by Roger Taylor
The Dryenwr started slightly then grimaced. ‘Culmaren doesn't die,’ he said. ‘It's not possible ...’ His voice faded.
'How long?’ the Traveller insisted.
'Perhaps it was hurt thus in the destruction of the land.'
The Traveller shook his head. ‘I've been thinking since I found you. Isn't it possible that as you were thrown from the battle, this sought you out—as would be its way? Sought you out and protected you. Carried you to the only safe place it could find—your own land having moved on. Then couldn't it have sustained you? Kept you alive with its own life essence. That is its nature, isn't it?'
The Dryenwr lay back on one elbow and looked down at the Culmaren without replying.
'It mended your injuries, even mended your soiled and bloody uniform—mended everything, save the damage done to your sword, which is not Culmaren, is it?’ The Traveller paused. ‘Perhaps even changed you so that you could live here more easily—the middle depths are no comfortable place for the Dryenvolk as I remember. It kept you alive until it could do no more. That would be the way of Culmaren, wouldn't it?'
'That's the lore,’ the Dryenwr replied uncomfortably.
'That's the fact, warrior,’ the Traveller said. ‘That's what would have happened; that's what did happen, I'll wager.’ He lifted up the white fabric. ‘Just as the whole sustains your entire people, so this fragment sustained you alone. Until it was utterly spent. Then it cried out. Both here and in its other home beyond.’ He paused again, watching the Dryenwr carefully. ‘I heard the one.’ He indicated Ibryen. ‘He, the other.'
The Dryenwr looked up sharply. ‘No!’ he said, though the denial was strained.
'Yes,’ the Traveller said categorically. ‘This is a lonely place, Dryenwr, as you'll see when morning comes. We haven't stumbled upon you by chance. We were drawn here by its calls. I, thanks to my ancestry. He ...’ He shrugged. ‘Who can say?'
'It can't be,’ the Dryenwr said weakly.
'Why not?'
'You're not a Carver, nor he ...'
The tune that the Traveller had been whistling at the camp suddenly filled the cave with rich, elaborate sound. It stopped abruptly. ‘That was what you heard. My Song. You're right, true Carver I'm not, but their line is strong in me. As for him ...’ He pointed to Ibryen. ‘What is he not? Not Hearer caste, is he? How could he be? He isn't Dryenvolk. But even amongst yourselves, your castes are hardly clearly marked, are they? Don't you all have some aptitude for Hearing, for Shaping, for the poetry and music of the Versers? Don't you sometimes move from one caste to the other as you grow older? And would you presume that such gifts are confined only to the Dryenvolk?'
The Dryenwr looked from side to side as though he were being trapped. Then he held out his hand to silence the Traveller, and turned to Ibryen. ‘I am Arnar Isgyrn, leader of the Soarers Tahren of Endra Hornath. I'm fresh from a battle and far adrift in every sense. Perhaps now without a land or people.’ He nodded towards the Traveller. ‘That he has the gift of the Carvers is beyond doubt, but do you truly have the gift of Hearing the voice of the Culmaren?’ The question was blunt but not discourteous, and his voice shook with the control he was exerting.
Ibryen replied in similar vein. ‘I am Ibryen, Count of Nesdiryn, as the Traveller told you. My land still exists, but I too am adrift, dispossessed by usurpers, my own people divided, one against the other. I have a gift that I do not understand.’ He reached out and touched the Culmaren. ‘A gift that leaves me both here and elsewhere, in a place full of strange longing. It was I who let the spirit of this go free. I commended it for a duty well done, and asked that it seek out your kin.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I hear it now. Faint and very distant, across the void, singing, calling.’ He opened his eyes and met the Dryenwr's gaze. ‘It drew me here when perhaps my wiser judgement would have left me with my followers to continue the fight for my people.'
Isgyrn looked at him earnestly for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. He glanced round at all three. ‘A Carver who is not a Carver. A Hearer who is not a Hearer.’ He finished his examination with Rachyl.
She shrugged. ‘Warrior Caste, I suppose,’ she said, with acid knowingness. ‘I certainly wouldn't have given you your sword back so quickly.'
Isgyrn smiled ruefully and gave an appreciative nod. ‘Very wise. Rooted well in the lowest depths like all women. Though, in fact, I doubt I could stand, let alone wield this,’ he said, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword.
'And your doubts about us?’ the Traveller asked.
'You'll allow me a little bewilderment, Carver?’ Isgyrn replied. ‘A little time to gather my wits fully?'
'I'm sorry.'
Isgyrn fell silent. He fingered the Culmaren pensively. ‘It's true we all have a touch of each other's gifts, but I've precious little of the Shaper in me to judge the fate of this.’ He closed his eyes and continued manipulating the Culmaren. Then his face became hard and when he opened his eyes he looked at no one. ‘This is a nightmare,’ he said softly, rubbing his hands over the white blanket in a peculiarly childlike gesture. ‘But my head must agree with such meagre talent as I have. This was part of the wing that bore me, only days ago it seems. Young and strong. Full of the love of Svara's will, responding to my least touch. How we flew.’ He looked again at the three watchers and almost whispered. ‘To become as it is now, may have taken ...’ he forced the words out ‘... ten, perhaps twenty years.’ He held up his hand and looked at it, turning it over slowly. ‘But this is the hand I had only hours ago in my mind as I faced the abomination.'
There was a long silence. Isgyrn stared bleakly ahead. Ibryen looked at the Traveller who gave a helpless shrug.
'Is such a thing possible?’ he asked hesitantly.
Isgyrn turned to him and smiled sadly. ‘In myth and legend,’ he said, echoing Ibryen's own words though without any mockery. ‘But also now. The Seekers understand the Culmaren enough in this age to know it could be so. Though we would not treat it thus.'
Ibryen could not meet his gaze. ‘I've no words to comfort you, Arnar Isgyrn,’ he said, after an awkward silence. ‘Other than to say that we've gone to some pains to find you and will give you what help we can. I think now you should rest. We're all tired and little's to be gained fretting the night away. Let's talk again when there's daylight around us.'
Isgyrn grasped his arm purposefully. ‘Ten, twenty years ago. Was there a battle then?'
Ibryen shook his head and repeated his earlier answer. ‘Not in generations, Isgyrn. Not in generations.'
The Dryenwr looked at the Traveller. ‘This evil that arose in the north. How far was it? How long ago?'
'I don't know. And it was only a rumour. It could even have been a lie invented by those who were seeking to gain power, for their own ends.'
'But it had the feel of truth about it, Carver?'
The Traveller nodded.
Isgyrn ran his hands over the Culmaren again. ‘Everything is so vivid in my mind. Yet too, there's a sense of a long and fitful sleep also. Of stumbling wakings that I can't fully recall. It's possible that my confrontation with that demon has plunged me into madness—into a crazed dream, though everything about me seems real enough for all its strangeness. For the time, I suppose I must accept things as being what they appear to be, and, given that, my reason tells me beyond doubt that my memories of a few hours ago are indeed ten or more years old.'
Despite himself, Ibryen repeated his earlier remark. ‘There've been no great battles in this land ...'
'... in generations.’ Isgyrn finished the sentence, laying a hand on Ibryen's arm again, though this time almost as if to comfort him. ‘I understand. If I'm to accept that I've been sustained by the Culmaren ... asleep ... for so long, then I can readily accept that the battle I fought in was far from here. Simple logic brings me to that. My wing wouldn't lightly have come down to the middle depths. It's possible that I've been in this place only a short time. And who can say how far Svara's will has carried us b
efore we came here?'
For a moment, a spasm of rage and frustration distorted his face and he laid a hand on his sword again. Rachyl's eyes narrowed dangerously, but the anger was gone as quickly as it had arrived and he merely moved the sword to one side. ‘If you have it to spare, may I have some more water?’ he asked.
Rachyl's hand moved from her knife to her water bottle and she handed it to him. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘It's no warmer than it was a few minutes since and you'll find stomach cramps just as pleasant now as they were ten years ago.'
The Dryenwr smiled weakly and took only a small drink before handing the bottle back. His stomach rumbled. He apologized.
'Think nothing of it,’ the Traveller said, his head cocked attentively on one side. ‘I can do great things with that.'
Isgyrn looked at him blankly. Ibryen repeated his earlier advice. ‘Rest, Isgyrn,’ he said. ‘He who sleeps, dines, they say. At least, the well-fed say it to the hungry. We'll go down to our camp in the morning. We've not got a great deal to offer, but we won't die of starvation between here and home.'
'I cannot burden you,’ Isgyrn said.
Ibryen waved the comment away airily. ‘Sleep,’ he ordered, paternally.
Rachyl frowned and glanced around the cave. Then she leaned forward. ‘All debts are paid in full if you share your blanket with us. It's big enough,’ she said. ‘We might be out of the wind but it's none too warm in here.'
Isgyrn looked a little taken aback. ‘Yes ... yes, of course. I'll ... I'll put my sword between us,’ he stammered.
Rachyl's frown became puzzled for a moment, then her eyebrows rose. ‘Don't worry, I'll put my cousin between us,’ she said. ‘And this.’ She offered him a clenched fist.
* * * *
Both Ibryen and Rachyl woke at the same time the next morning. There was a hint of greyness about them, and their breaths misted the air. They rose stoically, carefully stretching stiffened joints and massaging where the rocky floor of the cave had made its mark.
'Well, at least we weren't cold,’ Rachyl said. She examined the Culmaren closely. ‘It's a very strange material, like animal fur and the finest of weaves, and yet like neither. I've never seen anything like it.’ She was holding it against her cheek with conspicuous pleasure. Then, clearing her throat self-consciously, she looked round. Isgyrn was still asleep. She cast a glance at Ibryen, who shook his head.
'Let him sleep until we're ready to leave. The sooner he wakes the longer he's going to have to wait to eat.'
She clamped a hand to her stomach. ‘Don't mention it,’ she said. ‘Thinking about him not eating for ten years had me dreaming about food half the night and I'd swear I could smell cooking even now.'
'Ah. you're back.’ It was the Traveller, silhouetted in the greying entrance. ‘I thought you were all going to try for a ten year sleep the way you were snoring.’ Rachyl glowered but he pressed on. ‘Sun'll be up soon. Come on, there's food here.'
'Food?’ Ibryen queried. Rachyl sniffed noisily.
'It's only your supplies, I'm afraid. Nothing lavish,’ the Traveller said. ‘There's nothing up here that you'd want to eat unless you were really hungry. I went down for it. Didn't feel like sleeping and I thought perhaps it was a little churlish of me to make free with the poor man's stomach rumblings, even though they were interesting.'
'You're a man of rare sensibility,’ Ibryen conceded.
'It's been noticed before,’ the Traveller said blandly. He motioned them outside. The smell of cooking was stronger here but, looking round, they saw no sign of a fire. The Traveller lifted a flat slab to reveal slices of meat crackling on a softly glowing bed in a hollow between two boulders. He flicked them over gingerly and, after blowing on his fingers, dropped the slab back. ‘Wake our guest,’ he said.
Ibryen went back into the cave.
'That's a peculiar fire,’ Rachyl said. ‘Where did you get the firewood from?'
The Traveller gave her a long look. ‘I wasn't going to go that far down the mountain,’ he said, mildly indignant. He eased the slab up again and peered under it. ‘These are just a couple of my sunstones. I don't normally use them for cooking, but I thought it was a bit unkind to ask our guest to trek back to the camp before ...'
'Sunstones?'
He smiled reassuringly. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘They won't lose much with this slab over them.'
'But what ...'
Ibryen emerged with Isgyrn before she could pursue her inquiry. The Dryenwr had folded the Culmaren in an elaborate fashion and it was draped about his shoulders like a cape. He was about the same height as Ibryen but, in so far as could be judged under the Culmaren, bulkier, although he seemed to be very light on his feet.
He looked up at the steep walls of the cleft uneasily. ‘This is a disturbing place,’ he said.
The Traveller followed his gaze. ‘We'll be away in a moment,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You'll soon have open sky above you. Do you have a knife to go with that sword?’ He held out his hand. Isgyrn checked about himself uncertainly then produced a long knife that he handed, hilt first, to the Traveller. Like his sword, the edge was hacked.
Nimbly, the Traveller skewered three pieces of the meat and handed the knife back to him. ‘Your first meal in the middle depths, Arnar Isgyrn. Simple, I'm afraid, but sufficient to carry you as far as your next one. Take care, it's hot.'
The Dryenwr seized the knife hastily then, with a conspicuous effort, paused. ‘Thank you,’ he said apologetically, glancing significantly at Rachyl and Ibryen.
'Eat,’ the Traveller said briskly, handing the others the rest of the meat. ‘There's plenty for everyone.’ As Rachyl and Ibryen were struggling to control the hot food, he produced a cloth and, reaching down between the two boulders with it, picked up the four glowing rocks that formed the bed on which the meat had been cooking. Unhurriedly, but with practised deftness he wrapped them in the cloth and put them in his pack. Rachyl, her mouth full, waved her arms in alarm.
'Don't concern yourself, my dear,’ the Traveller said, catching the gesture. ‘They're good stones. Cooking these bits and pieces used hardly anything. They've got days left in them.'
'You could've burned yourself. And you'll burn your pack,’ she spluttered.
The Traveller looked at her uncertainly then turned to Ibryen with a look of mildly surprised realization. ‘You don't use sunstones round here, do you?’ he said. ‘I thought you were just being thrifty with your oil lantern and the firewood—perhaps a bit low at the end of winter ... having to eke out your resources.’ He shook his head. ‘I should have realized, they didn't use them in Girnlant either. Sorry to be so obtuse—I misunderstood. Anyway, we can talk about that later. Come on, there's no point delaying, this place is upsetting Isgyrn more than he's prepared to say. Let's get back to your tent and below the snow before we decide what to do next.'
He was moving away before anyone could question him further.
Ibryen took Isgyrn's arm. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘Rachyl will follow you. I can't imagine what this place is like for you, and I've no knowledge of the ways of your people, but the only danger we face here is injury caused by our own carelessness. If you want to rest or feel the need for support, speak. If you don't, you may endanger us all.'
'I understand,’ Isgyrn said. ‘There are wild places in my lands also. I'll do as you say.'
The journey back to the tent took them some time. Isgyrn did not seem to be disturbed by the wind, which was still blowing strongly, but he found the snow-covered terrain very difficult, frequently slipping and having to be caught by Rachyl. On two occasions he called the party to a halt while he recovered his breath. When they stopped for the second time, Rachyl looked at him then voiced his complaint for him. ‘You may curse and swear, if you wish,’ she said. ‘There's nothing more frustrating for a fighter than to be made dependent on others because of physical weakness.'
Isgyrn, leaning back against a rock, smiled grimly. ‘I don't think it would be a wi
se idea,’ he said, addressing them all. ‘Your kindness and patience remind me constantly that, for all we come from such different worlds, we've many things in common. But my mind's awash with such confusion and questioning I don't know what I might plunge into if I gave it free flight.’ He patted his chest. ‘That I can even breathe comfortably down here raises questions that I suspect would tax our finest Seekers. Perhaps indeed the Culmaren ...’ He waved his arm dismissively then frowned. ‘Not the time or the place,’ he declared, adding with a nod of acknowledgement to Rachyl, ‘though I'll concede I'm finding it difficult to stay calm when simply lifting my arm requires a deliberate effort.'
He looked up. Light mist filled the valley below them but the sun was rising in a sky which was clear of clouds save for a few trailing wisps drawn out by the wind from some of the higher peaks. It needed little sensitivity on the part of his companions to understand his thoughts as he gazed around the empty sky.
'First thing in the morning's not my strongest time either, Isgyrn,’ Rachyl said, good-humouredly. ‘How I'd feel after a ten-year sleep I can't imagine.’ She held out her arm. ‘Warrior's way,’ she said. ‘All we need concern ourselves with is putting one foot in front of the other.’ Isgyrn took it gratefully to pull himself upright and they set off again.
When they eventually reached the tent they rested for some time and ate again before breaking camp and beginning the descent back down to the forest. Away from the snow, Isgyrn became more sure-footed and, following the meal and the rest, he seemed a little stronger. Ibryen nonetheless made the Traveller maintain a leisurely pace and it was early evening by the time they reached the upper reaches of the forest and made camp.
They spoke very little as they sat around the fire. Isgyrn kept dozing off until, at the prompting of the others, he made his excuses and, wrapping the Culmaren about him, lay down. ‘Is that going to be warm enough?’ Rachyl asked.
