by Roger Taylor
The main recipient, however, was Gavor, and as Dar-volci ended his impromptu display with a vigorous scratching to dislodge a few more sparks from behind his ear, he looked at the raven critically.
'Very fetching, Gavor,’ he said. ‘I think I'll keep a few after all.’ And he rolled over in the sparks that were scattered over the floor.
Gavor extended a wing and peered along it. Its blackness shimmered now not only with its natural iridescence but with brilliant silver lights, that shone and glinted in the flickering glow of the radiant stones.
'You're right,’ he said. ‘They're most attractive.’ And spreading his wings he rose boisterously into the air with a raucous cry.
Hawklan watched his friend swooping and diving about the hall in great silver streaked arcs, then he looked down at Andawyr. There was a slight frown on the Cadwanwr's face.
'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing important. It's just...'
He stopped and Hawklan raised his eyebrows by way of encouragement.
'It's just that I wonder how he can do that,’ Andawyr finished.
'Do what?’ Hawklan asked.
'Shake off the lights,’ Andawyr replied.
Before Hawklan could speak, Andawyr turned to him. ‘You try it,’ he said, indicating the lights that were now decorating Hawklan's trousers. Hawklan looked down and then, balancing on one leg, began dusting the tiny lights away. But they did not move. Instead, they seemed to pass through his hand. Carefully he tried to pick one up between his finger and thumb, but again, without success.
'I can see them but I can't feel them,’ he said. ‘I don't understand. They just fell off Dar-volci.'
Andawyr grinned. ‘You don't understand?’ he said. ‘I don't understand. He's always doing things like that. Things he shouldn't be able to.'
Dar-volci looked up at him and blew a slow gurgling raspberry. ‘You mean like this?’ he said, and reaching out, he picked up one of the lights from the floor and placed it fastidiously in the centre of one of his incisors.
'How's that for an infectious smile?’ he said, standing on his hind legs and beaming malevolently. The star twinkled mockingly at Andawyr whose face crumpled in frustration.
'How do you do that?’ he demanded desperately, offering Dar-volci his two clenched fists.
Dar-volci ignored the plea and dropped back on to all fours again. ‘Do excuse me,’ he said, smiling again. ‘I must mingle.’ And, with a sinuous wriggle, he was gone.
Hawklan could not help but laugh at Andawyr's discomfiture.
'I should know better than to play tricks on him by now,’ the little man said, unsuccessfully trying to brush the splashed lights from his own robe. ‘I always come off worst.'
Suddenly, above the hubbub of the milling guests, a drum beat sounded; a single steady beat. The noise in the hall fell and the guests began to move away from the centre of the floor expectantly. Hawklan took Andawyr's arm and led him aside.
From the same doorway through which Isloman had entered, came a solitary drummer, clad in a traditional carver's smock, simply decorated with designs of the cellin plant with its spiky green leaves and its red berries. He was stepping out a leisured march to his own slow beat.
Several paces behind him, moving at the same stately pace and similarly dressed, came a man and a woman playing a low, nasal, droning ground bass on long pipes.
As the little procession moved into the hall, two more pipers emerged, playing a slow, jerking melody that bobbed and jigged over the drum beat and ground bass like the flames that danced from the radiant stones. Higher pitched than the other pipes and also double-reeded, their sound was strangely harsh, but far from unpleasant, and drivingly powerful in its rhythm and intensity.
Some of the audience began a soft clapping to the drum's beat.
Then came two more drummers. With drums clamped under their left arms, their short, double-headed drumsticks flickered rippling embellishments to the pulse of the first drummer.
The clapping increased and the playing became louder.
Agreth, Arinndier and the other Fyordyn, captivated by the sight and sound of the players, began to join in with the clapping, and then found that the crowd around them was beginning to sway from side to side. Nods and smiles from their neighbours encouraged them to join in that also.
The music grew louder still, though without changing tempo, and on every fourth beat the audience began to add a resounding foot stamp to their clapping. One or two shrill cries went up.
Arinndier felt his arms tingle with excitement at the sound, and into his mind came the thundering Emin Rithid that the Fyordyn had unexpectedly sung in acclamation of Sylvriss at Eldric's mountain stronghold. It seemed to him that the two tunes were in some way the same.
Then, abruptly, it ended and he almost lurched forward into the sudden silence. Another great cheer went up.
'What was that, Lord?’ Jaldaric asked Arinndier, his face also flushed with exhilaration.
'I don't...’ began Arinndier, but the remainder of his admission was lost as the drummers began again, this time with a bouncing rhythm that would make any foot tap. More musicians ran into the hall and whoops and yells rose up from the guests, as couples began to run into the middle of the hall to line up for what was obviously to be a boisterous dance.
Arinndier tried to play the old man and turned discreetly to seek sanctuary with Rede Berryn who was seated at the edge of the hall, but a female form intercepted him.
'I have no one to dance with, Lord,’ Tirilen lied, smiling and holding out her hands to him.
Jaldaric and Tirke too had little time to ponder the etiquette of selecting a partner as they were cut out from the mêlée by two girls moving like skilled sheepdogs.
Even Dacu and Tel-Mindor failed to merge into the background sufficiently to escape yet two more swift and sharp-eyed predators.
Dacu turned to a grinning Isloman and flickered a plaintive hand signal to him as he was led away. Isloman looked across at his brother earnestly. Loman examined the scene then furrowed his brow in concentration and, pursing his lips, shook his head like a death judge. Looking back to Dacu and clamping his fist to his heart, Isloman pronounced sentence. ‘Think of Fyorlund, soldier,’ he shouted.
And thus the celebration continued; under Andawyr's starlit night sky, faces, happy, mischievous, besotted, moved in and through the lights and shadows of the firelight and the glittering tree, bound in a swirling mosaic of music and dance and laughter. At the touch of the Spirit of the Winter Festival, rivalries and differences, fears and ambitions, all disappeared; the old became young as they swung through the dances, and the young became sage and sober as they viewed such transformations—though not for long. Anderras Darion was indeed a holy and wondrous place, but it was Ethriss's greatest creation that was celebrating his greatest gift to its full.
Finally escaping the dance, Hawklan flopped down by Gulda. She was chuckling to herself about some splendid confusion that Tirke had caused by moving left when he should have moved right. In common with everyone else, her face was flushed and happy. It had a haunting quality.
How old are you? Hawklan wanted to ask. How beautiful were you once? But the questions laughed at him. She was as great an enigma as he, but like him, whatever she was, or had been, whatever strange mysteries lay beneath her relentless personality, she was here now; whole and unencumbered.
As if reading his thoughts, Gulda turned to him and smiled radiantly. ‘A happy thought this, healer,’ she said. ‘You have a sure touch.'
Hawklan acknowledged the rare praise. ‘No spectre would dare visit this feast,’ he said.
Gulda nodded and then looked around at the guests. Agreth was in earnest, hand-waving conversation with a rather large, well-hocked, lady. Arinndier, red-faced, and mopping his brow, had reached the sanctuary of Rede Berryn's altar and was clinging to it for the time being, though he exuded some gameness still. Dacu an
d Tel-Mindor were back to back, facing overwhelming odds, and Jaldaric and Tirke had been taken captive somewhere.
Overhead, in the gold-tinted darkness, a star-bedecked Gavor glided hither and thither like a silver, moonlit kingfisher, swooping down incessantly to encourage or torment the dancers as the whim took him, or to offer trenchant observations to some of the many debates that were proceeding amongst the watchers. Mirroring him on the ground, Dar-volci rolled and scampered, occasionally standing on his hind legs and emitting hoots and whistles which seemed to betoken considerable approval.
All around, figures moved, shadows flitted, and the wall carvings danced and changed at the touch of the flickering firelight.
Gulda took Hawklan's hand and squeezed it affectionately.
Later, Hawklan slipped quietly out of the hall. As he walked away down the long corridor, it seemed to him that the laughter and the music was ringing through the whole castle.
The impression did not leave him even as he stepped out into the cold night on top of the great wall. Myriad coloured torches all about the towers and spires lit the snow-covered roofs and transformed the castle into a strange and magical landscape. And though the silence was as deep as the night was black, the whole seemed to vibrate with some irrepressible inner energy.
Hawklan closed the door behind him gently and, pulling his tunic about him tightly, stepped forward through the crunching snow towards the edge of the wall.
Peering out into the darkness he could see lights in Pedhavin below where those villagers who had not come to the castle were celebrating the Festival.
Then, very softly, as if to greet him, but reluctant to disturb the night stillness, a mellow carillon of bells began to ring out somewhere in the darkness overhead. Hawklan turned and looking up, smiled. No one knew what power rang the bells of Anderras Darion.
A silvery giggle drew his attention down again, and something struck him lightly. Looking down, he saw it was a snowball. Children, he thought as he peered intently into the shadows to seek his assailant. But he could see nothing until a tiny figure came forward a little, a slight, indistinct silhouette.
'Light be with you, Hawklan,’ said voices all around him.
Hawklan started and then smiled again. ‘And with you, Alphraan,’ he said. ‘Won't you join our celebration?'
More giggling surrounded him. ‘We have and we are,’ came the reply. ‘It is such a raucous and unholy din, we can hear it in our Heartplace. But it is joyous beyond measure. Thank you. We seem to be ever in your debt.'
Hawklan laughed. ‘I feel no debt and I waive such as you feel there might be,’ he said. ‘That is my Festival gift to you.'
'You burden us further, Hawklan,’ the voices said, though full of laughter. ‘But as part repayment we shall bring the song from our Heartplace to your Round Dance.'
Hawklan bowed graciously and there was more giggling, but when he looked up, the tiny figure was gone.
Overhead, the bells were continuing their soft carillon.
Hawklan stepped back inside again, kicking the snow from his shoes and slapping his arms about himself as the winter cold began to make itself felt.
'Ah. You're there,’ said a voice as he closed the door. ‘I wondered where you'd sneaked off to.'
It was Isloman. ‘Come along,’ the carver went on. ‘They're waiting for you to start the Round Dance.'
Hawklan's entry into the hall was greeted by loud and ironic cheering which he received with wide open arms. As he strode forward the crowd parted and, reaching the glowing fire, he placed his outstretched hands on the shoulders of his neighbours. They did the same, and very quickly the inner ring of the dance was formed.
Then, like ripples from a pebble thrown into a still pond, further outer rings were formed until almost everyone in the hall was standing holding his neighbour, and waiting.
Hawklan nodded and the lone drummer began the steady beat with which he had begun the celebration. With each beat, the dancers took one step, to form a simple pattern of three in one direction and one back. Adjacent rings moved in opposite directions.
As the pipes and the other drums began to play, the steps became higher, and the foot stamping louder. Sturdily supported by their neighbours, Andawyr, Agreth and the Fyordyn were borne to and fro, though they eschewed the increasingly elaborate steps being executed by some of the Orthlundyn. Once again Arinndier felt the surging power of the Emin Rithid ringing through his mind over the jerking rhythmic tune of the pipes.
They are the same, he realized.
As the dance reached its final stage, the sound of the drums and pipes seemed to change, to swell out and rise up to ring round the vaults of the star-strewn ceiling. Without breaking the step of the dance, Hawklan looked up, and as he did so, a sonorous chorus of voices filled the hall, weaving around and enhancing the pulsing rhythm of the musicians.
And wordless though the chorus seemed to be, it was a great paean of thanksgiving and joy. Mingling somewhere in its depths, beyond simple hearing, Hawklan thought he heard the poignant happy calls of the wolf cubs he had orphaned.
'Alphraan, Alphraan.’ The word whispered around the hall and rose up to be woven into the texture of the song.
Gulda leaned forward and twining her hands over the top of her stick, rested her chin on them.
She smiled at the happy, colourful spectacle circling the hall.
'You do not dance, Memsa,’ said a soft voice close by.
'My heart does, Alphraan,’ she said. ‘My heart does. And so does Anderras Darion's. Thank you for the gift of your Heartplace.'
'Ah...'
'And light be with you, Sound Carvers,’ she added softly. Then, looking again at the laughing, singing guests moving in concert around the hall, she said, ‘Live well, and light be with you all, my friends.'
* * *
Chapter 11
The storm was appalling and had been for several days. The watch boats had long been driven ashore and, shortly after they had returned, the Line on coast watch had given up any pretence at patrolling as the screaming wind sweeping in from the sea had made it difficult for even the horses to keep their feet. Besides, the rain and spray which were being hurled horizontally across the shore were so dense that it was almost impossible to see the next rider, let alone the distant horizon.
Girvan laid his pen on one side and looked around the fisherman's cottage that was serving as his temporary headquarters. It was echoing with the muffled sounds of the storm raging outside, but it was warm and friendly, though, with its low open-beamed ceiling and enormous clutter of seafaring relics and ornaments, it was very different from the traditional Riddin dwellings he was used to being billeted in. Then again, it only reflected the fisherfolk themselves; they too were warm and friendly, but different; in some ways not Muster people at all, though on the whole they pulled their weight fairly enough. There was always that reserve about them; a quiet, inner strength. Ironically, it made them particularly good with horses, but they didn't seem to have the relish for the animals that the Riddinvolk normally had.
After his several weeks watching the sea and sharing a little of the lives of these seafolk, Girvan felt he was beginning to understand this stillness. A rider had a partnership with his horse and a knowledge and regard for his land. But the sea was different. True, there was respect and knowledge, but there was also fear ... no, not fear ... more a dark, deep insight. There could be no partnership of equals between man and sea. It was brutally indifferent to those who rode and harvested it, and its power was awesome. Yet it was this very indifference that gave the seafolk such a grim measure of their true worth.
Girvan glanced covertly at his host and hostess. They were sitting on either side of the wide fireplace which was aglow with clucking radiant stones. The wife was working patiently at a delicate embroidery, while the husband sat sucking on a long-dead pipe, staring into the fire. Strange habit, smoking, Girvan thought. It was no horseman's habit for sure, yet somehow it added to the fisher
man's aura of calm preoccupation.
As if sensing the Line Leader's observation, the man spoke, without turning from the fire. ‘This is a bad storm, Girvan Girvasson. It has an unnatural feel to it.'
Girvan sat up and looked at the man intently, noticing as he did so that the wife had stopped her sewing. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked simply.
The man did not reply immediately but took his dead pipe from his mouth and stared at it as if for inspiration. He shrugged a little unhappily. ‘It has an unnatural feel to it,’ he repeated. ‘It blows too long, too hard. It has no rhythm ... no shape.’ He looked up at the watching Line Leader. ‘It carries the wrong smells,’ he concluded.
Girvan looked down at the note he had just been penning. It was a routine report to Urthryn at Dremark. ‘This pounding storm has an oddly unnatural quality about it,’ he read. He had been on the point of deleting this eccentric and seemingly irrelevant observation, but if this man, with his deep knowledge of the moods of the sea, had sensed something untoward, then he too must be content to let his instincts guide him.
The name Creost hung unspoken between the two men. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I'll send to Urthryn immediately and tell him our feelings. Let him and Oslang make of it what they will.'
The fisherman nodded, then stood up. ‘Where are your men?’ he asked.
Girvan looked a little surprised. ‘In their billets I imagine,’ he replied.
The fisherman nodded again. ‘Come along,’ he said, reaching for his voluminous waterproof coat that hung behind the door.
'Where?’ Girvan asked.
'To rouse your men, and our own,’ the fisherman answered. ‘We must go to the high banks and cliffs and do our duty.'
