by Roger Taylor
'And you are that one?’ Gulda inquired, not unkindly.
'Not by my choice,’ Hawklan said with a grimace of distaste. ‘But who else should it be?'
Gulda levelled a finger towards his sword. ‘That sword could indeed slay Sumeral,’ she said. ‘Perhaps your hand could wield it truly enough. But He has many weapons, and you haven't the remotest skill with the Old Power. If He senses you coming, and He may well with that by your side, then He'll dispatch you with a thought wherever you are.'
Hawklan looked at Andawyr. ‘That's why I wanted Andawyr to come with us,’ he said. ‘He could offer us some protection.'
'He can't oppose Sumeral,’ Gulda said, raising her voice.
'I didn't ask him to come with us to do that,’ Hawklan replied, his own voice rising in response. ‘That task, whatever it proves to be, is mine. Andawyr has hidden from Sumeral's vision before—perhaps he could do it for us.'
Gulda took a deep breath as if to launch into a prolonged onslaught, but Hawklan struck first.
'Sumeral is not what He was at His height,’ he said. ‘Nor, thus, His Uhriel. Had he been, He'd have swept out of Narsindal years ago instead of all this plotting and scheming.'
'Don't seek to understand His intentions,’ Gulda said warningly. ‘Didn't we agree that?’ Her manner became severe. ‘And know this. Sumeral at one tenth His strength is far beyond anything that this Cadwanwr could attain, leader of his order or not.'
Andawyr nodded.
Hawklan turned to him. ‘Strength is of no avail against nothing,’ he said. ‘You hid from Sumeral by not opposing Him, didn't you? You avoided Him because you had the knowledge to stay silent. That's why I want you to come—your knowledge is the greater part of your true strength in this battle.'
'I'm not arguing,’ Andawyr said, nodding towards Gulda. ‘I've already volunteered. But you're right; silence is probably the only thing that will bring us to Derras Ustramel safely.'
Dar-volci yawned and stretched on Andawyr's knee. ‘I'll come as well,’ he said. ‘Sounds fun.'
Gulda ignored him and turned her attention to Loman and Isloman. ‘You think this is a good idea I suppose?’ she said.
'No,’ Isloman said. ‘I think it's an appalling, terrifying idea, but I doubt there's any other, and I can't do anything other than go.’ He leaned forward and spoke earnestly. ‘Apart from the atrocities that have been committed to people, there's no true peace for me anywhere now if I do not oppose the ... creature ... who opened those mines and so defiled those ancient, resting rocks. All the work I've ever done, the knowledge I've gained, indeed, my whole life, would count for nothing if I did not set it in the balance against the worker of such an abomination.'
Gulda turned to Loman. He returned her gaze steadily.
'Stop dithering, Gulda,’ he said impatiently. ‘There is no alternative. Sumeral and His Uhriel have to be killed. Wherever Ethriss is he's beyond our immediate finding, but we have his sword, his bow, his castle and not least his Cadwanol with us. Hawklan's the only person remotely capable of doing the job, and one way or another our Helyadin will get him to Derras Ustramel so that he can do it. All we need to discuss now are details.'
There was an ominous silence. Gulda's face had darkened as Loman had spoken. Gavor whistled a vague tuneless dirge softly under his breath and looked at almost everything in the room except the two protagonists. Even the snowflakes outside the window seemed to hover.
Gulda's face contorted, at first in anger, then in an almost girlish mixture of amusement and distress.
'It's Memsa to you, young Loman, and don't forget it,’ she said with a peculiarly unsteady chuckle. ‘On the whole I preferred your brother's more poetic commitment, but you're not without some mastery in simple communication. I commend the clarity of your vision.'
She laughed softly, but it was an uncertain sound, and her hand came to her face to wipe away tears.
'I don't know why I should laugh,’ she said. ‘Ethriss knows, I can't think of anything more devoid of humour than what we're talking about.'
She sniffed noisily and, retrieving a kerchief from somewhere, finished wiping her eyes. ‘When do you intend to go then?’ she said.
Hawklan looked at her uncertainly for a moment. ‘It is the only alternative, isn't it?’ he asked.
'I'm afraid so,’ Gulda replied, almost casually. ‘And the smith's right. All we have to debate now are the details.’ She stood up and stumped over to the window. As she stood there, her reflection stared relentlessly through her as if she did not exist.
'How will we keep in contact with you?’ Loman asked.
'You won't,’ Hawklan said. ‘You'll have no idea where we are, and we'll have no idea where you are. That way neither can inadvertently betray the other. No one, save us here, is to have any inkling of what we intend. It's going to be a perilous journey at best, and if He's forewarned...’ Hawklan left the sentence unfinished. ‘To all inquiries your answer must be, “They've gone to seek and waken Ethriss.” Neither of us can afford to waste time fretting about the other. Have no illusions; we must both succeed or we'll both perish. Is that clear? Commitment must be total at all times.'
Loman nodded.
'When are you going?’ Gulda asked again.
'As soon as we can get over the mountains,’ Hawklan said. ‘And as soon as you wish after that, you can make preparations for the army to march.'
Gulda turned back from the window. ‘You'll not leave before the Winter Festival, then. Or for some time after, if I'm any judge,’ she said, inclining her head towards the steadily falling snow.
Hawklan smiled. ‘I'd no intention of doing that anyway,’ he said. ‘This Festival is important; a beacon of light in the midst of the darkness in every way.'
He joined her at the window. The snow was falling very heavily now and, all around, the lights of the Castle were shining out to illuminate its silent, graceful, dance. It was a comforting and reassuring sight.
A little later, Andawyr lingered with Gulda after the others had left.
'You were suspiciously quiet, sage,’ Gulda said with some irony.
Andawyr replied with affected airiness. ‘Far be it from me to venture amongst such incisive debaters,’ he said.
'Can you protect them?’ Gulda said abruptly, brushing aside his facetious shield.
'I can help them remain hidden, I think,’ Andawyr replied. ‘He's not actually looking for us. But at the end...'
He raised his hands in resignation. ‘Who can tell? I've risen to some trials recently that I'd have thought overwhelming only a year ago.’ Still holding Dar-volci, he hitched himself up on to her desk. ‘And the Order has changed too—remarkably. I'll send who can be spared to you when we reach the Caves. If they can bind the Uhriel, then perhaps Hawklan and I between us...'
He finished with a vague gesture. Conjecture about such a meeting was pointless.
Gulda's eyes narrowed. ‘You and Hawklan may prove to be the best we can offer, but...’ A look of realization spread across her face. ‘You still think he's Ethriss, don't you?’ Her voice was almost a whisper.
Andawyr hesitated, as if searching for a denial, then, stroking Dar-volci thoughtfully, he said, ‘I believe he carries the spirit of Ethriss within him, yes.'
'But...'
'But everything indicates he's the last Prince of Orthlund,’ Andawyr continued across Gulda's interjection. ‘Yes, I know that too, and I accept it. He is the last Prince. But I believe he also carries Ethriss.'
'You cannot know this,’ Gulda said.
Andawyr nodded, agreeing with her doubts. ‘But it's not completely an act of faith,’ he said, looking at her intently. She raised her eyebrows questioningly.
Andawyr swung down from the desk and laid Dar-volci gently on a nearby chair. ‘I've told no one here how we tried to make contact with the Guardians, and what happened,’ he said.
'Would anyone have understood?’ Gulda said.
Andawyr ignored the question. ‘We made a
great ... silence ... a stillness ... the like of which I've never known. In it, as I told you, we became for a little while, the Guardians themselves.’ His face twisted and his hands fluttered with uncharacteristic uncertainty as he searched for words. ‘As our ... joining ... with the Guardians faded, we seemed to be drawn to something; something that was either bound ... or hidden. And as we touched it, it stirred.'
'Hawklan. In the cave,’ Gulda said. ‘The silence that woke him was of your making? The silence that quelled the Alphraan and so impressed that Goraidin, Dacu.'
Andawyr nodded. He took a chair and sat down very close to Gulda. ‘But our silence was an ... absence ... of conscious thought,’ he said earnestly. ‘It wasn't something that could impose itself on others. What Dacu and the others felt was not of our making, it couldn't have been, by its very nature.'
Gulda frowned.
'It was something from Hawklan himself,’ Andawyr said, taking Gulda's hand, as if for reassurance. ‘Some part of him responded to what we were doing and did the same, like the playing of one instrument will cause another lying idle, to sound. Only this was a far deeper, more intense echo of our actions if it could reach out to others like that. Especially others in such a state of agitation and fear.'
Gulda's face was tense. ‘I understand,’ she said softly.
'Somewhere inside that man lies Ethriss,’ Andawyr concluded. ‘Of that I'm certain, though it's beyond my reaching.'
Gulda's blue eyes fixed him. ‘And your hope is that Sumeral's touch will rouse him?'
Andawyr met the gaze without flinching. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘Mine can't. Oklar's didn't. Sumeral Himself becomes our only hope.'
Gulda let out a long breath and shook her head. ‘We hang by slender threads,’ she said. ‘You may be right or you may be wrong, but Hawklan mustn't even guess at this. He must know to the depth of his being that ultimately it is he, and he alone, who must face and defeat Sumeral, mortal frame to mortal frame. The slightest hint that some other may appear to take the task from him could well destroy us all.'
Andawyr nodded vigorously, but Gulda's gaze did not release him. ‘And you too must travel in the knowledge that you are probably wrong, or that you too will falter at the moment of need. Do you need my help in that? I'm not without some skill in the Old Power myself.'
Andawyr showed no surprise, but nodded an acknowledgement of this revelation. ‘No thank you, Memsa,’ he said. ‘Like Hawklan, I can only face Sumeral with hope if I'm aware of the true nature of my burden.'
Gulda reached out and covered his hand with her own.
Outside, the snow fell, its legion soldiers patiently transforming the Orthlundyn countryside.
* * *
Chapter 10
'Live well, and light be with you all, my friends,’ Eldric said, raising his glass. ‘Let it shine in our hearts brighter than ever this year to see us through the darkness that threatens us.'
The hall was lit only by a few subdued torches and by the great mound of radiant stones crackling and singing in the large fireplace. They threw dancing shadows of the motionless people on to the decorated walls and ceiling.
'Light be with you, Lord,’ echoed Eldric's guests.
There was a brief, expectant silence as all eyes turned towards the large fir tree which had been chosen as the centre-piece of the Festival decoration.
Then, in gold and silver, and glittering reds and oranges, wound about with blues, greens, yellows, and all manner of other colours, the countless tiny torches that bedecked the tree burst into life, starting slowly at the lower branches and rising teasingly upwards, mingling and changing as they did so. Some danced around and through the boughs, others swirled hither and thither, until with a sudden rush they came together at the top in a dazzling circle of white light.
There was a gasp from the children and happy applause from the adults. Even the paternal condescension affected by the younger High Guards, struggling with genuine surprise, faltered into open pleasure as Commander Varak beamed broadly.
'Splendid, splendid,’ Eldric shouted, clapping his hands and then extending an arm to direct his guests’ appreciation towards a group of servants and retainers standing nearby. ‘I haven't seen a display like that since I was a boy. Well done. It's heartening to see that such skills have been kept alive all this time.’ He paused and looked again at the sparkling tree.
'Our marred Grand Festival seems to have been almost a generation ago, rather than a matter of months. Let's make amends for that by celebrating this Winter Festival as it should be celebrated, and...'
Impulsively, he took up his glass again. ‘I give you another toast,’ he said. ‘To the next Winter Festival. And the one after that, and the one after that, and...'
His voice disappeared under a great cheering, which faded only when he sat down and waved his hand over the burdened table. Following their lord's example, and mindful of his order, Eldric's guests sat down and began the daunting task of eating their way through the extensive Festival fare that his kitchens had laid, or more correctly, constructed before them.
For a moment however, Eldric sat back, one hand toying idly with the carved animal head that decorated the end of the chair arm, the other equally idly tilting his glass to and fro. He looked at the lights of the tree reflected in the bowl of the glass.
Then, silently, and almost imperceptibly, he nodded a small salute towards a group of figurines standing on a raised dais in the middle of the table. They were not likenesses, but they represented absent friends. The tallest was meant to be Isloman. Against his legs, like a discarded shield, rested the circular disc that he had given to Eldric as a parting gift. On it was carved the picture of Hawklan riding Serian. The Queen was there too and, more sombrely, a miniature of the Warrior, the ancient statue of the exhausted soldier that stood in Vakloss to commemorate those who had fallen in battle. Here he served the same purpose.
Eldric glanced around the table. He had just completed an extensive tour of the troops guarding the approaches to Narsindalvak and found their morale excellent but, he reminded himself, there were morale problems for him here also and he must remember to keep a special watch for the tears that would surely come to some of his guests during the evening as their minds turned inevitably to loved ones who were lost forever in the battle for Vakloss.
Darek caught the movement and laid a hand on his arm. Eldric started gently out of his reverie and turned to him.
Darek's eyes flicked to the figurines and his eyebrows arched significantly.
Puzzled, Eldric followed the gaze and after a brief search, chuckled to himself. Someone had unearthed a tiny model of a hen and painted it black. It stood next to Isloman in solemn representation of Gavor.
'Light be with you, dear boy,’ Darek mimicked.
* * * *
'Light be with you,’ said the young High Guard as the duty Sirshiant loomed up out of the shadows.
The Sirshiant came to an ominous halt in front of him, and looked down at him with exaggerated sternness.
'And with you, trooper,’ he said slowly, his breath fogging the air between them. ‘But let's have the correct challenge in future. Suppose I'd been a Mandroc.'
The trooper stamped his feet in the well-trodden snow. ‘Well, I'd have wished him The Light, and then whacked him with my pike, Sirsh,’ he replied.
The Sirshiant's mouth curled slightly at the edges and one eyebrow went up.
'Very festive of you, trooper,’ he said. ‘Very festive. I like my troopers to be thoughtful in their ways.'
'Thank you, Sirsh,’ the trooper replied, executing another small dance and turning his gaze back to his duty, northwards. The snow-covered landscape was radiant in the brilliant moonlight but, in the distance, dark clouds shadowed the mountains and hid them from its touch. It seemed as though they were waiting, brooding, darker even than the black, moon-washed sky.
'Why are we making such a fuss about the Winter Festival this year, Sirsh?’ the trooper asked.
‘Lord Eldric and all coming round ordering us to enjoy ourselves.'
The Sirshiant did not answer immediately, but put his hands behind his back and blew out a long steaming breath to the north.
'Because the Lord Eldric's got a lot of sense, lad,’ he said eventually. ‘As you'd have heard, if you'd listened to him. Him and the others are doing their best to bring the country together again. Sooner or later we're going to have to go up there’—he nodded towards the mountains—‘and winkle those beggars out of Narsindalvak. Then, if I'm any judge, we're going to have to go into Narsindal itself and find Him, if we're not going to be looking over our shoulders forever. We can't do any of that unless the country's ready and with us, and the Winter Festival's part of that.'
The trooper nodded dutifully. ‘Would it help if I went back to camp and did my bit for steadying the country right now?’ he suggested. ‘I can't see any hordes teeming out of the mountains tonight.'
The Sirshiant turned and eyed him. ‘You're not here to look for teeming hordes, lad,’ he advised. ‘You're here to look out for me, in case, bewildered beyond repair by having to deal with incorrigible jesters such as your good self, I wander off into the night, howling, and, falling down, do myself a hurt.'
'Ah,’ said the trooper, nodding sagely and dancing again.
The Sirshiant continued. ‘Bearing Lord Eldric's injunction in mind, however, I will allow you to sing a Festival Carol to yourself, as you march conscientiously up and down. But not too loud. People are trying to enjoy themselves back at camp and I don't want them thinking we're being attacked.'
The trooper contented himself with a reproachful look and, hugging his pike to him, slapped his gloved hands together.
'On the other hand,’ the Sirshiant continued. ‘It is the Festival, and a certain member of a certain group has just come back to say that the pass is still well-blocked, and all our neighbours ... are busy celebrating themselves after their own fashion, so...’ He nodded towards the camp.
