by Roger Taylor
Isloman nodded and returned to his seat. He felt suddenly very tired.
For some time the two sat in companionable stillness, Isloman slowly piecing together the turbulent history of the past months, Sylvriss listening. As the night deepened, however, Isloman felt his body relaxing and he began to doze fitfully. It seemed to him that he was again at Pedhavin, in the heart of his friends and memories, sleeping in the Great Harmony of Orthlund under the beneficent gaze of Anderras Darion and the strange healer who had opened its Great Gate and brought such light with him.
Yet part of him knew clearly that this was not so. This interlude was just a small gift from somewhere to refresh his weary spirit. True, he was amongst friends, both new and old, but they were battlefield friends with battlefield memories. And he was resting not in Anderras Darion but in a battle-ready fortress in a country seemingly destined for civil war. Terrible powers had been unleashed, and Hawklan was . . .?
He opened his eyes suddenly, not alarmed but wide-awake. Gavor shifted uneasily and mumbled something in his sleep. Moonlight was streaming through the window and Isloman could see that Sylvriss too had succumbed to fatigue. She was leaning forward in the chair and her head was resting on her arms by Hawklan’s side.
Hawklan’s hand lay on her head protectively.
The scene had a quality of strangeness about it that Isloman could not identify, but as he felt sleep wafting back over him almost immediately, the only clear thought that came to mind was, I must wake her gently in the morning, she’ll be stiff, sleeping like that. Then, slightly amused, as will I.
Both thoughts were with him when he woke, but to his surprise he found he was quite relaxed, despite having foregone the large easy chair he had used on previous nights for a stern upright one. Then he recalled Hawklan’s hand resting on Sylvriss’s head. She mustn’t wake to that, he thought. Not to such affectionate contact. But as his eyes focussed, he saw that Hawklan’s hand still lay by his side.
A dream perhaps, he thought. But it had been extraordinarily vivid. And the memories of Orthlund were still strong and clear.
As if aware of his scrutiny, Sylvriss stirred, then woke with a little start. Slowly she sat up. Her face, though drawn, showed none of the signs of bewilderment or concern that might be expected of someone waking under such circumstances. Isloman looked at her carefully. Seemingly more out of habit than need she yawned and stretched, then she looked from Hawklan to Isloman and smiled.
‘How strange,’ she said. ‘I had such dreams. Such old, wonderful memories. Such strength. I know there’s a lot of pain ahead, more tears to shed, but something’s changed. Rgoric’s gone.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘But not gone. We found again what we’d lost, or what had been taken from us. That’s not given to many, and it can’t be taken away. I mustn’t waste my life. That would be a betrayal. I must do what he’d have done. What we’d have done together.’
She looked down at Hawklan and then back at Isloman. ‘We’re poor nurses,’ she said. ‘Sleeping when we should have watched.’
Isloman stood up and took his friend’s hand. It was warmer than usual and, as he held the wrist, the pulse was stronger.
He shook his head. ‘I’m not certain who was nursing who last night,’ he said, ‘but even Hawklan seems stronger in some way.’
His reflections were disturbed by a boisterous flapping from Gavor followed by a noisy yawn and a brief but quite unintelligible speech addressed in the most earnest terms to someone other than the three people in the room. ‘What?’ he concluded.
‘I said Hawklan seems stronger,’ Isloman said, wilfully thrusting reality on the bird.
Gavor turned to him in surprise and gazed at him blearily. ‘What?’ he repeated sharply.
‘These mountain birds too much for you, Gavor?’ Isloman taunted.
Gavor cocked his head on one side then imperiously spread his wings and glided from his perch on Isloman’s chair to land lightly by Hawklan. He closed his eyes and bent closely over the sleeping figure’s head. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘He is, he is. You’re right. He’s coming nearer.’ He began to hop about excitedly. ‘What happened?’
A soft knocking interrupted him. Isloman opened the door and Yatsu entered. He was about to speak to Isloman when he saw the Queen. ‘Majesty,’ he said, momentarily disconcerted. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll . . .’
He made to leave, but Sylvriss signalled him to stay. ‘It’s not possible for such a friend to intrude, Commander,’ she said simply. ‘Give Isloman your message.’
Yatsu bowed. ‘Lord Eldric asked me to tell Isloman about Dith-Galar, Majesty,’ he said. ‘And about the Speaking.’
Sylvriss nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘That was thoughtful. I’d forgotten Isloman was an outlander . . . like me. I’ll tell him. Where’s the Speaking to be held?’
‘In the main hall,’ Yatsu replied.
Sylvriss’s face became pensive. After a moment, she said, ‘Tell Lord Eldric that I’d like to speak formally . . . before the Speaking starts.’
Isloman detected a flicker of surprise on the Goraidin’s face, but it was gone almost immediately as he acknowledged the request and, with a bow, left, closing the door quietly.
Seeing a mirror, Sylvriss stood up and expertly began to repair some of the damage that her unusual night’s rest had wrought in her appearance. Isloman looked at her reflection expectantly.
‘The Speaking’s one of the Fyordyn’s ways,’ Sylvriss said after a moment, answering his unspoken question. ‘A very Fyordyn way,’ she added with gentle mockery. ‘They appoint a time and a place, then whoever wishes to can attend and speak as the spirit moves him about . . .’ She faltered. ‘About whoever’s died. No debate or discussion, just memories and thoughts. And no ceremony or formality. Just people, talking and remembering.’
She turned round, businesslike. ‘It’s a good way,’ she said. ‘The Fyordyn are such a . . . good people. Very wise and understanding.’ Then with a last glance in the mirror. ‘It’s a good way. Come along.’
Isloman blinked at this peremptory command. He looked at Hawklan. ‘No,’ Sylvriss said. ‘Leave him. Let him lie in the quiet sunlight.’ She walked to the window and opened it. The sound of bird-song drifted into the room, mingled with sounds of subdued activity in the courtyard below. ‘He can know little or nothing of Rgoric and the grief of so many would be a needless burden to him,’ she continued. ‘He’s done enough for us all already. Gavor, will you stay with him?’ Gavor nodded silently.
As she reached the door she paused thoughtfully. ‘May I borrow Hawklan’s sword?’ she asked Isloman.
He looked at her anxiously. ‘Can you touch it, lady?’ he said, remembering the last time she had tried to handle it.
Sylvriss stepped forward to Hawklan’s bed and, unfastening the scabbard, lifted it up and took hold of the sword’s hilt. Immediately, she closed her eyes and Isloman started forward in some alarm. As he reached her, she opened them again. They were calm and clear. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s quiet again.’ Then, enigmatically, ‘It’s remembered.’
As they walked towards the main hall, Isloman said, ‘Yatsu was surprised when you said you wanted to speak at this ceremony.’
‘That was because I asked to speak formally,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘It’s just not done. They’ll accept it because I’m their Queen and because I’m Riddinvolk – an outlander. And . . .’ She smiled briefly. ‘Because they’re a tolerant people.’ Her face became purposeful again. ‘But there are things that need to be said, and quickly,’ she went on. ‘Any Speaking acknowledges and marks the changes in direction that a death brings to the lives of others. This one marks the change for a whole nation. It’s important that the new direction be clear and well focussed.’
Gradually the corridor began to fill with a silent procession of figures converging on the main hall. With her hood forward and Hawklan’s sword concealed
under her robe the Queen looked no different from many of the other women present, and several times in the gentle confusion Isloman became separated from her.
As they entered the hall, however, she threw back her hood and started moving towards a small raised platform that had been hastily built at one end.
The crowd parted before her, and the hiss of her name rose softly out of the silent gathering to fill the hall like a wind in the tree-tops. Isloman followed self-consciously in her wake.
On the platform were Eldric and Arinndier, together with Hreldar and Darek, both of whom were showing marked signs of shock and fatigue. Hard riding was Isloman’s diagnosis of the cause of the latter.
When they reached the platform, Sylvriss walked up the steps but Isloman stopped at the bottom until she turned and beckoned him to join her. Eldric came forward to greet her.
‘May I speak, Lord Eldric?’ she asked. Eldric did not reply, but simply bowed and extended his arm towards the now packed hall. Sylvriss bowed in return then turned to meet her subjects.
For a moment she looked at them, then she spoke quietly and clearly, her voice rich with the characteristic singsong lilt of the Riddinvolk accent. The form of the hall carried her words to each individual as if she were standing only a few paces away.
‘I ask your pardon, my friends,’ she began. ‘I know you’re about to start your Speaking and, as Rgoric’s widow, I shouldn’t intrude my grief on yours. But these are no ordinary times and certain matters must be resolved before we can allow ourselves the luxury of grief.’ There was a hint of sternness in her tone and Isloman felt the attention of the hall beginning to focus on her intently.
‘For many years Dan-Tor has poisoned not only my husband, but our whole country. With his words and his deeds, he has caused us to turn away from the wisdom of our ancient ways and duties. We now know why. In other circumstances we would catalogue the misdeeds of such a man, but we have no need of such niceties here, because we know now that he is no man.’
Eldric shot a glance at Isloman.
‘He is the dark agent of a darker power that has risen again in Narsindal. We know him now for Oklar, the Earth Corrupter, the first of the Uhriel of Sumeral. A creature we had thought only a legend, but who we see amongst us now as a creature of terrible reality. One whose power is beyond our imagining.’ Her voice was still soft and steady, and her command of her listeners was now absolute. She held out her hand to indicate Isloman.
‘Even as I was told of this I knew its truth beyond doubt. And I found solace in it. Great solace.’ She leaned forward, hands extended in powerful emphasis. ‘Did you think that such as Rgoric could be downed by a man? Did you think that Fyorlund could be so reduced by a man? To be laid so low by the acts of a man would be a dishonour indeed, but to stand unbowed after a such blows from such a creature tells us that he has missed the heart of people utterly and that now, as in times long gone, he is neither invincible nor infallible, and that both he . . . and his Master.’ She pointed northwards. ‘Can be defeated.’
The hall was silent.
‘For even with his treachery and cunning, he could not bind forever the will of your king. He could not hide forever from the light of truth. And even with his vaunted, city-crushing power he could not destroy the determination of people to stand against him. To oppose him utterly.’
Eldric moved to her side.
‘By your Law,’ Sylvriss continued, ‘I am now your ruler. But none has ever sat the throne of Fyorlund without the word of the people and I would hear yours now.’
There was a stir among the crowd, but Sylvriss silenced it with a gesture.
‘But know this. As your ruler or not, I shall oppose this creature and his master as Rgoric did. To the end. I shall oppose him for the sake of the Fyordyn, the Orthlundyn, the Riddinvolk.’ She paused and laid her hand on her stomach. ‘For the sake of all peoples. For if we who know him do not oppose him, then who will?’
Then, slowly, she held out Hawklan’s black sword horizontally, her left hand gripping its scabbard. ‘This sword comes out of Orthlund. Orthlund, whose care we have so recklessly neglected. It is the sword of Hawklan. A man. With it he faced the wrath of Oklar. He has paid a price that we cannot yet fathom, but he lives and he recovers, and even in his dreams he reaches out and aids us. Truth and help have come to us unasked. Who can say what forces are stirring now? We have allowed evil to grow in our midst because of our blindness. Let us not now be blind to the good which has awakened also, for in not seeing it, we will bind it.’
Her right hand came up and, gripping the hilt of the sword, she drew it and held it high above her head. ‘I cannot pledge you this sword. Such a pledge is not mine to give. But I pledge you my sword arm and my spirit to follow the path that this sword has begun to cut through the choking weeds that have fouled our way for so long.’
Before the crowd could respond, she turned round and faced the Lords on the platform and looked at each in turn.
Then she knelt down. ‘Do you want such a Queen, Lords?’ she said quietly, bowing her head. Eldric drew his sword and offered it hilt first to her. She laid her hand on it. Each of the Lords did likewise and Isloman remembered how they in turn had knelt before the Goraidin and the High Guards to seal such a pledge.
While Sylvriss was still kneeling, Eldric moved to the front of the platform. ‘Is this the will of you all?’ he said simply and quietly.
Isloman started visibly as a great cry burst out from the previously silent crowd. Then, spontaneously, from no source that Isloman could see, they were all singing. A rhythmic and stirring song unfamiliar to Isloman but obviously to no one else. Despite that, however, the massed voices were so powerful that he felt his pulse racing in excitement at the sound.
Then on a climactic chord the song was finished and the ordered harmony fragmented into equally loud cheering and shouting. Isloman looked round at the others on the platform. Without exception they were flushed and damp-eyed. Eldric cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Didn’t expect that,’ he said to the others. ‘Marvellous.’
Isloman turned to Arinndier.
‘It’s the Emin Rithid,’ Arinndier said, anticipating his question. ‘Supposed to have been sung by the warriors of the Iron Ring at the Last Battle.’ He was obviously deeply moved. ‘It means a great deal to us as a people. That was most unexpected. I . . .’
He cleared his throat noisily and, with a nod, directed Isloman’s attention to Sylvriss, now rising to her feet. She sheathed Hawklan’s sword and held it out to Isloman.
‘Thank you,’ she said to him, then, to the still noisy crowd. ‘This sword must return now to its true owner, but we have swords of our own which will serve our needs well enough. I’ll leave you now to your Speaking. Let it be open and honest, and when at the end you turn your faces forward, let it be not only with the hope you’ve just expressed but in the knowledge that more than just Rgoric’s spirit lives on.’
She placed her hand on her stomach again. ‘I carry his child. Spread the word through the countryside. The line of the Lords of the Iron Ring is unbroken. Let it be a thread of brightness in these dark times, a thread to weave the rope that will bind the awful creature that would seize not only our land but our very hearts.’
Chapter 13
The council chamber of the Cadwanol was sparsely decorated, low-ceilinged and circular with many doors around the wall; all were open. Between them, mirror stones brought bright clear window images of the surrounding Riddin countryside into the room. Rolling foothills spread out to the south like a heaving sea caught by some great whim of nature and held motionless, while to the east, sparse grasslands shimmered into the distant horizon, where a thin bright line betrayed the presence of the ocean. Dominating the scene however, were the surrounding crags and peaks of the approaches to the grim Pass of Elewart; a daunting sight even in the bright sunshine that had greeted Andawyr’s awakening.
Not given to excessive protocol at the best of times, the senior brothers of th
e Cadwanol were almost childlike in their enthusiasm at the return of their leader, bustling around him, applauding, laughing, all talking at once, and generally impeding his progress.
Smiling broadly, Andawyr shook as many of the proffered hands as he could and acknowledged such comments as he managed to hear before finally reaching his chair of office.
‘Brothers, brothers,’ he shouted, laughing as he sat down gratefully. ‘A modicum of dignity please. Rest assured I’m as happy to be here as you seem to be to see me. There’s been many a time in the past when I’ve roundly cursed some of you, but there’ve been more of late when I thought I’d never live to see any of you again, and was the sadder for it.’
The din abated a little and he closed his eyes and luxuriated in the comfort of his chair. ‘I always thought of myself as someone who valued truly what he had, but I think that can perhaps never really be the case, try as we may. Suffice it that I value many simple things even more highly than I did, and whatever resolution I had in the past to fulfil my role here as your leader is increased tenfold.’
He smiled at the familiar faces surrounding him. Then reluctantly, he pressed on, ‘However, take your seats brothers. I’m afraid we have weightier matters to discuss.’
Subdued somewhat by the change in his tone, but still happy, the brothers moved to their respective seats arranged in a wide circle at the centre of the room. Discreetly, Andawyr watched each in turn as they settled down. As usual, all of the senior brothers were present.
There was a brief silence, during which he squeezed the remains of his nose between his thumb and forefinger reflectively, then a surge of questions welled up from nowhere and broke over him like an ocean wave and he had to lift his hand for silence.
‘After so long in the darkness, it’s a true joy to be here again, amongst such friends,’ he said, pushing himself upright in his chair. ‘But you’ll have to listen in silence a while if I’m to answer any of your questions. After that I suspect we’ll have plenty to talk about.’
