KOREAEBOOKDOCUMENT1.3.0ValderenTaylor, RogerMushroom eBooksMushroom eBooks×¾>para.xmlRTVAL_cover_kml.pngnormal.styÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ ^spara.xmlÝ€C smaller.sty ŒC small.styc—C normal.sty¦¢C large.styé­C larger.sty,¹íîRTVAL_cover_kml.png     Valderen   The Second Part of Farnor's Tale         Roger Taylor             a Mushroom eBooks sampler       Copyright © 1993, Roger Taylor   Roger Taylor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.   First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1993.   This Edition published in 2003 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom www.mushroom-ebooks.com   All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.   ISBN of complete edition: 1843191911       This is a sampler of Valderen by Roger Taylor. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.     Contents   Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor     Chapter 1 The castle gates swung open. Nilsson turned to watch the swaying silhouette that was moving slowly through the shade of the archway. He had been assiduously resurrecting the old, long-forgotten habits that had, in the past, ensured both his survival and his advancement, though it took him some effort to keep his demeanour neutral as Rannick, astride his foul-tempered mount, emerged into the light. For while Rannick might not yet be the man that Nilsson’s erstwhile master had been, his power was increasing almost daily and, as it grew, so his humanity inevitably diminished. Nilsson knew only too well that now he had chosen to stand by his new Lord his life depended solely on the value that Rannick placed on him, and that this value depended in turn not only on his willingness to serve but on his ability to read and anticipate Rannick’s moods accurately. And it was especially important now, for he was certain that something had gone amiss during the fiery demonstration that Rannick had given the previous day. True, the roaring column of fire that had appeared out of nothingness had been both awe-inspiring and terrifying, and it had sent Gryss and the others away suitably cowed and humiliated. Yet, increasingly sensitive to his master’s behaviour, Nilsson was sure that he had felt Rannick falter. Only slightly, admittedly, but the memory of it had lingered with him since. It was as if Rannick had been assailed in some way. And he had sensed, too, a grim, almost desperate, anger begin to mount in the man; an anger that had seemed to be building towards some appalling conclusion until it had suddenly evaporated into a surprised vagueness at the unexpected collapse of Gryss and the others on to their knees. Rannick had stood for a long time apparently staring after the retreating figures as they stumbled away from the castle, supporting the beaten Farnor. But Nilsson, fearfully willing himself to absolute stillness lest he inadvertently attract Rannick’s attention, saw that his eyes were abstracted and distant. Then, as if in confirmation of Nilsson’s conclusion, Rannick had silently beckoned for his horse and, without comment, ridden north. Later, Nilsson had started violently from a troubled sleep to hear, he thought, the distant shrieking howl of Rannick’s creature. Though whether it had been reality or a lingering remnant of some nightmare, he could not have said. And now Rannick had returned. Nilsson took a slow, silent, very deep breath as Rannick came to a halt in front of him. ‘Lord,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘We begin today,’ Rannick replied tersely as he dismounted. ‘Lord?’ But Rannick was walking away from him. Hastily Nilsson turned and strode after him across the courtyard. What had he missed? As they reached a doorway, Rannick turned and looked squarely at him. ‘We begin our conquest of this land, Captain,’ he said. ‘I am fully ready now. All opposition has been ended.’ Opposition? There was more in Rannick’s tone than a reference to the mere quelling of Gryss and the others. So something had happened yesterday. Yet too, there was a strange exhilaration about Rannick that Nilsson had not known before. Something else must have happened during the night: something profound. He asked no questions, however. Time, and silent, watchful awareness, would eventually give him such answers as he needed. Petty curiosity now might well kill him. ‘As you command, Lord,’ he replied, as Rannick turned and disappeared into the building. Thus Rannick’s early cautious steps along what he knew as the golden road of his destiny became a purposeful and determined march. Having finally had his own way in the matter of the treatment of the villagers, Rannick seemed content now to leave the day-to-day pursuit of his schemes in Nilsson’s hands and, beyond a general overseeing of matters, he interfered scarcely at all with detailed plans. Nilsson however, took few chances, and submitted almost his every intention and the reasons for it to Rannick for his approval. Increasingly he was finding Rannick difficult to anticipate. Rannick, though, was learning. Learning more and more about the nature of the men that he now commanded, not least about their peculiar, savage expertise and how it could best be used to further his ends. Yet he knew that to speak openly on such matters would be merely to display his ignorance and, in so doing, diminish his authority. Fascinating though this learning was however, it was secondary to his avid study of his growing power and the mastering of the subtleties of its use. For hour upon hour he secluded himself in a room at the top of the castle’s highest tower, a room which overlooked the woods and peaks to the north as well as the sweep of the valley southwards. No one knew what arts he practised there but, although nothing had been said, it was acknowledged that the room was forbidden to all others, on pain of immediate death. And the light that flickered fitfully from its windows at night was like a baleful eye, surveying not only the castle yards but the entire valley. More than a few of Nilsson’s men complained that they could feel it watching them even when they were indoors. ‘Well, be careful what you say and do, then,’ he offered them, by way of reassurance. ‘And what you think.’ And too, unannounced, Rannick would take his evil-tempered horse and ride off to the north. Sometimes he would return the same day. Sometimes he would be gone for several days. These mysterious absences unsettled Nilsson badly, particularly the longer ones. They brought to his mind the spectre of his new Lord not returning, either through some unforeseen hazard or, worse, through choice. But he could say nothing. As he had many years before, he could only have faith in the path that he had chosen, accepting the arbitrary behaviour of his Lord and continuing with the task that had been placed in his hands: the conquest of the land. Only a few weeks ago such a notion would have seemed absurd to him. Indeed, but weeks ago, it would have been absurd. Then, he and his men had been a haunted and broken force. But, no longer. Now they had been renewed. Now their every ambition could be fulfilled, with time, patience and careful planning. Despite the dark uncertainty of Rannick’s leadership, the prospect exhilarated Nilsson, though he allowed no outward sign of this to show. Such knowledge as he had gained while journeying through the land beyond the valley had told him that it was large, sparsely populated and possessed of no great military might. That his own troop was small for such a grandiose scheme as conquest was of little consequence. With the correct tactics, any society could be brought low by a small, determined group. Had not he and his men been part of such a group once before? And held in thrall a far more vigorous people than inhabited this land. And too, he knew that his group would grow. There were always malcontents who could find no place in any ordered society, however benign. People within whose darker natures lay deep, stagnant pools of anger and hatred that needed only the right impetus to stir them into corrosive, consuming whirlpools of desire and resolve. Such people would emerge from the shadows and flock to the new banner that would be raised, like flies to a carcass. However, tactics, recruits, and motivation notwithstanding, Nilsson knew all too well that Rannick’s power was essential to the success of the venture. Only with this could they be assured of a victory sufficiently complete to ensure that they would retain their grip on the land. And Rannick’s power would be with them only insofar as these early ventures were successful. Thus, as Nilsson began to play his part in Rannick’s great scheme, the villagers grew increasingly used to the sight of groups of armed men passing down the valley, to return days later, triumphant and noisy, with pack animals and wagons loaded with produce, furniture, and many other items of plunder, and, not infrequently, pale and fearful captives. They grew used also to the small but steady stream of ill-favoured individuals let through by the guards who sealed the valley to the south; individuals who sought directions to the castle with conspiratorial leers, taking it for granted that the villagers were party to the ravaging activities of Nilsson’s men. Given almost a free rein by Rannick, Nilsson implemented his original intention with regard to the villagers, namely that they be left alone while they caused no trouble. He did it quietly, off-handedly almost, so as to avoid attracting Rannick’s attention, but he was explicit with his men. ‘Leave them alone. Just let them know it’s in their interests to stay quiet and co-operative. We’ll need them to grow most of our food eventually. If any of you make trouble here, you’ll answer to me personally.’ He was not unreasonable, however; he knew his men’s needs. He smiled knowingly. ‘Besides, we’ll get plenty of everything else we need from the other villages we . . . visit.’ Without openly declaring it, he affected that this was now Rannick’s will, and while his men knew that this was not so, they also knew enough not to dispute the point. At least, not while they could indeed get everything they wanted elsewhere. The villagers themselves watched the unfolding events both fearfully and sullenly. The fate of Katrin and Garren Yarrance had made a stark and chilling impression on them, as had the account from Gryss, Harlen and Yakob of the strange power that Rannick now possessed. And fretting round the edges of these horrors was the mysterious disappearance of Farnor. Where had he gone that night after he had left Gryss’s cottage? Had he gone to the castle and been quietly slain? Or had he fled over the hill to seek help from the capital? Or, the wilder notions went, had he fled north to the Great Forest? Some said that food and supplies had been taken from the Yarrance farm, and others were convinced that they had heard something howling beyond the castle on that fateful night. Speculation however, added only confusion to the dark ignorance that was slowly swamping the village. Yet, inevitably, there was a certain amount of businesslike, if surly, contact between Nilsson’s men and the villagers. Food was required. Repairs had to be made to parts of the castle. Horses had to be tended. Servants were needed. Occasionally there were overt threats made to reluctant workers, but the worst threat was the unspoken one which cried out every time a marauding band returned with booty and captives. ‘Women for pleasure. Men and children as hostages. Think yourselves lucky this isn’t happening to you.’ It was a matter discussed only in subdued whispers and with the closest of friends, for already there were those who were turning away from Gryss and the Council and the traditional, if informal, hierarchy that had overseen village life for generations. They were turning instead towards the power that could enforce its will with muscle and steel.   * * * *   Gryss sat alone in his cottage, resting his head on his hand. His face was drawn and his eyes were red. He had been weeping. He had not wanted to, even though the wiser part of him knew that he needed to, but the enormity of what was happening, and his part in it, had eventually swept aside his unhappy resistance and, for a while, he had sobbed like a beaten child into the silence of his old cottage. Despite himself, he was tormented by the knowledge that he should have challenged Nilsson and his men when they first arrived, down-at-heel and exhausted. He was certain now that they could have been turned away while they were weak and had no measure of the village’s vulnerability. Perhaps there would still have been some problem with Rannick and the strange creature with which he had made his unholy alliance, but that too might have been dealt with had Nilsson and his men not been there. And now, though he knew all too well that he should stand against Nilsson and Rannick, and tell the villagers to do the same; knew that he should use what remained of his authority to unite them into a powerful opposition; because of his earlier weakness and indecision, he could not. Now he could only say, feebly, ‘No, we mustn’t do this, we mustn’t do that, look what might happen to us.’ And, again, by way of demonstrating the taunting rightness of this advice, came the steady stream of other poor souls, less privileged in their proximity to the seat of the power that was spreading like nightfall across the land. How did I come to this? he thought bitterly, wiping his eyes awkwardly on his sleeve. Step by wretched step, came the equally bitter reply from somewhere within himself. And, in truth, he could not see how it could have been otherwise when he looked back over what had happened. But this gave him no consolation, and his mind was constantly filled with the words ‘if only’ swirling round and round like autumn leaves caught in the coming winter wind. If only Farnor had not planted the idea of tithe gatherers in his head when Nilsson’s men had first appeared in the distance. And yet again, if only he had stepped out and spoken to them as their ragged column had moved past the waiting villagers . . . Gradually however, his mood became grimmer, until, angrily, he dashed the endless, tangled chain of tiny linked events aside and forced himself to look to the future. It was filled with the frightened faces of more and more captives, torn from their peaceful lives and brought in thrall to Rannick’s terrible castle through no fault of their own; playthings and pawns in whatever dire game he was playing. Yet, while to Gryss these people were strangers, their very ordinariness marked them as his friends and neighbours. After a while, as he sat there, head bowed, he began to realize that the burden of their silent reproach would eventually become more than he could bear; would become more awful to him than any consequence that might ensue from his facing and denouncing Rannick and Nilsson. He stood up and went into the kitchen. Wiping his face with a damp cloth, he gazed at his reflection in a mirror on the wall. Like the ring that hung at his threshold, this too was a relic of his youthful travelling days, though he could not now remember exactly how he had come by it. Unlike the ornately carved ring, however, the mirror was of a very simple design. Its plain frame was black, though he could not imagine what paint or stain had been used to make it thus, as it had neither sheen nor texture. Indeed, when examined closely it seemed to have the quality of the blackness of a starless night, an infinite, aching depth. It disturbed him when he chose to think about it. And the glass was as bright and vivid as the frame was dark, almost as if the one had drawn all the light and radiance from the other. Further, throughout the years its brilliant clarity had shown no signs of ageing or tarnishing – unlike himself, he mused. It gave, as it had always given, a cruelly accurate reflection of what it saw. Gryss stared at the old man who was gazing pathetically out at him. Then the watching face became scornful. With an effort, Gryss straightened up. His inner battle was not yet finished; fear and self-doubt could never truly be vanquished, but somewhere within him a tide was turning. Still there was a great chorus shouting for safety and security, for acquiescence to what was happening so that he could spend the remainder of his life in peace. But, increasingly, its voice was becoming strident and hollow and, though unwelcome, colder but wiser counsels were beginning to prevail. Safety he might possibly attain, though he had doubts about even that, knowing Rannick’s disposition, but he could never truly know peace if others suffered when some effort on his part might help them. The terrible, slaughtered images of Garren and Katrin Yarrance hovered perpetually at the edges of his mind, and, all too frequently, his stomach churned with his impotent distress at not knowing the fate of Farnor. But while he could not mend his earlier mistakes, perhaps he had learned enough to avoid making any more. Yet what could he do? The inexorable question. Direct opposition to Rannick would mean death, or worse. And what retribution would such opposition unleash on the village? The expression of the old man in the black-edged mirror became baleful. For an instant it seemed to Gryss that he was the shallow, ephemeral image and that the face in the mirror was the real person. He turned away sharply, his breathing suddenly painful, so powerful and frightening was this impression, and so severe the judgement in the eyes that had looked into his. The shock cleared his mind. What he could do, first of all, was use his head; he could think. Somewhere there was a solution. The energy that was draining out of him in whining self-pity must be redirected towards finding that solution, however elusive and difficult it might prove to be. And he did not have the luxury of time at his disposal. With each day, he reasoned, Nilsson’s men would travel further and further abroad on their plundering raids; and too, in addition to those strangers who were wandering into the valley, like lesser predators following the scent of another’s kill, not all those who returned with the raiders were captives; some were, beyond a doubt, recruits. Rannick’s power would draw the worst out of men, and the worst of men. Gryss needed no military training to know that the armed strength of the garrison was growing relentlessly. But what was Rannick up to? What could be the purpose of such a force? He obviously did not need it just to hold sway over the village. Gryss dismissed the questions before they began to lead him astray. They were irrelevant, at the moment. Whatever Rannick’s intentions were, all that mattered now was that they be frustrated. He returned to his favourite chair. It creaked welcomingly as he sat down and settled himself comfortably. A dark measure of his position came to him first. He could do little or nothing alone. Further, whatever opposition he decided upon, he would have to persuade an increasingly large number of the villagers to accept and follow it as time passed. But who was to be trusted? There was no reason to suppose that the doubts and fears which were assailing him were not assailing everyone else, and, in all conscience he could not reproach anyone for throwing in their lot with the new masters of the valley. Yet this was only an intellectual conclusion; despite the truth of it, deep within himself he felt his benevolence fighting a stern battle with a powerful, emotional, reaction of anger and revulsion at such behaviour. Still, he flattered himself that at least he could identify those most likely to succumb to this, and keep them away from any plans that he might instigate. He reverted to his original question, and amplified it. Who was to be trusted? And who was going to be any use? The first names that came to him were Garren and Farnor, and the shock of the emptiness that followed in their wake made him grimace. Tears started to his eyes again and he brushed them away roughly. The dead were dead, and should be buried, he shouted inside his head, so that he could pass this momentary crisis under cover of the noise. He forced himself to think of the living. Yakob he could trust, certainly. Harlen too, though he found it hard to imagine him as any great tower of strength. That would be the role of Jeorg, of course. His heart was full of a black and awful rage at Rannick and Nilsson and his various injuries were healing well, though it would be some time before he had the full use of his arm again. The only real problem with Jeorg would be keeping his tongue under control. Also, Gryss knew to his cost, it would be politic to keep Jeorg’s wife well away from any plotting and scheming. She was unequivocally of the opinion that what was happening was ‘none of their business’ and that it should be left to those ‘better suited to such matters’ or ‘no good would come of it’. To her mind, the logic of her husband’s cruelly beaten body was more than sufficient to sustain her argument, and she never elaborated on who such others ‘better suited’ might be. It would be a brave man who attempted to take her to task on such details. It was not an uncommon view in the village, and, in her case, Gryss could sympathize completely. There were others who could be relied on: Gofhern the blacksmith, Kestered the valley’s finest leatherworker, Bellan the school teacher. Gryss weighed them all carefully. None of them was a fighter, of course, but they were men who could hold their peace, and who were not afraid to ponder intractable problems. And, as with himself in his capacity as a healer, their skills brought them into contact with more people than most. This alone would keep him better informed of the attitude of the villagers than if he were alone. Then Marna’s name came to him. He frowned. Much as he would have preferred to, he could not exclude her from any plans, as she would inevitably scent them out. And despite Farnor’s beating and subsequent mysterious disappearance, she was still quite capable of undertaking some wild venture of her own if she thought that nothing was being done. Whatever he decided to do, he would somehow have to find a way of involving her that offered her no danger. He settled on the group that he should approach initially: Yakob, Harlen, Jeorg and, reluctantly, Marna. Perhaps Gofhern, Kestered, Bellan and others later but, he realized, that would not be solely his responsibility by then. He stood up, stretched, and went to stand for a while at the front door of the cottage. It was a fine summer’s day and everything about him was as it should be: birds singing, bright flowers everywhere, the air alive with rich scents, and all manner of small creatures bustling through the hedges and long grasses. Subtly marring it, though, was the darkness of the unexpected that now lay over everything like a clinging miasma. Throughout the years since his return, he had walked down into the village, knowing that while no two days were ever the same, he would meet nothing and no one that he would not have wished to meet. That had been such a truth in his life that it had never actually occurred to him before. But now, who could say what might lie around the familiar bends in the road? One of Nilsson’s men? Oddly restrained but arrogant and unpleasant for all that, and not infrequently drunk on ale ‘freely given’ at the inn. Or some sharp-eyed stranger seeking the way to the castle? Guards returning from duty downland? Or perhaps even another column of armed men returning from a raid over the hill and bringing with them more captives. He picked up the carved iron ring and examined it thoughtfully. The soldiers etched into its surface seemed to reproach him. They were waiting too, but they were armed and ready; at some time in the past they had seen their destiny and prepared themselves for it. He found himself making an ironical inventory of all the weapons that he knew lay in the valley: a handful of rusty swords that had accumulated over the generations from who knew what sources; an equally small handful of bows which, like the swords, were a greater danger to the users and their immediate neighbours than to any enemy they might be levelled at; and, incongruously, he seemed to remember having seen two old pikes lying in a barn somewhere, though he could not recall now whether or not they hadn’t been made into pitchforks. The fate of the pikes, however, was of little consequence. Not in his wildest imaginings could he envisage disciplined, serried ranks of villagers marching resolutely up to the castle to face Nilsson’s men; that, indeed, was a task for others ‘better suited’. Which still left Gryss with his original problem. What could he, and his potential co-conspirators, do? He put the ring down gently but the bell tinkled faintly, invoking a cursory rumble from the dog somewhere in the cottage. Closing the door behind him, he set off towards the village. The darkness of everything that Rannick and Nilsson had brought to the valley was still with him, but for the first time in many weeks he felt almost at ease with himself. It was a feeling that grew as he visited first Yakob, then Jeorg – ‘Just to see how he’s getting on,’ he said, smiling excessively at Jeorg’s wife – and finally Harlen. He gave no indication of his intentions, simply asking them to come round to his cottage that evening, ‘Just to talk about a few things.’ The only threat to his unexpected euphoria was the absence of Marna. It took him some time to turn the conversation so that he could ask, casually, where she was. Harlen smiled and shrugged. Gryss had a brief vision of the young woman crawling along ditches and hedgerows in order to avoid the guards who were now permanently on duty down the valley. He dismissed it as calmly as he could. ‘Bring her with you, Harlen,’ he said as they parted. ‘There’re things I want to talk about that she’ll be interested in.’ Then he turned on his heel and left quickly before Harlen could summon up any questions. Thus, in the early evening, all his would-be allies were gathered in his cottage. He made no preamble, but set out his ideas immediately. There was a silence when he had finished. Yakob eventually broke it. His initial reaction was the same as had been Gryss’s own. ‘All very fine, Gryss,’ he said. ‘We’d all like to do something. But what can we do? We can’t throw them out of the castle. We can’t get out of the valley.’ He threw up his hands. ‘We don’t even know what it is that Rannick and these people are up to.’ ‘And they are leaving us alone,’ Harlen added, reluctantly reciting the growing response of the villagers. ‘Who knows what they’ll do if we start to make trouble?’ Gryss nodded. He suspected that this careful treatment of the villagers was Nilsson’s tactic, and that it had been adopted quite specifically to disarm troublesome local opposition. Rannick, he was sure, would not have hesitated to wreak havoc on the village had the whim so taken him. He submitted this to his friends. ‘Just discussing it like this, now, makes me think that perhaps Rannick’s fully occupied on some greater design of his own,’ he concluded. ‘I can’t see that he’s leaving us alone because he regrets . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What he did to Katrin and Garren.’ Yakob scowled and shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But whoever’s idea it is, it’s a good one, and it’ll work. Everyone’s seen those other poor souls being hauled in, and everyone knows it could be them next if they make trouble.’ Anger and regret filled his face. ‘It’s horrible to talk like that, I know,’ he went on. ‘But it’s true. Those people are suffering on our behalf.’ He brought his hand down on the table. ‘If only we’d seen them off when they first arrived.’ Gryss was no more indulgent with Yakob than he had been with himself a few hours ago. ‘Well, we didn’t,’ he answered curtly. ‘And we can’t be wasting our time breast-beating and howling over what we should have done. We did what we did because it seemed right at the time. That could be anyone’s epitaph. Now the harm’s been done and what we have to do is make sure we don’t perpetuate that mistake by letting Rannick and Nilsson get away with whatever it is they’re doing without any hindrance.’ Yakob made to speak again but Gryss lifted a hand to stop him. ‘Do you agree or don’t you?’ he demanded. ‘It’s that simple.’ He paused briefly. ‘If you don’t, then fair enough. I’ll involve you no further. All I’ll ask of you is that you keep quiet about this meeting.’ There was a brief, injured silence, then Yakob said heatedly, ‘You’ve no call to speak like that. Of course we want to do something.’ Harlen and Jeorg both nodded in agreement. ‘But I presume we’ll be allowed the odd moment to speak about our regrets, won’t we? It’s not as if anything springs immediately to mind that we can do, does it?’ Gryss bridled a little at this rebuff but he fought back a scowl and managed to look appropriately contrite. ‘You’re right, Yakob. I’m sorry,’ he said, insincerely. ‘I’ve no doubt I can rely on you to guard against my impetuosity.’ This time it was Yakob who bridled at the sarcasm that Gryss had failed to keep out of his voice, but Gryss continued quickly. ‘As for what to do, I’m afraid we must succeed in what we failed to do before. We must get news of what’s happening to the capital.’ For the first time since she had sat down at the long wooden table, Marna looked up. She did not speak, but she leaned forward a little. Gryss noted the movement. ‘There’ll be plenty for you to do here, Marna,’ he said, partly to reassure Harlen, but mainly in an attempt to forestall any folly that she might be contemplating. Unexpectedly she nodded understandingly and said, ‘Of course, Gryss.’ Gryss looked at her narrowly and made an immediate resolution to watch her very carefully. When they were alone, he would speak to her a little more bluntly. Yakob reverted to practicalities. ‘I suppose it’s all we can do,’ he said. ‘But how? There are far more guards downland than there were when Jeorg tried to leave, and if anyone’s lucky enough to get past them, there’s no saying how far over the hill these raiding parties of theirs are reaching now.’ ‘I’ll go again,’ Jeorg said resolutely. ‘If Rannick’s in the castle, I’ll take my chance on dodging his men.’ He tapped his head. ‘I go through the route continually in my mind, and I’ve still got the maps and notes we prepared, wrapped up safe and sound at the bottom of my pack.’ Yakob and Harlen looked unhappy, but Gryss nodded. ‘You’re still the best choice for the job,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to be far more careful this time. They’ll kill you without a doubt if they catch you again, and who knows what reprisals they might take against the rest of the village?’ ‘I know,’ Jeorg replied, his voice untypically soft. He tapped his head again. ‘I go through that continually as well. And don’t think I relish the prospect of trying again. The whole idea frightens the breeches off me.’ He paused, and then almost spat out, ‘But doing nothing’s rotting me. And it’s no guarantee of safety for the village. Rannick’ll turn on us sooner or later, I’m sure. You all know what he’s like.’ He looked around the table. His pain was reflected in the faces of his listeners, but no one disagreed. Despite the grimness of this assessment, Gryss was strangely heartened by the fact that they had all apparently reached the same conclusion as himself about Rannick’s probable future conduct. Jeorg continued. ‘And talk around the matter as much as you like, it comes to the same in the end. We can’t fight them. That’s a job for soldiers. So someone has to tell the King what’s happened so that the army can be sent to get rid of them.’ A long silence followed this pronouncement. ‘We must work out when and how, then,’ Gryss said eventually, his voice a little hoarse. ‘I can watch the guards downland,’ Marna said. ‘No!’ Both Gryss and Harlen spoke together sharply. Gryss deferred to her father. ‘You keep away from them,’ Harlen said. ‘You don’t need to be told why they’re bringing women back from their raids, do you?’ Marna’s face coloured in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Such directness from her father was unusual. ‘Just keep away from them,’ he said again, quietly but with powerful authority. The other men around the table nodded. Marna’s face became stony, but she did not speak. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the guards,’ Harlen went on, turning back to Gryss. ‘They’re used to me wandering about down there. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out how many there are and how they come and go.’ Gryss nodded. ‘I suppose we’ll have to think like soldiers ourselves,’ he mused. ‘We must watch all of them all the time. Find out exactly how many there are, what they do, who’s in charge, and so on.’ He grimaced. ‘I suppose we’ll have to get to know them. Find out their names. Find out who likes to drink, who likes to gamble, who likes to gossip. As we learn about them, perhaps other ways of quietly causing them problems will come to light.’ Marna’s restraint broke. ‘And what am I supposed to do,’ she demanded, ‘If I’m to keep away from them?’ With unexpected inspiration Gryss said, ‘You can do as you’ve already been doing. Find out what the young people are thinking.’ Marna’s eyes became menacing. ‘And the women,’ Gryss added hastily and with some earnestness. ‘It’s important, Marna. Only Jeorg here’s married now, and his wife’s views are all too well known. But sooner or later, there’s going to have to be a lot more than us involved in this, and we can’t do anything if the women are against us.’ Slightly mollified, Marna sat back in her chair and surveyed her fellow conspirators. Gryss added to his resolve to watch her carefully; he would have to give her plenty to do as well. He had seen the look of resolute determination that flickered briefly in her eyes, and it alarmed him.     Chapter 2 ‘This must be the cause of all the fuss.’ A booted foot prodded cautiously. ‘Careful, it might be dangerous.’ ‘No, surely not, it’s only . . .’ ‘No.’ A respectful but definite interruption. ‘Be careful. Something’s disturbed them profoundly. I told you, I Heard it clearer than I’ve ever Heard anything. And this must be the cause of it all. Just look at it. It might be more than it seems. We must be careful.’ Insistent. ‘But it might be injured. Its face is badly bruised.’ Female, newly arrived, and impatient. ‘For pity’s sake, the two of you. If it doesn’t die of its hurts, it will die of old age while you stand around debating matters.’ She laid a heavy and scornful emphasis on the word it. The young woman pushed the two men aside and knelt down by the object of their attention. ‘Go and tend that horse, Marken, if you’re bothered about this one. I’ll let you know if it suddenly turns into a tree goblin and tries to drag me to its lair.’ The older of the two men looked briefly at his companion for support, but found only an anxious preoccupation with their discovery. Scowling, he set off across the clearing towards the quietly grazing horse that the girl had indicated. The other man abandoned his momentary reverie. ‘Edrien, that’s no way to talk to Marken,’ he said to the girl. ‘He’s our Hearer, child. You should show more respect.’ The girl frowned impatiently. ‘I know, Father,’ she said, a little repentantly. ‘But he fusses so, at times.’ ‘He fusses because he Hears and we don’t, Edrien,’ her father persisted. ‘And I’ve never seen him so agitated about a Hearing before.’ A note of annoyance came into his voice. ‘And what he Hears he notes, which is more than you’ve ever done. You just apologize to him when he comes back.’ Edrien’s frown deepened and her mouth formed a reply which she noticeably pondered and then rejected before saying, ‘Oh. very well,’ with a great lack of conviction. ‘But is it all right if I see if this thing is alive or not?’ The man allowed his daughter this last sarcastic barb, then he crouched down beside her and nodded. ‘Take care though,’ he said, softly but firmly. ‘There’s something odd about him, to say the least. Look at his clothes. And his hair, for pity’s sake – it’s black! And so’s his horse. Wherever he’s from, it’s beyond the Forest, for sure.’ Surreptitiously, and keeping his hand well out of the sight of his daughter, he drew a knife. Edrien reached out and gently held her fingers against the throat of the motionless figure lying on the sunlit grass. ‘He’s not dead, anyway,’ she said after a moment. ‘That may not necessarily be good news.’ It was Marken, returned, leading the horse uncertainly. Edrien looked up, her face angry, but catching her father’s eye she swallowed her intended reply. ‘I’m sorry I was . . . a little short . . . Marken,’ she said flatly, her jaw taut. Marken gave a slight, sharp nod by way of acknowledgement, then turned to her father. ‘His horse is exhausted, Derwyn,’ he said. ‘He must have been riding like someone demented.’ Derwyn shook his head. ‘I’m surprised he got this far. There must be some reason for it.’ He turned to Marken. ‘Can you Hear anything?’ he asked. Marken closed his eyes, and raised his hand slightly for silence. It was an unnecessary gesture. Both Derwyn and Edrien stood motionless, watching him intently. The gentle rustle of the surrounding trees filled the small clearing. ‘No,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Less than usual, if anything. Whatever was causing the disturbance has ended.’ There was doubt in his voice, however. ‘But there’s a . . . tension, here . . . an expectancy . . . even a bewilderment. It’s very strange. It’s as if they’re waiting for us to do something.’ ‘What?’ Derwyn asked. Marken shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. Edrien looked at the two men. ‘Shall I see if it’s safe to move him?’ she asked. ‘I suppose so,’ Derwyn replied, though he still kept his knife discreetly ready. He’d seen more than one ‘unconscious’ animal, suddenly spring to life, all teeth and slashing claws. And he’d never come across any animal remotely as devious and savage as a man bent on treachery. Gently, Edrien lifted up the eyelids of the unconscious figure, then, carefully, she tested his limbs. ‘I can’t feel anything serious. I think he’s probably just fallen off his horse and cracked his head.’ Derwyn stood up. His lined face creased further as he frowned. ‘Well, that’s as may be, but if he’s a faller we can’t risk throwing him over a saddle while he’s unconscious, there’s no saying what hurt we’d do him. And wherever he’s come from, or for whatever reason, we can’t leave him here. We’ll have to tie him to a stretcher and take him back to the lodge. See what Bildar makes of him.’ He turned to Marken. ‘Find some suitable branches and ask if we may take them,’ he said. Marken nodded and disappeared into the trees. Derwyn turned to his daughter. ‘Go and help him, Edrien,’ he said, adding as she stood up, ‘And be pleasant, please. Like me, he’s older than you, and unfortunately no longer has the advantage of knowing everything.’ His slight smile silenced Edrien’s reply before it formed. Within a short while the three were walking their horses slowly through the forest. Derwyn’s was hauling a crude but well-rigged stretcher to which the body of the still-unconscious new arrival was tightly and skilfully lashed. The soft springiness of the two main supporting branches absorbed much of the impact of the small jolts that occurred as the trailing ends were dragged over the forest floor. Derwyn kept a careful watch for anything that might seriously jar the passenger. Behind him came Edrien and Marken, leading the other horses. There was little conversation as they walked along, and the tread of the horses was so soft that the sounds of their passing were lost in the gentle rustling of the trees and the bird song that filled the sunlit air. As Derwyn halted and he and Edrien moved to ease the trailing ends of the stretcher over a large root protruding above the grassy forest floor, the figure on the stretcher muttered something. Edrien looked up. ‘I think he’s waking,’ she said. Derwyn looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Well, we’ve not far to go now, we’ll get him back to the lodge and let Bildar look at him anyway. Keep an eye on him. See if you can make sense of anything he says.’ The small procession set off again.   * * * *   Darkness swirled around Farnor. At his heels, the fearful menace came ever closer. ‘Run, horse, run!’ The phrase wove incessantly in and out of his head through the pounding progress of the exhausted and panic-stricken horse. Then there was no horse and no sound and he was moving alone through the darkness. All around were menace and fear. Voices called to him: his mother and father, Gryss, Marna, and poor, beaten Jeorg. But he could not understand what they said. And there were other voices too, alien and strange. Yet these were but flitting dreams. In truth, he knew that there was nothing but the flight and the fear and the terrible rasping of his breath and the pounding of his heart. There had never been anything but the flight and fear, in all its gasping horror, nor would there ever be. Then the darkness began to cling about him, tangible and awful. A myriad cloying fingers catching at his legs, his arms, his whole body. But he must not stop. Even to falter would be to bring the creature down upon him, with its fearsome, rending jaws, and its terrible will, lusting to feast upon the fear that so filled him. Yet the darkness would not be gainsaid. It tugged and snatched at him, relentlessly draining the strength from him, wrapping itself about him tighter and tighter like some great spider’s web. Until finally he was powerless to move. Utterly spent, he was held fast, swaying helplessly in the black emptiness. Faint sounds drifted to him. It was still there! Pursuing him! He began to struggle. He would not die to this creature – Rannick’s creature – like some bleating sheep. No! ‘No!’ ‘Father!’ The voice burst upon him, urgent and nearby. With it came shifting shadows within shadows. Something touched his face. He shied away from it violently and struggled to free himself. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ An anxious female voice, speaking with a strange accent, washed over him and the darkness broke silently into countless shimmering lights. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ the voice said again. Farnor took in the gentleness of the voice even as the lights about him became bright, welcoming beams of warm sunlight, scattered by a wind-shaken canopy of branches and leaves. The menace had gone! Relief flooded through him. But still he was bound! With a panic-stricken cry, he began struggling again. ‘No, no!’ the woman’s voice protested. ‘You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.’ Then, apparently to someone else, ‘I don’t think he can understand me.’ Hands touched Farnor’s face, and the silhouette of a head intruded itself against the leafy background. ‘I said, you are safe,’ the head said loudly and with painstaking slowness. ‘Do not struggle. You have had a fall. You might be badly hurt.’ ‘I doubt that, Edrien,’ came a man’s amused voice. ‘Not the way he’s wriggling. And I don’t think he’s deaf either, judging from the look on his face when you shouted at him.’ Though the nightmare horror of the creature and the chase had slipped away from him, much of Farnor’s fear returned. He was a captive, held by some strange-speaking people. Had he fallen into the hands of Nilsson’s men? Was he being carried back to the castle? He redoubled his struggling. The head disappeared and another one replaced it. Farnor stopped briefly and screwed up his eyes to examine his captor, but the sunlight flickering through the leaves was too bright for him to distinguish any features. ‘Do you understand me, boy?’ the new head said quietly, but also with a strange accent. ‘I’m not a boy, sir,’ Farnor said, viciously polite, as an unexpected surge of anger ran through him, at this form of address. Somewhere there was a soft chuckle. ‘I gather you do understand me, young man,’ the head said again. ‘Who are you?’ Farnor demanded. ‘Are you Nilsson’s men? Where are we? Where are you taking me . . .?’ The head shook and a waving hand appeared, seeking silence. ‘Calm yourself. No one means you any harm and we’ve all got a great many questions to ask. But for now, my name’s Derwyn, I’m Koyden-dae. I’m afraid I know of no peoples called Nilssons – a very peculiar name, I must say – but if the Nilssons are your kin then I’m sure we’ll help you to get back to them in due course, if we can.’ Farnor gaped. ‘Although I must admit, I wouldn’t know where to start looking,’ Derwyn continued. ‘Indeed, I’ve no idea how you came to be here. It’s all very strange.’ He became explanatory. ‘We were drawn out to look for something when our Hearer felt a great disturbance. And we found you. And your horse. That’s safe too, but you’ve been riding hard by the look of it. We . . .’ ‘I can’t understand half of what you’re saying,’ Farnor interrupted heatedly. He struggled against his bonds again. ‘But if you mean me no harm, then why am I trussed up like a Dalmas Day fowl?’ Derwyn’s brow furrowed. ‘I can’t say that I understand you particularly well, young man,’ he replied. ‘Your speech is a little strange. But we thought you were a faller, albeit only off your horse, and you might have been badly hurt. We bound you to this stretcher so that we could take you back to our Mender at the lodge without injuring you further.’ Despite his anxiety, Farnor felt the reassurance in Derwyn’s voice and, almost in spite of himself, he relaxed a little. ‘I’m not hurt,’ he said more quietly. But as if they had been waiting for the opportunity, the pains from his beating by Nilsson and his subsequent headlong flight through the forest returned to give him the lie. He stiffened and grimaced. Derwyn nodded knowingly. ‘So I see,’ he said, with some irony. ‘Just lie still. We’ve not far to go to our lodge, now. Then our Mender can look at you properly and we’ll find out just how badly you’re not hurt.’ Farnor was inclined to dispute the matter further, but all the spirit seemed to leave him. His entire body was beginning to throb and his mind whirled with innumerable, half-formed questions. ‘Relax. Lie still,’ Derwyn said again, and his head disappeared from Farnor’s view. The soft command coincided exactly with the demands of Farnor’s body and it did as it was bidden. Almost immediately sleep began to creep over him, helped in no small degree by the gentle swaying of the stretcher and the sunlight above him, broken into countless dancing shards by the shaking leaves. ‘He’s asleep, Father,’ he heard the female voice say softly in the distance, but he could not muster the strength to deny it. A dreamlike, twilight interval followed, as he drifted in and out of the sleep that he so desperately needed. He was aware of shimmering lights, then a dark coolness. Then warmth and sunlight again, with an open sky overhead. And many voices, speaking with that same strange accent. And hands, lifting him gently and laying him down, and searching about him, expertly, purposefully, for injury. He woke briefly to a deep silence and a momentary vision of an odd, cave-like room. Then there was darkness again, folding over him to take him away from his aching body. And into this darkness came the other voices that he had heard before. The voices that were inside his head. The great family of voices. But whereas, in the past, they had been distant and faint, now they were clear and distinct, and he knew that they were speaking softly, as if for fear of disturbing him. Some part of him told him that he should be frightened; that he was hearing voices where there were no people; that he had indeed fallen and injured his head – or worse, that he might even be going mad. But he had heard them before, and he could feel no real alarm, for the voices brought with them subtler meanings than those contained in the words alone. Many questions were being asked, and there was bewilderment, doubt, and even fear, but there was nothing that offered him any threat. Indeed, when he became the focus of debate, a sense of surprise and wonder dominated all responses. ‘He can Hear us even now.’ Again, wonder. And a realization that this was the truth. ‘It is strange. There’s never been such a one before.’ Denial. Farnor felt a sudden, almost giddying, sensation, of great spans of ages arching back into times long past, when many things were very different. It was as if, in a single instant, he heard every one of Yonas’s tales being told, plus ten score more, and each more enthralling than the last. A fleeting glimpse of innumerable great histories, of peoples growing and moving across the world. Of the coming of great darkness and terror, of terrible conflicts, and courage and heroism, cowardice and treachery, sacrifice and victory. Of the return of light and wonder and knowledge. And finally, trailing into the here and now, of guilt, of lapsing vigilance, of a recent, frightening . . . return? And, within the blink of an eye, it was all gone. ‘He will Hear our every word.’ ‘No. He’s but a solitary Mover. And a sapling.’ ‘And what have we to hide?’ Silence. ‘He may be our salvation.’ Doubt. Fear. ‘He may presage our downfall.’ Denial again. ‘He may presage strange and troubled times, but our true downfall cannot lie in the power of the Movers any more than it did before. We are First Comers after the Great Heat and our hold on the world goes even beyond that – into the times unknowable.’ This opinion was given unequivocally, though strands of doubt ran through it. ‘Who are you?’ Farnor found himself asking into the silence that ensued, though no sound came to his lips. The silence deepened. ‘There. He Hears us almost as we Hear ourselves. Say what you will, there’s not been one such in generations beyond counting.’ ‘Who are you?’ Farnor asked again. ‘Rest, Mover,’ came the reply. ‘You know us well enough. We have turned away the abomination for the nonce, though it cost us great pain and fear runs through us as it has not done in many ages. Rest your limbs, we feel their pain. And make your peace with your own kind. You have frightened them also.’ ‘I don’t understand anything you say,’ Farnor replied. Amusement filled him. ‘Rest,’ came the gentle instruction. ‘We’ll disturb you no more with our chatter.’ And in the word, rest, came so many images of peace and stillness that it was beyond Farnor to resist them, and he drifted back into sleep again.   * * * *   Bildar, the Mender to Derwyn’s lodge, scratched his chin unhappily. ‘He’s not seriously hurt,’ he said. ‘But he’s got severe bruising and muscle damage, and, like his horse, he’s absolutely exhausted.’ Derwyn shrugged a little. ‘Well, I suppose only he can tell us why he was riding so hard,’ he said. ‘And I presume it’s the riding that’s caused the bruising.’ ‘Not all of it, I’m afraid,’ Bildar said, shaking his head. ‘At least, as far as I can tell. Some of it’s a little older than the rest and it looks as if he’s had a nasty accident to his arm. But, for the most part . . .’ he looked unhappily at Derwyn, ‘. . . it looks to me as if he’s been beaten – badly beaten.’ ‘Beaten?’ Derwyn queried. Bildar nodded, and lifted his clenched fist to amplify his meaning. ‘Badly,’ he repeated. ‘I’d say he was lucky not to have suffered some internal injury. As it is, he’s going to be very sore for quite a time.’ Derwyn turned to Marken, who shrugged. He looked around at the trees surrounding the wide, circular green where they were sitting. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, in answer to the unspoken question. ‘I don’t even know what’s brought him here, let alone how he came to be injured. And I can Hear nothing. It’s almost as if they were deliberately keeping quiet. I’ve never felt anything quite like it.’ Derwyn leaned on the wooden table in front of him and rested his head on his hand. ‘But who’d want to beat a young lad like that? Who’d beat him so hard that he’d flee his homeland and ride both himself and his horse to a standstill?’ ‘That’s not completely beyond understanding,’ Marken replied a little sourly, casting a glance at Edrien. ‘But more to the point, why did they let him through? Why wasn’t he gently turned about? We don’t suffer from outsiders and fringe dwellers here, but the Koyden-ushav and the Koyden-d’ryne do and that’s what normally happens there to anyone who wanders in without an invitation.’ ‘Perhaps it’s because they’re not used to outsiders here,’ Edrien offered. ‘Perhaps he caught them by surprise.’ Marken shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, gently but definitely. ‘They weren’t taken by surprise. I’ve been Hearing vague whispers about . . . someone beyond . . . someone unusual . . . for some time now. And there’s been an odd feeling of . . . expectancy . . . in the air.’ He looked at his listeners and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be clearer.’ ‘You mean, they knew he was coming?’ Derwyn asked, his eyes widening. ‘And you knew?’ ‘No,’ Marken replied, a touch irritably. ‘I told you, it’s not that clear. But they certainly weren’t taken by surprise. When I Heard them, it was like nothing I’d ever Heard before. Vivid, intense. There was some great upheaval, a bewildering debate of some kind, then suddenly something was coming into the Forest and we were to find it.’ He shivered slightly. ‘And there were great washes of all sorts of emotions, not least outright fear.’ Derwyn straightened up and then leaned back in his chair. He looked around him. Warm sunlight filled the clearing, while a soft breeze, full of woodland sounds and scents, prevented it from becoming too hot and gently stirred the surrounding treetops. Quite near to the table, several birds were hopping to and fro in search of insects and worms. Occasionally a noisy squabble would break out and one or two of them would fly off into the trees, seemingly to sulk for a little while before returning. ‘Such a beautiful day,’ Derwyn said, putting his hands behind his head then letting them fall on to his knees. ‘I don’t know what to make of all this. It’s so strange. And it all feels so . . . bad. I almost regret not strapping that lad over his saddle, pointing him south and sending him back on his way.’ ‘I think that might have been to his death,’ Marken said, after a long pause. ‘Whatever was causing the upheaval amongst them was no small thing.’ Derwyn turned and looked at him. ‘This has disturbed you far more than you’re admitting, hasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid so,’ Marken replied. ‘I’ve no clear reason for it, but I don’t feel any happier about the arrival of this young man than you do. Valderen are Valderen, outsiders are outsiders . . .’ ‘We’re all people, Marken,’ Edrien interrupted, with some petulance. Marken assumed a look of scarcely controlled exasperation and Derwyn shot his daughter an angry glance. ‘Valderen are Valderen, and outsiders are outsiders,’ Marken repeated deliberately. Then despite himself his irritation surfaced. ‘And no one’s talking about them not being people, you silly girl.’ Edrien bridled, but another look from her father made her keep silent. Marken continued. ‘We’re Forest dwellers and they’re not. They live in the plains and the mountains and presumably know the lore of such places, just as we know the lore of the Forest. But throughout our known history and our legends, contact between us has been infrequent and usually associated with evil happenings.’ He looked at Derwyn. ‘We must tend this boy, of course. See that he’s fed and rested. And listen to his tale, if he’s willing to tell it. But we must be’ – he searched for a word – ‘circumspect in any judgements we make about him. Or anything he says.’ Derwyn’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the Hearer. ‘Have you Heard things that you don’t want to tell us about?’ he asked. Marken shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he replied doubtfully. ‘But something’s wrong. Unsettled, turbulent.’ He hesitated and his face became agitated. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Derwyn, I suddenly seem to find myself not where I thought I was. As if I’d been walking uphill without realizing it, and suddenly turned to find myself looking out over a totally unfamiliar treescape.’ Derwyn looked concerned, and even Edrien forebore to make any caustic observation, so disturbed did Marken seem. ‘I don’t understand,’ Derwyn said. ‘Nor do I,’ Marken replied after a long pause. ‘That’s the problem. Everything is at once so clear and so vague. It’s clear that something portentous is about to happen – or perhaps has happened – but vague about what it could be, or might have been. Or when, or how it will affect us.’ ‘How long have you had these feelings?’ Derwyn asked gently. ‘I don’t know,’ Marken replied. ‘That’s what I was trying to say. It’s as if I’ve had them almost for years, but for some reason have only just noticed them.’ He looked at Derwyn. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing up and putting his hand to his head. ‘Even talking like this is . . . changing things.’ There was a long, uneasy silence, in which Marken stood motionless, staring into the trees, while his companions watched him, uncertain what to say or do. Then, abruptly, he seemed to reach a decision. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go away for a little while. I’ll have to find . . . a quiet place . . . calm myself, order my thoughts.’ Edrien frowned, puzzled by this remark, but Bildar and Derwyn exchanged shocked glances. Derwyn stood and took Marken’s arm and looked at him intently. After a moment however, he nodded slowly, and, with reluctant resignation, said, ‘You must do as your judgement tells you, Marken.’ He sat down again, but it was almost as if he could not trust his legs to support him. Then, clearing his throat awkwardly, he became practical. ‘Do you want a companion to tend to your needs?’ he asked. ‘No, thank you, Derwyn,’ Marken replied. ‘I’ll have to be truly alone.’ He affected a slight heartiness. ‘And I’ve not lost all my Forest skills yet. I’ll survive for as long as I have to.’ Derwyn was too well acquainted with the old Hearer to dispute the matter with him. ‘As you wish,’ he said helplessly. There was another uncomfortable silence. ‘When will you go?’ he asked eventually. Marken looked pained. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some things from my lodge and go immediately. There’s nothing needing a Hearer for a little while, and . . .’ he looked from side to side, restlessly. ‘. . . matters aren’t going to resolve themselves by us sitting talking about them.’ ‘Whatever you wish,’ Derwyn said again softly. Marken gave a curt nod and made a small, awkward gesture of farewell to Bildar and Edrien, then turned and walked off into the trees. Edrien stood up hesitantly, her mouth hanging open in bewilderment. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked her father uncertainly. ‘What’s happened? What’s he doing? Where’s he going?’ Derwyn motioned his daughter to sit down and, leaning back in his chair, put his head in his hands. ‘Father?’ Edrien insisted. Bildar laid a hand on her arm. ‘A minute,’ he whispered. ‘Give him a minute.’ Edrien turned to him, the same questions on her face, but Bildar waved a finger for silence. ‘Damnation,’ Derwyn said suddenly, his face grim. He slapped the table with his hand, and the birds feasting nearby rose as one and scattered noisily into the trees. ‘What’s the matter?’ Edrien tried again, her voice both anxious and impatient. ‘What was Marken talking about? Why’s he gone off like that all of a sudden?’ Guilt tinged her expression. ‘Was it something I did?’ Derwyn looked at her sharply, as if surprised to find that he was not alone. His dark expression faded almost immediately into regret as she flinched away from it. He took her hand. ‘No, no,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I’m afraid it’s something far more serious than your acid tongue.’ ‘What, then?’ Unsettled by her father’s sudden change of mood, Edrien let a petulant note waver into her question. Derwyn scowled. ‘I don’t know, Edrien,’ he said, echoing her tone. ‘And neither does Marken. Nor Bildar. Nor any of us. Something’s troubling him deeply; very deeply. And he needs to go to what the Hearers call a quiet place.’ Edrien frowned. ‘But . . .’ Bildar cut through the angry family tension that was beginning to develop between father and daughter. ‘Marken’s a Hearer, Edrien,’ he said, risking the obvious. ‘No one knows what they Hear, or how, or why. But they’re our only contact with them and we need them if we’re to live here in any semblance of harmony. We have to weigh what they say, and we have to trust their judgement.’ Edrien’s lip began to curl slightly. ‘No!’ Bildar said softly, but with great force. ‘You’re young, and you take things for granted. Just listen for once. That’s the way it is, even though we don’t truly understand it.’ He became stern. ‘And we don’t denounce because we don’t understand. We think and we listen and we watch and we stay silent until perhaps, one day, the light dawns.’ He tapped his temple with his finger. Untied to her by blood, Bildar had an authority over Edrien that was in many ways greater than her father’s. She nodded, but did not speak. Bildar cast an anxious glance at Derwyn and hesitated before continuing. ‘Your father’s concerned because we don’t know when, or even if, Marken’s going to come back.’ The remainder of Edrien’s antagonism drained away into shocked disbelief. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know if he’s coming back?’ She looked at her father and then back at Bildar, a frightened girl suddenly trying not to peer out of the young woman’s eyes. Seeing his daughter thus downed, Derwyn’s own darkness faded a little. ‘We’ve no answers to any of your questions, Edrien,’ he said gently. ‘Hearers are Hearers. If Marken could’ve told us the how and why of everything then he would have done. All we can do now is accept whatever problems his leaving presents us with. His own troubles are far greater. If he needs anything at all, it’s to know that his friends, his people, will be carrying on as he’s always shown them, trusting in the knowledge that this is their will and that they’ll not leave us without guidance for long.’ Edrien looked in the direction that Marken had taken. Her face was pale and she seemed suddenly near to tears, but her father’s appeal to friendship and trust had forbidden any response other than concern for Marken now. ‘You mean he’s just going to wander off somewhere and sit under a tree and think?’ she said, her voice unsteady. Derwyn shrugged, but did not reply. Shaking her head rapidly, as if to clear it, Edrien took refuge in practicalities. ‘You men are so illogical,’ she announced. ‘How can he wander off without knowing what he’s doing, or where he’s going? What in the Forest’s name does . . .’ Bildar interrupted, a little impatiently. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘He trusts himself, and what he Hears. And we must do the same. It’s a rare thing for a Hearer to leave like this but it’s happened to others before now.’ Edrien let out an exasperated breath. ‘If you say so,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘But I don’t understand what’s happening at all. Marken’s probably not been away from the lodge alone in years. How’s he going to manage?’ ‘He’ll manage well enough,’ Derwyn said, though his voice lacked conviction. He looked up at the sunny sky. ‘It’s summer, after all. And he’s well rooted. Try not to fret.’ Questions still tumbled around Edrien’s mind, but she gave voice to none of them. After a moment she said conspiratorially, ‘Should I go after him quietly? Keep an eye on him?’ Derwyn smiled and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave him be.’ He stood up briskly, slapping his knees loudly with both hands as he did so, to signal an end to the debate. ‘What you can do though, is go and see if that young man’s awake yet, and if he is, bring him to my room. He’s at the heart of this business, and I think it’s time we called him to account.’     Chapter 3 Farnor started awake at the sudden light. As he made to sit up however, pains throughout his body forced him down on to the bed again immediately. He let out a noisy breath. ‘I’m sorry, did I startle you?’ Carefully Farnor turned his head in the direction of the voice. Gradually his eyes focused on a young woman. She was holding a small lantern which seemed to be the only source of light in the room. If room it was, he thought, as his eyes adjusted further. For there were no familiar beams over his head, no windows, nor even, for that matter, flat walls and straight corners. With a cautious effort, he levered himself up on to his elbows and gazed around, his companion momentarily forgotten. The chamber proved to be roughly circular and the walls rose up and curved inwards to become a crudely domed ceiling. What held Farnor’s attention, however, was not the unusual shape of the room but the fact that both walls and ceiling were decorated with dark, shadowy lines that twisted and curved and wound about one another in what seemed to be a completely random pattern. He recalled from the haze of the immediate past that at one point he had imagined himself to be in a cave. But this was no cave. At least, not one such as he had ever known. It was warm and dry and fresh smelling and, despite the peculiar walls and ceiling, it had almost a homely air about it. And the bed was wonderfully comfortable. He stared at the walls intently, following the twisting lines up and over and down again until he found that he was looking at the wall immediately by his bed. The light grew brighter and the lines began to cast shadows. Tentatively he reached out and touched one of them. ‘They’re like roots,’ he said softly, in amazement. ‘Tree roots.’ A laugh made him recall his visitor. Just in time, he remembered to move slowly as he turned around. The woman had moved closer to his bed and was holding the lantern high in order to help him with his inspection of the wall. Her thin face was full of laughter. ‘Of course they’re tree roots,’ she said. ‘What else did you expect to see down here? Rooks’ nests?’ She laughed again. For an instant Farnor felt indignant at this response, but his indignation crumbled before the confusion and bewilderment that suddenly rushed in upon him. He covered his eyes with his hands and slowly lay back on the bed. ‘Are you all right?’ the young woman asked, anxious now. Farnor nodded. ‘I was just hoping that I was dreaming,’ he replied. ‘No, you’re not dreaming,’ came the response, with flat simplicity. ‘Why should you be?’ Farnor scowled and, removing his hands from his eyes, turned towards his questioner. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, none too politely. ‘Edrien,’ came the answer, brusquely echoing his tone. ‘Can you get up? My father wants to see you.’ ‘And who’s he?’ Farnor demanded. Edrien’s eyebrows rose. ‘His name is Derwyn,’ she replied, with studied calmness. ‘He’s the Second of this lodge. And it was he who said you had to be looked after. If I were you, I’d be prepared to answer questions rather than ask them. Are you well enough to get up, or not?’ Farnor nodded, then grimaced as the general throbbing of his body concentrated itself suddenly in his head. ‘Yes, I can get up,’ he said. ‘But only slowly, I think.’ Gingerly he eased himself upright and prepared to swing his legs out of the bed. Then he stopped abruptly and peered under the blankets. When he looked up, he was wide-eyed. ‘Where are my clothes?’ he asked, urgently. Edrien flicked a glance towards a nearby chair where Farnor saw his clothes, neatly stacked. ‘Could you pass them, please?’ he asked with awkward politeness. Edrien scowled. ‘I’m not your servant, boy,’ she said, heatedly. But she gathered up the clothes and tossed them to him. ‘Thank you,’ he said weakly. Then he looked at her expectantly. ‘What now?’ she demanded. ‘I want to get dressed,’ he replied, making a vague gesture to the effect that perhaps she might leave him, or at least turn around. Edrien cast an impatient glance towards the ceiling, and turned round. ‘I don’t know who you imagine helped to get you into that bed last night,’ she said stiffly. ‘Or helped Bildar with his examination.’ Farnor made no reply, but he coloured violently as he hastily struggled into his clothes. ‘I’m ready now,’ he said eventually. ‘Splendid,’ Edrien replied caustically. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a satchel over your head when you speak to my father, in case he looks at you?’ ‘Now, listen . . .’ ‘This way,’ Edrien continued, cutting short his attempted rejoinder. It was fortunate that she led the way, as Farnor doubted that he could even have found the door, which lay amid the tangle of roots and was as irregular in shape as the rest of the room. Following Edrien through it, he found himself in a narrow corridor, the walls and ceiling of which were also lined with roots. He had little time to look around however, as Edrien was motioning him forward busily. After a short but rather steep upwards journey they reached another door. Edrien threw it open, and Farnor raised his arm to protect his eyes from the bright sunlight that flooded in. Edrien doused the lantern and placed it on a shelf by the door. Then she took Farnor’s arm firmly and pushed him towards the door. ‘Come on,’ she said. Eyes screwed tight, Farnor found himself in a wide, grassy clearing, surrounded by trees. Closing the door, Edrien marched off again, with another, ‘Come on.’ ‘Where am I?’ Farnor asked, as he caught up with her. ‘I told you. My father’s lodge,’ came the unhelpful reply. Before he could inquire further however, they had reached the edge of the clearing. Edrien stopped by a huge oak. ‘Boys first,’ she said, holding out her hand. Farnor did not notice the taunt in her voice, but turned to see a ladder fastened to the trunk of the tree. As his eyes followed it upwards, it tapered giddily until it was eventually lost in the foliage. He returned his gaze to the waiting Edrien, and pointed a questioning finger up the ladder. The impatience on Edrien’s face faded, to be replaced momentarily by concern. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Nothing,’ Farnor replied hastily, then, clearing his throat, he asked awkwardly, ‘Does your father live up a tree?’ The impatience returned. ‘Of course he does,’ Edrien replied, crossly. ‘Where else would he live, for pity’s sake?’ She stepped past him. ‘Here, follow me.’ Farnor watched in amazement as she clambered effortlessly up the long ladder, for the most part taking two rungs with each step. Hesitantly he started after her. Having, in the past, helped to build ricks and barns and repair wind-damaged roofs, Farnor was not unduly disturbed by either heights or ladders, but this was the first vertical ladder he had climbed and he soon began to feel alarmingly exposed. Despite being aware that his progress was becoming painfully slow, he made no effort to emulate Edrien’s light-footed ascent but concentrated instead on ensuring that he had a good hand grip and both feet on each rung before taking the next step. You’re very slow,’ Edrien informed him unnecessarily when he eventually reached the top and, with some relief, carefully stepped on to a wide timber platform. ‘Anyone would think you’d never climbed a ladder before.’ ‘I’m stiff,’ Farnor replied defensively. Edrien grunted. ‘This way,’ she said. The platform curled around the wide trunk of the tree, rose up through a small flight of steps, and then floated out into space to reach what Farnor presumed must be a neighbouring tree. As he stepped on to it, it moved a little. He desperately wanted to ask if it was safe but Edrien was almost at the other side. The thought came to him that she was a lot lighter than he was, but he set off after her in resolute silence, holding very tightly on to the ropes that apparently supported the structure. Edrien turned and watched him walking across, her head inclined to one side a little. ‘You are stiff,’ she said when he arrived, her voice puzzled and almost sympathetic. ‘Never mind, not far now.’ Nor was it. Another platform carried them round to the far side of the tree and Farnor found himself looking open-mouthed at a door set in its trunk. But was it the trunk? He looked from side to side, and then upwards along the . . . wall? . . . that housed the door. Where it was visible, it was covered seamlessly in bark, yet surely it couldn’t be a tree trunk. It was far too wide. Then he noticed what appeared to be a window set in it. As if to confirm that he was indeed high in the woodland canopy, he peered over the handrail behind him, but he could not see the ground below; only dense summer foliage. Then he looked around. There were other walls of bark. And there were more windows – and doors! Doors served by platforms such as he was standing on. And there were other platforms too, winding hither and thither between the leafy branches; some wide, some narrow, some slung on ropes, others carried on beams and intricate frames, some, alarmingly, with no apparent means of support whatsoever. He had little inclination to stand and study this strange scene, however, as its dominant feature was becoming the number of faces that were appearing at the many windows and staring at him with a blatant curiosity that was both embarrassing and disconcerting. For a frightening instant he felt completely disorientated. His mind seemed suddenly to run out of control as if it were searching for something ordinary and familiar on to which it could latch and from which it could measure everything else. Images of his mother and father, and Marna and Gryss, and Rannick and the creature crashed in upon him, cacophonous and confusing. His stomach lurched violently and he felt himself swaying. ‘Steady, boy!’ A hand seized him and shook him vigorously. He looked round to see Edrien, her face shocked. ‘What in the Forest’s name is the matter with you?’ she said. ‘Haven’t you had enough falling for one day?’ Farnor did not answer, nor did he make any effort to free himself from her unexpectedly powerful grip. Edrien shook her head in bewilderment. ‘You look awful,’ she said, again almost sympathetic. ‘Do you want to go back to the root room and rest some more?’ The vision of the return journey, across the platform and down the ladder, took away most of what was left of Farnor’s speech. ‘No,’ he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head violently. ‘I’m fine, really. I Just felt a little dizzy.’ ‘In you go then, if you’re sure.’ Edrien opened the door by which they were standing and ushered him through. The inside of Derwyn’s lodge proved initially to be even more disorientating than the outside. Not because its shape followed the eccentric contours of the exterior, but rather because it did not. In many ways, Farnor felt that he could have been stepping into nothing more unusual than the entrance porch of an ordinary cottage. A large and exceptionally well-appointed cottage, he had to concede, but an ordinary cottage nonetheless. He had no time to debate however, as Edrien’s guiding hand shepherded him along a short passageway and thrust him through an open doorway. Two men were sitting by an open window. They both stood up as Farnor entered. He noticed immediately that the one who stepped forward to greet him was obviously Edrien’s kin. There was a look about the eyes and the jawline that was quite distinctive. The similarity ended there, however, as the man’s face was lined and weather-beaten, and, though oddly light on his feet, he was heavily built, in marked contrast to Edrien’s slight frame. Farnor looked at him uncertainly, his mind too full of questions to formulate any one of them clearly. The man smiled. ‘My name’s Derwyn, young man,’ he said pleasantly, pulling round a chair and gently easing Farnor into it. He indicated his companion. ‘And this is Bildar, our Mender. He’s been looking after you since we brought you back.’ Farnor half rose to greet the other man, but a quiet gesture returned him to his seat. ‘Are you feeling a little better now you’ve had a chance to rest?’ Bildar asked. ‘He’s very wobbly,’ Edrien said, before Farnor could reply. ‘He seems to have quite lost his tree legs.’ Farnor scowled at this intervention, but Derwyn’s smile broadened. ‘I’ve a suspicion that perhaps he’s never had tree legs, Edrien,’ he said. ‘Strange though that might sound.’ He sat down again and turned his attention back to Farnor. ‘But first things first. Are you hungry, young man? And do you have a name?’ Farnor hesitated, almost expecting Edrien to answer for him again. ‘I’m a little thirsty, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘And my name is Farnor, Farnor Yarrance.’ ‘Farnor Farnor Yarrance,’ Derwyn echoed. ‘Two names the same, that’s unusual. Is that always the way with your people?’ Farnor looked flustered. ‘No sir,’ he said, hastily. ‘It’s just Farnor Yarrance. Farnor is my given name, Yarrance is my family name.’ Derwyn nodded slowly and thoughtfully, as if he were having a little difficulty taking in this information. ‘Ah, a sirename,’ he decided. ‘And do you have a stock and branch name, or a tree dubbing?’ he went on, expectantly. Farnor gaped. ‘Apparently not,’ Derwyn concluded, after a brief but awkward silence. He glanced up at his daughter. ‘Ask your mother to join us, would you, Edrien? And bring us something to drink.’ He glanced at his companions. ‘Just water for me – and for Farnor, I think,’ Bildar answered. Derwyn nodded, and Edrien left the room, a hint of indignation in her posture. Derwyn and Bildar smiled at one another knowingly. Farnor glanced about the room. There was nothing about it to indicate that it was built in a tree, high above the ground. Except for the occasional mysterious bulge here and there, the walls were quite straight and plain. Strangely, to Farnor’s eyes, the ceiling was not lined with beams but was flat. It was also decorated with a complicated pattern of leaves and branches. In places, Farnor thought that he could see birds and tiny animals worked into the ornate pattern. He recollected himself with a start. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, flustered. ‘I’ve never seen a room with a painted ceiling before.’ Derwyn nodded. ‘Where’ve you come from, Farnor?’ he asked abruptly. Farnor lifted a hand as if to point, then after gazing round futilely for a moment, lowered it again. ‘From the village,’ he said, vaguely. ‘But I don’t know where it is from here. I’m afraid I don’t know where I am.’ ‘How did you come here, then?’ Derwyn went on. ‘I . . . I . . . rode north,’ Farnor replied, stammering unexpectedly. As he spoke, he felt waves of alarm passing through him. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms about himself. ‘Are you all right?’ he heard Bildar asking. He nodded. Then he shook his head. ‘No. Yes. I don’t know,’ he said uncertainly. Bildar was by his side, a cool hand feeling his forehead. Gradually the surge of panic receded into the depths from whence it had come. ‘Yes, I’m all right now – I think,’ Farnor said, after a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what . . .’ His voice tailed off. ‘You’ve had some kind of a nasty shock, I’d say,’ Bildar said, sitting down beside him. ‘But whatever’s . . .’ Some pent-up wildness within Farnor was released. ‘Shock!’ he heard himself crying out, his voice cracking with an almost childish incredulity. ‘My parents murdered, my home burned, me beaten like a dog – and then pursued by . . .’ He wrapped his arms about himself again and began to shiver violently as some other, darker compulsion welled up inside and silenced him. Gritting his teeth, and driving his fingers painfully into his arms, he forced himself to stop trembling. Derwyn and Bildar, both standing by his side now, were looking at him in horror. Derwyn’s arm was extended to warn Edrien, who was standing with another woman in the doorway, not to enter. ‘He has no fever. Nor any contagion that I can find,’ Bildar said, in answer to the unspoken question on Derwyn’s face. He touched his own temple discreetly. ‘But he seems to be appallingly troubled. We must be patient with him. I think perhaps we can do nothing but tend him until he can find the strength to speak of what’s happened.’ ‘Don’t talk about me as though I weren’t here,’ Farnor said angrily. A flash of reciprocal anger lit Derwyn’s face, but Bildar laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I apologize,’ he said to Farnor, before Derwyn could speak. ‘It was ill-mannered and thoughtless of me. A Mender’s way, I’m afraid. But you’ll understand, I’m sure, that you’ve come to us as mysteriously as if you’d dropped out of the sky. Almost like something out of an ancient tale. Your appearance and your speech tell us that you’re not Valderen, or even of the Forest, and suddenly you talk of the most fearful happenings. We’re concerned for your pain, as we would be for one of our own, and we’re concerned for what your pain might mean for us, if evil things have driven you from your home and land, Farnor Yarrance.’ Farnor put his head in his hands but did not reply. Derwyn frowned thoughtfully, then crouched down in front of Farnor. ‘Tell us what you can, when you can, Farnor,’ he said. ‘You may stay in our lodge until your body’s truly rested, and your spirit’s more at peace.’ Farnor looked up sharply, his face riven with conflicting emotions, greatest amongst which was anger. Gradually however, he seemed to gain control of himself again. ‘Thank you, Derwyn,’ he said, his voice subdued. ‘I seem to be full of dreadful thoughts and feelings that I’ve never known before. I’m sorry. I can’t stay, I have nothing . . .’ Derwyn rested a hand on his arm. ‘For such time as you need to recover yourself, you’ll be our guest, Farnor,’ he said. Then he straightened up and affected a heartiness which, in truth, he did not feel. ‘I’ve no doubt that as you get better we’ll find some chores to keep you occupied.’ Farnor nodded dully. Derwyn indicated his daughter. ‘I’ll not ask you any more questions now, Farnor. I should’ve let you rest more, you’re obviously still too distressed. I’ll leave you in Edrien’s charge.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘You’re not used to lodges – homes – like ours, are you?’ he asked. Farnor shook his head. ‘Incredible,’ Derwyn said softly to himself, then, ‘Well, ask Edrien if there’s anything you want to know, but don’t wander off without her. And do as she tells you. That way, you should come to no harm.’ He beckoned Edrien into the room and, taking her to one side, spoke to her softly. ‘Watch him carefully, listen to him, and learn what you can about him – without actually questioning him, that is. He’s probably more likely to confide in you than in old hollow trunks like me and Bildar.’ He glanced back at Farnor, who was sitting motionless with his head bowed. ‘For all he looks a bit odd, he seems to be a well-set-up lad. I’d say he’s been a hard worker in his time, judging by his hands. But even I can tell he’s broken inside in some way. I fancy he’ll need a lot of help and a lot of patient tending, so keep a rein on that acid tongue of yours, my girl. Do you understand?’ Edrien nodded. ‘I think so, Father,’ she replied, tartly. Then she went over to Farnor. ‘Is it true you’ve never seen a lodge in a tree before?’ she asked bluntly. Farnor looked at her suspiciously, but saw that the question was sincere. ‘Yes,’ he replied. Genuine amazement filled Edrien’s face. ‘I’ll help you with the ladders and the ways, then,’ she said. ‘I never realized . . .’ Derwyn laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Go with Edrien now,’ he said to Farnor. ‘It’s growing dark. She’ll find somewhere for you to sleep tonight, and tomorrow she’ll find you a room of your own and show you around. Then perhaps we can have another talk.’ No sooner had Farnor and Edrien left, than Derwyn’s concern showed on his face, and he started to pace up and down. The woman who had accompanied Edrien came into the room. Her movements were soft and fluid and seemingly quite without effort. She sat in the chair that he had been using. ‘You can stop that before you start,’ she announced, with a purposefulness markedly at odds with her gentle demeanour. ‘There won’t be a leaf left on the tree if you carry on pounding up and down like that.’ Jaw set, but making no reply, Derwyn sat down by the window and leaned on the sill, his head on his hand. The setting sun threw the Shadows of the branches outside on to his face, deepening its already well-defined furrows. ‘What do you make of it all, Angwen?’ he asked. ‘Have we taken a cuckoo into our nest?’ The woman laughed softly. ‘It’d be a rare bird that could throw Edrien out of anywhere,’ she replied. ‘That black hair makes him look strange, but from what I’ve just seen and from what little she’s told me, he seems a fragile kind of a soul.’ Derwyn nodded. ‘My impression, too,’ he said. ‘But . . .’ He stood up and walked over to his wife. ‘. . . somehow he’s cost us our Hearer and, impressions or no, I want to find out a great deal more about him, and as quickly as possible.’ He sat down opposite his wife and turned to Bildar. ‘How long?’ he asked simply. Bildar shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘What he’s said should give you some clue to the state he’s in. What was it? His parents murdered! His home burned. Burned, Derwyn.’ He gave a slight shudder. ‘And then something about being beaten and pursued, just as we’d worked out for ourselves. He’s been through some fearful ordeal, and I doubt he’s Edrien’s age. All I can suggest is that we wait, and in the meantime keep an eye on him. I’ll have another look at him tomorrow, but as far as I can tell there’s nothing wrong with him physically that time won’t put right. I think we’ll have to be very careful about how we question him, though.’ Derwyn looked unhappy. ‘You may well be right,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘But, apart from the disturbance that Marken was talking about, it worries me that something might be happening beyond, that could affect us. Suppose whoever was pursuing him returns to the search. And the people who murdered his parents and burned his home. What if they come looking for him?’ Bildar made no reply. Derwyn went on, his expression becoming increasingly troubled. ‘Or suppose he’s a criminal of some kind, fleeing from lawful pursuit?’ ‘That’s not what you feel, is it though?’ his wife asked, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘No,’ Derwyn replied. ‘All I feel is that an injured sparrow has fallen into our care, but . . .’ Angwen smiled and her manner became mocking. ‘First a cuckoo, now a sparrow,’ she said. ‘What next, Derwyn? An eagle messenger from one of the cloud lands? A white swan from the snow mountains? Or perhaps the raven from the Great Castle of Light?’ ‘Stop that,’ Derwyn demanded, impotently, with a jabbing finger. ‘This is serious.’ But his scowl had become a reluctant smile. ‘Of course, my dear,’ Angwen replied, agreeing completely and conceding nothing, as was her usual way. ‘But of the many things he might be, I can’t see him being a criminal, can you?’ ‘He might be,’ Derwyn insisted. ‘How can we tell? Just because he’s hurt and fragile looking?’ His eyes widened. ‘He’s got a temper, and he’s shown it already.’ ‘And you haven’t, I suppose?’ Angwen retorted. ‘That’s different,’ Derwyn replied defensively. Angwen raised her eyebrows, mocking again. ‘You’re not helping, Gwen,’ Derwyn spluttered in exasperation. ‘Yes, I am,’ his wife replied simply. ‘You’ve been fretting about this boy ever since you found him, instead of thinking. You’re trying to do too much, too quickly, and you’re not stopping to look at the obvious.’ Derwyn’s eyes widened in feigned surprise. ‘And what obvious is that, my dear?’ he inquired, sitting back and affecting an expression of rapt expectation. Angwen leaned forward towards him. ‘They’d never have let him in if there’d been any great evil in him, or if any such evil would have been drawn after him,’ she said, quietly and seriously. Derwyn sighed noisily and nodded. ‘Marken said more or less the same thing,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ His face relaxed somewhat. ‘Perhaps I have been a little too . . . agitated . . . about this business so far.’ He paused, and his eyes became distant. ‘But, seeing the lad lying there, with his strange clothes and his black hair,’ he grimaced slightly. ‘He really did look like something out of an old tale. And now this business with Marken.’ He shook his head. ‘Gone to find a quiet place, for mercy’s sake. Where does that leave us? I’ve heard of that kind of thing happening to Hearers but I scarcely gave it credence. I certainly never thought it’d happen to us, to Marken. This is his root lodge.’ This time it was Angwen who sighed. She rested her chin on her hand pensively. ‘Well, we’ll have to see what he has to say when he comes back,’ she said after a moment. ‘ If he comes back,’ Derwyn said significantly. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ ‘He’ll be back,’ Angwen said. ‘You seem quite confident about that,’ Derwyn said, looking at her earnestly. ‘Most of the stories I’ve ever heard about Hearers wandering off to find a quiet place have involved them never coming back.’ Angwen did not reply. Instead she began slowly twisting and turning her hands, bending and straightening her long fingers, and apparently studying them in great detail. Derwyn watched her in silence. Angwen moved now as she had when they had first fallen in love, and through the years he had never tired of watching her subtle, elusive grace. He had never seen the like in any other woman. Still it touched the young man housed inside him. And too, he knew, that there was no pointless vanity in her present examination; she was not looking at her hands, she was ordering her thoughts. Angwen had many kinds of grace. ‘Marken’s well rooted,’ she said eventually. ‘But that’s not what will bring him back. He’ll come back because they want him to. They protected the boy in some way, they drew Marken and thus you to him in a quite unprecedented manner. And there are other lodges round here that could have served the same end, aren’t there?’ Derwyn pursed his lips. That thought had not occurred to him. ‘But when the boy’s safe, Marken suddenly senses confusion all around him. Their confusion, as much as his own. Confusion that he thinks might have been rumbling on perhaps even for years. And he’s got an inquiring mind, Derwyn. His every fibre would have wanted to stay here and learn about that boy. I don’t think he simply walked away. I think he was drawn away.’ ‘They want to tell him something,’ Derwyn said, on an impulse. Angwen nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, simply. ‘I think so. Marken, the boy, us, we’re all at the centre of this. They wouldn’t have let the boy in on some whim, would they? Nor chosen Marken to search him out, nor had him brought here. And, from what both Marken and the boy said, I think they may well have turned away his pursuers.’ She paused and continued looking at her hands. When she spoke again she was almost whispering. ‘Think, Derwyn. We live in harmony with them, but it’s they who are the stronger and the older, and we who are really the outsiders. They’ve little or no need of us. They respect us, perhaps, or they fulfil some ancient obligation, who can say? But they aren’t as we are, and generally they leave us to our own destinies.’ Derwyn’s brow furrowed a little. ‘You know it’s so,’ Angwen replied. ‘Many’s a child wandered off to perish, and many’s an injured hunter bled to death, where a whisper from them would have found them.’ Derwyn grimaced. Angwen’s clarity of vision was sometimes difficult to deal with. ‘A cold respect,’ he could not help saying. Angwen looked at him sadly. ‘But it is so,’ she said. ‘And how could it be otherwise? Either they interfere with our lives or they don’t. And if they did, what would we be then? Clinging parasites, useless and draining? Noisy pets? Either way, as captive as if we were bound in cages. Yet this time they did interfere. More than we’ve ever known.’ She nodded her head conclusively. ‘They have some need of this boy. This boy who isn’t even Valderen. And he in his turn needs us if he’s to survive here.’ ‘And you think Marken will be told what’s to be done with him?’ Derwyn asked. ‘It’s logical, if nothing else,’ Angwen declared. ‘But if that were the case, they could’ve told him what he needed to know in the first place,’ Derwyn said, although he was reluctant to challenge the optimism in his wife’s words. Angwen nodded again. ‘I doubt it’s that simple,’ she said, reflectively. ‘They aren’t as we are. Marken spoke of great confusion. Perhaps they don’t know what they want. Perhaps what they want is beyond our understanding.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s difficult for them to make themselves Heard, or perhaps Marken, or any Hearer for that matter, simply can’t understand fully what he’s Hearing . . .’ She stopped abruptly. ‘But that’s all conjecture and vagueness,’ she concluded, smiling and holding her hands out, palms upwards, with a small shrug of defeat. She raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the bold hunter’s intuition tell him?’ Derwyn smiled and raised his head in mock imitation of an animal testing the air. ‘My hunter’s instinct tells me that I’ve been dithering where I should’ve been thinking, and that, as usual, you’re probably right,’ he said. ‘There’s obviously something special about the boy. And, without a doubt, he’ll need us while he’s here. And who else but Marken could be the link to tell us what’s happening? I’ll be patient and await events.’ Then his smile faded abruptly and his expression became almost fearful. It was as if a black cloud had suddenly appeared in a bright summer sky, to obscure the sun and throw the land below into cold shadow. ‘What’s the matter?’ Angwen asked, her eyes abruptly anxious. Derwyn forced a smile, but it merely served to accentuate his look of distress. ‘There’s a bad feeling in the air, Angwen. All around. Change coming. Change for us. Change for them. Darkness . . .’ Slowly, like Farnor before him, he wrapped his arms about himself protectively.     Chapter 4 Farnor slept restlessly, though it seemed to him that he scarcely slept at all, so many times did he start awake violently. Yet sleep he did, he knew, for when he slept, he dreamed, or, more correctly, he slipped from the torment of his waking thoughts into the torment of nightmare. Awake, he played fitfully with all that had happened, seeking to arrange the events of the past weeks into some form of order, seeking some kind of pattern within which he could find his place, and thence decide what he must do next. But no such pattern emerged. Everything that had happened had seemingly been wild and arbitrary: the silent arrival of the creature, heralded only by a few slaughtered sheep; the unexpected arrival of Nilsson and his men, and the confusion with the tithe gathering that had enabled them to become established at the castle and to take control of the valley before their true character was known; and the mysterious transformation of Rannick from village misfit to . . . To what? To some kind of manic . . . chieftain? . . . possessed of powers that previously Farnor had heard of only as wild fancies in Yonas’s fireside tales where they were invariably possessed only by those beings who had walked out of the great burning from which all things had come, and who had moved about the world, shaping it through the ages until it had become as it now was. Beings who were now all long vanished. For all the fever of his anguish, however, Farnor was too close to the soil, to the reality of the mysterious cycle of the growth and death of things, to squander his energies wildly denying what he knew to be true. The how and the why of Rannick’s transformation were questions which capered for the most part at the edge of his thoughts, dancing to the centre only rarely and being almost immediately dismissed from the whirling circle there, where lodged his overpowering desire to destroy Rannick. His dominant concerns were profoundly practical. What was the extent of Rannick’s power? How readily could it be used? How often? And at what cost? For surely nothing was ever truly without cost? There was a balance in all things. And, most intriguing of all, for what, and how much, did Rannick rely on the creature? For it was the creature he had sent in pursuit when he had felt Farnor’s angry presence, not some battering wind or scorching fire. And yet, mysteriously, the creature had failed. Memories of the times when he had found himself at one with the creature returned, welling up inside him like vomit. They were not memories that he relished but he sensed that they were important. He had seen the terror in men’s faces, indeed he had felt – and lusted for – the terror in their hearts as they looked on it . . . him. And they had been fighting men at that; men used to wielding swords and axes to defend themselves against savage enemies. Yet they had fallen without resistance, like corn before the scythe. But still, he, Farnor, fleeing in panic, had escaped the creature, though he was sure it had been only a few paces behind him at the end. When he solved that mystery he would have the makings of a weapon which he could wield against both Rannick and the creature, he was sure. For even though he had no measure of his own strange abilities, nor any conscious control over them, he knew that Rannick understood – and feared – them. Not that this conclusion was reached so straightforwardly. It emerged and retreated repeatedly, like a wild animal preparing to cross open ground. Looking, listening, testing the air, waiting for those silent inner voices that would urge it forward, then vanishing again into the tangled undergrowth of childish terror and frenzied blood-red hatred, of despair and grim determination, that seemed to have possession of Farnor’s soul. And in between this waking confusion, he slept, sometimes tossing and turning, muttering and crying out incoherently, at other times lying motionless while his mind soared off into eerie dreamworlds where the terrors and the furies of his waking thoughts ran hideous riot. Yet, unvarying throughout, there ran the simple thought that he must return to the valley. He must finish what he had set out to do. He must find Rannick and somehow kill him. No sense of ordered law coloured this thought, neither the far distant king’s, nor even the village council’s. His parents had been cut d