Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

A soft, ringing echo pervaded him and he looked conspicuously relieved as he strode into the passage. Oslang affected not to notice.

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘You were in a bad way when we found you. Rambling, incoherent.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You were on the verge of killing us all. I don’t know yet whether I managed to take your cord from you, or whether you released it yourself. I’m just glad one of us managed it. I shudder to think who you thought we were.’

Andawyr grimaced. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You were right to advise me not to go into Narsindal alone, and I was right to go alone. It was my time. Suffice it that you found me and that I did no harm to you. Who knows what strange threads control our destinies?’

‘Strange indeed,’ Oslang said. They stopped in front of a door.

Something in Oslang’s tone caught Andawyr’s atten-tion and he looked at him quizzically. ‘Explain,’ he said, knowingly.

Oslang passed his hand over an ornate pattern that decorated the centre of the door. ‘We’ve not developed the habit of taking extended nocturnal walks along the pass since you left, you know,’ he said, folding his arms and hugging himself slightly as if a sudden chill had come over him. ‘You talk of strange threads. You owe your life to a rocked felci’

Before Andawyr could speak, the door opened and he was obliged to turn his eyes away from the brightness that streamed out of it. Somewhat crossly, Oslang ushered him forward and, passing almost immediately through a second door, they entered directly into Andawyr’s quarters.

Andawyr blinked owlishly. ‘We must do something about that light,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s far too bright.’

Oslang was unsympathetic. ‘It’s your own fault. You were the one who insisted they be speeded up. I told you when we changed over that the time you’d save in travelling you’d spend in blinking, but you wouldn’t listen. And you have just come from the twentieth level.’

Andawyr scowled. ‘What do you mean, a rocked felci?’ he said, refusing to become involved in an old argument he was going to lose. He started immediately to root through the routine and massive disorder of his room.

‘Kristabel,’ Oslang said.

Andawyr paused and smiled. ‘Ah, Kristabel. She’s sweet,’ he said. ‘Where’s my robe and cord? Has Dar-Volci been tidying up in here again?’

‘More to the point, she’s sharp-eyed,’ Oslang said, ignoring his leader’s sentimentality and adding caustically, ‘Try the cupboard.’

Andawyr muttered something under his breath and after wending his way through the boxes and piles of documents that littered the floor, reached the cupboard Oslang had indicated.

He opened the door and, for a moment, stood ad-miring the simple white robe hanging in front of him. It seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. He took it down carefully and put it on, then examined the cord. It was neat and immaculate. He nodded approvingly. ‘Thank you, Oslang,’ he said. ‘This is a fine weave. Really excellent work. Excellent.’

Oslang inclined his head in acknowledgement of the praise.

‘Now. Kristabel,’ Andawyr said, more seriously. ‘How did she come to get rocked, and what’s she got to do with finding me?’

‘Usual way,’ Oslang replied. ‘Didn’t recognize what she was chewing until it was too late.’

Andawyr grimaced. ‘Is she all right?’

Oslang nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just a bit disorien-tated for an hour or two but otherwise none the worse.’

‘Good,’ Andawyr said. He moved a large bag from a couch and sat down, nodding to Oslang to do the same. ‘I’d miss her, to say the least.’ Uncertainly, Oslang carefully wedged himself on to another loaded couch.

‘Go on,’ Andawyr urged.

‘Well, the others went after her when they heard her whistling and howling, but when they brought her back she was rambling about having seen you wandering along the pass when she accidentally broke surface.’

‘And you listened?’ asked Andawyr in some surprise. ‘They see anything and everything when they’re rocked.’

Oslang shrugged. ‘You used the phrase. Strange threads. She just sounded different in some way, so I took a chance. I can’t explain it.’

Andawyr nodded thoughtfully. ‘Don’t try, Oslang,’ he said after a long silence. ‘Don’t try. We must accept good and bad fortune with equal grace. Let’s just be grateful for the one and prepared for the other. You’re sure Kristabel’s all right?’

‘She’s fine,’ Oslang said reassuringly.

Andawyr fell silent again, resting his head on his hands. ‘Strange threads,’ he muttered to himself. ‘And she’s normally so careful.’ Oslang watched but said nothing. Then Andawyr sat up abruptly. ‘Call the senior brothers together, would you, Oslang?’ he said. ‘We’ve a great deal to discuss.’

Loman and Gulda took each others’ advice. He pon-dered his anger and its causes. She gave the Orthlundyn space to consider their new ways.

When Loman suggested that those being trained be given time for reflection and thought, she looked at him beadily and then delivered a typical thrust to the heart of the idea.

‘Interesting notion, young Loman,’ she said. ‘Your daughter’s, I presume.’

‘Not entirely,’ Loman said, bridling a little. ‘But it came out of something we were discussing.’

Gulda nodded. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Tirilen’s ideas are usually worth listening to.’

Three days later, Loman was asked to give his opin-ion on an extensive revision of almost every training programme. Looking at the sheaf of papers in his hand, all written in Gulda’s immaculate script, he shook his head. ‘Do you never sleep, Memsa?’ he said.

‘Let me know what you think,’ she said, ignoring the question and walking away.

As he expected, Loman had very little to add to Gulda’s work. It was detailed, meticulous and appropri-ate, and superior in every way to what he had suggested. Later he told her so.

She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement of Loman’s rough compliment. ‘I only stand on your shoulders, Loman,’ she said, unexpectedly offering an explanation. Then, with a deep chuckle, ‘You should do it more often yourself. The view’s better.’

Rather than allow time for reflection, Gulda had chosen to ease the intensity of the entire training programme. ‘It was a timely thought, Loman,’ she said. ‘We nearly made a serious mistake. We nearly allowed the training for war to become dominant.’ She shook her head. ‘An old mistake.’

She sat down opposite Loman and fixed him with her piercing gaze, sending him back to his schooldays again. ‘To become better fighters, better able to defend what they value, people need to find a place in their ordinary lives for their new knowledge. They need to reaffirm, to appreciate and understand the value of being warriors by being farmers and carvers first and warriors a poor second.’ She paused, unhappy with her last comment. ‘Or perhaps I should say, by realizing they can be each as required. I think you’ll find that debates and discussions will arise naturally and that’ll be all to the good. We mustn’t be arrogant, must we? We must learn from our pupils. They’re Orthlundyn amp;mdashthe remains of a great people.’ She paused. ‘Still a great people,’ she added pensively. ‘They’ll absorb most of what’s good in what we taught them and forget most of what’s not so good.’ Then, businesslike, ‘And there’ll be enough training continuing to keep everyone up to scratch.’

The more relaxed training regime, however, could not apply to Loman’s elite group. By its very nature, their training demanded intensity.