Whistler

by Roger Taylor

  As the sound he made folded around the scene and bore them away, Vredech thought that he heard wolves howling.

  Yet there was nothing but the rustling of the trees in the forest.

  ‘Whistler! Enough!’ Vredech shouted angrily. ‘Let me go. Let me get back to my own time and place, to my reality where…’ He stopped.

  The Whistler was uncharacteristically still, though his jaw was working slightly as if he were actually chewing his thoughts. He was looking at Vredech strangely. ‘Everything goes amiss when you appear, Preacher,’ he said. ‘I’m carried to places I’ve never known. The song becomes infinitely subtle.’ He held out his hand, his thumb and forefinger pressing together tightly. ‘The least change here…’ he whistled two notes, then his eyes opened wide and he flicked his hands open, spinning the flute around one of them. ‘… and such changes there. Such changes – very strange. Never known the like. Who are you, Preacher?’

  ‘Enough, Whistler!’ Vredech shouted. Then with a cry of frustration he began driving his fingernails into his forearm in the vague hope that perhaps the pain might rouse him or in some way restore him to the Meeting House. Nothing happened. The Whistler watched him narrowly.

  ‘You haven’t killed Him then?’ he said, his voice matter-of-fact.

  Vredech abandoned his attempt to rouse himself and glared at the Whistler.

  ‘You’re a dark sight, Priest,’ the Whistler said, suddenly angry. ‘Standing there with your doomsday-black robe and your eyes like pits into who knows what purgatory, fouling the forest with the stink of Him!’ Then the anger seemed suddenly to drain out of him and he gave a resigned shrug. ‘Tell me what’s happened then,’ he said.

  ‘Go to hell!’ Vredech snapped.

  ‘I probably will if I follow you and your like,’ the Whistler retorted viciously. ‘Now tell me what’s happened.’

  For a moment, Vredech felt a rage such as he had never known. He found himself about to rush forward and attack his tormentor, but even as his body stiffened, the Whistler moved slightly and bringing the flute to his mouth played the familiar three notes, long and plaintive. The movement made Vredech falter, and the sound scattered his intention.

  ‘Tell me, Allyn,’ the Whistler said.

  Vredech felt his knees buckling, as if unable to sustain his confusion, and he sat down before he fell. ‘Let me go back,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve nightmares enough in the real world – or whatever it is – without this. I need to be there. There’s no other true place for me.’

  The Whistler approached cautiously and crouched down in front of him. ‘Tell me,’ he said again, very softly.

  Vredech slumped, and without looking up told all that had happened since they had last met. It did not take long. Throughout, the Whistler blew gently across the mouth-hole of his flute, with a sound like the wind blowing over a bleak and distant plain.

  There was a long silence after Vredech had finished.

  ‘You frighten me, Allyn Vredech, with your monstrous Cassraw,’ the Whistler said eventually. ‘But it’s Him that brings the changes, not you. I’m sorry. He distorts the fabric of everything with His lust!’ His final word drifted away into the soft sigh of the wind.

  When Vredech looked up, he was staring at Nertha sitting on the edge of the couch by her patient, her head bowed slightly and her profile lit by the firelight. How strange that he’d never before noticed how beautiful she was, nor realized how precious she was to him. The strange serenity he had felt as he had stared at the distant castle in the dawn light but moments before returned to him, calming him.

  ‘Are you awake, Allyn?’ Nertha asked quietly.

  He nodded. ‘Yes. How long was I asleep?’

  Nertha smiled. ‘Not long. Yan-Elter’s not back yet.’

  Vredech stretched luxuriously. ‘How’s Iryn?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s sleeping normally now, but he’s still disturbed.’

  The words brought back the memory of the dream he had entered before he had been drawn again to the Whistler. It had been so powerful, so vivid. And he had never before remained in one dream for so long. It must have been Iryn’s, he realized. Perhaps because they were so close physically, perhaps because Iryn’s dream was so compellingly awful or, it occurred to him, perhaps he was still changing – in some way becoming more controlled, more sensitive. Like the Whistler’s tunes.

  ‘I know why,’ he said.

  Nertha looked at him.

  ‘He’s dreaming about Bredill,’ Vredech said, prising himself out of the chair and moving to the couch. ‘I’ve been inside his dream.’ So much had happened that day that, despite her training and experience, Nertha could not keep the distress from her face at this remark. Vredech knew the cause and pressed on to the cure without pause. Gently he motioned her away from the sleeping Iryn, then very quickly, almost whispering, he told her about the dream. ‘It was no glorious battle,’ he concluded. ‘It was a treacherous and bloody ambush. A slaughter of sleeping men.’

  Nertha took his arm. ‘But…’

  ‘Wake him and ask him,’ Vredech instructed.

  Nertha hesitated.

  ‘Wake him!’

  Then he stepped past her, smoothing down his hair, ruffled from his brief sleep, and fastening his clerical robe. He sat on the edge of the couch by Iryn and gently shook him. Gradually the young man awoke, blinking and rubbing his eyes in the soft lantern-light. Vredech gave him no opportunity to speak.

  ‘You’re safe now, Iryn,’ he said quietly but with a preacher’s ring to his voice. Nertha watched him carefully. ‘I’m Brother Vredech and this is my sis… Nertha, a physician. Your brother rescued you and brought you here, after your friends had deserted you. He’ll be back soon. He’s gone to tell your mother that you’re well. She’s been desperately worried about you since you went off to Bredill.’

  At the mention of Bredill, Iryn’s face began to contort. Vredech laid a restraining hand on him. ‘I can feel your pain, my son,’ he said. ‘And I can help you with it.’ Iryn put his hands over his face and uttered a muffled, ‘No.’

  Vredech pulled the hands away. ‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘I know you’re no service-attender, but that’s of no great consequence. The true heart of the church doesn’t lie in buildings and rites and practices, it lies inpeople’s hearts. Ishryth might be a stern god, but He always sustains those who turn to Him. He will not burden you with more than you can bear, but you must speak of that burden if you wish it to be lightened.’ He leaned forward. ‘Speak it now. Speak out what it was that you and the others did at Bredill which is giving you such pain that it’s almost crushing you. Speak out so that you can start on the path towards reparation and forgiveness.’

  Iryn screwed his eyes tight shut and, gritting his teeth, shook his head violently from side to side.

  Vredech’s preaching tone was relentless in its authority. ‘There is no other way,’ he declared. ‘Speak it and let us help you, or be burdened with it for ever.’ He leaned still further forward, ‘For ever, Iryn. For the rest of your life – and beyond.’ Though both his look and his voice were full of compassion, his tone was a cruelly judged goad.

  Nertha caught his arm, but he shook her off.

  All of a sudden Iryn began to utter a high-pitched squeal. He clamped his hands over his face again, driving his fingernails into his forehead. Vredech took hold of them, but made no effort to move them other than to prevent Iryn from injuring himself.

  The squealing rose to a climax and then began to break up into sobs. Eventually, gasping and disjointed, and punctuated by inarticulate bursts of remorse, the tale of the glorious Battle of Bredill emerged. Vredech nodded and encouraged the confession, but his eyes kept moving to Nertha, who was now sitting by the patient’s head. Towards the end, Yan-Elter returned. Vredech motioned him urgently to silence as he came into the room.

  When it was finished, Nertha had heard the account that Vredech had given her repeated in every particular, save that there was more, for Iryn’s account to
ld also of Cassraw and Yanos’s murderous driven march across the countryside to bring their force to Bredill and then to return it to Troidmallos. Encouragement had taken many forms, but predominantly it had consisted of vicious abuse, and later blows and kicks. There were hints in the telling that others than he had simply been abandoned, both going and returning, but Vredech did not press for details. Nor did he press for an account of other things that Cassraw apparently did to keep his warriors moving, as the existence of these seemed to lie in sudden silences, and they obviously inspired a fear in Iryn that was far deeper than any remorse.

  ‘Bravely told, Iryn,’ Vredech said when all was apparently finished. ‘These were awful deeds, but your feet are on a truer path now. I want you to stay here and rest, and we’ll talk again in the morning. There are things to be done which will help undo some of this harm.’

  ‘It’s not going to bring anyone back to life, is it?’ Iryn said, his hands moving towards his face again, but stopping.

  Vredech shook his head. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘But we can try to stop others from being killed. A great many others.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Yan-Elter demanded as Vredech finally stood up.

  ‘Your mother’s all right?’ Vredech said, authoritative again.

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s happened later. Nertha and I have a lot to talk about now. What I want you to do is sit by your brother. Just be there where he can see you. Let him sleep, let him talk, whatever he wants. But no questions, do you understand? No questions. Everything will keep until the morning.’

  Nertha was looking at him strangely as they sat down again by the fire and she pulled their chairs closer so that they could talk privately.

  ‘I don’t know whether I’m more or less frightened after hearing that,’ she confessed. ‘You really did go into his dream, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’ll answer your question for you,’ Vredech said. ‘You’re less frightened, because now you don’t have to be quite so fearful for my sanity. You’re also more frightened, because you’ve never known or heard the like before, and you don’t know what’s happening or how.’

  ‘All I need is your Whistler to come through the door,’ Nertha said, self-mocking.

  Vredech smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You’d be wondering then whether you, too, had gone insane.’

  Nertha reflected his smile then gently admonished him. ‘Enough,’ she whispered. ‘We shouldn’t be talking like this after what we’ve just heard.’

  Vredech turned towards Iryn and Yan-Elter. Just as he and Nertha were engaged in a subdued conversation, so were the two brothers.

  ‘An idle street lout,’ he said. ‘The family misfit. Slipped through caring hands – or jumped, perhaps. Destined for some twilight life at the fringes of our society, and probably prison in the end. But now a murderer under Cassraw’s tutelage. As clear a measure of Cassraw’s corruption as my telling of his dream was of my own strange… ability.’ He looked back to Nertha. ‘You prefer things to be hard-edged, don’t you?’ he said.

  Nertha met his gaze. ‘I’d prefer some things never to be,’ she said. ‘But yes, given that they are, the more signs point the way, the happier I feel about the direction I’m travelling.’

  Vredech took up the analogy. ‘Have you thought about what direction Canol Madreth’s travelling in?’ he asked.

  ‘Towards war and horror,’ Nertha replied simply. ‘It’ll take the Felden some time to gather their army together, but when they do they’ll come for revenge, I’m sure. And if Cassraw can fire the militia as he fired these Knights of his, then whatever the outcome, there’ll be blood spilt and hatred ignited that’ll go down through the ages even when the original cause has been long forgotten. Children unborn are already dying of it.’

  Vredech shivered at this cruel analysis.

  ‘And where does that leave us?’ he asked. ‘You and me? The people who know.’

  Nertha looked at him for a long time. ‘Other than being desperately afraid of what’s going to happen and the speed of what’s actually happening, I don’t know.’ She did not carry helplessness well.

  ‘Yes,’ Vredech whispered very softly. Then he stood up and walked over to a sideboard. He opened a drawer and after a clumsy search in the comparative darkness, found what he was looking for. He returned to Nertha and gave it to her.

  ‘I’ve a small medical problem I’d like your help with,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Father’s militia knife,’ she said, smiling as she recognized it. She took the knife from its sheath and tested the edge. ‘Good as ever. He’d shave with this sometimes just to show off and give us all a fright, do you remember?’ Her smile faded and she looked at Vredech anxiously. ‘What do you mean, a small medical problem? And what have you got this out for?’

  Vredech glanced at Yan-Elter and Iryn, then took the knife from Nertha’s unresisting hand. He spoke softly but very deliberately. ‘I’m as responsible for those deaths at Bredill as that lad over there. I’m going to take some advice I was given a little time ago but which in my priestly wisdom I chose to ignore. I’ll listen to yours, however, and follow it carefully.’

  He looked down at the knife, its blade glinting in the firelight. ‘I need to know, Physician, the quickest and most effective way of using this to kill Cassraw.’

  Chapter 34

  It was raining again the following day, a fine vertical drizzle that soaked only a little more slowly than a summer downpour. Grey clouds descended to obscure the mountain tops and to sustain the soft mists that were greying everything else.

  But for all the dampness in the air, Troidmallos was alive with activity. Privv’s Sheets were everywhere, proclaiming the Chosen One, waxing rapturously about the miracle that had been shown to the assembled throng on the Ervrin Mallos, announcing the call for the levying of the militia, and eulogizing both Mueran and Marash as martyrs to the new Canol Madreth that was imminent, and that was to be the heart of a united Gyronlandt. They even risked suggesting that, in the wake of the Chosen One, there might be the Second Coming of Ishryth himself.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything even in the wilder reaches of the Santyth about that,’ Leck offered tentatively when Privv, riding high on creative hyperbole, had mooted this. She stretched herself. Privv pondered long and hard about her observation, this being so serious a matter, but by the time Leck had finished stretching, he had decided to include it. It was, after all, quite consistent with his normal policy of never allowing facts to stand in the way of his deathless prose.

  Needless to say, Privv himself had not actually been present at Cassraw’s service – there were limits even to his sense of duty towards seeking out the truth, and climbing the Ervrin Mallos was one. Besides, the mounting burdens of his vocation were leaving him ever more exhausted.

  In addition to his rhetoric about Cassraw, he also inveighed against the weakness and confusion in the Heindral, and made strident demands for strong and resolute leadership. Untypically, he had allowed Toom Drommel to assist him with that. Drommel had an excellent range of determined adjectives.

  The whole, of course, had passed Cassraw’s scrutiny and been found good.

  The Sheets fed acid into the streams of gossip that were corroding the town. Where there had been indifference, the Sheets turned it into concern, where concern, fear – and where fear, near panic.

  Not that everyone was in agreement with the way in which developing events should be handled, but following the Felden invasion and the Battle of Bredill, none could gainsay the need to levy the militia, and under this unanimity there developed an insidious reluctance to raise any voice in dissent.

  Throughout Troidmallos and its immediate neighbours, such individuals who had not already been galvanized by the mounting tension were now drawn in. Few darkened corners escaped scrutiny in the search for long-forgotten weaponry and equipment. Fletchers and bowyers were suddenly inundated with work, a
s were blacksmiths and all other tradesmen whose goods were to be found listed in the Annex to the Militia Statute.

  Not that these activities carried any frisson of excitement or celebration. As the dark clouds had infected Cassraw, so now his actions spread a subtler darkness. The atmosphere pervading the town was one of fear. And growing out of the fear, vigorous and strong, came unreason and mindless anger. Skynner was obliged to redeploy many of his men to guard the premises of companies who traded with Tirfelden, as the dregs of Madren society began to cling together and rise to the surface, their ignorance and general ineptitude re-forged into raucous self-righteousness. Such Keepers as were not involved in the consequences of this sudden awakening of social conscience were occupied in dealing with innumerable domestic squabbles and public altercations – not least in the premises of the tradesmen who found themselves so suddenly in demand.

  Though harassed, however, Skynner was almost relieved at this activity as it kept his mind from dwelling on the implications of his meeting with the Chief and Toom Drommel. He was uncertain which boded the worst: their assumption that they could use Cassraw to play some game of their own, or their actually believing in him. Not that he could keep such thoughts at bay all the time, and whenever they returned to him, he found himself glancing up towards the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. It was shrouded in mist, but he sensed that had he been able to see it, the strange haze that had grown there and then had briefly faded, would be present again, probably more pronounced than ever. For the first time in many years he began to get stomach-ache.

  Thoughts of Albor, too, would emerge unexpectedly in the middle of the day’s turmoil. These disturbed him even more than his concerns about the Chief and his intentions, and were less easily set aside, there being so many small reminders of his friend and colleague about the Keeperage. And with the memories of Albor came thoughts about the murderer. Grim, fearful thoughts, like a deep, unheard note underlying the cacophony of all that was happening around him. That many more innocent people now fretting through their ordinary lives might be within weeks, perhaps even days, of death, when they might reasonably have expected years, did not lessen his anger and frustration at these random murders. It unsettled him profoundly that all his experience and his knowledge of Troidmallos and its people had yielded nothing in his investigations. Somewhere, possibly with an accomplice, a monstrous creature wearing the appearance of an ordinary person was still walking the town.