by Roger Taylor
Ryath shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not what you were. I’ve got more questions than I can count, but I’m afraid I believe you utterly even though I’d rather not.’
‘Thank you, Ryath,’ Andawyr said, bowing. Then to the rest, ‘Do any of you have any doubts about my tale?’
Oslang shook his head. ‘No, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘Don’t be concerned. We too are not what we were. Controlling the eye of the Goleg shook some of us quite severely, and don’t forget, we saw the state you were in at the end of your journey, and listened to your ramblings for several days.’ He leaned forward significantly. ‘And don’t forget too how deep you were, even when we allowed you to wake again.’
Andawyr nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive my arrogance in imagining that I was the only one who could learn anything new round here.’ Then he laughed outright and his sudden humour spread round the circle.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the window openings. ‘The sun still shines. Those hills and plains and the ocean over there teem with Ethriss’s great gift of life. Some power has arisen in Orthlund, as unseen and unsung as Sumeral himself. The Muster rides strong as ever to guard the Pass. The Fyordyn High Guard will guard the passes that breech their northern boundary . . .’
Oslang raised a staying hand. ‘There are rumours abroad of . . . strange . . . happenings in Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘That the High Guards of the Lords have been replaced by black-liveried guards such as you described in Narsindal.’
Andawyr inclined his head to catch this message, but his flow continued, redirected. ‘Yes, rumours, rumours,’ he said. ‘In that one word, perhaps you have the crux of our neglect.’
‘Neglect?’ Oslang echoed.
‘Neglect,’ Andawyr confirmed.
‘Why are we all here?’ he asked suddenly.
Oslang shrugged vaguely at this unexpected question. ‘We continue the work of our predecessors appointed by Ethriss against the Second Coming of Sumeral,’ he recited.
Andawyr accepted and dismissed the answer. ‘Yes, but why are we all here?’
Oslang scowled. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
Andawyr opened his palms wide. ‘We are all here,’ he said. ‘At least a quarter of us should be out in the world. Travelling, learning, watching, listening. How long have we been like this? Skulking in our hole in the ground. Sitting here staring out of the windows and listening to gossip and rumour is no way to increase our knowledge and even less of a way to fulfil our duty to watch for the Second Coming.’
There was some awkward shuffling around the circle. ‘I think you’re exaggerating,’ Ryath said, mildly indignant. ‘There’s usually someone out travelling. We’re all here now largely because of you . . .’
Andawyr rounded on him, mildly scornful. ‘I’m probably the widest travelled one among us, but where do I get to? Round and about Riddin, and mainly northern Riddin at that. Gossiping with our neighbours, buying supplies.’
‘And Narsindal,’ someone said, defending his leader against his own assault.
‘Yes, Narsindal,’ Andawyr agreed reflectively. ‘But apart from my recent escapade, how long ago is it since any of us travelled any distance? Too long by far. And who here can claim an undying interest in Mandroc lore?’
His humour faded and he screwed up his face as the significance of his complaint began to make itself felt.
‘Why has this happened?’ he said anxiously, almost to himself. ‘When I was a student here I travelled with several of the senior brothers. We went everywhere. Up into Narsindal to study the place generally and to keep contact with at least some of the Mandroc families. South, right through Riddin. I’ve been through Fyorlund, seen Vakloss, bustling and busy – marvellous. We even trailed out to Narsindalvak once and saw the Watch patrols coming and going. Talked with the Commander there. I’ve been across to Orthlund. Seen little Pedhavin and its carvers, and Anderras Darion with its Great Gate standing silent and closed. I’ve caught the fisherman’s ferries over into Eirthland . . .’
He stopped again and looked at the others. ‘Most of us did the same, didn’t we? In differing degrees. How did we suddenly come to be so . . . housebound . . . parochial . . . so tiny and fearful in our ways?’
No one volunteered an answer. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if in some way His will has bound us even here,’ he continued.
There were murmurs of denial from his listeners, but they were half-hearted. Andawyr nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sailing near the truth, aren’t I? Fine guardians of knowledge we are. Protectors of Ethriss’s charge. Anderras Darion has stood open for twenty years, and we didn’t know! Resources were marshalled somewhere to recreate a Vrwystin A Kaethio, and we didn’t know! The eyes of Vrwystin A Goleg flew among us, and we didn’t see them until one of them sat up and bit us! And we sit in lofty isolation, nurturing our existing knowledge like cows chewing cud. Gazing out over the countryside and waiting for rumours to arrive.’
He stood up, suddenly angry. ‘In Ethriss’s name, what have we become?’ he shouted. ‘What have we done?’ Then equally suddenly his voice fell and reaching back he leaned heavily on the arm of his chair. ‘What have I done? This is my fault.’
He lowered himself into his chair, his face shocked.
There was an uneasy silence in the room as the assembled brothers looked to each other for guidance. Andawyr’s denunciation had welled up from nowhere and struck them like a stinging winter squall. Now their leader sat silent and stunned, seemingly overwhelmed by what he saw as his own guilt.
Ryath’s voice cut through the tension, forceful and stern. ‘Nonsense, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘You’re over-simplifying again. And you’re being too emotional. You’re right about our neglect. It’s a grim picture and all the more so because it’s so blatantly obvious now.’ He stood up and walked across to Andawyr. ‘But you’re wrong about your responsibility. It’s been a collective neglect. We each know the duties of the Order, we each know we must fulfil them. You’re our guide, not our keeper.’
Andawyr looked up at him, his face still pained. Ryath continued relentlessly. ‘As for the cause of this neglect, that’s irrelevant. Be it His hand or our folly, we’ve neither fact nor rumour to help us there. Suffice it that we see it now and our duty is to act, not to conjecture. You’re the only person who’s remotely suited to be our leader. Do what you’re best at – lead.’ He swung his arm around the watching circle. ‘Teach these your new knowledge, as you taught me. Help us correct our lapse, whatever its cause. Don’t compound it by wallowing in self pity.’
Several of the brothers gasped at the bluntness of Ryath’s last remark, and Oslang rose to intervene. Andawyr’s distressed expression vanished and for an instant his face became thunderous. Ryath grimaced as if anticipating a blow, but he held both his ground and Andawyr’s gaze.
After a moment Andawyr said sharply. ‘Sit down, Ryath. You’re talking out of turn again.’
Ryath resumed his seat, his face pale but satisfied. Andawyr glowered round the circle. ‘Does anyone else here agree with brother Ryath?’ he asked stonily.
Oslang raised his hand immediately, and one by one so did each of the brothers, some more tentatively than others.
Andawyr’s grim look gradually faded into one of resignation. ‘You’re right Ryath,’ he said quietly. ‘I am too emotional. I’m probably off-balance after everything that’s happened if the truth be told. I apologize to you all for my outburst.’
The tension in the room eased.
‘Let’s get down to business then,’ Andawyr said purposefully. ‘We’ll work out the details later, but these are my first thoughts. We must send someone to Anderras Darion as a matter of the greatest urgency to find out what’s been happening there and, if possible, what’s happened to Hawklan.’ He turned to Oslang. ‘Have a word with the local Muster Lines, they’ll probably be willing to help us across country.’ Oslang nodded.
‘Then I think someone’s goi
ng to have to footslog through the mountains to Fyorlund.’
‘What?’ said Oslang in disbelief. ‘It’ll be winter soon.’
Andawyr waved the objection aside. ‘Details later,’ he said. ‘It’s been done before. And we’ll have to tell Urthryn down in Dremark. He’ll probably need some convincing, but at least the Muster won’t need much sharpening up. Next, we’ll have to establish watching stones along the Pass.’ He paused and breathed out noisily. ‘That’s going to be dangerous at the north end, but we can’t avoid it. We must have some eyes into Narsindal.’
‘The felcis might help there,’ Atelon intruded.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Indeed they might,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t forget our ancient allies. They could prove to be invaluable.’
He stood up. ‘Brothers, forgive me. I’d like to go to my quarters. I need to rest and meditate for a little while. Could I ask you to stay here and begin planning these journeys immediately?’
He paused as he moved out of the circle towards one of the open doors. ‘Three things remain,’ he said. ‘As Ryath has suggested. If it can be taught, I’ll teach you all I can of my new knowledge, or at least start to teach it, though Ethriss knows how. Secondly we must begin to accept that we are at war, and in great danger. Sumeral felt my presence and will suspect our existence. And Oklar will know that it was no village bird catcher that bound the eye of the Goleg and struck down the keeper of his Vrwystin A Kaethio. They’ll be searching for us constantly now. We can look to some trials of strength and cunning. Be open. Be aware.’
‘And the third matter?’ Oslang asked.
‘Yes,’ said Andawyr slowly. ‘The third matter. While we seek to marshal our physical resources, we must remember that they will be as nothing unless Sumeral and His Uhriel can be truly opposed.’
The room became very silent.
‘Brothers,’ Andawyr concluded. ‘We must go to the heart of our duty. We must seek for the Guardians and awaken them.’
Chapter 14
The glow of the furnace further reddened Loman’s already flushed face and went on to paint his shadow grotesquely across the wall and ceiling of his forge. There, another shadow mingled with it to complete the painting and turn it into a small dark mountain range.
The acrid tang of hot metal filled the forge and the furnace murmured restfully to itself, the radiant stones occasionally chuckling and rearranging themselves in a small flurry of sparks.
Loman straightened up and wiped a grimy arm across his glistening forehead. He did not like to be disturbed when he was working.
‘What?’ he asked, irritably.
The mountains shifted ominously as Gulda, scowling, lifted her head to look at him beadily. The master smith rested the head of his hammer on his anvil and, leaning on it, met her gaze. ‘I beg your pardon, Memsa,’ he said, with painstaking slowness and great insincerity. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’
‘I said, “Do you have any children around here who can sing properly?”’ Gulda repeated, echoing his tone and manner.
Loman looked at her carefully for a moment as if still uncertain that he had heard correctly. ‘Singers?’ he said tentatively. Gulda raised an eyebrow and fidgeted with her stick.
Loman sniffed, and applied his foot to a bellows pump, making the furnace roar contentedly. The radiant stones turned quickly from red to yellow and in their waxing light Loman smiled faintly. Gulda’s eyes narrowed.
‘What in the world do you want singers for, Memsa?’ Loman shouted.
Gulda craned forward crossly to hear him.
‘Don’t answer my question with another one, young Loman,’ she shouted. ‘And stop that noise.’
As asked, Loman stopped pumping abruptly, leaving the forge suddenly silent. Gulda, however, continued at full volume for a moment. ‘Just tell me. . .’ Loman looked at her innocently as the rest of her reply slid through an involuntary and incongruous diminuendo to a whispered conclusion, ‘. . . if you’ve any children round here who can sing well.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Try Otaff,’ he whispered back, before she could recover fully. ‘He looks after the Festivals. Usually manages to wring some semblance of a tune out of the raucous little devils, though don’t ask me where he finds the patience. Not our strong point really, singing,’ he added pleasantly.
Then, smiling, he turned away from her and began rattling noisily through the metallic clutter littering a nearby work-bench. Gulda eyed his back suspiciously, then, muttering something to herself, turned and clumped towards the door.
She paused at the door as if to say something, but Loman was seemingly engrossed in some task and she thought better of it.
As she closed it behind her, Loman smiled to himself broadly.
‘Not in here, Memsa,’ he said, pumping the bellows mightily and placing a strip of metal on the glowing stones. ‘You might own the rest of the world, but there are more tricks to smithing than just shaping metal.’
* * * *
Although Loman had rightly anticipated Gulda in saying that they must seek out the Alphraan, that had effectively been the end of his contribution. Apart from wandering vaguely through the mountains, shouting, as one might search for a lost child, he had no other inspiration as to how it should be done, and he knew better than to voice such a proposal in front of Gulda. If these . . . people . . . existed, they’d been in the mountains for unknown generations and wherever they lived was hidden well beyond chance finding.
Gulda, however, had been little wiser than he, and their discussion into ways and means had soon foundered. ‘Is there anything in the book that might help?’ he had suggested eventually.
Gulda had pouted thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have another look, but I doubt it,’ she had said. And that had been that, for the time being.
Then, just a couple of days ago, stepping through the wicket in the Great Gate, Loman had glanced round to see a group of apprentices anxiously holding the bottoms of three long ladders. His first reaction had been to deliver an instant and severe rebuke for what he presumed to be some prank or other, but his eye had been drawn inexorably upwards, both by the sloping ladders, and by the intensity of gathered apprentices.
At the top, stepping resolutely from ladder to ladder, was Gulda. She was apparently examining some of the carvings on the Great Gate. Loman’s mouth fell open.
Recovering himself, he walked across to the group. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded sternly. Startled, two of the boys spun round. Loman looked skywards. ‘Don’t let go of the ladder, young men,’ he said quietly. ‘Memsa will not be pleased.’
Unequivocal confirmation of this observation floated down from above, followed by, ‘Loman, get yourself up here and look at this.’
A titter threatened to bloom out of the gathered apprentices but it shrivelled instantly under Loman’s baleful gaze.
He examined the feet of the three ladders. They were well founded on the hard ground. ‘There’s nothing to fasten them to up there, sir, so we tied them together at the top and middle,’ one of the apprentices volunteered.
As every student knows, nothing softens the heart of a teacher like a lesson learned. ‘Well done,’ Loman said with a smile, placing his foot on the first rung.
When he reached the top, however, he was less sanguine. He was not too disturbed by heights, but looking down the vertiginous perspective of the Gate, he could not forbear asking the obvious question of his neighbour. ‘Memsa, what are you doing up here?’
As usual, however, Gulda ignored the question. ‘Can’t you climb a ladder without rocking it so much?’ she said, then pointing to a section of carving, ‘Look, here. This took some finding. For a raven, Gavor must have eyes like a hawk. Look, it’s very interesting. Most informative.’
Loman looked closely at the area she was marking out with a long finger. It was quite small and, like the rest of the Gate, beautifully carved. However the symbolism of the carving that filigreed the Gate was both compact and intricate, and few could read it qui
ckly or easily. ‘It’ll take a little time to work through this,’ he said.
‘No matter,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the gist of it. Enough to think about for now. Mark it out and get a casting for me. I’d like to study it more carefully.’
‘Yes, Memsa,’ Loman replied automatically, still peering intently at the carving. A small cloud moved in front of the sun, briefly throwing the Gate into hazy shadow. The carving in front of Loman danced into a new tale. He smiled appreciatively. ‘A casting won’t catch any of this, Memsa,’ he said, waving his hand over the changing scene. ‘It’ll barely catch all the first-degree work.’ He turned to her, but she was gone.
Looking down he saw her black form briskly descending down one of the ladders. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ came her voice. ‘It’ll get enough for what we need.’
Seemingly it had, for after receiving the casting and nodding a cursory approval, Gulda had disappeared from view for a day or so, to reappear abruptly in Loman’s forge with her inquiry about singers.
Since Gulda’s return Loman had learned a lesson he had never mastered as a child. He knew now that information could be obtained from Gulda best by watching and listening. Direct questioning not infrequently left him feeling he was trying to catch hold of autumn mist.
Thus when, after directing her towards Otaff, he saw her returning later that day shepherding three young boys, he joined the little procession without comment. Gulda nodded brusquely to him, but said nothing.
Eventually he found himself sitting in a room with Gulda seated incongruously at a small keyboard instrument. There were countless such rooms all over the Castle and, looking round it, Loman had to admit to himself that he had probably not been in that particular one half a dozen times in his entire stewardship.