‘That way.’
There was urgency in Ibryen’s voice and, without reference to his companions, he set off up the hill. Rachyl and the Traveller watched him for a moment, then, when it seemed he had no intention of slowing down, they hurried after him.
‘What’s the matter? Where are you going?’ Rachyl asked when she finally caught up with him.
‘This way,’ Ibryen said, pointing, but not stopping.
Rachyl frowned. ‘We can’t go much further,’ she protested. ‘This ground’s treacherous enough. There’s no saying what it’ll be like up there. And the light’ll be gone soon. We should camp here. Tackle this fresh in the morning.’
Ibryen did not reply. Rachyl looked at the Traveller. He in his turn looked at Ibryen.
‘What have you heard, Count?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Ibryen replied edgily, still ploughing forward. ‘But something’s changing. Something’s…’ He shook his head. ‘… either beginning or ending, I don’t know. But we mustn’t delay. We must…’
‘Must what?’ Rachyl burst out, seizing his arm and forcing him to a halt. ‘Break our necks going headlong up this slope in the dark?’ She started to shout. ‘Not that we need anyone to break a neck – an ankle will do out here. And it’ll be me who has to carry you back to camp. What in pity’s name are you doing?’
For a moment, Ibryen seemed set to tear free from her grip and start off again, then he looked from Rachyl’s angry face to the Traveller. ‘Can’t you hear it?’ he asked, almost plaintively.
The Traveller shook his head. ‘It’s getting fainter and fainter. Whatever it is. It is this way, but I doubt I’d have found it so easily if you hadn’t pointed it out.’ He gave Rachyl an apologetic glance. ‘Somethingis happening. I don’t think we have time on our side.’
‘We don’t have light on our side either,’ Rachyl announced, through clenched teeth. ‘Nor terrain.’ She took Ibryen’s other arm and only just stopped herself from shaking him violently. Without releasing him, she paused to calm herself. ‘Listen, Cousin,’ she said eventually, and speaking with great deliberation. ‘I don’t know what’s driving you, but I trust you and I’ll back you up, you know that. But unless you’re absolutely sure a dangerous night scramble up this mountainside is going to give us a definite strategic advantage against the Gevethen, then we should camp here, now.’
She spoke not as to her Liege Lord and Commander, but as to an obdurate child. Her manner reached Ibryen. He cast an anxious look up towards the darkening mountain then closed his eyes resignedly.
‘Yes,’ he said fretfully. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Suppose doesn’t come into it,’ Rachyl retorted, her anger slipping through.
The Traveller intervened. ‘That’s settled then. Let’s find somewhere to camp before it’s completely dark.’ He did not wait for any discussion but motioned his companions away from the broken edge of the forest. Ibryen moved after him and Rachyl followed, watching Ibryen warily.
Within minutes the Traveller had found a small clearing and was busy lighting a fire. It flared up quickly and, with much noisy crackling, shrank the world to a flickering dome. The Traveller produced a pan from somewhere and was soon heating up a stew made out of the remains of the rabbit, some of the tubers on which they had breakfasted, and a variety of odds and ends that he had collected during their journey that day. The savoury smell that filled the firelit clearing took all minds away from their immediate concerns.
‘Tree-scented mountain air, fine walking, and the subtle blending of nature’s gifts. What more could one want?’ the Traveller said, lifting a small spoonful to his lips with relish. ‘Here’s to refined and discerning appetites.’
Rachyl gave him a puzzled look, then delved into her pack and produced a small loaf of bread. She tore it up and thrust the mutilated portions at her companions. ‘Here’s to greed,’ she said, holding a plate out impatiently. The Traveller gave a little sigh and looked sorrowfully at the stew before giving it a final stir and ladling it out.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ibryen said, as they ate. ‘I don’t know what happened to me just then. Something seemed to take hold of me. It demanded…’ He paused.
‘Demanded what?’ the Traveller asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Ibryen said vaguely. ‘That I go to it… listen to it…’ He shrugged.
‘Is it still there?’
‘Yes. But I seem to have more control over it – or over what I feel about it. While I have you two to hold me here.’
‘You don’t sound too sure,’ Rachyl said, wiping out her dish with the remains of her bread. She crammed it into her mouth.
‘Did you enjoy that, my dear?’ the Traveller asked caustically.
Rachyl smacked her stomach. ‘Excellent,’ she declared, leaning back against a tree. She peered into the pan. ‘All gone, has it? Pity. We must take some of these herbs back to the camp. In fact, I think I’ll suggest we make you duty cook when we get back.’
‘I’ve rarely been so honoured,’ the Traveller replied in the same acid vein.
Rachyl grinned, then looked at Ibryen, still eating thoughtfully. ‘What’s the matter, Cousin?’ she asked, her heartiness turned to concern. ‘Explain. What do you mean, we hold you here?’
Ibryen replied to the Traveller. ‘It’s almost as if there are two parts to me. One, here, now. The other, wandering somewhere, lost.’ He held up a cautionary hand to Rachyl. ‘It’s all right. I’m neither crazy, nor sick. I’ve thought perhaps I might be over the last few days but it’s like when you’re wandering the ridges in the mist and you see a vague light, in the sky, as you think. And as you get closer to it, it gets clearer until, without you noticing the change, it’s not a light in the sky any more, it’s a lake shining in the valley below. Now I’m closer, things are clearer, less disorienting.’
It was an analogy that Rachyl appreciated. Ibryen’s brow furrowed. ‘Not as clear as a mountain lake, unfortunately. It’s still a strange light in the sky but itis there. It isn’t my eyes or my imagination playing tricks.’
The Traveller leaned forward earnestly, the firelight deepening the lines on his face and throwing his eyes into deep shadow. ‘Tell us what you can of this other place you’re in.’
Ibryen smiled broadly. ‘Still misty,’ he said. ‘And that’s the best I can do.’ The Traveller looked inclined to pursue the matter but decided against it. ‘But we must leave early and press on urgently,’ Ibryen added. ‘Something is slipping away. Moving from here and disappearing now into the mist. And it mustn’t. We must find it. And soon.’
Ibryen was troubled with strange visions again that night. He was alone in the mist, greyness all about him. And the Gevethen were there too, somewhere, as lost as he was. He looked around, but nothing was to be seen. Yet there were voices all about him. Briefly, two of them became Rachyl and the Traveller talking soft and low – tenderly? The campfire was in front of him, glowing through the haze. Then a haunting music floated out of nowhere and swept up the orange glow of the fire and, wrapping it all about him, carried him into places beyond. Places between the pulse of all things, where he debated with learned men, and where great truths were revealed to him, from the Great Heat at the Beginning of All Things to the dancing creation of the mountains and the seas, and all the life that dwelt in them, some seen, some not.
It was so simple, so clear.
And flawed!
He was suddenly wide awake. And the thoughts that were not his were going… were gone. They slithered from his memory and vanished like smoke in a breeze as he strove to grasp them.
He was merely himself again: Ibryen, deposed Count of Nesdiryn, with his Cousin Rachyl and the strange Traveller trekking through long-untrodden mountains.
And too old to be sleeping out like this, he mused ruefully as his shoulder told him he had rolled on to a stone during the night. Gingerly he levered himself up on one elbow and cast a pained eye at the sky. It was dull, but clear. Not yet sunrise, but the fine weather looked as though it might still be with them. That was good. At the moment, he didn’t want to think too closely about the consequences of continuing this journey if the weather turned bad. They must make as much progress as they could today.
Even as the thought formed, the call was about him again, urging him forward.
‘We are coming,’ he replied inwardly, not knowing how he did it.
The call quivered and a rush of familiar emotions ran through him.
‘We are coming,’ he said again. Then he drew himself back to the cold dawn mountainside and stood up, shivering. Stretching himself elaborately to ease the stiffness out of his limbs, he glanced around the little camp. He was alone. Rachyl’s blanket was draped across a branch, but neither she nor the Traveller were to be seen. He reached down and checked the fire. The grey ashes had been carefully raked and it was still hot underneath. He was touched by the thought that they had awoken early and once again left him undisturbed while they went about preparing breakfast. However, the Commander in him determined not to let it happen again. He was not the invalid of the party; he must pull his weight.
‘Ah, you’re awake.’
It was Rachyl. She was smiling and looked very happy. She held up two partly plucked birds. ‘Caught these myself,’ she said proudly, brushing feathers off her tunic. ‘Still got the knack. Can’t have him doing everything for us, can we?’ She winked. ‘Finish these and draw them, will you?’
Taken aback by both her demeanour and the two still-warm birds thrust into his hands, Ibryen answered the questions the wrong way round. ‘Yes. No.’ Then he managed to gather a little authority into his voice. ‘And by the same token, you must stop letting me lie asleep after wake-up.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Rachyl replied with the heavy respect of complete insincerity.
A jaunty whistling speared into the little clearing before Ibryen could assert himself further.
‘A fine day ahead of us,’ the Traveller said, clapping his hands together and smiling.
‘Everyone’s extremely cheerful this morning,’ Ibryen said, almost churlishly.
‘A good night’s sleep, Count, that’s all. An appreciation of… simple pleasures.’ The Traveller patted him on the back and chuckled to himself. When he saw Ibryen fumbling with the birds his manner became quieter. ‘How does he cook?’ he asked Rachyl.
‘Badly,’ Rachyl replied without giving the question any thought. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do them. You brighten that fire up.’
‘You’ll have to make the most of this meal,’ the Traveller said as he bent over the ashes. ‘I’ve picked a few more roots and bits and pieces, but once we get above the trees you’ll have to start using your supplies.’
‘We?’ queried Ibryen. ‘You too, I presume.’
The Traveller was dismissive. ‘Yes, but I need a lot less than you. And I can live on grasses and mosses if I have to. I belong here, don’t forget, just like those birds and the rabbit.’
Rachyl shot him a glance. ‘I thanked the birds,’ she said.
The fire blazed up and the Traveller nodded with genuine appreciation. ‘I know you did,’ he said. ‘I heard you.’ Then, imitating the fire, mischief flared into his eyes. ‘As I heard you catching them. Thought it was another avalanche.’
Rachyl contented herself with a scowl as she snatched the birds back from Ibryen’s unhappy fingers.
Though the breakfast was relaxed and pleasant, there was an undertow of restlessness and they did not linger unduly. The sun was just beginning to strike the tops of some of the higher peaks when they broke camp and they were soon moving steadily uphill. For most of the way they kept to the edge of the forest to avoid the chaotic disturbance that marked the passage of the avalanche. Ibryen however, found himself increasingly drawn towards the lower shoulder of the mountain and as they drew nearer to the treeline, he directed them across the damaged swathe. It was slow, unpleasant walking, across loose mildewed rocks and over rotting tree trunks and dead undergrowth tangled about with creepers and new foliage. Progress was not helped by a series of fast-moving but wide and shallow streams still uncertain about the route they should be taking through this new landscape.
Eventually reaching the other side they began moving up the rocky shoulder without pause. It was steep and craggy but still negotiable with care. For the first time, Ibryen gained a small insight into the Traveller’s climbing abilities as the little man clambered effortlessly from rock to rock while he and Rachyl laboured along behind. Further, he had an uncanny eye for routes which made the climb much easier than it might have been. Nevertheless, despite the guidance he was giving, he was constantly having to stop and wait for them although he showed no impatience at their relative sluggishness. The sun was high when they reached the top of the shoulder and the view of the surrounding peaks and valleys was breathtaking. Despite the cold wind that was blowing over the ridge, they stood for some time gazing around before taking a brief rest in the lee of a small outcrop.
Ibryen took the opportunity to examine the record that Rachyl had been keeping of the route they had followed so far, then they went over it together verbally, to ensure that it was clear in their minds.
‘We’re moving generally south-east,’ Rachyl announced. Then, with a hint of irony, ‘How much longer before we reach this Girnlant of yours, Traveller?’
‘Quite a time,’ the Traveller replied, tilting his head back as though he were scenting the air. ‘It’s more south, south-west from here. If we carry on long enough in this direction we’ll come to the ocean.’
Rachyl looked impressed. ‘I’ve never seen the ocean. Have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it like?’
The Traveller raised an eyebrow. ‘Very flat,’ he replied. ‘And wet.’
Rachyl’s eyebrows came together. ‘Very droll. What’s it really like?’
The Traveller thought for a moment. ‘It’s not my place,’ he said. ‘I find it beautiful but very frightening. It’s like and unlike the mountains. Where the mountains are sheer and immobile, the ocean’s flat and full of movement. But they’re both powerful and indifferent, full of grim chances that can sweep you aside like…’ He pulled a stray feather clinging to his sleeve and released it into the wind; it leapt away from him, flying high, twisting and turning, then it was gone. ‘… like the merest feather. And too, if you don’t pay heed, forget who and where you are…’ He drew a finger across his throat. Then he became agitated. ‘And not a foothold to be found anywhere. How people can get into boats and go wobbling across it defies me. The merest thickness of timber between them and those dark cold depths.’ He concluded with a violent shudder.
Rachyl, who could swim and who had rafted on mountain lakes, was about to allow herself a touch of disdain but the Traveller forestalled her. ‘It’s not like the puddles you find round here. Even the largest are as nothing. I’ve stood high above where the mountains and the sea meet. Eavesdropped on their mighty discourse. Heard the rumbling belly of the water and the creaking roots of the mountains. Listened to the whispering chatter of the air and the spuming spray. Watched waves many times the height of your Council Hall storming in like crazed horses and smashing into cliffs, time after time, then fuming up them as if they were trying to bring the peaks themselves down.’
Both Rachyl and Ibryen were listening enthralled by the Traveller’s passionate description. ‘Will we see it?’ Rachyl asked.
The Traveller smiled and shook his head. ‘Wherever we’re going, it’s much nearer here than the ocean.’ When Rachyl looked disappointed, he raised a hand for silence, and tilted his head to one side. ‘Close your eyes and listen. Both of you. There’s enough material here for me to bring the sea to you.’
Ibryen was reluctant. ‘We should be pressing on,’ he said, making to stand up.
‘The merest moment, Count,’ the Traveller protested. ‘Close your eyes. Listen.’
Seeing Rachyl’s eyes already closed. Ibryen gave the Traveller a reproachful look then closed his own.
For a few seconds there was only the sound of the wind buffeting around their shelter, then, changing almost imperceptibly, it became the sound of pounding breakers and the hiss of swirling spray. At its height, the din of the waves was counterpointed by the high-pitched cries of squabbling gulls. Neither Ibryen nor Rachyl could have said how long they listened to the Traveller’s strange creation, but, as mysteriously as it came, so it faded, until there was only the sound of the wind again.
When they opened their eyes, the Traveller was looking at them expectantly. ‘Only a quick sketch,’ he said.
Ibryen smiled appreciatively and Rachyl applauded. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked.
The Traveller stood up, laughing. ‘Not an answerable question,’ he replied. Then, to Ibryen, ‘Which way now?’
Ibryen levered himself to his feet and cast about briefly before pointing. ‘Clearer now by far, and still urgent,’ he said.
‘You’re sure it’s that way?’ Rachyl asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Pity,’ Rachyl muttered. For Ibryen was pointing away from the peak they were standing on, and towards its neighbour which was higher by far and snow-capped. ‘We can’t get up there,’ she said. ‘There’s too few of us and we’ve not enough equipment.’
‘Oh, I don’t know…’ the Traveller began.
‘I do,’ Rachyl said unequivocally. ‘There are limits to this venture, and going to the top of that is one of them. Perhaps you can make it on your own, I don’t know. If you crossed the Hummock, then I suppose it’s possible. Maybe I could make it, with a team.’ She flicked a thumb at Ibryen. ‘But he couldn’t.’
Ibryen had too accurate a knowledge of his own climbing skills to be offended by this seemingly casual judgement. He stepped away from his companions and stared up at the mountain. Rachyl and the Traveller watched him in silence.
The need of whatever was calling, filled him.
‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘It is too dangerous. But this is the way we have to go.’ He Looked at the Traveller. ‘What do you hear?’ he asked.
‘Precious little,’ the Traveller replied. ‘It’s been fading steadily since we set out.’
‘But this way?’
The Traveller nodded. Ibryen turned to Rachyl. ‘We’ll go as far as we can,’ he said. ‘If the conditions become too difficult…’ He pulled a sour face and shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to turn back.’
‘Go back with nothing?’
More reproach came through in her voice than she had intended. Ibryen felt the weight of his responsibilities return redoubled. ‘Go back with nothing,’ he confirmed coldly, straightening up. ‘At the worst, that’s what it’ll have to be. This has always been little more than a scouting trip.’
‘I think we left higher expectations than that behind us,’ Rachyl said, the reproach continuing.
Ibryen scowled. ‘This isn’t the time for this debate,’ he said. ‘More than ever I know there’s something very strange out there.’ He pointed. ‘Something powerful and something that needs help. If we can’t reach it, or if we reach it and it’s of no value to us against the Gevethen, then so be it. I can’t leave its… call… unanswered. We take back to the village what we take back, and deal with what we find there as we find it. Now we continue until circumstances bring about a conclusion. All else is needless speculation.’
He swung his pack on to his back and strode off. Rachyl hesitated for a moment as if she had something further to say, then she set off after him in silence. The Traveller watched them both for a while then extended his hands into the air. ‘Go now, be free again. And take my thanks with you,’ he said softly, and once more the air was filled with the sound of breaking waves and screeching gulls. It soared high above its creator, twisting and turning, until it was gone – dispersed into the myriad other tiny sounds from which it had been woven.
The three travellers walked on in silence for a considerable time, Ibryen carrying his dark mood like a shield. Though the call that was drawing him onward was clearer than it had ever been, so the call of his duty to his people seemed to grow relentlessly as he moved steadily away from them. It brought doubt and anxiety with it, weighing him down. Rachyl too was withdrawn. It troubled her that she had aired her concerns and thus burdened her cousin when she had intended only to support him. But many things had changed for her since the arrival of the Traveller, and the prospect of returning to life in the embattled village with its grim, albeit necessary routines, disturbed her in ways she could not define. Even the Traveller was quieter than usual, walking at the rear, head lowered, perhaps regretting the fact that he could not give freedom to his companions as easily as he had to the nebulous components of his seascape.
And the mountain they were approaching seemed to mock them all with its cold and hulking indifference. As the day passed, it took on an element of their darkness, clouds beginning to form about its summit, and though the weather about them remained fine and sunny, the three walkers found themselves moving steadily further underneath this grey canopy.
Ironically, and despite the mountain’s dark welcome, once they started to climb again their various moods began to lighten. The Traveller’s nimbler gait carried him back into the lead as he sought out the easiest ways forward while Rachyl and Ibryen came together to share a common bond of mild envy at the little man’s agility and seemingly boundless energy.
After a while, the sunnier regions of the mountains moving further away from them, and their height up the mountain having increased considerably, the wind became both stronger and colder and they were obliged to stop and change into warmer clothes. Nothing was said of the sullen silence they had spent much of the day sharing.
‘Another hour and we’ll be almost on the snowline,’ Rachyl said.
‘And in need of somewhere to camp,’ Ibryen added.
It was an accurate estimate. When they stopped an hour later, streaks of snow were to be seen in hollows here and there, and a low, brilliant sun was flooding in under the mountain’s cloud, washing out such colour as there was in the rocks and throwing long, fantastic shadows. It seemed also to wash out the remains of the inner gloom that had darkened the day for the three companions as they gazed around at the transformed landscape. It would have been possible for them to climb a little higher with the help of the fading light, but they decided against it. Once the sun was gone, the clouds overhead would darken the mountain quickly and the going would become very difficult, not least because of the thickening snow they could see ahead.
They found an area out of the wind, and Ibryen produced the small tent he had been carrying. ‘It’s a touch intimate, but it’ll take the three of us,’ he said.
The Traveller looked at it critically and then tested the fabric between his forefinger and thumb. ‘Not bad,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ll decline your offer, Count, if you don’t mind.’ He patted his pack. ‘I have my own protection against the elements, and I tend not to sleep very much anyway. I’m afraid you’d find me a restless bedfellow.’ He winked at Rachyl who turned away from Ibryen and, shielding her eyes with her hand, began peering towards the sun. The Traveller laughed. ‘And I doubt I’d be able to resist doing something with your snores.’
Rachyl turned round, indignant. ‘I do not snore,’ she proclaimed forcefully.
The Traveller retreated, waving a self-reproaching finger. ‘Ah! Of course. My mistake. I meant your susurrant breathing, my dear, with its many subtle textures – gossamer tinged with the innocent peace of sleep…’
‘Nor am I your dear,’ Rachyl added grimly, cutting across his laudation. ‘Come on,’ she said brusquely to Ibryen. ‘Let’s get this tent up and some food inside us.’
They ate well enough, having with them the remains of the two birds, some tubers and herbs and enough kindling to light a small fire. It lacked the relaxed quality of their previous meals however, not for want of either geniality or decent food, but because of the wind. Now resolute and full of the remains of winter it kept buffeting round into the lee of the rocks where they had set up camp, shaking them all like an unwelcome guest. The fire, encased in an impromptu oven the Traveller had made from stones, snarled and roared at it for some time, like an ill-tempered guard dog, though eventually it sank back, spent, and became a dull red glow. Such light as they had came mainly from a small lantern that Ibryen had lit as the daylight finally faded.
No one seemed disposed to talk a great deal, each being rapt in their own thoughts. Rachyl drew her sword and examined it. The blade was dull except for the edge which glinted brightly in the lantern-light. She tested it carefully with her thumb, then took a neatly folded cloth from a leather bag on her belt and began wiping the blade with it. A pungent, oily smell filled the tiny camp.
‘You anticipate needing that?’ the Traveller asked after watching her for some time, his expression unreadable.
‘Oh yes,’ Rachyl replied, sheathing the sword and delicately folding the cleaning rag. She looked up and met the Traveller’s gaze. ‘Perhaps not within the next few minutes, or even on this whole journey, but yes, I anticipate using it again – many times until the Gevethen are defeated.’
‘Or you’re dead.’
Rachyl nodded. ‘Or I’m dead,’ she agreed without emotion.
‘A waste,’ the Traveller said.
Rachyl closed her eyes briefly then opened them and held him with a relentless stare. ‘No. Not so. I’d have preferred another direction for my life, but who could say where and what I might be now if things hadn’t gone the way they did. We all of us do what we do because of where we are, and nothing’s to be served by howling to the moon about it. It would have been worse than a waste for me to sit idly by while the Gevethen destroyed everything I’d ever cared for.’ She spoke quietly and without either the passion or bitterness that often coloured her speech when she talked of the Gevethen.
The Traveller held her gaze gently for a little while then lowered his eyes and looked into the dying fire. ‘It was an insensitive remark. I’m sorry. I live a simple and selfish life. I’m still not fully used to being amongst people again. It’s so complicated.’
Ibryen watched and listened to the exchange, sensing a deeper meaning in it than just the words. But he was too troubled with his own concerns to give it too much heed. Though he had somehow learned to set himself apart from the call that had drawn him here, it was not easy and the need within the call was becoming more intense, more disturbing.
‘Enough,’ he said, forcing it aside again. ‘We’ll tell you when you’re causing offence, Traveller. Why don’t you…’ he waved his arms vaguely, in search of an idea. ‘… teach us that whistling language of yours?’
‘Yes,’ Rachyl agreed, abruptly enthusiastic.
Her enthusiasm was not shared by the Traveller however, who looked at the supplicants rather as if they had asked him to teach a rock how to swim.
‘It’s very difficult,’ he claimed uncomfortably. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Yes, you would. Go on.’ Rachyl’s arm reached across the fire and pushed him, uncharacteristically girlish. It was not an argument that could be withstood and for some time thereafter the mountain rang to a mixture of penetrating whistles and laughter.
‘It’s no good,’ Rachyl conceded finally, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘I’m out of breath, sweating like a bull, and my jaw’s aching.’
Ibryen was little better, rubbing his face and laughing. He nodded in earnest agreement. The Traveller was looking as much bemused as amused. ‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ he said. ‘This is very elementary. All you have to do is…’
‘No more, no more!’ Ibryen protested, still laughing. ‘We’ll be foaming at the mouth if we carry on. I’m afraid we’ll have to admit defeat and stick to our crude signalling language.’
‘It goes against the grain to give up on you so soon,’ the Traveller said, ‘but at least you’ve fulfilled one requirement of the language already – you’re enjoying yourselves. I think you’ll make good progress if you give it a few hours’ practice a day for a year or so.’ This brought on a further spasm of laughter.
When it died down, the Traveller smiled broadly. ‘A good sound,’ he said, looking around as if watching the laughter on its journey through the darkness. Then he started whistling, if whistling is the word for the full, deep sound that he made. A bouncing jig of a tune emerged which defied hands and feet to remain still and, for a few minutes, Ibryen and Rachyl could have been sat about a comfortable hearth celebrating some happy occasion, two people far removed from any form of conflict. The tune finished with a loud, high-pitched note which, as it faded, was lost under the applause of the audience.
‘You’re a writer of tunes as well as a Sound Carver, then?’ Rachyl said.
The Traveller affected modesty. ‘I’m no Sound Carver, I’m afraid – a passing fair apprentice, perhaps, but a mere shadow of a true Carver. And even that tune isn’t mine.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I learned it not long ago, from a man in a dream.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘At least I think it was a dream. As I remember, he was very insistent that it was his dream. Quite a disturbing experience in many ways.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, I’m here and he isn’t, so he was probably wrong – I think. And it’s an excellent tune, isn’t it?’ He whistled the last few measures again.
This time, as the sound died away, a gust of wind swept into their shelter, bringing a brief brightness to the dying fire and reminding them that they would be best advised to retire and let the night become dawn in the wink of an eye. But it brought other news as well. Both the Traveller and Ibryen started, and Rachyl reached for her sword again. For in the wind, faint but quite unmistakable, was the sound of someone whistling.