The Return of the Sword
Page 25
When they had finished, Farnor stood looking at the farmhouse, inevitably contrasting it with the memory of his own home, both as it had been and as it had become. The memory distressed him and for a while there were more than raindrops running down his face.
After they had breakfasted with the farmer and his wife, the party set off again, though, to both Farnor’s and Marna’s relief, not at the pace they had maintained for the previous days. Soon they were moving through hedged and cultivated land along metalled roads and encountering a modest amount of traffic. Each person they met offered them a greeting, which they returned, and there were one or two more prolonged intervals as old friends were occasionally recognized.
Farnor began to feel nervous. The memories stirred by his brief stay at the farm had disturbed him. What was he doing in this place, so far from his home and friends? Why was he learning these dark Goraidin ways? What was it inside him that could reach out and touch the Great Forest and the ways to these worlds beyond? And what was Marna doing here, dark-haired and contrary Marna who had leapt into the blazing castle to rescue the four Goraidin? But there was his answer, he knew. Both he and the Marna he had known were changed, and that change had set them both on this journey and to whatever followed. His thoughts slipped back momentarily to the help he had given the farmer that morning. That had been good. That would always be good. That would always be there.
Almost without realizing it, he was listening to the voice of the Great Forest within him. He had not consciously done that for some time.
‘You must keep in touch with them,’ Gavor had said. ‘Don’t let their voice be drowned by the clamour that your own kind makes.’
‘I am here,’ Farnor said inwardly. ‘All is well. This is a place of light.’
And even as the words formed, his unease slipped away. Orthlund was indeed a place of light. He could feel it all around him. His nervousness became anticipation.
‘Are you all right?’
He jumped as Marna seemed to bellow her concern at him.
‘Yes,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just thinking about something.’
They were walking up a small rise.
Marna turned to Yengar. ‘How much further . . .?’
Yengar lifted his hand for silence and they stopped at the top of the rise. As they stood there, the only sounds to be heard were the soft creak of the horses’ tackle and the flapping of Farnor’s cloak, flying loose in the blustering wind.
Yengar pointed to the horizon. The rain had stopped and the clouds had been scattered. In the distance ran a long range of sunlit mountains and between two of the peaks the sun was reflecting off something with diamond brightness.
‘That’s the Gate to Anderras Darion,’ he said.
Chapter 19
Farnor found his nervousness returning. It alternated with an increasing excitement. What was this place going to be like? And what were its people going to be like? Gulda he knew, or at least had met, albeit only briefly, though while she had made a powerful impression on him he could not fathom why she was held almost in awe by his otherwise commanding and apparently fearless companions. What would Andawyr be like? The descriptions he had been given did not seem to fit the leader of what was apparently an ancient and wise Order. And, not least, what would this great leader, the owner of Anderras Darion, Hawklan, be like? Old? Young? Ferocious and grim? Massively strong? Battle-scarred? Clad in heroic armour, sitting on a great throne with an armed retinue about him?
He fought down a powerful urge to pester the Goraidin with questions, and he could see that Marna was doing the same. More than once as they drew nearer to the castle they exchanged uncertain anticipatory glances. It did not help him that they were now travelling at a very leisurely walking pace. In the end he voiced his concern. ‘Can’t we go a little faster?’
‘Yes,’ Yengar replied. But they didn’t.
Then they were entering Pedhavin, the village that lay on the tumbling slopes at the foot of the steep ascent to Anderras Darion. Farnor and Marna had been silent for some time, their gaze fixed on the increasingly dominant presence of the castle. For though it was dwarfed by the mountain peaks on either side, dominate it did, like a matriarch between two hulking offspring. Above the blank and windowless wall in which was set the Great Gate could be seen a jostling forest of towers and spires. They ramped back far out of sight in a seemingly random array as though, like a mountain flood, they had crashed down the valley to surge up against an immovable dam. As Farnor stared up he thought from time to time that he could see a pattern in them, but whenever he tried to study it, it slipped away, like a strange shadow at the edge of a dream.
The Goraidin smiled at one another, seeing the wonder written on the faces of the two young people. But their smiles had little in the way of adult indulgence because, though they themselves had seen it many times, Anderras Darion always drew the eye and never failed to stir the spirit.
Only as they entered the village and the castle slipped from view did Farnor and Marna feel able to speak.
‘So big.’ Marna whispered through the clatter of the hooves on the stone streets, as though too loud a voice might bring an echoing rebuke down on her. ‘I thought the castle in the valley was big, but this . . .’
‘Yes,’ Farnor agreed inadequately. He could feel countless questions bubbling inside him but he could not find the words to ask them though, in tones as hushed as Marna’s, he did manage, ‘Who built it?’
‘The Orthlundyn,’ Yengar whispered in reply before he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat and spoke normally. ‘At the time of the First Coming. They were a powerful people then, ruled by lords and kings, but free and strong. Ethriss made it his own after . . . ’ He stopped himself. ‘After they were almost destroyed in a terrible battle against Sumeral’s army.’
‘It looks incredible.’
‘It’s a wondrous place, Farnor, but, like everything, it’s not without darkness by any means.’ Yengar frowned as though he had said something he did not intend to. Farnor scarcely noticed the reservation, however, his attention having turned to the village. Like the castle, this too was unlike anything he had seen before. Most of the stone-built houses were two storeys high, with heavy, low-pitched roofs that jutted out provocatively at the eaves. They were dotted about seemingly at random, forming a bewildering maze of narrow, hilly streets punctuated occasionally by bright squares and courtyards. And everywhere was overlooked by balconies.
Had he known Pedhavin before the war he would have seen one conspicuous difference. There were gardens and trees, and bright flowers and foliage hung from eaves and balconies and specially made stone brackets. Previously, in common with most Orthlundyn villages, Pedhavin had been decorated only by its carvings. Now the Orthlundyn seemed to feel a need to have about them reminders of blooming and fading, beginnings and endings that were not beginnings and endings. Not that there were any fewer carvings to be seen. In fact there were many more, as the Orthlundyn could do no other than draw inspiration from the new lines and shadows that these incessant changes offered them.
Though his few hours at the farmhouse had to some extent acquainted Farnor with Orthlundyn carving, he found himself quite bewildered by the intricate scenes that now surrounded him. Men and women worked in the fields under gathering clouds and burning suns, they worked in their homes, engaged in debate, fought in battles, quarrelled, loved. Some scenes even showed carvers carving themselves. Others patently told stories that needed a close study not possible when riding past. Yet others were just patterns – simple, elaborate, obsessively symmetrical, achingly random, angular, sinuous. And it seemed that virtually nowhere had escaped attention. So much so that where some surface stood blank it attracted attention.
‘Two reasons, usually,’ Yengar told Farnor when he inquired. ‘Someone didn’t like what he’d done and has removed it . . .’
‘They’d take part of a house wall down just for that?’ Farnor interjected, incredulous.
Farnor puffed out his cheeks in disbelief. ‘What was the other reason?’
‘Ah. A little more profound, that. It’s a gesture towards the better carver who’s yet to come.’
Pedhavin was quite large for an Orthlundyn village though it did not take them long to pass through it. But despite trying to observe the Goraidin teaching of always noting where they were going, neither Farnor nor Marna would have claimed to be able to say what route they had travelled by the time they were on the winding road that led up to the castle.
Despite its steepness the road was quite busy and the greetings to the Goraidin that had been an increasing feature of their journey became constant, much to Farnor’s scarcely hidden irritation. Though it was virtually impossible to see the castle from much of the road, Farnor could sense its massive presence above him. It seemed to pull him forward. As they rounded a bend that brought them on to the final stretch of the road Farnor heard a breathy, ‘Uh uh’ behind him. It was Yrain.
Looking up the hill he saw a small black figure standing in the middle of the road. It was leaning on a stick. He smiled and, without thinking, urged his horse forward. The others made no attempt to keep up with him.
As he reached the top of the slope, the road opened into a flat grassy area and his attention was drawn from the familiar figure he was approaching to the wall towering above him and its Great Gate. He stopped and stared at it, transfixed.
‘Gavor did tell me you’d taken to gaping, young Farnor. I see you have. Still, it’s understandable in the circumstances.’
‘It’s enormous,’ Farnor said hoarsely.
‘I’ve heard more poetic responses, but I suppose that’s not bad for a farm boy from the middle of nowhere.’
Farnor recollected himself and hastily clambered down from his horse. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling and flustered. ‘I’ve been looking at it for most of the day but it still took me completely by surprise. I . . .’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I? It’s good to see you again.’
‘It’s good to see you again, too, young man,’ came the reply. ‘And you’re not making a fool of yourself. Anderras Darion has tied better tongues than yours.’ Farnor found himself transfixed by piercing blue eyes that seemed to be searching to the heart of him. They were overshadowed by a determined forehead that was buttressed by a long nose which, in its turn, loomed over a stern mouth. Memsa Gulda, dressed in black as ever, remained leaning on her stick and, stern though her mouth was, it was smiling.
‘You still have the stick I gave you,’ he said.
Gulda grunted and with alarming and quite unexpected speed spun the stick round to land with a determined slap in her other hand. The movement took Farnor immediately back to the time when they had stood alone in a clearing in the Great Forest and he had offered the stick to her just before they parted. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A fine gift. It’s done well for itself since you tried to hit me with it.’
Farnor looked at her shrewdly, then risked, ‘I don’t think I’m going to apologize twice for that. You shouldn’t have sneaked up on me.’
‘I’m not sure you apologized even once, actually,’ Gulda replied. ‘You just gasped as you hit the ground.’ She chuckled darkly.
‘It’s still good to see you . . . Memsa . . . Ashstock. What should I call you? Yengar and the others seem to be very nervous of you.’
‘That’s because they’re more worldly-wise and less discerning than you, young Farnor. You may call me Ashstock. We’re kin to the Great Forest, you and I, aren’t we? A rare thing – even amongst the Valderen. We should carry it with us always.’ The blue eyes were searching him again, even more disconcertingly than before. ‘You’ve changed. And for the better. Much better. You can see more of the depths in yourself. But there’s still darkness there. You’re still troubled, aren’t you?’
Her hand came up to indicate she did not want a reply. Farnor became aware of the others arriving. As they dismounted, Gulda thrust her stick into Farnor’s hand, then gently eased him to one side to welcome each of them in turn. She gripped the men by the arms, Valderen style, and to their surprise, not to say their consternation, enfolded the women in a black-shrouded embrace.
‘How splendid to see you all again. You’re looking well.’ She gave Olvric a quick head-to-toe appraisal, smacked Yengar’s stomach with the back of her hand, and gave a reluctantly approving nod. ‘And doing our best to age with dignity, I see.’
Though they were obviously delighted to see the old woman, Farnor had never before seen the four Goraidin quite so unsettled.
Gulda turned her attention next to Marna. She held out a hand in conventional greeting. ‘Gavor told me about you – Marna, who definitely isn’t Farnor’s mate. Light be with you. Welcome to Anderras Darion.’
She took Marna’s arm before she could speak, at the same time snapping her fingers at Farnor to signal for the return of her stick. Farnor jumped at the whip-crack sound and thrust the stick towards her quickly, then found he had to stride out to keep up with her unnervingly fast walk as she led Marna towards the Gate.
‘Farnor, I suspect, like me, has little choice but to be here,’ she was saying to Marna. ‘The castle always seems to call to its own. But what are you doing in the company of these ne’er-do-wells?’
Gulda’s grip on her arm, though gentle, prevented Marna from turning to her companions to seek help in how to deal with this strange woman.
‘I . . . don’t really know,’ she stammered eventually. ‘I think perhaps after all that happened at home, the valley, the village, felt too small – too vulnerable. I’m sorry . . . I . . .’
‘She saved our lives. And she’s Goraidin. Or will be with a little . . .’
Gulda’s stick was raised for silence. ‘As patient as ever, eh, Yrain?’ she said, without looking round.
Yrain winced.
‘I killed someone,’ Marna said suddenly, her voice soft.
‘What?’ Farnor exclaimed, but Gulda’s stick flicked up to silence him also.
‘Son of a bitch tried to rape her. It was a clean kill. She did well. We’ve talked a few times, but it still bothers her.’ Yrain braced herself for another rebuke even as she spoke.
It did not come. Instead, Gulda just nodded and her grip on Marna’s arm became a reassuring squeeze. When she spoke, her voice was almost casual. ‘These things do tend to upset a little, even when you’ve had no real choice. You can tell me the details later but Yrain’s judgement in these matters is sound, Marna, absolutely sound. Make what peace you can with what happened, but carry no blame. You’re just a little wiser, that’s all. Some things can’t be avoided.’ She cast a glance at Marna’s now pale and uncertain face and then at the still stunned Farnor and her eyes narrowed. ‘And I suspect what’s really burdening you is not so much what you did as that you’ve kept it from someone.’
Marna started violently and she came to a sudden halt. Gulda took one pace ahead and turned to face her. Marna’s eyes flickered between Gulda and Farnor several times before finally settling on her old friend. She seemed to wilt inwardly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said unhappily. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t know why. And it got harder the longer I left it.’
Farnor’s throat was dry and he felt woefully inadequate in the face of what he had just learned and the pain he could see in Marna’s whole posture.
Something in him reached out to her. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he heard himself saying. ‘It was none of my business anyway. And I wouldn’t have known how to help you. I suppose you did what you did because of where you were, like me with Rannick.’ He looked at Yrain and Gulda. ‘And, without any disrespect, I don’t need anyone else’s judgement to tell me you’ve done nothing wrong.’
H
e gave her an awkward embrace with one arm and, for a moment, it seemed that Marna was going to cry, though she fought down the urge and muttered something unintelligible. Gulda gave an approving grunt and began propelling them both towards the Gate again.
As they approached, Farnor saw that a wicket door stood open. Two figures were coming through it, one tall and powerfully built, the other shorter but barrel-chested and, despite the difference in their heights, looking more than a match for his companion.
‘Late as ever,’ Gulda announced as they came forward to greet the newcomers. Farnor noticed immediately that, as with the Goraidin, the two men had an aura in the presence of Gulda not dissimilar to that of anxious children constrained to best behaviour. It made him want to smile, but he didn’t . . . not with Gulda there.
Her stick serving as a pointer she indicated each in turn, the shorter one first.
‘This is Loman. Hawklan appointed him as Castellan, but he’s a smith really.’ The stick gave him a prod that was almost affectionate. ‘And no mean commander of men when the need arises.’ The stick moved on. ‘This is his older brother, Isloman. Pedhavin’s First Carver. A fair hand with a chisel, without a doubt. These are our guests, gentlemen, Farnor and Marna.’
Farnor saw his hand disappear first in Loman’s furnace-browned fist and then in Isloman’s paler but even larger one. Both grips, however, though purposeful, were unexpectedly gentle, and the warmth of their greetings began to dispel Farnor’s more nervous thoughts about the inhabitants of this place of which he had heard so much and towards which he had been travelling for so long.
There then followed a noisy exchange as the two men greeted the Goraidin. This involved, amongst other things, Isloman seizing Yengar and Olvric, one in each arm, and lifting both of them off the ground at the same time. Warning looks from the two women saw them merely lightly embraced.
Gulda was looking round. ‘Where’s Hawklan?’ she demanded. ‘And Andawyr?’
‘Gavor’s looking for them,’ Loman said.