The Sable Moon (31 page)

“I don't care,” he grumbled. “Gwern was himself, as well as me, and now he's dead.”

“Changed, Alberic, only changed,” she said gently. She nosed at the disorderly array of sticks and blossoms that had been the wyrd. “Plant these in that trail of tears you've left, and you'll have a grove that will be the glory of Isle in years to come, and better than any monument to his memory.”

Even tired as he was, he obeyed her, thrusting the leafy shoots into the ground, spacing them in a sort of outward spiral. He surveyed his finished work sourly.

“A poor substitute for a warm and gentle touch,” he stated.

“Come with me now,” she told him, and led him to the tall oak tree at the edge of the glade. Nestled between its roots lay a wolf pup, soft, bright-eyed, still in its first fur. It gazed up at him with mingled valor and distress, wriggling. Automatically, Trevyn sat down so that his size would not frighten it, reached out to caress it. The little thing ran onto his lap and nuzzled under his chin, pressing against him, sending a spasm of longing through him.

“Your son,” Maeve said.

“What?” he whispered.

“Your son, and his destiny is far stranger than yours. Being born a wolf may be the least of it.” She gazed at him out of dusky damson eyes. “Take him with you, to comfort you, and to grieve you when it is time.”

He stood, cradling the wolf cub against his chest, where it lay contentedly. “But Maeve,” he faltered, “won't you miss him?”

“The babe is weaned,” she answered, then stood grinning toothily at him. “Prince, you know I am a creature of the wilds! Get on to Nemeton; they have need of you there.” She turned and trotted across the glade, between the newly planted trees. At the edge she faced around. “Look above you,” she added, then disappeared into the Forest.

Trevyn looked. The eagle perched on a limb of the oak, staring down at him with hard, topaz eyes. Trevyn sighed, put out an arm, and the bird glided down to him, landing gently just above his wrist. He held it at a level with his face, and it regarded him steadily.

“So you did only what you had to do,” he acceded. “What the goddess told you to do. All right. Will you get me something to eat, little brother, if you please? Or I am likely to starve before I ever reach Nemeton.”

He put the golden sword of Lyrdion in Gwern's grave, pushed earth over it with his hands, planted heather and white blossoms of bean to mark the place. He knew he would have to come back for it, but he would not take it where it might cause his father pain. Later, he rode away on a fey white horse, with a belly full of half-cooked rabbit, holding a wolf cub on the saddle before him. An eagle flew close overhead. It was only a few hours until dusk, but Trevyn would not stay another night in the place where he had so painfully become whole. He rode through twilight, deep into night, noticing to his vague surprise that his horse's forehead shone with a clear, faint light, white on white, like a star. It had not done so before.

“A quaint sight I make,” he muttered, “looking like a wild man, riding to face a sorcerer, all two of me, on a mad mystery of a horse, with a baby werewolf in my arms and an eagle almost bigger than I am thumping down on me from time to time.… Rheged may run when he sees me, but Wael is likely to laugh himself into oblivion.”

Chapter Four

After three days of hard riding, not even taking time to wash, he approached Alan's encampment outside the walls of Nemeton. Alan blinked, watching him. “Gwern?” he queried, and then, as the rider drew closer, incredulously, “Trevyn?”

“I think I shall be, mostly, when I'm bathed.” Trevyn dismounted, letting the wolf sit in the saddle. He had named the little one Dair, a word of strong comfort. Already Dair balanced expertly on the horse, in company with the eagle, which ted him scraps of raw meat. Alan glanced, open-mouthed, from the odd trio to his son's thin, hollow-eyed face.

“What in mercy has been going on?”

“Gwern took ill and died—or seemed to die.…” Trevyn sat limply on the ground beneath his horse's nose. “Father, I can't begin to tell you half of what's been happening to me. But Maeve—someone told me I was needed here.”

“I'm relieved to see you; I've been expecting you for a week. But what you can do, I'm not sure.” Alan sat beside his son. “We've wiped the countryside clear of the invaders at last. It's been grim work, but my men fight well now that the shadow of the wolves is gone and now—now that you are back and I am better. We've scuttled their clumsy ships. But on the day that I arrived some of the enemy took Nemeton, and they're holed up there yet. It would be no trouble to starve them out, but Corin is in there, and some others who were too stubborn to flee.…”

“Meg among them,” Trevyn murmured. He had felt her presence long since, with all of Gwern's sureness.

“Ay.” Alan's face showed his distress. “She got caught up in the confusion, it seems, and took refuge there.… But how did you know, lad?”

“I just know.… She's come to no harm so far, Father. I'd feel it if she had.”

“And Cory? And the others?” Alan leaned forward eagerly.

“I can't tell about them,” Trevyn admitted, hating to disappoint him. “I can only tell that Meg is all right. And I seem to catch a whiff of Wael.”

“Ay, he's there, I think. Talk has it that a particularly villainous-looking, yellow-eyed old devil landed with Rheged. But you must have drawn his fangs, Trev. He's given us no trouble.”

“I doubt it,” Trevyn said. “He's just waiting for a time that suits his fancy. Wael is peculiar that way. And he hates me worse than poison. You'll see some fireworks yet. We must strike quickly, Father, before—”

Before Wael harmed Meg, Alan knew, though Trevyn could not say it. “As quickly as may be,” he gruffly replied. “I have men at work up by the Forest constructing siege towers.”

“No need. I can open the gates for you with a touch. I have the ancient powers of Bevan now, Father. Watch.” Trevyn indicated his blanketroll, scarcely moving his finger, and it undid itself from his saddle, floated gently through the air, and settled at his feet. The wolf cub jumped down, pattered over, and curled up in his lap.

“What—what have you bargained away for this power?” Alan breathed, startled and dismayed. “What have you sacrificed, Trevyn?”

“Gwern is gone.” Trevyn could not still the spasm of pain that crossed his face. “But there was no bargaining done, Father, believe me. I would far rather …” For a moment he could not go on. “I even think it might have been Gwern's idea,” he finally said.

“You don't look strong enough to break a biscuit,” Alan told him roughly, to temper his concern.

“I'm as weak as a kitten,” Trevyn acknowledged. “But in a way I'm stronger than I ever was before. And I won't be able to sleep until this is settled—until I see Meg safe. Tomorrow, Father. Please.”

Alan hesitated, measuring his stature and his need. “Only if I am never far from your side,” he said at last.

“I'll be glad of your shield.”

“All right, then.… Where did you get the wolf?”

Trevyn lifted the creature to his face, rested his taut cheek for a moment in its warm fur. “From the All-Mother,” he answered after a pause, “and he's dearer to me than life, Father. Will you guard him, too?”

“Of course. Trevyn, will I ever understand?”

“When this is over, I'll sleep for a month. Then we'll talk for a year.”

In the morning a messenger arrived whose news sent Alan stamping in circles with anxiety. “A second wave of invaders has landed,” he told Trevyn. “They're marching on us across deserted countryside. My men are faithful, but they have been fighting for months; those who live are worn to the bone. They can't take much more of this.”

“All the more reason to regain Nemeton quickly,” said Trevyn. Alan nodded and called his army into battle readiness.

He and Trevyn reached the main gate under cover provided by Craig's expert archers. Still, rocks and hot lead hailed down upon them as they stood before the iron-sheathed doors. Holding a cowhide over himself and his son, Alan waited patiently while Trevyn ran questing fingers along the timbers, spoke a soft command. Nothing happened, and the Prince frowned.

“Wael has put a locking spell on these gates,” he explained. “So we can't afford to be delicate.…” A quiet light flickered through his sea-green eyes. He judged that he had power now to call on the dark goddess once more. He need not possess strength of body; Emrist had showed him that. He need only assent completely to her aid. “Here goes,” he muttered, and struck the gates once, lightly, with clenched fist. “Break them, Menwy, break them!”

The huge portals burst inward, hurling splinters and metal shards for a hundred feet. The portcullis that stood just beyond them writhed apart and flew through the air like nightmare snakes. Even the stones of the gatehouse flew. Within an instant, Alan found himself staring through a clean, open passageway into the main street of Nemeton, where a troop of Tokarians stood at muster. Luckily, the enemy soldiers were even more startled than he, and some were already mortally wounded. Hastily, Alan pulled Trevyn aside and bellowed for the charge.

Half of the Tokarians were trapped on the walls, demoralized by the sudden change in their circumstances. Alan's army swirled in and took them from behind, quickly dispatching them. Others of the enemy were hunted through the streets and deserted houses of the town; this was slow, nerve-racking work. Ket spotted a glimpse of golden crown and was pleased to take Rheged his prisoner. Alan didn't know. As soon as he could, he set a company to barricading the blasted gates, saw Trevyn onto his weird white steed, gathered some mounted retainers, and led on to Corin's keep. There another set of barred and guarded doors awaited them.

The Tokarians within the keep saw them coming and met them with a shower of arrows and rocks. Sensing doom; they fought feverishly, hurling anything they could think of to hold vengeance at a distance. But Trevyn drew rein just beyond the range of their fire and flung up one arm. The gates toppled as if pushed by a strong wind, and he galloped over them, ducking, a wolf cub sheltered against his chest. The Tokarians scattered, and Alan's liegemen began stoically to hunt them down.

“The dungeons,” Alan said.

“Meg's on the roof,” Trevyn murmured, peering up. He could see nothing but his eagle, high overhead.

“There are enemies on the stairs. Let the men take care of them. The dungeons, first.”

Robin of Firth, Corin's foster brother, was also intent on reaching the dungeons. He sped down the dark stairs ahead of them and greeted Cory with a shout of joyful relief. The lord of Nemeton and his followers sat fettered to their cell walls, looking somewhat starved and rather bewildered by the explosive noises they had been hearing. “No use breaking up the place,” Alan remarked as Trevyn reached for a lock. “We might need it.”

“You're right,” Trevyn sighed. “Find the keys, Father; I'm tired.” He collapsed onto a dank stone step, laid his head against the rough-cut doorjamb, and closed his eyes. Robin had already found the keys and was opening cells, unlocking fetters. Alan glanced worriedly at his son, then looked up sharply as Ket brought his royal prisoner clattering down the stairs. Cory hugged Robin and came over to speak to Alan, rubbing his sore wrists.

“The girl, Meg,” he asked, “where might she be? Tokar's sinister old spellbinder came down here a short while ago and took her.”

“Just like Wael,” Rheged snarled, “to shelter behind a wench, saving his own ancient hide, while brave men suffer—”

“Silence!” Alan roared at him. Trevyn stood up, arrow swift, arrow straight, but pale beneath his grime. Ket put the captured king in a cell.

“Witch's whelp,” Rheged sneered at Trevyn from behind the bars. “Pretty warlock, Wael will put an end to you yet. He was deathless and strong before you were born.”

Trevyn gave him not even a glance for reply. “Upstairs,” he ordered the others, and began toiling up the tower steps. Several times he had to stop to gather strength, cursing at his own slowness. Alan followed him closely. Corin, Robin, and some retainers puffed along behind. The way out onto the platform was by a trapdoor; Alan insisted on going first, but no one was waiting to knock off their heads. Wael stood at the opposite extreme of the circular space, very close to the edge, with Megan arranged before him like a shield, her arms twisted behind her back. Trevyn knew that Wael did not have much physical strength in his withered, clawlike hands, but he also knew his power to terrify and deceive. Meg looked frozen; she might as well have been held in a vise.

“By my troth,” Alan exclaimed, “it's Waverly!”

“Hal thought as much,” Trevyn remarked.

“I am flattered, Laueroc!” hissed the chamberlain of the late and evil Iscovar. “That you should remember me after all these years! Though of course I remember you well. You drove me forth from this very court, set my old bones to wandering the weary seas, you and your bastard brother, a pair of pups! So I set my course toward revenge. But all has gone against me: the bastard has escaped me, and this elf-sprout has thwarted and defied me at every turn.” Wael glared venomously at Trevyn. “At last he robbed and destroyed the ancient thing that sustained me. Yet I will have my revenge at last, and you will both learn to hate the day you ever crossed me!” He twitched Megan nearer to the edge, where a smooth wall dropped hundreds of feet to the cobbled courtyard below.

“As I recall it,” Alan said, courteously enough, “you were asked only to obey Hal as heir to the throne. Instead, you slipped away and took ship of your own accord.”

“Do not speak to me of obedience!” shrieked Wael. “If I were in strength, you would all bow down to me and beg to know my will! Dogs! Sons of she-dogs! You would grovel before the Wolf as the jackal before the lion!”