by Roger Taylor
'Oh! Too much dancing, girl,’ she said to herself, catching the strange thought and, spinning on her heel, she went back inside, continuing her dance across to the bed.
She lay very still for a long time, allowing warm, tired limbs to sink into the bed's sustaining softness as she watched the moonlight's slow march across the room.
Normally she would fall asleep immediately, but the dancing and the pleasant, strange familiarity of the room left her drifting gently in and out of sleep. Each time she opened her eyes, the shadow patterns on the ceiling had changed as the moon continued its journey through the sky. Not for the first time, she wondered why the Orthlundyn were not content simply to make beautiful carvings, but had to fill every carving and every cranny in the village with endlessly shifting shapes in which different scenes appeared with each change of moonlight or sunlight. Sometimes she felt overwhelmed by the massive history that seemed to be wrapped hidden in these carvings, even though it never made a coherent whole. She often felt an ancestral presence reaching far behind her into a strange distant past.
Drifting back into consciousness, with half-opened eyes and a half-closed mind, she noted the shadow of a man's profile on the wall. It was vaguely familiar, but she could not identify it, and it was already looping in and out of her incipient dreams.
When she opened her eyes again, it was gone.
Instead there was a darker, much more solid shadow there, not lightened by reflected moonlight but cutting it out. It was the figure of a man, standing in the room.
Suddenly she was awake, eyes wide, at first in bewilderment and then in mounting terror as a powerful hand was clamped over her mouth, and a soft hissing voice exhorted silence.
* * *
Chapter 2
In contrast to his leisurely journey from Pedhavin, Hawklan strode away from the Gretmearc as vigorously as he dared without making his progress seem too conspicuous. His long legs carried him easily through the throngs crowding the roads near that bustling, hectic market, but he was troubled and, while he tried to use the steady rhythm of his walking to quieten his thoughts, it was of little avail.
He had journeyed to the Gretmearc seeking answers to a question he had scarcely formulated. Now he came away beset by countless questions that were all too clear. He was a healer, not a warrior and yet, almost effortlessly, he had overcome four of the men who had attacked Andawyr's tent. Then he found himself angry because he had fled, despite his flight being at Andawyr's express command. Fleeing—leaving others to do his fighting. He felt degraded, dishonoured in some way that he could not understand.
Where had these strange fighting skills come from, and from where this feeling of disloyalty at his desertion of the field? And, perhaps even worse, from where the deeper voice within, coldly telling him that this desertion was necessary for a greater good?
Then there was Andawyr himself. The strange little man who had undoubtedly saved his life. Andawyr who had referred to him as Ethriss. ‘First among the Guardians,’ he had said. Some strange god-like creature from the mythical past. Hawklan wanted to dismiss the idea as a foolish old man's rambling, but Andawyr had radiated a sincerity and demonstrated skills that precluded such an easy escape.
But it must surely be nonsense? For all his ignorance of his own past, Hawklan certainly did not feel he was anything other than a very frail mortal. Yet Andawyr had seen that too. ‘You may be our greatest hope,’ he had said. ‘But at the moment I'm your greatest hope, and you, along with everyone else, are in great danger.’ Then, ‘Great forces have already been set against you. You need protection until you can be taught to know yourself.’ And finally, ‘Watch the shadows, your days of peace are ended.’ The words were chilling. There was solace in none of them.
And, unbidden, a new awareness had grown in him, making him seek for enmity as well as friendship in strange faces, danger as well as quiet calm where trees threw the road into dappled shade, treachery as well as hospitality when they passed through some village.
But for all his sombre preoccupations, the journey down through Riddin was uneventful. There seemed to be no pursuit from the Gretmearc and neither he nor Gavor saw any of the sinister little brown birds following them. None the less, the further they moved from the Gretmearc the easier Hawklan began to feel. It seemed that just as some compulsion had drawn him to the Gretmearc, now something was drawing him back to Anderras Darion. He longed to hear familiar voices talking of mundane matters, and to see familiar faces and surroundings, and he found himself almost elated when they turned from the road and began moving westward along the lesser roads and pathways through the grassy foothills that would lead them back into the mountains and towards Orthlund. Gavor, too, rose high and joyous into the spring sky.
The following day was windy and sunny, with white billowing clouds flying busily across a blue sky. Hawklan had been continuing a relentless pace uphill and had stopped for a brief rest and a meal. He was lying on a grassy bank at the side of the road, staring idly over the Riddin countryside spread out beneath him and half-listening to the happy babble of a family who were picnicking nearby. The sun was warm on his face and he felt very relaxed, in spite of his dark anxieties.
He had made a small truce with himself—whoever I am, or have been, and whatever I did or have yet to do, and whatever has happened or will happen to me, there is nothing to be gained in endlessly fretting over it, other than confusion and dismay. All will become clear in time ... probably. Just watch and wait and learn.
Looking up at the moving clouds, he realized that the image of dark and distant clouds lingering persistently at the edges of his mind seemed to have gone. Now, like the real ones above him, they were overhead. But they contained no spring lightness; they were dour and menacing. He knew that what he had been fearing had arrived, but he could not yet see what it was.
Suddenly he noticed that the noise of the picnicking family had stopped and he turned to see what had happened. Apparently the father of the group had called for silence and he was slowly rising to his feet and staring up into the sky intently. As he rose, he lifted two of the children to their feet and, with an extended finger, directed their gaze out across the countryside to where he himself was staring. The whole family looking in one direction, Hawklan found his own gaze drawn inexorably the same way.
At first he could see nothing unusual, then a familiar black dot came into view. Surely the group couldn't be staring at Gavor? he thought, resting his cheek on the cool sweet-smelling grass and looking at them again. Then Gavor landed clumsily and hastily by his side in a state of some considerable excitement.
'Look, Hawklan,’ he said breathlessly, thrusting his beak forward, pointing in the same direction.
'Where?’ said Hawklan.
'There,’ replied Gavor impatiently. ‘There. Where I'm pointing.'
'I can't see anything,’ began Hawklan. ‘Only clouds and sk—'
He broke off as his gaze, working through the moving tufts of white, fell on the cause of all the attention. The sight dispelled his sun-warmed lethargy and drew him first into a sitting position, and then to his feet, though slowly, as if fearful of disturbing the wonder he was looking at. For a moment he felt disorientated and he glanced down briefly at Gavor. The gleaming black iridescence of his friend against the soft green grass reassured him and he looked up again at the large white cloud in the distance.
For a large white cloud is what it appeared to be, one of the great wind-borne flotilla gliding silently and gracefully overhead. Except that rising from its upper surface were rank upon rank of towers and spires, like a vast and distant echo of Anderras Darion, glinting white and silver in the sunlight.
As he stared, Hawklan saw that the surface was etched with a fine mosaic that could be smaller buildings though it was too distant for him to identify any details.
As the great shape moved, so, like any other cloud, it changed, and Hawklan saw the distant towers slowly, almost imperceptibly, rising and falling in response.<
br />
'What is it?’ he whispered, unconsciously imitating the hushed tones of the nearby Riddinvolk.
'Viladrien.'
Gavor spoke the word at the same time as the man in the group, and the effect, combined with the almost unbelievable sight in front of him, made Hawklan start. Before he could speak again, Gavor said, ‘One of the great Cloud Lands.'
Gavor's tone also reflected the awe of the other watchers and Hawklan himself sensed it was a time for watching and not talking.
'I must go to it,’ said Gavor and, without waiting for any comment from Hawklan, he stretched his great blue-sheened wings into the breeze and rose up into the spring air.
'It's too far,’ Hawklan whispered softly to himself, without understanding why he said it. ‘Too far. You'll break your heart.'
As he watched Gavor go, flying straight and purposefully in the direction of the strange and stately Cloud Land, Hawklan thought he caught a faint sound floating softly in the air all around him but, as he strained to hear it, it slipped from him.
For a long, timeless moment, Hawklan and the picnicking Riddinvolk stood on the sunlit hillside in silent communion as the great shape floated by. Less captivated than the adults, the children alternated their attention between the Cloud Land and their silent parents but, sensing their mood, they remained still and quiet.
In the silence, Hawklan seemed to hear again the strange soft singing all around him but, this time, he allowed it to move over him and made no wilful attempt to listen to it. He had never heard such a noise before, nor could he understand it, but he knew it for an ancient song of praise and rejoicing, though now it was filled with a strange regretful longing. Eventually, as the Cloud Land faded into the distance and was lost amongst its neighbours, the children began to tug tentatively at their father and ask questions. The man knelt down and put his arms around his two boys. Hawklan eavesdropped shamelessly, his own immediate sense of wonder being slowly overcome by curiosity.
'It's one of the Viladrien,’ the man said, almost reverently. ‘Where the Drienvolk live. The sky people. They float in the sky like the Morlider islands float in the sea.'
'Are they bad people like the Morlider?’ asked one child anxiously.
The man smiled; rather sadly, Hawklan thought.
'Not all the Morlider are bad,’ the man said. ‘I've told you that. But no, the Drienvolk are kind and friendly. They've never harmed anyone.'
'Will any of them come down?'
'I wouldn't think so. From what my grandfather used to tell me, they don't like being on the ground. The air's too thick for them. They feel closed in, crushed. They need the space of the skies to be happy.'
Hawklan's curiosity overwhelmed him totally and he walked over to the group and introduced himself. The man welcomed him. He was rubbing his neck and wriggling his shoulders.
'I couldn't keep my eyes off it,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘How long have we been watching it?'
Hawklan shrugged. ‘Some experiences can't be measured in ordinary time,’ he said enigmatically.
The man looked at him thoughtfully and then nodded a slow agreement.
'Did you hear that noise?’ Hawklan asked.
The man shook his head. ‘No, I heard nothing,’ he said. ‘I didn't dare to breathe for fear of disturbing the silence. Did you hear anything?’ He turned to ask his wife.
'Someone was singing,’ volunteered one of the children casually. ‘It was all around.’ She met Hawklan's green eyes squarely and openly.
'All around?’ Hawklan queried.
The child opened her arms to encompass the mountains and the plains and the sky. ‘All around,’ she confirmed. Her father looked at her suspiciously. ‘All around, Daddy, as if the mountains were singing to the Vil ... Vil...’ She gave up her attempt on the word, but finished her speech. ‘But it was very soft, Daddy, the music.'
Hawklan intervened gently. ‘There was a faint singing noise, I'm sure. Maybe it was the wind. Anyway it's stopped now.'
The man smiled. ‘It doesn't matter,’ he said. ‘The appearance of a Viladrien is supposed to be associated with strange happenings. I'm well content just to have seen one. What a sight. What a thing to tell them back home.'
'They'll all have seen it,’ said his wife prosaically.
The man refused to allow his spirits to be dampened. ‘I don't care. I'll tell them anyway. I'll wager we had the better view up here,’ he said excitedly. ‘What a sight,’ he repeated.
'Indeed,’ said Hawklan. ‘Can you tell me anything about them? I've never heard of anything like an island in the sky. What kind of people live on them?'
The man laughed. ‘You're Orthlundyn aren't you?’ he said. ‘Don't they teach you the Old Lore in Orthlund?'
Hawklan smiled and shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘A little,’ he lied. ‘But not all of us listen as we should.'
The man laughed again. ‘Well, I can't tell you much,’ he said. ‘Only old school tales. My great-grandfather was supposed to have met some of the Drienvolk once ... according to my grandfather, that is. Very high in the mountains, when he was young and had got separated from his parents in the mist. Said they showed him the path. Said they were friendly but a bit strange—shy, in a way. And they floated in the air. I never really believed it, but it's a nice family tale, and the Drienvolk are supposed to be kind and gentle.’ The man's manner quietened a little at the mention of his grandfather, and he looked almost longingly after the departed Viladrien.
'And you've never seen one before?’ offered Hawklan gently.
The man shook his head, ‘Apparently once they were supposed to be quite common, but no, I've never seen one until today. Nor met anyone who has. They say sometimes the odd one has been seen far out to sea, but...’ His voice tailed off into a shrug.
'I wonder why one should come now?’ Hawklan mused.
The man looked at him. ‘That's a strange question. They're carried on the air like the Morlider Islands are carried on the sea. They must go where the wind takes them—where Sphaeera wills.’ He almost intoned the last part softly as if repeating something he had learned many years earlier by rote.
'Sphaeera?’ queried Hawklan.
The man looked at him and smiled knowingly. ‘It's a quiet place isn't it, Orthlund?'
Hawklan returned the smile and nodded.
'Sphaeera's our name for the Guardian of the Air,’ said the man. ‘You've probably got a different one. She's actually supposed to have created the Viladrien. But why one's come now, Ethriss only knows.'
He gave Hawklan a sideways look. ‘You've heard of Ethriss, I suppose?’ he asked humorously.
'Oh yes, I've heard of Ethriss,’ said Hawklan, unconsciously resting his hand on his sword.
The man noted the gesture and laughed again. ‘I see you wear a black sword like Ethriss used to. Maybe it's you who attracted the Viladrien.'
* * * *
It was nearly sunset before an exhausted Gavor returned to Hawklan. The bird sat heavily and silently on his shoulder for a long time before speaking and, when he did speak, his voice was unusually subdued.
'It was much further away and far higher than it looked,’ he said. ‘And it was large. Very large. I didn't really get anywhere near it at all, I'm afraid, though I thought I caught a glimpse of people flying over it.'
'You seem to have been very impressed,’ said Hawklan light-heartedly.
To his surprise, Gavor was almost angry. ‘Andawyr was right,’ he said crossly. ‘You need to study more lore. The Viladrien were Sphaeera's greatest creation. I haven't the words to describe what I felt when that great vision floated into sight. I doubt I'll ever be the same again. I must land on one. I must.'
'I'm sorry, Gavor,’ Hawklan said softly. ‘I didn't mean to upset you.'
Gavor repented a little. ‘It's not your fault, Hawklan. You understand living creatures more than anyone I've ever met, but you're earthbound. You can no more understand what it feels like to be an air creature than I can
understand your healing skills or what it's like to have hands.'
* * * *
Two days later they were deep into the mountains, Hawklan still maintaining a vigorous pace, fuelled by a restless anxiety. He had the feeling that only at Anderras Darion would he be truly safe, and only there could he begin to start learning about what had happened and perhaps what was about to happen. He might refuse to fret about what had been, but he knew now that he needed knowledge and would have to search, and learn and learn. Sitting on the grass and leaning against a tree he watched the distant sky changing through reds and oranges and purples as the sun sank further below the horizon, and the deep hazy blue of the night encroached from the east. Overhead, the odd pink cloud drifted aimlessly, while others, lower, were already turning black and grey. One or two bright points of light hung in the sky, vanguards of the night.
He had chosen a sheltered spot for the night's camp because tomorrow he would be much higher and would need to pitch his small shelter for the night. This would be his last night in the open for some days.
Although it was not late and he was not particularly comfortable, his hard pace through the day had left him pleasantly weary, and he found himself drifting into sleep, then jerking suddenly awake as his body slid into some improbable position. After the third such awakening he relinquished his viewing of the night sky and, wrapping his cloak around himself, lay down on the soft grass.
Whether it was a quality of the cloak, or whether it was some ancient instinct he was unaware of, he became just another shadow in the rising moonlight, indistinguishable from all the others, as he pulled his face under the hood.
He fell asleep almost immediately but, as the remains of the evening light faded away, he began to be plagued by restless, flitting dreams. Images of the recent past came and went arbitrarily with an insane logic all their own: a horse that could not speak to him; a squat creature that tore off his arm and turned into a group of his friends when he stabbed it; a rushing cheering crowd of horsemen galloping across the sky and a cloud that sang to him a song he understood but did not understand; Dar-volci's stentorian voice roaring profanities in a dark place full of noise and gleaming blades ... A terrible place. No! he cried out. No! But he could not awaken. He sat up, sweating, but he knew he was still asleep.