by Roger Taylor
Rannick watched her as she gazed out of the window. ‘It needs very little understanding, Marna,’ he said. ‘My imprisonment in this miserable place is ended. I now have the power that was always destined for me, and these mountains, these petty village huts, can confine me no longer.'
Marna wanted to argue. Wanted to defend her village, her community. Wanted to ask what it was that had held him here against his will thus far in his life. But there was a note in his voice that warned her away from such a debate. Lingering always in her mind were the deaths of Garren and Katrin Yarrance. ‘Power?’ she queried.
Rannick moved towards her. He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her towards him. She tried not to stiffen under his touch. ‘The power given to me by my ancestors, and released by ...’ He closed his eyes briefly, and gently tightened his grip, fingers and thumb probing intimately. He left the sentence unfinished, however. ‘Power to draw men such as Nilsson and his band to my side and make them blindly obedient to my will. Power to sweep aside whatever stands in my way, be it forests, rivers, locks and bolts, walls of stone ...’ He paused and looked at her intently, his hand still rhythmically caressing her shoulder. ‘People,’ he said, significantly. ‘Anything.'
Marna's mouth was dry. Her eyes were drawn reluctantly to his. She saw there what she heard in his voice. Manic obsession, mingling with an almost pathetic yearning for...
For what?
Praise? Acceptance?
Her?
She felt her hands shaking, and she pressed them tightly against the sides of her legs to still them. Little surprise in that, of course, she reasoned carefully to herself. Reason however, held little comfort for her, for though she had fended off more than a few unwanted embraces in her time, this was very different. Different not only because of the circumstances but because amid the waves of fear that threatened to possess her, the repulsion that she felt was entwined around another, unexpected and contradictory emotion.
Desire.
It held her eyes on his lean, shadowed face and tried to lift her hand to cover his, to tighten further that grip on her shoulder.
'What's this to do with me?’ she managed to reply, forcing her hand tighter against her leg.
His hand drew her a little closer, though there was uncertainty in it as well as an almost irresistible strength. ‘Soon, kings and princes will be bending the knee to me,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘They will bring their wealth and their power to increase my own, and no ambition will be beyond my achieving.'
Marna felt herself going pale.
'Share it with me, Marna,’ he said very softly. ‘Share everything with me.'
Memories of their early, awkward and distant friendship, with its sudden conclusion, flooded over Marna as she looked up at him. It did not seem possible to her that his eyes could contain the confusion of emotions that she read there. A confusion that was echoed within herself. But dominant in her confusion now was fear. She must get away from him. But how? A blow? A push? A laugh? A kindly smile? None of these would suffice.
'I don't understand,’ she prevaricated, tearing her gaze away from him as casually as she could.
'You do,’ Rannick said, still softly but emphatically. ‘You know you do. You belong by my side, Marna. You always have.’ He waved his hand across the darkening valley. ‘All this is nothing. All that's been before has been nothing. Just a waiting time. And now it's finished, gone, vanished. Now we go to take our true inheritance.'
And what about Garren and Katrin, slaughtered, and their farm burnt? she suddenly wanted to scream. And Farnor, wherever he is? And Jeorg, beaten senseless? And all those people from over the hill brought back in chains?
And then her mind was clear. The confusion and the desire retreated. ‘I'm confused,’ she lied, this time making no attempt to stop her voice from trembling. ‘It's all so sudden.’ She brought up her hand and laid it over his. Forcing a plaintive bewilderment into her eyes, she looked at him. He returned her gaze uncertainly. Terrifyingly, she could see rage bubbling beneath his doubt. She must be very careful. Fear lay cold inside her, but she held Rannick's gaze. Then she shrugged her shoulders and at the same time turned away slowly so that his hand naturally slipped from both her shoulder and her grip.
Free of his touch, the desire retreated further. She spoke quickly, before he could take command again. ‘One minute I'm in the cottage helping my father, like I've done for years. Then, all of a sudden ...’ She clapped her hands together, and moved a little further away from him. ‘... I'm here. High above everything. Just that is making me giddy. And I'm listening to you talking about being a king or something.’ She put her hands to her head.
'You doubt me?’ Rannick said suddenly, his head craning forward.
'No!’ Marna said, a little too hastily.
'See!'
A breeze suddenly caught Marna's hair, blowing it across her face. She cried out, startled. Rannick held up his hand, both for silence, and as reassurance.
As she swept the hair from her face Marna saw a blurred light floating in the air some way in front of her. Abruptly, it was a flame. Despite Rannick's assurance, Marna cried out again, and stepped back.
'Ssh. You're safe with me,’ Rannick said.
The flame moved from side to side, like a hunting dog impatiently waiting to be unleashed. There was little light coming from the windows now, making the flame virtually the only source of illumination in the tower room. Marna glanced rapidly at Rannick. Now there was no ambivalence in his face. The flame etched dark shadows into it, and glistened in his eyes. Uncertain how she herself would look, Marna fought to compose her features.
But her efforts were unnecessary. Rannick's total attention was on the flame. It grew, it shrank, it divided and came together again, it danced into a myriad shapes, like trees and bright golden flowers, and scattering stars, and things that had no name, all the time moving hither and thither to its master's unseen commands.
At its touch, wild shadows from the plundered furniture danced desperately about the walls of the room as if, empowered by the spirits of their erstwhile owners, they were attempting to flee this terrible place.
Marna watched in fearful fascination. It must have been something like this that Gryss and the others had been shown on the day of Farnor's disappearance. She clung to such calmness as she could, but she was becoming increasingly uncertain about the outcome of this frightening demonstration.
Then the flame drew near to her, stopping scarcely an arm's length away from her. She could feel the heat of it, and she cringed away, only to find the wall at her back. Rannick turned towards her but the flame was too bright for her to see his face, and she saw only the reflections of the flame in his eyes, gleaming out of his dark silhouette.
'Touch it, touch it,’ he said, a strange, expectant tension in his voice.
She looked into the two bright lights that were his eyes. ‘Touch it,’ he repeated, adding softly, ‘Trust me, Marna. Trust me.'
She had no choice, she knew. Holding her breath, and tensed to jerk her hand back on the instant, she reached out hesitantly.
Her fingers curled into a loose fist involuntarily.
'Go on. Go on.’ Rannick's encouragement was urgent.
In the jagged silence of the room, she heard the flame fluttering and hissing. It was like the gloating breath of some primitive animal. A faint but bitingly acrid smell struck at the back of her throat, and for an instant a sense of the dreadful unnaturalness of Rannick's creation almost overwhelmed her. She fought the sensation back and somehow pushed her hand nearer to the flickering flame.
'Yes,’ Rannick whispered, drawing out the word to mingle with the sound of the flame. ‘Touch it.'
Gritting her teeth, Marna willed her fingers to open. Her hand flinched back as it neared the flame, but, fearful of Rannick's response, she forced it forward.
Abruptly, although she did not see it move, the flame was around her hand. Frantically, she tried to jerk it back, but it
would not respond. Her throat would not form the scream ringing inside her as she stared in horror at her hand, pale and distant, and shimmering with cascades of light that flowed round and round it before tumbling away into some unknown place.
Yet even though she could still feel the heat of the flame on her face she realized that there was no burning. Instead there was a sensation that she could hardly describe. It was as if her hand were somewhere else, somewhere different in every way from where she was, not only to this flickering circular room, but to the whole castle, the whole valley, everything. Again, the unnaturalness of what was happening rose like gorge inside her, threatening to disorientate her completely.
'Aah!’ Rannick's rapturous sigh saved her teetering awareness and she tore her eyes away from her transfigured hand to look at the shadowy form of her captor. ‘I knew you could,’ he said, before she could speak. ‘I knew you'd understand.'
'What have you done, Rannick?’ Her throat throbbed with the pain of speaking, it was so taut and parched.
'See ...’ was the reply.
Marna turned again to her hand. Abruptly the flame shrank, and the room filled with a soft, high-pitched whistling that to Marna seemed, like her hand, to be in some other place.
Then there was only her hand, the flame flickering about it as though it were a many-jewelled glove caught in a great blaze of light. She moved and flexed her hand, fascination gradually replacing her terror. Unlike a glove however, the flame was caressing her hand gently and rhythmically, just as Rannick had done to her shoulder.
And again she was at once repelled and attracted.
Slowly the flame continued to shrink, until there was only a dazzlingly bright ring about her third finger. It was achingly beautiful and, without thinking, she reached out to touch it with her other hand. Before she reached it, however, the ring floated from her finger and moved towards Rannick.
As his outstretched hand closed about it, the bright circle sent out shafts of white light between his fingers to divide the gloomy darkness of the room. Then, as if further escape were impossible, it seemed to spread through his entire body so that, for a brief instant, he stood like some eerie, translucent, inner-lit statue, with an almost unbearable brightness shining from his eyes and his slightly opened mouth.
Then it was gone, and an empty silence hung in the room.
'There is no limit to what can be now,’ Rannick said very softly. ‘And you will share it with me, Marna. We shall rule all.’ His voice became urgent and earnest. ‘Marna, we can do such things together. We will do such things.'
Do as he tells you!
Never!
Her eyes adjusting to the gloom, Marna saw his hands rising to take hold of her again. Desperately she seized his wrists. ‘You must give me more time, Rannick,’ she said breathlessly, reverting to her earlier plea. ‘I'm more bewildered than ever now. Everything's happened so quickly. Only a few minutes ago I couldn't even have imagined what I've just seen. Now I'm just ...’ She stopped, her head drooping.
'The merest toy,’ Rannick interjected quickly. ‘I can do countless such tricks. But my true power lies far far beyond such trifles as that.'
Inspiration coming to her, Marna nodded, and shook his arms insistently both to acknowledge this boast and to press home her own concerns. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But with this ... power ... that you have, you can choose your own time for everything you want to do. No one can tell you when this must be, or that must be. You are total master of events. You've grown used to all this over months—years, for all I know. You can surely allow me a little time to ...’ She smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘... to get my breath back.'
For a moment, she felt that she was standing next to the old Rannick, the much-despised Rannick for whom she had felt sorry and in whom she thought she had seen glimpses of a nobler nature. There was a tense silence. She released his wrists.
'Yes, I suppose so,’ Rannick replied eventually, though there was an uneasy tension in his voice.
Marna drove her fingernails into her palms savagely, to prevent her sudden elation from reaching her eyes.
The familiar Rannick vanished, to be replaced by this alien figure clothed in his form, who had brought such horror to the valley. ‘Tell Nilsson to take you home,’ he said, as if he had suddenly lost interest. ‘I'll send him for you tomorrow evening. Be ready then.'
He laid his hand on her cheek affectionately. The interest had returned in full measure. ‘Tomorrow will be a rare night, Marna. A rare night.’ He bent forward and kissed her on the mouth.
His lips were unexpectedly soft and their touch gentle...
* * * *
As he drew further away from Uldaneth and deeper into the trees, Farnor's darker preoccupations began to hold sway over him again. Increasingly, his anger at the futility of this whole journey was held in check only by his desire to discover more about the power that he apparently possessed. Despite this however, the aura of his surroundings began to impinge on him. The trees were larger than any he had ever seen before: massive in girth and stretching up into a canopy higher by far than he would have believed possible. And although he could see little of the sky, yet the place was remarkably light.
Such part of him as whispered in awe in the presence of such magnificence however, was the merest sigh amid the turbulence of his feelings.
After a while, he stopped and took out his lodespur. ‘Which way do you want me to go?’ he asked sourly.
The silence which had hovered about him for so much of his journey changed in texture. He knew that they were close about him again, though this time the silent presence was different. It was as though some deep bass note were sounding, far below anything that could be heard. It seemed to resonate through his entire body.
'We do not understand, Far-nor,’ a voice replied. It was at once similar and very different from the voice that had spoken to him before.
A caustic rejoinder began to form in his mind, but instead he said, ‘Uldaneth tells me you are one and many. Perhaps those of you who are many know where they are and where I am. You brought me here to question me, but I wish to question you too, and I wish to speak to those among you who lead.'
Bewilderment washed around him, then he sensed a decision being made.
'Touch,’ the voice said.
Farnor frowned.
'Touch,’ the voice repeated a little impatiently. ‘Touch one of the many.'
Farnor shook his head to rid himself of the plethora of complex images that formed in his mind around the word many. The meaning of the instruction, however, was quite clear. He walked to the nearest tree and rested his hand against it.
'Ah. I have him,’ said a quite distinct voice that he had never heard before. Farnor snatched his hand away, then, a little shamefacedly, replaced it.
'Stop that, please,’ said the voice crossly. ‘You're confusing me. You're not the only one, you know. I've got Movers all over me and it's not easy to tell them apart. Just stay where you are for a moment.'
Farnor did as he was bidden.
'Hm. Very interesting,’ the voice said after a while. ‘Go across to ...'
Farnor could make nothing of the word that followed, but his gaze was drawn to another tree some distance away.
'Bye bye,’ the voice said incongruously, as he began to pull his hand away. Farnor found himself mouthing the words in reply and waving his fingers vaguely. He coughed self-consciously and walked over to the other tree. As he touched it, there was a short pause and then he heard another voice say, ‘Ah, yes. Very ... unusual.’ It was speaking to someone else, he could tell, even before it said to him, in a brisk, matronly fashion, ‘Go over to ...’ and he found himself being once again directed towards another tree nearby.
He travelled for quite some time in this manner, encountering a bewildering range of voices and responses, ranging from kindly affection to irritable brusqueness and including one or two that gave him an impression not dissimilar to what his own usually was on finding th
at he had trodden in something unpleasant.
And between these many encounters was the distant, unheard rumble of the watching silence.
As he walked on, the trees became taller and more massive still and the silence pervading them deeper and more profound. And though he could not see it, he could feel the looming presence of the mountain which he and Uldaneth had stood before when they parted.
'Is this the place of the most ancient?’ he asked as he laid his hand on the rugged bark of the next tree.
'You will know,’ came a gentle reply as he was directed again to another tree.
He began to walk more slowly. And even the horses seemed to be losing interest in their predominant occupation of grazing whenever Farnor paused. They were gazing around in a subdued manner.
The light was still remarkably good for all that he could scarcely see any sign of the sky even when he looked directly upwards. But it was growing dimmer; he was walking through a deepening gloaming. The long, straight trunks of the trees soared upwards, their size and height overawing him almost completely and robbing him of all sense of scale. Even the smallest were far larger than the largest he had seen at Derwyn's lodge. He began to imagine that he was walking through a great building; one that had been built by an ancient and wise people to celebrate some truth too profound to be expressed in mere words. Lichens and climbers patterned the trunks, and long, tumbling strands of mosses hung down motionless like venerable beards. It was as though no wind had ever reached in to disturb this deep calm. The soft sound of his footfalls and those of the horses on the ancient litter seemed almost like a desecration.
