Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Do tell.’

Thus, as they rode on, and despite Yengar’s previous avowal, much of the remainder of the day was spent in telling Gavor of their journeying: of the seizure of Farnor’s valley by Nilsson and his men, of the emergence of the Sierwolf, of Rannick’s terrifying transformation, and of the destruction of all three.

‘A weighty tale,’ Gavor declared when it was finished, though his manner was a little subdued. ‘And so many questions to be asked.’

‘Well, those I am definitely not answering,’ Yengar told him firmly.

‘Wouldn’t dream of asking you, dear boy,’ Gavor replied. ‘You’ve been generosity itself. Besides, I’m not sure what I should ask. And my pinions tell me that Yatsu and Jaldaric will have as much to say. I suspect they also became involved in some rather heated exchanges while they were away.’ He gave Farnor a sidelong look and lowered his voice. ‘And this Antyr they’ve brought with them is… strange, to put it mildly.’

‘You’re sounding ominous, Gavor. Who’s Antyr?’

Gavor was abruptly himself again. ‘Nonsense, dear boy. How could I be ominous? It’s not in my nature. I’m a bringer of light and joy. This you know. Speaking of which…’ He bent forward as though to avoid the ears of eavesdroppers. His listeners found themselves doing the same as he kept lowering his voice. ‘Andawyr’s brought this delightful little acolyte with him. I’d never have credited him with that much discernment, to be honest. Usche, she’s called – typical clunking Riddin name – but she’s a treat – a real treat. So fetching in those Cadwanwr robes, you have no idea – you know the way they…’

‘Who’s Antyr, Gavor?’ Yrain’s voice came through clenched teeth and cut across Gavor’s increasingly enthusiastic description.

Untypically, Gavor stammered. ‘Ah, Antyr… he’s… a Dream Finder, I believe.’

‘A what?’

‘A Dream Finder. It seems you’re all bringing back interesting people. I really do have to be off now. Things to do. Can’t spend all day chatting. They’ll be worrying about me being gone so long.’

And before anyone could speak Gavor’s great wings were spread wide and he was swooping down towards the road prior to soaring up into the evening sky.

‘I’ll tell them to expect you tomorrow,’ he called down.

‘I think that bird must practice being aggravating,’ Yrain growled as the black speck dwindled into the distance.

‘More of a gift, I’d have thought,’ Jenna said. ‘He does it so well and with such ease.’

‘What’s a Dream Finder?’ Farnor asked of no one in particular.

‘A Dream Finder’s an exercise in patience that Gavor’s set for us,’ Olvric replied. ‘We have to wait and see.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’

‘So does Andawyr’s acolyte.’ Yengar and Olvric exchanged a look and a laugh. Yrain and Jenna just exchanged a look.

‘Just concentrate on staying on your horses, you two,’ Yrain said scornfully. ‘And where we’re going to camp. Unless you’re so intrigued you fancy a night gallop.’

As it was, they spent the night at a nearby farm, eating with the farmer and his wife but sleeping in their tents in one of the fields. The only difficulty they experienced was in persuading the farmer, a large and jovial man, to accept a contribution of Valderen food towards the meal.

In many ways, the warm friendliness of the greeting that Farnor and Marna received made them feel as though they were back at home but that very familiarity conspired to wash occasional waves of homesickness over them as they ate and talked. All too well understood by the Goraidin, these were noted but allowed to subside in their own time. The darkness of such moments, though deep, did not linger, however, for though the hospitality was familiar, the farmhouse was very different from anything either Farnor or Marna had ever known. This was not only their first meeting with the people of Orthlund, other than Yrain and Jenna who, by their own admission, were unusual, it was their first contact with the Orthlundyn love of stone carving.

There were examples of it everywhere. It was not the Orthlundyn way idly to grace tables, mantelshelves, window-sills and any other convenient horizontal surfaces with a few fond ornaments. Examples of their art formed a deep integral part of walls, ceilings, staircases, door surrounds, fireplaces, mullions and transoms, anywhere that a chisel and ingenuity could reach. But none of it was reckless or indiscriminate. Always there was order and intention, even though this might not be clearly apparent at first glance. Indeed, it was rarely so, because the Orthlundyn were not only skilled carvers, they were also subtle thinkers, and masters of shadow lore.

Thus it was that Orthlundyn carvings could stand constant examination, each one linking to its neighbour, either directly, physically, or by some discreet, understated implication, and each seeming to move and shift as the changing lights of the day fell on it.

As the evening passed Farnor became more and more engrossed with them. ‘I’ve never seen anything like these before,’ he said eventually. ‘They’re incredible – so complicated – so fine.’

The farmer chuckled and bowed to him. ‘Well, I’m no Isloman, but I try. And the judgement of your outlander’s eye is appreciated.’

By contrast, Farnor noted, the wooden table at which they were sitting was almost completely devoid of any decoration.

‘Don’t you carve wooden things?’ he asked.

‘No,’ the farmer boomed disparagingly. ‘Doesn’t get to the heart of things, wood. Stone has the history of everything written in it for the finding if you’re prepared to look.’ He cast a mischievous glance at Olvric and Yengar. ‘It’s more a Fyordyn kind of a thing, messing about with wood. And, to give them their due, they’re quite good at it, in their way.’

‘The Valderen do it in the Great Forest,’ Farnor said. ‘You’ll come across carved animals and figures peering out of the branches in the most unexpected places. In and around the lodges mainly, but sometimes in the middle of nowhere – far from any of the lodges – just because someone’s taken a liking to a particular tree or bush, or clearing.’ He leaned forward and began drawing in his audience enthusiastically. ‘They’ve a huge meeting hall with a great arched ceiling that looks like a tangle of roots from a tree so big it would reach up into the clouds. When people speak, it carries their voices to everyone there. I spoke there once, but I wish I’d looked at it more carefully while I had the chance. In fact, I wish I’d paid more attention to everything. I will when I go back, for sure. The Valderen do everything with wood – everything – build, decorate, work the soil, make fine threads and great ropes, even medicines and perfumes. And never a thing without first asking the permission of the Forest itself.’

The farmer was impressed. He had heard of the Great Forest as an ancient myth but never thought that any part of it still existed. Thus Farnor found himself explaining the ways of the Valderen and, as well as he could, of the Forest itself. He needed no signals from Yengar to avoid the darker aspects of his time with them. When he had finished, the farmer was staring at him thoughtfully.

‘I’m in your debt, young man,’ he announced, slapping the table and making his wife flutter. ‘What a tale. You’ve given me enough ideas to last a lifetime.’ He looked down at his empty plate. ‘And if the Valderen’s carving is as good as their food then it’ll be worthy of respect at least.’ He looked upwards. ‘A ceiling of roots that carries words to everyone, you say – sheltering the people and binding earth and sky – and small animals carved to be unseen for most of the time – and wood used for everything.’ His gaze moved to the rest of the room and he became increasingly preoccupied until his wife discreetly rapped him with a spoon to bring his attention back to his guests.