The Return of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Both he and Vredech are Dream Finders,’ Antyr blurted out. The revelation caused some surprise.

  ‘You didn’t mention this before,’ Andawyr said.

  ‘I wasn’t sure. But listening to Vredech and speaking to him, and discussing Pinnatte with Atelon, and thinking about everything else that’s happened, I’m fairly certain now. They’re untrained, of course, and without Earth Holders, but they’re Dream Finders nevertheless. Not only that, I think they’re like me – able to move between the worlds.’

  ‘Adepts?’ Andawyr, looked at him closely. ‘I thought . . . you told me . . . they were very rare.’

  ‘I thought they were non-existent,’ Antyr replied. ‘Until the blind man called me one, “Adept” was nothing more than a word – a Dream Finding myth. Even now I don’t feel easy with the name. “Adept” implies a considerable and conscious skill. I’ll own to being a competent, perhaps good Dream Finder, but if I’m an Adept I’m frankly a floundering one. I’m at the behest of something inside me that seems to be quite beyond my control.’

  ‘Yet you think both Pinnatte and Vredech are Adepts also?’ Gulda queried, ignoring this repudiation.

  Antyr wilted a little under her searching gaze but held his ground. ‘In Serenstad there are many Dream Finders, but the whole idea of Adepts – people who can find Gateways to the Threshold – other worlds – and perhaps even the Inner Portals to the Great Dream – is thought of as so much nonsense. No one thinks they actually exist.’ He curled his lip in distaste. ‘Least of all anyone in the Guild of Dream Finders – all they’re interested in are the fees their inner circle can charge. But, having been forced to think about it, perhaps there may be more Adepts than we know – if I’m one, then Ivaroth was for sure. And, occasionally, Dream Finders die mysteriously.’ He sat down and stroked Tarrian’s head. ‘My own father did. And all their Earth Holders can say is that they just . . . slip away. Perhaps there’ve always been Adepts but, for some reason, we’ve stopped being able to recognize them. Or perhaps it’s always been an uncontrollable gift.’ He grimaced as he reached this last conclusion.

  Gulda’s gaze relented but she turned to Tarrian. ‘Wolf, can you explain this any better?’

  ‘No,’ came the immediate reply. ‘It’s in a part of me – of us – that’s beyond your understanding, just as much of you is beyond me. The other worlds are there – we “see” them as we “see” the darkness around us right now through the many scents that pervade it. But you’re blind to this knowledge, just as you’re blind to the rich perfumes of the night and I can’t truly stand in your place. How can the living explain life to the unborn? Earth Holders move between the worlds. I’ve no other words for you, still less the kind of explanation you need . . . only the knowledge. But the Gateways aren’t for us and if our charge chooses to pass through one – or is drawn there – or stumbles upon one in his blindness – they disappear, as Antyr said – just slip from our view. I had a flickering awareness of the Great Dream when Antyr’s father died but . . .’ Strange, wild images filled the minds of his four listeners, leaving them bewildered and shaking their heads. ‘We hunt for them – we’ve no choice – but . . .’ Tarrian’s thoughts faded away.

  Gulda anchored the group again. ‘You told us that Dream Finders were once known as Dream Warriors,’ she said to Antyr.

  ‘That’s the tradition,’ Antyr replied, grateful to be away from Tarrian’s disturbing thoughts. ‘People who guarded the spirits of others.’

  ‘From what?’ Gulda’s question was like the slamming of a door caught by the wind. Antyr looked at her.

  ‘I . . . don’t know,’ he stammered.

  Gulda tapped her stick on the floor idly, then swung it up and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Farnor gave me this before he went into the heart of the Great Forest,’ she said. ‘I was very loath to leave him then, but he’d problems only he could deal with.’ She frowned and was briefly silent. ‘It had been a long time since I’d spoken with the trees myself – touched their strange and ancient memories. It was salutary, to put it mildly. We’re so obsessed with ourselves. We forget how many ways Sumeral assailed this world at the time of the First Coming. In fact, we never even fully knew. No single record exists of the totality of that war, but each account we have implies – some even state directly – that many other battles were fought elsewhere – by people who had mysterious skills – by creatures other than humans – high in the clouds – deep in the oceans.’ She paused and looked at Antyr.

  ‘Whatever I am, I’m afraid I’m no warrior,’ he said, disconcerted by her renewed scrutiny. ‘It’s not all that long ago since I was just a drunk.’

  ‘Yes, you told us,’ Gulda said. ‘But you stayed sober and kept your sanity when you discovered your ability to move between the worlds, you killed Ivaroth in personal combat, and you faced and defeated the blind man, as you called him, the Mynedarion, the user – or abuser, should I say – of the Power. No small achievement, any one of those.’

  Faced with this heroic catalogue, Antyr could do no more than shrug weakly. ‘I was lucky,’ he protested incongruously. His manner made Hawklan and Andawyr laugh and even Gulda raised her eyebrows.

  ‘An invaluable trait in a warrior,’ she said, slapping his arm, then gripping it affectionately. ‘Would that we had a training programme for it.’ She began guiding him along the wall. ‘It’s a fine evening. Let’s go down into the parks and walk and talk, speculate awhile, as your good Companions have suggested.’

  A swift double tap with her stick transformed the suggestion into an order and Hawklan and Andawyr set off after the now retreating couple.

  Gavor spread his wings and floated silently into the darkness.

  Tarrian, Grayle and Dar-volci looked at one another. Then they all stretched and dropped down from the embrasure to bring up the rear of the small procession.

  Chapter 25

  There were many parks within the confines of Anderras Darion and many people enjoying the quiet calm of the evening. Maintaining an unusually modest and relaxed pace Gulda led her entourage to one of the parks that was quite populous. As they moved through the delicate shifting shadows thrown by Anderras Darion’s myriad lights, they passed also through a winding avenue of soft and friendly greetings before she sat them down finally at a circular array of short benches set on top of a small hillock. Double seated, the benches looked both inwards and outwards. As they sat down, facing each other at Gulda’s directing, a solitary lantern high above them bloomed gently into life. Its light had the quality of moonlight, but without its coldness. In nearby trees, night songbirds began contesting with one another as at a signal. Gavor floated down out of the darkening sky to rest on the back of the bench by Hawklan. The two wolves curled at Antyr’s feet while Dar-volci clambered unbidden on to Gulda’s knee.

  For a long time, no one spoke.

  ‘Whatever else happens, I am so glad I made this journey,’ Antyr said eventually, his voice low as though he were talking to himself. ‘There’s such wonder about this place. Such touches of perfection.’

  No one replied and silence enfolded the group again until Gulda clicked her tongue, wrapped her hands over the top of her stick and leaned forward to rest her chin on them, displacing Dar-volci from his roost in the process.

  ‘What do we have, my friends?’ she said. ‘Or rather, let’s start with who do we have?’ Her tone was rhetorical. Still resting on her stick she looked at Antyr. ‘There’s you, with Tarrian and Grayle and the strange ability you have between you to delve into the minds of others and seemingly into worlds beyond this one. Worlds whose very existence has previously been little more than speculation to us. Then there’s Farnor, scarcely more than a boy, brutally orphaned, with the ability to touch the mind of the Great Forest and some kind of a gift for healing rifts between the worlds, if I read his telling correctly. And his friend Marna, a woman who wants to be a soldier when we’ve no war to fight. Declared by no fewer than four of our Goraidin to be a young woman
of considerable resource and courage, which is praise indeed.’

  ‘I’m not sure she wants to be a soldier,’ Hawklan remarked.

  ‘I wouldn’t dispute about that,’ Gulda replied. ‘But warrior skills aren’t confined to fighting, are they? And if she wants to learn them she probably needs to.’ She reverted to her summary. ‘Then there’s Vredech. An erstwhile Preaching Brother.’ Her eyes narrowed and her mouth became disapproving.

  ‘They’re not all bad,’ Andawyr announced, anticipating a need to defend Vredech in his absence.

  ‘You’ve not seen as many as I have,’ Gulda retorted acidly. ‘Believe me, religion was Sumeral’s greatest gift after war itself.’ Andawyr bridled but Gulda became conciliatory. ‘Don’t fret, old man, I’ll take him as he is, you know that. As his own Santyth says, “Judge not lest ye be judged”, and I’m long past judging anyone.’ A knowing glance passed between Hawklan and Andawyr, though they contrived to keep it hidden from Gulda as she continued. ‘If Antyr’s correct then it seems he too is a Dream Finder, maybe even an Adept, as also is Pinnatte. Another young man, barely Farnor’s age, I’d say, but probably much older in his ways, though you’d never guess it from his speech.’

  ‘We’ll do our best to help him through that,’ Andawyr said. ‘I’m sure it’s only some kind of shock. But there’s something about him which eludes me.’ Anger began to roughen his voice. ‘Those damned Kyrosdyn, experimenting on people. They . . .’

  ‘Ever His way.’ Gulda cut him short. ‘You know that.’

  Andawyr bit back the denunciation with difficulty. ‘I don’t know what they did to him, but I think part of it’s still with him,’ he said, more calmly.

  Gulda nodded but did not pursue his concern. ‘And lastly we have Thyrn. Yet another young man. The youngest of them all, in many ways. Over-protected, by Endryk’s Account – cultivated, almost – by his parents, then plunged head first into the highest-levels of Arvenstaat’s politics. He seems to be making plenty of friends here, which is nice. I doubt he’s had a childhood worth speaking of.’ Her face became pained, as though the thought particularly disturbed her, but she pressed on. ‘What a strange talent he has. When he speaks of others, they’re there, you can feel their presence. Remarkable. He makes the Goraidin look clumsy and inaccurate.’

  ‘He’s also got the same healing touch as Farnor,’ Hawklan added.

  ‘I’ve got people searching into the history of the Caddoran,’ Andawyr said. ‘There could be something of interest there. It’s probably no more than a relic of battlefield message-carrying, like the Goraidin’s Accounting, but it’s odd we’ve none of us heard of it before.’ He became thoughtful. ‘And I find his story more disturbing than any of the others.’ He stretched out his legs and, putting his hands behind his head, gazed upwards past the solitary lantern and into the star-filled sky. ‘The blind man that Antyr faced, Farnor’s Rannick and what was almost certainly a Sierwolf, Vredech’s Dowinne, the Kyrosdyn and their crystals and what was definitely a Sierwolf, by Atelon’s account. All these had a quality of familiarity about them – they all involved the use of the Power in some way. And there’s a pattern in them – a frightening pattern, granted – but a pattern nonetheless – a clear indication of Sumeral struggling to take form in this world again. But what happened to Thyrn feels entirely different.’

  ‘In what way?’ Hawklan asked. ‘He found himself an inadvertent witness to an exchange between Vashnar and . . . someone . . . some thing . . . full of hatred and malice, someone intent on coming into this world and destroying it. Surely it must have been another manifestation of Sumeral, or one of His creatures?’

  Andawyr’s face wrinkled in reluctant disagreement. ‘One would think so, but, as I watched and listened to Thyrn, of all the many things I felt I did not feel myself in the presence of Sumeral. Not a hint of Him. And I fully expected to.’ He glanced at Gulda as if for support in this finding, but she had pulled her hood forward, plunging her face into shadow, and she gave no sign.

  ‘That’s probably just the lad’s way of telling his story. Maybe we’re reading too much into this skill of his,’ Hawklan pressed.

  Andawyr’s reply was firm. ‘No. If you recall, I journeyed through the Pass of Elewart with Sumeral’s presence all around me – journeyed in some terror, I might add. And with you into Narsindal. I’m well attuned to Him.’ He indicated Antyr. ‘I could feel His presence when you told us about the blind man, and it was there in some degree when all the others told their tales. I know it as well as I know the Cadwanen. And it wasn’t there when Thyrn spoke.’ He wrapped his arms about himself and closed his eyes briefly.

  Despite this disavowal, Hawklan nevertheless looked set to pursue his objection. Andawyr, however, gave him no opportunity. ‘Everything that Thyrn told us was deeply strange. The very place he described where Vashnar and this figure – this entity – met was unlike anything I’ve even heard of. None of the intricate, elaborate, obsessive patterns, the stark points and edges that typify His work – the frantic scratching after His notion of perfection. And what the figure actually said.’ He leaned forward, drawing the circle of listeners tighter. Only Gulda remained motionless. His manner became intense. ‘Remember, think back. Thyrn’s telling was so vivid, he had us all standing next to him in that strange grey half-world – there and not there – eavesdropping on this exchange. We could feel the figure’s appalling cruelty and bloodlust. And also that it was all too human. When it first appeared it seemed to be a manifestation of many wills, but then it became one distinct individual. Yet when Vashnar asked it who it was, it was puzzled at first, then amused.’

  ‘“I am remade in my old image by forces that I do not fully comprehend.”’

  It was Gulda, reciting the words that Thyrn had put into the mouth of Vashnar’s mysterious companion. Her voice was flat and without emotion but Hawklan noticed that her hands, folded over the top of her stick, were tense, as though she were gripping it to prevent herself from trembling.

  ‘Yes,’ Andawyr said, slightly unsettled by this unexpected assistance. ‘“For aeons I have been scattered, without form,” it said. “Such an event as we have here – such a coming-together – does not happen once in ten thousand generations.” These aren’t the words of Sumeral or any of His acolytes. Apart from the fact that Sumeral was amongst us less than a single generation ago, He’d never admit to any ignorance, least of all about how He came to be. He perceives Himself to be the true beginning – the very fount – of all things. And His followers always bear His stamp – the mark of the chains by which He binds them – always. It’s unmistakable.’

  Hawklan made to speak, but a slight gesture from Gulda kept him silent. Andawyr snapped his fingers, speaking now as much to himself as to the others. ‘“How I came to be thus I do not know.”’ Andawyr was shaking his head as his conclusion became more certain. ‘More ignorance admitted, you see. It’s not Sumeral, definitely. Nor anything of His. Everything that Thyrn recounted cries out with that.’

  ‘Who was it, then?’ Hawklan asked bluntly.

  Andawyr frowned. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said flatly and with no small sense of anticlimax. ‘That’s to say, I’ve no idea who the individual was – the hooded figure. But . . .’ He stopped and squeezed his nose, then ran his hands through his disordered hair a few times.

  ‘Say what you’ve got to say, old man,’ Gulda said.

  ‘It’s vague, unclear,’ Andawyr protested.

  ‘Nor likely to become otherwise if you don’t spit it out.’ Gulda flicked her hood back and leaned towards him, her stick beginning to tap the turf impatiently.

  Andawyr made a series of opening gestures before actually continuing. ‘There was something else the figure said to Vashnar. Though he seemed to be like we are – only just discovering something – somehow he knew that both he and those he called his enemies had been defeated. He spoke of a – conjunction – of some kind. A coming-together that shouldn’t have happened. He referred to it as his enem
y’s treachery but I’ve the feeling it was some kind of simultaneous attack in which everything was destroyed. A mutual killing.’ Andawyr’s voice fell. ‘He said that a brightness moved across the land – and across the oceans. It moved through everything that lived – what an odd phrase. Even odder, it moved, “at scarcely the pace of a walking man”, growing relentlessly, sustaining itself. The Power can be used with infinite delicacy if needs be, but it can’t do that. Everyone fled before it – “Believer and heretic alike”, but none escaped.’ Andawyr raised his arm to his eyes, mimicking Thyrn’s gesture as he had related the tale. ‘“And then there was only a brightness beyond bearing – a reshaping – a remaking.” A brightness beyond bearing.’

  Andawyr’s final words were given a power by the very quietness of his manner that made them seem to hang in the night air, ominous and grim. No one said anything. Even the nearby nightbirds fell silent.

  Then Hawklan spoke. ‘Assuming that Thyrn’s tale is true –and I’ve no reason to doubt it – what is it about it that so concerns you? Wars enough have been fought in the past. Armies have destroyed themselves before now. Perhaps the brightness is a metaphor for some military disaster.’

  Andawyr was disparaging. ‘I doubt it. You felt the character of the man when Thyrn spoke. Ruthless, powerful, fanatical. He spoke of armies and war machines beyond imagining – that could well be exaggeration. But war machines that would “unravel the very essence” of his enemies? It’s a phrase that’s lodged itself in my mind and won’t go away. Nor will that strange, slow-moving brightness.’

  Hawklan intruded, ‘But . . .’