by Roger Taylor
But he posed a question instead. ‘I accept what you say, sir, but with respect, what if the Heindral doesn't pass Heinder Drommel's motion, and chooses to bumble on as before?'
The Chief smiled knowingly. ‘As I told you, Heinder, a solid practical man,’ he said to Drommel before answering Skynner's question. ‘Don't concern yourself about that, Serjeant,’ he said, reaching forward and patting Skynner's shoulder, fatherly now. ‘That's politicians’ work. And you can rest assured that a great deal more has been happening behind the scenes than I'm at liberty to discuss, even with a fellow Keeper.’ Skynner managed to smile appreciatively. ‘What Heinder Drommel and I need to know now, Serjeant, is are you with us in this?'
Drommel twitched slightly at this clumsy conclusion to the Chief's peroration, and Skynner noted the movement with some satisfaction. It seemed to make the Chief a familiar figure again. But that was only a temporary verbal stumble in the presence of an individual who really did not matter all that much. The realities of what had been said would be unaffected by it. Skynner resorted to his own discreetly ambiguous rhetoric. ‘I'm a Keeper, sir. Keeping the peace and protecting ordinary folk from those who'd harm them is what I'm good at. I'll do whatever I have to do. You can rely on me for that, sir.'
A little later, alone in a narrow alley at the back of the Keeperage, where he had come to clear his head with cold night air, Skynner had a vision of Canol Madreth at war and under the heel of Cassraw and Drommel and the likes of his Chief. He was violently sick.
* * * *
The Whistler frowned. ‘You're a grim sight to mar such a day, night eyes,’ he said, raising his flute and squinting along it. A sudden breeze gusted around the two men, sending leaves pirouetting about their feet. The Whistler's eyes widened in delight and he held out the flute, moving it, twisting it, turning it, until a faint sound came from it. His long, bony finger danced along the holes and the sound became a brief, jigging tune. The Whistler smiled as it faded away and then looked at his hand strangely. ‘Thus blows the forest, thus walk my fingers. It seems they're content to see you.’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘I wonder why they didn't play you a dirge? That would've been my reaction on seeing you again.’ He threw his head back and sniffed. ‘You've got Him about you, stronger than ever. Damn you to hell.'
He stood up and took three jerking steps towards Vredech, keeping the same foot forward. ‘What do you want, Allyn Vredech, priest of Ishrythan?’ he said, hopping from one foot to the other, his manner incongruously at odds with the darkness in his voice. ‘Why do you disturb my dream again? I'd thought to have been rid of you a hundred years ago.’ His eyes moved to the left. ‘Or was it yesterday?’ They moved to the right. ‘Or perhaps tomorrow.’ Then straight forward, into Vredech's. ‘I can't remember. Are you a memory of the future, Priest? A shadow cast by the light of a time to come?'
Vredech lifted a hand, appealing for silence. Whether the Whistler was his own creation, or something else, he had no time for him now. He had to get away from here, return to the Meeting House.
'Where are we?’ he heard himself asking.
The Whistler danced away, his manner now impatient. ‘We're here, Allyn Vredech. Where else could we be?’ Then he blew a piercing whistle and Vredech found himself assailed by a roaring din, and unfamiliar but not unpleasant odours. He blinked, not so much to bring the scene before him into focus as to make it recognizable. He was by a huge lake. So huge in fact that he could not see the far side, although he could make out two or three islands in the distance—if islands they were, for they seemed to be moving. A trick of the light, he presumed, for the edge of the lake was alive with motion. Waves, bigger than any he had ever seen, spuming white in the sunlight, were swelling and over-topping themselves, then washing up the sandy shore towards him, spreading themselves thinner and thinner before retreating to oppose the next advancing rank.
This was no lake, he realized slowly.
'It's the sea,’ he said, his voice full of wonder. He had never seen the sea.
'And we are here,’ the Whistler said. ‘Just as we are here.'
There was another whistle, sharp and jagged this time.
In the distance, over rolling fields, Vredech saw a great castle set between two mountains and glinting like a precious stone. Its ramping towers and turrets glowed golden in the dawn light. For a moment, as he took in the scene and breathed in the still morning air, all his concerns fell away from him. ‘This is a beautiful place,’ he said softly. ‘Such peace.’ He turned to the Whistler, half-expecting some barbed comment, but the lanky figure was frowning. A fluttering sound nearby made him turn again. A large black bird, sitting on the branch of a tree, was flapping its wings and looking at them, its head tilted to one side. One of its legs looked strange, Vredech noted. Before he could say anything, however, he felt the Whistler's hand on his shoulder.
Urgently, he tried to pull away.
He did not want to leave this place!
But even as the thought came to him, the Whistler's tune had borne them both away again. Borne them to a place which could hardly have been a greater contrast, for though a bright summer sun beat down on them, the air was filled with such a din that Vredech's hands went immediately to his ears. There were the screams of men and animals, mingling with the thudding of hooves, and clashing of arms. Some distance away across the green, undulating turf but close enough to terrify, row upon row of men were locked in savage combat. Vredech backed away, seizing the Whistler's arm like a fearful child. The battle spread as far as he could see, a dark mass of striving men, wavering pennants, galloping horsemen. As he watched, a black cloud leapt high into the air and fell back again. Only when the sound reached him did he identify it. Arrows! Hundreds of them. And again. And again. He shuddered as the sounds of their landing reached him also.
A movement away from the battle caught his eye. He turned and saw an old man running. He was looking about him, bewildered and fearful as though he was being pursued. But again, before he could speak, Vredech saw the Whistler lifting his hand to his mouth.
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 forw
ard 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 in people'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 told 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.'