by Roger Taylor
He closed his eyes and tried to let the topic go. The debate was an old one amongst the Cadwanwr, and none disagreed in principle with Andawyr’s thinking, though the consensus was that the revered Head of the Order was a little over-zealous in his reluctance to use the Power for minor matters.
Andawyr smiled to himself as he felt the warmth of the stones on his face. He had seen the unsuccessfully hidden looks of patient tolerance, not to say irritation, as he had scratched vainly at stones in the past, or struggled with some heavy burden – and made others struggle with him – instead of lifting it the easy way!
Yet they too were right. It was a mistake to be too zealous in avoiding the use of the Old Power. Why should he have even hesitated here in this biting cold, where failure to ignite the stones might have proved fatal for him?
Balance, he thought. That’s all it is. Balance. Too much either way is wrong. But where was the balance? Only one thing was certain: the route to it lay along no easy path. Always judgement had to be used, and always judgement was flawed in some degree.
His thoughts began to wander as the day’s walking and the last hours’ increasingly anxious toiling began to take their toll.
‘G’night, Dar,’ he muttered faintly, but there was no reply.
Twice he jerked awake suddenly as the dark horror of his journey out of Narsindal came briefly and vividly into his deepening sleep. This happened almost every night, though much less so now than when he had first returned. He bore it with a snarl. ‘I survived the deed, I refuse to fear its shadow’, was the sword and buckler he reached for whenever he found himself hesitating to close his eyes.
The third time, however, it was no fearful memory that awoke him. It was the entrance to his tent being torn open and a body crashing in, accompanied by whirling flurries of snow and the icy blast of the storm.
Instantly bolt upright, his heart racing, Andawyr raised his hand to defend himself against this apparition. No hesitation to use the Old Power when it mattered, he noted briefly. However, a mere glance showed that the intruder not only held no weapon, but was exhausted. Not a threat, he realized.
‘Unless it’s to freeze me to death,’ he muttered out loud. Hastily he seized the body and, with a great effort, dragged it into the tent, nearly upsetting the radiant stones in the process.
As he sealed the entrance again, a hand clutched at him. He turned with a start, ready again to defend himself.
‘My horse,’ said the new arrival, his voice very weak. ‘My horse.’
Andawyr looked at the snow-covered figure and the few small flakes still whirling around the tent in the light of the glowing stones.
‘Please,’ said the figure, weakly but urgently.
Andawyr gave a resigned sigh. ‘Riddinvolk I presume,’ he said and, without waiting for an answer, he gathered his cloak about himself tightly and, with an ill grace, stepped out into the howling darkness.
Fortunately the horse was nearby, standing at the edge of the circle of light cast by the tent’s beacon torch. Andawyr suddenly felt his irritation and concern pushed aside by a feeling of humility at the sight of the animal standing patiently in the snow-streaked light, head bowed against the storm. Few travelled these mountains at any time, and none would normally be travelling at this time of year, yet, on an impulse he had lit his beacon torch; and now it had drawn this lone traveller and his mount here and undoubtedly saved his life.
He struck his hand torch and walked over to the horse, staggering a little as the powerful wind drove into him. ‘Come on, Muster horse,’ he said, taking the animal’s bridle. ‘It’s a little more sheltered over here. Your duties are over for the night. I’ll look after your charge.’
The horse looked at him soulfully for a moment, then yielded to the gentle pressure.
Returning to the tent, Andawyr found the new arrival’s concern unchanged. ‘My horse?’ he asked, his voice still weak.
‘I’ve thrown a couple of your blankets over him and put him in the lee of some rocks,’ Andawyr said. ‘It’s not ideal, but he should be all right. I’ve given him a fodder bag as well.’
The man relaxed visibly and Andawyr shook his head. ‘You people and your horses,’ he said. ‘You’re incredible. Now let’s have a look at you.’
The man offered no resistance to Andawyr’s examination.
‘You’re lucky,’ Andawyr said when he had finished. ‘There’s no frost damage to your hands and face, and judging from your boots I presume you can still feel all your toes?’
The man nodded. ‘I should have stopped sooner,’ he said, still weak. ‘I misjudged the storm.’
‘You’re not alone,’ Andawyr said. ‘Luckily you’re only chilled and exhausted, but it’s a good job you saw my light. You wouldn’t have made it through the night.’ He moved the tray of radiant stones as far away from the man as he could, then with a flick of his fingers he made them a little brighter. ‘Keep away from the stones,’ he said. ‘Just lie still and rest. You’ll soon warm up in here, it’s a well-sealed tent: airy and snug.’
The man nodded again, sleepily. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed softly. He made an attempt to say something else but it turned into an incomprehensible mumble as he succumbed to his fatigue.
Andawyr looked at him closely. He was a heavily built man, in late middle age, he judged, and from the quality of his clothes, wealthy; definitely not a man one might expect to find roaming the mountains, especially at this time of year.
Nodding to himself thoughtfully, he lay down again. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to find out who the man was and why he was there.
Another flick of his fingers dimmed the radiant stones to their original redness. No point using the Old Power too much. He smiled as he caught the almost reflexive thought. The tent would retain the heat, and the stones, baked or not, would take back any excess and mature a little.
‘I’ll keep out of sight until we’re sure of this one,’ came Dar-volci’s deep voice softly. Andawyr muttered his approval, then allowed himself a brief smugness as he closed his eyes; it had been a good day.
The next morning he was wakened by a gentle shaking. He sat up jerkily, scratching himself and yawning. His guest was holding a bowl of food out to him.
‘I took the liberty of making some breakfast for you,’ he said. His voice was quite deep, and rich with the sing-song Riddin lilt. ‘It’s from my own supplies,’ he added hastily.
Andawyr squeezed the remains of his broken nose. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘That was kind of you. I’m afraid it’s a meal I’m apt to neglect.’
‘No, no,’ the stranger said. ‘It’s I who must thank you for looking after my horse and taking me in.’
Andawyr smiled behind his bowl and paused. Typical Riddinvolk, he thought. Horse first, rider second. Without asking, he knew that the man would have been out to check on the animal before attending to his own needs.
The man misunderstood Andawyr’s hesitation. ‘Is the food not warm enough?’ he asked, his voice concerned. ‘I had a little difficulty with your stones; they’re not very good, I’m afraid. They look as if they’ve been baked to me.’
Andawyr shot the stones an evil glance then returned to his guest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The stones could be better – bad bargain I’m afraid. But the food’s fine.’
‘My name’s Agreth,’ the man said, sitting down heavily and extending his hand. ‘Don’t do the travelling I used to,’ he added, then flicking a thumb upwards, ‘This lot wouldn’t have caught me out once. Judgement’s going, I’m afraid,’ he added.
‘I’m not so sure,’ Andawyr said. ‘It’s unseasonal to say the least, and it came on very suddenly.’ His face became intent.
‘Agreth?’ he said, testing the name until its familiarity brought it into place. ‘You’re one of Ffyrst Urthryn’s advisers aren’t you?’ He was about to name Agreth’s House and Decmill by way of a brief cadenza, but he remembered in time that the Riddinvolk enthusiasm for lineage and family was not some
thing to be lightly released, and he held his tongue.
Agreth smiled. ‘Indeed I am,’ he said. ‘Though when he finds out I nearly froze to death like some apprentice stable lad, he might be looking elsewhere for advice.’
Andawyr laughed and, laying his bowl down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And what’s one of the Ffyrst’s advisers doing alone in the middle of the mountains, halfway to Orthlund, if I might ask?’ he asked jovially. ‘Morlider come back again?’
He noted the flicker of reaction in Agreth, though it barely reached the man’s eyes before he had it under control. ‘No, no,’ the man replied, with a hint of surprised amusement. ‘Just some private business in Orthlund.’
Andawyr nodded, and waited for the counter-attack.
‘And may I know the name of my rescuer?’ Agreth asked.
Andawyr teased him a little. ‘Ah,’ he said smiling broadly. ‘That’s the name of your horse. I’m only your host. But my name’s Andawyr.’
This revelation produced a reaction that he had not expected. Agreth frowned briefly then, as recognition came into them, his eyes widened and, reaching forward he seized Andawyr’s wrists.
‘From the Caves of Cadwanen,’ he said almost breathlessly. ‘Oslang’s leader. On your way, as I am, to Anderras Darion to spread your news and to see what’s happened to this man Hawklan.’
Despite himself, Andawyr’s mouth fell open.
‘Yes,’ he managed to stammer. ‘But . . .’
Agreth raised a hand. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and unsealing the entrance he thrust his head outside. Drawing back, he said, ‘The wind’s dropped, but it’s still snowing. Let’s get moving while we can still see. With luck the travelling should get easier as we move down.’
Andawyr opened his mouth to speak again, but Agreth was taking charge. ‘I know Oslang’s tale, and therefore yours,’ he said, cutting ruthlessly through all discussion as he quickly fastened his cloak about him. ‘Let me tell you mine as we travel.’
Andawyr looked through the open entrance. Agreth’s advice was sound. Visibility was reasonable, but the sky was leaden and the snow was falling heavily. Nothing was to be gained except danger by staying here to relate histories.
‘Very well, Line Leader,’ he said with a smile. ‘We’ll walk and talk awhile.’
It took the two men only minutes to dismantle and stow the tent and soon they were strapping their packs on to Agreth’s horse.
As he secured the load, Agreth looked around, his face anxious.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
‘I’ve never travelled these mountains before,’ Agreth replied. ‘I’ve a map, but it’s hard to read and I’ve been relying on the path to a large extent. Now . . .’ He shrugged and gestured at the snow-covered landscape.
Andawyr looked at him and then followed his gaze, trying to view this cold, beautiful terrain with the eyes of a man brought up on the broad, rolling plains of Riddin. The Riddinvolk loved the mountains that bordered their land – but only to look at.
‘Give me your map,’ he said simply.
Agreth fumbled underneath his cloak and eventually produced the document. Andawyr pulled the Riddinwr towards him and, with their two bodies sheltering the map from the falling snow, carefully unfolded the map.
‘It’s a long time since I travelled this route, myself,’ he said. ‘But I can remember it quite well. However, there’s no point in you just following me. If I get hurt or if we get separated, you’ll have to lead, so, with respect, adviser to the Ffyrst, I’ll spend a portion of our journey showing you how to read this.’ He tapped the map gently.
Agreth seemed doubtful, and anxious to be on his way, but Andawyr was insistent.
‘This is not bad,’ he said after a moment. ‘There’s some very good detail. See, we’re here.’ Agreth screwed his eyes up in earnest concentration. Andawyr’s finger jabbed at the map and then out into the greyness. ‘That is that small peak over there, and that is the larger one next to it.’
For a few minutes, for the benefit of his reluctant pupil, Andawyr identified on the map such of their surroundings as could be seen, then the two men set off slowly and cautiously through the deepening snow.
As they walked, Agreth told Andawyr of Sylvriss’s unexpected arrival in Riddin, and of her strange tale of the corruption and decay of Fyorlund. He concluded with the interrogation of Drago, and the news that the Morlider were preparing to attack Riddin, united now by a leader that was presumed to be the Uhriel, Creost.
Andawyr stopped walking and looked round at the mountains, grey and ominous in the dull wintry light. Not a sound was to be heard except the soft hiss of the falling snow.
Oklar ruling a divided Fyorlund, Creost uniting and guiding the Morlider, Rgoric murdered, Vakloss torn apart, Hawklan struck down and perhaps even now lost in these snow-shrouded hills. He put his hand to his head.
‘Are you all right?’ Agreth asked anxiously.
No, Andawyr cried out to himself in self-disgust. No. How can I be all right? Me, leader of the Cadwanol, Ethriss’s chosen watchers and seekers after knowledge, who slept when all the demons of the ages were waking and running amok! I just want to lie down in this cold grey silence and become part of it – free from all this horror forever.
‘Yes,’ he said out loud, letting the now familiar reproaches rage unhindered and unspoken. ‘It’s just that so many things seem to be moving against us.’ He looked up at the snowflakes spearing down into his face, grey and black against the dull sky. ‘Even the weather’s moving against us,’ he said as his distress slowly began to fade away. It would return many times yet, he knew.
Agreth looked on, uncertain what to say.
Andawyr gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Still, all we can do is walk forward, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping out again. ‘And we find help in the strangest places, don’t we?’ He looked at his companion. ‘In the midst of this lonely and ancient place, you find a cosy billet for the night, and I find someone to carry my pack.’
He laughed suddenly, and held out his arms wide. ‘I used to love this weather when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘Sledging, snowballing. How can this be against me?’ Impulsively he walked over to a nearby rock and scooped the snow on top of it into a single heap. Then he began compacting and shaping it.
Watching him, Agreth’s uncertainty returned. This was the man that Oslang called his leader? What was he doing?
Finally, Andawyr bent down, made a snowball, placed it carefully on top of his handiwork and stood back to admire the result – a tiny snowman.
‘There,’ he said, beaming. ‘Isn’t that splendid?’ He saluted the small figure. ‘Enjoy the view little fellow. Enjoy the peace and quiet. No one will disturb you when we’ve gone. Have a happy winter. Light be with you.’
Brushing the caked snow from his arms, he turned to Agreth who was struggling to keep his doubts from his face. Andawyr laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m still here. But the day I can’t appreciate being eight years old, will be a sad one for me.’
Then he was off again, as briskly as the snow would allow. ‘Come on,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We’ve a long way to go yet.’
Agreth patted his horse hesitantly, as if for reassurance, then set off after him.
Later in the day, the snow stopped falling and the sky lightened a little, bringing more distant peaks into view, which Andawyr dutifully identified for Agreth on his map. They walked on slowly and carefully, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence, sometimes just concentrating where they were putting their feet as they negotiated steep and treacherous slopes.
As they walked, however, they moved gradually downwards, away from the colder heights, and the snow became less deep. Eventually, reaching the valley floor, Agreth announced that they could ride for a spell, and Andawyr found himself astride the horse in front of the Muster rider.
‘Feel like an eight-year-old again?’ Agreth asked, laughing.
Andawyr looked down n
ervously at the snow-covered ground passing underneath his dangling feet. It was much further below than he had imagined when he had been looking up at the horse. ‘It’ll take me a little time,’ he said dubiously.
Agreth laughed again.
Being able to ride from time to time enabled them to make good progress, and late in the afternoon Andawyr professed himself well pleased. Towards nightfall, however, the snow started to fall again, and the wind rose suddenly, obliging the two men to make their camp in some haste. As they pitched Andawyr’s tent, the landscape around them slowly began to disappear in a whirling haze.
At last, Andawyr ushered Agreth into the tent and then struck the beacon torch with some relish. As he joined him inside he found that the Muster rider was examining one of the radiant stones.
‘These have been baked, without a doubt,’ he said in a tone of irritated regret, throwing the stone back with the others. ‘You should have a word with whoever does your buying.’
‘I will,’ Andawyr replied, a little more tersely than he had intended, then without hesitation he ignited the stones as he had the previous night.
Agreth started at the sudden flare of light, his face suddenly fearful.
‘I’m sorry,’ Andawyr said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just . . .’
‘I know what it is,’ Agreth interrupted. ‘It’s the same power that Oslang knocked Drago down with. The same power that Oklar used on Vakloss.’ He looked distressed. ‘You saved my life and I feel no harm in you – nor does my horse, and he’s a far better judge than I am – but I am afraid of that.’ He pointed to the stones. ‘It’s terrifying.’
Andawyr stared into the warm comfort of the stones. The sudden tension inside the tent was almost palpable. Only the truth could ease it, he knew. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said after a long silence. ‘It is terrifying. But not here, not in this tent. Here it’s warmth and light. You don’t need to be told that the essence of a weapon lies in the intention of the user, do you?’
He looked up at Agreth, his face stern. ‘We’ve hard times ahead of us, Muster rider,’ he said. ‘We must learn to see things the way they are, with our fear acknowledged, but bound by our judgement. Fear this power as you would any other weapon; when it’s used against you by your enemies, not when it brings you aid and comfort in the darkness.’
