Roger Taylor: Into Narsindal

He frowned as he realized just how deep was his reluctance to use this skill that he had struggled so long to master. He recalled a comment his old teacher had made many years earlier.

‘I sometimes wonder whether we use it, or it uses us,’ he had said. ‘It’s so beyond our real understanding.’

It had been a passing comment, lightly made, but it had stuck like a barbed dart in his young acolyte’s mind, subsequently making him work as hard at being able to sustain himself without the Power as he was skilled in using it. When later he had become head of the Order, this attitude had inevitably percolated down to perme-ate all its members.

‘We’re teachers,’ he would say. ‘We can’t teach peo-ple anything if we can’t live as they live, strive as they strive.’

But he knew that his real motivation was deeper than that and not accessible to such simple logic.

The Old Power was the power of the Great Searing, from which and by which all things were formed, and from whose terrible heat had walked Ethriss and the Guardians, followed silently by Sumeral with lesser banes at His heels.

Faced with the terrible dilemma that Sumeral’s teaching of war had presented him, Ethriss had given the Cadwanol the knowledge of how to use the Old Power so that they might aid both the Guardians and the mortal armies of the Great Alliance of Kings and Peoples against the Uhriel and His vast and terrible hordes.

However, as his teacher had said, to understand its use was not necessarily to understand its true nature.

Andawyr turned on his side and gazed at the stones, glowing even now with this very power. ‘How can we understand the true nature of such a thing?’ he muttered softly.

Even Ethriss himself may not have understood it. According to the most ancient documents in the vast archives of the Cadwanol, when questioned by his first pupils, all he had said, with a smile, was, ‘It is .’

‘It is ,’ Andawyr echoed softly into the still air of his tent.

He was right, he knew. While skill in the use of the Old Power must be studied and practiced and improved, it should be used by humans only where all human skills had failed and great harm threatened. Its use was not part of the gift that Ethriss had given to humanity.

‘I created you to go beyond it,’ he had also said; an enigmatic phrase that had taxed minds ever since.

It was a knowledge that he had reluctantly thrust into the hands of men for use as a weapon only when their very existence and that of all things wrought by himself and the Guardians were threatened. Its inherent dangers were demonstrated all too clearly by Sumeral’s use of it to corrupt the three rulers who were to become His Uhriel.

‘Some part of all of us is Uhriel.’ Andawyr’s eyes widened. That phrase too, was one his teacher had used, but it was one he had not recalled for a long time.

He closed his eyes and tried to let the topic go. The debate was an old one amongst the Cadwanwr, and none disagreed in principle with Andawyr’s thinking, though the consensus was that the revered Head of the Order was a little over-zealous in his reluctance to use the Power for minor matters.

Andawyr smiled to himself as he felt the warmth of the stones on his face. He had seen the unsuccessfully hidden looks of patient tolerance, not to say irritation, as he had scratched vainly at stones in the past, or struggled with some heavy burden-and made others struggle with him-instead of lifting it the easy way!

Yet they too were right. It was a mistake to be too zealous in avoiding the use of the Old Power. Why should he have even hesitated here in this biting cold, where failure to ignite the stones might have proved fatal for him?

Balance, he thought. That’s all it is. Balance. Too much either way is wrong. But where was the balance? Only one thing was certain: the route to it lay along no easy path. Always judgement had to be used, and always judgement was flawed in some degree.

His thoughts began to wander as the day’s walking and the last hours’ increasingly anxious toiling began to take their toll.

‘G’night, Dar,’ he muttered faintly, but there was no reply.

Twice he jerked awake suddenly as the dark horror of his journey out of Narsindal came briefly and vividly into his deepening sleep. This happened almost every night, though much less so now than when he had first returned. He bore it with a snarl. ‘I survived the deed, I refuse to fear its shadow’, was the sword and buckler he reached for whenever he found himself hesitating to close his eyes.

The third time, however, it was no fearful memory that awoke him. It was the entrance to his tent being torn open and a body crashing in, accompanied by whirling flurries of snow and the icy blast of the storm.

Instantly bolt upright, his heart racing, Andawyr raised his hand to defend himself against this appari-tion. No hesitation to use the Old Power when it mattered, he noted briefly. However, a mere glance showed that the intruder not only held no weapon, but was exhausted. Not a threat, he realized.

‘Unless it’s to freeze me to death,’ he muttered out loud. Hastily he seized the body and, with a great effort, dragged it into the tent, nearly upsetting the radiant stones in the process.

As he sealed the entrance again, a hand clutched at him. He turned with a start, ready again to defend himself.

‘My horse,’ said the new arrival, his voice very weak. ‘My horse.’

Andawyr looked at the snow-covered figure and the few small flakes still whirling around the tent in the light of the glowing stones.

‘Please,’ said the figure, weakly but urgently.

Andawyr gave a resigned sigh. ‘Riddinvolk I pre-sume,’ he said and, without waiting for an answer, he gathered his cloak about himself tightly and, with an ill grace, stepped out into the howling darkness.

Fortunately the horse was nearby, standing at the edge of the circle of light cast by the tent’s beacon torch. Andawyr suddenly felt his irritation and concern pushed aside by a feeling of humility at the sight of the animal standing patiently in the snow-streaked light, head bowed against the storm. Few travelled these mountains at any time, and none would normally be travelling at this time of year, yet, on an impulse he had lit his beacon torch; and now it had drawn this lone traveller and his mount here and undoubtedly saved his life.

He struck his hand torch and walked over to the horse, staggering a little as the powerful wind drove into him. ‘Come on, Muster horse,’ he said, taking the animal’s bridle. ‘It’s a little more sheltered over here. Your duties are over for the night. I’ll look after your charge.’

The horse looked at him soulfully for a moment, then yielded to the gentle pressure.

Returning to the tent, Andawyr found the new arri-val’s concern unchanged. ‘My horse?’ he asked, his voice still weak.

‘I’ve thrown a couple of your blankets over him and put him in the lee of some rocks,’ Andawyr said. ‘It’s not ideal, but he should be all right. I’ve given him a fodder bag as well.’

The man relaxed visibly and Andawyr shook his head. ‘You people and your horses,’ he said. ‘You’re incredible. Now let’s have a look at you.’

The man offered no resistance to Andawyr’s exami-nation.

‘You’re lucky,’ Andawyr said when he had finished. ‘There’s no frost damage to your hands and face, and judging from your boots I presume you can still feel all your toes?’

The man nodded. ‘I should have stopped sooner,’ he said, still weak. ‘I misjudged the storm.’

‘You’re not alone,’ Andawyr said. ‘Luckily you’re only chilled and exhausted, but it’s a good job you saw my light. You wouldn’t have made it through the night.’ He moved the tray of radiant stones as far away from the man as he could, then with a flick of his fingers he made them a little brighter. ‘Keep away from the stones,’ he said. ‘Just lie still and rest. You’ll soon warm up in here, it’s a well-sealed tent: airy and snug.’