Isle of Glass by Judith Tarr Read Free Book Online Page B

“Everyone
grows and changes. Even the likes of me. Already I feel it beginning, with
Alun’s fine clothes waiting for me to put them on again and the memory of all
the Brothers at supper, staring and wondering, and some not even knowing who I
was. Even Jehan, when he first saw me, took me for a stranger. What if I change
so much I don’t even recognize myself?”
    “Better that sort of pain than the one that’s been tearing
you apart for so long.”
    “That was a familiar pain.”
    “Yes. Plain old shackle-gall. I’m chasing you out of your
prison, Alfred—throwing you into the sky. Because even if you’re blind and
senseless, everyone else can see that you have wings.”
    The moon came down into the cup of Alf’s hand, a globe of
light, perfect, all its blemishes scoured away. Its white glow caressed his
face; Morwin blinked and swallowed. Familiar as those features were, the shock
of them blunted by long use; sometimes still, with deadly suddenness, their
beauty could strike him to the heart.
    Alf’s hand closed. The light shrank with it, snuffing out
like a candle flame; taking away Morwin’s vision, but not his remembrance of
it.
    Slowly, wearily, Alf said, “I won’t fight you any longer,
Morwin. Not on that account. But must you send Jehan with me?”
    “He has no more place here than you do.”
    “I know that. I also know that I may be riding into danger.
The message I’ll carry is not precisely harmless. I could be killed for bearing
it, Alun for passing it to me—”
    “And St. Ruan’s could suffer for taking him in. Don't you
think I’m aware of all the consequences?”
    “Jehan isn’t. To him it’s a lark, a chance to be free.”
    “Is it, Alf?”
    “He’s a child still for all his size. He doesn’t know what
this errand might mean or how he may be forced to pay for it. The game we play,
the stakes we raise—”
    “He knows,” Morwin said with a touch of sharpness. “So he’s
glad enough about it to sing— that’s not blissful ignorance, it’s simply youth.
When the time comes, if it comes, he’ll be well able to take care of himself.”
    “And also of me,” said Alf.
    “Why not?” the Abbot demanded. “He’s only been cloistered
for half a year; and he grew up in the world—in courts, in castles." His
eyes sharpened to match his tone; he peered into the shadow of Alf’s hood, at
the hint of a face. “Maybe you’re not concerned for a young lad’s welfare—pupil
of yours though he is, and friend too. Maybe you don’t want to be looked after
by a mere boy.”
    Alf would not dignify that with an answer.
    Nor would Morwin offer any apology. “I’ve done as I thought
wisest,” he said. “I trust you to abide by it. In the end you may even be glad
of it.”
    The voice in the shadow was soft, more inhumanly beautiful
than ever, but its words were tinged with irony. “Morwin my oldest friend,
sometimes I wonder if, after all, I’m the witch of us two.”
    “This isn’t witchcraft. It’s common sense. Now stop
nattering and help me up. Didn’t I give you strict orders to get some sleep
tonight?”
    Morwin could feel Alf’s wry smile, distinct as the clasp of
his hand.
    “Yes, grin at the old fool, so long as you do what I tell
you.”
    “I am always your servant, Domne.”
    Morwin cuffed him, not entirely in play, and thrust him
away. “Go to bed, you, before I lose my temper!”
    Alf bowed deeply, the picture of humility; evaded a second
blow with supernatural ease; and left his Abbot alone with the moon and the Tor
and the ancient Thorn, and an anger that dissipated as swiftly as it had risen.
It was a very long while before Morwin moved, and longer still before he took
the way Alf had taken, back into the warmth of St. Ruan’s.

6
    They left before dawn. Only Morwin was there to see them
off. Morwin, and Alun’s consciousness, a brightness in Alf’s brain. They stood
under the arch of the gate, Jehan holding the bridles of the two horses: Fara
like a