The Silver Sun by Nancy Springer Read Free Book Online

forced the words out, straining. “His name is Iscovar. And he sits on the throne of the Kingdom of Isle."
    For Alan, it was as if the night sky had fallen in. Everything went black, pierced by flashes like falling stars. Involuntarily his whole body stiffened, and he drew back as if he had seen a serpent. His jaw clenched as he stared in horror at this gray-eyed youth whom he had thought to be his friend.
    Hal cried out as if he were in physical pain. “Alan, do not look at me so! By my wounds, I would rather be the most pitiful beggar in all of Isle than the son of that man!” He covered his face with his hands and bowed his head, moaning like a child who has lost the only warmth he has ever known.
    Alan went to him at once. No force of will or of men's bidding could have kept him away. Putting his arms around Hal, he spoke to him brokenly.
    “I am all amazement and confusion. You should be my bitterest enemy. Yet I know you, what you are: the best man I have ever known, and the best friend. I do not know how it can be that such crop sprang from such seed. But it is so."
    Gratefully, shakily, Hal touched his hand. They sat in silence, collecting their thoughts.
    Alan had good cause to hate the name of Iscovar, King of Isle. In former times, folk said, Isle had been like a paradise. Every man served his own gods and tilled his own land, and the deer grazed up to the cottage doors. There were kings and chieftains, to be sure, but their warriors were their comrades, and then people were their kin. When they fought, it was the high, free strife of which the bards used to sing. But for the most part they kept the peace of the High King, who rode the land with his magical sword.
    Then the invaders had sailed in from the east, and not even the mighty sword had been proof against them. It was undone by sorcery, folk said, or thrown into the sea. With ruthless force the Easterners raped Isle by way of the Black River, slaying the chieftains and herding the folk like so many cattle. So the people became slaves to the manor lords, seldom free to tend their own poor plots. And though great tracts were cleared, and the ground as fertile as it had ever been, hunger and disease stalked the land.
    The Easterners came in the name of their god, the Sacred Son, and many were the warlocks and priests in their ranks. The leader was named Herne; he called himself the Sacred King. He divided the conquered land among his captains, and with every new lord went a priest. To people who had suffered, these spoke of the sanctity of torment, and many believed them, for their magic was strong. Only in the west and north Herne could not take hold. In these mountainous parts lived a proud, fierce people, scions of tribal Kings and the ancient Mothers. They could defend their rocky land forever against the invaders. So, since no great wealth seemed hidden in these barren parts, Herne left them to their denizens.
    The Sacred King built his castle by the Black River, and in it a tower that came to be the terror of all the land. There Herne imprisoned those who had displeased him, so that their agonies might ease the torments of the Sacred Son. Folk called it the Dark Tower, or the Tower of Despair; everyone knew the place that was meant.
    Seven generations passed. Herne gave way to Hervyn, to Heinin, Hent, Iuchar, Idno and Iscovar. The invaders had abandoned their harsh, guttural language, by and large, for the gentler speech of Isle. Some wed Islandais women, and here and there a lord ruled who was just, even kind, to his folk. Such lords were likely to be quickly overthrown by their more ruthless neighbors. Like their despotic Kings, most lords remained cruel.
    But in the southwest of Isle, in meadow-ringed Laueroc, one such line of kindly lords had grown very powerful indeed. Perhaps Laueroc's people were akin to the warlike folk of Welas, the West Land that lay just beyond the Gleaming River, where the Blessed Kings still ruled in Welden. The folk of