Judith Tarr - The Isle of Glass

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

Reprinted by arrangement with Bluejay Books First Tor printing: July 1986 A

TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates 49 West 24 Street New York, N.Y. 10010

Cover art by Kevin Eugene Johnson

ISBN: 0-812-55600-3 CAN. ED.: 0-812-55601-1

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 85-1295 Printed in the United States

0987654321

For Meredith

"Quis est homoF

"Mattcipium mortis, transient viator, loci hospes."

-Alcuin of York

"What is a "The slave of death, the guest of an inn, a wayfarer passing."

-Helen Waddetl

"Brother Alf! Brother Alfred!"

It was meant to be a whisper, but it echoed through the library. Brother

Alfred looked up from his book, smiling a little as the novice halted panting

within an inch of the table. "What is it now, Jehan?" he asked. "A rescue? The

King himself come to drag you off to the wars?"

Jehan groaned. "Heaven help us! I just spent an hour explaining to Dom Morwin

why I want to stay here and take vows. Father wrote to him, you see, and said

that if I had to be a monk, I'd join the Knights Templar and not disgrace him

completely."

Brother Alfred's smile widened. "And what said our good Abbot?"

"That I'm a waste of good muscle." Jehan sighed and hunched his shoulders. It

did little good; they were still as broad as the front gate. "Brother Alf,

can't anybody but you see what's under hall?"

"Brother Osric says that you will make a tolerable theologian."

"Did he? Well. He told me today that I was a blockhead, and that Fd got to the

point where he'd have to turn me over to you."

"In the same breath?"

Judith Tarr

"Almost. But I'm forgetting. Dom Morwin wants to see you." Brother Alfred

closed his book. "And we've kept him waiting.

Someday, Jehan, we must both take vows of silence." "I could use it. But you?

Never. How could you teach?" "There are ways." Just as Brother Alfred turned

to go, he

paused. "Tomorrow, don't go to the schoolroom. Meet me here." Jehan's whoop

made no pretense of restraint.

There was a fire in the Abbot's study, and the Abbot stood in front of it,

warming his hands. He did not turn when Brother Alfred entered, but said, "The

weather's wild today."

The other sat in a chair nearby. "Fitting," he remarked. "You know what the

hill-folk say: On the Day of the Dead, demons ride."

The Abbot crossed himself quickly, with a wry smile. "Oh, it will be a night

to conjure in." He sat stiffly and sighed. "My bones feel it. You know,

Alf-suddenly I'm old."

There was a silence. Brother Alfred gazed into the fire, seeing a pair of

young novices, one small and slight and red as a fox, the other tall and

slender and very pale with hair like silver-gilt. They were very industriously

stealing apples from the orchard. His lips twitched. "What are you thinking

of?* asked the Abbot. "Apple-stealing."

"Is that all? I was thinking of the time we changed the labels on every

bottle, jar, and box of medicine in the infirmary. We almost killed old

Brother Ansetm when he took one of Brother Herbal's clandestine aphrodisiacs

instead of the medicine he needed for his indigestion."

Brother Alfred laughed. "I remember that very well indeed; after Dom Edwin's

caning, \ couldn't sit for a fortnight. And we had to change the labels back

again. In the end we knew Brother Herbal's stores better than he did himself."

"I can still remember. First shelf: dittany, fennel, tansy, rue. . . . Was it

realty almost sixty years ago?" "Really."

THE ISLE OF GLASS

"Tempusjugtt, with a vengeance." Morwin ran his hands through his hair. A

little red still remained; the rest was rusty white. "I've had my threescore

years and ten, with three more for good measure. Time to think of what I

should have thought of all along if I'd been as good a monk as 1 liked to

think 1 was."

"Good enough, Morwin. Good enough."

"I could have been much better. I could have refused to let them make me

Abbot. You did."

"You know why."

"Foolishness. You could have been a cardinal if you'd cared

to try.71

"How could I have? You know what I am." "1 know what you think you are. You've

had the story of your

advent drummed into your head so often, you've come to believe

it."

"It's the truth. How it was the winter solstice, and a very storm out of Hell.

And in the middle of it, at midnight indeed, a novice, keeping vigil in the

chapel, heard a baby's cry. He had the courage to go out, even into that

storm, which should have out-howled anything living, and he found a prodigy. A

babe of about a season's growth, lying naked in the snow. And yet he was not

cold; even as the novice opened the postern, what had been warming him took

flight. Three white owls. Our brave lad took a long look, snatched up the

child, and bolted for the chapel. When holy water seemed to make no

impression, except what one would expect from a baby plunged headlong into an

ice-cold bath, he baptized his discovery, named him Alt-Alfred for the

Church's sake-and proceeded to make a monk of him. But the novice always swore

that the brat had come out of the hollow hills." "Had he?w

"I don't know. I seem to remember, faint and far, like another's memory: fire

and shouting, and a girl running with a baby in her arms. Then the girl, cold

and dead, and a storm, and three white owls. No one ever found her." Brother

Alfred breathed deep. "Maybe that's only a dream, and someone actually exposed

Judith TOTT

me as a changeling. What better place for one? Here on Ynys Witrin, with all

its legends and its old magic."

"Or else," said Morwin, "the Fair Folk have turned Christian. Though Fve never

heard that any of them could bear either holy water or co!d iron."

"This one can." Brother Alfred flexed his long fingers and folded them tightly

in his lap. "But to take a high place in the Church or in the world . . . no.

Anywhere but here, I would have gone to the stake long ago. Even here, not all

the Brothers are sure that I'm not some sort of superior devil."

Morwin bristled. "Who dares to think that?"

"None so bold that he voices his doubts, or even thinks them, often."

"He had better not!"

Alf smiled and shook his head. "You were always too fierce in my defense."

"And a good thing too. I've pulled you out of many a broil, from the first

time I saw the other novices make a butt of you."

"So much trouble for a few harmless words."

"Harmless! It was getting down to sticks and stones when I came by."

"They were only trying to frighten me," Alf said. "But that's years past. We

must truly be old if we can care so much for what happened so long ago."

"Don't be so kind. It's me, and you know it. I've always been one to bear a

grudge-the worse for my soul." Morwin rose and stood with his hands clasped

behind his back. "Alf. Someday sooner or later, I'm going to face my Maker.

And when I do that, I want to be sure I've left St. Ruan's in good hands." Alf

would have spoken, but he shook his head. "I know, Alf. You've refused every

office anyone has tried to give you and turned down the abbacy three times.

The more fool you; each time, the second choice has been far inferior. I don't

want that to happen again."

"Morwin. You know it must."

"Why?"

THE ISLE OF GLASS

Brother Alfred stood, paler even than usual, and spread his arms. "Look at

me!"

Morwin's jaw set. "I'm looking," he said grimly. "I've looked nearly every day

for sixty years."

"What do you see?"

"The one man I'd trust to take the abbacy and to keep it as it should be

kept."

"Man, Morwin? Do you think I am a man? Come. You alone can see me as I truly

am. If you will."

The Abbot found that he could not look away. His friend stood in front of him,

very tall and very pale, his eyes wide with something close to despair.

Strange eyes, palest gold like his hair and pupiled like a cat's.

"You see," said Alf. "Remember what else had the novices calling me devil and

witch's get. My way with beasts and with men. My little conjuring tricks." He

gathered a handful of fire and shadow, plaited it into a long strange-gleaming

strand, and tossed it to Morwin. The other caught it reflexively, and it was

solid, a length of cord at once shadow-cool and fire-hot. "And finally,

Morwin, old friend, how old am I?"

"Two or three years younger than I."

"And how old do I look?"

Morwin scowled and twisted the cord in his hands, and said nothing.

"How old did Earl Rogier think I was when he brought Jehan to St. Ruan's? How

old did Bishop Aylmer think I was, he who read my Gloria Dei thirty years ago

and looked in vain for me all the while he guested here, only last year? How

old did he think me, Morwin? And what was it he said to you? That lad has a

great future, Dom Morwin. Send him along to me when he grows a little older,

and I promise you'll not regret it.' He thought I was not eighteen!"

Still Morwin was silent, although the pain in his friend's face and voice had

turned his scowl to an expression of old and bitter sorrow.

Alf dropped back into his seat and covered his face with his

Judith Tarr

hands. "And you would make me swear to accept the election if it came to me

again. Morwin, will you never understand that I cannot let myself take any

title?"

The other's voice was rough. "There's a limit to humility, Alf. Even in a

monk."

"It's not humility. Dear God, no! I have more pride than Lucifer. When I was

as young as my body, I exulted in what I thought I was. There were Bishop

Aylmers then, too, all too eager to flatter a young monk with a talent for

both politics and theology. They told me I was brilliant, and I believed them.

I knew I was an enchanter; I thought I might have been the son of an elven

prince, or a lord at least, and I told myself tales of his love for my mortal

mother and of her determination that I should be a Christian. And of three

white owls." His head lifted. "I was even vain, God help me; the more so when

I knew the world, and saw myself reflected in women's eyes. Not a one but

sighed to see me a monk."

"And not a one managed to move you."

"Is that to my credit? I was proud that I never fell, nor ever even slipped.

No, Morwin. What I have is not humility. It's fear. It was in me even when I

was young, beneath the pride, fear that I was truly inhuman. It grew as the

years passed. When I was thirty and was still mistaken for a boy, I turned my

mind from it. At forty I began to recognize the fear. At fifty I knew it

fully. At sixty it was open terror. And now, I can hardly bear it.

Morwin-Morwin-what if I shall never die?"

Very gently Morwin said, "All things die, Alf."

Then why do I not grow old? Why am I still exactly as I was the day I took my

vows? And-what is immortal-what is elvish-is soulless. To be what I am and to

lack a soul ... it torments me even to think of it."

Morwin laid a light hand on his shoulder. "Alf. Whatever you are, whatever you

become, I cannot believe that God would be so cruel, so unjust, so utterly

vindictive, as to let you live without a soul and die with your body. Not

after you've loved Him so long and so well."

THE ISLE OF GLASS

"Have I? Or is all my worship a mockery? I've even dared to serve at His

altar, to say His Mass-1, a shadow, a thing of air and darkness. And you would

make me Abbot. Oh, sweet Jesu!"

"Stop it, AhT Morwin rapped. That's the trouble with you. You bottle yourself

up so well you get a name for serenity. And when you shatter, the whole world

shakes. Spare us for once, will you?"

But Alf was beyond even that strong medicine. With a wordless cry he whirled

and fled.

Morwin stared after him, paused, shook his head. Slowly, painfully, he lowered

himself into his chair. The cord was still in his hand, fire and darkness,

heat and cold. For a long while he sat staring at it, stroking it with

trembling fingers. "Poor boy," he whispered. "Poor boy."

Jehan could not sleep. He lay on his hard pallet, listening to the night

sounds of the novices' dormitory, snores and snuffles and an occasional dreamy

murmur. It was cold under his thin blanket; wind worked its way through the

shutters of the high narrow windows, and rain lashed against them, rattling

them upon their iron hinges.

But he was used to that. The novices said that he could sleep soundly on an

ice floe in the northern sea, with a smithy in full clamor beside him.

For the thousandth time he rolled into a new position, on his stomach with his

head pillowed on his folded arms. He kept seeing Brother Alfred, now bent over

a book in the library, now weaving upon his great loom, now singing in chapel

with a voice like a tenor bell. All those serene faces flashed past and

shattered, and he saw the tall slight form running from the Abbot's study,

wearing such a look that even now Jehan trembled.

Stealthily he rose. No one seemed awake. He shook out the robe which had been

his pillow; quickly he donned it. His heart was hammering. If anyone caught

him, he would get a caning and a week of cleaning the privy.

THE ISLE OF GLASS

Big though his body was, he was as soft-footed as a cat. He crept past the

sleeping novices, laid his hand upon die door-latch. A prayer had formed and

escaped before he saw the irony in it.

With utmost care he opened the door. Brother Owein the novice-master snored in

his cell, a rhythm unbroken even by the creak of hinges and the scrape of die

latch. Jehan flowed past his doorway, hardly daring to breathe, wavered in a

turning, and bolted.

Brother Alf s cell was empty. So too was the Lady Chapel, where he had been

all through Compline, prostrate upon the stones. St. Ruan's was large and Alf

familiar with every inch of it. He might even be in the garderobe.

Jehan left the chapel, down the passage which led to the gateway. Brother

Kyriell, the porter, slept the sleep of the just.

As Jehan paused, a shadow flickered past. It reached the small gate, slid back

the bolt without a sound, and eased the heavy panel open. Wind howled through,

armed with knives of sleet. It tore back the cowl from a familiar pale head

that bowed against it and plunged forward.

By the time Jehan reached the gate, Alf had vanished into the storm. Without

thought Jehan went after him.

Wind tore at him. Rain blinded him. Cold sliced through the thick wool of his

robe.

But it was not quite pitch-dark. As sometimes happens in winter storms, the

clouds seemed to catch the light of die drowned moon and to scatter it,

glowing with their own phantom light. Jehan's eyes, already adapted to the

dark, could discern the wet glimmer of the road, and far down upon it a blur

which might have been Alfs bare white head.

Folly had taken him so far, and folly drove him on. The wind fought him, tried

to drive him back to the shelter of the abbey. Alf was gaining-Jehan could

hardly see him now, even in the lulls between torrents of rain. Yet he

struggled onward.

Something loomed over him so suddenly that he recoiled.

Judith Tarr

It lived and breached, a monstrous shape that stank tike Hell's own midden.

A voice rose over the wind's howl, sounding almost in his ear. "Jehan-help me.

Take the bridle."

Alf. And the shape was suddenly a soaked and trembling horse with its rider

slumped over its neck. His numbed hands caught at the reins and gentled the

long bony head that shied at first, then pushed against him. He hunted in his

pocket and found the apple he had filched at supper, and there in the storm,

with rain sluicing down the back of his neck, he fed it to the horse.

"Lead her up to the abbey," Alf said, again in his ear. The monk stood within

reach, paying no heed to the wind or the rain. Warmth seemed to pour from him

in delirious waves.

The wind that had fought Jehan now lent him all its aid, almost carrying him

up the road to the gate.

In the lee of the wall, Alf took the reins. "Go in and open up."

Jehan did as he was told. Before he could heave the gate well open, Brother

Kyriell peered out of his cell, rumpled and unwontedly surly. "What goes on

here?" he demanded sharply.

Jehan shot him a wild glance. The gate swung open; the horse clattered over

the threshold. On seeing Alf, Brother Kyriell swallowed what more he would

have said and hastened forward.

"Jehan," Alf said, "stable the mare and see that she's fed." Even as he spoke

he eased the rider from her back. More than rain glistened in die light of

Brother Kyriell's lamp: blood, lurid scarlet and rust-brown, both fresh and

dried. "Kyriell-help me carry him."

They bore him on his own cloak through the court and down the passage to the

infirmary. Even when they laid him in a cell, he did not move save for the

rattle and catch of tormented breathing.

Brother Kyriell left with many glances over his shoulder. Alf paid him no

heed. For a moment he paused, buffeted by wave on wave of pain. With an effort

that made him gasp, he shielded his mind against it. His shaking hands folded

back the cloak,

THE ISLE OF GLASS

caressing its rich dark fabric, drawing strength from the contact.

The body beneath was bare but for a coarse smock like a serf's, and terrible

to see: brutally beaten and flogged; marked with deep oozing burns; crusted

with mud and blood and other, less mentionable stains. Three ribs were

cracked, the right leg broken in two places, and the left hand crushed; it

looked as if it had been trampled. Sore wounds, roughly tied up with strips of

the same cloth as the smock, torn and filthy and too long neglected.

Carefully he began to cleanse the battered flesh, catching his breath at the

depth and raggedness of some of the wounds. They were filthy and far from

fresh; yet they had suffered no infection at all.

Alf came last to the face. A long cut on the forehead had bled and dried and

bled again, and made the damage seem worse than it was. One side was badly

bruised and swollen, but nothing was broken; the rest had taken no more than a

cut and a bruise or two.

Beneath it all, he was young, lean as a panther, with skin as white as Alf's

own. A youth, just come to manhood and very good to look on. Almost too much

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