he turned away his raven-dark
eyes.
“I answer to Sirrah,“ he muttered, ”like other sons of men.“
Ellid frowned in puzzlement and said no more, for she knew she would give him no slave’s title. The
April sun was warm through the fir boughs, and the thick bed of their dropped needles was soft. Ellid
stretched out her aching limbs. As she dozed off to sleep she saw the black-haired youth settle himself
against the trunk of the tree, watching over her.
Hours later she awoke, alerted by some slight sound or sense of danger. She did not need her
companion’s hand on her arm to warn her to keep silence. On the hillside below rode the scouts of
Myrdon, lazily probing the bushes with their spears. Tensely watching, Ellid could not doubt that they
made their path toward the firs. To bide or to flee? Both seemed hopeless. But even as Ellid clenched
herself in despair, the approaching men shouted and swerved from their course. In the valley beyond, a
hart had broken cover. Ellid gaped; the deer was pure blazing white with a shine like a silver crown on its
head. It was the loveliest creature she had ever seen. It posed like a carven thing for a moment before it
flitted away, and all the riders of Myrdon galloped after it.
“So lightly are the sons of men turned from their intentions,“ the dark-eyed youth remarked dryly.
“Will you sleep now?“ Ellid asked coldly. ”I will watch.“ Her heart ached for the fleet white deer.
The stranger did not sleep, but sat silently beside her. Nothing more chanced that afternoon. In the
twilight the fugitives crept forth, and discovered that they had sheltered in a sacred grove. The abode of
the god was marked with a rough stone altar. Upon it sat some villager’s offering of a few of last year’s
apples, now pecked by birds. The youth gathered them up and offered Ellid one. She creased her brow
at him.
“Do you not fear the vengeance of the gods, that you pilfer their viands?“
“Nay, it is well enough,“ he answered vaguely. ”Eat.“
She took from his hand what she would not have taken from the shrine even had she been starving. But
the food did little to ease her woes that night. Her feet were swollen and oozing, and the wood-soled
sandals that her companion had lent her were clumsily large. They tormented her with stumbling and
slipping until she returned them to their owner, preferring to brave the rocks. Her escort slowed the pace
to ease her, but within a few hours her head swirled with feverish pain. She limped along dazedly, clinging
to her companion’s belt as much for support as for direction. She scarcely noticed when she fell and
struggled to rise. Half-awares, she felt herself gathered up and slung over warm, smooth shoulders. She
laid down her head and struggled no more.
Many leagues to the north, Cuin son of Clarric the Wise rode through the days beside his grim-faced
uncle, Pryce Dacaerin; Pryce of the Strong-holds, men named him. They went slowly, for they rode with
an army at their backs, and matched their pace to the footpace of the kerns. Cuin chafed at the delay. He
ached to speed as fast as horse could take him to the vile tower where Marc of Myrdon made his filthy
nest. What might those ruffians be doing to Ellid!
“They will not dishonor her, if it is gold the rat of Myrdon would have from me,“ Pryce Dacaerin had
told him. ”Curb yourself, Sister-son.“
And most likely it was gold. The whole land of Isle was rife with such extortions. Not within living
memory, not since Byve had met his doom, had there been a High King to keep order. Clan holdings and
chieftainships and petty kingdoms dotted the land, each within its own fortress and patch of fields; round
them all the wildering Forest wrapped its labyrinth. Across it every summer the raiding parties wended
like ships across sundering seas… Perhaps it was not gold that Marc of Myrdon sought, Cuin reflected.
Perhaps he would make Ellid a piece in some sneaking game of power, would flaunt her to tweak
Dacaerin’s nose… Truly, having once seen her loveliness, could he fail to take her to his bed? Cuin
clenched his fists at the thought.
He would gladly take his fair cousin to wife when they had regained her, even if she were dishonored.
As he rode, Cuin envisioned her: a tawny sunlit thing, like a forest bird or a fleeting dappled deer. Her
ways were free as the wind, headstrong indeed, but she never failed in the courtesy that comes from the
heart. They had been good comrades for many years, and though she had not said him ay, still she had
not said him nay. Indeed, the whole world expected that they would wed; it might be said that she was
his birthright. Cuin’s clan still cleaved to the old fashion of reckoning lineage through the woman. Thus he,
the sister-son, was heir to his uncle’s estate. But by his wedding Ellid, the uncle’s child also might share; it
was very just. And though Cuin was one who took direction ill, in this thing he was all obedience.
For Ellid born of Eitha had a face like a flower for loveliness and a body like a doe for grace; her mind
was steadfast as a sword and her spirit was bright as its skylit blade. Cuin pressed on toward the tower
of Myrdon with anguish in his heart, for he loved her well, as he would love her till he died.
CHAPTER TWO
Ellid awoke to find herself dappled in sunlight, lying beneath a ragged blanket on a thick bed of leaves.
Not far away burned a campfire with an iron kettle hung above it. Overhead was a rude roof… Ellid sat
up to look around her, and gasped involuntarily as pain gripped her. The black-haired youth strode
toward her from behind a wall of stone.
“What is it?“ he asked.
“I ache, that is all.“ Ellid could see now that she was within a circular building, ruinous and half-open to
the weather. Trees waved beyond; more she could not tell. Her rescuer brought her a tin cup of steaming
liquid from his kettle. It was good meat broth spiced with herbs. Rabbit meat; she noted the skins
stretched for drying nearby.
“The cure for your aches is close at hand,“ the youth said when she had finished ”Lady, let me carry you
once again.“ He lifted her up, blanket and all, and took her outside with graceful ease. Ellid’s eyes
widened. Before her rose towering spires of chiseled stone, ramparts and parapets and all the halls and
chambers of a kingly court and keep: all silent, ravaged by fire and weather and half-hidden by living
green. The chamber whence they had come was but a tiny gatehouse, dwarfed by the wall beyond. In
some past age this had been a castle such as Ellid had never seen; nay, a city must have peopled these
walls. Ten of her father’s fortresses would not have made it up.
“What place is this?“ she cried.
“Eburacon,“ the other replied. His soft voice vibrated with the word.
The lost home of the High Kings. Tales of that golden time were but fireside chatter to Ellid. She had
paid them small mind, she who lived so ardently in her own era: What did it gain her that the land had not
always been beset with petty war? But still the name rang through her like a half-remembered song. She
hung silent with the wonder of it as the dark-eyed youth bore her rapidly through the vast and crumbling
courtyard.
Presently they came to smooth stone steps descending to a walled grove of silver beech; great boulders
of white stone tumbled among the trees. At the bottom of the dell they rounded a comer of stone and
came upon a strange, bubbling pool of water in a smooth-worn basin of stone. Wisps of steam rose from
the surface. Ellid’s com-panion set her down on the brim and plunged in his fine-molded hands.
“There’s marvelous power of strength and healing in this spring,“ he remarked, ”and even were it foul the
heat would bake the ache from you. Stay in as long as you like, my lady. There are no eyes to see you
here, for this place is well guarded by the shades of the past. And when you are done, call me; I shall be
about.“
Ellid waited until his footsteps had faded well away before she took off her blanket and baggy tunic. The
water was tingling-hot. She eased into it cautiously, but in a moment she had relaxed in delighted comfort.
On a shelf below the surface she sat as securely as in a chair, and the water rippled up past her feet from
some hidden vent below. Of all works of nature, Ellid had never known any so marvelous. She soaked in
the warmth until beads of sweat formed on her face. Then she climbed out, supped into her tunic and
started gingerly back up the path.
She found her companion gathering deadwood in the courtyard. “My lady I” he exclaimed as he
hastened toward her. “You should not be walking on those feet!”
‘I do not know your name,“ she told him primly, ”and could not summon you.“
“Call me what you likel“ he grumbled.
“Come, my lord.“ She faced him, smiling but quite serious. ”What is it?“
For the space of ten breaths he probed her with his eyes that were deep and dark as wells. “My name is
Bevan,” he said at last. “Son of Byve High King in Eburacon. Born of Celonwy and fostered by her
brethren under the hollow hills. Argent Hand, they called me.”
“Then have I titled you too humbly in calling you lord,“ Ellid said in a small voice, ”for you are one of the
gods.“
“Gods!“ He laughed bitterly, but not, she sensed, at her. ”Godlings. All are dwindled now, to the stature
of mortals or less and to a span of some few hundreds of years. In the days of the glory of my father’s
kingdom, weeks of festival and sacrifice scarcely sufficed to do them honor. Now the miserable peasants
scrape and starve to bring some small token to their altars. Greatly have washed the tides of time since
the children of the mother goddess Duv gave up the sunlit lands to the Mothers of men.“
He picked up Ellid then and strode with her back to their camp, he whose height was scarcely more than
hers, and though he was slender he bore her lightly. He sat her down and fetched a basin of water for her
feet, bathing them carefully and rubbing them with crushed herbs. Ellid watched the movements of his
bare shoulders and his marvelous deft hands, and found no word to say to him.
“Nay,“ Bevan broke silence at last, ”I am no more a god, my lady. I have cast in my lot with my father’s
folk. I who walk in the light must live quickly and die soon, as a man will.“
“But why?“ she gasped.
“Perhaps Duv knows. I do not know, except that my heart burned within me to go home to a people
and place I had never known… to go home to die.“
“Likely it will seem a short time to you,“ Ellid mumbled, somewhat discomfited by this talk of death, ”but
you must have many years left to you of a man’s span. Though I dare say you are not as young as you
seem.“
“I scarcely know. Time moves differently in the torchlit castles of inner earth; indeed, it hardly seems to
move at all“ Bevan fronted her whimsically. ”How long has it been in years of man since my father
walked this way?“
“Some hundred years and more,“ she told him promptly. ”Longer than the life of any man.“
“Yet he was well in health when I left, though somewhat stooped. And I was born but lately in his age.
Among my mother’s people I am considered young, my lady.“
”The High King Byve of Eburacon yet lives?“ Ellid exclaimed. ”Folk would have it that he died—“
“At the burning siege. Ay, dark are the powers of Pel Blagden, but that night he missed his prey.“ Bevan
paused a moment, and his eyes took on a hard sheen. ”That is another one who yet lives, my lady.“
“Pel Blagden?“ she whispered. ”The mantled lord?“
‘Ay. There are gods and there are gods, lady. Pel Blagden is one who did not set his finger to the
Accord.“
“Then no vow binds him, that he may not walk in the light. . .“
“Ay, even so. He walks in many forms and bears many names. He feeds on strife and the blood of man,
and he gathers treasure with dragon greed. He shames the memory of the great and gracious time—“
Bevan shook himself. ”Enough! It is sufficient evil that I have no bandaging for your feet.“ He smiled at
her, the first smile she had seen on that pale, grave face, and well it became him. ”Will you eat, my lady?“
They ate rabbit meat cooked with wild onions and wild carrot roots; Ellid could not wish for better.
Then she had nothing to do but sit in the sun of the courtyard while Bevan scavenged amongst the ruins.
He returned with iron spear-heads and blackened swords, but no scrap of cloth; all had rotted away
years since. He took a sword and chopped down a sapling, whispering to it in some strange tongue
before he touched it. He made shift to fit it tightly to a spearhead, lashing it on with his sandal-thongs.
Then, word-lessly, he wandered off into the Forest which spread all around. Ellid lay down where she
was and went to sleep.
She awoke to a feeling of strange, suspenseful peace, so tangible that she could almost float in it, like still
water. The white hart stood watching over her no more than ten paces away. Its eyes were large,
wideset and smoldering-dark, like coals. The antlers on its head were silver and curiously bent in the
shape of a radiant crown. Ellid looked and looked as if the sight would have no ending, and the hart met
her gaze. There were apple trees growing in the courtyard, remnants of what had once been a royal
orchard in the gardens of Eburacon. The stag turned regally and slipped away between the fragrant
boles; white petals scattered over it. Ellid stirred and found that Bevan was standing beside her.
“It is spring,“ he murmured, ”and the apples of Eburacon are in blossom.“
“Folk say that the fruits are golden,“ Ellid said absently, ”and that it is death to eat them.“
Bevan arched his brows. “No folk can come here, but I wonder why they say that! Such apples would
seem the best of food to me.”
The white hart stood beneath the snowy blossoms of the largest tree, and Ellid met its eyes with love.
They stayed at ruined Eburacon for several days. Ellid’s feet healed quickly, and she went about in
slippers of rabbit skin to fetch firewood and water for cooking. The place was running with fountains of
sweet water. They plashed into deep pools where fat, lazy fish scarcely moved from a human shadow;
Bevan went in after them with his bare swift hands. He gathered rabbits from his snares, and on the
second day he slew a dappled deer; Ellid wore a kirtle of the skin. They ate well, for there were plenty of
greens and tender sprouts for one who knew them. Bevan gathered great delicious bunches. He brought
mushrooms, too, and Ellid had no fear of poison in what he gave her.
“I pluck them by smell, mostly,“ he explained. ”Indeed, I often close my eyes to choose better. You
know I have small need of light. My mother’s people gather their food in moonlight and shadows—“
“And plait the horses’ manes,“ she teased him, ”and ride the cows dry.“
He smiled sourly. “All things that chance amiss for man fall to the account of the children of Duv! But in
truth, many folk walk abroad in the dim night that would wither in the light of day. There is a frail and
perilous beauty in the night”
Ellid knew that Bevan often roamed the dark. He was feral as a cat, companionable through the day but
leaving with lean grace to prowl the night She did not wonder: Was not his mother the beauteous deity of
the moon? Probably it was from her that Bevan got his own fine-sculpted beauty, his face of moonlight
and shadow. Ellid watched him often; she knew the lines of his chiseled nostrils, the consummate shading
of his temples and grave mouth. His eyes were deep and wide as night skies, and sometimes as aloof.
When he sat silent and withdrawn, it seemed to her that he had left himself and gone to a place that was
closed to her, some secret realm… She fancied that he refreshed himself thus, and had no need of sleep.
His face brightened with the coming of nightfall, and there was no sleep in his sparkling eyes.
Once, waking from her own slumber, Ellid heard him nearby, speaking in a tongue that was strange to
her; to whom or what she did not know. “Do you often see your mother’s people in the night?” she
asked him the next day as they walked together.
“Never,“ he replied quietly. ”I shall see my mother and her folk no more, unless they should choose to
die as I have.“
“Nor your father?“ she asked, astonished.
“Nor he. I am quite apart now from that world.“
“Then you are very much alone,“ Ellid said slowly. ”Indeed why did you come, my lord? To rescue fair
maidens from towers?“
“Will you not call me Bevan?“ he rebutted.
“When you call me Ellid,“ she smiled. ”Come, my lord: What brings you to the world of men?“
“By my troth, I know not I“ Bevan looked not at her, but far off into the trees as he spoke. ”The strange,
strange world of men. The first day I came, the rising sun smote me like swords. But by noon I was
better, and I traveled to a place where men toiled, setting seed in the earth. I watched them from the
shadow of the trees, and I wished nothing better than to toil with them, touching the warm earth. I went
to them at last. . .”
“What happened?“ Ellid asked softly.
“They stared. Then a fat one came, and asked my business there, and seemed to take it ill that I had
none. They took me to that same vile tower of Myrdon, my lady, and chained me by the kitchen door
like a dog, stripped me and pelted me and offered me scraps to eat. When all was quiet, that night, I
took off the chain and found some clothes and went away. Some soldiers traveled north the next day,
and I followed them to see what they might be about, but I showed my face no more. Men are strange
folk.“
Ellid floundered for words, “Could you not— teach them better courtesy?”
“Nay.“ Bevan smiled ruefully at her. ”Many things are amenable to my touch and my word, lady; stone
and steel and fire will yield to me. But over men I have small power, unless they freely allow me… Men
are of all things most stub-born.“
They walked a while in silence. “Yet men were not always so churlish,” Ellid ventured at last.
“Ay, so I have heard.“ Bevan stopped his wandering feet and sat to face her. ”When the Mothers ruled,
like the Great Mother Duv who had granted the land to them, then was there peace for the most part, is it
not so? For women are wont to nurture, not to destroy. I cannot understand why they ever gave the rule
over to men.“
“When men guessed that they, too, were makers of the children,“ Eilid said, ”all fell to ruin. So my
mother tells me, though that was long ago.“
“Ay, what man would wish to leave his land to his sister’s son over the child he himself has got?“ Bevan
stared before him, speaking as one who perceives with present sight. “Those were evil times. Cousin
warred against cousin and brothers were wedded to sisters to share the heir. Even fathers turned against
daughters… And now the great wheel has turned indeed. Women’s ancient arts of nurture are forgot;
bards glorify only feats of war. The son names himself from the father, and his mother has become but a
servant to him. Women are married away from their kinfolk, traded and thieved like so many cattle.”
摘要：

NancySpringerTheWhiteHartBookoftheIsle01    PROLOGUE Longago,solongagothattheenchantmentoftheBeginningwasyetonit,therewasalittlelandcalledIsle.Itmighthavebeentheworldentireforallthepeopleknew;vastoceansencircleditevenasthethick-wovenForestsurroundedeachvillage.BeyondtheForest,ontheWastesortheWealdso...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：100 页 大小：293.18KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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