"He winked at me," said Flann, winking at Alan. Hal and Alan put their things in the hayloft of the stable, where Flann said they could sleep. They changed into their best clothes for the feast, fastening their swords

88 THE SILVER SUN.

around their waists with the chain-link belts Roran had given them.

"I hope we don't cross Rate again," Hal said rue- fully. "What did I do wrong, Alan? We saved his life, yet he was angry."

**I think," Alan mused, "that perhaps be was fright- ened-and being frightened can make a person very angry."

"But if he was afraid of Arundel, why did he approach him?"

"I did not say he was afraid of Arundel," Alan re- torted gently.

When they arrived in the great hall, most of the benches were already filled. They found some space with a group of young men, perhaps a little older than them- selves. Rafe was with the group; he glared at Hal and Alan, but said nothing. The others were cordial enough, though puzzled by the strangers with their sky-blue tunics and their bright swords and their air of self-possession usually found only in leaders of men.

The feast could not begin until Lord Pelys arrived. A signal was finally given, and everyone stood. Hal and Alan nearly gasped in their astonishment; Lord Pelys could not walk. He entered the great hall in the arms of a remarkably large and muscular retainer. Though he was placed in his seat like a babe in its high chair, such was the dignity accorded the man, and the love his peo- ple bore him, that no one so much as smiled. With him entered a maiden, a slender girl with long, dark auburn hair flowing down her back, who took the seat to his right. Food was offered to the dead, and then the living were served.

The feast took hours. There were a variety of soups, baked meats and capons, jellies and preserves, pastries, bread and cakes. There were baked apples and apple tarts, dried fruit, relishes, sauces and gravies. Villagers kept going in and out, eating by turns and tending the hilltop fires- Hal and Alan kept their seats, though they could not taste more than a quarter of the dishes that passed them. By the time the puddings and custards ap- peared, they were almost ready to trade their overfull stomachs for the growling bellies they had brought with them from the Forest.

During the meal they talked with the young men at

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their table, who they found were volunteer novices in his lordship's guards and garrison. They spoke mostly of their training, but during a lull in the meal Hal asked one of the questions that had been teasing his mind.

"If it is a thing to be spoken of at this time, could someone tell me how Lord Pelys lost the use of his legs?

If it is not well to be spoken of, then forget I asked."

"It was done in battle," answered a tall, lanky feDow by the name of Will. "He took a spear through both legs above the knee, and though he lay abed, they never healed."

Others spoke further of Pelys, and piecemeal his his- tory became known to the two who listened. His father, the late Lord Pelynger, was remembered by the older villagers as a typically overbearing, selfish manor lord.

His wife was a good woman, but browbeaten by her hus- band. The boy, Pelys, was their only child, and from the first he was a dreamer, drawn to strange talk and old books but not to the sword and the practice yard. The father tried hard to mold him in a more manly frame, but the boy was stubborn in his own way, and insisted on leading his life as he saw fit. On the day Pelys came of age, he left his father's manor for a wandering life.

He was not seen again for many years. He returned at last to Celydon as a middle-aged man, tough and weath- ered, a few days before the old lord died. The first thing he did-even before the funeral-was to tear down, with his own hands, the gallows which had stood for so long. Then he distributed among the villagers most of the food and gold his father had been hoarding for years.

Many thought him mad, but everyone loved him for it.

A week later, the peaceable village was invaded by Lord Nabon of Lee, who anticipated an easy victory over this daydreaming son of Pelynger. But he and the people of Celydon soon found out that somewhere Pelys had finally learned how to fight. His folk rallied behind him and sent Lord Nabon home to Lee with broken armies. But Pelys was carried home with shattered, wounded legs.

Such was the magnetism of the man that all loved and obeyed him, even though he was crippled. He married a beautiful young woman half his age, the Lady Rowana.

Their love, folk said, was touching to see. She died in the birth of their first and only child-a girl.

11.

90.

THE SILVER SUN.

"Then the maiden by his side is his daughter," Hal said.

"Ay, the Lady Rosemary, fifteen years old."

Alan had noticed that often Hal's eyes had been turned her way, though from the distance it was hard to discern if her features were fair or not. But their attention was soon drawn by the ceremonies of soot-maiden and yew- king, willow-queen and the long, shuffling circle dance.

The dancers went in crowns of elder with tapers set in, and the dance lasted until the tapers bad burned to the base, almost until dawn.

At last the dancers filed out to the hilltop fires, and everyone else trooped up to pay their respects to Lord Pelys and the Lady Rosemary before leaving for home and bed. As they drew near the dais, Hal and Alan were able to get a better look at Lady Rosemary. Alan ac- knowledged her to be fair. But Hal noted her lovely dear skin, the color of palest fawn, and her richly dark eyes, fine, regular features and lips which hinted at fullness without being sensual, just as her brows suggested charac- ter without being willful. Everything about her breathed of the womanhood which slumbered just beneath the surface of this girl child of fifteen. Something in her had been whispering to Hal all evening, and his blood was racing as he came before her.

Alan sensed his excitement, and glanced at him as they made their bows. He saw Hal fasten a curiously intense gaze on the maiden-a stare, indeed, but full of such soft courtesy that Rosemary returned it without alarm. For a fleeting moment she felt-what she could not tell. But the moment passed quickly, broken by Pelys's warm greeting.

"So, my hearties," he was saying, "you are looking bet- ter already. Have you found a place to sleep?"

Alan answered, for Hal seemed not to have heard. "We are sleeping in the hayloft, my lord, with great thankful- ness."

"So you are sleeping with the gray beauty, hah? I hope he is not upset by his adventure of this afternoon."

"Ohi" Rosemary broke in involuntarily. "You are the ones with that horrible horse that tried to kill Rafe!"

"He is well, my lord," Hal answered, then spoke to the lady with a slow smile. "My horse would not hurt anyone, my lady, unless someone tried to take him from me."

"Have no fear of me," she laughed. "I plan to stay well away from him."

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"Pray forgive my daughter," Pelys smiled. "She has been frightened of horses since a very early age, and noth- ing can cure her of it. Sleep well, now."

They walked back to the stables in silence. Alan at once wrapped himself in his blanket and relaxed gratefully in the sweet-smelling hay. But Hal paced restlessly, finally stopping and standing interminably before the tiny window which aired the loft. The moon was at the full, and a bright beam shot past his head and lighted a square of hay, much as it had lighted the filthy straw of his dark Tower cell a year and a half before.

Alan could stand it no longer. The candles of the danc- ers were still wheeling before his inward eye like circling stars or the blurred turnings of fate. And though he thought he knew the answer, he felt compelled to ask the question. "Hal, whatever is the matter?"

Hal sighed. "You will say that I am out of my mind,"

he answered, without moving.

"I already know that," Alan rebutted lightly. "Tell me.

It can be no worse than hearing you talk with the spirits of the night"

Hal smiled slightly at that, and turned toward him, speaking hesitantly. "That girl . . . Lady Rosemary . . .

she is my ... my mendor."

"Your what?"

"My destiny," Hal tried to explain. "But more than destiny. For every man there is one woman who is his mendor. Rosemary is mine. She is the woman with whom my thread of life is entangled. It was so before time be- gan. It is written in Dol Solden. Whether it is for good or ill, I do not know. Whether for happiness or sorrow, I do not know. But it is so."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Alan, astonished.

Hal did not answer.

"What are you, Hal?" Alan wondered more slowly.

"Warlock, or seer, or something more? How did this vision come to you?"