The Silver Sun (21 page)

The next morning, Alan was awakened by the touch of cold water as Lysse bathed his face. His shoulder was red and swollen, and his whole body was pulsing with pain. Lysse put cold cloths on the wound while Alan ate some dried venison. Before the sun was well up, they were on their way once again.

For Alan, the day soon faded into a haze of wretchedness. If anyone had asked him to retrace his path, he could not have done so, for he saw nothing except the rump of Lysse's horse moving in front of him. He followed it blindly, trusting Alfie to avoid the pitfalls of the trail. Lysse was pushing the pace. She knew she could not have mercy on Alan and let him rest, for infection was setting in. If she did not soon get him to shelter and proper doctoring, he might die. She had seen the utter weariness and despair in his eyes, his empty saddlebags, his haggard face. And she knew what Alan himself hardly realized, that he had worn himself to the thin edge of exhaustion, that his wound was more dangerous to him than it seemed.

Only three times that whole long day they rested. On those occasions Lysse brought Alan cold water to drink, and bathed his face and wound. Then, while he lay on the grass, she foraged for berries and wild fruits to sustain herself. But by the end of the day they had seen the last of the plants and shrubs tucked away in the crevices of the slopes. Far above them the mountain rose in barren cliffs. The air was thin, wrenching Alan's breath. He panted at even the slightest exertion, and the pain in his chest made him feel so weak that he leaned over and clung to his saddle as his tears moistened Alfie's mane.

Alan never remembered stopping and dismounting to sleep that night. The next morning he thought he could not move. “Elwyndas!” Lysse called to him sternly, and with a groan he sat up; the name was a summons of power to him. He could not eat, but Lysse made him drink what remained in his flask. “We should be there by early afternoon,” she said, “but the hardest part is yet to come. You must have your strength about you.” She spoke bravely, and turned her face away so he would not see the pity in her eyes.

That day they scaled the cliff. The horses walked along a ledge cut into the face of Veran's Mountain, spiraling around it like the staircase of a tower. Alan was hardly aware of the steep ascent, but when he finally noticed hawks circling far below, he pulled Alfie to a halt, waiting for his faintness to pass. Lysse paused anxiously, but they soon pressed on. Alan did not look down again, but followed her closely, and did not find it strange that he trusted her with his life and his love.

At the top of the mountain curved a valley, a giant circle protected on all sides by ramparts of rock, filled with dells and streams, green trees and sunny meadows. Alan did not notice when they arrived. Only gradually he realized that Alfie's hooves fell on grass instead of rock, and that they were moving down, not up, a slope. With great effort he raised his head and focused his eyes. Lysse was leading him toward some brightly colored cloth shelters scattered amidst a grove of trees. People were coming out of them, calling to each other. Perhaps the fever was affecting his mind, Alan thought, or perhaps he had died and reached some realm of the blessed. He had thought no living creature could be as lovely as Lysse, but these folk were beautiful beyond description. There was a light all about them, an unworldly glow like the shimmer of Lysse's eyes. In spite of his pain and sorrow Alan felt his heart smiling, though he could barely see their faces.

Then one of them rushed through the group, running to meet him. One of them and yet not one of them! Alan reeled in his saddle as relief and happiness struck him with all the force of unbearable sorrow. “Hal!” he tried to shout; his voice came out a husky whisper. Then strong arms helped him down from the saddle, and he wept unashamedly in Hal's tearful embrace.

Chapter Two

Alan awoke to the feel of soft blankets on his bare skin, and found himself lying on a thick bed of down comforters. He found it hard to believe that he had ever been exhausted and burning with feverish pain. Overhead shimmered a canopy of finely woven gold cloth; the glow of the sunlight that filtered through was like the glow of health he now felt. Luxuriously he stretched himself beneath his covers, but stopped as a stabbing pain in his shoulder reminded him that his troubles were not a dream. More cautiously, he raised himself on his good elbow and looked around. Hal lay sleeping a few feet away, one muscular arm thrown across his blanketed chest with childlike abandon. Alan thought that Hal looked rather pale and worn. He did not realize that he himself looked considerably worse than he felt.

He vaguely recalled his illness, the many people that ran to meet him and Lysse, and Hal's arms supporting him. He remembered Hal's broken words of comfort, the horrible pain as his wound was lanced and drained, the cool water and fresh bandages, and a springtime fragrance which made him forget he had ever known sorrow. But it all seemed so long ago.

There was a slight sound outside, and Lysse peeked in at the tent flap. When she saw he was awake, she entered, carrying a tray with a pitcher and two goblets. Her eyes were shining.

“Lysse,” Alan whispered, and reached out to her with his good hand. She put down her tray and settled herself on the grass beside him, taking his hand in both of hers. Her touch was warm, like the glow in her eyes.

“You are feeling better,” she said softly.

“Much better. How long have I slept?"

“Only a night. It is the morning of the day after we arrived. Veran's flower works quickly. They gave it to me also, for I was overwrought, and now I feel as rested as if I had never left the valley."

“And they cared for your wrists,” Alan said, touching the fresh white bandages, “It is well."

“Not so much talk,” she smiled, “till you are stronger. Drink this.” She poured him a goblet full of sparkling amber liquid and helped him raise it to his lips. It was delicious, cool and tangy. Alan lowered his drained glass in wonder.

“What a marvelous draught,” he said. “It makes me think of nectar and honey and the juices of bright-colored fruits I have never known. What is it?"

“All of those things and more,” she replied, but her eyes glanced past him.

Alan turned and saw Hal staring at him with a startled look. “What is wrong, Hal?” he asked.

“Nothing,” answered Hal, his expression changing to one of joy and wonder. “I am taken aback, that is all. How did you learn to speak the Old Language?"

Alan had not even realized that he and Lysse were conversing in this tongue which had once been strange to him, so natural had it now become. And Hal was speaking to him in the same tongue. This, then, was Hal's mysterious language that had puzzled him for so long! He was staggered, and hard put to reply to Hal's query.

“I hardly know,” he murmured. “From her eyes, I think."

“In very truth, your brother is a marvel among men, Mireldeyn,” Lysse replied gravely to Hal. “His soul touched mine fearlessly. His name shall be Elwyndas among my people, for he is a brave man, and great of heart. It is no wonder you love him so."

She poured Hal a drink of her nectar, and as he took it Alan saw that he made no effort to conceal his scars from her. “You call him Mireldeyn?” he blurted.

“Ay. What do you call him?"

“Hal. Does it mean something to you?"

“Ay, indeed; it suits him well.” She took a deep breath. “It means ‘he who rules.’”

Lysse took her goblets and rose. “My father will come to you soon,” she said. “Pray make your needs known to us.” She gracefully took her leave.

Alan's eyes followed her, and his confused thoughts formed themselves into one compelling question. “Who are these folk, Hal?” he demanded, this time speaking in the language of Isle. “Are they of mankind, as we are, or not?"

Hal came and sat close beside him. His scarred body glowed golden in the diffused morning light. “Ah, Alan,” he replied in a voice low with wonder, “by my troth, my dreams come alive and walk in the light of day. They are elves."

“Elves!” exclaimed Alan. A hundred childhood tales flickered through his mind, stories of cold-blooded, heartless creatures who stole babies from cradles and ensnared the soul with their eyes. Hal saw the alarm in his face, and glanced at him keenly.

“Ay,” he stated, “elves. Remember your friends of the barrow, and take care how you heed the tales of ignorant folk. These elves are not much like the pixies which old women use to frighten children."

Alan smiled, shamefaced. “Tell me about them."

“They are the true immortals,” Hal said with a sort of awe. “They will never sicken or grow old, though they can be killed. They face death bravely if need be. But the death of one of their number is a terrible tragedy, a cause of deeper mourning than we can well imagine, for it is not the necessary end of their lives. All of them are deeply grateful to you for saving Lysse from such a fate."

“She could have saved herself,” Alan protested, recalling how the men had fled before her. “She could have killed them all with a thought!"

“If she has that power, she could not, or would not use it; not for her own sake.” Hal sighed. “There is much I do not understand about the People of Peace, Alan; until yesterday I did not dare to hope that they existed except in my dreams. But this much I know: like the spirits of the dead, they may not, or will not, intervene in the affairs of men or the coming of fate."

“But she did intervene. She saved my life!"

“You must be a very special person, Elwyndas."

Alan understood now that his
elwedeyn
name meant “elf-friend, elf-spirit,” like Veran before him. But if he was an elf-friend, was not Hal the same?

“What is the language that you and the elves speak, Hal?"

“It is the Old Language, the language of the Beginnings. It is the language of power, which the One used to sing the creation, when the mountains rose out of the deeps. Those who use it know all creatures and are likewise known; it is the language of the inner self. But pride fears it, for it hides nothing. So mortal men have long since fallen away from it, to quarrel across the barriers of their many tongues. Only the Gypsies, who know no boundaries, no nations and no wars, use it still."

“How did you come to know it? Did you learn it from the Gypsies?"

Hal looked hesitant, almost fearful. “Nay,” he answered, “it cannot be learned or taught; only those who conquer pride and fear can speak it. The Gypsies raise their children to be selfless and brave, but many fall away, and some of the Mysteries are lost. As for me, I suppose it was somehow born in me. I do not remember a time when I did not know the Old Language, though it was known to no one around me."

Alan studied his brother. The mystery in Hal's gray eyes, he sensed, might find its answer in this mountaintop valley. “Hal,” he questioned abruptly, “are you one of the People of Peace?"

“Do you think so?” asked Hal slowly, and Alan realized that he was frightened, with no answer to offer. He seemed to shrink into himself for a moment, bent with thought. Then, with an effort of will, he squared his shoulders and faced Alan, speaking the Ancient Tongue.

“Today you know me, I believe, as well as I know myself,” he said. “Help me find myself, Elwyndas. You who love me, discover my soul."

Alan felt the same peculiar abeyance of fear as he had with Lysse. Knowing that he should be terrified, he looked deeply into Hal's eyes; clouds of misty gray melted from before him. For a moment he was surrounded by profound darkness, deep and warm as a womb. Then a speck; of light formed, growing larger and more brilliant, so that Alan's vision was filled with wheeling circles of shining light, warm and marvelous. He stared without blinking, until he realized that in the center of the swirling light was a crowned figure in mail of burnished silver. He thought he had never seen a more noble form, though the head was bowed and the face turned away. Then the figure looked up and strode toward him, till the face filled his sight, and Alan felt fearless and consummate joy such as he had never known. He went down on his knees and reached out, still gazing into those marvelous gray eyes. “Mireldeyn!” Alan whispered, as the meaning of the name was manifest to him.

The vision disappeared suddenly; Alan was engulfed in a darkness of panicky pain. A voice cried to him from a great distance, “Alan! Don't! I beg you —” Then he found himself once again in the light of day, on his knees before Hal, who tugged at him with both hands while tears streamed down his white face. Alan rose quickly and put his arm around him.

“Hush,” Alan said gently in the Old Language. “Do you not know that I love you? In Lysse's eyes I saw the past of the Blessed People, but in your eyes I see the future. Some day I shall kneel to you and you will understand. You are Mireldeyn. There has been no one like you, nor ever, is likely to be again."

“I don't want to be different!” choked Hal, weeping like a child. “I don't want people kneeling to me! All I have ever wanted is peace and friendship and a little love!"

“Don't you see,” Alan explained softly, “how special that makes you? All men, to some degree, lust for power and fame—except one. All men are greedy for wealth and comfort—except one. Only you, of all men, can heal this land which is scarred even as you are, for only you cannot be corrupted by these things you do not desire."