Roger Taylor - Caddoran

Yet the art was deeply strange. Though training was required, it was pointless unless a strong natural aptitude was present, and while this tended to run in families, it was wildly erratic, sometimes skipping several generations then producing two or three at once, sometimes jumping from the male to the female line. Then the talent would appear spontaneously in a family with no history of it. Thyrn had been one such. Though many theories had been offered, the progress of this necessary trait through the generations defied all analysis.

Thyrn proved to be more than just another unexplained example of the appearance of the talent. He had been exceptional, showing such aptitude that he was accepted for training by the Caddoran Congress while only five years old, instead of the normal twelve. Subsequently, at the age of fifteen, he had become a White Master, the highest possible grade and one which many Caddoran could not even aspire to. Prior to Thyrn, the youngest White Master had been twenty-seven. Not only did he have a gift for memorizing and reproducing messages which awed his superiors, he seemed to sense intuitively what the message sender wanted to say at such a deep level that on transmitting his message, the recipient would feel himself in the presence of the actual sender. Inevitably he became the personal Caddoran to the Wardens’ Senior Commander.

Yet, in many ways, he was still a child. It was as if his talent took so much of him that the remainder could not fully develop.

This, however, merely made him odd company when not on duty. It in no way lessened his value to Vashnar who, though he schooled himself obsessively in self-reliance, made the mistake he was now ruing, of growing to be too dependent on him for the carrying of his many sensitive and confidential messages. Nor did it concern Thyrn’s parents who basked in the glory of their son’s high employment and who, though he lived in the Moot Palace now, still ‘advised’ him on the disposition of his not insubstantial remuneration. It did concern his father’s brother, Nordath, though, whose family pride in the young man was far outweighed by his affection for him and concern for the pain that he could feel emanating from him. In Thyrn he sensed the Caddoran that he had nearly been, and for some reason he could not avoid a feeling of guilt that he had been spared the burden.

‘He needs friends of his own age. Ordinary friends. He’s too different to get on with even the other Caddoran novices,’ he had frequently told his brother. ‘He needs friends he can talk to, wrestle with, get into trouble with.’

But it had been to no avail. Thyrn’s parents had drawn a protective curtain about him; there was no saying what corrosive influence other children might have on their son’s precious – and lucrative – talent. The boy’s career had to be considered.

Despite their ‘protection’ Thyrn had returned Nordath’s affection and turned to him as friend and adviser.

Thus it was that Nordath had one day rushed to his door in response to a frantic hammering, to find Thyrn standing there, white-faced and shaking.

‘What?’

The disbelieving cry came simultaneously from Rhavvan and Adren. Nordath and Thyrn looked at Hyrald in bewilderment.

‘Back to Arvenshelm?’ Rhavvan echoed. ‘Are you crazy?’ He thrust a finger in the direction that Oudrence and Endryk had taken. ‘There could be scores of Wardens out looking for us. Those two who came with Oudrence won’t be the only ones looking to catch Vashnar’s eye, and if they found us, others can. And what are we going to do when… if… we manage to reach Arvenshelm alive? The crowds might have gone for now, but they’ll come back soon enough.’

‘I know, I know,’ Hyrald replied defensively. ‘But what are we going to do anyway? Think about what Endryk said last night. How are we going to be able to get the Death Cry rescinded if we’re in some foreign land? Think about it now, he said, and he was right. We’ve been so busy running, hiding, surviving, we haven’t stopped to think what we’re doing, or why. Not once.’

‘But…’

‘But nothing. It’s true. You know it.’ Hyrald began pacing up and down, talking as much to himself as to the others as he struggled to clarify his thoughts. ‘We’re Wardens, for mercy’s sake. The service isn’t perfect, god knows, but on the whole we keep the peace, we’re respected men. And we’ve got – we had – good lives. So what are we doing here at the back end of nowhere, off the edge of any map I’ve ever seen, running like frightened dogs – and having to kill our own?’ He put his hands to his temples. ‘I can’t believe we did that – right or wrong. And look what happened on the shore. We know the streets, the people, but out here? We’re lost. The way that tide came in!’ He closed his eyes and blew out an unsteady breath as, for an instant, he was crashing across the raging stream again. ‘So fast! Faster than we could gallop, for pity’s sake. I can feel it pulling at my horse right now. It’s the purest chance that we’d got horses, that Endryk was there and that we weren’t all killed.’

He became emphatic. ‘And if we get across the sea, who knows what kind of people we’ll find out there?’

‘People are the same everywhere, Endryk said.’

Nordath put a restraining hand on Thyrn’s arm, but Hyrald merely dismissed the remark, albeit with a sneer.

‘Yes, they are,’ he said simply. ‘They’re dangerous.’

Thyrn persisted despite Nordath’s silent plea. ‘We must go on. Away from here. Away from Vashnar. There’s a great city up there – everyone’s heard about it – so big you can’t see all of it no matter how high a building you climb. We’ll be safe there. We can hide, we can…’

His voice faded as Hyrald stopped pacing and turned a searching look on him. When he spoke however, it was softly and slowly. ‘We don’t even know why we’re here. We don’t know why Vashnar called the Death Cry, and we don’t even know why he wanted you in the first place.’

‘It’s a Caddoran matter,’ Nordath said, edging forward to stand by Thyrn.

Hyrald’s hand gently paddled the air, motioning him to silence. The gesture was both placating and menacing. ‘You’ve said that before,’ he replied, without taking his eyes off Thyrn. ‘But it’s not enough now.’ He turned to Adren and Rhavvan. ‘We’ve known one another for ever. We trust one another. We’ve been in some difficult places together keeping Arvenshelm’s good citizens safe in their beds and on the streets, but this is beyond anything we’ve ever known. It’s time to stop running before we run out of luck. Time to think. Time to find out the why? of all this.’

‘It’s a Caddoran matter,’ Nordath said again, more forcefully.

Two birds flew over the group and disappeared into the trees beyond the shelter, their wings noisy and urgent. Hyrald shook his head.

‘Nordath, I’ve known you for a long time too. No more of this. Thyrn gossiping about Vashnar’s private messages is a Caddoran matter. Us unofficially tracking him down on Vashnar’s behalf is a Wardens’ matter. But Vashnar unearthing the Death Cry; us escaping from Arvenshelm by the skin of our teeth, thanks to some loyal friends and no small amount of luck; and us careening across the country, stealing food and hiding from village Watch patrols and would-be manhunters, killing our own, is a different matter altogether. Before we go anywhere, I… we… need to know what Thyrn’s done. I’ve no great affection for Vashnar, but I know him as well as anyone does and I respect him. And I’ve never known him do anything without a reason.’

Nordath cast an uncomfortable glance at Thyrn whose expression was becoming increasingly desperate.