The Return of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  Then her stick was tapping the visitors on their way again.

  * * * *

  The Goraidin’s Accounting had been given, and the tales of Antyr, Farnor, Vredech, Pinnatte and Thyrn all told. It had taken a long time.

  Andawyr addressed the gathering.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Now we begin,’ Andawyr said, looking round at the watching faces of the small assembly.

  A sense of wilful control over tumbling questions filled the hall. It was underlain by a deep unease. Andawyr addressed it directly.

  ‘Now we begin to make a coherent picture of what we’ve learned over these past days – if we can. I can’t see that it will be easy. I can’t see that it will be comforting. Indeed, I fear it will be the very opposite. The listening alone has been taxing, and some grim shadows have been cast. I’ll not ask you not to be afraid; I think we’ve learned enough already to know that that would be asking too much, but I will ask you not to allow your fear to cloud your vision, and to bring your every faculty to bear until we can say we have at least a semblance of the truth about what all of this means. I know I’m stating the obvious.’ A quick glance took in the faces of Farnor, Marna and Thyrn. ‘Something most of us have learned already. But “obvious” is a treacherous word and I’d rather repeat a thing a dozen times than have it go by default. However bad it is, the truth is always preferable to ignorance. When the fears and the doubts become too much, hold firm to that. You’re all people of proven ability and resolve. Remember who you’re with and where you are.’ An airy wave encompassed the view beyond the hall, though much of the Orthlundyn countryside was hidden in a fine drizzling rain.

  He sat down and swung one leg on to a table. His manner became matter-of-fact. ‘We’ll need our heads and our hearts to deal with this, my friends – our intellects and our intuitions.’ He hesitated. ‘And, on that very point, I have to say that what concerns me most is the . . . feeling . . . that we don’t have a great deal of time before some resolution not of our making breaks over our heads.’ He lifted both hands to silence any questions even though none were being voiced. ‘Just a feeling,’ he repeated. ‘My stomach, not my head. But bear with me in this, please. Be thorough in your inquiries and your work, but be urgent!’

  He opened his arms towards Antyr and the others. ‘I’ll admit I’m at a loss to know what to say to you. You’ve each faced your own terrible trials, trials that have been cruel enough to drive you far from your homes and friends in search of help. And what have we done for you? Badgered you with our interminable questions. We’re not normally so inhospitable. We owe you at least an apology. All I can do is ask . . .’

  ‘No apology is necessary,’ Antyr interrupted, drawing all eyes to himself. ‘I can’t speak for the others, of course, but this Accounting, as you call it, has been like a keen wind blowing through my mind, clearing away dust and clutter. It hasn’t solved any of my problems. I’m still no wiser about my . . . gift. And some of the things I’ve heard have been very disturbing. But I feel great hope in this place and amongst you all. It’s where I think I need to be and, right now, it’s certainly where I want to be. You owe me nothing, and I owe you my thanks.’

  Unused to compliments, Andawyr swung his leg down from the table and cleared his throat awkwardly. He coloured.

  ‘He does speak for all of us,’ Vredech added after a glance that took in Thyrn, Farnor and Pinnatte.

  Andawyr cleared his throat again, then glowered at Usche, who was smirking, and at Ar-Billan who was trying not to. He stood up, made a futile attempt to straighten his robe and gave Antyr a brisk bow. Then he was issuing needless instructions.

  ‘We must search the castle’s library for references to Dream Finding and anything that tells of or even implies travelling between different worlds – mythology, superstition, children’s tales, ancient science, abstruse mathematics – anything. We must find it, study it, and relate it to the information, the facts, we’ve learned. I suspect this strange ability of Antyr’s is fundamental.’

  He fidgeted with some papers lying on the table in front of him. ‘This too needs to be pursued, but I don’t see how we can do it in a hurry – I seem to have run into a wall or, rather, a maelstrom with it. Still . . .’

  He drummed a brief, pensive tattoo on the papers, then picked them up and thrust them at Usche. ‘Let me know what you think,’ he said. ‘Work with Ar-Billan.’

  Others were given the task of helping Pinnatte to find a way to clear his mind of the ‘cobwebs’ that he had told Vredech about and which seemed to bind him largely to silence. Nertha attached herself determinedly to these. Yet others were to study two translucent blue stones that Pinnatte had found in his pocket after his precipitate return from the world of the Uhriel. He had caused a small stir when, discovering them, he had cried out and frantically thrown them away.

  ‘Crystals,’ he said, putting an unsteady but determined hand on Andawyr to restrain him as he stooped to pick them up. ‘Dangerous.’

  Andawyr looked at him, then held his open hand over the stones for a while before nudging one of them gingerly with his finger. What he felt he did not say, but he frowned and said, ‘I think you’re right,’ picking them up quickly with a cloth. He also gave a strong injunction to ‘be careful’ when he gave them to his fellow Cadwanwr for study.

  Later, having been chased away by his various charges, who insisted they needed no immediate help with their allotted tasks, Andawyr sat alone in his own room. His feet on the table, his chair pushed back precariously on two legs and his hands behind his head, he was staring up at the ceiling. A soft scratching at the door disturbed his reverie. Opening it, he found himself looking down at Tarrian. He knelt inquiringly in front of the wolf who stepped a little to one side and, head lowered, peered into the room.

  A reproach filled Andawyr’s mind. ‘Such a mess,’ Tarrian said despairingly. ‘Still. None of my business, I suppose. Time to talk. Grayle’s gone for Gulda and Hawklan.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Come along, don’t dawdle. It’s not as if you were doing anything useful – like tidying your room, for example.’

  Tarrian was retreating along the corridor but the insistence in his voice moved Andawyr’s feet before he was aware of it.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked as they clattered down a winding flight of stairs.

  ‘Forward.’

  Andawyr’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see,’ he said caustically. ‘Out of the past and into the future. From here to there, and so on. An accurate and totally useless reply. I’ve got enough to think about without bandying bad philosophy with you, wolf. Where, specifically, are we going, and why?’

  They were walking along a wide, brightly lit corridor. Statues stared out at them from semi-circular apses which reached up to a high, steeply arched ceiling. Tarrian’s nails clicked purposefully on the mosaic floor, tapping a sharp and rhythmic counterpoint to Andawyr’s shuffling footfall.

  ‘To see Antyr,’ Tarrian replied, just as Andawyr was about to repeat his question.

  At the end of the corridor was a large double door. They had to pause by a wicket-door to allow a noisy and cheerful group – Riddinvolk, by their accents – to enter, before leaving the building and heading across a broad lawn. The grass had recently been cut and, touched by the rain that had fallen earlier in the day, its scent was strong and heady. Tarrian stopped for a moment and sniffed vigorously, his head swinging from side to side. Almost mimicking him, Andawyr too closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

  Then they were moving again, Tarrian leading the way up the sweeping steps that led to the top of the castle wall. Puffing a little as he reached the top, Andawyr saw Hawklan and Gulda standing with Antyr. They were looking out over the countryside. The sun was low and very bright, hiding much of the landscape under an elaborate patchwork of long, gold-flecked shadows.

  ‘Fine evening,’ Andawyr said as he joined the others. The bland courtesy emerged unbidden and sounded empty in the face o
f the sun’s splendour. Tarrian jumped up on to one of the embrasures. Grayle and Dar-volci were already there, sprawled out luxuriously. Tarrian dropped down beside them. The eyes of the two wolves glinted yellow in the sunlight.

  Andawyr looked at Gulda and then at Hawklan. Both of them returned his inquiring gaze.

  ‘We thought you needed to talk,’ Dar-volci said.

  ‘We?’ Gulda asked, turning to him darkly.

  ‘Me, Tarrian, Grayle, Gavor.’

  ‘We’ve been talking for days, or hadn’t you noticed?’ Andawyr said with some impatience.

  ‘Oh yes, we noticed. You made quite a reasonable job of it, too,’ Tarrian intruded, addressing all of them.

  Andawyr gave Antyr a world-weary look. ‘It’s hard enough having patronizing felcis all over the place without the wolves joining in.’

  Antyr gave a disclaiming shrug.

  ‘Just sit quietly for a little while,’ Tarrian said, conspicuously ignoring the sarcasm. ‘Watch the sun go down and Anderras Darion’s stars rise.’

  Radiant-stone lanterns were already releasing their sun-stored light into parts of the castle that were deep in shade. They changed in intensity as need arose, casting a gentle light that eased the darkness aside rather than slashing through it as though it were an enemy.

  A black shape, flickering shadows in the gloaming, landed on top of the wall and then hopped on to Hawklan’s shoulder.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, dear boys, Memsa,’ Gavor said. ‘Just talking to a friend.’

  Gulda reached up and tapped his beak, then chuckled and sat down by the wolves, motioning the others to do the same.

  They sat in silence for a long time, watching the sun sink slowly beyond the horizon, returning the landscape to them for a little while before the darkness finally enfolded it. Evening was a time when the Orthlundyn tended to wander their streets, watching what the changing shadows did to their carvings. Orthlundyn carving frequently produced results that its creators had not intended. In so doing, it asked questions and opened ways, and the Orthlundyn relished it.

  As the western sky dimmed and stars began to appear, so more lights began to bloom into life about the castle. Occasionally, sounds drifted to the watchers, deepening the silence: voices, distant and indistinct; laughter; a closing door; the cry of a nightbird or an animal.

  ‘Excuse us,’ Tarrian said, as he and Grayle scrambled to their feet and jumped down from the embrasure.

  ‘Patronizing they might be when it suits them,’ Gulda said as the two wolves trotted off along the wall. ‘But they have a sureness of touch that we have to work hard to attain and even harder to keep.’

  ‘I thought it was a good Accounting,’ Andawyr said in a slightly injured tone.

  ‘It was,’ Gulda replied. ‘An excellent one, insofar as excellent is a word to be used for what we’ve learned. But a little silence, a little stillness, a little freedom doesn’t go amiss, does it? Let the castle soak into us, as it were.’

  She looked upwards. Where lights decked the towers they had an intensity and were arranged in such a way that it was often difficult to distinguish them from the stars.

  ‘It seems that Ethriss’s patterns stretch out, into the very heavens,’ Gulda said softly. ‘Vying with the constellations.’

  ‘Like those in the hilt of the Black Sword,’ Hawklan said, equally softly.

  Andawyr looked at him. ‘What did you make of the appearance of yourself and the Sword in my dream?’ The question was more abrupt than he had intended. ‘The one I had back at the Cadwanen when I hustled Antyr into demonstrating his art on me.’

  Hawklan did not answer immediately. His thoughts had drifted back to the mountain camp when he and Dar-volci had discussed the loss of the Sword and when Dar-volci had so casually announced his belief that Sumeral was whole again and bent on returning. He voiced the thoughts he had had then.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve no conceivable need for a sword, yet it haunts me still that I let it slip so easily from my hand.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the power of even the voice of Sumeral,’ Gulda said. ‘Had I been a little wiser, perhaps I might have prepared you better.’

  Hawklan shook his head and affected a casualness he did not feel. ‘I doubt it. But it’s of no account. The deed’s done and the Sword lost.’

  ‘But it still troubles you?’

  ‘“Troubles” is too strong a word. But the recollection comes to me from time to time and there’s always a wrongness about the memory. I can’t do other than reproach myself for what happened.’

  ‘Time to time?’ Andawyr’s voice was shrewd. ‘Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that scarcely a day passes without you thinking about it?’

  Hawklan grimaced and avoided his gaze. ‘I suppose so, yes,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Particularly lately – since I discussed it with Dar . . . but . . .’

  ‘No buts,’ Andawyr said. ‘It mightn’t be giving you sleepless nights, but it’s troubling you all right. And, to be honest, it troubles me too, though, like you, I don’t know why. You and it are joined in some way. It almost literally fell into your hand when it was needed. How did it come to be in the Armoury? It couldn’t have been there before. A smith like Loman would have sensed its presence years earlier. And on the few occasions you used it, it was like a trumpet call. It rang out, clarity and truth swirling in its wake.’ He became very still, then pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. ‘How couldn’t I have seen it before?’ he said, his eyes suddenly wide and intense. ‘It’s so obvious. He was afraid of it. Afraid of it.’

  ‘As you said yourself, a treacherous word, “obvious”,’ Gulda said quietly. ‘Who was afraid of it?’

  ‘Him! Sumeral!’ Andawyr replied, swinging his still wide-eyed gaze round to her. ‘The Sword’s some kind of extraordinary artefact of the Power, but if He’d been able to use it, He’d simply have taken it. Hawklan can’t use the Power himself – he was running towards Derras Ustramel in faith and with the vainest of hopes. Sumeral’s least effort could have bound him there and taken the Sword.’ He turned to Hawklan and prodded a satisfied finger into his chest. ‘But instead, He stopped you, long before you reached the castle – before you could even see it through the mist. And He made you drop the Sword into the lake.’

  ‘No, not into the lake,’ Hawklan said. ‘Somewhere else.’

  Andawyr bared his teeth in a moue of annoyance and his elation faltered. He sagged a little. ‘Well, that’s as maybe. It’s still lost, isn’t it? As you said, the deed’s done, there’s no point fretting about it.’

  ‘There’s rarely any point about fretting over anything,’ Gulda said sharply. ‘But given that our healer still feels the absence of it after so long – increasingly so, it would seem – and the venerable leader of the Cadwanol sees it in his dreams, and even now is still standing on that misty causeway where it was lost, I think it would be worth bringing a little purposeful thought to it.’

  As she looked significantly at the two men, a low moaning cry came out of the darkness. Another followed it. All of them turned towards the sound.

  ‘It’s Tarrian and Grayle,’ Antyr said, as the noise of the wolves’ howling gradually gathered force. Dar-volci stretched, then sat up, his head cocked to one side.

  No one spoke, no one moved, as the voices of the wolves swelled to fill the starlit darkness. Long notes rose and fell, tumbling one over the other, echoing round the tall and silent towers of Anderras Darion and the steep crags of the mountains that sheltered Hawklan’s castle. They sang the Great Song, telling the ancient tale of the wonder and mystery that was in all things. And of the joy of being.

  No one spoke, no one moved for some time after the final notes had dwindled into the ringing distance.

  The two wolves padded back out of the darkness.

  ‘I needed that,’ Tarrian said, sitting down and scratching vigorously.

  Gulda bent down and stroked their heads. ‘The Alphraan will value it,’ she said softly be
fore returning to the others. ‘The Sword, gentlemen. Time to come down from the stars and turn to our more mundane problems.’

  She levelled her stick at Andawyr. ‘As memory serves me, you surmised that when you saw the Sword in your dream it wasn’t actually part of the dream but, somehow, Antyr’s strange gift had actually brought it to you – or you to it – or opened a way between the worlds for you to reach it?’

  Andawyr looked at her suspiciously, uncertain of her tone. ‘Yes,’ he said somewhat defensively. ‘I did think that was a possibility.’ He straightened up and met her gaze. ‘In fact, after what we’ve heard I’m quite certain now that it was a possibility. But such a remote one.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m still finding all these clear affirmations of the existence of other worlds unsettling – ideas, theories, calculations and experiments are one thing, but to have them all suddenly given such form . . . Still . . .’ He massaged his ruined nose with a fist. ‘The Sword actually being present certainly makes sense of the alarms being set off the way they were.’

  Gulda turned to Antyr. ‘Do you think this too?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be. I don’t have Andawyr’s knowledge of why these places should be but I also don’t have his reservations. I know they’re there and that moving to them involves not just the mind. The body – a body – your body – is there, no different to how it is here, and you can live and die there just as here. And objects can be moved as well – like the blue stones Pinnatte brought back. The incident in Andawyr’s dream wasn’t as clearly obvious as the other times when I’ve moved into some other world, but it was certainly no ordinary dream.’

  ‘You’re the expert,’ Gulda said. ‘But it sounds reasonable to me in the light of what we’ve heard. Though in all conscience, for all we know Pinnatte might have had those stones in his pocket since he left Arash-Felloren. He is a thief by profession, after all. It’s quite . . .’

  ‘No.’ Andawyr interrupted. ‘Whatever those stones are I’ve never felt anything like them before, and they are dangerous – far more even than green crystals, I’d judge – and they’re frightening enough for anyone who can use the Power. They’re certainly far too dangerous for anyone to carry idly in his pocket, and, street thief or no, he didn’t throw them away with the attitude of someone creating a diversion to gull a gawping crowd. I’ve someone looking at them as a matter of urgency.’