The Silver Sun (17 page)

“Why, she's afraid of me!” exclaimed Rosemary, astonished.

Behind her back, Alan and Pelys were grinning broadly, but Hal's face was perfectly sober.

“She's a bit shy at first,” Hal admitted, “and she is very sensitive. You must be very gentle with her.” Then he coaxed the filly, “Come out, Asfala. The lady will not hurt you."

As the filly daintly, hesitantly emerged from behind Hal's back, Rosemary saw her as if seeing a horse for the first time. She noticed the shining hooves dancing on the floor, and the beautifully colored, soft and glossy coat. She noticed the mane and tail, smooth and clean as her own hair, plaited with green ribbons. She saw the delicate, finely shaped face, the pretty, pricked ears, the soft nose, the intelligent eyes. The filly's head stood little higher than her own. Amazed at herself, Rosemary realized that she longed to comfort this beautiful creature, so gentle and timid. She held out her hand to Asfala, wheedling. “Come here, Asfala. Poor little thing, I wouldn't hurt you."

“Here,” said Hal, handing her a lump of bread. “Give her this."

The horse's touch on her hand thrilled her. Asfala took the bread courteously. Delighted, Rosemary patted the smooth cheekbones and the arched neck. Pelys looked on in astonished joy. Hal allowed himself to smile now, and he took the lady's hands and placed them on either side of the filly's head.

“Now, Asfala,” he said seriously, “this is your mistress, and you are to follow her and obey her. Be a good horse.” Then he stepped back. “Walk away from me, my lady, and see if she does not follow you."

Rosemary walked toward her father, and Asfala trotted after her like a big dog. “Father!” she cried happily. “Look! She likes me!"

Pelys nodded, his sharp eyes glowing like hers. “Well, well, lass, let us take her to the saddlery."

This was across the courtyard, near the stables. Pelys rode in his chair, and opened the door with a large key. In the dim light, generations of saddles and trappings shone with mellow splendor. There were war saddles and hunting saddles, ornate pleasure saddles, large and small, each richly tooled and ornamented with metal and jewels. With his quick eye, Pelys picked out a few that might do.

“She will need one neither too large nor too heavy,” he mused. “That was your mother's, with the rowan design, but she rode a larger horse. I believe that one yonder might be the very thing.” He pointed to a smaller saddle made of soft, plain russet leather. Hal fetched it down. The matching bridle had a light snaffle bit and reins trapped in green cloth, in the old fashion.

“If I mistake not, it belonged to the second daughter of the fifth lord,” said Pelys pensively. “It was meant for a pony, but it seems broad enough, for ponies are often as broad as horses. But we shall see."

Alan had found a green saddle blanket. Hal put the things on, and Asfala looked lovely in her green and russet finery. She flirted her head as if to exclaim, “See me!” and Rosemary laughed out loud.

“Fally the filly!” she quipped. “I should call you Folly rather, for you are as foolish as any woman in a new dress!"

“Would you like to get on her?” Hal asked. “She has never been ridden, so she will not know exactly what to do, but then, neither will you."

“Never been ridden!” cried Rosemary. “Won't she fight?"

“Well, she had never been saddled, either,” smiled Hal. “If you like, I will try her first, but I may be a bit heavy for her."

“Nay,” protested Rosemary, “I will try."

Hal took her by the waist and set her in the saddle sideways, for her skirt was not divided. Then he laid his hand on Asfala's neck and slowly walked her off. Asfala paced sedately, and after a few strides Rosemary's frown of concentration changed to a pleased smile. She waved to her father, who was sitting at the saddlery door with Alan. The auburn sheen of her hair was almost identical to her filly's russet dapplings.

“Alan,” asked Lord Pelys, “why did Asfala shy away from Rosemary?"

“Because Hal told her to."

“By the mighty moon, he has the wisdom of the Gypsies,” murmured Pelys. “But what marvel is this, Alan? Never have I seen a horse so spirited, yet so gentle and trusting."

Alan did not know how to reply. What, indeed, was an
elwedeyn
horse? And what was Hal, that he could capture one's heart with a few words?

By afternoon Asfala was back in the stable, resting contentedly, and everyone else was on tenterhooks, waiting for the feast. In the kitchen and great hall grand preparations were in progress, but no one was allowed to look. Hal and Alan were shooed away like the village children. Pelys and Rosemary had given them gifts, shirts of fine white linen with gold embroidery at collar and cuffs, and they had nothing to do but put them on and wait. In the early winter dusk, they joined the rest of the folk gathered outside the keep.

At last the big wooden doors swung open, and they all poured in, each person individually stopping to gape at the sight. The big oil lamps which hung from the rafters were not lit, and no smoky torches burned. Instead, the hall was lighted by hundreds of fragrant wax candles ranged along the tables and in sconces on the walls; more of the rare, expensive tapers than anyone had ever seen. In each of the several huge fireplaces a roast pig lazily turned. Instead of the usual rushes, the floor was strewn with sweet-smelling evergreen boughs.

As they had at that other feast two months before, Hal and Alan sat with the volunteers. But this time Rafe was not there. Since the incident at the practice yard, he had become almost a recluse. If he was at the feast, he was sitting elsewhere.

The food was sumptuous, but not quite as overwhelming as before, since no one planned to appease either the gods or the dead; this gathering was purely for pleasure. After the soups and breads, the roast pork and roast apples, the fruits and tarts and nuts were all consumed, the tables were cleared and everyone sat back to wait for entertainment. There were some jugglers and gymnasts, and a mime. And of course there had to be speeches by the steward, captain and other castle officials. Pelys spoke last, and drew roars of approval by stating his intention to say nothing, since it had all been amply said before. From behind a curtain he called a troupe of musicians, and with great enthusiasm the tables and benches were pushed to one side for dancing. Couples lined up for the “carrole."

Rosemary's eyes sparkled, and her foot tapped impatiently. She dearly loved to dance, but there were no guests of noble rank present, or at least no one who claimed noble rank.... It was not always easy, being the lord's daughter. So she caught her breath as Hal approached her, faced him with shining eyes as they took their places on the floor. What a marvelous day it had been; first Asfala, and then music and Hal.

Without need of much thought, Rosemary had long known that Hal was special. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, yet beyond his courtesy she had sensed great courage. He was purposeful, yet at times she thought she discerned loneliness and doubt. He was mysterious, and masterful if need be. He was the only one who had dared to ask her to dance. And even in his dancing he could not be faulted. He was looking at her, and a strange, soft fire burned in his gray eyes. The smile faded from her face to be replaced by a gaze of rapt attention. For a moment, time stood still.

Three people noticed that long, intense meeting of eyes as the slow dance drew to an end. One was Alan. One was Pelys. And one was Rafe, who stood by himself near the door. Something snapped inside him as he watched this upstart who danced with the lord's daughter. Pushing his way through the happy crowd, he strode up behind Hal and seized him roughly by the shoulder.

“Take off your fancy shirt, whoreson churl, and fight!” he grated. “Steel against steel, and to the death, you —"

“Hold your tongue!” Hal commanded. “Have you no thought of the lady?” Alan had reached his side now, and he turned to him. “Alan, would you escort the Lady Rosemary back to her seat?"

“Take off your shirt and fight, bastard lordling!” Rafe hissed. It was the custom to strip for hand-to-hand knife fighting, so that the blade might more easily slip between the ribs. Rafe already was naked to the waist, muscles sliding under smooth, glistening skin. Knowing from many defeats in mock battle that he was no match for Hal with a sword, he carried instead a steel dagger with a ten-inch blade.

Except for a few women's cries of protest, the crowd was deathly silent as Alan led Rosemary back to her seat on the dais. Though Hal spoke softly, his voice sounded throughout the hall.

“Are you mad, Rafe? It is a festival day! Do not mar this happy gathering with bloodshed."

“Coward,” crooned Rafe.

Will came forward, followed by other volunteers. “Rafe,” he said gently, “you are not yourself. Pursue your quarrel if you must, but to do so at this time does you dishonor."

“Even you are on his side!” howled Rafe. “Look at him! Can't you see that he is a changeling; some heartless, evil spirit in human form!"

So that is what preys on him
, Alan thought.
The strangeness. The eyes
.

No one else understood what Rafe meant, but many thought him mad. Will scowled with pity. “Come away, Rafe, or we must take you by force."

“You cannot deny me my blood-right!” Rafe cried. “He must answer the challenge!"

Will looked at Pelys, who nodded sadly. According to the custom of the times, Rafe's demand had to be met. Will and his men reluctantly joined the ring of spectators.

“Very well,” said Hal. “Then let us go outside, where the women and children need not watch."

“We will fight here where all can see, lady's man. Are you afraid of dying a coward's death?"

Hal sighed, then turned and spoke to Rosemary, his words traversing the hall. “My lady,” he requested, “pray leave."

Her face was pale, but her eyes flashed. “I am staying,” she answered, lifting her head proudly.

“Fight, coward!” taunted Rafe.

There was nothing else to do. Hal laid aside his sword and began to unlace his shirt. Will brought him a dagger.

Alan remained near Rosemary. He was not overly concerned about the outcome of the fight, for he knew Hal's ability. He also knew why Hal was so reluctant to fight, especially in front of Rosemary, and as the shirt came off he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

Her cry of shock was lost in the gasp that went up from all around. Pelys bit his lip, and even Rafe's jaw dropped. Back, front and sides, neck and upper arms, Hal's skin was etched and crisscrossed with the scars of a thousand wounds. But even in contrast with Rafe's smooth form, his tortured body had a grace all its own. Broad shoulders, well-developed muscles and self-possessed movement gave the onlookers an impression of power and beauty, like the well-weathered granite of a seaside cliff. Rafe felt a vague unease, a stirring of second thought. Then Hal dropped to a crouching, catlike posture, and the fight was on.

It hardly lasted long enough for Rafe to know what had happened. This was not one of those practice bouts in which he attacked and Hal waited while he wore himself out. Instead, Hal came at him in a blur of motion. Rafe struck at him hastily, but Hal eluded the knife with fluid grace, moving under Rafe's arm and grasping his wrist. The room spun around, and Rafe found himself on his back. A grip of great power crashed his hand; he cried out in pain, his fingers loosened and the dagger dropped. Then the blade touched his throat. He closed his eyes and waited for certain death.

But, unbelievably, no blow was struck. Rafe opened his eyes and saw two daggers, nearly point to point, stuck like a V in the rafter far above. The crowd was in an uproar. As he scrambled to his feet, he came face to face with his gray-eyed adversary. “Why did you not slay me?” he demanded. “From the day you first came here I have offered you nothing but enmity."

The crowd fell silent again as Hal spoke slowly, with lowered eyes. “You are a brave man, Rafe of Celydon. Even with the knife at your throat, you did not flinch or beg for mercy. It seems to me that my Lord Pelys may one day have need of you."

“So I shall,” growled Pelys tartly, “if he ever regains the sense he was born with."

“If you really want me dead, or worse than dead,” added Hal bitterly, “there is no need to fight me. Just carry news of me to the Dark Tower. You might soon see me in such torments as should satisfy even your hatred."

As he spoke, their eyes met and locked. Rafe probed those gray eyes with his own, and all his confused feelings came to one focus: he had been wrong. Hal was not a cold-blooded, calculating being in human form. He bore a gentle heart; he was no stranger to human emotions. In those eyes Rafe saw loneliness, longing and hurt. Suddenly Rafe realized that Hal rather liked him. Shaking, he passed a hand across his forehead, as if waking from a bad dream.

“I have been acting like a fool,” he said brokenly. “These past three months I must have taken leave of my senses. Can you forgive me, Hal?"

Hal took his proffered hand with joyful relief. “If you will forgive my childish words. You are indeed a brave man, Rafe, and honest to your core. I want no better gift than your friendship."

They gripped hands before all present. Rafe turned next to Alan and took his hand in friendship also. Then he apologized to Pelys and Rosemary. “My lord, my lady, I beg pardon for my unseemly conduct."

“Put your shirt on, boy,” snapped Pelys happily, “and let us have some merriment. Musicians, ho!"