Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Then she started rocking back and forth as if to some inner rhythm. ‘How can you know?’ Her voice rising and raucous in its pain. ‘I held him and loved him. He was my man… my beautif… ’ She faltered. ‘And they hacked him… and cut… and… ’

She thrust her fist into her mouth and bit her curled forefinger as she spoke, but nothing could stop the release now, and, suddenly, she bent forward and cried out her husband’s name in a long keening wail. Isloman clenched his teeth at the sound.

Then she wept. Wept for a long time, her tears in-termingling with incoherent bursts of reproach and rage. Isloman sat motionless, harrowed and helpless, his own eyes streaming for this dead stranger. At one point he reached out tentatively to take the hand clutching at the patterned counterpane that covered Hawklan’s bed, but the sight of his own hand seemed to give him a measure of his intrusiveness at this most private moment and he withdrew it.

As the daylight gradually faded, so also did Sylvriss’s sobbing. Surreptitiously, Isloman wiped his own eyes and waited for her to emerge from her inner darkness into this less harsh one. A torch by him slowly started to glow. He reached out and quietly extinguished it.

Eventually Sylvriss sat up and after a small scuffling search produced a kerchief to wipe her eyes. It was Hawklan’s, given to her by Gavor when she had wept before as they lay in the copse, taking a brief respite from their pounding journey away from the city. She did not notice.

With incongruous delicacy she blew her nose and then shivered.

Isloman stood up slowly, his whole body stiff with tension. Walking past her awkwardly, he closed the window.

Sylvriss inclined her head in acknowledgement.

‘Would you like me to take you back to your room?’ Isloman’s voice was soft, but it seemed to be uncom-fortably loud in the heightened atmosphere of the room.

Sylvriss turned to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let me stay here. Watching your friend with you. I’ll be no burden to him. I’m used to night vigils. You can tell me everything else, about yourself and… ’ She motioned towards Hawklan. ‘And why you’re here.’ She paused and looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t want to wake up… alone again.’

Isloman nodded and returned to his seat. He felt suddenly very tired.

For some time the two sat in companionable still-ness, Isloman slowly piecing together the turbulent history of the past months, Sylvriss listening. As the night deepened, however, Isloman felt his body relaxing and he began to doze fitfully. It seemed to him that he was again at Pedhavin, in the heart of his friends and memories, sleeping in the Great Harmony of Orthlund under the beneficent gaze of Anderras Darion and the strange healer who had opened its Great Gate and brought such light with him.

Yet part of him knew clearly that this was not so. This interlude was just a small gift from somewhere to refresh his weary spirit. True, he was amongst friends, both new and old, but they were battlefield friends with battlefield memories. And he was resting not in Anderras Darion but in a battle-ready fortress in a country seemingly destined for civil war. Terrible powers had been unleashed, and Hawklan was…?

He opened his eyes suddenly, not alarmed but wide-awake. Gavor shifted uneasily and mumbled something in his sleep. Moonlight was streaming through the window and Isloman could see that Sylvriss too had succumbed to fatigue. She was leaning forward in the chair and her head was resting on her arms by Hawk-lan’s side.

Hawklan’s hand lay on her head protectively.

The scene had a quality of strangeness about it that Isloman could not identify, but as he felt sleep wafting back over him almost immediately, the only clear thought that came to mind was, I must wake her gently in the morning, she’ll be stiff, sleeping like that. Then, slightly amused, as will I.

Both thoughts were with him when he woke, but to his surprise he found he was quite relaxed, despite having foregone the large easy chair he had used on previous nights for a stern upright one. Then he recalled Hawklan’s hand resting on Sylvriss’s head. She mustn’t wake to that, he thought. Not to such affectionate contact. But as his eyes focussed, he saw that Hawklan’s hand still lay by his side.

A dream perhaps, he thought. But it had been ex-traordinarily vivid. And the memories of Orthlund were still strong and clear.

As if aware of his scrutiny, Sylvriss stirred, then woke with a little start. Slowly she sat up. Her face, though drawn, showed none of the signs of bewilder-ment or concern that might be expected of someone waking under such circumstances. Isloman looked at her carefully. Seemingly more out of habit than need she yawned and stretched, then she looked from Hawklan to Isloman and smiled.

‘How strange,’ she said. ‘I had such dreams. Such old, wonderful memories. Such strength. I know there’s a lot of pain ahead, more tears to shed, but something’s changed. Rgoric’s gone.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘But not gone. We found again what we’d lost, or what had been taken from us. That’s not given to many, and it can’t be taken away. I mustn’t waste my life. That would be a betrayal. I must do what he’d have done. What we’d have done together.’

She looked down at Hawklan and then back at Islo-man. ‘We’re poor nurses,’ she said. ‘Sleeping when we should have watched.’

Isloman stood up and took his friend’s hand. It was warmer than usual and, as he held the wrist, the pulse was stronger.

He shook his head. ‘I’m not certain who was nursing who last night,’ he said, ‘but even Hawklan seems stronger in some way.’

His reflections were disturbed by a boisterous flap-ping from Gavor followed by a noisy yawn and a brief but quite unintelligible speech addressed in the most earnest terms to someone other than the three people in the room. ‘What?’ he concluded.

‘I said Hawklan seems stronger,’ Isloman said, wil-fully thrusting reality on the bird.

Gavor turned to him in surprise and gazed at him blearily. ‘What?’ he repeated sharply.

‘These mountain birds too much for you, Gavor?’ Isloman taunted.

Gavor cocked his head on one side then imperiously spread his wings and glided from his perch on Isloman’s chair to land lightly by Hawklan. He closed his eyes and bent closely over the sleeping figure’s head. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘He is, he is. You’re right. He’s coming nearer.’ He began to hop about excitedly. ‘What happened?’

A soft knocking interrupted him. Isloman opened the door and Yatsu entered. He was about to speak to Isloman when he saw the Queen. ‘Majesty,’ he said, momentarily disconcerted. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll… ’

He made to leave, but Sylvriss signalled him to stay. ‘It’s not possible for such a friend to intrude, Com-mander,’ she said simply. ‘Give Isloman your message.’

Yatsu bowed. ‘Lord Eldric asked me to tell Isloman about Dith-Galar, Majesty,’ he said. ‘And about the Speaking.’

Sylvriss nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘That was thoughtful. I’d forgotten Isloman was an outlander… like me. I’ll tell him. Where’s the Speaking to be held?’

‘In the main hall,’ Yatsu replied.

Sylvriss’s face became pensive. After a moment, she said, ‘Tell Lord Eldric that I’d like to speak formally… before the Speaking starts.’

Isloman detected a flicker of surprise on the Goraidin’s face, but it was gone almost immediately as he acknowledged the request and, with a bow, left, closing the door quietly.

Seeing a mirror, Sylvriss stood up and expertly be-gan to repair some of the damage that her unusual night’s rest had wrought in her appearance. Isloman looked at her reflection expectantly.