Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Unequivocal confirmation of this observation floated down from above, followed by, ‘Loman, get yourself up here and look at this.’

A titter threatened to bloom out of the gathered apprentices but it shrivelled instantly under Loman’s baleful gaze.

He examined the feet of the three ladders. They were well founded on the hard ground. ‘There’s nothing to fasten them to up there, sir, so we tied them together at the top and middle,’ one of the apprentices volunteered.

As every student knows, nothing softens the heart of a teacher like a lesson learned. ‘Well done,’ Loman said with a smile, placing his foot on the first rung.

When he reached the top, however, he was less san-guine. He was not too disturbed by heights, but looking down the vertiginous perspective of the Gate, he could not forbear asking the obvious question of his neighbour. ‘Memsa, what are you doing up here?’

As usual, however, Gulda ignored the question. ‘Can’t you climb a ladder without rocking it so much?’ she said, then pointing to a section of carving, ‘Look, here. This took some finding. For a raven, Gavor must have eyes like a hawk. Look, it’s very interesting. Most informative.’

Loman looked closely at the area she was marking out with a long finger. It was quite small and, like the rest of the Gate, beautifully carved. However the symbolism of the carving that filigreed the Gate was both compact and intricate, and few could read it quickly or easily. ‘It’ll take a little time to work through this,’ he said.

‘No matter,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the gist of it. Enough to think about for now. Mark it out and get a casting for me. I’d like to study it more carefully.’

‘Yes, Memsa,’ Loman replied automatically, still peering intently at the carving. A small cloud moved in front of the sun, briefly throwing the Gate into hazy shadow. The carving in front of Loman danced into a new tale. He smiled appreciatively. ‘A casting won’t catch any of this, Memsa,’ he said, waving his hand over the changing scene. ‘It’ll barely catch all the first-degree work.’ He turned to her, but she was gone.

Looking down he saw her black form briskly de-scending down one of the ladders. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ came her voice. ‘It’ll get enough for what we need.’

Seemingly it had, for after receiving the casting and nodding a cursory approval, Gulda had disappeared from view for a day or so, to reappear abruptly in Loman’s forge with her inquiry about singers.

Since Gulda’s return Loman had learned a lesson he had never mastered as a child. He knew now that information could be obtained from Gulda best by watching and listening. Direct questioning not infre-quently left him feeling he was trying to catch hold of autumn mist.

Thus when, after directing her towards Otaff, he saw her returning later that day shepherding three young boys, he joined the little procession without comment. Gulda nodded brusquely to him, but said nothing.

Eventually he found himself sitting in a room with Gulda seated incongruously at a small keyboard instrument. There were countless such rooms all over the Castle and, looking round it, Loman had to admit to himself that he had probably not been in that particular one half a dozen times in his entire stewardship.

‘When was this tuned last?’ she asked Loman, mov-ing her hands lightly over the keys as if dusting them.

He was obliged to shrug vaguely. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘No one to my knowledge has ever played it seriously. Tirilen used to pound on it when she was small. It’s unlikely it’s ever been tuned.’

Gulda played a series of chords. The instrument’s tone was mellow and singing. Apparently satisfied and looking more than a little surprised, she struck a single note. ‘Boys, how’s this for pitch?’ she asked, inclining her head enquiringly towards them. They all nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fascinating. Still in perfect tune after all this time. Such craftsmen.’

She looked sadly thoughtful for a moment, then turned to the three boys and smiled. The expression carried Loman back immediately to the time when he had been her pupil. When she smiled like that, they were in for an exciting day’s learning. No one could teach like Gulda, when the mood took her. Sunny days and that smile meant new wonders to be seen and heard. Such a magical time. Unexpectedly he felt his stomach tightening in anticipation and he had a suspicion that this emotion was showing on his face also. He turned away casually and tried to scowl out of the window, but old happy ties would not allow him.

In the end he was to sit for over an hour, basking in warm memories of his own childhood, as he watched and listened to Gulda teaching again. At this distance he was willing to forgive the less harmonious lessons he had also had from her.

‘There’s an old tune I’m trying to remember,’ she began, confidingly, to the boys. ‘Something like this.’ And with wilful awkwardness she poked inaccurately at the keyboard with one finger.

Loman recognized the tune immediately and was about to call out its name but his wiser nature silenced him. ‘We know it, we know it,’ the boys cried. ‘It’s the snowman’s song.’ One of them reached past her and, tongue protruding slightly, played the tune cautiously, self-consciously displaying the use of all five fingers.

‘I’ve not been learning long,’ he apologized when he had finished, but Gulda was fulsome in her praise.

Then she had them singing it. When Loman quietly left the room, the sound of the three voices was ringing like a silver bell in his head, the tune was leaking out intermittently through his gruff tenor, and its bouncing complicated rhythm was breaking his steady stride.

For many days the sound of the singing echoed round the Castle, ringing faintly along its endless corridors and carried by strange resonances through halls vast and small, far distant from the small room where Gulda was weaving her special magic. Coming across it unexpectedly from time to time, Loman would stop and listen. It seemed almost as if the Castle itself was singing.

As the days passed, however, Loman noted a change in Gulda. She was quieter, less forthright, than usual. Finally his resolve to ask no direct questions slipped. ‘What are you doing, Memsa?’ he asked. ‘Even my stone ears can tell those boys are singing beautifully. Why are you doing it and why is it disturbing you?’

Gulda sat down and rested her chin on her stick. She gazed into an unfocused distance for a long time, apparently not having heard the question. Loman once again had the feeling of mist slipping through his fingers when, very softly, she said, ‘Of all Ethriss’s gifts, music alone speaks directly to the soul. So many memories, so long, I… ’ Her voice trailed away into another silence. Then, abruptly, ‘I think we’re ready now.’

‘Ready?’ he risked.

‘Get yourself and two of your people ready for a trip into the mountains,’ she said. ‘Starting tomorrow. Fully armed. I’ll be coming as well, with the three boys.’

Loman raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’ he asked, bluntly.

Unexpectedly, Gulda looked doubtful, though her voice was firm enough. ‘We have to contact the Alphraan,’ she said. ‘At best they’re hampering our training, at worst they may seek us out and destroy us for bringing war back into their domain.’

Loman made to speak, but Gulda continued. ‘Be-sides, they’re in as great a danger as we are, and we need to be allies if not friends. They need to be told the truth. They’ll have to make the old choices that we’ve had to make, sooner or later, whether they like it or not. They’ll not be able to use their singing against an army. Least of all, His army.’