by Roger Taylor
Oslang adopted a martyred expression and dragged his chair over to the bed. ‘You’d better go through it in detail, then,’ he said, flopping into the chair ungraciously.
Andawyr did not reply immediately. He was staring vaguely into the distance. ‘It was an odd dream from the start,’ he began eventually. ‘I felt Antyr there.’ He twisted round to look at the Dream Finder. ‘Fascinating. We really must go into how . . .’
Oslang cleared his throat noisily. Andawyr gave him a sidelong look and returned to his recollection.
‘An odd dream, as I said. I was looking at my reflection in a lake – and the mountains. Usche and Ar-Billan were there, though they didn’t say anything – or do anything. They just seemed to be . . . there . . . waiting. Then there were storm clouds, and I was walking through the corridors here, in the middle of a howling blizzard – snow everywhere. All the Beacons were signalling an assault but it didn’t matter – it was only a slight one – I knew that even though I didn’t know what it was. And Hawklan was there.’ He looked at Oslang. ‘With the Sword – Ethriss’s sword. For some reason I wasn’t surprised to see it again. I reached out to touch it, then . . .’ He threw his arms up explosively.
‘That’s what happened,’ Antyr confirmed. ‘It was a quite ordinary dream. I don’t know if the figure was Hawklan but Andawyr certainly thought it was. And, despite what happened, there was no element of nightmare in it; no underlying hint of real terror. The only thing unusual was that the control I suspect he normally has in his dreams wasn’t there. He was letting events take their own course.’
‘Or they were taking me,’ Andawyr said. ‘It is odd, that, I must admit. Normally, as you say, I’m fully in command of events, but not this time. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it certainly wasn’t usual. Perhaps it was just because you were there.’
‘Possibly, but you made no conscious decision about it.’
Andawyr pulled a wry face and fiddled with his nose.
‘And you weren’t being wholly truthful about the sword,’ Antyr went on. He was searching for words. ‘Something about it drew you. So many strange feelings. Feelings I’ve never known myself and couldn’t begin to explain. Tarrian?’
‘He’s a Mynedarion,’ came the terse reply.
‘It seems they may all be around here,’ Antyr said. ‘But at least they’re benign.’
‘Maybe, but that’s where your answer lies. And in that sword.’
Antyr let out a noisy breath. He could sense that Tarrian and Grayle were talking to each other beyond his awareness. They invariably did after they had been in the dreamways and he knew from past experience that nothing was to be gained by badgering them. Tarrian would have said all he wanted to say for the moment and he could do no other than follow his suggestion.
‘Tell me about this sword,’ he said to Andawyr.
Chapter 8
‘Yes, the sword,’ Andawyr mused. ‘Strange I should think of that after all this time.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Using my dreams to fulfil my wishes, that’s all.’
‘It’s very special, then?’ Antyr asked.
‘Oh yes. Very special. I don’t have a great many regrets in my life, but one of them is that I didn’t take the opportunity to study it further while it was here.’ Andawyr shrugged. ‘Still, we weren’t then what we are now, we’d probably not have learned much from it. Not to mention the fact that we’d a good many other things to occupy us at the time.’ He became dismissive. ‘It’s probably come to mind because I’ve been thinking about Hawklan so much today. I can’t see that it’s of any particular relevance to what happened.’
‘Tarrian thinks it is, and if you feel at all reluctant to talk about it then that’s even more reason why we should.’
A spasm of irritation passed over Andawyr’s face, though whether in annoyance at himself or at his interrogator, Antyr could not hazard.
‘You’re right,’ he said after an uncomfortable pause which he ended by fiddling with his pillow again. ‘It’s hard to know what to say about it. It was Hawklan’s sword when he fought in one of the great battles of the First Coming.’ His hand was reaching out to forestall Antyr’s startled question even before he had finished speaking. ‘There’s no point in asking,’ he said. ‘We’ve no idea how Hawklan – or some aspect of him – could be both in that time and here with us now. No idea at all. Nor has he. But it is so. Indisputably so, as far as we can tell. There are many mysteries from that time. Although I’ll admit that could well be the greatest.’ He stopped abruptly as the difficulties of this long-debated problem threatened to rehearse themselves again, then he pressed on quickly. ‘For now, let’s concentrate on our own particular mystery. As I said, the sword was, and is again, Hawklan’s, though after he was lost in that awful battle Ethriss took it for his own and reforged it. Hawklan found it this time in the Armoury of Anderras Darion. Or rather, it found him. It literally fell at his feet from a heap of weapons. Drawn to him, almost. No one knew what it was at the time, still less how it came to be there. When we realized what it was, the presumption was that Ethriss had left it there – he went unarmed to the Last Battle, definitely – but no one really knows.’
Antyr’s mind was full of questions about Hawklan but Andawyr’s manner had indicated unequivocally that he did not wish to pursue that subject. He forced his attention back to the dream.
‘So this sword is special because of its association with Ethriss – it’s a symbol of former victory?’ he posited. ‘A rallying point, like a battle flag.’
‘No,’ Andawyr said simply. ‘It’s special because it’s special. In its own right. It’s a very unusual artefact. It’s something like . . . a focus . . . a concentration of the Power itself. It’s not easy to explain. In fact, it’s not possible to explain.’ He held up two clenched and quivering fists like a petulant schoolboy. ‘I just wish I could have hold of it again.’
‘What happened to it?’
The clenched fists wilted. Andawyr looked down at them sadly. ‘Hawklan dropped it into Lake Kedrieth when Sumeral confronted him. Dropped it.’ There was reproach in his voice.
‘Hardly surprising under the circumstances,’ Oslang said sternly, offering a reproach of his own.
Andawyr recanted hastily. ‘No, of course not. Still . . .’ His face became thoughtful. ‘He only ever spoke about that time once – to me, anyway. I remember him saying it fell and it fell, through the darkness, until it landed with a great ringing sound. I’ve no idea why I didn’t ask him what he meant.’
‘As I recall you and the others telling me, there were a lot of strange noises at the time, to put it mildly,’ Oslang said. ‘What with Sumeral’s passing and Derras Ustramel being destroyed.’
‘True,’ Andawyr conceded. ‘But this was before all that. And he was quite clear about it. It fell and it fell through the darkness until it landed with a great ringing sound. What a strange statement. It didn’t just splash into the Lake as it fell off the causeway. More mysteries. And why have I hardly bothered to think about it since?’
‘You have,’ Oslang retorted sourly. ‘Or have you forgotten delegating to me the job of organizing those High Guards to search for it?’ He turned to Antyr as though to an ally of long standing. ‘Weeks we were there. In the very bowels of Narsindal.’ He shivered massively. ‘It’s a wonder I didn’t throw all this up and go back to the family farm afterwards, I can tell you. As for those poor young men, doing their damnedest – dredging, trawling, even diving into that awful lake – diving, for pity’s sake. Some of them were so ill. You can’t imagine how dreadful it was. Blighted doesn’t begin to describe the place. Do you know . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ Andawyr intervened heatedly. ‘I do recall it. And I also recall apologizing for it at great length thereafter. And several times.’ The two men eyed one another silently until Andawyr established a truce with a final schoolboy flourish. ‘Even so, I still wish I had the sword now. We must make a point of talking to Hawklan about it when we get to Anderras Darion.�
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‘All of which isn’t bringing us any nearer to finding out what happened in your dream,’ Antyr said as tactfully as he could, in case Oslang decided to continue the old spat. ‘Whatever became of the sword, it is definitely lost?’ he inquired of them both.
Cursory nods confirmed his conclusion, though both men seemed to be preoccupied.
‘Then I am, too,’ Antyr declared. ‘Although I have the impression that this weapon’s more important to you than you’re prepared to concede at the moment, whether you know it or not. That might perhaps account for the unusual sensations I experienced as you made to touch it, though that doesn’t feel like an adequate explanation. And it still doesn’t account for the sudden danger.’
He glanced towards the symbols glowing softly on the panel by the door. ‘If that . . . Beacon thing . . . that machine, whatever it is, truly isn’t faulty, then why did it do what it did? And why were you surprised that it had only set off a few others in the corridor?’ He addressed this last question to Oslang.
There was a long silence and Oslang’s tone was sober when he eventually spoke.
‘The Beacons aren’t machines, Antyr. At least, not as I imagine you’d normally conceive a machine. In many ways they’re more a great store of knowledge – our knowledge, accumulated over the years. They’re all linked together, continually testing for . . . inappropriate . . . uses of the Power throughout the Cadwanen. They don’t exactly think, but it’s almost as if they did, the way they check and double-check each other constantly to provide many overlapping and different layers of defence and protection. You have to understand that they were designed to protect us against an enemy of both great cunning and great ability and that they’re very sophisticated devices. More so now than ever before. What that one signalled was a threat of the first order – a serious and unexpected use – abuse – of the Power. For such a thing to happen under normal circumstances, we’d have expected a major incursion of some kind, with Warnings sounding all over the Cadwanen. To just activate spontaneously like that really makes no sense.’
There was another long silence. ‘You’re trying to tell me that what happened was actually impossible,’ Antyr offered tentatively.
‘Yes, damn it, he is,’ Andawyr said, this time unequivocally angry. He swung off the bed. ‘Quite impossible. Let’s get out of here, I need to think properly. Oslang, take Antyr to my study. I’ll join you there shortly when I’ve washed and changed.’
‘Do you want me?’ It was Yatsu.
Andawyr looked at him and his grim expression softened into a smile. ‘Ah, the ever-patient, ever-watching Goraidin. Our silent Beacon out in the world. Where would we be without you? I’d forgotten you were here, Yatsu, I’m sorry. Thanks for what you’ve done tonight. I suspect you saved lives, keeping Oslang in his seat and our vigilant Brothers out of the room. You’re welcome to join us if you wish, but it’ll just be endless talk. There’ll be no more “experiments” tonight, you can rest assured.’
Yatsu bowed. ‘You don’t think you’ll need me to keep you two apart?’ He nodded towards Oslang.
‘I have the feeling that Antyr can cope with that,’ Andawyr replied.
Yatsu smiled. ‘Then I’ll leave you. It’s been a long day.’
* * * *
Andawyr’s study was only a little way from his bedroom, but on the way to it Oslang and Antyr passed quite a few people apparently engaged on urgent, if discreet, errands. Though they received nothing but quiet, passing greetings, Antyr gained the distinct impression that they were attracting a great deal of attention.
Oslang gave him a weary look. ‘It’s going to be pandemonium tomorrow,’ he said. ‘One of the disadvantages of encouraging so many clever and irredeemably curious people to become even cleverer and more curious is that they do.’
His hangdog manner drew a laugh followed by an insincere apology from Antyr.
When they entered Andawyr’s study, lights came on to reveal a room that was markedly different from his bedroom. It bristled with quiet efficiency. Two walls were lined with simple, elegant shelves stacked with books and scrolls. All of these were set out in a neat and orderly fashion and were clearly labelled. They complemented several sets of drawers of various sizes that in their turn were also carefully labelled. A series of small tables served as satellites to a large one in the centre of the room, and there were two decorated panels that Antyr now knew to be mirror stone windows.
‘Different, isn’t it?’ Oslang said, correctly interpreting Antyr’s hesitation and his surprised expression.
‘It is indeed,’ Antyr replied.
Tarrian and Grayle pushed past them to make their own detailed examination of the room.
‘There is a reason for this,’ Oslang went on, confidentially. ‘When Andawyr says that tidiness isn’t his strong point, it really is a gross understatement.’ Oslang tapped his temple. ‘In here there are thoughts as sharp as crystals, lines of logic straighter than the horizon at sea, a childlike clarity of vision, and leaps of intuition for which the word inspired is also an understatement. But out here . . .’ He shook his head. ‘He’s a disaster. So this place is in the nature of a compromise. It’s his and, for the most part, his alone, but we . . .’ He tapped his chest. ‘Keep it – and the records of his work – tidy and in good order. It causes a little friction from time to time, but on the whole it works.’
‘Compromise?’ Antyr queried.
‘The compromise is that he lets us keep the place – and him – in some semblance of order and, in return, we feed him.’
‘Oh, that kind of a compromise,’ Antyr laughed, taken again by Oslang’s quietly acid manner. ‘I’m familiar with the idea. It’s what I would call doing as I’m told.’ This time Oslang laughed, a deep, restrained affair that nevertheless lit up his face. He ushered Antyr to a seat at the large table.
‘Speaking of which,’ Antyr finally voiced the question that had occurred to him several times since his first meeting with Andawyr. ‘Who does tell anyone what to do around here?’
Oslang gave him a puzzled look, obliging him to stumble on awkwardly.
‘There seems to be an almost total absence of formal authority here. Andawyr is described as the Leader, and you are the Under Leader, yet you wear no special clothes or insignia. Andawyr’s living quarters seem to be no different from anyone else’s, at least from the outside. He eats in a public refectory. You’re both spoken to by the likes of Ar-Billan and Usche – your juniors in every sense – as casually, as openly as . . .’ He paused.
‘As you and I are talking now?’ Oslang prompted. ‘As equals.’
‘Well, yes,’ Antyr agreed.
‘Does this disturb you?’
‘No,’ Antyr said without hesitation, though his tone gave the contrary answer. ‘Quite the opposite . . . I think. It’s just that I find it very unusual. Where I come from – particularly in the palaces of the rich and powerful – it’s quite the reverse. People know their places and everyone else’s and have due regard for them. Respect for those in authority is conspicuous.’
Oslang looked at him narrowly. ‘I think you mean that a show of respect to those with power is conspicuous, don’t you? That people behave in ways that best serve their own ends – be it survival against the arbitrary abuse of authority by others, or the gaining of that authority for themselves – ambition.’
‘I suppose I do,’ Antyr agreed reluctantly after some thought. ‘That’s quite often the case. But not always. There are some in authority who are both feared and quite genuinely respected.’
‘But only some.’
Antyr began to flounder. ‘Yes . . . but . . . I didn’t mean to criticize the way you do things here . . .’
Oslang smiled. ‘I’m just teasing you a little,’ he said. ‘Something of a risk with a guest, but my feeling was that you’d take it in good part.’ Before Antyr could in fact respond, Oslang edged his chair a little closer and became instructive. ‘I’m at far greater risk of sounding smug
when I tell you about us, because it was an interesting question. There is authority here, of course. A pecking order’s inevitable whenever there’s more than one person present – it’s the nature of the creatures we are. But, on the whole, it’s not a rigid thing and we manage to avoid the worst excesses of the pack.’ Tarrian’s ears went up. Abruptly, Oslang was earnest. ‘We were created by Ethriss to acquire knowledge – and perhaps wisdom – so that it could be brought to bear against a terrible enemy. But he also told us to go beyond – to search forever – because our greatest enemy will always be ignorance – ignorance of ourselves, ignorance of the world around us. So that’s what we do – what we’ve always done, with varying degrees of success. We accumulate knowledge both for its practical value and its own sake – for the beauty and wonder we find there. We set great faith in reason – in open inquiry – truth seeking – testing by both argument and experiment – testing ruthlessly.’
He raised a finger to forestall a question from Antyr. ‘And in this search we despise no source of knowledge. Insight comes from the strangest of places. Andawyr will listen to a stable-hand as keenly as he would to me or any of the other senior Brothers. Sometimes the least word can change a perspective completely – shine an unexpected light into the darkness – sometimes a darkness you didn’t even know was there. And anyone who joins us has to learn that from the outset. We try to minimize the more corrosive effects of our personal vanities with honesty and trust. Not that it’s always possible by any means – it’s no easy lesson to learn. We’re still pack animals at heart and more than a little fallible. But on the whole we aspire to be a community of self-sufficient, co-operating individuals and the authority that any of us holds has strong roots in both ability and general consent. It helps, of course, that it’s an exciting time with many new things happening and plenty for everyone to do both here and out in the world. I suppose what you might call the “government” of this place is both structured and unstructured. Structured in that each of us, of course, has specific responsibilities and must account for any failure to fulfil them. Unstructured in that everyone also accepts responsibility for the whole.’ He chuckled. ‘Andawyr, for example, will do more than just chat to stable-hands. If the stable needs cleaning and everyone else is better employed, he’ll clean it himself.’