Roger Taylor - Caddoran

The man had saluted and almost shouted, ‘To the New Order.’

Vellain did not share all Vashnar’s faith in these provincial followers and this performance only served to heighten her concern. It was her doubts about them that had marred their parting. They had stopped at a crossroads some way outside Degelvak.

‘You’re absolutely certain of all this?’ she had whispered to him as he was about to step out of the coach.

‘Yes, of course,’ Vashnar replied, tapping his foot anxiously. ‘I can see now that everything we’ve done has just been a preparation for greater things. This is the moment. We mustn’t delay. If we miss it, it may be gone for ever.’

She had not been able to keep her doubts from her face. ‘But some of your supporters,’ she gesticulated vaguely back towards Degelvak, ‘leave a lot to be desired.’

Vashnar’s foot-tapping moved to his hand, resting on the handle of the coach door. ‘I have their measure – all of them. They’re trusted and capable. Don’t speak like this in front of anyone else.’

‘You know I…’

But he was through the door before she could finish her protest, and their parting consisted of a cursory nod on Vashnar’s part followed by a sharp order to the coachman to move on quickly. Vellain had to steady herself as the coach jolted forward, but she kept her eyes on her husband as he strode away, signalling to Aghrid for his horse. He did not look back. This small neglect cut through her and a tangle of anger rose up inside her briefly. In its wake came a dark, visceral fear. She quelled both to some degree with excuses involving his preoccupation with urgent needs – having to plan quickly – move quickly. But the fear in particular would not wholly leave her. There was also an odd, even incongruous, sense of disappointment. Such a parting should have been more heroic.

She looked at the sealed orders which Vashnar had prepared and which he had told her to deliver on her journey back to Arvenshelm. He was so confident that he could deal with Thyrn, acquire this strange power that had been offered him, and be back in Arvenshelm in time to take the reins that he had told her to gather for him. But though still powered by the force of her husband’s sudden resolution, the haste with which events were moving kept her doubts swirling. She chose not to dwell too much on the hooded figure he claimed to have encountered. In that she would have to trust him absolutely. But if he was late, what then? All could well be lost without his presence to sway any waverers. Yet if she delayed and he arrived ready to sweep to power, that could be even worse.

It took her a long time and more blows to the unoffending upholstery before she calmed sufficiently to think clearly about what was happening and what she must do.

It was a time of risk, that was all. And the coming of such a time had been seen as inevitable from the beginning, even though its precise nature could not be foreseen. And too, Vashnar was more used to risks than she was. His judgement in matters of immediate action could be trusted, she knew. As for discovering that he was a man of destiny, she had always known that.

She immersed herself in the details of the tasks he had asked her to perform, resolved now. She had all his authority. There would be no faltering on her part and she would ensure that there would be none by any of his supporters.

As Vellain’s coach and escort galloped south, like the skittering pebbles that would unleash an avalanche, Vashnar was leading his Tervaidin west towards the mountains, his every sense attuned to the call that was luring him on.

Conglomerations of people – towns, cities, countries – are strange. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, thousands live their lives in a continual flurry of endlessly interweaving and varying activities, yet the whole changes little. The ceaseless bustle of ordinary people living ordinary lives somehow conjures into being a dynamic equilibrium which, once established, is seemingly immune to the countless inner changes that comprise it. Within this shifting stability grows the perception that cause and effect are related in extent as well as by their very nature; a small cause yields a small effect, a large cause, a large effect. Yet, like many apparently obvious perceptions, this is flawed. There are times when a body which has indeed demonstrated a small effect to a small cause on many occasions without injury will, for no immediately discernible reason, suddenly respond catastrophically – a hillside crashes down into the valley, a warming coastal current drifts away, nourishing annual rains fall elsewhere, a crop-destroying chill comes prematurely – a society disintegrates.

As in most long-settled communities it was taken for granted by the Arvens that what had been, would always be, and that this truth was in some way independent of their actions as individuals. The Moot, with its rambling statutes and eccentric procedures, could be safely dismissed as a frothy irrelevance, and the Warding could be accepted as a broadly worthwhile institution despite the corruption of the Gilding and the fact that many of its officers routinely administered their own forms of summary justice. But any society that scorns the leaders it chooses and fails to watch those who watch over it, nurses flaws that are deep and dangerous.

For the Arvens, these flaws now began to appear.

The proclaiming of the Death Cry, the appearance of the Tervaidin, and Vashnar’s sudden departure from the city, had set in train a gathering hailstorm of stinging, anxious rumours. Once, these might have faded, melted into nothingness by the touch of common sense and goodwill, but now, tap tap tapping like a fore-echo of Vashnar’s intended hammer-blow, they added the final splitting shock to the long over-strained sub-strata that sustained Arvens’ society. As ever, the first to yield was the subtle fettering that restrains the darker natures of individuals and which allows them to live together in comparative peace. Wardens began to report an unexpected increase in violent assaults. Then they began to fret over them.

Bewildered. ‘It makes no sense.’

Blind. ‘One of those things. It’ll pass.’

Shrewd. ‘It’s been getting worse for years, now it’s getting out of hand.’

Inept. ‘The Moot should give us more power.’

Plaintive. ‘Vashnar should be here, not gadding off on a holiday.’

The patent inadequacy of their own trite debate added to the growing sense of unease.

And once Vellain had passed on Vashnar’s order to begin his move against the Moot, unusual activities were noted and no amount of security could stop further rumours scudding wildly over the unrest, agitating it further.

Groups of people began to gather uncertainly.

By some strange osmosis, the general unease had even managed to spread into the Moot.

There was uproar. Striker Bowlott was furious, stamping his feet and pummelling the cushions which padded the arms of Marab’s Throne. In his official position, standing slightly to one side and behind the Throne, Krim was holding himself more stiffly than ever in an attempt to stop the twitch that was struggling to take command of his left cheek. He was failing and his facial contortions were attracting the attention of some of the nearby Senators, who used the general din to cover their own considerable amusement. That Krim was aware of this unwanted ridicule did little to ease his predicament, but his dominant concern was for his charges. The blanching touch of the sun was wreaking relentless havoc in the Repository. Now they were being trampled underfoot and clawed at by Bowlott. Krim found his gaze being drawn inexorably towards the Blue Cushion underneath the Throne.