by Roger Taylor
Andawyr’s reproach about their neglect had struck cruelly at every member of the Order, including himself and, not being fully debated, had grumbled uneasily beneath the surface of their normal activities over the past weeks. Now, the unexpected appearance of this alternative interpretation of their seeming inaction spread through the merging minds like an absolving flux, trailing a great lightness in its wake and carrying all his doubts with it.
An act of faith, Andawyr recalled, and the lightness spread.
Then, without a perceptible change, the one mind became freely his and he allowed it to enter into the deepest stillness he had ever known.
But there was still an unease; the faintest ripple on the surface of this deep and silent lake.
What breeze blows yet? Andawyr felt the question form around him.
Expectation, he answered, after a timeless moment. And with sure ease, he let it go.
The stillness became almost absolute. That it was flawed here and there reassured him.
Into it he formed the names of the Guardians. And around each name was the totality of his mind’s knowledge.
Share our stillness. Let us know your presence. You are needed. Your creation is threatened again.
Stillness.
Silence.
Then he was aware that he was listening to the Guardians.
‘. . . cannot be as it was. All things are changed.’
How long had the voice – voices – been speaking? They were faint and distant – tired? Weak?
Vague images formed in his mind. Three figures, as faint and distant as the voices. Or was it one figure? That they had no reality, he knew. They were images; his mind needed to accept the reality of the voices.
He let them form and change in the stillness, and he listened. ‘We are not . . . as we were. We sleep and . . . do not sleep. We are . . .’
The emphasis of the last brief phrase eluded Andawyr, but he ignored the temptation to pursue it.
‘Understand . . .’
Then he was earth and water and air. Strong yet weak. Resolute yet fearful. Complete but incomplete. Lost. Searching.
Alone they were not enough. That thought was vivid. All could be lost. The sudden pain was unbearable. Life must fight where life was assailed.
‘Ethriss.’ A cry, a plea? A recognition?
For the merest instant, his mind, the mind of the Cadwanol, touched a stirring form. But it was bound. Hidden? He sought it again, but it was gone.
Then the voices too were gone. They would not return. Lingering in the distant echoes of their passing was the sense of their need. Ethriss had to be found.
* * * *
That evening, Andawyr and a few of the senior brothers sat in the Council Chamber. They had agreed before the attempt to wake the Guardians that they should meet and discuss whatever had been its outcome. However, while conscientious habit had brought them there, a meditative silence pervaded the room. The torches had been extinguished, and bright moonlight washed in through the window openings.
Andawyr stared out at the Riddin countryside, its familiar outlines subtly changed in the moonlight. An occasional night bird flew black across the tinted sky, to disappear into the darkness.
In the silence following the enigmatic passage of the Guardians, Andawyr had slowly guided the Cadwanwr back to the solid reality of the Work Hall until each was himself again. No one had spoken as the companionable silence of gathered friends gradually replaced the deep silence of their strange and unique communion. Then, without command, the gathering had quietly broken up.
Even now, so many hours later, the spoken voice seemed a coarse, inadequate means of communication.
That the joining of the minds of the Order had been a success was beyond doubt. A success the like of which had never before been achieved by the Order. But the contact with the Guardians had been strange and disturbing. What had they expected? Andawyr thought. The proud, armoured figures of children’s tales? The icy disdain of creatures too far above humankind to concern themselves further? He did not know. But he had not expected the faint, almost whispering voices with their enigmatic words. Nor had he expected the strange ambiguities he had sensed. Least of all had he expected to be suddenly as they were, sharing their vision and their concerns, and worst of all, sharing their doubts and fears.
Yet he had shared. They had allowed it. Indeed they had brought it about, for he couldn’t have achieved it. It had been thrust upon him. They had deemed it necessary that the Cadwanol understand something. Now each Cadwanwr must ponder what that was.
‘What did it mean, Andawyr?’ A soft voice echoed Andawyr’s thoughts. It was Oslang’s. Andawyr smiled in the moonlit darkness. Traces of the joining lingered still. Looking round he saw that some of the others were smiling too.
‘It means that we’re wiser than we were,’ Andawyr replied. ‘We’ve reached the Guardians, and they us. It was perhaps foolish to imagine that we could talk with them as if they were . . . ordinary people. But for all the strangeness of their words we know now that they live, my friends. They live. And we know that they, like we, search for Ethriss. We have allies that we knew nothing of.’ He paused. ‘But . . .’
‘Put your faith in the Guardians, but keep your sword sharp,’ Ryath said.
Andawyr chuckled. ‘A Fyordyn expression I think,’ he said. ‘But apt. We’ve sought for guidance and it wasn’t what we expected, but we needn’t concern ourselves too much about that. It was guidance nonetheless and the lessons of today’s work may be years in coming.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘They may serve a purpose too subtle for our poor understanding. We shouldn’t forget that we’re their servants, not they ours.’ Gently he slapped his hands together. ‘The lessons of history, however, we know already. Tomorrow some of us go back out into the world, to listen and learn and teach.’
‘And to search for this man, Hawklan?’ someone said.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Above all to search for him. He is Ethriss as I live. And he is vulnerable.’
He paused. ‘He must be found, or we’re all lost.’
Chapter 17
Despite his immediate concern about the long journey to Anderras Darion which lay ahead, and his continuing concern about Hawklan, Isloman found the first part of the trek relaxing and pleasant.
There being no great urgency in their errand, the party was able to travel at a steady and unhurried pace for several days as they moved generally southwards, leaving Eldric’s estate and passing through Arinndier’s, Hreldar’s and finally Darek’s.
Maintaining the quiet secrecy of their departure from Eldric’s, they travelled through the hilly grasslands that skirted the mountains, in preference to taking a somewhat easier route through the more fertile and populous plains below. They had no difficulty in avoiding such few people as worked this harsher terrain.
Only as they were about to move from Hreldar’s estate to Darek’s did they encounter any difficulty when, passing through a forest, a group of Hreldar’s High Guards emerged suddenly and surrounded them.
‘Whoops,’ said Gavor, waking with a start.
The Guards had a driven and stern look about them and would have detained the group had not Isloman eventually shown them the document that Eldric had provided for such contingencies. It did not identify them, but it gave them unequivocal right of way and was signed by all four Lords. Suspiciously, the High Guards parted to let them through, but kept them in sight until they were well clear of Hreldar’s estate.
As they rode away, Tirke gave voice. ‘They’d no right to stop ordinary travellers like that,’ he blustered. ‘It’s disgraceful. Lord Eldric would never have allowed such a thing. When we get back I’ll . . .’
Dacu scowled. ‘Shut up, Tirke,’ he said angrily. ‘Until you’ve something worthwhile to say.’
The young man looked set for an equally harsh response, but seeing the expression on Dacu’s face he thought better of it and dropped back a little way sulkily.
‘You seem upset
,’ Isloman said to Dacu after a while.
Dacu looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I am, in a way. I was just thinking. Hreldar’s High Guard used to be a fine troop once, then he turned them into virtually a purely ceremonial group. Quite a lot of Lords did actually . . . some kind of reaction after the Morlider War we thought at the time.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Now we can lay it all at Dan-Tor’s feet, can’t we? Anyway, we used to have some fun laughing at their fancy liveries and silly drill displays whenever they appeared at the tournaments, but now . . .’ He shrugged unhappily.
‘They’ve changed a little?’ Isloman suggested.
Dacu nodded. ‘They’ve changed a lot,’ he said. ‘And it’s sad really. On the whole I’d rather have them as objects of mild entertainment than like that.’ He inclined his head towards the now distant forest where the encounter had occurred.
Dacu’s tone brought an old memory back to Isloman. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve not seen people looking like that since the height of the War. They looked very grim . . . weary inside.’
‘Over-training,’ Dacu said unequivocally, his face concerned. ‘Just another reaction, I suppose. Too far one way, then too far the other. Balance is a difficult thing.’
Isloman agreed with this diagnosis, but both men knew that they could do nothing about it and that little was to be gained by fretting over the idea. ‘It’ll settle down,’ Isloman said reassuringly, then in an attempt to draw Dacu from his passing melancholy he appealed to his professional judgement. ‘Mind you, they were quite impressive.’
The device worked. Dacu pursed his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said, relaxing. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Not bad,’ said Gavor, mockingly. ‘You never even saw them coming, dear boy.’
Dacu eyed the bird narrowly. He was about to make the excuse that they weren’t actually in enemy territory when he caught the amusement in Isloman’s face.
‘Yes, all right. I’ll admit that,’ he said. ‘And they hedged us in very neatly. To be honest, I’d never have thought that Hreldar’s bunch could have been made so capable so quickly. It was a commendable effort. Still,’ he added critically, ‘they should’ve had their archers ready in case we made a dash for it.’
Gavor yawned disparagingly. ‘Do you want me to have a look around?’ he asked, condescendingly.
‘No thank you, Gavor,’ Dacu replied, courteously, but with an ironic edge in his voice. ‘You husband what’s left of your flagging energies for the mountains, old fellow.’
Gavor, who was indeed beginning to nod again, opened one eye and examined him narrowly. ‘It’s no trouble, dear boy,’ he said menacingly through his closed beak.
Dacu chuckled.
However, Isloman noted, Dacu became noticeably more alert as they moved through Darek’s estate.
‘Don’t worry,’ Isloman said, patting his pouch. ‘We’ve got Lord Eldric’s pass, and we’re still among friends, aren’t we?’
Dacu looked straight at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But we – I – made a mistake in that forest. I should’ve seen them coming. We’ll have to sharpen up. There’s no reason to think Dan-Tor will have men out looking for us in the mountains but I’d rather our safety rested on our wits than a piece of paper. It’s unlikely to impress a Mathidrin patrol, is it?’
Isloman concurred. The Goraidin was correct. Should they have to fight or flee, he was burdened with Hawklan, and Tirke was of unknown and slightly suspect mettle. Eldric’s last comment about the young man had been equivocal. ‘He’s a good enough soldier, and true enough deep down, I’m sure. He’s quietened down a bit these last few months and been a great help to Jal, but . . .’ His nose wrinkled uncertainly. ‘He needs some rough edges knocking off yet. See what you can do on the way.’
Avoidance would thus have to dominate their progress. True, Gavor would be invaluable, but it had become an unofficial rule among the Goraidin that, except in emergencies, he should be used only for confirmation of their own observations.
‘Where will we be when you leave?’ Yatsu had asked some time ago. ‘Lost, Isloman. Lost, if we start relying on Gavor for every little observation. We’re all slow enough after all these years, without voluntarily neglecting our basic skills.’ Isloman could only agree with this sentiment although Gavor subsequently began to affect an injured disdain from time to time.
Eventually the group came to the extreme south of Darek’s estate, where, in a pre-arranged cache, they found two pack horses and extensive supplies. Dacu looked at the supplies appreciatively. ‘These should see us through the mountains, provided winter doesn’t come too early,’ was his immediate reaction. However he began to check through them meticulously.
Gavor ‘helped’. As Dacu and Isloman spread the supplies out on the ground, he walked proprietorially among them, turning over for detailed scrutiny such packages and boxes as took his fancy, and wantonly discarding the less interesting ones.
Every so often he would find something of special interest and would execute a small hopping dance, saying, ‘Ah, party time.’
Finally he alighted on Dacu’s head, nodding and muttering knowingly as the Goraidin checked each item for the last time. Dacu glanced at Isloman, but the carver shrugged off any responsibility for the bird. In the end Dacu reached up to dislodge him, only to receive a sharp blow on the back of his hand for his pains.
‘Careful, dear boy. You’re making me lose count,’ came the reproach.
When finally the supplies were packed to Dacu’s, and Gavor’s, satisfaction, Dacu walked to the top of a nearby rise and looked up at the peaks dominating their position. Directly south but still high above them lay the entrance to the pass that would set them on their way to Orthlund.
He stood for a long time in silence, then he looked at the sky, and sniffed the air. Isloman joined him. ‘Any problem?’ he asked.
The Goraidin shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing special.’ He paused. ‘There’s a chilliness about, though. I think we’ll trim our rations. Just in case.’
Isloman looked at him quizzically. Sunlight fell warm on his face and bare arms and etched the mountain peaks sharp and clear against a blue sky. It was a splendid summer day with no hint of winter that he could feel. Yet who was he to dispute with this seasoned warrior travelling in his own land?
‘Whatever you say,’ he said. ‘It’ll do no harm.’ He patted his stomach. ‘We’ve been living well enough of late.’ Then, nodding towards the mountains, he said, ‘Shall we go? We may as well make the most of this weather while we can, and I’ll wager it’ll take us a large part of the day just to reach that valley.’
His estimate was almost correct and the evening found them camping only a little way into the valley after having spent the day toiling steadily up the long slope that led to its entrance.
As he had done on all other evenings, Dacu spread out his map and, in the gentle torchlight, they worked out where they should travel the following day. Isloman knew that Dacu was familiar with the earlier part of the route and that this was largely for the benefit of Tirke. He was impressed by Dacu’s subtle patience. As with most things associated with the Goraidin, though, he found it was double-edged.
‘The lad’s unsure,’ Dacu said to Isloman sympathetically, as they continued their journey the following day. ‘And he’s a long way from his own fellows. He’s bound to be a bit spiky. It’s important he learns as much as we can teach him on this trip.’ Then, without any change in tone, came the harsh realism. ‘Besides, if we get snow-bound we’ll need no passengers.’
He was less impressed by Dacu’s insistence that he and Tirke should keep their own journals of their daily travels. ‘This is vital,’ Dacu said, before any protests could be raised. ‘It’ll sharpen your powers of observation, and the three books together will be invaluable to any . . . future travellers.’
Isloman noted the hesitation. ‘Such as an army?’ he asked.
‘Such as an army,’ Dacu confirmed, offeri
ng him a blank book. ‘Or anyone who finds our bodies,’ he added, with a laugh.
As each day passed, the terrain became more difficult and they rose steadily higher and higher. For increasingly longer periods, Dacu decided that they should walk rather than ride.
As they rose, the wind became stronger and more persistent and, when it shone, the sun less warm. Isloman became anxious about Hawklan. ‘It’s difficult to judge whether he’s hot or cold,’ he said, placing his hand on Hawklan’s forehead. ‘We’re moving and keeping warm, but he’s doing nothing. And this wind’s deceptive.’
Dacu examined Hawklan similarly. ‘He’s unchanged,’ was his conclusion. ‘Don’t fret, Isloman. if Hylland’s never seen anyone like this, then no one has. I think if he was going to die it would’ve happened at the Palace gate or on your way to Eldric’s. I doubt a little heat or cold is going to injure him.’
Isloman nodded his head, but seemed doubtful. ‘Don’t fret,’ Dacu repeated, earnestly. ‘You’re probably too close to him to see clearly.’ He blew out a noisy breath. ‘I haven’t mentioned this to anyone because . . . well, because it’s of no real value in terms of nursing him, but every time I look at him, my guts tell me he’s protecting himself in some way.’
He leaned forward and looked into Hawklan’s face. ‘I know I’ve said this before, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you were listening properly then, and you might be now. Thanks again for fixing my shoulder. It’s fine now, and you taught me a lot.’ He rotated his shoulder to demonstrate the point. ‘If it’s humanly possible, we’ll get you back to your home, you know that, don’t you? You can come back to us when you feel your friends and your own castle walls around you.’
Isloman listened in silence.
The next day, they came upon a broad valley, sunlit and sheltered. Across its floor, swathes of tiny white and yellow flowers decorated a soft springy turf. Wisps of grey cloud, like venerable, blowing manes, stretched out from the peaks of the mountains that shouldered into one another on either side to keep out the searching wind.