Roger Taylor: Into Narsindal

As the Fyordyn passed the leaving stone and the small sorry heap of Dan-Tor’s decaying wares, Gavor flew past them noisily. ‘Up the hill, up the hill,’ he shouted. ‘Door’s open, and Gulda will be back by now. I’ll join you later!’ Then he was gone, into the deepening darkness. As the four men peered after him, the sound of a rather hoarse nightingale drifted down to them, followed by a fit of coughing.

The village itself was alive with torches and bustling activity, with people running hither and thither through its rambling maze of streets in happy confusion. Most of those that the Fyordyn encountered acknowledged them, and once again Jaldaric found himself moved as apparent strangers came up to him and took his hand sympathetically.

Arinndier gazed around, and then shook his head.

‘This is a bewildering little place,’ he said. ‘Every-thing’s covered in carvings and they all seem to be moving.’

‘Amazing,’ said Rede Berryn, gazing around in awe. ‘I knew the Orthlundyn were carvers, but this… ’

He fell silent as his eye caught a small plaque on which was carved what seemed to be a field of wheat. Under the touch of the torchlight, shadows rippled across it as though it were being stirred by a warm summer breeze. Berryn sat motionless, spellbound, while the others waited for him patiently.

‘Up the hill, up the hill.’

A friendly voice broke into their calm as a passer-by, thinking that the four outlanders were lost, pointed in the direction they should take. Arinndier thanked him, and the group moved off again.

‘What do you think of their communications, Goraidin?’ Arinndier asked Tel-Mindor with some amusement.

The Goraidin raised his eyebrows. ‘Widespread,’ he replied enigmatically.

The Goraidin’s manner made Arinndier’s amuse-ment billow out into a great laugh which rang around the small square they were crossing. ‘Very true,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But they’ve not told us anything, you’ll note.’

Tel-Mindor nodded his head in acknowledgement.

Then they were out of the village and heading up the steep road towards the castle. The activity was still continuing however, a small but steady stream of torch-bearing villagers moving slowly up and down the slope like a trail of tardy glow-worms.

As the four riders neared the top of the slope, two figures came into sight. One was tall and straight and wearing a green robe decorated with a single black feather. The other was short and squat and leaning on a stick. Even though the light from the courtyard fell on her, she seemed to be as black as a silhouette.

Reaching the Gate, all four men dismounted to find themselves submitting to Gulda’s inspection. Tirilen smiled slightly at the sight, though her eyes narrowed a little when she looked at Jaldaric and saw the subtle changes that the ordeals of the past months had wrought on his round, innocent face.

Gulda saw it too even though she had never seen him before.

‘You’ll be Jaldaric, young man,’ she told him. ‘I hear you’ve had troubles of late.’ Jaldaric met her piercing gaze, but seemed uncertain how to reply. After a moment, she nodded. ‘You’ll live, Jaldaric, son of Eldric. You’ll live,’ she said, a gentleness in her voice and manner belying the seemingly harsh words.

Then, Jaldaric released, she raised her stick horizon-tally and pointed to each of the others in turn as she pronounced her conclusions. ‘Your names have come before you as well,’ she said. ‘Rede Berryn, an old High Guard if ever I saw one. You’ve ridden the Watch, haven’t you?’ She did not wait for an answer, but moved on. ‘Tel-Mindor.’ She looked at him intently. ‘Special,’ she concluded after a moment. ‘Goraidin, probably. Fine men.’ Then, ‘And last, as is the protocol of the Geadrol, I believe: Lord Arinndier.’ She inclined her head slightly to Arinndier, who bowed his in reply. ‘Don’t be too distressed, Lord,’ she went on. ‘You’re not the first to have been quietly led astray by Sumeral and his agents.’

‘You must be Memsa Gulda,’ Arinndier said as cour-teously as he could.

But Gulda, her inspection complete, was gracious. ‘I am indeed,’ she said. ‘And this is Tirilen, a healer, and daughter to Loman, Hawklan’s castellan. Welcome to Anderras Darion, all of you. We’re honoured to have you here and you come at a propitious time… ’ Unexpectedly, she chuckled. ‘We’ve just routed an ally.’

Then, without offering any explanation for this remark, she turned and stumped off through the Gate, beckoning the men to follow.

‘You’ll want to tend your own horses, I presume,’ she said as they strode out to keep up with her. ‘I’ll show you to the stables, then’-she signalled to a young apprentice who had been hovering like a tiny planet some way from this weighty group-‘this young man will show you to your rooms. You’ll be able to bathe and change out of your travelling clothes. Then we can eat and talk.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Considerable talkers, you Fyordyn, as I remember. I’ll look forward to it. I’ve no doubt we’ve a great deal of news for one another.’

‘That would be most welcome, Memsa,’ Arinndier said. ‘But we need nothing to eat at the moment. The villagers on the way have been more than generous.’

Gulda nodded again. ‘That’s as may be, young man,’ she said. ‘But I’m ravenous. It’s been a long walk today and I’ve had nothing but camp fodder for the past few days.’ And without further comment she walked off into the Castle.

Some while later the Fyordyn were ushered into a large room. A blaze of glowing radiant stones formed a focus for the warmth that filled it and a bright but mellow torchlight brought alive the carvings of rural scenes which decorated the walls. The ceiling was a great skyscape in which huge heavily laden clouds seemed to make a slow, endlessly changing progress.

The four men were soon lounging luxuriously in the long-stored sunlight being released by the torches and the fire. For the most part, they were silent; even Jaldaric, who had seen the Castle before, was awed by the craftsmanship and beauty that he found surround-ing him once again.

Of the four, Rede Berryn was the most vocal, moving from carving to carving like an excited child examining his Winter Festival gifts.

‘This place is amazing,’ he said finally, flopping down noisily on to a long, accommodating settle, and carefully straightening his stiff leg. ‘Look at those torches. And those radiant stones. They splutter and crackle like burning logs. This room, this whole building, must catch and return every spark of their warmth for them to have matured like that. Marvellous, I haven’t seen anything like them in years, if ever. And these carvings defy description. I must get my old wood chisels out when I get home. I’d almost forgotten about them, there’s been so much sourness in the air these last few years, but at the first opportunity… ’ He left the sentence unfinished, but beamed a great smile and waved his clenched fist as a token of his resolution.

Arinndier and Tel-Mindor smiled in return, though Jaldaric seemed a little uncertain about how to handle this sudden onset of childlike enthusiasm.

As they rested, each felt the calm of the room begin-ning to unravel the tangles of dire concerns that had grown over the past months to cloud their hearts and minds. Gradually they all became both silent and still, until eventually the only sounds in the room were the occasional murmur of the radiant stones and the muffled echoes of the activities outside as the Castle prepared to receive again its key-bearer and the many others for whom it was now home. But neither these nor the various people who came in from time to time to inquire solicitously about their comfort, offered any disturbance to the calm of the four men.