Isle of Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

fire burned low. Soon the bell would ring for Matins.
    Alf rose, stiff with the memory of torment, and looked down
upon the wounded man. No human being could have endured what he had endured,
not only torture but five full days after, without healing, without food,
riding by day and by night.
    Alf touched the white fine face. No, it was not human. Power
throbbed behind it, low now and slow, but palpably present. It had brought the
stranger here to ancient Ynys Witrin, and to the one being like him in all of
Gwynedd or Anglia, the one alone who might have healed him.
    Who could not, save as humans do, with splint and bandage
and simple waiting. He had set each shattered bone with all the skill he had
and tended the outraged flesh as best he knew how. The life that had ebbed low
was rising slowly with tenacity that must be of elf-kind, that had kept death
at bay throughout that grim ride.
    He slept now, a sleep that healed. Alf envied him that
despite its cost. His dreams were none of pain; only of peace, and of piercing
sweetness.

4
    Consciousness was like dawn, slow in growing, swift in its
completion. Alun lay for a time, arranging his memories around his hurts. In
all of it, he could not see himself upon a bed, his body tightly bandaged, warm
and almost comfortable. Nor could he place that stillness, that scent of stone
and coolness and something faint, sweet—apples, incense.
    He opened his eyes. Stone, yes, all about: a small room,
very plain yet with a hearth and a fire, burning applewood, and a single
hanging which seemed woven of sunlight on leaves.
    Near the fire was a chair, and in it a figure. Brown cowl,
tonsure haloed by pale hair—a monk, intent upon a book. His face in profile was
very young and very fair.
    The monk looked up. Their gazes met, sea-grey and
silver-gilt; warp and woof, and the shuttle flashing between. Alf’s image; the
flicker of amusement was the other’s, whose knightly hands had never plied a
loom.
    As swiftly as fencers in a match, they disengaged. Alf was
on his feet, holding white-knuckled to the back of his chair. With an effort he
unclenched his fingers and advanced to the bed.
    Alun’s eyes followed him. His face was quiet, betraying none
of his pain. “How long since I came here?” he asked.
    “Three days,” Alf answered, “and five before that of
riding.”
    “Eight days.” Alun closed his eyes. “I was an utter and
unpardonable fool.”
    Alf poured well-watered mead from the beaker by the bed and
held the cup to Alun’s lips. The draught brought a ghost of color to the wan
cheeks, but did not distract the mind behind them. “Is there news? Have you
heard—”
    Alf crumbled a bit of bread and fed it to him. “No news.
Though there’s a tale in the villages of a mighty wizard who rode over the
hills in a trail of shooting stars and passed away into the West. Opinions are
divided as to the meaning of the portent, whether it presages war or peace,
feast or famine. Or maybe it was only one of the Fair Folk in a fire of haste.”
    A glint of mirth touched the grey eyes. “Maybe it was. You’ve
heard no word of war?”
    “Not hereabouts. I think you’ve put the fear of Annwn into
too many people.”
    “That will never last,” Alun murmured. “The black boar will
rise, and soon. And I...” His good hand moved down his body. “I pay for my
folly. How soon before I ride?”
    “Better to ask, ‘How soon before I walk?’ ”
    He shook his head slightly. “I’ll ride before then. How
soon?”
    Alf touched his splinted leg, his bound hand. Shattered bone
had begun to knit, torn muscle to mend itself, with inhuman speed, but slowly
still. “A month,” he said. “No sooner.”
    “Brother,” Alun said softly, “I am not human.”
    “If you were, I’d tell you to get used to your bed, for
you’d never leave it.”
    Alun’s lips thinned. “I’m not so badly hurt. Once my leg
knits, I can ride.”
    “You rode with it broken for five days. It will take