The many realities were gone and not gone. Now they were no longer part of him, nor he of them but, though fainter and more distant, they were still boiling through the greyness of the hall as if held at bay by an unseen force. Once again Vashnar felt himself both here and in Degelvak. And his right hand was recovered. He was about to look at it, when some caution prevented him; the ring seemed to have some peculiar, disjointing influence in this place.
All these impressions filled his mind instantly and simultaneously, but the caution which informed the last rapidly transformed itself into a more familiar one as he responded to the hand on his shoulder. Seemingly, someone had restored him to what he was, saved him from being drawn into that swirling maelstrom of clashing worlds. But to be caught unawares thus both offended his Warden’s pride and struck notes of alarm deep inside him. At the same time an unexpected question came to him: who could be sharing this world that should have been uniquely his?
He felt no threat in the grip, but it was only his momentary confusion at his sudden rescue that gave him the time to note this. Under other circumstances, whoever ventured such an act could have expected an immediate and violent response. Then again, he thought ruefully, under other circumstances, no one would have been able to do it.
Slowly Vashnar released the handrail and turned around.
The hand fell away and Vashnar found himself facing a tall figure in a long dun-coloured robe. A deep hood completely hid the wearer’s face. The figure was standing some way from him, as if it had stepped back rapidly when he turned, though it gave no indication of having made a hasty movement. It seemed to be the focus of a peculiar disturbance with an aura about it that shifted and changed, like air dancing over hot coals, giving the disconcerting impression that it was being constantly made and remade. There was nothing unsteady about the unseen gaze that Vashnar could feel searching into him, however. He met and returned it, staring unflinchingly into the darkness of the hood.
‘Who are you?’
Both spoke at the same time. The figure’s words chimed oddly with the inner sound of his own voice and carried the many resonances that Vashnar had heard when he questioned the unseen voices before. The figure inclined its head curiously. So did Vashnar. He still could not fully make out what he was looking at. The figure seemed real enough. And the hand on his shoulder certainly had been. But how far away from him was it? And how tall? He realized he had nothing to gauge it by. The wavering aura surrounding it even made it difficult for him to be sure it was standing on the floor.
Nevertheless, a slight sense of gratitude for his rescue curled through Vashnar’s grim curiosity and prompted him into replying first. ‘I am Vashnar, Senior Commander of the Warding of Arvenshelm.’
A hand hidden in a long sleeve gave a slight, dismissive wave.
‘Labels, titles, vanities,’ the figure said, still many-voiced. ‘What are you, then?’
Vashnar frowned. ‘I don’t understand. I am Vashnar, Senior Commander of the Warding of Arvenshelm,’ he repeated.
The figure leaned forward a little, as if intensifying its scrutiny of him. ‘Ah,’ it said, its voices full of realization. ‘You are one of us. One of the Chosen.’
One of us. The words took Vashnar back to the Count’s Palace in Nesdiryn and he was once again accepting the gift of the ring from Hagen. Feeling such control of events as he had slipping away from him he wrenched it back, taking a half step forward and drawing himself to his full height. ‘I still don’t understand,’ he said again, though in a tone which clearly implied that this was the newcomer’s fault. ‘Explain yourself. Who are you? Why are you in this place – my place?’
There might have been a hint of a bow from the figure but it was still not fully of this place and Vashnar could not be sure.
‘Answer me!’ he demanded.
‘You carry the Sign. You are the Guide,’ the figure said. ‘Where else could we be?’
Vashnar took another, more determined step forward but, though the figure did not move, it brought him no nearer.
‘Who are you?’ he insisted.
There was a pause as if the figure were debating with itself.
‘We are the servants of the One True God,’ it said eventually. ‘Why do you question us? We are not to be tested. It is written in the Holy Book that such as we, who die in Holy War, die righteously and will be admitted to the Golden Land without testing or purification.’
Vashnar’s eyes narrowed; he had held this conversation once and, at best, he had little time for the gibbering of religious fanatics. He bared his teeth and extended a menacing right hand towards the figure. Light flickered from the ring and the figure flinched.
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Vashnar shouted. ‘You’re some creation of Thyrn’s like the rest of this place, and I’ll have none of you. Go! Now! Tell your creator to come here and face me in person.’ He turned round and bellowed, ‘Thyrn!’ several times.
His words seemed to take form in the grey air, and the restrained shadows of the broken realities filling the hall became frenzied. But still they were no longer a part of him and he ignored them. Turning back to the figure challengingly he saw that the aura surrounding it was responding similarly, growing in both size and turbulence, while the figure itself was wavering and faltering. At any moment he felt that the robe would crumple, untenanted, to the floor.
Then he sensed a change. A conflict was underway, though he could neither see anything nor hazard what form it might be taking. But conflict it was. A powerful will was making itself felt – fighting for domination. The scrutiny he had felt reaching out from the dark hood was gone and was being directed elsewhere, and he had become again a mere eavesdropper to the distant and garbled voices that were now rising and falling around him.
Abruptly it was over. Both the noise and the wavering distortion about the figure came to some violent, self-consuming climax which made him turn his head away as if to avoid an impact. Then all was silent.
When he looked again at the figure, he saw that it was now clearly present, as solid in this place as he was. It looked around for some time, then long hands emerged to test the hidden face and be examined in their turn. Finally the figure turned towards Vashnar. He clenched his fists, expecting the hood to be withdrawn to reveal Thyrn. But the hood merely nodded slowly, as if satisfying itself about something.
‘You are indeed one of us, Vashnar,’ said the figure. ‘It shines through you.’ The voice was full, resonant, and commanding.
Vashnar did not speak.
‘You are lost in this place, are you not? Its strangeness, its ambivalence, unsettles you. Indeed, its very existence defies any logic you have ever known.’ Vashnar sensed a smile in the shade of the hood. ‘Yet this place, and all the others about you…’ An arm swept over the turbulent greyness beyond the platform. ‘… are there always for those who would seek, who would find the Way.’ The head inclined in the direction of Vashnar’s ring. ‘Or have both the will and the key.’
Still Vashnar did not speak, though it was not for want of something to say. The figure’s words and his manner of speaking them told him that he was dealing not only with someone used to authority and the wielding of power, but someone who knew about him. Silence was thus his best tactic. He must let this new arrival reveal himself with his own words before deciding how to handle him.
‘Still, I would not reproach you for that. I see it myself now only in the light of my own… unusual… experience. My view from a special vantage, as it were. The one I once was would not have come to this conclusion in an eternity of contemplation.’ Then there was a grating note of barely restrained anger in the voice. ‘But, it seems, he is long gone now. And his followers. And…’ He looked around. ‘… the world we knew.’
Vashnar risked his question again. ‘Who are you?’
The figure lowered its head, as if in thought. ‘Not a question I can answer,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Not yet, at least. There is a name I find lingering about me – a name for who I was, before I became… what I became. But that is without meaning now – a burr tangled in the great weave of time and the remaking we set in train.’ A low, self-deprecating laugh emerged from the hood. ‘I suppose it could be said thatI am one who has been… born again.’ The laugh rolled on, as at some ironic private joke, before dwindling into an introspective chuckle. ‘Yes, born again – most apt. Now I am remade in my old image, by forces that I do not fully comprehend any more than a newborn child comprehends how he comes to be. Still, it is of no consequence. Whatever conjunction has brought this about, whatever coming together of strange and disparate events – including the spirit and will of Vashnar and the mysterious key he carries – we are here, and the work is to continue.’
‘Work?’
‘Your work – our work – the bringing of order out of the meandering chaos that is humanity’s way. That is your work, is it not?’ The figure inclined its head. Vashnar felt a coldness passing through him. The figure let out a long breath of realization, before continuing. ‘Though I see your horizons are limited.’ The voice became scornful. ‘Morlider to the east, Nesdiryn, silent and frightening, to the west. Your gaze is at the ground. You grovel in the dust when stars and suns shine bright around you.’ The scorn became a hissing declamation. ‘You have not the measure of either your worth or your ability, Vashnar, or even the extent of the ambitions that you harbour within yourself. But with my touch, you will.’
The coldness returned and Vashnar suddenly felt as though a shrouding veil had been torn away, exposing not only all his present plans and future dreams, but a far greater vision, one which saw the borders of Arvenstaat expanding relentlessly under his leadership – expanding until there would be no place where his writ did not run and his name not bring awe.
Part of him exulted in the revelation, but another part of him tried to turn away from it in fear. Two long strides brought the figure before him and two powerful hands held his face. The suddenness of the movement made Vashnar gasp despite himself. Staring into the depths of the hood he saw only a hint of light reflected in the distant eyes. Warm breath touched his face. He could not move.
‘No!’ said the figure, its grip tightening. ‘Neither defy me, nor deny yourself. Look into the heart of your ambitions and see them for what they are, unbounded by mountains and shore and the petty limitations of your old ways. Know that with the power I command through you, nothing can prevail against your will.’ The voice became passionate and driving. ‘Vashnar, Vashnar. You know the truth of this. Much of me is you. You are a necessary part of my coming to be again. You and the power of the faith of my erstwhile followers. Now this is yours. There is nothing you cannot achieve. Whole nations will bow before your armies, make obeisance to your flag. Strike! Strike now! Begin! For aeons I have been scattered, without form. Such an event as we find here – such a coming together – does not happen once in ten thousand generations. And you are at its heart. Cling to your old ways and all will slip from you and turn to dust. Your life will snivel to its dismal end in bitterness and whining self-reproach.’
The figure released him and stepped back. Vashnar clutched at the handrail for support, his mind reeling with the force of the emotions that had been unleashed within him. But some caution still lingered. He had dealt with enough convincing charlatans in his time to be deeply sceptical about wild and freely given promises.
‘If you have such sight – such power – how is it that you are here, defeated?’ he said.
There was a long silence, then the figure said, ‘Now that it is about me again, I see that time is not with us – or with you.’ There was a hint of anxiety in the voice. ‘There is another – a powerful opponent – one who lies beyond my touching. He is aware of us. He must be…’
‘Answer my question.’
There was another long silence. Vashnar sensed the voices returning and the figure swayed slightly. ‘I cannot. How I came to be thus…’ It made an airy gesture and the voices rose and fell with it. ‘… I do not know. But our enemies are so, too. That I know. They too, were defeated. All that was, then, was changed… transmuted.’ Its voice became strident. ‘We had armies beyond your imagining. And engines of war beyond your imagining. Engines that would unravel the very being – the very essence – of our enemies. No living thing could stand against us. Victory was in our grasp.’ The voice faltered and became bewildered and uncertain. ‘I see another conjunction – but one that should not have been. Our enemies must have…’ The figure raised an arm across its hood as if to protect its eyes. ‘I see a brightness moving across the land, across the oceans – moving through all that lived, moving scarcely at the pace of a walking man – but relentlessly growing, sustaining itself. And all fleeing its touch – believer and heretic alike.’
‘And none escaped,’ Vashnar said. The words came unbidden and chilled him to his heart with their certainty. He did not know where the knowledge came from.
‘None escaped,’ the figure confirmed softly. ‘And then there was only a brightness beyond bearing – a re-shaping, a re-making. I…’
The figure fell silent and lowered its arm.
Vashnar did not speak for some time, and when he did, his voice was cold. ‘And you – defeated – would offer me your help?’
The figure stiffened and Vashnar felt its scrutiny of him return. ‘Allwere defeated, Vashnar. Our enemy’s treachery brought about their own destruction.’ The voice was wilfully restrained. ‘That I am here – that the power of my followers is mine now as it never could have been before – marks my victory, not my defeat.’
‘I see no power. Only the antics of a market shaman gulling the public.’
The coldness touched him again and, unexpectedly, the voice became relaxed and easy. ‘Yes. I forget myself. I forget the needs of your form must be met. Here is a touch of the power – a zephyr touch, light, caressing.’ Something struck Vashnar in the chest. The force of the blow made him stagger backwards and almost toppled him over the handrail. With an oath he recovered his balance and started forward angrily. After one pace however, he found he could move no further. It was as though a great hand were effortlessly restraining him. He glowered at the motionless figure.
‘No market shaman ever gulled the public thus, I think,’ it said quietly, in reply to Vashnar’s unspoken curses. ‘And no greater effort would be needed to bind whole armies – to raze entire cities.’ Vashnar felt the restraint slip away. He was momentarily tempted to advance on the figure and strike it down, but calmer counsels prevailed. He had been struck and then held by a force which he could neither see nor resist. That was indisputable. Further, his every instinct told him that the figure’s last remark had been no empty boast. And throughout, the figure had not even moved.
‘Do not ask how this can be,’ it said, forestalling the question that Vashnar was just forming. ‘It is beyond anything you could understand. Suffice it that it is, and that it is mine to command as I wish – or as you wish.’
Vashnar caught the faint hint of dissatisfaction in the voice. ‘Why then do you offer it to me? No one relinquishes power voluntarily.’
The figure bowed slightly, like a teacher acknowledging the work of a gifted pupil. ‘Circumstance constrains me to this half-place to which you have brought me, but, that changed, the nature of the power itself will still constrain me to your new-formed world. While you, with the will and the key to move in the worlds beyond, will find yourself constrained from using the power yourself. Only together can we achieve what must be achieved.’
The memory of the turbulent vision that the figure had drawn him from returned to Vashnar. ‘What are these places? Why would you wish to travel to them?’
‘Because chaos reigns there and chaos threatens all things. Only through order can perfection be attained and only such as we can bring order to these places. It is our destiny.’ The fierce passion in both the figure’s words and its demeanour swept through Vashnar. The voices returned, clamouring noisily.
Abruptly, they were silent and the figure was watching him again. ‘But these plans are for the future. We must start where we find ourselves – nurture into a great tree the seeds that you have planted and tended here.’ It held out a hand. ‘Accept my help. Not the wildest of your ambitions can be denied you if you do.’
Vashnar reached out to take it, but then hesitated. ‘You spoke before of another – someone beyond your touching, you said. A powerful enemy.’
The figure withdrew its hand. ‘There is. I sense him both inside you and beyond – dark and menacing. He bears a remnant of our old enemy. It is dormant or weak, or both, but I cannot destroy it without destroying you too.’ The figure looked around. ‘This place is a shadow, Vashnar. Somewhere in your world is its true form or a lingering part of it. Find it and seek me out again when you are there. Follow the call I will leave you with. Our strength will be greater by far there.’
‘But this enemy, is it Thyrn?’
‘Names have no meaning for me. You know who it is. Follow the call of this place and he will come too. He can do no other. Then you can kill him.’ The voice became commanding again. ‘A word of warning, keyholder. Do not assail him anywhere other than in that place you think of as your world.’ The hand was extended again, urgently. Vashnar grasped it without hesitation. For the briefest of moments he felt a warm muscular grip, then the figure was gone and the surrounding greyness was sweeping him away.
He rolled on to his back and looked up at the black-beamed ceiling.
‘Are you all right?’ Vellain said softly, as if afraid of wakening him. ‘Has anything happened?’
Vashnar held up his hand. ‘Give me a moment,’ he said. He closed his eyes and went through all that had just happened.
Everything was quite clear. Wherever he had been, it was no less real than the bedroom he was now lying in. He had a choice now. He could fret and fume and denounce the folly of his senses for so vividly misleading him, or he could embrace without question the mysterious opportunity that had been given to him and listen to the faint call of the voices he could now hear within him.
He opened his eyes and, smiling, beckoned his wife.
Nordath started upright, wide awake. There was a little light in the tent from the remains of the camp fire and he could just see that Thyrn was also sitting up. He needed no light to know that something was wrong; he could hear Thyrn shaking.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked urgently.
‘Vashnar,’ came the trembling reply after he asked again.
Nordath struggled in the darkness to find the small lantern that Endryk had given them. When he found and struck it, he drew a shocked breath. The mellow light of the lantern etched deep shadows in Thyrn’s face, making him look haggard and old. His eyes were wide with fear.
‘Vashnar?’ Nordath stammered, instinctively reaching out to his nephew, at the same time glancing round the tent half expecting to find that the architect of all their troubles had suddenly manifested himself.
Thyrn grasped the outstretched hand desperately, making Nordath wince. ‘Gently,’ he pleaded. Thyrn not responding, Nordath wrenched his hand free and turned up the light of the lantern. In the increased brightness, Thyrn’s eyes were still wide with fear and Nordath could see that his brow was slick with sweat.
‘You’re all right, Thyrn,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You’re safe. You’re in the camp in the mountains, remember? Rhavvan and Nals are on guard duty.’
Thyrn made no acknowledgement other than to nod his head vaguely. Then he turned to his uncle. Nordath could not respond to the pain he saw reflected there other than to wrap his arms around the young man. They remained thus for some time. Thyrn’s trembling gradually lessened, but it was a slithering interruption by Nals, curious about this unexpected night-time activity, which finally prised them gently apart.
‘What’s happened?’ Nordath asked, as soon as he felt that Thyrn had composed himself sufficiently. ‘Have you been Joined with Vashnar again? Or was it just a nightmare?’
Thyrn’s hands were still shaking and he brought them towards his face. For a moment, Nordath thought that his inquiry had been too soon and that his nephew was going to drop back into the immobilizing terror out of which he had just clambered, but determination vied with fear in Thyrn’s face and after a moment he forced his hands down. They massaged his thighs while he spoke.
‘A Joining? Yes. No. I don’t know! It was certainly no dream, and like nothing I’ve ever experienced with Vashnar. Though…’
‘Is everything all right? I saw the light – heard you talking.’
It was Rhavvan, discreetly peering into the tent. He answered his own question with a knowing, ‘Oh,’ as he looked at Thyrn. ‘Something’s happened again, has it?’ he said, more statement than question and unexpectedly concerned. ‘I can soon build the fire up if you want to sit and talk about it. The night’s mild.’
Thyrn hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I… I need to think. Clear my thoughts.’
‘Whatever you want,’ Rhavvan said understandingly. ‘I’ll build the fire up anyway.’
After he had gone, Thyrn looked about the tent, almost as though he expected to find himself somewhere else. The faint sounds of Rhavvan stirring the fire impinged on the two men in the heightened silence.
‘I will go outside, I feel trapped in here,’ Thyrn said eventually, his voice steadier. He pulled on his jacket and crawled out of the tent. Nordath followed him.
Rhavvan emerged out of the darkness beyond the firelight. Though he did not speak, his manner reflected both curiosity and anxiety and he gave Nordath an inquiring look. Nordath silently counselled patience. Thyrn gazed around into the night as he had in the tent. He seemed to be reassuring himself about something. Then he sat down by the fire and dropped his head into his hands. Nordath joined him, his manner anxious. Rhavvan stepped forward and then crouched down to lessen his own intimidating presence. Thyrn’s posture, however, was one of resignation rather than despair, as was confirmed by his expression when he looked up again and stared into the fire. Disturbed by Rhavvan’s recent coaxing, a smouldering branch suddenly flared up, sending a flurry of sparks cascading up into the darkness, like frantic messengers from a battle catastrophe. Thyrn watched them.
‘I wish all this would go away,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘All I ever wanted was just to…’ He stopped and his expression changed. ‘Was just to…’ He turned to Nordath, his face a mixture of surprise and mounting alarm. ‘I don’t know what I wanted.’ He stood up. ‘I don’t know what I ever wanted. I thought… do as you’re told – do what my parents want – please them. Then the money… prestige… youngest White Master… Caddoran to the Senior Warden, but…’ His voice faded then suddenly he gave a great wordless cry of anger and frustration. ‘Now all this! What am I doing here, Uncle? Chased across the country like a wild animal. For what? I’ve done nothing wrong. I never did anything wrong. But here I am, in the middle of nowhere, living in a tent, hunting for food, washing in freezing streams or out of a cup, tending horses. Just because Vashnar…’ He stopped abruptly. By now the impromptu gathering had been joined by Hyrald, Adren and Endryk in various states of alarm and undress. He looked round at them, motionless figures in the flickering firelight. ‘Someone tell me I’m not going mad.’
‘Mad is the last thing you are.’ It was Endryk. ‘Troubled, frightened, yes. Like the rest of us. But mad, no.’
‘Then why’s this happening to me? Why me?’ He blasted the question at all of them.
‘Why not?’ Nordath’s reply was as brutal as it was unexpected. Thyrn gaped at him. ‘Why did that particular deer have to die the other day? Why are some people born crooked and bent? Why do some get sick and die, scarcely your age? Why does someone get killed by a bolting horse while another standing next to him lives? And good fortune’s no different. Why is Endryk – a stranger, a foreigner – here to help us? Beyond a certain point we just have to accept that there’s no reason that we can hope to find, just an endless chain of tiny “if onlys”, reaching back for ever, each link splitting into its own endless chains, and so on. Once you’re at that point, all that matters is not “why?” but what you do. Are you going to pick your way down those endless chains or are you going to forge your own links?’ Despite the harshness of what he was saying, his voice was full of compassion. ‘The difference between young and old usually lies in when and how they realize this and how they cope with it, Thyrn. I learned it slowly, gently, drip by drip. Endryk, I suspect, learned it the hard way – brutally, in battle. Rhavvan, Adren, Hyrald…’ He shrugged. ‘… Who knows? Some people never learn it. Never have even the slightest grasp of the worth of their lives. You’re learning it right now, like Endryk – brutally. But at least you’re not on your own.’
Thyrn was still gaping at him when he finished. He made several attempts to speak before managing, ‘Damn you, Uncle. That’s not what I want.’
‘It’s all I’ve got to give,’ Nordath replied starkly. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you? It’s not the first time you’ve asked that question. You mightn’t be able to answer it, but you’ve decided what to do about it. You’re going forward, aren’t you? Why else would you have learned more from Endryk than the rest of us put together?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘Just tell us what’s upset you so much, then we can all move on. You said it was a kind of Joining with Vashnar.’
Thyrn looked at each of his companions in turn as if some answer to his original plaint might be lingering there, but found nothing.
‘Sit down, Thyrn,’ Hyrald said. ‘You know by now that we’re your friends and that we’ll help you as far as we’re able. But your uncle also loves you, and you can know beyond any doubt that anything he does for you is in your best interests.’
Slowly Thyrn sat down. Rhavvan put some more wood on the fire.
Thyrn closed his eyes. ‘I understand what you mean, Uncle,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘But like almost everything else, I simply don’t understand any of what’s just happened – except that it was awful. And I don’t think I can do anything about it. I think I’m the one who’s going to fall under the horse’s hooves.’
‘Fortunately, none of us can know the future,’ Nordath said. ‘Tell us as well as you can. However it comes, dragging it into the open certainly won’t make it any worse.’
Thyrn nodded reluctantly and paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘I was very tired. I remember listening to you all talking for a few minutes – I couldn’t hear anything, of course, but it was a comforting sound. I was thinking about what I owed you all. How I should help more.’ He cleared his throat self-consciously, then smiled. ‘And I thought I heard the little old man again. “Light be with you,” he said.’ Endryk glanced at him sharply but did not speak. ‘That was very odd. Not unpleasant, just odd. As if he was there with me and a long way away at the same time. Then, I must have gone to sleep. I don’t remember you coming to bed, Uncle.’
‘You were fast asleep,’ Nordath confirmed.
Thyrn gritted his teeth and took a deep breath.