Hawklan still hesitated and Gulda softened a little.
‘Hawklan,’ she said resignedly, ‘they’re an excep-tional people. Believe me. I’ve been amongst many races. No amount of fear of me or respect for you would make them accept even the lightest falsehood, but they’ll accept any truth, however bleak. Tell them. You’ll see.’
So, the next day, Hawklan told them, omitting only the conjectures about his own history. Sitting around on the tiered seats of a spacious circular hall, the Orthlundyn listened silently and respectfully. Small torches hidden in the sweeping ceiling brightened the gloom that a leaden-clouded sky brought in through the colonnaded windows, but Hawklan felt another lightening in the atmosphere as his tale unfolded, just as he had when Isloman had told the villagers about the battle with the Mandrocs.
They feel the ill, but it’s their ignorance of its cause that disturbs them, he thought. They not only accept the truth, they need it. Twenty years is a long time to be so blind.
The old man from Wosod Heath was called Ayn-thinn and he seemed to have become the spokesman for most of the people there. He shook his head sadly when Hawklan had finished.
‘These are dark and fearful things you tell us, Hawk-lan. The Second Coming of the Creator of Evil; a creature that hitherto we knew only in our children’s tales. I doubt any but you could have told us this and been listened to, and I can see it’s not been easy for you. Still, the truth of your telling is apparent, and for some of us, the older ones in particular, it answers some long unspoken questions. I remember as a boy, watching my grandfather working.’ Hawklan looked anxiously at Gulda, nervous that the old man was about to ramble off into some protracted reminiscence. She raised her hand slightly to indicate he should be patient.
‘I can see him now as clearly as if it were yesterday. Then I look at… ’ He cast around the room for a moment, ‘Isloman for example.’ He pointed to the Carver, who returned him a gaze of mild suspicion. ‘Isloman’s the finest carver we have. No one disputes that. What happened to him in Riddin twenty years ago somehow transformed his work and set him above us all. But it’s not much better than my grandfather’s work, and it’s less than most of what our forebears have left us.’
He lapsed briefly into the Carver’s argot apparently to explain this remark further, causing both Hawklan and Gulda to lean forward anxiously. Seeing their reaction, the old man apologized.
‘I’m sorry, my friends,’ he said. ‘I forgot myself. However, accept my judgement. Our work has deterio-rated through the years. It has become coarser, more impatient, as if we were hurrying towards something. We live in the shadow of those who went before when we should have learnt their lessons and moved forward.’
He paused and looked around the room. ‘Ironically, it’s been particularly apparent over the last few days. Staying here, among all this.’ He pointed to the carvings and pictures covering the ceilings and walls of the circular hall. ‘This is something we’ve all known, but we always seem to avoid talking about it. It’s not easy. It’s a subtle, elusive thing. But now, let me bring out from the shadow what should be said.’
His voice became strong, belying his frail appear-ance. ‘Consider, my friends. We can’t deny our own failings, but doesn’t even the land seem to bruise more easily under our feet? Our food grow more reluctantly? Our animals come less close?’
There was an uncomfortable silence in the hall, but no one ventured to disagree with him. Then, very quietly, but very clearly, his words hanging in the waiting air:
‘Is not the Great Harmony itself less sure?’
Silence.
‘My friends, only a most awesome power could so disturb the Great Harmony.’
With these words the tension in the hall seemed almost to vanish and Hawklan saw many of the listening people nodding their heads in agreement.
Aynthinn turned to Hawklan. ‘We’ve been losing our sight for many years, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Now, with your dark news, you bring perhaps a little light to etch out our faults more clearly for us.’ He chuckled. ‘Subtle shadow lore, yours, outlander. Subtle.’ And he looked round the hall, his old face wrinkling into an infectious smile that spread through his audience like a ripple of wind over a cornfield. Chuckling again, he said. ‘Forgive us, Hawklan. Carver’s humour. Now you must tell us what to do.’
Hawklan’s hands came up in a gesture of refusal. ‘No, no, Aynthinn,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell no one what to do. We’ll all talk and then we’ll decide what to do. I’ll not be bound by you, nor will I allow you to be bound by me. Whatever’s to be faced we’ll face together. None can pass his responsibility to another.’ This last remark was said with some sternness, and Aynthinn raised his own hands in acceptance.
As the day wore on, the storm clouds dispersed, although without the redeeming freshness of a down-pour, the air outside was laden with a lingering sense of regret. It did not, however, linger in the high-ceilinged hall, and with new-found loquaciousness the Orthlundyn talked and talked.
Hawklan found himself hard pressed to get a word in, and he was forced to smile at his fear that they might follow him blindly.
Gulda, though, was silent by choice, her eyes flitting from one speaker to the next in relentless scrutiny. Later, Hawklan learned she was ranking them in order of reliability with judgements that were swift, ruthless and invariably accurate.
Tapping her temple with a purposeful finger, she said: ‘They’re in here. Labelled. "Duffers", "Windbags", "Incompetents", etc.’
The setting sun was throwing its red dusty light through a few remaining black strands of cloud when the meeting finally ended. The gathering had roamed over many topics and through many moods, but for all their trust in Hawklan, implicitly sustained by Gulda’s buttressing presence, the Orthlundyn still felt the dearth of information. Rock song as they called it.
‘We can’t know what to do until we see more clearly what’s happening,’ they concluded. ‘And, as the problem stems from Fyorlund, that’s where we must go for information.’
Hawklan realized that this conclusion had been more or less inevitable, but it placed him in a dilemma. On the one hand, he wanted to go to Fyorlund and find this tinker Lord who had hounded him so and wrought such havoc amongst his friends. But, equally, he wanted to seek out the Cadwanol to give them Andawyr’s message and perhaps learn his true identity.
Gulda saw the indecision in his face but offered no counsel.
Finally he decided he would ride to Fyorlund for the Orthlundyn. The threat from there was tangible and bloody. He had seen it with his own eyes. The threat mooted by Andawyr was what? No more than a dream? It might be more, he knew, but he would have to live with his unease. Besides, the healer in him had to move to where it felt the centre of the ill. He had little real choice.
His decision made, Hawklan spoke out against a formal delegation. ‘If all the King’s new officers are such as we encountered, then I doubt that reasoned discourse will yield much. In fact I think that a formal delegation might well be in some danger.’
Eventually it was agreed that he and Isloman would retrace their recent journey northwards and continue it cautiously into Fyorlund as ‘watchful travellers’. Gavor would act as messenger should they be detained in any way, and horses and riders would be posted along the road for the rapid carrying of the news back to Pedhavin, and thence through the land.
Aynthinn had reservations about such secrecy and prevailed upon Hawklan to carry with him a document which would enable him to speak for all the Orthlundyn if need arose. Reluctantly, Hawklan agreed.
The Elders departed in a mood almost of excite-ment, full of promises to take the advice Gulda had given to Hawklan, namely, to learn their history and their lore. Gulda made no comment on this, but her expression was eloquent. Aynthinn, however, conceded everything.
‘Gulda. Our lack of curiosity is a willingness to ac-cept ignorance. We see that now. It must end. We must apply ourselves to the knowledge of our past as we apply ourselves to our crafts.’