"And he was killed. But somehow these things came to Isle, and to my bands." He drew the antique plinset from its leather case. "Was this not one of the precious objects from the treasure room of the EIde Castle?"

"Ay," Torre whispered, "ay." He took it into his an- cient hands tenderly. "This is the first plinset, crafted by Llewys Lay-Maker for Claefe, Veran's queen, she whom he brought from the Mountain of the Gods. But wherever did you get it?"

"I found it in the study of the Lord of Celydon, in the Broken Lands; a good man. He had it from a minstrel who had died of fever under his care." Hal phrased his next question carefully. "What sort of maa was my uncle Gildur?"

Torre only swallowed, and Galin answered for him.

"Glondil and I were dark, like our father, and his uncle the Thunderer, and Veran, and the others. But Gildur was golden, like Ban, and Claefe, and your mother. He was a musician, and a dreamer."

"He loved the ancient legends and lore," spoke Torre reprovingly. "In the days of our kingdom's glory, he would have been revered as a great bard- It is hard when a man of peace cannot be respected for his own talents."

"The minstrel was a fair man, not yet past middle age,"

mused Hal. "It could have been Gildur." He took back the plinset, idly striking a few chords.

167.

The West Land

"Do you play itt" Torre exclaimed. "Ay, Sire."

"Who taught you?"

"My mother." Hal raised his eyebrows at the shocked stares he received from both Torre and Galin. "Why?"

Galin answered in bewilderment. "Gwymlian did not

know how to play."

They ate their dinner in puzzled silence. After they had pushed their plates aside, Hal spoke as if replying to

an audible query.

"If Gildur lived, and for some reason could not come to you, perhaps he went to my mother."

"Probably we shall never know," sighed Torre. "But it is good to think that he might have lived-that he might not have been tortured to a slow death."

"The minstrel of whom I spoke died abed, among good and loving folk." Hal traced on the table with his finger- tip, studying some invisible design. "Besides the plinset, what was my uncle Gildur likely to take?"

"There were the crowns, of course. The silver one Veran brought with him from the land of the Setting Sun.

It was never worn; legend reserves it for the Very King who comes at the close of the age. But Veran wore the crown of the Rising Sun, made for him of the yellow gold of the mountain which bears his name, whence he brought the green Elfstone, and his bride."

Hal and Alan exchanged a surprised glance. Galin drummed his fingers impatiently, but the old King went on serenely with his thoughts. "Indeed, the most precious thing in the room, especially to Gildur, would have been the Book."

"The Book?"

"Ay. A thick tome, written in Veran*s own hand, in a strange language. Only the Blessed Kings could read it.

Then Ban died while Taran was still in Branwyn's womb, and the secret of the 'strange language died with him. But much of what was in the Book has come down to us by

word of mouth."

"Dot Solden!" breathed Hal. "The Book of Suns! It is written down here on earth!"

"Ay, we nave many strange prophecies. The fall of the House of Veran was foretold, though little did I fear, when I was a youth, that it would happen in my time. But

168 THE SILVER SUN.

it was said that a leader would come, a young man of Veran's line, who would possess wisdom, vision, and the knowledge of the lost language- He would come on a sil- ver steed of elfin blood and bear with him the emblem of his destiny. The marks of suffering would be on his body and the sheen of moonlight in his eyes. He would be called Elf-Man, Healer, Ruler, and Sunset King. With the aid of his people he would turn back the Eastern blight, and bring peace at last for the closing of the Age."

"Father," protested Galin, "you cannot be serious!"

"And with him," continued King Torre, unperturbed, "would come his brother, a man great beyond the borders of blood or nation, a man of heart, like Veran before him. He would come on a steed of golden bay, and he would be called Elf-Friend, the Golden One, and Sunrise King. The emblem of his destiny would reside is the green Elfstone, gift of the ash maiden."

Alan sprang up, overturning his seat, and strode to the door, where he stood breathing deeply. Hal picked up the bench without comment

"Why, what is this?" inquired Torre blankly.

"Your pardon, sire, for my churlishness," said Alan, returning, his face still dark with emotion. "Something that you said is painful to me- Here is the stone of which you spoke." He pulled it from under his tunic, and slipped the chain over his head to hand it to the old King. But Torre stopped him.

"Hold it up to the light."

Alan obeyed, and gasped at what he saw. In the depths of the gem, glowing golden and growing like a living light, blazed a half circle of radiant beams, brilliantly symmet- rical. Brighter and brighter it burned, till it far outshone the torchlight, and even Galin gaped in wonder. Trem- bling, Alan lowered his hand, and the vision faded.

"What manner of sign is that?" he whispered.

"According to legend," explained Torre, "this is the stone given by Claefe to Veran, brought by her from the land of the Rising Sun. It shows the sun emblem at the center, after which the crown of Veran was fashioned.

Would you tell me how you come to wear it?"

"You seem to know as much about it as we do," Alan muttered.

"More," remarked Hal. "It seems that Adaoun did not tell us all that he might."

The Weft Land 169

"Adaouni1* exclaimed the old King. "Then it is true!"

"What is true?" growled Galin. "Am I sitting in the company of madmen?"

"Elves," replied Hal quietly. "Veran's memory is still young atop the tallest mountain."

He tried to give them some feeling of the glow of time- lessness that hung in the air of the elfia valley, of the bright glimmer of wonder which clung to the very grass of the place. He did not mention Lysse, and Alan sat silently, with lowered head. When Hal was done, Galin and Torre gazed for a moment with strangely intent but peaceful faces, as if a whiff of that mountaintop air had drifted their way.

Then they had many questions, and in the course of the evening Hal and Alan related most of the events in the two and a half years since Hal had escaped from the Dark Tower. Hal described plans for claiming the throne, and the talk turned to troops and strategy. Charts and maps were brought out. Hal sensed Galin'a wariness changing to hope, if not to belief.

It was late when they finally left Torre. On their way up the spiral steps to their tower rooms, Galin addressed Ha! with respect, even hesitation.

"Hal," he asked, "do you believe all these-ah- prophecies?"

"Not that they will necessarily come to pass, nay.

Things are not often as they ought to be- But I must fight to bring them about, not for my own glory, but for the sake of my people. It is the burden of my birth to prevent another such fiend as my-father-from ever sitting on the throne of Isle again. The course of my life was plain to me long before I had heard of The Book of Suns."

Hal paused on the landing. "Will you lend me assistance, Uncle?"

"Ay, I'll lead my men on your behalf," answered Galin gruffly.

Hal glanced at him again. "With your heart, my lord, or only to please your father?"