Mordraud, Book One

  A storm of arrows was hailing down on them all.

  He tried to strike up a chant, but didn’t have time. Asaeld seemed not to have noticed anything yet.

  “ASAELD! GET DOWN!” he yelled frantically, as panic spread among the Lances crowding the base. Then he was flattened to the ground and his sight dimmed. With his ear squashed to the earth, he heard the steel rain batter down on all of them. Many were screaming in pain. Even the person protecting him with his own body.

  The young man from a few seconds earlier had acted as a shield.

  “No! Asaeld!” groaned Dunwich with his mouth buried in the mud. “Shield him! You have to shield him!”

  His appeal went unhindered. The Lance was already dead.

  When the hail ceased, eight soldiers lay on the ground. All Lances fresh out of the Academy. Asaeld had come out of it miraculously unscathed, except for a long gash on his forehead.

  “But... who was it?!”

  The archery battalion had moved upon his orders. A nearby survivor said he’d seen a smaller group of archers turn towards the command post, weigh up the shot and fire. It was hard to work out who they were and where they’d gone. Impossible to pick them out during such a complex manoeuvre, of advancing towards the river. Asaeld was yelling wildly, the wounded Lances were groaning, laying on their backs, arrows sticking out everywhere. Chaos had seized the base.

  “Asaeld! Call back those accursed archers! We need to segregate them at once, before they mingle with the others!”

  The commander was ashen and seemed incapable of moving. Around him, five arrows traced out a perfect circle that only by a whisper hadn’t hit their target. A resonance, thought Dunwich. Asaeld had managed to protect himself with a harmonic barrier.

  “There’s no point. By now, they’ll already have mingled with the other divisions. They’re fighting down there, we can’t keep an eye on them!”

  “And so what do you want to do?!”

  Dunwich looked at the man who’d died protecting him. A few seconds before, he was slipping away for fear of the whip. A sadly unfair end.

  “He opted to shield you, do you see?”

  “Only because you’d just threatened him with who knows what dreadful punishment...” murmured a desolate Dunwich. He’d never felt so lost. So empty. He wondered how much his life was worth. Whether it really was more precious than that of another soldier.

  “That’s not the reason. They protected you because you’re a hero among the troops. They’re beginning to single you out as a real leader, a guide! You’re charismatic, and you always state things as they are. Your soldiers like you,” explained Asaeld. He still seemed shaken, yet he was also pleased with the turn in events. Instead, Dunwich was shocked, and gave no reply. He hadn’t the slightest interest in those political details.

  “We’re talking here about a companion who died in my place! Not amidst the scrum, in the disarray of battle... He took those arrows out of choice... And I don’t even know his name...”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “DOESN’T MATTER?! You said you’d routed out the plotters! It’s a catastrophe... For love of the Gods, a catastrophe...”

  “We need to get away from here, and carry on commanding the troops. We might lose the battle if we dwell on it any further!”

  “We’ve already lost, Asaeld!” growled Dunwich.

  “We’ve already lost everything.”

  ***

  “You look tired, Adraman. Sure you want to carry on?”

  “Of course! I’m just sleeping more than usual, that’s all it is. I’m not used to lounging around the house doing nothing.”

  Eldain had invited his friend to dine with him in his private rooms. They were bare, like the cells of a prison. Frugal dishes, rye bread and cold meats, a few slices of cheese and a carafe of light wine. Adraman was the only person he enjoyed spending a few hours chatting with. Not about war – the main topic not only of his daily life, but of his whole existence.

  “At home...?”

  “Everything’s fine, thanks,” Adraman broke in. “Deanna seems better.”

  “You don’t strike me as very happy.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m glad...”

  “...But?”

  Adraman pressed his pipe bowl with the end of a knife and stretched his legs out under the table. However calm he might seem externally, Eldain could read an ineradicable suffering within him.

  “But I don’t know why she’s brighter. I haven’t done anything or said anything different from usual. The servants know nothing. It’s simply... sometimes she seems happier.”

  “Do you think...?”

  “I don’t know,” Adraman cut him short.

  “We already spoke about it once... Remember?”

  “Yes, and I’ve meditated on it a lot.”

  Eldain placed his feet on an empty seat and arched his back to relieve the numbness. Staying still on the wooden chair in the meeting chamber was torture for his bones. He would willingly have avoided it, but he couldn’t. The same was true about many things.

  “And what conclusions have you come to?”

  “That you’re an old fool to advise me to humour unfaithfulness. How can I return home and sleep with my wife, knowing that perhaps a few hours earlier she was screwing with someone else?”

  “You’re overly dramatic... That’s always been your trouble,” returned Eldain without the faintest sarcasm. “Ever been whoring, Adraman?”

  “You making fun of me?! We went together once, in Calhann... Don’t you remember? It must have been ten years ago. When we tried to bring them round onto our side...”

  “And after that? Never again?”

  “Well... maybe once or twice...” confessed Adraman, in a vaguely embarrassed tone. “Two or three times, I’d say... I wasn’t counting...”

  “And perhaps you were already married to Deanna.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?! You know that sometimes I’m away from home for four or five months in a row! Every day solving problems and struggling to survive yet another battle... Occasionally, I’ve sought a bit of... human warmth, that’s all.”

  Eldain smiled and turned his attentions to lighting his pipe. Adraman stared at him, awaiting a reply, which however was slow in coming.

  “So? What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Can’t you work it out for yourself?”

  “But you can’t compare that to an affair!” burst out a shocked Adraman. “I’ve already told you: I was at the front, I was risking my life... It’s normal to feel alone, to feel...”

  He didn’t succeed in finishing his sentence. Eldain was still staring at him, a light smile on his lips. “Hmm, you’ve managed to make me see, haven’t you, you merciless old man?!”

  “You’re sometimes a little too stubborn, but when you try, you learn quickly,” chuckled Eldain.

  “Don’t make fun of me. We’re talking about serious stuff...”

  “I would never take that liberty. By the way... I know you have your suspicions. Who would it be?”

  “I’m not answering that!” Adraman retorted indignantly. “And there’s no suspect! My wife’s not cheating on me!”

  “It’s that lad, isn’t it... Mordraud? I’ve heard you get on well... You like him, don’t you, or am I wrong?”

  Adraman reddened and, in a ploy to conceal it, he got up to fetch something else to drink. That wasn’t there – the bottles were all on the table.

  “Mordraud reminds me a little of myself in adolescence. And he’s a good soldier too,” blurted Adraman.

  “Young, full of energy... a fighter... bursting with ideals... Am I right?”

  “More or less.”

  “And he’s also Deanna’s friend, he knows her well, and really cares about her... And perhaps they’re even alike.”

  “Cut it out. I hardly recognise you – you sound like an old woman.”

  “Have I said something wrong?” inquired Eldain, straightening up o
n his chair. “I haven’t put you on trial, Adraman. We’re just chatting.”

  Adraman sighed and slowly shook his head. “Bah... Nothing can be hidden from you, can it? Your usual self. And since you’re interested in knowing... Yes, I think Deanna’s playing around with Mordraud.”

  “And this doesn’t bother you as much as you expected it would.”

  “Exactly. But I don’t know why.”

  “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

  Eldain put his pipe down to take a hunk of bread.

  “You think Deanna could be happy with Mordraud... And you care about her too much to deny her this joy.”

  “For love of the Gods! If your men were to hear you talk so soppily...” Adraman commented, with a taut smile.

  Eldain suddenly clapped his lands and jumped up.

  “Fancy a game of Tower of Swords?”

  “Hmm? Tower of Swords? Why that particular game?!” asked Adraman in a muddle. He wasn’t expecting such a suggestion, and it was already very late. “But you’re weak at Tower – you never beat me!”

  “Almost never! And I feel I could win easily tonight... What d’you say?”

  “Come on, then,” replied Adraman. “Fetch the pieces, but no cheating! And don’t try and take a seven from my unit!”

  “I don’t even know how to cheat – you know that.”

  Eldain whistled as he set up the battleground. Tower of Swords was an age-old game, played in every corner of the continent. Simple wooden blocks, the numbered pieces had to be lined up to form a battalion, and were moved to simulate a miniature battle. Every region had its own variation, but the basic game had remained unchanged for centuries. Since players also had to count and add up the value of the various pieces, Tower of Swords was often used to teach children how to use numbers.

  Eldain and Adraman had been keen on the game since youth, and had both polished their strategies during long sleepless nights on the Rampart. Like all the other lads they’d challenged, they too had personally fashioned their numbered blocks, shaping them between one training session and the next. It was one of the Rampart’s unwritten rules: you weren’t a man until you possessed your own wooden army.

  Playing was exactly what his friend needed, thought Eldain. A focus to take Adraman’s mind off things for an hour or two.

  So he had little scope to muse on what he’d just confided to him.

  ***

  “We’re still not there. You’re concentrating on the chanting too much.”

  “But the resonances...”

  “I’ll repeat it again: a resonance doesn’t come from the chanting, but from your concentration. It’s like an unspoken wish. Chanting is just a vehicle – a means for achieving it.”

  Gwern and Saiden were sitting on the floor, at the bottom of the stairs. They were discussing his progress. Many days had gone by since that moment when Gwern had learnt to work with his tutor. He’d lost count. Inside that tower, time just flitted by.

  “I’ve explained the logic of harmonies to you,” went on Saiden, “not so you can immediately hurl yourself into a quest for resonances. You shouldn’t expect to achieve something that many people who’ve studied far more than you struggle for years to attain. I’ve told you time and again that a resonance is not merely a product of chanting. It appears that you are forgetting, rather than learning.”

  “It’s not easy!” Gwern burst out, exhausted by the frustration. “First you taught me to sing, and now you tell me to do the opposite!”

  “Using your voice to spark some silly little flame is something anybody can learn!” Saiden thundered, getting up and walking round the oval staircase. “If it were merely this, anyone could become a chanter, a resonance seeker. And I’m not exaggerating. Really anyone. I want more! I expect more of you!”

  “But I’m no good at anything!”

  “Then try harder. Now, let’s start again with the arpeggios. But you mustn’t think that music can reveal who knows what secret to you. Don’t envisage fire, or cold. You don’t have to shift your imagination to the chant, you just have to sing.”

  Gwern started again. His voice had improved greatly, despite its still young and unripe state. Saiden made him work hard on specific scales that seemed jarringly off-key to him. They went against Gwern’s customary musical experience. They couldn’t be enhanced with lyrics, and they never led to anything. He resisted through the torment of repeating again and again, without ever achieving anything if not a weary pant. Saiden never took his eyes off him, as usual.

  “You see, Gwern, you have to believe me when I say I know everything about Cambrian chanting. You’d be perfect as a pupil at the Arcane.”

  “Do you really think so?!”

  “Of course. The usual lad who wastes ten years of his life to manipulate a few glowing coloured lights.”

  Gwern bit his tongue and waited for his master to finish insulting him. Saiden had seemed nice to him, at first. Easy-going. Instead, when he started studying under him, the boy had to change his mind. Saiden knew how to be a real bastard, when he wanted to.

  “You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

  “You keep mocking me, I can’t concentrate.”

  “Of course you can’t. You don’t even know how to keep your emotions under control.”

  “It’s not easy, with you constantly repeating that what I’m doing is no use at all.”

  “No use at all?! Then you really haven’t understood what I’m saying! Do you actually think that to strike a resonance with yourself, you necessarily have to waste a great deal of time singing?! You have to do it in the most natural way!”

  Saiden wasn’t shouting, but it was as if he were. His voice was able to sharpen itself like a knife, and to mellow an instant later. “You must condense! Abstract! You have to vibrate with the sound of perfection, and make it yours! You mustn’t expect an accursed scale or a spot-on arpeggio to burst into a storm of fire! Find resonance with yourself before seeking one with the world – and you have to do it quickly! Go as far as the point where chanting is no longer of use to you... because you’ve understood where it stems from.”

  “Is there something precise that sets off a resonance?!”

  “Work hard, and perhaps you’ll find that out,” Saiden replied dryly, his eyes glued to the boy’s chest. What was he looking at, Gwern wondered uneasily. What did Saiden contemplate, as he performed those ridiculous endless scales? He wanted to ask him, just like he wanted explanations for many other things his teacher had touched on, without ever going into them in depth. But Gwern swallowed down everything he was about to say, clutching at the last energy he had left. The pride of not giving up. Saiden had to convince himself that Gwern would learn to seek out those wretched resonances. The effort, the anger, the sense of uselessness that he continually felt were an affliction to bear with bowed head. “If I only knew what I was looking for...”

  Saiden, differently to many other times, didn’t rail against him or send him away because of his inertia. Instead, he stood before Gwern, and tapped his finger on the boy’s sternum. As if to attract the attention of a fish trapped in a small aquarium. An unsettling gesture that made him shiver.

  Something happened. It was sudden and silent. Saiden hadn’t chanted, nor had he moved his lips to do so. Yet, his body seemed to convert into a sort of dense liquid. His form and garments were undergoing constant and fluctuating change. A moment before, it was him. The blink of an eye and he seemed to become a woman. Then an old man very like himself – a sort of distant relative. Saiden’s liquid flesh mutated shape so swiftly that Gwern could never quite grasp who he was actually embodying.

  “Try and imagine your body as existing in constant resonance with its surroundings. And that this resonance is due to the fact that your body’s boundaries don’t stop with your experience, but are much... broader.”

  “I don’t understand, for love of the Gods!” Gwern blurted in despair.

  Saiden huffed and lifted a hand. His
patience really seemed at its limit, and perhaps he felt the time had come to give his only pupil a helping shove. As if he too were anxious to find something out.

  “Put yours up as well.”

  Gwern placed his hand opposite. He was about to touch the other hand, but Saiden pulled back.

  “Now, are you and I in contact at the moment? Answer me.”

  The obvious answer was no. What the maestro wanted to hear was clearly the opposite. Gwern preferred to stay on obvious terrain. He didn’t want to be slandered again, not before dinnertime. Supporting his tutor’s idea was pointless if he lacked the reasoning to back up his statement.

  “No, we’re not touching.”

  “This is a conviction of yours, induced by the experience you have of the reality surrounding you,” replied Saiden, his hand raised and taut, his gaze planted on Gwern’s chest. As if he were completely boss-eyed.

  “Our hands are in contact. And this is due to a... force... that we all have. Our bodies mark a very limited horizon, Gwern. Many things invisible to us nevertheless exist. And they all come from the same energy. And it’s precisely from this that chanters draw their inspiration in striking resonances. But the chanting is merely a superfluous passage. You have to learn to free...” Saiden’s gaze on the boy’s sternum became that of a hawk. “You have to unleash this force.”

  His master’s body went on endlessly remodelling itself, and Gwern had to avert his eyes to avoid vomiting. A slight shaking in his shoulders was the warning signal of an approaching fit. Since he’d been studying with Saiden, his attacks had grown less frequent, but far more dangerous. Without Saiden, he’d have died after the first few days of study.

  “I’ll give you another example. Are you with me?”

  “Hmm, not entirely...” muttered Gwern, restraining a retch.

  “Fine,” returned Saiden as if he hadn’t even listened to his reply. “You’re in your house, you open the door. You see your garden, or the street – it doesn’t matter what. It’s raining. What do you think?”