Roger Taylor - Caddoran

How…?

Before he could speak, Hagen had taken his hand and was placing the ring on his second finger. ‘They offer you this gift. It is very special. It has been crafted to their design and their spirit enshrined in it will keep them ever watching over you.’

Circumstances had allowed Vashnar to make only a formal expression of thanks, but the gift and Hagen’s manner had had a profound effect on him. The ring itself was simple and exactly to his taste, in so far as any form of personal adornment was to his taste. A stout black band held a small crystal set in a plain, highly polished, background. It fitted perfectly and he had worn it ever since. The thought of removing it unsettled him in ways which he felt ambivalent about and, after a while, the idea stopped occurring to him. Occasionally, when alone, he would stare at it. He thought that from time to time the crystal changed colour slightly – now faintly green, now blue, now clear – but it was the polished background that held him. It reflected images more clearly than any mirror he had ever seen, and years of wearing the ring had never diminished this. Once, standing in front of a mirror and casually raising a hand to his forehead, the ring had reflected itself and, for an instant, he had seemed to see an infinitely deep well opening before him. It was full of lights and sounds and voices – calling out to him, reaching for him. The vision was gone as quickly as it had appeared and, just as quickly, he dismissed it.

Since that time, albeit for no apparent reason, the borders with Nesdiryn had gradually closed and the already infrequent diplomatic exchanges had been replaced by rumours carried by random travellers. Nevertheless, the memory of Hagen lingered powerfully with Vashnar and he continued to wear the ring.

He was thinking about Hagen and gently rubbing his thumb over the ring as he found himself entering his own office. He paused as he closed the door behind him, suddenly aware that he had no recollection of his journey after leaving Bowlott. He frowned and tried to recall the route he had followed, but nothing came. He had no memory of the long corridors, the stairs, the hallways, the people who would have stepped aside from him. There was just his formally polite parting from Bowlott, then nothing – only emptiness – until he was here. His frown deepened. None too soon had he made the resolution to pull himself together, to review the events that he had set in train and that seemed to be slipping away from him. The grey cobwebs from Bowlott’s room formed around his mind. He shook his head to clear it, then, opening the door slightly, called out to his aide, ‘See that I’m not disturbed!’

The cobwebs returned, weighing in on him. Breathing heavily, he sat down at his desk. He was aware of his hands moving two writing tablets a little, then moving them back again to their original positions.

But they were a long way away…

At the end of a tunnel.

The cobwebs returned, closing over his eyes. Tighter and tighter, darker and darker.

Vashnar’s fingers, resting on the desk, fluttered as if trying to brush them away, then his head slumped forward.

Darkness.

Only darkness.

He was alone in it. He was it.

Darkness; motionless, yet rushing, tumbling, carrying all with it.

From nowhere, to nowhere, circling and spiralling. Forever.

Ever?

Time did not exist here.

Here? Nor was there here, or there.

Endings were beginnings; beginnings, endings. All things were one.

And nothing.

Yet terror was all about him. His…

And not his?

A wordless cry formed. It went rippling through the darkness, struggling with it.

For it did not belong. Nothing belonged. This place should not be, could not be…

Place?

This was all places, no places.

Darkness.

Nothing.

Nothing, and the terror, like cobwebs, folding and stirring the darkness, reaching through it, wrapping around it, clinging, choking.

And him. An awareness that knew itself now as Vashnar, though the knowledge rang emptily and without meaning. The cobwebs drifted apart at the touch of the terror that was his, a black wind amid the darkness.

What is this place?

Where is this place?

The questions too were meaningless. But they could do no other than be asked, just as the far-distant hands that were not his could have done no other than unnecessarily order his desk.

When had that happened?

He should know, but…

Other questions, darker ones, hovered.

Who am I?

What am I?

They must not be asked. They could not be answered. Not here. For cobwebs would surely leak into the emptiness that would follow. And then…?

The darkness was ringing with the terror that was beyond doubt not his. Shrill and mindless like that of a child alone in the dark, save for the deep and cruel knowledge that had been laid down in ancient days when unseen and terrible hunters were always stalking beyond the light, at the edge of the vision.

Its call stirred its own kind within Vashnar, but he forbade it any rein. That much of him was tremblingly whole now. And this was not the cry of a child, for though it carried no words, no sign, he recognized it. It had touched him before, scattering everything that had bound his life together. Leading him to confusion and doubt. Bringing him to this.

Rage filled the darkness.

Thyrn!

The fear poured into him.

‘Leave me be, demon, leave me be.’

Thyrn!

‘Blood, fire, glittering blades, horror, mark your path. Let me be. Let me be free.’

No!

‘Let me be!’

Such anger. Such fear.

Vashnar reached out in denial. This spirit – this spirit above all – must be bound. Its soaring freedom was a deep offence.

And a threat.

No! Two wills clashed, wringing and choking, like warring serpents.

From somewhere came a blow that racked Vashnar, fragmenting and scattering his tenuous awareness. The darkness itself shuddered under the impact, throwing him again into a tumbling emptiness.

Sinking, fading, a slow spiralling dwindling down towards…

Nothing.

Save a faint quivering line which questioned.

Was this all?

A quivering line, unbearable to look at.

A quivering line that was a sword-slash brightness cleaving through the darkness, turning silent desperation into a distant cry.

A wash of fear and hope – a flickering image of a longed-for haven – a vast teeming city, spanning from horizon to red-skyed horizon. But it was gone, and a face was staring at him intently, concerned, familiar. There were others with it. And a bright blue sky behind them.

Hyrald?

The question boomed and echoed through his mind. As it swelled, the sky brightened, filling his eyes painfully and swallowing the faces.

The afternoon sun, low and searching, shimmered, rainbow-brilliant, off the polished facets of the crystal ink-stand that formed a centre-piece to the strategic array on his desk. It shifted, drawing him forward giddily. Instinctively he caught the edge of the desk to steady himself. Something fell wetly on to his hand. It was dark in his bleached vision. He became aware of his nose running. Another dark drop fell. Eyes blurring, he watched as it ran off his hand and formed a small, misshapen pool on the glistening wood.

Thyrn jerked forward violently into the waiting arms of Nordath, almost knocking him over. Nordath held him tightly.

‘You’re all right, you’re all right,’ he kept repeating desperately, as he restrained the struggling young Caddoran. ‘You’re safe. Don’t be afraid.’

Hyrald and the others came running to them, alarmed, but Nordath motioned them not to interfere.