Thus the day of Hawklan’s departure for Fyorlund dawned darkly for Loman and the others despite the promise it held of bright summer.
Uncertain himself, Hawklan sought solace in repeat-ing what he had already discussed at length with his friends. ‘We’ll need people strong and flexible in mind and body, Loman,’ he said as he made final adjustments to Serian’s harness. ‘Teach them every skill you know in fighting and surviving, and then teach them they must improve themselves.’
‘They’re Carvers, Hawklan,’ replied Loman patiently. ‘They know that already.’ A frown clouded his face.
Hawklan looked at him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘How can any of us find comfort in this, Loman, but what else can we do? At least having a tool on your bench gives you choices.’
The remark brought an unexpected response. ‘Yes, but I’ve never had a tool on my bench that I haven’t used eventually.’
Hawklan turned and looked northward. ‘I’ve no answer, Loman, you know that. Having some choice is still better than having none, and all choices, hard or easy, carry responsibility. Having seen what we’ve seen and learned what we’ve learned can we do anything other than tell the people the truth and teach them what we can?’
Loman bowed his head. He had not meant to bring his unease to this difficult parting.
Hawklan put his hands on the Smith’s solid shoul-ders. ‘Don’t worry, Loman. It’ll be a far worse day for all of us when we don’t concern ourselves with these problems. And worse yet if we ever convince ourselves we’ve found a simple answer.’
And with that, and brief affectionate farewells to Tirilen and Gulda and the others gathered there, Isloman and Hawklan rode off along the steep winding road leading down from Anderras Darion.
Loman watched them for a long time, until eventu-ally they shimmered and disappeared into the early morning haze. A faint cry high above him drew his attention upwards to a tiny black dot which had just floated from one of the towers. Loman raised a hand in salute, and Gavor dropped and spun over and over in acknowledgement. Knowing Gavor’s mischievous temperament, Loman took a judicious pace backwards more into the lee of the Castle wall, but the solemnity of the moment must have infected Gavor, also, for nothing more unsavoury fell to earth than an iridescent black feather. Loman picked it up and examined it thought-fully before handing it to Tirilen and turning back to the Castle. Tirilen wiped her eyes, sniffed and then, fumbling with a brooch, fixed the feather behind it. Its blackness seemed even darker against her white gown and, satisfied with her work, she turned and followed her father through the wicket gate.
Gulda remained. A tiny black dot dwarfed by the Castle wall and the Great Gate. For a long time she stared into the misty distance as if she could still see Hawklan and Isloman wending their way along the road until, with a grunt, she too turned and stumped resolutely into the Castle.
Strangely, Hawklan had felt impelled to ask Gulda if she wished to accompany them to Fyorlund. She had shown no surprise at the question but had not answered for some time. Instead she questioned Hawklan about Dan-Tor again. Hawklan told her once more what little he knew. ‘According to Jaldaric he’s some kind of adviser to their King. The adviser in fact.’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ Gulda replied impatiently. ‘I want to know what he looks… ’ She paused. ‘This King’s ill, you say?’ Hawklan nodded. ‘And has been ever since this Dan-Tor arrived?’
Hawklan nodded again. ‘Yes, I’m sure Jaldaric said something like that. The man’s not popular with everyone as far as I could gather. He’s changed many of their traditional ways, and caused a lot of upheaval. Apparently many people think his influence over the King is excessive and pernicious.’
Gulda digested this in silence for a while. ‘And what does he look like?’ she said, reverting to her earlier question. Hawklan described the twitching figure of the tinker as well as he could.
‘If we stand him upright and still, what would he look like then?’ Gulda asked when he had finished.
Hawklan thought for a moment. ‘Tall, very tall. Thin. Long brown wrinkled face. Gloomy-looking except when he smiles, then he’s got bright white teeth.’
Gulda turned away from him suddenly and pulled her hood forward. Hawklan could hear her breathing nervously. ‘Yes,’ she said very softly after a while. Her voice was strained.
‘Do you know him?’ Hawklan asked, incredulous.
‘Never mind.’
Hawklan started. Gulda’s voice was like the closing of a steel trap. Then, more gently, ‘I won’t come with you, Hawklan. I’m afraid this burden is yours alone. I’m not… strong enough yet. Too long doing too little.’
Hawklan tried to pursue the matter further but Gulda waved his questions to silence. ‘Just you remem-ber that this man’s dangerous,’ she said, her face still averted. ‘Unbelievably dangerous. He’s not what he seems. Be very careful. Very careful. You’ll need your every resource. There’s no limit to his treachery, his cunning, and his knowledge of ancient skills.’
After Hawklan had left, Gulda seemed intent on making up for doing too little for too long and, to Loman, she seemed to fill the Castle as much as all the other visitors put together. She took charge of all the new arrivals, told them in detail what had happened, what was happening, and why. She worked with Loman and the other Morlider veterans on training pro-grammes and co-ordinated their work to minimize duplication of effort. Then, continuing the work she had begun at the first meeting of the Elders, she ruthlessly graded the arrivals to ensure that they received the most appropriate training. Loman was impressed, not only with her tireless efficiency, but with what he considered to be a totally uncharacteristic diplomacy.
For his own part, he found himself studying ancient volumes on military tactics and strategy, his earlier repugnance being grudgingly replaced by satisfaction at the acquisition of new knowledge. He began walking about the Castle, looking at it with a new eye, seeing features in its design and location that added to his appreciation of its original creators-something he would not have thought possible only weeks earlier. He studied weaponry also, but here with the relentless eye of a Master Craftsman. And he was pleased to the point of smugness when he found that while he could not equal the craftsmanship of most of the weapons from the Armoury, he was satisfied that he could improve their design.
Not that his studying allowed him to escape the rigours of his own training programmes, and in the early days he was frequently to be found discreetly seeking the ministrations of his daughter. Massively strong he might be, but his flexibility and agility left a great deal to be desired, and his striving to attain the standards set by younger and more pliable souls resulted in his acquiring a great many unusual pains.
Tirilen was sympathetic and helpful, but she lacked the detachment she possessed with her other charges.
‘You giggling and saying "Poor old soul" isn’t help-ing,’ he was obliged to say on more than one occasion. ‘Yes, Papa,’ she would smirk, driving her fingers into his ribs.
Like everyone else, Tirilen was kept busy by the changed circumstances in the Castle. Her long blonde hair was invariably swept back and held by a simple ribbon, and her white robe was replaced by a practical grass-green one, though its lapel was still adorned by Gavor’s black feather. Bumps, bruises, cuts, scratches, sprains, fractures, aches and pains of every kind paraded in front of her daily, borne with varying degrees of dignity and stoicism, but the more she treated the more she glowed. The worried and the anxious she delegated to Gulda’s tender mercies, rightly judging her better suited for dealing with such prob-lems. ‘No mithered middle-aged farmer is going to take any notice of me, is he?’ she declared.
Not that she was without concerns herself. She knew her father was ever alert in the Armoury for some glittering black relic of Ethriss, and that the absence of the bow and sword in which he had seen such perfection disturbed him in some subtle fashion which was totally beyond her ability to reach.