by Roger Taylor
Panic surged over him. He was discovered! What had he done? Had he slept and betrayed himself? He tried to stand, but his legs would not obey him and he felt himself hit the ground with a winding impact. He tried to roll over, but where in this blackness was up and where down? The dancing lights were now ahead of him, now above, now to the side, now inside his head, now outside.
He would not be bound again, and his body must not be taken. His brothers must know what he knew now. He must use the Power to destroy himself. They would feel it and know it was his. Know that he had returned from his journey and that it was his one last message. Others must take up the struggle.
He was spent, and now utterly lost.
As the lights neared, he struggled to find his cord. It seemed he was like two separate people; the one with lost searching hands groping over an alien surface, the other fighting to escape some probing assault.
Then the lights were around him, bigger now. And voices crying out, blurred in his pulsing hearing. And shadows, strange fearful shadows.
Suddenly he knew he was on his back, the shadows circling him, tall and ominous. And here was the cord. Here would be a light to blind these creatures of His, to shine gloriously up out of this blighted place. A light to end his awful journeying and deliver his message to those who must now carry it.
He opened his mouth to speak, to shout a last mortal defiance, but some unexpected power interposed itself and the cord fell, or was taken, from his hand, and another voice sounded in his ears.
'Brother Andawyr. It's you. Ethriss be praised. I can't believe it. We've kept watch, but we feared you long dead.'
The power was gone but, bewildered, he still could not speak. He tried to turn away from the painfully bright lights.
'Shield his eyes, brothers,’ said the voice again. ‘He's exhausted and he's been too long in the darkness.’ Gentle hands touched him. ‘He's barely with us. Take him up carefully, we must get him back quickly.'
Andawyr felt himself lifted and borne along rapidly. Occasionally the lights resolved themselves into hooded torches, and vaguely familiar faces drifted in and out of shadow as he drifted in and out of consciousness. One bent over him from time to time. A name formed in his mind; and his message.
'Oslang,’ he said weakly. The face came forward again, its concern clear and focussed. Andawyr reached up and caught his friend's robe. ‘Oslang. He is here. I have felt His presence. He's come again. In our time. Tell...'
He slipped away into unconsciousness.
'Hurry, brothers,’ Oslang said urgently. ‘He's been sorely tried. We may lose him if we delay.'
* * * *
Andawyr awoke suddenly and gazed around in alarm. Everywhere was dark. His thoughts whirled in despair. Had his rescue been just a dream? Brother Oslang and the others? Was he still bound by Him, cowering fearful in the mountains of Narsindal? Hiding his body from His scouring patrols while his spirit and power were pinioned?
He started at a sudden sound nearby in the darkness. It came again. A grunt, then a splutter. Slowly a torch bloomed into life to reveal a familiar room and a familiar figure sprawled awkwardly on a short couch. Oslang. He was yawning ungraciously and rubbing his eyes.
Relief spread over Andawyr, more comforting even than the soft sheets and the muted torchlight that covered him. It had been no dream. He was home. Not in his own room he noted, but home, without a doubt. Like most of the rooms at the Cadwanen, it was plain and simple except for a panel on the wall to his left. This was decorated with a finely painted pattern of intricately intertwined leaves and stems.
Sitting up, he reached out and passed his hand in front of the panel. Noiselessly, the pattern gently fragmented and unwound itself like an opening flower. Daylight flooded into the room revealing to him the splendid and familiar panorama of the mountains that marked the northern boundary of Riddin.
Andawyr turned his face away from the sudden brightness, and there was a cry from Oslang followed by a thud as he fell off his couch.
'Sorry, Oslang,’ Andawyr said, as his friend, rescuer and Under-Leader of the Cadwanol struggled to his feet. ‘I thought it was still night-time.'
Oslang looked up at him blearily, then struggled to his feet and sat down on the edge of Andawyr's bed. His high-domed and balding head slumped forward, and his right hand rose to massage some wakefulness into his eyes.
Andawyr looked contrite. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated.
Oslang stretched and yawned again. His long narrow face looked tired and worn, but happy and relieved. ‘How are you feeling now, brother Andawyr?’ he asked, emphasizing the name and title.
'Dreadful,’ Andawyr said. ‘I'm starving...’ His tongue protruded and retreated and his mouth twisted into an extensive moue. ‘And I've got a mouth like a felci's...'
Oslang raised an eyebrow.
'Like a felci's,’ Andawyr concluded, marginally penitent again. Oslang grunted and shuffled to a table by the bed. He poured water into a carved wooden beaker from a similarly carved jug, and offered it to his friend.
Andawyr downed the contents in one long noisy draught and held the beaker out at arm's length. Oslang smiled. ‘In service, we guide. In service, we learn,’ he said as he obeyed the unspoken request and refilled the beaker.
Andawyr took a smaller, more leisurely drink and then placed the beaker back on the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘We become so learned, Oslang, we forget the wisdom to be found in simple pleasures,’ he said, leaning back and looking out at the sunlit mountains.
His face clouded abruptly and he turned back to his friend. ‘Just to be able to see, Oslang, just to be able to drink ... such gifts. I've been so long in the darkness. You can't imagine the agony of having the Power and not daring to use it to sustain yourself in extremity. You can't imagine it. When...'
Oslang leaned forward and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Relax, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘There'll be plenty of talking soon enough. Enjoy your simple pleasures, now they're available to you again, and take some pride that you resisted whatever you had to resist, and completed your journey safely. There's nothing so urgent that your resting a little more will alter.'
Andawyr's face darkened further as the word urgent brought his memories flooding back. ‘Yes there is,’ he said. ‘We mustn't delay. We must start...’ Oslang raised an admonitory finger, and reluctantly, Andawyr subsided. Somewhat sulkily he looked round the room again. ‘Where am I, anyway? Why am I not in my own room?’ Then, suspiciously, with a closer look at the mountains reflected in the mirror stones of the window opening, ‘How deep are we here? And how long have I been here?'
Oslang looked at him steadily. ‘You've been back several days, Andawyr. You were totally exhausted. As to depth, you're on the twentieth level, for reasons I'm sure you understand.'
Andawyr closed his eyes. ‘Several days,’ he said quietly. ‘And that deep. You must have been very frightened.'
'Cautious,’ corrected Oslang. ‘You were in a strange mood after your spectacular return from the Gretmearc with that ... abomination, and your tales of Ethriss dormant, and ... Him, risen again. Then you went off into Narsindal against all our advice. And you were gone so long.’ He hesitated. ‘With all that, and other signs...'
'You had to be certain I was what I seemed,’ Andawyr finished Oslang's remarks.
The tall man nodded. ‘And that you carried no corruption or taint,’ he added.
'And?'
'You're fine,’ Oslang said, a smile lighting up his long face. ‘Quite unchanged.'
'You're sure?’ Andawyr added.
Oslang's smile broadened. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We put you well below the twentieth level when we brought you in.’ He laughed nervously. ‘We could have bound Sumeral himself there.'
Andawyr scowled. ‘Don't blaspheme,’ he said angrily, suddenly leader of the Cadwanol. ‘From henceforth, that name is to be held in the awe it merits. It's suited for neither casual oath nor dry academic debate.'
&nbs
p; Oslang's smile faded at this unexpected rebuke. Andawyr swept aside his sheets and swung off the bed. ‘I'm sorry, Oslang,’ he said. ‘If I'm any judge, you've probably nursed me yourself since you found me, and I'm sure you've taken every precaution for both my well-being and the well-being of the whole community. I appreciate it. But times are changing rapidly and from now on we'll have to be truly watchful. Foolish, so-called harmless habits acquired over the years may be fraught with all manner of hazard.'
Oslang's eyes narrowed, slightly resentful. ‘We've watched and treated you meticulously, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘Be assured. You're completely recovered, and without any taint other than that which is naturally yours. I'm not oblivious to the changing times.'
Andawyr nodded dismissively. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘But I've learned so much in such a short time, and much of it has been about myself. Believe me, I'm much changed, as will you be in due course. As will everyone. Everything.'
He made an airy gesture, then stretched himself and yawned lavishly. ‘May I leave?’ he said abruptly, with a smile to dissipate the unease that had grown between them.
Oslang started. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, indicating the door.
'And my robe and cord?’ Andawyr said.
'They'll be in your quarters when you arrive, brother,’ Oslang replied.
The door to Andawyr's temporary cell opened on to a large high-ceilinged hall, octagonal in shape. Like the small room he had just occupied, it bore little decoration, but he nodded appreciatively as he looked around. Although buried deep beneath the mountains, mirror stones in the ceiling and walls made the hall seem as though it were as high above the ground as it was in reality above the deepest explored levels of the cave system. As a result, it was bright with sunlight bouncing off its polished stone walls and floor.
Air too, moved through the caves, bringing the scents of the seasons of the mountains to all levels.
Andawyr looked through one of the window openings. ‘It's very pleasant down here,’ he said. ‘Feels secure. I don't think I've been this deep for a long time,’ he added pensively. ‘That's remiss of me, really.’ Then, almost anxiously: ‘How deep did you say you took me at first?'
Oslang looked at him. ‘I didn't,’ he said, simply. ‘But it was as deep as we dared.'
Andawyr blew a long breath and turned towards one of the broad passageways that led from the hall. That was more than caution, he thought. That was fear bordering on terror.
He hesitated as he came to the threshold of the passage, looking at the symbols glowing softly on each side. The whole of the Cadwanen caves must be on Full Watch. ‘You must have been frightened out of your wits,’ he said, stepping forward determinedly.
A soft, ringing echo pervaded him and he looked conspicuously relieved as he strode into the passage. Oslang affected not to notice.
'Yes,’ he admitted. ‘You were in a bad way when we found you. Rambling, incoherent.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You were on the verge of killing us all. I don't know yet whether I managed to take your cord from you, or whether you released it yourself. I'm just glad one of us managed it. I shudder to think who you thought we were.'
Andawyr grimaced. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘You were right to advise me not to go into Narsindal alone, and I was right to go alone. It was my time. Suffice it that you found me and that I did no harm to you. Who knows what strange threads control our destinies?'
'Strange indeed,’ Oslang said. They stopped in front of a door.
Something in Oslang's tone caught Andawyr's attention and he looked at him quizzically. ‘Explain,’ he said, knowingly.
Oslang passed his hand over an ornate pattern that decorated the centre of the door. ‘We've not developed the habit of taking extended nocturnal walks along the pass since you left, you know,’ he said, folding his arms and hugging himself slightly as if a sudden chill had come over him. ‘You talk of strange threads. You owe your life to a rocked felci'
Before Andawyr could speak, the door opened and he was obliged to turn his eyes away from the brightness that streamed out of it. Somewhat crossly, Oslang ushered him forward and, passing almost immediately through a second door, they entered directly into Andawyr's quarters.
Andawyr blinked owlishly. ‘We must do something about that light,’ he said irritably. ‘It's far too bright.'
Oslang was unsympathetic. ‘It's your own fault. You were the one who insisted they be speeded up. I told you when we changed over that the time you'd save in travelling you'd spend in blinking, but you wouldn't listen. And you have just come from the twentieth level.'
Andawyr scowled. ‘What do you mean, a rocked felci?’ he said, refusing to become involved in an old argument he was going to lose. He started immediately to root through the routine and massive disorder of his room.
'Kristabel,’ Oslang said.
Andawyr paused and smiled. ‘Ah, Kristabel. She's sweet,’ he said. ‘Where's my robe and cord? Has Dar-Volci been tidying up in here again?'
'More to the point, she's sharp-eyed,’ Oslang said, ignoring his leader's sentimentality and adding caustically, ‘Try the cupboard.'
Andawyr muttered something under his breath and after wending his way through the boxes and piles of documents that littered the floor, reached the cupboard Oslang had indicated.
He opened the door and, for a moment, stood admiring the simple white robe hanging in front of him. It seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. He took it down carefully and put it on, then examined the cord. It was neat and immaculate. He nodded approvingly. ‘Thank you, Oslang,’ he said. ‘This is a fine weave. Really excellent work. Excellent.'
Oslang inclined his head in acknowledgement of the praise.
'Now. Kristabel,’ Andawyr said, more seriously. ‘How did she come to get rocked, and what's she got to do with finding me?'
'Usual way,’ Oslang replied. ‘Didn't recognize what she was chewing until it was too late.'
Andawyr grimaced. ‘Is she all right?'
Oslang nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just a bit disorientated for an hour or two but otherwise none the worse.'
'Good,’ Andawyr said. He moved a large bag from a couch and sat down, nodding to Oslang to do the same. ‘I'd miss her, to say the least.’ Uncertainly, Oslang carefully wedged himself on to another loaded couch.
'Go on,’ Andawyr urged.
'Well, the others went after her when they heard her whistling and howling, but when they brought her back she was rambling about having seen you wandering along the pass when she accidentally broke surface.'
'And you listened?’ asked Andawyr in some surprise. ‘They see anything and everything when they're rocked.'
Oslang shrugged. ‘You used the phrase. Strange threads. She just sounded different in some way, so I took a chance. I can't explain it.'
Andawyr nodded thoughtfully. ‘Don't try, Oslang,’ he said after a long silence. ‘Don't try. We must accept good and bad fortune with equal grace. Let's just be grateful for the one and prepared for the other. You're sure Kristabel's all right?'
'She's fine,’ Oslang said reassuringly.
Andawyr fell silent again, resting his head on his hands. ‘Strange threads,’ he muttered to himself. ‘And she's normally so careful.’ Oslang watched but said nothing. Then Andawyr sat up abruptly. ‘Call the senior brothers together, would you, Oslang?’ he said. ‘We've a great deal to discuss.'
* * *
Chapter 11
Loman and Gulda took each others’ advice. He pondered his anger and its causes. She gave the Orthlundyn space to consider their new ways.
When Loman suggested that those being trained be given time for reflection and thought, she looked at him beadily and then delivered a typical thrust to the heart of the idea.
'Interesting notion, young Loman,’ she said. ‘Your daughter's, I presume.'
'Not entirely,’ Loman said, bridling a little. ‘But it came out of something we were discussing.'
Gulda nodded.
‘I'll think about it,’ she said. ‘Tirilen's ideas are usually worth listening to.'
Three days later, Loman was asked to give his opinion on an extensive revision of almost every training programme. Looking at the sheaf of papers in his hand, all written in Gulda's immaculate script, he shook his head. ‘Do you never sleep, Memsa?’ he said.
'Let me know what you think,’ she said, ignoring the question and walking away.
As he expected, Loman had very little to add to Gulda's work. It was detailed, meticulous and appropriate, and superior in every way to what he had suggested. Later he told her so.
She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement of Loman's rough compliment. ‘I only stand on your shoulders, Loman,’ she said, unexpectedly offering an explanation. Then, with a deep chuckle, ‘You should do it more often yourself. The view's better.'
Rather than allow time for reflection, Gulda had chosen to ease the intensity of the entire training programme. ‘It was a timely thought, Loman,’ she said. ‘We nearly made a serious mistake. We nearly allowed the training for war to become dominant.’ She shook her head. ‘An old mistake.'
She sat down opposite Loman and fixed him with her piercing gaze, sending him back to his schooldays again. ‘To become better fighters, better able to defend what they value, people need to find a place in their ordinary lives for their new knowledge. They need to reaffirm, to appreciate and understand the value of being warriors by being farmers and carvers first and warriors a poor second.’ She paused, unhappy with her last comment. ‘Or perhaps I should say, by realizing they can be each as required. I think you'll find that debates and discussions will arise naturally and that'll be all to the good. We mustn't be arrogant, must we? We must learn from our pupils. They're Orthlundyn—the remains of a great people.’ She paused. ‘Still a great people,’ she added pensively. ‘They'll absorb most of what's good in what we taught them and forget most of what's not so good.’ Then, businesslike, ‘And there'll be enough training continuing to keep everyone up to scratch.'
The more relaxed training regime, however, could not apply to Loman's elite group. By its very nature, their training demanded intensity.