‘We have little time, Hawklan,’ the Drienwr said hastily. ‘Sphaeera wills us away, and it is already dangerous for me and my companions to stay here; we’ve been too deep too long. We will ponder your words. We will ponder your heart. But we have not your strength. Wish us… good fortune… ’
‘Light be with you,’ Hawklan said impulsively.
‘Ah,’ came the response. ‘So we are as much alike as we are different.’ Then, shocked. ‘But this is of no import. In burdening you with our cares I’d forgotten. We came to warn you that… ’
Ynar staggered suddenly before he could finish, and the mist shifted and swirled violently. Some of the figures in it seemed to be disappearing-upwards, Hawklan thought, though he could not see their passing. He felt a cold breeze on his cheek. When he looked at the hazy figure of Ynar again, he saw anxious hands reaching out to draw him away. The Drienwr, however, was resisting their pull and extending his arms out towards him.
Again on impulse, Hawklan drew his sword and, taking hold of the blade, thrust the hilt towards the reaching figure. There was no resistance when the black sword entered the mist, but it became white, brilliant and shining. So bright that Hawklan had to turn his eyes away.
The Drienwr’s right hand closed around it and the air was suddenly filled with the sound that only Hawklan and a quiet Riddin child had heard on a sunny spring day months ago; the song of the Viladrien. Now, however, it was vast and joyous and seemed to fill the entire sky.
‘Wait!’ It was Gavor. Abruptly, his great wings started to thrash violently, throwing up flurries of snow, and slowly he rose and flew into the mist. As he did so, he too became white, and the movement of his powerful beating wings seemed to become infinitely slow, their great pulse matching that of the song of the cloud land. As Hawklan watched, he saw Ynar extend his left hand and Gavor alight on it. They were talking, Hawklan thought, but the scene was almost dreamlike and it seemed to Hawklan that Ynar was moving upwards with Gavor, although he could still feel the Drienwr’s light but strangely powerful grip on the sword.
Then the mist was gone, though, like the moment of the onset of sleep, none of the three watching men noted the moment of its passing.
Hawklan found himself holding the blade of his sword, its blackness glinting in the subdued torchlight that had illuminated the last part of his journey. He was flanked by Loman and Isloman, gazing uncertainly upwards into the darkness.
For some time no one spoke, as if fearful of disturb-ing even the memory of what had just passed. Then the mounting breeze that had presumably carried the Viladrien away, buffeted them, and Hawklan started out of his reverie.
‘Gavor,’ he cried out. ‘Where’s Gavor?’
His cry galvanized his friends and the three of them set up a great shouting.
Hawklan clenched his teeth in anxiety as he thrust his sword back into its scabbard. What had happened to his friend? Then, following in the wake of that question came the memory that the Drienwr had said he had come with a warning.
For a moment Hawklan was overwhelmed by an appalling sense of loss. His friend taken; some warning unheard; who knew what allies were perhaps lost now? And all through his angry impetuosity. He did not dare to look at Loman and Isloman for fear of the reproach that might lie in their eyes.
‘Look.’ Isloman’s voice reached into his darkness. He was pointing into the sky.
Hawklan drew his hood about his face to protect himself from the cold wind. The sullen clouds that had covered Orthlund for the past days were now scudding across a sky tinged yellow with moonlight. In the distance, and high above them, marked by Isloman’s pointing hand, was the dark form of the Viladrien; vast among the breaking clouds, and with its upper surface glittering with countless lights.
The three men stood spellbound at the sight.
‘Such things we’ve seen, Hawklan,’ Isloman said after a long silence. ‘I’d be a rare carver indeed if I could catch one tenth of that vision.’
Though buoyed up briefly by the majestic sight, Hawklan lapsed again into angry self-reproach.
‘And a rare captain I’d be if I’d listen to people in-stead of lecturing them,’ he said. ‘Gavor’s gone who knows where, and whatever the Drienvolk had to tell us is gone too.’
Before Loman and Isloman could speak however, something struck Hawklan’s head a glancing blow, and fell into the snow a few paces away. A familiar voice swore out of the darkness, then came, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’ Loman turned up his torch to reveal Gavor struggling to right himself in the soft snow.
‘At last,’ he said churlishly. ‘You might have done that sooner. ‘I’m not an owl you know.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ Hawklan said, crouching down and holding out his hand for the bird. ‘I thought you’d gone with Ynar.’
Gavor’s truculence vanished. ‘I did, in a way,’ he said distantly. ‘He took me where all Sphaeera’s creatures should go. I saw it, Hawklan. Saw it. Sphaeera’s… Anderras Darion. Great mansions and halls, towering and open… and the lights and colours… such a land… and such people… I soaring everywhere… ’
Hawklan picked him up gently. ‘But you were gone only a few minutes,’ he said.
‘No, I was there for hours,’ Gavor replied.
Hawklan looked at him thoughtfully and then aban-doned his interrogation. ‘Did you hurt yourself when you landed?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ Gavor replied.
‘I’ll carry you anyway,’ Hawklan said. The two friends looked at one another, and Gavor nodded.
‘We’d better leave and find a camping place lower down before this wind gets any stronger,’ Loman said. ‘This is a dangerous place.’
‘We shall be with you,’ came the Alphraan’s voice, as the three men turned up their torches.
Their descent was slow and cautious, each knowing that tiredness and gravity were treacherous downhill companions. Gavor remained silent and warm inside Hawklan’s cloak, and when they finally made camp they ate a simple meal and lay down to sleep with barely a word.
The next morning a clear blue sky and brilliant sun displayed the white peaks and valleys surrounding the three travellers and they broke camp and continued their descent in good spirits. Gavor in particular seemed unusually boisterous and was soon floating high above the sweeping valleys.
Despite the beauty of the scene however, Hawklan’s thoughts were dominated by his conversation with the Drienwr. It seemed that Dar Hastuin had power over the Drienvolk as Creost had over the Morlider. Of the Uhriel, only Oklar so far had been successfully resisted. But what did it mean? Creost’s intended assault on Riddin could be understood, but what did Dar Hastuin’s power in the air mean for the Orthlundyn and Fyordyn armies?
With difficulty Hawklan managed to set his con-cerns aside. Ynar had been right, he didn’t understand; indeed, he couldn’t understand. He knew nothing of the Drienvolk, nor, he suspected, did anyone else, perhaps not even Gulda. Gavor probably did, but could he explain it? Such little as he had mentioned was strangely confused.
But he could not set aside the knowledge that the Drienvolk had sought him out to warn him of some-thing and he had thrust it from Ynar’s mind with his unexpected anger.
Eventually he voiced his concern. ‘Alphraan, do you know what Ynar tried to warn us of?’
‘No, Hawklan,’ replied the Alphraan. ‘When our ways met there was great happiness, but we came to you when we felt their pain. They gave us no warning, we… ’
‘Oh, I know about that, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted, landing softly on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘I thought you’d heard Ynar telling me. You should’ve asked.’
Gulda had been told by the Alphraan about the sudden departure of Hawklan and the others the previous day, but on questioning them had received no answer other than, ‘We may not tell,’ overlaid with sounds of reassurance.
Unable to interrogate the Alphraan, she had taken the rebuff with an ill grace and had eventually retreated to the deserted wall where she had stood, black and motionless, defying the ubiquitous whiteness like a rock in the ocean.