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Nancy Springer
The White Hart
Book of the Isle 01
PROLOGUE
Long ago, so long ago that the enchantment of the Beginning was yet on it, there was a little land called
Isle. It might have been the world entire for all the people knew; vast oceans encircled it even as the
thick-woven Forest surrounded each village. Beyond the Forest, on the Wastes or the Wealds or the
mountain Marches of the sea, the Old Ones yet walked; and gods, ghosts and all delvers in the hollow
hills were no strangers to the woven shade just beyond the castle gates. It was in those times that
The Book of Sunsgot its start, though the Sun Kings knew it only dimly; and a far-flung fate got its start
when a lady fair as sunlight loved the Moon King at Laureroc.
BOOK ONE:
THE SPEAKING STONE
I sing the lady, the lightwinged maiden.
Golden as sunlight is Ellid Dacaerin;
Soft as dawn is the daughter of Eitha.
Bright as a sword is her soaring fancy;
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Bold as a falcon her spirit flies.
Swift as the deer her sorrow leaves her;
Light as its leap her laughter rises.
Dauntless as fire is the dragon-daughter;
Fair as fire the light of her face.
Dearer than gold is the maid of Decaerin;
Warmer than gold is the glow of her eyes.
Longer than life is the troth of the lady;
Wider than worlds is the worth of her love.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a night of the dark of the moon, and darker yet within the narrow tower of Myrdon. Ellid shivered
in her scant bed of short straw as much from dark as from cold. Never had she been so benighted. In her
father’s great hall the torches and tapers flared always to ward off the things that moved in the night: the
wailing white ladies and the treacherous pouka who lured unwary travelers to death in pits or dismal fens.
The black spaces of night swirled with such as these, and in the lofty chamber of her captivity Ellid
sensed the swift denizens of air all about her. Naked as she was in the abyss of night, she shrank from
their presence to no avail.
Yet when she heard noises of scraping and knocking close at hand, Ellid did not scream. Not for any
peril would she have stooped to summon the rough men who laughed and feasted below. She only
stiffened and hearkened intently. The sounds came from the high, barred window, now only a memory in
the gloom. “Who is there?” Ellid whispered, and started violently when a soft answer came through the
dark.
“A friend,“ the voice replied, a manly voice but sweet as singing. ”Pray, lady, make no cry.“
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Hanging between hope and consternation, Ellid kept silence. She heard a grinding noise as the bars
came loose and a thump as the stranger dropped to the floor. He moved toward her uncertainly, then
stopped.
“Lady,“ he said in low tones, ”it is black as Pel’s Pit in here; I must make a light. Do not be afraid.“
Ellid stared. “Mothers protect me!” she breathed. A pair of shining supple hands took form in the gloom,
hands rimmed with ghostly light. Pale flames wavered at the fingertips. The hands cupped and lifted; Ellid
glimpsed a face behind them, dark hollows of eyes and a chiseled jaw. The jaw tightened as the hands
dropped.
“The vermin!“ muttered the visitant ”That they must strip you!“
He came closer until he could touch the rough wall beside her; his hands left their light on the stone, like
the specter of a star. By its faint glow Ellid could see the stranger but dimly. Still she deemed that he was
slender and only little taller than herself. He knelt before her.
“This will not hurt,“ he said in his low, melodious voice, and she felt his fingers on her wrist. They were
warm, as flesh of man is warm; she took some comfort in that. Inexplicably the fetters dropped from her
arm. The stranger rose and stepped back from her. Ellid crouched against the stone like a creature at
bay. Even naked as she was, she thought better of her own luck than of this eerie visitor in the night. He
was no warrior in size; she could rush him, stun him against the stone perhaps, if he be In fact of human
kind… But even as she narrowed her eyes to spring, he pulled off his tunic and offered it silently to her.
She stood and put on the rough garment. It reached scarcely to her knees, but its warmth was like an
embrace. The stranger brought a coil of rope and slipped a loop around her.
“I shall lower you slowly,“ he told her. ”Feel your way with care—and unless all ill should chance, await
me at the bottom. Are you ready?“ She knew now that she was obliged to trust him. She scrambled up
and out the window without a word, hastening lest he should try to touch her and help her. Not even
stumps of bars were in the window to hinder her. She clung to the sill as the rope tautened, then leaned
against its slender strength as she felt her way downward. For the first time that night Ellid was thankful
for the dark, not only that it hid her escape but that she might not see the dizzying drop below her. She
strove not to think of it, nor of the weird hands that supported her, but of her enemies, the men of
Myrdon. She went cannily, skirting windows, hugging the wall. When she felt cool earth under her bare
feet at last, she tested it for long, incredulous moments before she loosened the rope from her shoulders
at last.
Ellid gave a tug, and felt the answering tug from far above. She could not have said why she did not
hasten away. Far better even to stumble alone through the night, many would have said, than to cleave to
a warlock, one whose hands broke iron and shot fire. But it was not for cowardice that Ellid was called
daughter to Pryce Dacaerin. She held the rope taut and awaited him to whom she owed some debt of
thanks; she awaited one with warm hands and a soft voice. Almost as quickly as her thoughts, he was
beside her, skimming down the rope. To her renewed astonishment he pulled it down after him, so that it
came tumbling about him. Quickly he coiled it and stowed it over his shoulder. Then, reaching surely even
in the midnight darkness, he took her hand and started away. No speck of light showed on the walls;
most likely the sentries had all joined the drunken feast that resounded from the great hall beyond the
tower. The gates were barred, of course. Ellid’s strange escort lif ted the heavy beam and gently shoved
open the timbered doors. Then he and the lady slipped through, and no cry followed them.
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The first faint light of dawn found them leagues away, for the stranger walked quickly and surely even in
the densest shadow of the trees. Ellid followed close behind, unable to see the sharp flints which cut into
her bare feet, head lowered against branches which threatened to pierce an eye. The gray shade which
presently filtered into the Forest showed her only the back of him who walked before her, naked above
leather breeches and smooth as steel. But as they topped a ridge, quite suddenly they met the rising sun.
It blazed full on their faces as the ground dropped away at their feet. Ellid lifted her arms thankfully, but
her companion winced and turned away. “Come,” he said. “All the world can see us here.”
He plunged down the steep slope, and she followed, regarding him curiously. He was slender, and quite
young, perhaps as young as she. His wideset eyes were as dark and glowing as coals. His hair was
shining black, and his skin lustrous pale, like moonlight; his blood pulsed like a tide within. She had seen
his lip come flashing red as he bit it. His face was faultless and strange, like a face in a dream. Ellid had
never seen such stark beauty in a man; even in the daylight she looked askance at him.
In the shadows of the deep ravine they found a narrow stream. The youth knelt to fill his flask. Ellid sat
and dabbled in the water with her smarting feet
“Does the light hurt you?“ she asked, breaking her long silence.
“I shall grow accustomed to it in time,“ the other replied gruffly. ”Still, we must soon find shelter, my
lady. Light is unlucky for the hunted.“
Ellid inwardly steeled herself and struggled to her feet. But the search was not long. At the top of the
next rise grew a grove of tall fir trees, with branches that swept heavily to the ground. Beyond was a
sunlit space. The stranger lifted a thick green limb for Ellid to creep beneath.
“This is well,“ he said as he came in beside her. ”We can see what comes to all sides. My lady, will you
eat?“ He offered her a small cake of oats and honey, such as the countryfolk placed on the ancient
shrines. Ellid looked at it in surprise, but ate it gratefully.
“I owe you many thanks,“ she said as she finished, ”for freeing me.“
Her companion made a sound of genuine sor-row. “Ah, lady,” he told her intensely, “I would have
helped you days ago! I have followed since the day they stole you from your father’s demesne… Strong
towers of stone make men careless, but on the road their guard was good. I could not get close.”
The guard had indeed been good. Ellid’s face twisted wryly at the thought of the ten days’ journey in the
shameful cart, the jeers, the cuffs, the floggings and the stinking food. The first day they had cropped her
hair to humiliate her. And at journey’s end they had stripped her even of her humble shift… Her face
flamed to remember it. The eyes that met hers were clouded with misery.
“My lady, did they ravish you indeed?“
Ellid laughed harshly. “Nay! Nay, that at least they did not. To men such as these, spoiled meat is of no
account, and I dare say they think my worthiness to my father is the same. So they took care to keep the
wares whole, though they were none too gentle in the transport.”
“And I none too gentle in my rescue,“ the dark-eyed stranger added bitterly. “To you who deserve all
good, I have offered a beggar’s shirt and a borrowed crust and the hard stones for treading.”
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“Ellid Lightwing the bards have called me! Could they but see me now!“ Ellid smiled ruefully at her
painful, bloodied feet. ”Yet my lot has bettered a thousandfold. I owe you all thanks.“ She spoke to him
quite courteously. ”What may I name you, who have befriended me?“ But he turned away his raven-dark
eyes.
“I answer to Sirrah,“ he muttered, ”like other sons of men.“
Ellid frowned in puzzlement and said no more, for she knew she would give him no slave’s title. The
April sun was warm through the fir boughs, and the thick bed of their dropped needles was soft. Ellid
stretched out her aching limbs. As she dozed off to sleep she saw the black-haired youth settle himself
against the trunk of the tree, watching over her.
Hours later she awoke, alerted by some slight sound or sense of danger. She did not need her
companion’s hand on her arm to warn her to keep silence. On the hillside below rode the scouts of
Myrdon, lazily probing the bushes with their spears. Tensely watching, Ellid could not doubt that they
made their path toward the firs. To bide or to flee? Both seemed hopeless. But even as Ellid clenched
herself in despair, the approaching men shouted and swerved from their course. In the valley beyond, a
hart had broken cover. Ellid gaped; the deer was pure blazing white with a shine like a silver crown on its
head. It was the loveliest creature she had ever seen. It posed like a carven thing for a moment before it
flitted away, and all the riders of Myrdon galloped after it.
“So lightly are the sons of men turned from their intentions,“ the dark-eyed youth remarked dryly.
“Will you sleep now?“ Ellid asked coldly. ”I will watch.“ Her heart ached for the fleet white deer.
The stranger did not sleep, but sat silently beside her. Nothing more chanced that afternoon. In the
twilight the fugitives crept forth, and discovered that they had sheltered in a sacred grove. The abode of
the god was marked with a rough stone altar. Upon it sat some villager’s offering of a few of last year’s
apples, now pecked by birds. The youth gathered them up and offered Ellid one. She creased her brow
at him.
“Do you not fear the vengeance of the gods, that you pilfer their viands?“
“Nay, it is well enough,“ he answered vaguely. ”Eat.“
She took from his hand what she would not have taken from the shrine even had she been starving. But
the food did little to ease her woes that night. Her feet were swollen and oozing, and the wood-soled
sandals that her companion had lent her were clumsily large. They tormented her with stumbling and
slipping until she returned them to their owner, preferring to brave the rocks. Her escort slowed the pace
to ease her, but within a few hours her head swirled with feverish pain. She limped along dazedly, clinging
to her companion’s belt as much for support as for direction. She scarcely noticed when she fell and
struggled to rise. Half-awares, she felt herself gathered up and slung over warm, smooth shoulders. She
laid down her head and struggled no more.
Many leagues to the north, Cuin son of Clarric the Wise rode through the days beside his grim-faced
uncle, Pryce Dacaerin; Pryce of the Strong-holds, men named him. They went slowly, for they rode with
an army at their backs, and matched their pace to the footpace of the kerns. Cuin chafed at the delay. He
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