Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  When he spoke in the silence of his mind to the trees that were guiding him, he felt as though he were whispering. Eventually he stopped and gazed around. I am so small, he thought. My concerns are so trivial.

  But even as these thoughts formed, his inner anger, held at bay by his encounters with the trees that had guided him here, bubbled to the surface. He had allowed himself to be brought here to learn about the power that he possessed so that he could return home and kill Rannick; avenge his slaughtered parents. He must not allow anything to distract him further from this.

  'You are not ready, Far-nor.'

  The voice, familiar yet unfamiliar, clear and sonorous in his mind, made Farnor start. There was judgement in it. ‘Ready for what?’ he demanded vehemently.

  'For whatever it is you desire.'

  Farnor's lip curled angrily. ‘And what might that be, pray?’ he asked, acidly.

  The silence around him filled with distress and concern. ‘We are not as you are, Farnor. We touch such as you only a little, and we understand still less. We are more apart than we are together, by far. Always the greater part of you will be beyond us, as the greater part of us will be beyond you. And what you desire lies deep, deep within you. Close to the heart of what it is to be a Mover.'

  The words filled Farnor's mind with such subtle meanings that he involuntarily lifted his hands to his head. ‘If you do not know what my desire is, how do you know that I'm not ready for it?’ he managed to ask after the confusion had passed.

  'Because you are dangerous,’ came the unhesitant reply.

  'So I've been told,’ Farnor said. ‘But I threaten no one here, nor ever have. I wanted to leave, and you brought me on this journey against my will under threat of ... assault.'

  Farnor suddenly felt as though he were peering down some dizzying height, as he had in Marken's room. There was a slightly apologetic note in the voice when it spoke again. ‘You awaken memories from the times when the sires of the sires of these ...’ Homes? Bodies? ‘... were but saplings themselves. Not since then has a Mover moved so freely amongst our worlds. And they too possessed the power ...'

  Fear and consternation broke around Farnor, though it was not his own. It stopped abruptly.

  'Tell me about this power,’ Farnor said, as ingenuously as he could manage.

  'The power is.'

  Farnor plunged on. ‘But I don't understand. I know that I ... see ... feel ... things that others don't, but I feel no power within myself. Nor can I control these feelings.'

  'You have strange minds, you Movers. So layered, so devious, so much torn within themselves. And so separate.'

  Farnor scowled. ‘Such as you can see of us,’ he retorted sharply, and somewhat to his own surprise.

  There was a faint hint of realization in the voice. ‘True,’ it conceded.

  'The power,’ Farnor reminded his questioner.

  'The power is, Far-nor. As the sky is. As the earth is. As all things are. It is in the fabric of all things.’ The voice became awed, fearful almost. ‘And such as can wield it as you can reach through and beyond, and into the worlds between the worlds. Drawing from them ...'

  The voice faded—in horror, Farnor thought, and his mind filled with images of intrusion and unfettered, unbalanced disorder, carrying terrible destruction in its wake. They were shadows of what he had felt as he had charged across the fields to his burning home, and when he had been an apparently passive witness to Rannick's fiery demonstration before Gryss and the others in the castle courtyard.

  'Those who came before, in the most ancient of times, both wrought and mended such damage, both rent and sealed the fabric.'

  'Why?’ Farnor asked.

  'It lay beyond us then, Far-nor, as it does still. They warred. Like your desire, it lies deep within the heart of what it is to be a Mover.'

  Farnor felt his anger stirring again. ‘Why did you bring me here? If you knew enough to know that I possessed this ... power ... then you must have known that I was no danger to you ...'

  'You are a danger to all things, Far-nor.’ The voice crushed his protest ruthlessly. ‘Know this. Within even your short span we had felt the presence of a great disturbance. Now we learn that the unthinkable had happened. The Great Evil had wakened again, though this time It was ringed and hedged by stern foes and seemingly defeated before It could spread forth.’ Momentarily the voice faltered, as if it were gathering resources with which to tell its tale. ‘Yet tremors of It reverberate still. Its defeat is perhaps questionable. And it was beyond a doubt a seed of the Great Evil that pursued you here ...'

  'I've heard all this,’ Farnor interrupted. ‘Why don't you answer my question?'

  There was irritation in the reply. ‘It cost us dear to lead your pursuer astray, Far-nor. It had great power.’ The tone softened. ‘But we had touched you before, and were ... intrigued ... by such an unusual Hearer. And we had sensed no more evil in you than in most Movers. We protected you out of both curiosity and concern, and perhaps for reasons that are beyond us. But when you were amongst us, we felt your power growing, and we came to fear the darkness that we knew lay at your heart.’ It concluded starkly, ‘We were afraid.'

  Farnor looked round at the great trees surrounding him.

  'I mean you no harm,’ he said simply. ‘I wish only to be away from here.'

  'No. You wish for more than that, though there is great pain and confusion in you. Yet you have the power, and while there is the darkness in you that lies beyond us, we cannot know the truth of your wishing.'

  There was a long silence.

  'Why have you brought me here?’ Farnor asked again.

  There was another long silence. Farnor felt a debate going on about him, then, ‘You are to remain here, Far-nor.'

  'What!'

  'You are to remain here.'

  'I heard that. What do you mean?'

  'You are to remain amongst us until we know whether you are what you seem, or a more subtle seed of the Great Evil come to strike at us from within.'

  Part of Farnor wanted to reassure, to help, to co-operate, but a black wave of rage rose to submerge it.

  'No!’ he cried out, both in his mind and out loud. The two horses started, and somewhere a bird fluttered away in alarm. ‘Why won't you listen to me? Why won't you believe me?'

  'We have decided.'

  'You can't do this. I won't allow it.’ Farnor turned round and round, crouching, as if expecting human assailants to appear suddenly from amongst the vast trunks.

  'We do not wish to oppose you, Far-nor. But we have no choice. If you are Its spawn, then we must hold you as best we can, no matter what the cost.’ There was fear in the voice, but a greater proportion of grim determination.

  Farnor saw the trees about him begin to shimmer and change. ‘Get out of my head!’ he roared. Desperately he seized the reins of his horse, swung himself up into the saddle, and drove his heels into the horse's flanks. The animal trembled, but did not move. He swore and kicked it again. Still it did not move.

  Farnor snarled and dismounted. Looking around, he saw that his vision was clear again. But he could feel dispute all about him; restraint and tolerance mingling with fear and the need for desperate and swift action.

  'Move, damn you!’ he screamed at the horse, but it looked at him helplessly. With an oath he struck it viciously across the head, but still it did not move. ‘Damn you all!’ he screamed at the top of his voice. ‘Damn you all! I will not be opposed.'

  Then, it seemed to him that all the trees were bowing over and reaching down to him. He started to run.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  'With your permission, I'll escort you back to your home, ma'am,’ Nilsson said very politely as Marna emerged unsteadily from the spiral staircase that led down from Rannick's eyrie. As he spoke, he casually brushed his forefinger across his lips, and, with an incongruously paternal gesture, touched a wisp of her hair that was being disturbed by a draught from somewhere.

&nbs
p; Then he cast a significant glance up the stairs.

  It was then that Marna realized that the persistent draught that had been ruffling her hair and causing the lanterns along the unnervingly steep stairs to flicker was more than it seemed. It was a lingering touch from her would-be lord and lover. Or, if she understood Nilsson correctly, was it perhaps a spy?

  Whatever the truth, its irksome, spider's-web touch was still with her when she emerged into the now torchlit courtyard.

  'See, you made the sparks fly, girl,’ came the same lecherous voice that had addressed her earlier. Even as she turned to look at the speaker she saw Nilsson's arm snapping out. There was a dull, ground-shaking thud and a rasping gasp of air and the culprit went staggering backwards until he crashed into a wall and slithered to the floor.

  Marna looked up at Nilsson to thank him, but his finger surreptitiously touched his lips again and then flicked towards the waiting horse. The incident swept Marna's dominant concerns to one side for a moment. Nilsson's swift, yet almost casual, dispatch of the offender had struck deeply into her. Disturbingly, it had a quality about it not dissimilar to one she had often seen in her father as he practised his craft; a complete ease and effortlessness and yet an overwhelming focus of intent. She had learned something important, something she had known all her life, but she was nor sure what.

  They were some way from the castle before the faint breeze that was playing about them faded away. She felt Nilsson relax, though he gave no outward sign. After that, their silence became almost companionable.

  A little way from her home, Marna asked to be put down. ‘I need to walk for a while,’ she told him. ‘You're to come for me tomorrow evening, he said.'

  Nilsson nodded, but she could not see his expression in the darkness. Then he brought his horse around and gently urged it forward. Marna stood looking after him until his dark silhouette merged into the night.

  'Are you all right, Marna?’ The anxious voice startled her. A lantern was uncovered to reveal her father. ‘I've been waiting and waiting,’ he said. ‘Wondering what to do. I didn't know whether to stay here. Or dash up to the castle. I didn't ...'

  'I'm all right, Father,’ Marna said quickly, taking his arm and squeezing it reassuringly. ‘Nothing happened. Nothing happened.'

  Questions began to tumble out of Harlen. ‘What did he want you for? What did he say? What did he do? Why...?'

  As they walked back towards the cottage, Marna told her father what had happened, though she said nothing about her own unexpectedly ambivalent feelings. Harlen gradually became less agitated, but as she told of Nilsson's intended visit the following evening to take her to the castle permanently, he froze.

  'No!’ he hissed into the darkness. I'll cut Rannick's throat sooner.'

  Marna's eyes widened in alarm. ‘Father, no, please,’ she said, shaking his arm anxiously. ‘Whatever happens, promise me you'll do nothing foolish. He is so powerful. He can do such—strange things. You mustn't even try to approach him.'

  Harlen was silent.

  'Promise me,’ Marna demanded, suddenly stern. ‘I'm not a child. I'll find a way of dealing with ... whatever happens ... somehow. But it'll be important to me to know that you're still here, safe. And the cottage. Please don't do anything. He'll kill you without giving it a moment's thought, I'm sure. Just like he did Garren and Katrin.'

  Again Harlen did not reply, but Marna heard him taking a deep unsteady breath. Only when they reached the cottage and stepped into its familiar lighted heart did she see that his face was drawn and his eyes were gleaming wet. She could not meet his gaze.

  'I was so afraid for you,’ he said. ‘I didn't know what to do. I nearly attacked that ... Nilsson ... when he said what he'd come for. Then you were there, standing between us, so calm. And I thought, what good would that do? He might be dead, but the valley would be sealed, his men would be everywhere. And where could we run to? You'd be taken anyway. Then, you were riding off with him. I couldn't move. I felt so useless, so ...’ His voice faded away. ‘I'm sorry, Marna,’ he finished weakly.

  Pity overwhelmed her and she put her arms around him. ‘Don't be, don't be, you couldn't have done anything,’ she said, fighting back tears. ‘You've always looked after me, and you've brought me up to look after myself as well. We'll manage between us, somehow. All that's really important now is to stay alive. We've seen enough of what Rannick can do to know we can't deal with him like a normal person. There has to be another way. And we'll only find it if we keep watching and listening.'

  They stood for some time in silence, each supporting and sustaining the other. Then Harlen gently pulled Marna's arms from around him and straightened up. ‘You put me to shame, daughter,’ he said. ‘Your mother would've been proud of you. But I don't know if I can sit idly by while that man comes to collect you tomorrow—like just another piece of furniture.'

  Unexpectedly the comparison made Marna laugh, though it was a strained and humourless sound. ‘Rannick has some ... affection ... for me, Father,’ she said. ‘I think I ...'

  'I know what he has for you well enough, girl,’ Harlen replied bluntly before she could finish.

  Marna held up her hand to prevent him continuing. ‘Yes, and I know that, too,’ she said. ‘But I told you, I'll manage somehow, if I know all's well here.’ She faltered, and her lower lip trembled momentarily. ‘There are women up there putting up with far worse right now. Women far from home who don't even know what's happened to their men, or worse, have probably seen them killed. I'll manage, I know.’ Her face became determined. ‘And it will bring me close to him. Closer than anyone else could possibly be. Opportunities will arise.'

  Harlen lifted his hands as if to sweep aside the implications of what he was hearing, then they fell limply by his side. ‘We're trapped, aren't we?’ he said.

  Marna sank into a chair. ‘Yes,’ she said starkly. She gripped the arms of the chair to prevent her hands from shaking. Harlen caught the movement. He knelt down beside her, urgently. ‘No, Father,’ she said, looking with wide eyes into his distraught face and reaching out gently to fend him off. ‘No more. Don't touch me again. Just let me know that you'll be here, like you've always been, ready to pick up the pieces.'

  Harlen looked at her steadily for a long time, then, his face tense, he stood up. ‘I understand,’ he said softly.

  An uncertain silence hung between them until finally Harlen said, ‘I'll leave you alone to get your thoughts clear. I'll go for a walk. To do the same.’ He smiled slightly. ‘I won't be long. And I won't do anything foolish.'

  Marna nodded, unable to risk speaking. She knew that he needed to weep, somewhere out of sight and out of hearing. He wanted to rave into the night, to bend with the terrible wind that had suddenly blown through his life. Then he would be upright again, and strong. For all his gentleness and seeming weakness, he would sustain her unfailingly.

  Later that night she lay in bed staring up at the familiar beamed ceiling lit by a dim lantern that, for some reason, she did not want to extinguish. Despite her best endeavours she had been unable to control and order her thoughts as she had hoped; not while she had sat alone in the house while her father grieved into the night, nor in the hours since his return.

  Heading away from the castle, clinging to Nilsson's bulk, and nestling in the comfort of her father's love, she had boasted that she could cope with anything that might happen. But alone, in the quiet hours of the night, her resolve wavered. The strange, alien character of what Rannick had created both fascinated and repelled her. Nervously she twitched a strand of hair from her face as she remembered the breath that had fluttered around her head as she had left the castle. That, with its secretive intimacy, had, if anything, been worse than the eerie, dancing flames he had created.

  Yet the proximity of Rannick, his will, his intention—his touch—all so focused on her, made her reluctant body ache with an unexpected need. But the images that came with the need and its fulfilling were tainted with the cruelty that
she was all too aware of; the dull-eyed women that she had seen in the courtyard; the strange response she had had to the plundered furniture in Rannick's tower room; the memory of Jeorg's beaten body, and, underscoring all, like a bloody harmony note, the brutal slaying of Garren and Katrin Yarrance.

  Suddenly frantic, she swept the blankets from her and swung round to sit on the edge of her bed. Seizing her pillow, she pressed her flushed face into its cool underside. She could not do it. Whatever benefits might come to the valley by her being Rannick's woman, she could not pay the price. It was too much to ask. She did not have the courage to lie with him and to lie to him, still less to plunge a knife into him as he embraced her.

  Yet how could her fate be avoided? The darkness around her would yield to the daylight, and the daylight would wear into the evening, and the solitary form of Nilsson would appear along the road, as surely as the sun would rise and set. Her chest tightened with fear as, in as many heartbeats, she lived through those hours. It tightened and tightened until she thought she would have to scream out loud for release.

  Then the tension evaporated, and another, longer-held resolve reasserted itself. She tossed the pillow to one side and walked quietly across the room to a chest of drawers. Kneeling, she cautiously opened the bottom drawer and pushed her hand underneath the neatly arranged contents. After a brief search, she took out a small bundle wrapped loosely in an embroidered kerchief. Unfolding the kerchief, she withdrew the finely made leather wallet that contained Gryss's maps and notes showing the route to the capital; the wallet that she had stolen from Jeorg's pack, having carefully substituted a handful of old rags neatly wrapped in the waxed paper.

  Like Jeorg before her, she had spent a great deal of time quietly memorizing the contents of this wallet.

  * * * *

  Farnor ran and ran. He gave no thought either to direction or destination; he just ran. He must escape from these ... trees, these ... beings ... whatever they were, before they could bring to bear against him whatever resource it was they possessed.