Mordraud, Book One

  “What place is this?!”

  “It belonged to the Aelians,” Gwern answered, stretching his arms wide. “Didn’t mum ever tell you about a place like this?”

  “No... she didn’t. It’s all so empty and cold.”

  “Essential, I’d say,” Gwern exclaimed. “I’d like to have known more about mum and her relatives...”

  Gwern fell silent. Saiden had come out of his room. He was observing them from a suspended banister-free landing, dizzyingly higher up than they were.

  “Who is it, Gwern?”

  “It’s my brother, sir!” he shouted. Mordraud bowed his head, uncertain of what to do next. Saiden ran nimbly down. When he reached them, his eyes shifted from one to the other, and he was rooted to the spot. His brother’s sternum seemed intriguing too, thought Gwern in surprise.

  “Sorry, who did you say...?”

  “My brother Mordraud, sir. I brought him in. I didn’t ask permission...”

  “You did just the right thing...” Saiden replied in bewilderment. He was astounded by something that only he could see. Mordraud looked around confused, disoriented. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” he started, but Saiden catapulted towards him and seized his arms. He felt them, astonished. He also touched the young man’s neck and chin. Gwern was left speechless. Mordraud stood still, shocked.

  “Amazing. He could only be your brother, Gwern...”

  Saiden suddenly regained composure. He moved away from Mordraud and apologised. “I was eager to meet the person Gwern has praised on so many occasions...”

  “The pleasure’s mine,” replied Mordraud, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  ***

  Saiden left the two brothers to dine alone. Deer-meat and onions. Mordraud devoured the bones and cartilage, licked his plate and, using his fingers, polished off the crumbs from a hunk of bread – Gwern’s usual reserves for relieving hunger during practice. The boy contemplated his brother’s voracity, astounded. And passed him his portion of meat too.

  Mordraud, totally contradicting his customary behaviour, accepted without protest.

  “How’s Larois?”

  “Erm... Fine, I think...” Mordraud grunted, choking on a mouthful of red wine. “I’ve been stationed at the Rampart for months now. The last time I was in Eld...”

  He broke off. He couldn’t tell his brother he’d gone home just to screw Adraman’s woman. Even if he hunted around for a better way to put it, Gwern would never understand.

  And he’d be more than right.

  “You spent most of your time in the barracks, I suppose...”

  “Well, yes... I did.”

  “But how are things going at home?”

  How did he suppose they were going, Mordraud mused in frustration. Terribly. He questioned himself yet again on whether he’d made a wise decision in consulting his brother. He was still too young. Mordraud felt he shouldn’t tell him exactly what was happening outside that fantastical tower, where you could still eat fresh meat and the wine was not a gloomy liquid ghost of past times. Perhaps he’d be better attempting the enterprise alone.

  “The fiefdom’s on its knees... We’ve got to do something.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I was wondering...” Mordraud whispered. “If this winter’s caused by chanting... could a chanter hear it even at a great distance?”

  “Hmm, I think so,” Gwern replied concisely. Mordraud stared at him in amazement.

  “I thought it would be much harder to explain my idea!”

  “No, it’s quite clear,” Gwern went on. When he talked of harmonies and chanting, he took on a decidedly different air to his usual one. Far more confident.

  “If it were a huge resonance, we’d be able to hear it here too, I’d say.”

  “And would you know what to do about it?!”

  Gwern took a deep breath.

  “No.”

  “So how can you be so certain?!” Mordraud blurted in consternation. He’d hoped through and through that Gwern would know what to do. They were buggered, he thought, gripped by panic.

  “I need to discuss it with Saiden. I reckon he should be able to give me some advice.”

  “But do you already know how to chant?”

  “Yes, I’m rather good at it. But I haven’t found the right resonances yet. I’m nearly there, brother. Very nearly.”

  Mordraud nodded, convinced. Gwern was a mask of utter conviction. He clenched his fists as if he wanted to pulp them.

  “I’m sure I can lend you a hand.”

  “And do you reckon Saiden will help you too?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Mordraud gave him a pat on the back and beamed. Gwern returned a faint wonky grin. He was extremely tense. But also shamefully euphoric. He’d been waiting for his chance to pay everyone back for ages. Mordraud especially. All he had to do was persuade his tutor to explain to him how to put the idea into practice. All Saiden’s speeches about the Gods and interpreting various occurrences had driven him to think a great deal. If that implausible winter was caused by something or someone – thus excluding the Gods – then that cause had to reside in the mysterious power of harmonies. Cambria’s speciality.

  A harmonious winter might give off a particular sound, believed Gwern. That was his theory.

  He wanted to hear the resonance of the winter.

  Gwern sprang up and made for the door. “Better get started straight away,” he burst out, but wavered for a moment. He found himself up against an enormous obstacle, he reflected. Saiden would never help him. He hadn’t done so in all that time. Why should he begin now?

  If his teacher knew how to find the chant to the Long Winter, he’d have already done something. If he cared. From the way Saiden spoke about the cold and what was happening outside the tower, Gwern could only deduce that it was the last of his worries. He seemed more interested in letting time tick by with his pupil, staring at him ceaselessly, throwing at him intricate questions and obscure riddles with no answer.

  “I’m going. The sooner I ask him for a hand, the better,” he concluded decisively.

  The door to the room opened from the outside.

  “Saiden...”

  His tutor came in and sat down on the bed. His gaze swang between the brothers with a mechanical beat. “Gwern, explain to me what you two want to do.”

  Mordraud sat stiffly on the seat at the desk. Gwern stood still before the door. They looked at each other, dumbfounded. The coincidence was exceptionally unnatural.

  “Come on, I’d like to get back to my supper.”

  “We were thinking...” he began, but Mordraud broke in.

  “It was my idea. I was hoping for some help on how to locate the source of the winter. It has to be somewhere. It’s just that we can’t see it.”

  “I believe it must be possible to pick up on the resonance of such a vast chant.”

  “You’re wrong – it’s impossible.”

  Saiden’s answer was stony and concise. Fierce. Gwern advanced a pace, red in the face. Mordraud gripped the chair back, as if about to rip it off. The teacher gave a dazed smile, staring at something that seemed to move between the two brothers. “I was right...” he murmured in a whisper. “Something never before seen...”

  Gwern didn’t manage to hear him. He shifted further forward, with a vaguely threatening yet terrified countenance. Like a mouse in a trap. It was his chance to do something. He couldn’t pass it up. Mordraud was desperate. As if the winter had tumbled on top of him with the weight of an anvil right on his back.

  Meanwhile, Saiden’s gaze went on skipping from one chest to the other.

  “It can’t be done. Out of the question. Or at least not the way you two suggest...”

  “What... what do you mean?” Gwern exclaimed, stepping back instantly.

  “There’s another way to pinpoint the source, as your brother calls it. You’d call it choir, but his term is far more correct...”

  “And what
would I have to do?”

  “It’s feasible?!” Mordraud butted in. He wasn’t understanding much of their conversation. He’d only grasped there were positive implications.

  “Yes, but Gwern doesn’t know how to do it.”

  “I can learn...” he replied, but Saiden let out a twitch of laughter. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “So are you making fun of me?!”

  He was so confused that he’d lost any semblance of manners. He failed to see why his teacher deemed him totally incapable.

  “I can do it, I’m sure I can.”

  “No,” Saiden cut him short. “But I can.”

  He leapt up off the bed and walked between the brothers. He stopped between them for an instant, stretching out his arms as if savouring a gust of breeze. His behaviour was unfathomable. Gwern stared at Mordraud, disoriented.

  “Would you help us?!”

  “Yes. But I don’t see why I should,” Saiden returned calmly.

  “Yet I never would have thought...” Gwern muttered.

  “Now that I’ve seen you side by side... I wouldn’t mind helping you.”

  “So why haven’t you done anything yet? It’s the most horrific nightmare out there!” Mordraud burst out in contempt. “Cambria’s murdering Eld!”

  “Because it might be more interesting now. I want to come with you, and I’ll help you locate your source, Mordraud. Don’t you worry.”

  “What about?” Gwern asked, puzzled.

  “About me... Just behave as if I weren’t there.”

  ***

  Saiden had left the room to give the brothers time to get their things ready. He wanted to set off straight away. When Gwern had asked for at least a night’s rest for Mordraud, he’d glared at the pair as if they’d gone barmy. He didn’t appear anxious to find a way to put a stop to the Long Winter. He was simply excited at the idea of travelling with them. Absurd conduct that left Gwern with a trail of bizarre thoughts.

  “I swear he’s not usually like this...”

  “But have you seen the way he stares at us? Right here...” Mordraud pointed to his chest, baffled. “I don’t think he’s even looked me in the face since I came in.”

  “He always does that. I don’t know why,” Gwern replied, stretching his arms wide. “In any case, he’s treated me very well so far. Yes, he’s been strict, but he’s right to be – I’m his student. He has to treat me that way.”

  “But what have you learnt so far?!”

  Gwern shook his head nervously.

  “Just singing and some chanting. Don’t ask me for a show – you wouldn’t enjoy it. They’re rather unusual melodies. Different from what I expected.”

  “D’you reckon he’s hiding something from you?” Mordraud asked.

  “No, I just think he’s got his own way of approaching resonances...” Gwern replied, choosing his words carefully. He was afraid his teacher might be listening. A feeling that he’d never actually had since he’d been living there.

  “What does that mean?!”

  Gwern gestured to Mordraud to wait a moment. He took a crystal goblet from his desk. He used it for tuning. He grasped a small bronze pen and tapped the glass gently. It yielded a clear and perfect note. “See, when two bodies come into contact, they vibrate... and give off a sound. Even if you can’t hear it, when you touch something with your hands, or you knock into someone, your body vibrates.”

  “You trying to explain harmonies to me?!” Mordraud blurted, wavering. “You know I’m not particularly fond of them...”

  “Might come in handy if you ever bump into a chanter. You following?”

  Gwern put the glass down, and pointed at it as its base knocked dully against the stone. “Vibrations with the scope to strike resonance exist. So how does it happen? When two bodies strike resonance, they share the same sound for an instant. This might come about when you’re in love, or if you care deeply about a trusted friend.”

  “Are you saying that’s a harmony too?!”

  “Yes,” Gwern answered in embarrassment. It was pure theory for him. He liked to mentally explore the possible consequences of the existence of harmonies. He could spend days dreaming on it.

  “A chanter strives to strike resonance with the world through his own voice. This could be with the wind, land or light. With anything. Even with other people. It’s possible... but hard. When his harmony’s found the exact point of resonance, the chanter’s concentration can unleash itself, moulding reality, or even creating it – even just for a few seconds.”

  “Like those damn bolts...” hissed Mordraud, grimacing at the memory.

  “It may also be merely concentrated light – it also depends on the chanter’s experience. And on the perfection of his resonance.”

  “How have you managed to learn all these things?!” Mordraud asked, amazed by the confidence with which his brother spoke. He was growing up fast and – most importantly – well. Mordraud let out a sigh of relief.

  “The maestro is trying to teach me how to sublime my chanting.”

  “I don’t know what it means...”

  “It means to make superfluous, to make flow fluidly. He can strike direct resonance with the world. It’s as if he were in that state permanently.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “You can’t even imagine how amazing it is.”

  “I still don’t get why he’s accepted to help us. Has he ever spoken to you about this before?”

  Gwern shook his head in puzzlement. “No, never. He’s never talked about the winter. I only discovered it after months. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested.”

  “So why does he want to come with us now? I find it unsettling...”

  “Look at it like this: it’d be impossible without him.”

  Mordraud glanced at Gwern. He was still a kid. And what’s more, still ill. A bundle of nerves, unlikely to be able to fight even half decently. The elder brother had gone down that road out of despair, spurred on by the atrocious nightmares he and his lads constantly lived on the Rampart.

  Saiden unexpectedly deciding to help them was a huge stroke of luck.

  “What was I supposed to do, brother?” Gwern murmured. “If you and I were to set off alone, we wouldn’t have the faintest hope.”

  ***

  Eldain took the blotter, dried the parchment carefully and tilted it towards the candle to see it more clearly. No bleeding, it appeared, and the handwriting was neat and even. He could no longer see very well close up, but he was fortunate enough to still be able to write competently. He placed his signature, exalting its swirls and grace, as if to underline how much he believed in what he’d just finished penning. He’d sought out the loveliest words and the finest sentences, all too aware of who would be reading them. Hannrinn’s regent, a man so tight-fisted and mean-hearted as to have become legendary. Rinnion, the most influential man in the lands crossed by the long Hann River.

  ‘That’ll be a tough nut for you to crack, my old friend,’ he mused with a cynical smile. Adraman had insisted until hoarse that he wished to see to this business personally.

  ‘Exactly as Mordraud did... It’s true they have a few things in common.’

  Adraman was to leave the following morning with a small delegation of Eld’s cavalry – all those with even the tiniest drop of noble blood in their veins. Inheritances watered down by generations, bearers of coats of arms and age-old friendships that might still carry some weight. A very light one yet nonetheless better than nothing.

  ‘At least I succeeded in convincing him not to go astride a horse... It’ll be amusing to watch him set out in a carriage – a ridiculous spectacle!’

  That mangled leg prevented Adraman from following his men in the fashion he would have wanted, riding at the helm of the party. He’d have to follow them, dragged in a creaking covered cart, and Eldain couldn’t help laughing at the prospect of how many obscenities his friend would utter, sitting leisurely on a pile of plump cushions.

 
; It was all very funny, yet the bitterness lingered. Eldain would have liked to go to Hannrinn in person, but everyone, with no exception, had coaxed him to understand it wasn’t a good idea. However, Berg alone had dared state things exactly as he saw them, without mincing his words.

  “We’re expendable, you’re not. If the Rinns take Adraman prisoner, we can leave him there if need be and carry on. But if they get their hands on the head of the Alliance... It’s something those river toads can’t wait for – that’s what I say!”

  It could become a trap, Eldain had no illusions about that. Which was precisely why he was so uncomfortable with the idea of sending Adraman in his place. Playing with other people’s lives had always been the hardest task, since he’d decided to shoulder the burden of all the nobles rebelling against Cambria. He’d had to do it so many times he truly was weary of it.

  “They won’t take me captive – look what a state I am!” Adraman had appealed to him, spreading his arms. His face was a web of scratches and swelling, one leg was splinted from the hip to the foot, and he’d visibly lost weight. He seemed more like a beggar that a cavalryman.

  “They are well aware you won’t stoop to negotiate only for me. All know you as a man who’s as hard as steel.”

  He didn’t feel so hard, reading that wretched parchment. It was a rant of compliments, reassurances and promises. If the Rinn family were to withdraw their support at the front, the war could already be chalked up as lost. That despicable winter was exacting an extremely steep toll on the rebels’ cause. The soldiers were on their last legs, but at least they still had something to eat. Nothing could be done for most of the civilians now. The wood supplies were down to the last few branches, food had run out some time ago, and the roads couldn’t stay clear for more than a day. The villages had become cemeteries inhabited by the half-dead. Still alive, but not for much longer.

  “Ask them if you like, but they won’t listen,” Ice had told him the last time they’d seen each other, at the meeting. “They’re too frightened of your big freeze. And besides, Hannrinn’s already under pressure, with its borders ever more often a target for attack by Cambria.”