Anderras Darion was the name of Hawklan’s castle. Situated above the village of Pedhavin, it looked out over the undulating farm and forest lands of central Orthlund. Its construction showed little sign of age, though it was known to be ancient and its location was unusual in that its huge bulk sealed the mouth of a hanging valley. The great front wall bedded deep into the surrounding rock made it appear as if it were growing from the mountains like a natural outcrop, and its builders had fitted the local rock so cunningly that no line could be seen where the wall met the sides of the valley, nor where block fitted to block. Only the Great Gate and the towers rising from and behind the wall marked it as being other than one of nature’s extrava-gances.
The Gate was double-leaved and unusually high and, from a distance, appeared to be of timber overlain with plain polished bronze. However, closer examination showed it to be covered with countless tiny carvings depicting scenes from a great war and a great peace, and while no one knew what the Gate was made of, the intricate texture of the carvings was unaffected by both the onslaughts of winters and summers alike, and by the hands of generations of people who had travelled to see them and marvel.
Carvers from the Guild would climb the steep wind-ing road up from the village: sometimes alone, to learn again humility in the face of this wonder; sometimes with their apprentices, to sharpen the edge of their young aspirations. Fathers too would bring their children and read to them the stories enshrined in the seemingly endless patterning of the Gate, for Hawklan was no severe overlord: he was a healer. And though his castle overlooked the village, it blended so harmoni-ously with the mountains that, like them, it offered not menace, but stability and calm.
Although the Orthlundyn took little interest in myths and legends, on special days the villagers would picnic and dance on the grass mounds that fringed the foot of the Castle wall and, in token of the long ages when Anderras Darion was sealed and unassailable, someone would bring a ladder and climb high up the Gate and, painstakingly running his finger along the carvings for fear of losing his place in such fine workmanship, would tell the stories that could not normally be told. For even within the height of an ordinary man, there were stories enough for a lifetime.
Sometimes a blind man would come to the Gate and run his hands over its finely etched and scored surface, and the villagers would sit spellbound. For always he would tell a story different to the one that they could see, and always they went away laughing and excited.
Of the many strangers who visited the Gate, one alone lingered in the memories of the villagers. He was a tiny man and he came out of the mountains on a sharp and frosty day, trailing his tiny shadow in the wintry sun. He stared at the Gate for many an hour, and ran his hands across it with his eyes first open, then closed. Then he brought his face close to the surface, gently blew a long humming stream of misty air at the ornate patterning, and turned his ear to it in rapt concentra-tion. Those standing near say they heard a faint singing as from a great distance. The little man nodded and sighed, though not sadly.
‘This is a miraculous gate,’ he said to the group of curious children that had followed him. ‘You must listen to it when the wind blows. And even when it doesn’t. It holds more stories than you can see or feel, and they are all true.’
Then he went on his way and was never seen in the village again. The children puffed and blew at the Gate, but heard nothing, and soon forgot the little man, although occasionally, one of them, quieter than the others, would raise his hand suddenly for silence when a soft wind drifted up from the fields below.
‘Listen,’ he would say. ‘The Castle’s singing.’ But the others would laugh.
To the left of the Great Gate was a bubbling pool, the water from which spilled over the rocks and tumbled and cascaded its way down to join the river that ran through the outskirts of the village. This stream was from the valleys beyond the Castle, and its water was cold and clear and sharp. No one knew how deep the pool was, as nothing would sink in it, such was the uprush of water from it, even in the driest summer.
Atop the eyeless wall, towers and solid rectangular blocks of buildings grew in a random but not disordered manner, soaring up and raking back in tiers beyond the sight of anyone standing at its foot. Only the birds could see all the splendour of the Castle, but such as could be seen by earthbound creatures filled them with wonder and awe, and sober contemplation of the people who had made it. There were many skills in the land, but none could pretend to such as had made this edifice.
Anderras Darion gave a benign security to the vil-lage of Pedhavin. Its occupant was known and loved; the wicket in the Great Gate was always open, and the Gate alone was a joy and a wonder and a point of proud gossip in villages all around. And yet the Castle stood immovable and solid, its walls seeming to hold the mountains apart: unassailable by stone and ladder, fire and iron. Not even treachery would open the Great Gate once sealed, while the only other entrance was filled with churning, rushing water and who knew what else under the Castle’s deep foundations. The valley beyond was lush and fertile, and surrounded by high crags, made sheer and impregnable by the same skills that had made the Castle itself. Anderras Darion was a comfort-ing place, nestling in the mountains, like an old matriarch who radiated security, but whose merest glance could scatter her towering offspring.
Hawklan sat alone at a table in one of the smaller dining halls. Size, of course, is relative, and even though the hall was indeed smaller than many in the Castle, it would have comfortably accommodated several hundred diners and attendants. In the past it probably had. Hawklan however, was unaffected by his inappro-priate scale in this echoing room. He was slouched back in a carved chair and gazing idly at a splash of multi-coloured light making its leisurely but inexorable way across the table as the sun shone through a round window above. Cutting through the dust motes, the yellow ray left the scene enshrined in the glass resting uncertainly and inaccurately on the heavily grained table.
The window showed a warrior bidding farewell to his wife and child. Hawklan could see the red of the warrior’s cloak and the blue of his wife’s gown, but the green of the fields in the background did not survive the sun-carried journey, and the gold of the warrior’s sword mingled with the yellow of the child’s tunic. Hawklan turned and looked up at the original. He knew that if he walked across the room and gazed up at the scene he would see that the artist had caught the distress and conflict in the warrior’s face as his child shied away from his fearsome armour. It was a masterly piece of work that always made Hawklan want to reach up and embrace the three and comfort them. It also made him thankful that he had no such conflict to face. He returned his gaze to the tabletop and breathed a sigh.
High in the beams above a feathered ear caught the sound, and a single shiny black eye opened and turned a gimlet gaze onto the figure below with a businesslike twist of the head. The owner of the eye was a raven. He was called Gavor.
Spreading his wings he craned forward and, resting on the warm air that filled the cavernous roof, he floated silently into the void. With barely a twitch of his delicate feathers he spiralled gracefully down through the sun-striped air and came to rest a little way in front of Hawklan. The landing was not quite as graceful as the flight, and certainly not as quiet, for Gavor’s wooden leg was apt to give him trouble from time to time. Not least when he wished it to.
The hollow thud of Gavor’s landing and the regular clunk of his wooden leg made Hawklan lift his head to look at the approaching bird. It stopped in front of him and returned his gaze.
‘Rrrukk,’ it said. Hawklan did not speak.
‘Rrrukk,’ it repeated. A slight smile flickered in Hawklan’s eyes and spread reluctantly across his face.
‘Very good, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Very good. Your bird impressions are coming on very nicely. You will be in demand at the next village fair. How’s the nightingale coming along? Is your throat still sore?’
Gavor raised his head with regal disdain.
‘Dear boy,’ came his cultured tones. ‘Such irony doesn’t become you. It really isn’t your style.’
‘I do apologize,’ said Hawklan with patent insincer-ity, laying a hand on his chest. ‘Please accept my humblest apologies. I was overwhelmed by the sight of you. May I ask to what do we owe the pleasure of your august presence at our repast?’
Gavor maintained his hauteur. ‘You sighed, dear boy. You sighed.’
Hawklan looked at the bird quizzically and suspi-ciously.
Gavor shrugged. ‘You sighed,’ he repeated. ‘There I was. Up in the rafters. Brooding, as it were. Contemplat-ing the mysteries of the universe. When my reverie was shattered by this heart-rending sigh soaring up through the hall. "Ah, such pain," I thought. "My friend and saviour is being crushed under some unbearable burden. I must help him." And down I come. And what do I get? Sarcasm-base ingratitude. There’s friendship for you.’
‘I’m touched by your concern, Gavor,’ said Hawklan. ‘But I didn’t sigh.’
Gavor turned away and started clunking up and down the table, pecking at various morsels left in the silver dishes. He paused to swallow something.
‘Ah yes you did, my friend. Most distinctly. Mind you, I will admit I’ve never actually heard anyone sigh before, but I know what one sounds like. I’ve read about them on the Gate.’ He levelled a wing at Hawklan. ‘And what you produced was a sigh. Quite unequivocally. A sigh.’
He paused and rooted out a piece of meat.
‘Mm. Delicious,’ he said. ‘My compliments to the cook. Loman’s cooking is improving noticeably-for a castellan.’
‘If Loman hears you calling him a cook, we’ll be eating raven pie for a week,’ said Hawklan.
Gavor ignored the comment. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued. ‘You sighed, Hawklan. A great heaving outpouring of despair. Almost knocked me off my perch. So I’ve come to see what’s wrong, dear boy. If I allow you to get away with sighing, you’ll be groaning next, and you’ve no idea how it echoes up there. I really can’t preen myself if you’re going to assail me with such a tragic cacophony.’
Hawklan laughed. ‘I may concede that perhaps I breathed out rather heavily, but I give you my solemn promise that I will not allow it to degenerate into groaning. I’ve far too much respect for your feathers.’
‘Huh,’ Gavor grunted, cracking a nut with a shud-dering blow of his great black beak. ‘You’ve been very quiet recently. Not that you were ever particularly raucous. But you’ve been… solemn. Sad almost.’ Gavor’s tone had changed. ‘What’s the matter, Hawk-lan?’ he asked suddenly, with concern.
Hawklan stood up, pushing the heavy chair back as he did. He was a tall man, but lean and spare. His face looked weathered, yet ageless and relaxed, its dominant feature being bright green penetrating eyes. It was the combination of these eyes with the angular, high cheek-boned face and prominent nose that had prompted Gavor to call him ‘Hawklan’ when they first met, twenty years ago, in the snow-filled valleys to the north. He, Gavor, dying, with his leg caught in an old, forgotten trap, and the strange quiet man with no memory, who freed him and nursed him to health with magical hands.
Hawklan shrugged his shoulders as he walked away from the table. Gavor, partly mistaking the gesture and partly to be nearer his friend, glided after him with an imperceptible movement of his wings. There was no graceless landing here, as his good foot closed gently on Hawklan’s shoulder and his wings folded to avoid Hawklan’s head.
Hawklan tapped the black beak gently with his fin-ger. ‘You’ve known me too long, Gavor,’ he said.
Gavor cocked his head on one side. ‘As long as you’ve known yourself, dear boy. Now tell all, do.’
Hawklan’s eyes flitted briefly to the round window with its coloured glass picture.
‘Ah,’ said Gavor, catching the movement. ‘A sensi-tive artist and a sad tale from harsher times. But their pain is long over, and would ever have been beyond your powers.’
‘Look at it, Gavor. Look at the background. Tell me what you see.’
Gavor jumped off Hawklan’s shoulder, dipped al-most to the floor, and then soared up towards the window, his black plumage iridescent with purples and blues as he cut through the beam of sunlight.
‘What do you see?’ called Hawklan.
‘Fields, dwellings, hills. The closer I look, the more I can see. It’s a remarkable piece of craftsmanship.’
‘What else?’
‘Sky and clouds.’
‘On the horizon, Gavor. In the far distance.’
Gavor turned over in mid-air and flew slowly past the window. A small feather drifted down.
‘Black clouds, Hawklan. Just on the horizon-very symbolic.’
‘Yes, but it’s settled in my mind and won’t go away. Black clouds in the distance. Foreboding. Like some-thing in the corner of your eye that disappears when you look directly at it.’
Gavor landed back on Hawklan’s shoulder. He knew his friend was not given to self-indulgent flirtations with matters dark, and he dismissed immediately any intention of teasing him out of his mood. It was, however, Hawklan who initiated the change.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me it’s Spring, and that I should get a wife?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact I was, dear boy,’ replied Gavor with mock testiness. ‘But you’ve spoilt the surprise.’
‘Some surprise. You usually give me the benefit of your highly dubious experience in these matters every Spring. While you have the wind left, that is’
Gavor shook his head indignantly. ‘I’m a creature of wide but discerning tastes,’ he said. ‘Not to say stamina. I never lose my wind.’
He saw that Hawklan’s mood was passing.
‘I fail to see why I should allow myself to be dis-tressed by your peculiar lack of interest in such matters, dear boy. It’s not natural. You’re bound to have gloomy thoughts.’
Hawklan paused and smiled resignedly. ‘Gloomy thoughts I could deal with, Gavor. But vague presenti-ments… ’
Gavor took off again and flew in great arcs around the hall.
‘Hawklan,’ he shouted. ‘You know there’s only one thing you can do with a presentiment, don’t you?’
Hawklan stared up at him, black and shining, flit-ting in and out of the roof beams and sunbeams. He swooped down close.
‘Wait, dear boy. Wait.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Hawklan. ‘There is nothing else I can do really.’
‘Of course I’m right, dear boy,’ came the echoing reply from the rafters. ‘Always am. And I’m right about you finding a woman. Oh, excuse me, a spider.’
There was a brief scuffle overhead, and then Gavor glided into view again. He perched on a high window ledge and looked out.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘talking of women. Look who’s com-ing across the courtyard in a hurry. Hair rivalling the sunshine, mouth like winter berries, and a grace of movement that not even my words can encompass.’
He sighed massively. ‘I tell you, Hawklan, if I were a man… or she a bird… ’
‘Gavor!’ said Hawklan menacingly, interrupting his friend’s lecherous flow.
‘I know, dear boy. Proud father and all that. Gavor for the pot, etc, etc.’
‘Yes. And I’d help him pluck you.’
‘More ingratitude. Well, I fear you’re beyond my aid, so I’m off to the… er… north tower, I think, today. To… a friend. If anyone wants me I’ll be back later.’ He paused and looked down at his friend below, his head on one side, as if listening to some far off voice. ‘Wait, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘That’s all you can do. But watch your back.’
And then he was gone, into the sunlit air; a dwin-dling black spot against the many towers of the castle and the blue spring sky.
Hawklan’s brow wrinkled slightly then he smiled and shrugged off the last of his mood. Outside, in the corridor approaching the entrance to the hall, he heard Tirilen’s light and confident footsteps. He wondered why she was hurrying, and instinctively straightened his long habit as he walked across the hall to greet her.