Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

He fought down a powerful urge to pester the Goraidin with questions, and he could see that Marna was doing the same. More than once as they drew nearer to the castle they exchanged uncertain anticipatory glances. It did not help him that they were now travelling at a very leisurely walking pace. In the end he voiced his concern. ‘Can’t we go a little faster?’

‘Yes,’ Yengar replied. But they didn’t.

Then they were entering Pedhavin, the village that lay on the tumbling slopes at the foot of the steep ascent to Anderras Darion. Farnor and Marna had been silent for some time, their gaze fixed on the increasingly dominant presence of the castle. For though it was dwarfed by the mountain peaks on either side, dominate it did, like a matriarch between two hulking offspring. Above the blank and windowless wall in which was set the Great Gate could be seen a jostling forest of towers and spires. They ramped back far out of sight in a seemingly random array as though, like a mountain flood, they had crashed down the valley to surge up against an immovable dam. As Farnor stared up he thought from time to time that he could see a pattern in them, but whenever he tried to study it, it slipped away, like a strange shadow at the edge of a dream.

The Goraidin smiled at one another, seeing the wonder written on the faces of the two young people. But their smiles had little in the way of adult indulgence because, though they themselves had seen it many times, Anderras Darion always drew the eye and never failed to stir the spirit.

Only as they entered the village and the castle slipped from view did Farnor and Marna feel able to speak.

‘So big.’ Marna whispered through the clatter of the hooves on the stone streets, as though too loud a voice might bring an echoing rebuke down on her. ‘I thought the castle in the valley was big, but this…’

‘Yes,’ Farnor agreed inadequately. He could feel countless questions bubbling inside him but he could not find the words to ask them though, in tones as hushed as Marna’s, he did manage, ‘Who built it?’

‘The Orthlundyn,’ Yengar whispered in reply before he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat and spoke normally. ‘At the time of the First Coming. They were a powerful people then, ruled by lords and kings, but free and strong. Ethriss made it his own after… ’ He stopped himself. ‘After they were almost destroyed in a terrible battle against Sumeral’s army.’

‘It looks incredible.’

‘It’s a wondrous place, Farnor, but, like everything, it’s not without darkness by any means.’ Yengar frowned as though he had said something he did not intend to. Farnor scarcely noticed the reservation, however, his attention having turned to the village. Like the castle, this too was unlike anything he had seen before. Most of the stone-built houses were two storeys high, with heavy, low-pitched roofs that jutted out provocatively at the eaves. They were dotted about seemingly at random, forming a bewildering maze of narrow, hilly streets punctuated occasionally by bright squares and courtyards. And everywhere was overlooked by balconies.

Had he known Pedhavin before the war he would have seen one conspicuous difference. There were gardens and trees, and bright flowers and foliage hung from eaves and balconies and specially made stone brackets. Previously, in common with most Orthlundyn villages, Pedhavin had been decorated only by its carvings. Now the Orthlundyn seemed to feel a need to have about them reminders of blooming and fading, beginnings and endings that were not beginnings and endings. Not that there were any fewer carvings to be seen. In fact there were many more, as the Orthlundyn could do no other than draw inspiration from the new lines and shadows that these incessant changes offered them.

Though his few hours at the farmhouse had to some extent acquainted Farnor with Orthlundyn carving, he found himself quite bewildered by the intricate scenes that now surrounded him. Men and women worked in the fields under gathering clouds and burning suns, they worked in their homes, engaged in debate, fought in battles, quarrelled, loved. Some scenes even showed carvers carving themselves. Others patently told stories that needed a close study not possible when riding past. Yet others were just patterns – simple, elaborate, obsessively symmetrical, achingly random, angular, sinuous. And it seemed that virtually nowhere had escaped attention. So much so that where some surface stood blank it attracted attention.

‘Two reasons, usually,’ Yengar told Farnor when he inquired. ‘Someone didn’t like what he’d done and has removed it…’

‘They’d take part of a house wall down just for that?’ Farnor interjected, incredulous.

‘They do it all the time,’ Yengar replied, adding, not without some amusement shared with Olvric, ‘If you’re not a good carver there’s always a job for you in Orthlund as a mason.’

Farnor puffed out his cheeks in disbelief. ‘What was the other reason?’

‘Ah. A little more profound, that. It’s a gesture towards the better carver who’s yet to come.’

Pedhavin was quite large for an Orthlundyn village though it did not take them long to pass through it. But despite trying to observe the Goraidin teaching of always noting where they were going, neither Farnor nor Marna would have claimed to be able to say what route they had travelled by the time they were on the winding road that led up to the castle.

Despite its steepness the road was quite busy and the greetings to the Goraidin that had been an increasing feature of their journey became constant, much to Farnor’s scarcely hidden irritation. Though it was virtually impossible to see the castle from much of the road, Farnor could sense its massive presence above him. It seemed to pull him forward. As they rounded a bend that brought them on to the final stretch of the road Farnor heard a breathy, ‘Uh uh’ behind him. It was Yrain.

Looking up the hill he saw a small black figure standing in the middle of the road. It was leaning on a stick. He smiled and, without thinking, urged his horse forward. The others made no attempt to keep up with him.

As he reached the top of the slope, the road opened into a flat grassy area and his attention was drawn from the familiar figure he was approaching to the wall towering above him and its Great Gate. He stopped and stared at it, transfixed.

‘Gavor did tell me you’d taken to gaping, young Farnor. I see you have. Still, it’s understandable in the circumstances.’

‘It’s enormous,’ Farnor said hoarsely.

‘I’ve heard more poetic responses, but I suppose that’s not bad for a farm boy from the middle of nowhere.’

Farnor recollected himself and hastily clambered down from his horse. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling and flustered. ‘I’ve been looking at it for most of the day but it still took me completely by surprise. I…’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I? It’s good to see you again.’

‘It’s good to see you again, too, young man,’ came the reply. ‘And you’re not making a fool of yourself. Anderras Darion has tied better tongues than yours.’ Farnor found himself transfixed by piercing blue eyes that seemed to be searching to the heart of him. They were overshadowed by a determined forehead that was buttressed by a long nose which, in its turn, loomed over a stern mouth. Memsa Gulda, dressed in black as ever, remained leaning on her stick and, stern though her mouth was, it was smiling.

‘You still have the stick I gave you,’ he said.

Gulda grunted and with alarming and quite unexpected speed spun the stick round to land with a determined slap in her other hand. The movement took Farnor immediately back to the time when they had stood alone in a clearing in the Great Forest and he had offered the stick to her just before they parted. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A fine gift. It’s done well for itself since you tried to hit me with it.’