by Roger Taylor
Pivotal.
The word lurched Andawyr back into his deeper concerns. Although clarity was being denied him in these he had throughout an impression of movement, of turning, of innumerable spiralling ways coming together, joining. He trusted such instincts. Many times, vague though they were, they had pointed him in a direction that had subsequently proved fruitful. They were not enough in themselves to lead to conclusions but he knew that nothing else would be forthcoming. His walk through the hills had been helpful after all.
He would follow this instinct. He would go and see Hawklan. At the least, it would be good to see him again. And good to see Anderras Darion again too. The prospect brought him to his feet. There was a considerable interchange of visitors between Anderras Darion and the Cadwanol but somehow there had always been something here that needed his immediate attention whenever he had thought about returning there himself.
‘Always allowing the urgent to displace the important,’ he said, repeating the reproach he frequently gave to others. Well, not this time. This time he would go and see his old friend – and talk – and talk – and talk. And prowl around that marvellous old citadel.
He nodded to himself, well satisfied.
Then, suddenly, he started, alarmed.
Something had touched him – touched his mind. Something feather-light and cautious – but strange . . . and disturbingly feral.
There were no dangers around here, a faint breath of reason whispered to him. Not of any kind. But his older senses gave the assurance the lie. And it was a very alert leader of the Cadwanol who slowly turned round to see silhouetted on an outcrop above him, and watching him intently, a large grey wolf.
Chapter 2
Andawyr started violently and only just managed to prevent himself from lashing out with the Power to defend himself. The effort left him breathing heavily but with icy control.
Too quick, he reproached himself savagely. Too quick to reach for the easy way. Angrily he forced reason to take control of his fear. The animal had not menaced him, he told himself slowly. Nor was it likely to. There was plenty of food around here so it could not be hungry, and, besides, wolves were far from being stupid; they rarely attacked people. It was probably as startled as he was.
Nevertheless, it was still watching him and it had not moved. And its hackles were raised, albeit only slightly.
Probably in response to his own initial reaction, Andawyr decided uneasily. Either that, or it was sensing his own anger at himself. He would have to take the initiative.
He made himself relax. Then, briefly, he met the animal’s gaze and turned his head away slowly and deliberately.
As he did so, he found himself looking into the eyes of another wolf, crouching low on the ground barely five paces from him. Despite the fact that he was counselling himself to move carefully and slowly, Andawyr jumped back. The wolf did not move.
‘Very thoughtful, old man. A nice gesture.’
The voice filled Andawyr’s head, further unbalancing him and making him stagger backwards. Still the watching wolf did not move, though it continued to stare at him fixedly.
‘Don’t be alarmed. We didn’t mean to startle you.’
There was reassurance in the voice, but it resonated with strange, wild overtones unlike anything Andawyr had ever heard. It took him a moment to realize that he was not actually hearing it, but that it was really in his mind. He had no time to ponder this discovery.
‘But you’re unusual, aren’t you? We felt you some way away, and there was a control, a refinement, in your manner that’s rare in humans. We thought we’d see who it was.’
Was there a hint of mockery in the words?
Andawyr’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he cast a quick glance at each of the wolves in turn. What was happening here? Carefully he tested his responses. It was deep in the nature of his training to see things as they were, not as others or perhaps his own errant mind might wish them to appear. It occurred to him that perhaps one of his colleagues was playing a joke on him – they were not above such antics from time to time when life in the Cadwanen became boring or fraught. But how could they be doing this? There was no hint of the Power being used and even he had not known where he was going to walk when he set out. It was not a prank. And he was definitely not hallucinating. The voice in his head was unequivocally real. It left him with a bizarre conclusion. Somehow these creatures were talking to him!
‘Creatures, indeed. How churlish.’
Mockery, without a doubt.
‘Wh – what are you? Who are you?’ Andawyr stammered, his voice sounding harsh and awkward in his own ears.
Surprise washed over him. ‘You are a Cadwanwr, aren’t you?’ came the reply, full of sudden realization and no small amount of excitement. ‘Just wait there a moment.’
And, in a flurry of grey urgency, both wolves were gone. Andawyr shook his head as if to reassure himself that, notwithstanding his vaunted clarity of vision, what he had just seen and ‘heard’ had actually happened. It helped him that he could hear occasional barking in the distance.
Wolves that spoke directly into his mind! He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand. But he had heard what he had heard. Then the memory of Hawklan returned to him again. Hawklan could both hear and speak to most animals. But then, Hawklan was Hawklan and an exception to many rules.
He gave a self-deprecating shrug. He was still who he was, leader of the Cadwanol, much respected counsellor to the wise, learned in the ways of the Power, blah blah – and he couldn’t hear or speak to animals. Nor did he have any idea how Hawklan did, despite lengthy discussions with him.
All of which left him no alternative but to investigate the matter.
Straightening his scruffy grey robe Andawyr set off quickly up the steep grassy bank in the direction the second wolf had taken. Briefly it occurred to him that not being unreasonably afraid of wolves was one thing, chasing after them quite another, but the thought was lost amid the curiosity that was now powering him forward. He stood for a moment on the rocky outcrop that the first wolf had chosen for a vantage and looked down at where he had been sitting.
Crafty devils, he thought. Pack hunters. If they had been inclined to attack him he would have had precious little chance. Even though he had sensed the one above him, the other could have seized him effortlessly. Tactics, tactics, he mused. And where was your awareness, your sensitivity to the nuances of your surroundings, great leader? As scattered and disordered as that damned stream, he concluded, with a scowl. He stooped down to examine the immediate terrain.
A dark stain of dampness on a small stone showed that it had been turned over recently and some scuffing of the grass bounding the merging rock indicated which way the animals had gone. It was not up the hill but along the contour towards the shoulder of the mountain to his right. Andawyr sniffed thoughtfully and massaged his squat nose. A little caution managed to force its way into his thoughts again.
Chasing wolves across the mountain. Is this a good idea?
He rationalized. They’d run away once, they’d probably run away again. Besides, he had the Power if he really needed it, and he wasn’t going to be taken unawares again. And why not go this way, anyway? It was still early, the weather promised to be marvellous for the rest of the day, and while this was not the way he had originally intended to go, it was as good as any. He quickly ran mentally through a route back to the Cadwanen to confirm to himself that he was not being recklessly impulsive, then he dismissed the caution completely and strode off towards the distant skyline.
Questions bubbled through him, matching the rhythm of his steps. These animals had touched his mind! How could that be? Had he suddenly, unknowingly acquired Hawklan’s gift? Was it some inadvertent consequence of his latest studies into the Power? And if so, would there be others? And would they all be so benign? It was not a particularly welcome idea. He stopped the self-interrogation abruptly. It was going nowhere and it was serving only to cloud his thoughts. He went ov
er what had happened again, capturing his reactions after the strange first touch he had felt. He had sensed nothing new in himself and such a change in his ability could not have happened without some prior indication even if it only became apparent in retrospect. And it did not. There was nothing. The contact – the voice – had come from outside. It had definitely been initiated by the wolves; or at least by one of them.
Then he remembered their parting remark.
‘Just wait there a moment.’
What had that meant?
Perhaps they’ve gone for their friends, declared part of him malevolently. He ignored it. But he stopped. As he did so, he realized he had been walking too quickly, and that a combination of the sun and his excitement had conspired to make him feel unpleasantly warm.
Calm down, he instructed himself, flapping his robe indecorously. They were running when they left, you’re not going to catch them unless they’ve stopped.
He took a drink from his water bottle. He had filled it at the stream and the water was still very cold.
‘Simple pleasures,’ he reminded himself with a chuckle as he wiped some across his face. ‘But what about complicated ones – like talking wolves? Just as good!’ And he was off again, his pace unchanged.
As he rounded the broad shoulder of the hill a cool breeze greeted him. It was drifting up from the shallow valley now spread out before him. Green and lush, the valley was hemmed protectively by rugged peaks and ridges, bright and clear in the sunlight. Cattle and sheep were reduced to tiny dots by the distance and the small orderliness of a few cultivated fields marked some of the farms that served the Cadwanen.
‘You really should get out more often, Andawyr,’ he said as he took in the sight.
Then he felt again the soft touch in his mind that had heralded the arrival of the wolves. There was the same wildness about it and, though it carried no menace, it nevertheless startled him. He looked around anxiously, screwing up his eyes to peer through the brightness. Almost immediately, he saw horses in the distance. Three riders and a pack horse, he judged after a moment.
And two dogs . . .?
But that question was set aside by others. From the direction the riders were moving in, it seemed they had dropped down from a col between two all-too-familiar peaks. Andawyr frowned. That meant that at some point they must have travelled along, or at least crossed, the bleak Pass of Elewart. The thought brought a momentary darkness to him. Even on a day like this, the Pass of Elewart was barren and inhospitable. The only people who travelled it were those who had to, and they were mainly Cadwanwr and others who studied the land of Narsindal to the north. And, whatever else they were, these riders did not look like Cadwanwr.
They were heading directly towards him, the dogs, if dogs they were, trotting ahead of them. He half expected to hear the wolf’s voice ringing through his head again. But there was nothing other than the soft wind-carried sounds of the valley. He sat down on a rock and waited.
The two ‘dogs’ were indeed the wolves, he decided as the small group drew nearer. Strange companions for men, he thought. So wild, so shy, so free. Not tame, surely? No one could tame a wolf. Train it, perhaps, but never tame.
Other impressions began to displace his thoughts about the wolves and he leaned forward intently as if that might bring the riders closer. Then he stood up and began walking towards them, every now and then breaking into a little run. In their turn the riders urged their horses to the trot.
‘It is you,’ Andawyr cried out as they reined in alongside him. The first two riders dismounted excitedly. ‘Yatsu, Jaldaric . . .’ Andawyr extended his arms wide as if to encompass the entire group, horses and all. His face was beaming and his mouth for some time was shaping unvoiced greetings as he embraced each of the men in turn.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he managed eventually. ‘Where have you been? What have you been doing? What . . .’ His voice fell. ‘What in the name of all that’s merciful are you doing coming back this way? Did you come through the Pass?’
‘We crossed it,’ said the elder of the two. ‘We didn’t mean to return this way, but . . .’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’
Andawyr made a gesture that indicated they had all the time in the world, then impatiently seized the hand of the second rider. Taller and younger than his companion, he had fair, curly hair and a round face which, for all it was weather-worn and had lines of strain about it beyond his age, had also an unexpected hint of innocence.
‘Jaldaric. You’re getting more like your father every day,’ Andawyr advised him, as much for want of something to say as anything else. He clapped his hands excitedly, then put his arms around both of them again. Yatsu disentangled himself and indicated the third rider, who was still mounted.
Andawyr looked up at him. In age, he was perhaps between his two companions but, though he sat straight and upright, he had the aura of someone much older. And he had black-irised eyes that returned Andawyr’s gaze disconcertingly.
‘This is Antyr,’ Yatsu said. ‘A valued friend. He’s been travelling with us and I think, like us, he’d value some simple hospitality – or at least a soft bed.’
Antyr dismounted and offered his hand to Andawyr who clasped it with both of his own. ‘Welcome to Riddin, Antyr, valued friend of Yatsu and Jaldaric. Welcome to the Cadwanen and to whatever hospitality we can offer you.’
‘Thank you,’ Antyr replied, bowing slightly.
‘Remarkable.’
The voice filled Andawyr’s head causing him to look around quickly. The two wolves moved to his side and began sniffing him energetically. He decided to stand very still for a little while.
‘This is Tarrian and this is his brother, Grayle,’ Antyr said, touching the heads of the wolves gently as if to restrain them. ‘Grayle doesn’t say much, and Tarrian usually says too much. They’re my Earth Holders, my Companions. They’re also very impolite,’ he added sharply, looking down at them. The two wolves ignored the rebuke and continued sniffing.
Questions lit Andawyr’s face.
‘We’ll explain it to you later,’ Yatsu said, not without some amusement. ‘Or at least Antyr will try. But I have to warn you, he’s not managed to make either of us understand so far.’
The wolves finally retreated. Andawyr pointed at them and then lifted his hand to his head vaguely as he looked inquiringly at Antyr. ‘Did one of them actually . . . say something?’
‘Later,’ Yatsu said. ‘Antyr’s story’s even longer than our journey. But he’s come with us because he needs help and guidance. He’s special – very special – and he needs to speak to you – or Hawklan – or both.’
* * * *
The village that served most of the daily needs of the Cadwanol nestled untidily against a sheer rock face. Some way to the west of it was a cave entrance which, together with the towering height of the cliff, made the buildings seem little more than children’s toys.
‘It’s enormous,’ Antyr said softly, as though the cavernous maw might echo his newcomer’s amazement all over the village.
Andawyr, momentarily preoccupied, started slightly, then gave the cave a perfunctory glance before agreeing offhandedly, ‘Oh . . . yes.’
Antyr caught his companions exchanging a knowing glance.
‘You’ve been telling me what an amazing place the Cadwanen is for long enough,’ he said, with a note of challenge in his voice which told Andawyr that, although Antyr was the stranger, the three men were close friends.
‘It is, it is,’ Yatsu and Jaldaric said, almost simultaneously and with heavy innocence.
‘They’re having a small joke at your expense,’ Andawyr intruded, adding tartly, ‘too long alone in the mountains, probably,’ before speaking again to Antyr. ‘That’s not the real entrance to the caves. We just let people – travellers, passing students – think it is.’ He wrinkled his nose unhappily. ‘We were founded in bad times and secrecy is still important to certain aspects of our work. Regretfully.’
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As they drew nearer, Antyr’s attention moved from the imposing presence of the cave to the houses and cottages that were scattered seemingly almost at random over the tumbled and rocky terrain that marked the foot of the cliff. Steep pitched roofs, intricately patterned with green and blue slates, swept down almost to ground level.
As they rode along the winding main street, Andawyr acknowledged the occasional greeting, but although Tarrian and Grayle attracted some long glances, it seemed to Antyr that he and his companions were being wilfully ignored.
Eventually they arrived at a building set hard against the cliff face. A couple of villagers appeared from somewhere and dragged open two large wooden doors. Andawyr nodded his thanks and motioned the others to follow him as he dismounted and walked into the building.
It took Antyr’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the comparative darkness as the doors closed behind them, but the characteristic smell, both fresh and musty, told him that it was a barn. It was tall and airy with a depleted haystack occupying one side while down the other were stalls for horses, and a hanging clutter of rakes, pitchforks and other farming paraphernalia.
As the four men unsaddled and tended their horses, Tarrian and Grayle scurried about, examining the place minutely.
‘Well, well.’
Tarrian’s voice filled Antyr’s mind. It had that emphasis which told him the wolf was speaking to him alone.
‘This is an unusual place.’
‘It looks like any other barn to me,’ Antyr remarked, in like vein. ‘And if Andawyr can really hear you, you can speak to him as well if you wish.’
‘No, not yet. It unsettles him,’ Tarrian replied. ‘He’s unusual, as well. I think we’re going to like it here. It has a distinctly civilized feel to it.’