Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Andawyr noted the demeanour of the other Goraidin. Although they were uncomfortable with Yrain’s forthright manner, he could tell they sympathized with what she was saying. As did he.

‘No apologies are needed, Yrain,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder at the dark columns of the Labyrinth. ‘Conditions are far from ideal.’

When he turned back he looked round the whole group.

The Goraidin: Yatsu, Dacu, Yengar, Olvric, veterans from the Morlider War with their younger companions Jaldaric and Tirke and the two Orthlundyn Helyadin, Jenna and Yrain. All had either accompanied Hawklan on his grim trek to Derras Ustramel or faced the Uhriel and Sumeral’s army. All were gentle and self-effacing, all were cruel and tested fighters. All deserved better than what they were now being asked to face.

The Cadwanwr: Oslang from his own generation and Atelon, both of whom had helped to hold the Uhriel at bay as Loman had led the army into battle. Atelon had been little more than a novice then, rather as Usche and Ar-Billan were now. As he looked in turn at them, Andawyr reminded himself not to be either surprised or intimidated by their youth. The one brash, the other endearingly clumsy, it was nevertheless they and their like who were pushing forward the limits of the Cadwanol’s knowledge – endlessly thirsty for and fearless of new ideas. It grieved Andawyr that they might soon be facing the very forces whose earlier defeat had rekindled the Cadwanol’s search for knowledge.

Then there were the newcomers. Antyr and Vredech, Dream Finders with their deeply strange ability to span the worlds. Farnor and Thyrn. What were they? Healers of some kind, Hawklan said. They couldn’t use the Power, they weren’t Dream Finders, yet…? Pinnatte, victim of the Kyrosdyn’s foul experiment, patently intelligent and worldly-wise but almost inarticulate – at least in this world. Gentren, full of anger and confusion as he struggled to come to terms with the destruction of everything he had ever known. Nertha and Marna, brave and capable women; Nertha, anchoring and steadying Vredech as he searched into the nature of what he was, and generally keeping a watchful physician’s eye on Pinnatte and Gentren; Marna pursuing some inner need of her own.

Isloman was there, too. Andawyr always found the carver’s hulking presence a comfort though he knew that the big man’s acute sensitivity to what the Orthlundyn called the Song of the Rock had always made the Labyrinth a particularly disturbing place for him. Like Oslang and Atelon, Isloman listened more than he spoke.

And, of course, there were Gulda and Hawklan. Both enigmatic, but surely pivotal in what was happening.

‘Such a wealth of experience and ability drawn together,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Yet so much mystery, too. Perhaps we won’t be able to make any clear decisions about what to do until something does happen.’ He turned to the Goraidin, affecting a lighter manner. ‘But that’s the essence of surviving combat, isn’t it? Being unclouded by what’s past and what’s coming.’

Yatsu doused him brutally. ‘Being unclouded in the violent moment is one thing. Approaching it in blind ignorance is another.’ He relented a little. ‘I suppose if we don’t know what’s going to be useful and what’s not, we’ll just have to learn everything we can. Personally, I’d still like to know how people can be both here and elsewhere. Not to mention the small problem of where Sumeral Himself is.’

The soughing coming from the Labyrinth filled the silence that followed. It brought an unease to the group. Andawyr signalled to Usche to continue.

She scowled at him, then looked at Yatsu and took on an air of unhappy resignation. She cleared her throat noisily. ‘Bear with me, please,’ she began. ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’ She thought for a moment before continuing. Her manner became didactic. ‘If we look deeply enough into… these walls, these tables, everything, even ourselves… we come eventually to a region of unimaginable smallness where all the common-sense rules we take for granted in our ordinary lives cease to apply. Doubt and uncertainty reign. Cause and effect, even time and distance themselves, begin to have little or no meaning. It’s a disturbing place but it is and it has to be accepted. Its nature is open to debate – considerable debate – but its existence isn’t. It’s at this level that the Great Searing did its harm. It’s where what we call the Power has its origins. It’s also the place we share in common with the worlds that Antyr and his kind are able to visit. We think…’ She laid a heavy emphasis on the word. ‘That Antyr and his kind can apparently be in two places at once rather in the way that a musical instrument sounds on its own when other instruments are played nearby – a sympathy, a resonance of some kind – but…’ She shrugged.

There was an awkward and dissatisfied pause.

A hesitant voice intruded.

‘In our minds.’

It was Antyr. ‘In our minds,’ he said again, more strongly. ‘This is where the Dream Ways are, this is where we reach the Gateways.’ He turned sharply to Andawyr. ‘You control the Power with your mind, don’t you? Consciously, deliberately?’

Andawyr blinked at the unexpected question before answering quizzically. ‘Yes?’

‘So your thoughts reach down into this place Usche’s talking about?’

Andawyr’s brow furrowed and he touched his temple. ‘The highways and byways of our minds branch and divide endlessly, becoming smaller and smaller. They certainly reach down to where the strange effects of this region can be felt. But, to be honest, we don’t really know how thoughts come into being, and we certainly don’t use the Power directly at this level, any more than we instruct our arms to move from there. It’s done much… higher up… in our thinking. And it’s something that requires an ability that’s inborn – a physical attribute written somewhere in the tangled threads that measure the making of us. Like eye colour, only more subtle – perhaps like the skill with horses that the Riddinwr have, or a gift for music or carving.’

‘And my own ability – Dream Finding,’ Antyr pressed on. ‘This too would require a physical attribute?’

‘Almost certainly, from what you’ve told us,’ Andawyr replied after a brief hesitation.

Antyr voiced his conclusion slowly. ‘It seems to me that to address the Goraidin’s concerns…’ He tapped his temple as Andawyr had. ‘This is where we should look. If, by virtue of what you are, your thoughts – your will – can reach down – however indirectly – and use the Power from this mysterious place, then we…’ He indicated Vredech and himself. ‘By virtue of what we are, should be able to reach it ourselves. I can’t imagine that Dream Finders would have survived so long if they hadn’t had some kind of control over this dangerous ability – if we’d been prone to tumble recklessly into other worlds.’

Andawyr breathed out noisily and ran his hands through his tousled hair. ‘You could be right,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course, any such control might be no more than a reflex, just as your hand would snatch back from a flame.’ He became practical. ‘But it’s worth pursuing. We can study more carefully your basic Dream Finding disciplines and compare them with our own meditation techniques. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. If we can bring your ability to move between worlds within the control of your thinking, then…’

Pinnatte was shaking Vredech’s arm and whispering to him.

‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.

Vredech nodded to Pinnatte. ‘He’s pointing out that he for one didn’t think himself into that nightmare world. And neither did I, come to that. Still less did I conjure up that appalling caricature of Dowinne and those… others?’