"If those be lost, or come to harm," Hal warned him in a low voice, "no mountain in Welas will be big enough to hide you."

"I am a King's liegeman, not a robber," the fellow re- plied with dignity. "And I have seen this sword before."

He held up Hal's gray-glinting brand.

"Where?" Hal asked swiftly.

"I can tell you nothing until the King has given leave,"

the man parried grimly. "Now come with us, my lords."

They spent the night in a deep cave hidden in the flanks of the mountain. There were many such hollows and tun- nels within the crags, protected by cleverly concealed for- tifications. Central to the earthworks, nestled into the bosom of the forbidding mountain, was an ancient strong- hold known as Cair Indel, the Deepest Haven. There the old King had taken refuge. And on the morrow, Hal and Alan were led to his shelter.

Tone was an old man, and life had not been kind to him. Kingdom, daughter, sons-all were gone. And with them went the light of day, or so it seemed to Toire, for he spent the long hours brooding in his dark cavern at the navel of the mountain. He often dreamed of the bright days of his past along the Gleaming River, when his beau- tiful wife Megolyn was still alive, when his sons Galin, Glondil and Gildur were strong, bold youths, and his daughter Gwynllian was his cherished pet But he could never quite fool himself; he knew that those days and those faces were gone forever. He could dream, but the grim, cheerless Now returned inexorably each time.

Out of the shadows of his gloomy chamber came a fig- ure from the past. Smiling a welcome, he looked to envi- sion one of his dead sons. But this was not Glondil or Gildur; this young man had Gwynllian*s eyes.

Torre sat bolt upright, scarcely daring to believe his eyes saw truly. Yet he knew in his heart that this figure was alive. The young man moved with the powerful grace of a warrior, and his weathered clothing could not obscure the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his chest.

He held his head high, and the straight lines of his jaw

The West Land 163

and brows reminded Torre of the sons who had once been his pride. But those eyes! Their gray depths held him spellbound. Here was a man of great power and strong will- Here he saw also a dream, and the torment of time.

But above all, Torre recognized Gwynllian in the gray eyes. This youth was of his blood. He was sure of it.

"Who are you?" he whispered. He reached out, and his uncertain fingers met firm muscle and solid bone. The vi- sion was real.

The young man knelt before him, and the leather bun- dle which had ridden on his back slipped down to rest on the floor. In the dull light an embroidered sunburst glowed eerily brilliant. The aged King became aware that in the far comers of the room his people were gathered, listening.

"Torre, son of Tamar, of the ancient line of the Blessed Kings of Welas, I crave your blessing," the young man said. His voice was melodious, and though he spoke softly, the great hall vibrated with his words. "I love best to be called Hal, the name my mother gave me. She loved you well, and often spoke of you." Hal broke off, hardly knowing what to say to the fierce-looking old man who sat glaring like a blinded eagle in a darkened aerie. "Grand- father," he whispered, "don't you know me?"

"My grandson," the old man faltered, "my grandson!"

His rumbling hands touched Hal's hair in the gesture of blessing. Then tears began falling from Torre's bright black eyes, and Hal found himself awkwardly kissing the King on both his parched cheeks, encircling Torre's thin shoulders with his strong and comforting arms.

Outside of Torre's chamber, Cair Indel was all in an uproar. Excited servants had brought out word of the Prince's coming, and the news ran like spring torrents among the soldiers and servingfolk of the keep. Some, who had noted the half-sun emblem on Hal's leather case, ea- gerly hailed him as an heir of Veran. But others called him impostor, and many thought of him as a hated East- erner. The fortress buzzed with ardent and wrathful talk.

When Hal and Alan emerged from the keep, a sudden silence came over the crowded courtyard, and all eyes were fixed upon them. Hal, deep in thought, seemed not to notice it until suddenly a voice boomed out: "Donkey prince! Filthy son of the fiendish Iscovar of Isle! Can a jackass beget anything else, be the mother the finest

164.

THE SILVER SUN.

blooded mare?" From the crowd came a muttering of ap- proval.

Hal's head snapped up as if he had been stung by a whip. Under the gaze of those steely gray eyes, the crowd grew silent and seemed to shrink back.

"Hear me, men of Welas." Hal's gaze skewered the listeners. "If I am weak or craven, then judge me. If I am bloodthirsty, cruel, or savage, judge me. If I am treacher- ous, foolhardy, stupid or arrogant, then Judge me sternly."

He had spoken softly; now he shouted. "But judge me not that I am the son of that blood-black King!" The echoes died away as he stood panting with emotion. "I do not deserve it. As the One is my witness, I do not.

I cannot explain how it came to be. The greatest fear of my life is that I might somehow, someday, come to be something like him." Hal spoke passionately, but with dignity. "He is viie, villainous, sick and evil beyond be- lief and beneath contempt- I tell you this, I who know him well. See the proof!" In one wrenching movement Hal ripped off his patched tunic, leaving the tattered rem- nants swinging from his muscular arms. The crowd gasped in shock; no one spoke.

Hal went on more calmly. "This is but a paltry thing.

Thousands of broken men would have been thankful to escape with my light punishment. But if there is anyone here who thinks that I bear love or likeness to the Islandais King, then let him think again." Spent, he turned to go, but there was a stir in the shadows of the doorway where he stood. The onlookers gasped and fell to their knees. "Sire!" Hal exclaimed. The old King was coming forth from the darkness of his refuge.

All clad in black, but with his thick hair blazing white against the lowering sky, Torre tottered with outstretched hands and stricken face toward Hal. "My child, my child," he whispered as Hal reached out to help him, "what has the brute done to you?" His withered hands touched the scarred shoulders tenderly.

"It is a small matter, Grandfather, and long healed." Hal cursed himself for having distressed the old man.

Alan, who had knelt to the King along with the rest, now rose and came forward, unfastening his cloak. Hal took it gratefully and set it around his shoulders as Alan bowed before Torre. The King scanned him with keen black eyes, "So! This is your brother?"

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Hal looked at him in surprise. "My blood brother, ay.

This is Alan of Laueroc. But how did you know?"

"Perhaps later I will tell you. But where is your great gray steed? I have not seen him yet."

Hal exchanged a puzzled glance with Alan. "In the stable. I will get him, sire."

"Nay, let us go together. I have not been out of doors, Hal, since I received the news of your mother's death. I had forgotten how bright and pleasant the sun can be."

Alan cocked a wry glance at the gloomy sky, then watched as Torre and Hal disappeared in the direction of the stable, the old man leaning on the young one's arm. He would leave them alone to share a score of lost years.

He did not see Hal again until they dressed for the evening meal. When they went downstairs, they found Torre with one who had not had the advantage of such leisure, a dark man who looked tired and travel-soiled.

Though his body was youthfully trim, his face was lined, and he regarded the newcomers with weary skepticism as Torre introduced them. "Hal, Alan, this is Galin, my eldest and, I fear, my only living child. I had no sister- sons to honor the Mothers, so Galin is my heir, and through Gwynllian you are his, Hal, as Iscovar knows well enough. Galin, this is Alan, heir of Laueroc, and his blood brother Hal, Prince of Welas, he who is King to be."

"With much help, perhaps," Hal acknowledged.

Galin did not smile. "You should not have called me in for this. Father," he said. "It is dangerous to leave the outer defenses without my leadership. The lads could have ridden out to see me."

"I see no lads," retorted the old King stiffly, "but two seasoned travelers and warriors. The men will do very well without you, Galin. You are becoming as set in your ways as I. You must be growing old."

"Ay, old and fussy," muttered Galin.

"And on my account," added Torre half-humorously.

"Out in all weathers to protect my royal person. I am in- deed grateful, my son." He cast Galin a soft glance from under his shaggy eyebrows. "But I grow lonesome for your company."

"You had two other sons," Hal interposed quietly.

"Ay." Torre's eyes focused on the past. "GIondil was killed in the attack on Welden. We buried him in an

166 THE SILVER SUN.

unmarked grave along the road of our flight. But Gildur, my youngest son, I never saw after that terrible night.

The assault, you know, was very sudden and treacherous.

Gildur ran to the treasure room to save a few precious things, the heritage of our people. He should never have tried. We who escaped did so with nothing except the clothing on our backs. For months I hoped he would walk into this room. ... But in the course of time I came to be- lieve he must have been captured and killed."

Galin stirred restively. "Perhaps, Welandais Prince, you will tell me how you came to be wearing my brother's sword?" Almost contemptuously he returned their weapons to Hal and Alan, pulling them from a pouch at his feet.

Dazedly, Hal accepted the black and silver sword from his hand. "Gildur's sword? I cannot say! An outlaw gave it to me."

"Then why do you say, Gildur's sword?" Galin snapped.

"I had another brother."