Isle of Glass (2 page)

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 on 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.

Big though his body was, he was as soft-footed as a cat. He
crept past the sleeping novices, laid his hand upon the 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 the 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 the drowned moon and
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 that might have been Alf’s 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.

o0o

Something loomed over him, so suddenly that he recoiled. It
lived and breathed, a monstrous shape that stank like 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
the 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.

o0o

Brother Kyriell left with many glances over his shoulder.
Alf paid him no heed. For a moment he paused, buffered 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, 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 so. Even with all his hurts, that was plain
to see. Alf tore his eyes from that face. But the features haunted him.
Eagle-proud, finely drawn beneath beard and bruises. The cast of them was
uncanny: eldritch.

Resolutely Alf focused on the tormented body. He closed his
eyes, seeking in his mind for the stillness, the core of cool fire which made
him what he was. There was peace there, and healing.

Nothing.

Only turmoil and a roiling mass of pain. His own turmoil,
the other’s agony, together raised a barrier he could not cross. He tried. He
beat upon it. He strained until the sweat ran scalding down his sides. Nothing.

He must have groaned aloud. Jehan was standing beside him,
eyes dark with anxiety. “Brother Alf? Are you all right?”

The novice’s presence bolstered him. He nodded and breathed
deep, shuddering.

Jehan was not convinced. “Brother Alf, you’re sick. You
ought to be in bed yourself."

"It’s not that kind of sickness.” He reached for a
splint, a roll of bandages. His hands were almost steady. “You’ll have to help
me with this. Here; so.”

o0o

There was peace of a sort in that slow labor. Jehan had a
feeling for it; his hands were big but gentle, and they needed little
direction.

After a long while, it was done. Alf knelt by the bed,
staring at his handiwork, calm at last—a blank calm.

Jehan set something on the bed. Wet leather, redolent of
horses: a set of saddlebags. “These were on the mare’s saddle,” he said. “And
the mare...she’s splendid! She’s no vagabond’s nag. Unless," he added with
a doubtful glance at the stranger, “he stole her.”

“Does he look like a thief?”

“He looks as if he’s been tortured.”

“He has.” Alf opened the saddlebags. They were full; one
held a change of clothing, plain yet rich. The other bore a flask, empty but
holding still a ghost of wine, and a crust of bread and an apple or two, and
odds and ends of metal and leather. Amid this was a leather pouch, heavy for
its size. Alf poured its contents into his hand: a few coins and a ring, a
signet of silver and sapphire. The stone bore a proud device: a seabird in
flight, surmounted by a crown.

Jehan leaned close to see, and looked up startled.
“Rhiyana!”

“Yes. The coins are Rhiyanan, too.” Alf turned the ring to
catch the light. “See how the stone’s carved.
Guidion rex et imperator
.
It’s the King’s own seal.”

Jehan stared at the wounded man. “That’s not Gwydion.
Gwydion must be over eighty. And what’s his ring doing here? Rhiyana is across
the Narrow Sea, and we’re the breadth of Anglia away from even that.”

“But we’re only two days’ ride from Gwynedd, whose King had
his fostering at Gwydion’s hands. Look here: a penny from Gwynedd.”

“Is he a spy?”

“With his King’s own seal to betray him?”

“An envoy, then.” Jehan regarded him, as fascinated by his
face as Alf had been. “He looks like the elf-folk. You know that story, don’t
you, Brother Alf? My nurse used to tell it to me. She was Rhiyanan, you see,
like my mother. She called the King the Elvenking.”

“I’ve heard the tales,” Alf said. “Some of them. Pretty
fancies for a nursery.”

Jehan bridled. “Not all of them, Brother Alf! She said that
the King was so fair of face, he looked like an elven lord. He used to ride
through the kingdom, and he brought joy wherever he went; though he was no
coward, he’d never fight if there was any way at all to win peace. That’s why
Rhiyana never fights wars.”

“But it never refuses to intervene in other kingdoms’
troubles.”

“Maybe that’s what this man has been doing. There’s been
fighting on the border between Gwynedd and Anglia. He might have been trying to
stop it.”

“Little luck he’s had, from the look of him.”

“The King should have come himself. Nurse said no one could
keep up a quarrel when he was about. Though maybe he’s getting too feeble to
travel. He’s terribly old.”

“There are the tales.”

“Oh,” Jehan snorted. “That’s the pretty part. About how he
has a court of elvish folk and never grows old. His court is passing fair by
all I've ever heard, but I can't believe he isn’t a creaking wreck. I’ll wager
he dyes his hair and keeps the oglers at a distance.”

Alf smiled faintly. “I hope you aren’t betting too high.” He
yawned and stretched. “I’ll spend the night here. You, my lad, had better get
back to your own bed before Brother Owein misses you.”

“Brother Owein sleeps like the dead. If the dead could
snore.”

“We know they’ll rise again. Quick, before Owein proves it.”

o0o

Jehan had kindled a fire in the room’s hearth; Alf lay in
front of it, wrapped in his habit. Even yet the stranger had not moved, but he
was alive, his pain gnawing at the edge of Alf’s shield. But worse still was
the knowledge that Alf could have healed what the other suffered, but for his
own, inner confusion. How could he master another’s bodily pain, if he could
not master that of his own mind?

If I must be what I am
, he cried into the darkness,
then let me be so. Don't weigh me down with human weakness!

The walls remained, stronger than ever.

As Alf slept, he dreamed. He was no longer in St. Ruan’s, no
longer a cloistered monk, but a young knight with an eagle’s face, riding
through hills that rose black under the low sky. His grey mare ran lightly,
with sure feet, along a steep stony track. Before them, tall on a crag, loomed
a castle. After the long wild journey broken by nights in hillmen’s huts or
under the open sky, it should have been a welcome sight. It was ominous.

But he had a man to meet there. He drew himself up and
shortened the reins; the mare lifted her head and quickened her step.

The walls took them and wrapped them in darkness.

o0o

Within, torchlight was dim. Men met them, men-at-arms, seven
of them. As the rider dismounted, they closed around him. The mare’s ears
flattened; she sidled, threatening.

He gentled her with a touch and said, “I’ll stable her
myself.”

None of the men responded. The rider led the mare forward,
and they parted, falling into step behind. The stable was full, but a man led a
horse out of its stall to make room for the mare. The rider unsaddled her and
rubbed her down and fed her with his own hands; when she had eaten her fill, he
threw his cloak over her and left her with a few soft words.

Alone now, he walked within a circle of armed men, pacing
easily as if it were an honor guard. But the back of his neck prickled.

With an effort he kept his hand away from his sword. Fara
was safe, warding his possessions, among them the precious signet. He could
defend himself. There was no need to fear.

The shadows mocked his courage. Cold hostility walled him
in.

It boded ill for his embassy. Yet Lord Rhydderch had summoned
him, and although the baron had a name for capricious cruelty, the envoy had
not expected to fail. He never had. They ascended a steep narrow stair and
gathered in a guardroom. There the men-at-arms halted. Without a word they
turned on their captive.

His sword was out, a baleful glitter, but there was no room
to wield it. Nor would he shed blood if he could help it. One contemptuous blow
sent the blade flying.

Hands seized him. That touched his pride. His fist struck
flesh, bone. Another blow met metal; a sixfold weight bore him to the floor,
onto the body of the man he had felled.

Rare anger sparked, but he quenched it. They had not harmed
him yet. He lay still, though they spat upon him and called him coward; though
they stripped him and touched his body in ways that made his lips tighten and
his eyes flicker dangerously; even though they bound him with chains, rusted
iron, cruelly tight.

They hauled him to his feet, looped the end of the chain
through a ring in the ceiling, stretched his arms taut above his head. His toes
barely touched the floor; all his weight hung suspended from his wrists.