Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  Tallying the arguments, Aelward laid out the meaning of this subtly phrased passage, although I saw it clearly enough myself and felt a shiver prickle down my spine even as he read it aloud to me. It is obvious that by wordplay and by hints, both subtle and not so subtle, Garso refers to my ancestor Reonyk and to Imdan, youngest son of High King Beotwyn, as being one and the same person. At the same time, however, he is clever and mentions neither by name.

  According to the manor rolls, Reonyk was the only outlander who had come to the Stoneholding as a young man not too long after the Battle of Flitterholt, Aelward explained. Garso could only be speaking of the recently departed Reonyk in this account of his old age. There is no doubt. And Reonyk, Aelward avers, was Imdan, a prince of Ardiel's line, younger brother to Dystann, heir to the throne of Arvon.

  To say that I was taken aback would be sheerest understatement. My head was reeling as Aelward put into words his reasoning, telling why Reonyk must be Imdan. Reonyk would have been of roughly the same age as Garso, and so, too, Imdan. Also, in Garso's more personal chronicle entries as Hordanu, Reonyk is mentioned with some frequency as a friend. A "boon companion," in Garso's own words. He clearly points to this Reonyk, the newcomer, as having been Imdan. Who else but Imdan could be a youngest son, of gentle birth, from the Isles, and a survivor of the Battle of Flitterholt, where an older brother perished? And who else but Reonyk Wright could be described as "solid in carriage, even as to name"?

  What settled the matter to Aelward's mind was the passing, though pointed, reference to ancient lore associated with Ardiel, namely that those of his blood would be graced with a gift of prophecy. Never, though, in all the lore of Ardiel was this gift attributed especially to a youngest son, and it is the reference to the youngest son that Aelward recognized as pointing to his friend's place in the Ardielid family. How cleverly Garso interweaves his description of the two, Imdan and Reonyk, who are in truth one and the same. It would seem that in his own slow approach to life's end, Garso needed to free himself, to unburden his heart of the load of secrecy from which he must have felt released by the passing of his friend Reonyk, in truth the prince Imdan.

  Thus it appears that I am of the House of Ardiel, an Ardielid, descended from a prince of Ardiel's line. This, at least, offers some explanation for my resemblance to the young High King Colurian, as depicted in his portrait. As cruelest fate would twist it, Ferabek was right to hunt for me, and yet I am not the heir to the throne of Arvon. I am not Starigan, as he may have hoped.

  How this new knowledge impinges upon my immediate task of finding my kinsman, the Crown Prince—and that, deep within the Shadowedland—and then journeying with him to the Balk Pit of Uäm to secure the Sacred Spark, I cannot see, and my royal blood is a cold comfort. There is much that I cannot see, and dark despair gnaws at the fragile threads that yet bind me to hope.

  But now comes a knocking at the door to my chamber. I am summoned. Aelward would speak to me, and my foremost hope is that he may offer me guidance, counsel, and direction on the task that presses ever more heavily upon my heart and mind. I must go.

  Twenty-Three

  Aelward stood leaning on his knuckles, his tall frame bent over a table bathed in candlelight and littered with sheets of ancient parchment and paper, a few scrolls, and several large leather-bound volumes, one of which lay open and held his attention. Kal stepped from the corridor into the dark chamber and closed the door gently behind him. The sun had already sunk behind the jagged peaks when Kal climbed the rising land to the Cot, leaving the black mountains silhouetted by a purpling sky stained in a wash of pastel pinks, oranges, and reds. Darkness was not long in falling in this sheltered refuge, and Kal was certain that by now little more than the faint glimmer of starlight would be visible through the windows of the room, had they not been barred by stout shutters.

  As it was, the gloom of the chamber was broken only by the glow of four tapers that burned in a holder on the table and one stout candle set on the mantel above a small and sulky peat fire. The candle's fat, guttering flame eerily illumined several items ranged along the stone shelf. From the shadow-clad walls of the room, other oddments winked, reflecting the flame's wavering light. Kal knew from his previous visits to the otherwise sparsely furnished chamber that it contained an aggregation of tools, mostly pastoral in nature, implements of the flock and fold covering all four walls. Kal had long since shrugged the strange collection off as little more than another of the quaint peculiarities of the Cot and its keeper, the Flockmaster of the West—or so Broq had heralded the tall, trim, muscular man, who now stood before him, stooping over some obscure text.

  Kal shivered at the unseasonable chill that touched the night air over the marshes and had found its way into the Cot. The fire was too small to be felt across the room, although the pungent musk of the smoldering peat filled his nostrils. Yet for all its stark austerity, this chamber, and indeed the whole Cot, had proven to be an ideal place of privacy in which to hold conference and marshal what scraps of knowledge could be garnered from the writings in the Hordanu's hoard, or from reports Aelward had collected of the happenings in Ahn Norvys during his travels. Perhaps, Kal mused, just perhaps, they would be able to cobble together some sort of strategy that might accommodate a tolerable compromise, if not a comfortable union, between his duty-bound ambitions as Hordanu and even the remotest chance of success.

  "It's a curious thing," Aelward said at length, interrupting Kal's brooding reverie, though still apparently absorbed in the manuscript. The play of candlelight and shadow on his angular features made him look fierce. "Aye, it's a curious thing, indeed. Had the blade of fate not been parried, had it bitten more deeply into Corinnis's house, you, not Starigan, might have stood heir to the Ardielid throne." He lifted his gaze from the page and set his steely grey eyes on the Holdsman from across the room. "But it wasn't to be, Kalaquinn, and so, here you are—by fate's cruel wit—royal, but not quite royal enough to relieve you of the journey you needs make to find the one who can broach the Balk Pit and secure the Sacred Spark, the one who is legitimate heir to the Throne of Arvon. But, enough of that." Aelward straightened and walked around the table to greet Kal, a thin smile on his face creasing the iron-grey stubble of his close-cropped beard. "I trust that you have rested well?"

  "Aye," Kal said. "I have rested, and written, and pondered."

  "Good, good. You are hungry?"

  "No, thank you, Master Aelward." Kal shook his head, looking at the cheese and heavy bread that sat on a round wooden platter amid the clutter of papers on the table.

  "A drop of something, then."

  Kal accepted the simple clay cup offered him without demur and nodded his thanks as he lifted it to his lips. The liquid burned its way down his gullet, the fumes filling his nose. Kal coughed and sputtered.

  "It's vile," Kal said, holding the cup at arm's length with a look of suspicion.

  "Uisgé beatha, an acquired taste." Aelward grinned at the young Hordanu.

  "A unique taste—I'll grant you that. What is it? It tastes as noisome as the fire smells, like damp earth, or an old boot set afire."

  Aelward's eyes sparkled with amusement, narrowing above high cheekbones. He ran his hand across his scalp, and the short grizzled hairs bristled between his fingers. "Aye, an apt description, I'd say, Kalaquinn. Uisgé beatha is a spirit made by the marshmen hereabout. They use peat smoke in making it, and they smoke the casks they use to store it in as well. Tastes odd at first, but give it a couple sips and you'll warm up to it soon enough"—Aelward lifted his own cup in salute of Kal—"even as it chases the chill from your bones."

  Kal took another small sip of the harsh liquor and set his cup down on the table, hoping it would be forgotten. "What were you studying?" he asked.

  "Ah, I was reviewing that last entry penned by Garso." The tall man strode around the table and set the long fingers of his unburdened hand lightly on the open page. "It is a truly remarkable thing. It's as if he wanted the secret to be d
iscovered and yet could not bring himself to reveal it openly. Perhaps it was meant to be a matter of time, and now, it would seem, is the propitious moment for this discovery—but that you should be of the House of Ardiel. Of the House of Ardiel and Hordanu as well." He fell into silent wonderment at the yet unplumbed significance of the discovery.

  "Aye, the propitious moment . . ." Kal broke the still quiet that had settled over the chamber, then pressed his lips together, drawing them into a firm line as he wrestled to put a thought into words. "Ah, Aelward," he said, slowly shaking his head. Hair fell around his down-turned face, curtaining it from the candlelight until he combed the loose black mane back with both hands and looked up into the grey eyes that had once again fixed themselves on him. "So many things that have lain hidden for so long seem to be coming to light in these hours that now engulf us. Still, it all remains so confused, meaning and purpose frustratingly veiled. The happenings foretold in prophecy seem like dark shapes looming out of the mist of ages past, as the fog thins before the chill breath of these days. But for all that they remain indistinct, lacking clarity, colour, true form . . . . I'm sorry, I sound like Wilum." Kal forced a wan smile. "You know, earlier in my chamber, I was thinking of something Wilum told me, something from the Criochoran, something he had mentioned a couple times in light of the events that befell us in the Stoneholding."

  Aelward raised an eyebrow in mute question.

  "It was lines he quoted, something rather obscure, he said." Kal paused and then began to intone ancient words in a quiet voice that filled the shadow-shrouded chamber with a susurrus like the rustling of dry leaves.

  "When Wuldor's Howe is worsted by the brazen foe

  And the Great Glence in utter ashbound ruin lies razed,

  When the dark host of dreosan doth stain the Vale

  And the Hordanu leaves the harrow of the Howe—"

  " 'Shall rise a second foe upon whom few have gazed.' " The grey figure took up the prophetic lines as Kal's eyes widened in surprise. " 'From half-lit shadowedland of ancient dormant tale. The royal one shall then rebel against the gloom, his rank new-marked by crown and arms . . .' Yes, 'The Unquiet Grave'—I am familiar with it."

  It took Kal a moment to recover himself. "Do you think," he said at last, "do you think the Lord of Kêl-Skrivar might be that second foe?"

  "I cannot say," the tall man said, his face expressionless, his gaze steely. For all his moments of charm and companionable intimacy, Aelward was proving to be a most inscrutable character. Often as not, he retreated into an implacably stolid silence, aloof yet watchful, his grey eyes sharp, almost hawklike, as if observing Kal and the others around him, present to the moment but somehow not fully a participant in it. Wilum was right. It was very hard to say just who Aelward was.

  "You miss him." The grey eyes flashed.

  "Miss him? Who?"

  "Your mentor."

  "Wilum? Aye, yes, I do miss him. There is so very much that he would be able to explain. And so much counsel that I would seek from him."

  "Hmm, he was a good man, and wise. His loss will be felt, for it is a great loss, indeed. But it is you who are the Hordanu that left the harrow of the Howe. It is you who are the Hordanu of prophecy, and of royal blood, destined for this hour. This you must believe."

  "I don't know, I don't know," Kal said, shaking his head, balking at the thought as he had so many times before. "How can it be?"

  "It matters not how it can be. It is so. That alone you must accept." Aelward leaned towards Kal, his eyes cold and piercing. "You hang upon the hooks of the past and the future, on one hand ashamed of your humble beginnings, feeling the guilt of inadequacy in the face of your high calling. On the other, you are wracked by fear and apprehension at what that calling may hold in store for you, where it may lead you. But these things—the past, the future—these are beyond your power to do anything about. Such is the way of life. And yet you toss your head from side to side, looking from the future to the past, then to the future again, all the while distracted from that which is truly and solely within your power—the moment. This moment, now. The path lies before you. You have but to place one foot upon it to make a start. Will you?"

  The question hung in the charged air of the chamber. Kal's ears rang, and his heart, crashing in his chest, felt as though it would burst up into his parched throat.

  The tall man straightened and seemed to tower over Kal, his voice thundering. "Enough! Enough 'Shall I? Shall I not?'! Hedge no more! The fate of this world hangs in the balance, and it can countenance no more of your irresolute tepidity. I know who you are. And I know what you shall become, if you will only learn to be forgetful of yourself and mindful of Ahn Norvys in these grave days that afflict her."

  Aelward's expression softened, and he smiled as he passed a hand over the coarse stubble on his head. "Kalaquinn, you may not see it now, but I can, and I do. As Wilum was a great man, so shall you be even greater. Of Wilum's spirit you have received a double share. It is stamped upon your inmost being and empowers you to walk the path along which you are called, a path that has been charted, made plain in your Lay of Investiture. I beg you, for the sake of Ahn Norvys—for your fate determines hers—stiffen your resolve. Become what you are. Be bound to your destiny. Set your heart to it with no resistance. So you swore in your Debrad, when you first set your hand to the Talamadh. Do not withdraw your hand now."

  The Holdsman broke his eyes away from Aelward's, his gaze falling to the table where lay the contents of the oiled canvas sack that Galli had carried for Wilum from their home country. Here and there a page showed the elegant flowing script of his master's hand. He traced one or two of these with his outstretched finger. A dull brown sheen caught his eye from among the pages, and his hand settled on the strap that had been cut from the Talamadh by Relzor in his perfidy. Beside it lay a small pebbled leather case. This he picked up and opened. The translucent green half-round chrysoprase vessel slid into his palm, its fine gold chain slipping to dangle between his fingers. He contemplated the object, turning it over in his hand.

  "So much there is that yet remains hidden from my mind," Kal whispered, closing his eyes against the Pyx of Roncador's simple beauty.

  "But not from your heart," Aelward said. "You knew to lay your hand upon that which is of first importance."

  Kal slid the Pyx back into its wallet, carefully coiled the chain in beside it, and closed the case. He placed it back on the table and exhaled a deep sigh that betrayed itself as a groan.

  "What? Would you despair?" Aelward asked. "You who sang of the very hope of hope itself? Would you so easily rescind your pledge?" He began to recite lines:

  "Now know wherein this hope lies fay—

  Not in the Harp, but hands that play;

  The one who sings, and not the Lay;

  Mark, it is he who sings today,

  For I Hordanu am.

  "Hordanu born of Hedric's line,

  Hordanu born midst eglantine.

  Hordanu destined from all time

  To be Hordanu peregrine—

  To quest both king and flame."

  Kal's eyes glistened, tears welling, when he lifted his head. Aelward's face had lost all hint of severity. "Yes, I have studied your Lay of Investiture. Now, come, my lord Mygthernos Hordanu, born midst the sweetbriar-covered slopes of Lammermorn, born to venture from the Stoneholding with the authority of Hedric himself—"

  "Born 'to quest both king and flame' . . . 'for I Hordanu am' . . . 'for I Hordanu am.' Yes, Aelward, you are correct. My thanks." Kal managed a strained smile. "Forgive me my weakness. I know that nothing happens for nothing. Everything serves a purpose, though it be veiled from feeble eyes and feeble mind. I have been ordained for this fate, and it is obvious that destiny has ordered it that I, Hordanu in this time of the failing Harmony, make for the Shadowland to retrieve my kinsman, Starigan. And if, or rather, when I find him, together we will venture the Balk Pit."

  "Good, good," Aelward said, relieved, and
bowed his head in deference. He recovered himself and trained his clear eyes on the young Hordanu. "Naturally, I am supremely relieved that, under Wuldor's watchful eye, the office of High Bard has been preserved in your person. I am well pleased that this fact yet remains hidden from Gawmage and Ferabek, and from perhaps more sinister forces still. I think that you would do well to follow Broq's advice, for it is mine also, to keep your true identity concealed. Your connection to the House of Ardiel as well, I think. This may well prove to be of profound importance and help in the days ahead, even with the loss of the Talamadh itself."

  "Well, after all it's 'not in the Harp, but hands that play; the one who sings, and not the Lay.' " Kal grinned sheepishly.

  "Quite right," the tall man said and smiled. "Quite right, indeed."

  "But what of Starigan? Shall he be crowned, then?"

  "Well, that is rather for you to decide. It is your right by office to name the date of coronation and effect it by your own hand. But here's something I would show you, something I have been guarding for that very occasion. Look you here." Aelward stepped away into a shadowed corner of the chamber. Kal heard a bolt slide in its slot and the complaint of seldom used hinges as a door opened. In a moment, the tall man returned, drawing a sword from its scabbard. The blade glistened in the candlelight. With a fluid movement, he flipped the sword in the air and, deftly catching the flat of the blade, offered the hilt to Kal.