Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

The water had travelled a long and ancient journey, Andawyr mused as he dipped his hand into the stream and splashed his flushed face; mountain, sea and cloud, over and over, ever changing, ever the same. And though it shaped the land, it ran through his fingers unresisting. He gave a grunt of approval at the coolness it brought, then sat back, closed his eyes, raised his face towards the sun and took a long, slow breath. As it filled his lungs, the mountain air seemed to carry the sunlight through his entire frame. It mingled with the bubbling clatter of the stream and he felt the tension brought on by his too-rapid walking through the hills ease.

‘Simple pleasures,’ he said to the flickering shapes dancing behind his eyelids. ‘Simple pleasures. Being here is enough.’

It was no new thought, but it had as much meaning for Andawyr now as whenever it had first come to him. Not that he could remember when that had been, he reflected. It was as though he had always known the truth of this. But that could not have been so, for such a realization could only be attained after a great struggle. Or could it? Children often had it – that sureness of touch in their lives. Eyes still closed, Andawyr’s nose curled. He compromised. Perhaps the realization – the insight of the child – could only be rediscovered after a great struggle. Yes, that would do. He chuckled softly – he already knew that, too.

‘You’re rambling, you old fool,’ he said into the warm air. He’d not come here to mull over his own long-learned ways of dealing with his life…

He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Being here is enough,’ he said again, testing the words thoughtfully. They were all that could be said, but necessarily they were only a pale reflection of a truth that was, perhaps, inexpressible.

Many things were thus, but not all were so easily accepted. Or so benign.

Andawyr scowled in self-reproach. What he had come here for was to do nothing, not continue along the ruts his mind had been ploughing relentlessly for…

How long?

Too long…

He rolled on to his stomach and, resting his head in his hands, stared down into a small sheltered pool at the edge of the stream. An oval, battered face stared up at him unsteadily through the gently wavering water. A blade of grass floated idly around the image, then drifted back out into the main flow. It was followed by a scuttling insect that left brief dimpled footprints in the water as it pursued some urgent errand.

Andawyr’s image looked rueful.

Not the face of a great mage, he thought, tweaking his broken nose, then running a hand through his bushy grey hair, leaving it quite undisturbed. Such a person should have a conspicuous dignity. He should be patriarchal and stern, with a looming presence and a gaze to quell men.

Lips pursed, the image weighed this uncertainly.

Or perhaps he should be beatific, saintly; exuding the inner tranquillity that came from years of devoted study and a deep and profound understanding of the world. The image raised its eyebrows knowingly and, with a self-conscious cough, Andawyr withdrew from the debate.

If only, if only…

If only his years of study had brought him that kind of knowledge.

The image broke and scattered as Andawyr prodded it with a knowing finger. He supposed they had, in a way. He had learned what was of real value to him and that indeed gave him an ease of mind and a clearness of vision that many would envy. Nor was he disturbed by the fact that his endless searching for knowledge had brought with it a measure of the vastness of what he did not know; it was, after all, in the nature of things that questions bred questions; children soon learned how to destroy their parents with the simple question, ‘Why?’

It did not even disturb him too much that, at the limits of his understanding of the inner nature of things to which his searching and his conventional logic had led him, there was apparently paradox – and certainly bewilderment. That was simply another challenge to be met and wrestled with joyously.

Or would have been.

But now, a darkness was tingeing his discoveries; a darkness that possibly might not allow him the luxury of a scholar’s leisurely debate; a darkness that could be growing even as he lay here and that might burst forth all too brutally out of the realms of academic consideration and into the world of ordinary men.

He swore softly and sat up. Just beyond the shoulder of the mountain he knew he would be able to see the maw of the great cave that was ostensibly the entrance to the Cadwanen – the Caves that were the home of the Order of the Cadwanol – the Order of which he was the Leader – the Order charged originally by Ethriss with opposing Sumeral and, on His destruction, with seeking the knowledge that would guard the world against His coming again.

For come again He must, Ethriss had known, though of how he had known he never spoke. Suffice it that, although Sumeral took mortal form, He was no mere man. He had come in the wake of Ethriss and the other Guardians from the Great Searing that had been the beginning of all things and, with lesser figures that had emerged with Him, had set out to destroy the world that the Guardians had created. Though His mortal body had eventually been destroyed, after a long and terrible war, there were many places within the warp and weft of the fabric that formed all things where His dark and festering spirit could find sanctuary.

And come again He had, for the Cadwanol had failed in their charge as generations of stillness and peace had taken Sumeral from the minds of men and reduced Him to little more than a myth, a tale to make children tingle. Yet some sixteen years or so ago He had again taken form in this world. Silently, His ancient fortress, Derras Ustramel, had been built again in the bleak, mist-shrouded land of Narsindal and it was as much good fortune as courage that had eventually brought Him down before, it was hoped, His corruption had spread too far out into the world. Nevertheless, much harm had been done and many had died.

No special reproach had been offered to the Cadwanol, for others had failed in their vigilance as well, and all had paid a bitter price. But a day did not pass without Andawyr thinking of the events of that time and, whenever a problem taxed him to the point of despair, it was these memories that returned to spur him on. For ignorance and the darkness of the mind and heart that it brought were the greatest of Sumeral’s weapons and only knowledge could prevail against it.

But what was Andawyr to do now? At the very heart of his work lay a maelstrom of confusion and illogicality; conclusions which, though reached through modes of thought and observation that were unimpeachably correct, led to consequences that seemingly defied the reality of the world as ordinary men knew it. As he knew it, for pity’s sake, he mused bleakly, throwing a small pebble into the stream and watching the ripples spread and disperse. No one would claim to understand what this strangeness truly meant, but until now it had not really mattered. It was sufficient that it was consistent and that it worked: it could be used to predict the outcome of experiments and went a considerable way towards explaining many once-mysterious things, not least the powers that the Cadwanwr themselves possessed. But what had once been a vague suspicion had grown of late. It could no longer be dismissed as an inadvertent aberration twisting and curling at the distant edges of their calculations. And it could no longer be ignored.

There was, beyond all doubt now, a flaw deep in the heart of the way the world was made. Something that, even within the terms of the strange nature of the Cadwanol’s work, could not be. As an academic exercise it had been speculated upon from time to time for many years, but in the surge of learning that had followed the war it had been confirmed and accepted.