by Roger Taylor
‘Charm, patience, wit, stalwart fidelity, to name but a few of my many sterling qualities. And I’m an excellent listener, as you know. Do be still, dear girl, you’re making me quite giddy.’ He jumped up on to her head and addressed the whole group. ‘Now, tell me everything you’ve been doing. Don’t miss a thing. I desperately need to be able to tell the Memsa something she doesn’t already know.’
‘No,’ Yengar said unequivocally. ‘We’ll be at Anderras Darion soon enough and we don’t want to be telling everything twice.’
‘Dear boy,’ Gavor purred coaxingly. ‘Just a little. Just enough to enable me to look skyward and say “I know” when she tells me something.’
Yengar pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Our Oath as Goraidin specifically forbids us from becoming involved in disputes between formidable old ladies and birds – of any ilk. It’s in the part about self-preservation.’
Gavor’s wooden leg began tapping an impatient tattoo on Yrain’s head.
‘Very droll. But I have to tell you it’s probably in your best interests to have a quick run through your Accounting, Goraidin. Just to get it clear in your mind. You’ll certainly have to go through it more than a few times when you get to Anderras Darion.’
Yengar eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘I told you. The place is alive with people asking questions.’
‘It was when we left, if you recall. We haven’t been gone that long. What can you expect with so many people travelling abroad these days? Besides, the Memsa needs only one telling, you know that. She’s a joy to account to.’ He signalled to Farnor and Marna. ‘Come on, you two. Mount up. Let’s be on our way. If we keep up a good pace, we can be there before midday tomorrow.’
‘Andawyr’s there as well,’ Gavor announced, extending his wings to steady himself as they set off, much to Yrain’s annoyance.
Yengar looked surprised but did not yield. ‘Excellent, that means we won’t have to trail up to the Cadwanen as well and we’ll all be able to get home much sooner – something I’m looking forward to after all that’s happened.’
‘Which was?’
‘Ah.’
‘Gavor, will you get off my damned head?’ Yrain ended the exchange. ‘You’re heavy.’
Gavor let out a conspicuous sigh as he jumped to avoid her flailing hand.
‘And don’t sit on mine,’ Jenna said fiercely. ‘Not after what you did last time.’
‘I did apologize, dear girl. It was the merest slip. These things happen when one’s engrossed. No personal criticism was intended. And it really doesn’t become you to be so unforgiving.’ Jenna’s expression, however, remained unremittingly baleful. Olvric held out his hand. Gavor bounced on to it, then up on to his head. As his broad wings spread out, it seemed to Farnor that Olvric was wearing an ancient battle helm. The sight made him catch his breath.
‘Can you still Hear the trees – and talk to them?’
Gavor was talking to him. Taken by surprise, Farnor had managed only a few inarticulate sounds before the raven was complaining to Yengar that he was, ‘Gaping again. It’s really most disconcerting.’
‘Yes, I can,’ Farnor finally said. ‘Though only faintly. We’re a long way from the Great Forest.’
‘The Great Forest is everywhere, really,’ Gavor said, leaning forward and staring at him. ‘Still, it’s remarkable. A rare gift indeed. Even amongst the Valderen. And yours is exceptional even by their standards, the Memsa tells me.’
‘So I believe. You know about the Valderen, the Great Forest?’
Gavor did not answer. ‘The will of the Great Forest goes back beyond any knowing,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Farnor retorted. ‘They were difficult to understand sometimes – most of the time actually. Very difficult. And it disorientated me badly when they touched on ancient things. It’s as if they remembered everything they ever knew, all the time. Almost as if time didn’t exist and everything was happening at once.’
‘Remarkable indeed,’ Gavor said softly, as if to himself. ‘You must keep them with you – touch them often. Don’t let their voice be drowned by the clamour that your own kind makes.’ They were off the bridge now and Gavor nodded significantly towards the clusters of trees that dotted the Orthlundyn landscape.
‘I will,’ Farnor promised, unexpectedly moved by the raven’s manner.
‘What’s Andawyr down for?’ Yengar asked with a casualness that did not prevent Gavor from gloating.
‘Oh, this and that,’ he replied, equally casually. ‘I’m sure he’ll tell you if he can find a moment.’ Suddenly the banter was gone from his voice. ‘Actually, he only arrived yesterday, so I don’t really know. Yatsu and Jaldaric are with him, too. And now you’re coming back, with this remarkable young man. It seems the whole world’s converging on Anderras Darion. As if the old mother were drawing her children together.’
‘They’re well, Yatsu and Jaldaric?’ Yengar interrupted his musing.
‘Yes, well enough. A little travel-weary, like yourselves, but in good heart.’
‘Did they find the men they were looking for?’
‘They did, I believe. Quite the uplifting tale, actually, though I haven’t got all of it yet. It seems whatever folly they committed in serving Oklar, they apparently atoned for it and more with loyal service to a good lord. And did you find yours?’
‘Oh yes, eventually. But there’s nothing uplifting about their fate. Those who aren’t dead are in captivity until we can arrange for them to be brought back to give a full Accounting.’
‘One would have expected little else, given who they were. But, as I recall, you were just supposed to find out where they’d gone, not start a war with them.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Do tell.’
Thus, as they rode on, and despite Yengar’s previous avowal, much of the remainder of the day was spent in telling Gavor of their journeying: of the seizure of Farnor’s valley by Nilsson and his men, of the emergence of the Sierwolf, of Rannick’s terrifying transformation, and of the destruction of all three.
‘A weighty tale,’ Gavor declared when it was finished, though his manner was a little subdued. ‘And so many questions to be asked.’
‘Well, those I am definitely not answering,’ Yengar told him firmly.
‘Wouldn’t dream of asking you, dear boy,’ Gavor replied. ‘You’ve been generosity itself. Besides, I’m not sure what I should ask. And my pinions tell me that Yatsu and Jaldaric will have as much to say. I suspect they also became involved in some rather heated exchanges while they were away.’ He gave Farnor a sidelong look and lowered his voice. ‘And this Antyr they’ve brought with them is . . . strange, to put it mildly.’
‘You’re sounding ominous, Gavor. Who’s Antyr?’
Gavor was abruptly himself again. ‘Nonsense, dear boy. How could I be ominous? It’s not in my nature. I’m a bringer of light and joy. This you know. Speaking of which . . .’ He bent forward as though to avoid the ears of eavesdroppers. His listeners found themselves doing the same as he kept lowering his voice. ‘Andawyr’s brought this delightful little acolyte with him. I’d never have credited him with that much discernment, to be honest. Usche, she’s called – typical clunking Riddin name – but she’s a treat – a real treat. So fetching in those Cadwanwr robes, you have no idea – you know the way they . . .’
‘Who’s Antyr, Gavor?’ Yrain’s voice came through clenched teeth and cut across Gavor’s increasingly enthusiastic description.
Untypically, Gavor stammered. ‘Ah, Antyr . . . he’s . . . a Dream Finder, I believe.’
‘A what?’
‘A Dream Finder. It seems you’re all bringing back interesting people. I really do have to be off now. Things to do. Can’t spend all day chatting. They’ll be worrying about me being gone so long.’
And before anyone could speak Gavor’s great wings were spread wide and he was swooping down towards the road prior to soaring up into the evening
sky.
‘I’ll tell them to expect you tomorrow,’ he called down.
‘I think that bird must practice being aggravating,’ Yrain growled as the black speck dwindled into the distance.
‘More of a gift, I’d have thought,’ Jenna said. ‘He does it so well and with such ease.’
‘What’s a Dream Finder?’ Farnor asked of no one in particular.
‘A Dream Finder’s an exercise in patience that Gavor’s set for us,’ Olvric replied. ‘We have to wait and see.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘So does Andawyr’s acolyte.’ Yengar and Olvric exchanged a look and a laugh. Yrain and Jenna just exchanged a look.
‘Just concentrate on staying on your horses, you two,’ Yrain said scornfully. ‘And where we’re going to camp. Unless you’re so intrigued you fancy a night gallop.’
As it was, they spent the night at a nearby farm, eating with the farmer and his wife but sleeping in their tents in one of the fields. The only difficulty they experienced was in persuading the farmer, a large and jovial man, to accept a contribution of Valderen food towards the meal.
In many ways, the warm friendliness of the greeting that Farnor and Marna received made them feel as though they were back at home but that very familiarity conspired to wash occasional waves of homesickness over them as they ate and talked. All too well understood by the Goraidin, these were noted but allowed to subside in their own time. The darkness of such moments, though deep, did not linger, however, for though the hospitality was familiar, the farmhouse was very different from anything either Farnor or Marna had ever known. This was not only their first meeting with the people of Orthlund, other than Yrain and Jenna who, by their own admission, were unusual, it was their first contact with the Orthlundyn love of stone carving.
There were examples of it everywhere. It was not the Orthlundyn way idly to grace tables, mantelshelves, window-sills and any other convenient horizontal surfaces with a few fond ornaments. Examples of their art formed a deep integral part of walls, ceilings, staircases, door surrounds, fireplaces, mullions and transoms, anywhere that a chisel and ingenuity could reach. But none of it was reckless or indiscriminate. Always there was order and intention, even though this might not be clearly apparent at first glance. Indeed, it was rarely so, because the Orthlundyn were not only skilled carvers, they were also subtle thinkers, and masters of shadow lore.
Thus it was that Orthlundyn carvings could stand constant examination, each one linking to its neighbour, either directly, physically, or by some discreet, understated implication, and each seeming to move and shift as the changing lights of the day fell on it.
As the evening passed Farnor became more and more engrossed with them. ‘I’ve never seen anything like these before,’ he said eventually. ‘They’re incredible – so complicated – so fine.’
The farmer chuckled and bowed to him. ‘Well, I’m no Isloman, but I try. And the judgement of your outlander’s eye is appreciated.’
By contrast, Farnor noted, the wooden table at which they were sitting was almost completely devoid of any decoration.
‘Don’t you carve wooden things?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the farmer boomed disparagingly. ‘Doesn’t get to the heart of things, wood. Stone has the history of everything written in it for the finding if you’re prepared to look.’ He cast a mischievous glance at Olvric and Yengar. ‘It’s more a Fyordyn kind of a thing, messing about with wood. And, to give them their due, they’re quite good at it, in their way.’
‘The Valderen do it in the Great Forest,’ Farnor said. ‘You’ll come across carved animals and figures peering out of the branches in the most unexpected places. In and around the lodges mainly, but sometimes in the middle of nowhere – far from any of the lodges – just because someone’s taken a liking to a particular tree or bush, or clearing.’ He leaned forward and began drawing in his audience enthusiastically. ‘They’ve a huge meeting hall with a great arched ceiling that looks like a tangle of roots from a tree so big it would reach up into the clouds. When people speak, it carries their voices to everyone there. I spoke there once, but I wish I’d looked at it more carefully while I had the chance. In fact, I wish I’d paid more attention to everything. I will when I go back, for sure. The Valderen do everything with wood – everything – build, decorate, work the soil, make fine threads and great ropes, even medicines and perfumes. And never a thing without first asking the permission of the Forest itself.’
The farmer was impressed. He had heard of the Great Forest as an ancient myth but never thought that any part of it still existed. Thus Farnor found himself explaining the ways of the Valderen and, as well as he could, of the Forest itself. He needed no signals from Yengar to avoid the darker aspects of his time with them. When he had finished, the farmer was staring at him thoughtfully.
‘I’m in your debt, young man,’ he announced, slapping the table and making his wife flutter. ‘What a tale. You’ve given me enough ideas to last a lifetime.’ He looked down at his empty plate. ‘And if the Valderen’s carving is as good as their food then it’ll be worthy of respect at least.’ He looked upwards. ‘A ceiling of roots that carries words to everyone, you say – sheltering the people and binding earth and sky – and small animals carved to be unseen for most of the time – and wood used for everything.’ His gaze moved to the rest of the room and he became increasingly preoccupied until his wife discreetly rapped him with a spoon to bring his attention back to his guests.
‘This is a beautiful land,’ Farnor said to Olvric as they left the farmhouse and went to their tents. ‘There’s something special about it. I’ve felt it more and more since we crossed the bridge.’
‘You’re right,’ Olvric replied. ‘Orthlund’s a very special place.’
‘And are all the people like him – the farmer – and his family?’
‘People are people,’ Olvric replied unhelpfully. ‘No two are alike, you should know that by now. But, yes, generally speaking, the Orthlundyn will offer you trust and hospitality.’
‘Yet they’ve a Threshold Sword hanging by the door.’
‘That’s a Fyordyn tradition we seem to be exporting. They’ve only been doing it here since the war.’ Unexpectedly Olvric gave a sad smile. ‘Part of me thinks I should be unhappy about that but it’s difficult to be unhappy about anything the Orthlundyn do, they bring such qualities to their actions. I could be sad about your people – they took to the Threshold Sword because the darker realities of the world beyond their valley had impinged on them. It’s something they did with regret and they’d happily be without it. In a way, they lost their innocence. I could even perhaps be sad about my own people – we maintained the tradition religiously – had the symbol constantly before us – yet didn’t see what it meant – not even us, the Goraidin, the elite of the High Guards, Morlider War veterans, who, above all, should have seen clearly.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Farnor said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Olvric was offhand. ‘Don’t worry, you didn’t. A day doesn’t pass when some memory of the war doesn’t intrude. It can’t be avoided, but it’s no burden. It’s just one of the differences between you and me, that’s all.’
Farnor made to enter his tent but he paused. ‘What did you mean, the Orthlundyn bring such qualities to their actions?’
‘Just that.’ Olvric stood a few paces away from him now, shadowy in the light that shone from the farmhouse windows. ‘Even in a simple thing like adopting the Threshold Sword, they did it not as an unfortunate necessity, like your people, but almost as if they were renewing some ancient pledge. Yet, at the same time, they did it . . . lightly.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t worry, neither do I. As individuals they’re like you and me. As a people, they’re deep.’
‘Why?’
There was an untypical hint of exasperation in Olvric’s reply. ‘Farnor, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. You pick a rare time to
ask questions like that.’
‘Sorry.’
Olvric half turned to continue to his tent, then he stopped. He spoke into the darkness.
‘The Orthlundyn are the remains of the people who stood first and longest against Sumeral at the time of the First Coming. They were Ethriss’s firmest allies. They paid a terrible price. Their innocence has long been lost.’ He turned to Farnor. ‘Unlike my people and the Riddinvolk, they’ve no military tradition. All they’re interested in is their farming and their carving. If we ever thought about them at all, it was with amused affection, I suppose. Not that we ever thought about them much. But when He returned, they mustered an army out of nothing, moved it across the mountains and fought battles as if they’d been trained to it not only from birth but through countless generations.’ Farnor could not see Olvric’s face, but he saw his clenched fist raised in emphasis. ‘And you should’ve seen them fight, Farnor. Such courage, discipline. Incredible. A match for the finest we had. Even their elite, the Helyadin, their Goraidin. That’s what Yrain and Jenna were, Helyadin – that’s Gulda’s influence for you.’ The fist was lowered. ‘And when everything was over, they . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Disbanded. Went back to their homes, their farming, their carving.’
‘As if nothing had happened?’
‘Oh no. No one could do that. Too many were too cruelly hurt, in every way. They’re changed, as are we all. But where we and the Riddinvolk have been moved to a different awareness of our lives and our history, it’s as though the Orthlundyn were simply awakening – becoming something that they used to be – but still at ease with it.’
He fell silent.
A door closed in the farmhouse, and somewhere a dog barked.
‘Good night, Farnor.’
‘Good night, Olvric.’
* * * *
The following morning it was raining and a strong breeze was blowing, but Farnor, first awake as always, found he could do no other than join the farmer with his daily tasks. Apart from an initial, surprised greeting, the farmer accepted his help in companionable and appreciative silence.