Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  "My lord the king's sword," he said.

  Kal looked at the exquisitely crafted weapon, then gingerly placed his fingers around the grip and lifted the blade from Aelward's open hands. It was perfectly balanced, a delicate weapon and breathtakingly beautiful.

  "It-it's magnificent. The king's sword? It's not really . . ."

  "Lightenhaft?" Aelward finished the question. "Yes, it is. Lightenhaft, sword of the high king of Arvon."

  "Impossible!" Kal said, his eyes moving from the weapon to the man.

  "Very little is, in truth, impossible, only highly unlikely."

  "Re'm ena, but how did you . . . ?"

  "I'm surprised that your father never told you about the sword."

  "No, never."

  "Aye, but he told you about Dinas Antrum, his service as a Life Guardsman? About the death of Colurian and the rescue of his queen and the infant prince, Starigan?"

  "No, nothing, really. And certainly nothing about Lightenhaft, although Wilum mentioned, in his last days, that my father had discovered the sword. But he said no more than that."

  "Ah, well, then, perhaps it has fallen to me to tell you."

  Aelward rendered an account of the death of the last high king of Arvon, the rescue and subsequent loss of Queen Asturia and Starigan, the death of Frysan's men, Frysan and Wilum's flight to the highlands, and the secrecy to which they had sworn each other upon returning to the Clanholding of Lammermorn.

  "Ardiel's sword," Kal said when the grey-eyed man had finished recounting his story and fallen silent. "But I thought it lost."

  "And so it was, until Colurian happened upon it while stagging in Thrysvarshold. It seems that in pursuit of his wounded quarry, the late king discovered a cave that gave onto an underground keep. There he found Lightenhaft."

  "Was it in chase that Colurian happened upon the place, or was he rather led by the stag to discover the sword?"

  "There is wisdom in your words, Kalaquinn, and truth. It was in fact no stag. Queen Asturia told your father that the king, in his passion for the hunt, had shot a hind, a hind that stood fearless before him as if inviting his arrow. A white hind."

  Kal glanced up. "Ruah."

  "It would follow, yes. Such is the nature of these times. Wonder heaps upon wonder."

  "After three thousand years, Ardiel's sword found." Kal rested two fingers on the blade and drew them away sharply, a bead of blood growing on the pad of each. "After three thousand years, and with still a razor's edge!" he exclaimed.

  "That is the least of the wonders attached to the weapon."

  "Then the rumours and legends, they are true?" Kal looked up at Aelward, his eyes wide.

  "What? The glow?"

  "Aye."

  "Indeed, yes, in the hand of a crowned king of Arvon, but none other. Your father saw it when Colurian wielded the blade just before his own death."

  "Remarkable."

  "Well, no more remarkable than that the Talamadh should make windsong in the Aeolian Aperture."

  "Which it hasn't in generations."

  "No, you're correct. It hasn't. But it's in its nature to make windsong, and were it not for the weakening of the Great Harmony and the wane of the Harmonic Age . . ." Aelward's eyes flashed, the iron-grey bristle of his head, cheek, and chin golden in the mellow light of the candles. "So it is with Lightenhaft. It is said that in Ardiel's hand the blade not only glowed, but well-nigh sang."

  "Sang?" Kal glanced up again.

  "Aye, sang, ringing with the same strain as the Talamadh itself. And so it should be, for the fate of both harp and sword are bound one to the other. Both were born in the fires of the same forge, beaten on the same anvil by the same hammer, crafted by the same hand."

  "By Vali the Betrayer?"

  "Aye, though I question so naming him."

  Kal's brows knit in question. "But that Vali gave himself over to evil after making the Talamadh is common knowledge."

  "True, that is commonly understood. But I cannot reconcile to my own mind and heart how the hand that could fashion both the Binder of Peace and the Defender of Peace might be possessed by a false heart. It is beyond my reckoning."

  "Binder of Peace? Defender of Peace?"

  "So may be called the Talamadh and Lightenhaft, one the binder of the Great Harmony, the other its defender, and so also of peace, a peace dearly paid for. Which reminds me, Kalaquinn"—Aelward looked to the table and began riffling through papers—"in your Lay of Investiture, there is a passage that I find most perplexing, a puzzle to which I thought you might offer a solution, or at least upon which you might shed some light. Ah, here . . ." He found the sheet he wanted and held it in the light of the candle and read aloud:

  "As Ardiel sage Hedric sought

  To forge and temper what was wrought

  With Vali's Harp, the peace dear-bought

  He broke asunder; rendered naught

  The strength of bard royal . . ."

  Aelward paused and looked to Kal, but when no answer was forthcoming, he continued. "Or the part that follows next, clearly referring to you as the new Bard."

  "Now as the Age nears to an end,

  Must fresh-blessed Bard now make amend,

  By dire sacrifice unrend . . .

  "No doubt you are the 'fresh-blessed Bard,' but what must you unrend? The broken peace? And by whom was the peace broken? Surely not Ardiel." Aelward's thoughts tumbled out one upon the other, and he began to pace behind the table, page in hand, musing as much to himself as questioning Kal directly. "Could it refer to the maker of the harp, Vali? But it doesn't read that way. Then did Hedric break the peace? Is the peace the Great Harmony? But, no, how could the Harmony have been transgressed? And what is meant by 'the strength of bard royal'?" Again, Aelward's words were met with silence. "What say you, Kalaquinn? Can you offer any explanation to the puzzle posed by your own Lay of Investiture?"

  Kal knit his brow and shook his head. "No, Aelward, I can offer no explanation." He sighed. "The same lines have perplexed me. I've no doubt that the lines are bound by prophecy, and by the revelation of something in the future may something of the past be seen in a new and clearer light. I remember Wilum often saying that the past and the future are but notes of the same chord, and it is only because we do not hear them sounded at the same time that we fail to hear their resonant harmony."

  "Again, there is wisdom in what you say. But would you offer no suggestion as to how these lines might be understood?"

  "It is prophecy, Master Aelward, and unless prophetic words offer their own explanation, then I'm afraid it is impossible to know and idle to speculate at meaning. But such is the way with prophecy."

  The tall man nodded, the corners of his thin lips lifted in a slight smile. "Aye, such is the way with prophecy, the accurate and true interpretation of any only clearly known in its fulfilment," he said and returned the page he held to the table. His hand lingered on the table for a moment before he lifted it to point at the weapon in Kal's hand. "And the blade, what say you of it?"

  Kal started and looked down at the sword he was clutching, as if he had forgotten it was in his hand. "Lightenhaft . . ." He half-breathed the word. "I still can't believe that this is truly Ardiel's sword." He lifted the blade closer to the tapers burning on the table. The chased steel glistened. Strange characters ran along the length of both sides of the blade. "These runes," he said, looking at Aelward. "They're the same . . ."

  "What?" The tall man stepped beside the Hordanu and leaned over the sword.

  "I recognize these runes," Kal said, lifting Lightenhaft closer to the tapers, twisting the blade in the candlelight. "I mean, I cannot read them. I don't know what they say, but I recognize them." He examined the blade more closely still, slowly scanning its length then turning it over and studying the opposite side. "Yes," he said with finality, "yes, indeed." He straightened and handed Lightenhaft to Aelward. "They are the same runes as are etched on the Talamadh."

  Aelward's already sharp features seemed
to sharpen further still, and his eyes fell to the sword in his hand. "The same runes as are on the Talamadh?" he asked.

  "Beyond a doubt. Exactly the same."

  "And you have no knowledge of their meaning?" He glanced up at Kal.

  "No, they have remained a mystery to every Hordanu since Hedric. As you are undoubtedly aware, runes are a mystery left us from the echobards, and no key to their deciphering has ever been discovered."

  "Yes, yes, of course, of course. A most intriguing mystery." Aelward studied the blade of Lightenhaft with an intensity that made it seem as if he had never set eyes on the weapon before. Kal was surprised by the discomfiture that the otherwise dispassionate man exhibited. The revelation had obviously astounded him.

  As if searching for some explanation to the strange coincidence, Kal cast his gaze about the chamber where the shepherd's implements glimmered feebly from the walls. On the table, candlelight pooled over the bound volumes, scrolls, and loose sheets of parchment and paper. There lay the Pyx of Roncador in its case and next to it the worn leather of the strap cut from the Talamadh. Something fell into place among Kal's disparate and disjointed thoughts, and his hand shot out, seized the strap and lifted it from the table, spilling pages to the floor.

  "No, it couldn't be . . . ." Kal held the strap taut in both hands for a moment before dropping it from his right hand to dangle from his left. "The scabbard. Lightenhaft, it has a scabbard? Give it to me!" Kal snapped, holding his empty hand out to Aelward, who, even in the wan candlelight, visibly blanched at the suddenness and immediacy of the demand. The tall man had held the sword's sheath all the while, and now handed it to Kal. On the table, on top of the papers and books, Kal laid the broad leather strap and, beside it, the empty scabbard. It was a simple sheath of hardened leather, finely tooled and richly embossed but otherwise unadorned, a fact which struck Kal as curious given that it belonged to the single most important blade in the history of Ahn Norvys. It was the words embossed in the leather of the sheath's one side that held Kal's attention, words in Old Arvonian.

  He pondered the text, then began to laugh. "Now do riddles couple and so beget meaning!" he said.

  "The words on the scabbard?" Aelward asked.

  "Aye."

  "I've pondered them often, but their meaning has always eluded me."

  "No doubt it has. Look here." Kal moved aside, affording the tall man a clear view of both objects lying on the table, and pointed to the Talamadh's strap. "This strap is, in fact, the fifth made in copy of the one dating to Hedric's time. The first, which Hedric received from Ardiel, moulders but remains preserved in the Hordanu's keeil—" Kal felt the cold grip of remembrance seize his throat, and he glanced up at Aelward. "No, that's not true," he said. "Alas, it, too, is now gone. Lost with the Great Glence." The young Hordanu paused for a moment to recollect himself. "I'm sorry."

  Aelward nodded in understanding, then gestured to the leather belt. "You were saying?"

  "Yes, well, over these many centuries, no one has ever made sense of the words on the strap, which seem nonsensical and incoherent."

  "Just as does the line on the scabbard."

  "Aye, and as you can see, though one be a counterfeit, the craftsmanship admits that both were originally formed by the same hand."

  "Yes, indeed. So it would appear."

  "What is the history of Lightenhaft and its scabbard?"

  "I know no more about it than would you, Kalaquinn," Aelward said, lifting the blade into the candlelight. "In the Master Legendary, Hedric mentions that, before Ardiel left on his final journey, the sword was sent to Thrysvar."

  "Ardiel's general and close companion, yes. But does that not strike you as an odd thing for the high king to do—to leave his sword behind when embarking on a journey?"

  "Yes, indeed . . ."

  "And no doubt it was Thrysvar who secreted Ardiel's sword away in the underground keep where Colurian found it."

  "No doubt. And it was only Thrysvar's untimely death that kept Lightenhaft's hiding place a mystery for those three thousand years."

  "What of the scabbard, then?"

  "The scabbard? No mention is made of it, to my knowledge, and I am aware of no other history pertaining to it."

  "And Ardiel—he never returned from that last journey, did he?"

  "No, never," Aelward said, lifting the scabbard from the table. Lightenhaft gave a low, sibilant whisper as its steel slid against the hardened leather. "Never was he seen again. Nor ever heard from, either. He simply disappeared from the histories of Ahn Norvys. In accord with his bequest, his son became high king in his stead." He placed the sheathed sword on the table.

  "Never heard from again . . ." Kal let his gaze fall to the weapon, lost in his thoughts. The charged atmosphere of the room grew palpable in the silence as the hair stood on his neck and arms. "Or was he?" Kal looked again at Aelward, and the tall man lifted an eyebrow.

  "It has long been understood that Ardiel himself fashioned the strap for the Talamadh," Kal said. "It would seem now that Ardiel also fashioned the scabbard, for it is plain that strap and scabbard were both the work of the same hand. And the lines in Old Arvonian on both—the one complements and so, perhaps, explains the other. If no mention is ever made of the scabbard, as you say, could it have been sent to Thrysvar after he'd received the sword? Even after Ardiel had already departed on his final travels?"

  The tall man nodded his grey head once, slowly. "Aye, it's possible."

  "And no history accounts for the scabbard, because none was recorded. All knowledge of the scabbard passed with its keeper's untimely death."

  "Again, possible. But it's no more than a scabbard. Why should anyone bother accounting for the sheath when it's the sword—"

  Kal raised a hand, forestalling the question. "No," he said, "it is much more than a scabbard if it was, in fact, fashioned by Ardiel's own hand. We know from the Hordanic lore of the Talamadh that the strap sent Hedric was made by Ardiel, but no one mentions when Hedric received it. Is it possible that these, scabbard and strap, are, in fact, Ardiel's final missive?"

  The tall man's eyes widened and fell to look at the sword and scabbard. He passed a hand over his scalp. It stopped, resting atop his head, the iron-grey hairs standing between his fingers. "The bard without harp in his tower will seek the forgelord." He translated the embossed words on the scabbard aloud to himself. Then, dropping his hand to rest on the broad leather strap, he read, "Without a throne the king in his tower will find the lay's meaning." He shook his head.

  "Look, do you not see it?" Kal said. "Ardiel did give a final message to his closest and most trusted companions after he left for his final journey, a puzzle that they alone could decipher. Only now do we come to see it."

  "You are full of surprises for one so fresh upon the path of life, Kalaquinn." Aelward lifted his gaze to the young Hordanu. "How do you come to know these things?"

  "One does not study under the High Bard Wilum and walk away empty-headed."

  "Nor, it would seem from your passion, empty-hearted."

  "No, indeed. And Wilum's great passion was versecraft. Well, that and his doves."

  "A necessary passion, the doves," Aelward said. "He relied upon them, as do I."

  "But his particular love," Kal continued, "was the word work of the ancients. He tutored me at length in the poetics of the early centuries of the Harmonic Age. This is no scrap of doggerel etched in the leather. There is purpose here, and with it meaning. Only now do we begin to discern Ardiel's intent, as the two pieces are brought together."

  Aelward read the lines again to himself, then said, "But even one with the other, the meaning is obscure—"

  "Yes, yes, of course, but look—" Kal clapped his hands. "These two pieces fit together not as hands clasped, but rather as hands with fingers intertwined." He laced his fingers and held his hands up in the space between himself and Aelward. "But this . . . this is the key." He tapped his thumbs together. "The common verse on both the scabbard and th
e strap—'in his tower.' It's a hinge verse. The other verses fit around it."

  The tall man stared at Kal. "A hinge verse?"

  Surely he understood the significance, Kal thought. Was Aelward being deliberately obtuse in his apparent inability to grasp what he himself had now recognized? Kal heaved a sigh, then shuffled through the papers on the desk until he found a blank page.

  "A quill and ink?" he asked.

  Aelward stepped to the wall inset with drawers and returned with a fresh quill and a small clay pot. These he set before Kal on the table.

  "Look," Kal said, pulling the stopper from the inkwell. " 'In his tower' is the hinge verse around which Ardiel built his message. It's a piece of Old Arvonian kingsverse, so named because Ardiel himself was a master of the style, as well as its deviser—he and Hedric. It later became a convention of Old Arvonian versecraft, but I would suspect that, when this was written, only Ardiel and Hedric would have been aware of the style and so of how to solve this riddle." Kal paused to look at Aelward again. "I'm surprised that this is not known to you."

  The tall man's grey eyes were keen, and the candlelight glinted in their surface. "Please, continue. I am intrigued."

  The man was proving to be almost as much an enigma as the lines themselves had been. Kal dipped the tip of the quill into the ink, then tapped it against the inner edge of the bottle's mouth. "So, if you were to translate the lines from Old Arvonian, they might run something like this. On the scabbard . . ." Kal scratched words on the sheet of coarse paper, pausing once to refresh the ink on the quill.

  The bard without harp in his tower will seek the forgelord.

  "And from the strap . . ." Kal dipped the quill again and wrote:

  Without a throne the king in his tower will find the lay's meaning.

  He withdrew the quill point from the paper. "So the lines might run in loose translation, rendered into the speech of our own day. But in the original, three of the characters in each line are emphasized in appearance." Kal flipped the quill over and used the feather's vaned tip to three times touch first the Talamadh's strap and then the scabbard, where letters were more deeply impressed in the tooled leather surfaces. "Three characters, one at the start of each phrase."