Yrain’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry, Memsa,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’
Gulda smiled and stood up. ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not alone in that, but while you’ve the wit to realize it, you understand more than you think.’
‘But if these Alphraan are dangerous?’
This time Gulda chuckled. ‘Only we humans are truly dangerous, Yrain,’ she said. ‘Believe me, except in extremity, nothing that walks this world willingly attacks one of us other than our own kind. And if the Alphraan choose to meet us they’ll be like nothing you’ve ever known. Try to see them with a true warrior’s vision; a carver’s vision. See them as they are, if you get to see them at all.’
She turned away and called to the three boys, cur-rently clambering amongst the rocks. As they converged on her, laughing, she led them towards the edge of the cliff face and pointed her stick towards the snow-covered mountains.
‘Now young men, in a moment I’ll want you to sing our song,’ she said. ‘Just like we’ve rehearsed. I want you to imagine you’re singing to someone up there, in the snow, so start as loudly as you can then they’ll be able to hear you clearly.’ She leaned forward and placed her arms confidentially around all three.
‘But at the end, as soft as you can. Like you’ve prac-ticed. Watch me carefully.’
Then she returned to Loman and the others. Her voice was low but her tone was unequivocal and authoritative. ‘Whatever happens from now, say nothing and do nothing, except on my express command. Is that clear?’
Loman nodded. ‘Yes, Memsa,’ he said.
She walked back to the boys and settled herself on a rock, her hands folded over the top of her stick. Her eyebrows went up, together with a long finger, and then the boys were singing.
The jaunty tune that had woven its spell through the halls of Anderras Darion rang out into the clear air, still moist from recent rain. It echoed off distant rock faces, bouncing hither and thither to add a laughing shimmer to the busy stillness of the mountains. It was an old, happy tune, rhythmic and lively, and punctuated by hand-clapping in which Gulda, wedging her stick between her knees, joined in with relish.
A snowman made by some children sings of his happiness at the gift of his creation. He watches the children playing, sees the winter festival, sees the season’s many moods, howling and fierce, bright and sharp, until finally a bird arrives to tell him that spring is coming. Gradually he melts, but even as he grows smaller and smaller, he sings continuously of his joy at being and at having been.
The end of the song was a long trailing diminuendo; the same line of farewell and thanks being repeated over and over again, each time a little softer than the last.
Slowly each boy in turn faded out of the song until only one was left. On and on he sang, softer and softer and softer, but without losing either pace or rhythm. His eyes were fixed intently on Gulda’s expressive face and her gently moving finger as she guided him down this long final descent.
Then the song was finished; ended with the faintest whisper, in the middle of a line. Loman and the others found themselves holding their breaths and leaning forward, fully as intent as the singer, as the last few words floated into the mountain silence.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Yrain felt a movement by her side. She turned sud-denly, but something sent her sprawling on the ground, her hands over her ears, and her mouth and eyes wide in silent scream.
Before he could react, Loman was suddenly over-whelmed by a terrible fear. As a surge of panic swept through him, he tried to flee, but his body would not respond to his mind’s prompting. A small spark of calm inside him managed to turn his eyes towards Athyr, but there was no help to be found there: the man’s face was alive with terror.
With a further effort he sought out Gulda. She too, however, seemed to be affected, as did the three boys, though much less so. Then, disjointed and uneven, as if from a great distance and carried on blustering wind, Gulda’s voice spoke.
‘Was this small gift so poor that its bringers deserve such?’ it asked. ‘Our young!’ The anger in her voice tore through the strange distortion that was pervading Loman’s mind. ‘And release the girl,’ Gulda continued. ‘She’ll die if you continue. You’ve killed four of us by accident. Would you now do murder?’
Loman felt confusion whirling round him. In it were mingled many things: anger, indignation, fear, and then thanks and regret. Though he still could not move, he saw the three boys suddenly start to laugh and clap their hands. Yrain too seemed to be released from whatever pain she had been in, and his own terror eased, though neither she nor Athyr seemed yet to be able to move.
‘Two.’ A soft voice filled Loman’s head. ‘Only two. And we regret that. But you bring evil ways with you. Human ways. They carry inevitable consequences. Violent death is one of them. We want none of you. Take your weapons and go.’ Every syllable of the voice seemed to be full of the most subtle, elusive, nuances, bringing far more to the content of the words than he would have imagined possible.
His fear abating slightly, Loman found that he was able to move his hand a little. With a prodigious effort he pushed it into the ground and tried to stand.
‘Don’t move.’ Two voices gave him the same instruc-tion. One, inside his head, but different from the previous one, the other, Gulda’s, still strained, distorted and oddly coarse. ‘We do not wish to harm you, but we do not want you here. Return to… ’ Loman thought then that he heard the words ‘Anderras Darion’, but in their sound was a subtle richness that described the Castle more totally than any he could have found in a lifetime’s searching. Its beauty and awe took his breath away. ‘Is it not wonder enough for you that you should take up arms to venture forth in search of a greater?’
‘Don’t presume to judge us, Alphraan,’ said Gulda, her voice a little clearer. ‘We’ve laid our arms aside and sought to bring you here with our small gift because we have grim news. News that affects us all. We must speak to you.’
‘You are here because we would not allow you to use our mountains to practice for your war.’
‘This is true,’ Gulda replied. ‘But only in part. By your choice we didn’t even know you still lived. Had we known, we’d have sought your aid sooner.’
At the word aid, Loman again felt confusion around him. Into his head came images of compassion and responsibility mingled with a sense of burden and fear and inexorable entanglement.
The sensations were again almost unbelievably subtle but a voice eventually said, ‘It would have been denied, then as now. We have foresworn all weapons, all violence… ’
‘You bind these in violence,’ Gulda said.
There was amused tolerance in the reply. ‘They bind themselves, old woman, as you know. In their own fears. They have not your vision.’
‘As you will,’ Gulda replied. ‘But you’ll hear our news whether you wish it or no.’
‘No, leave us.’ Many voices rang in Loman’s head.
From the corner of his eye, Loman saw Gulda raise her stick. As she moved, there was a sound like the rattling of countless iron chains. It stopped abruptly. ‘Know that you cannot bind me, friends of Ethriss.’ Her voice was suddenly clear. ‘Hear the truth. Hear that He is risen again and that His Uhriel are abroad. If we prepare, and find again Ethriss and the Guardians, we may defeat Him before His poisons spread out into the world as before; but if we turn away then we shall fall, and what price then your kingdom under your moun-tains when Oklar takes on the mantle of Theowart?’
There was great irony in the word ‘your’ and her statement was followed by a long silence. It was as if the unseen speakers were gone; but still Loman found he could not move.
‘You are powerful and skilled, old woman,’ came a voice eventually. ‘And there is an ancient strangeness about you which we do not understand. We rightly fear your kind. You were ever treacherous and faithless. Even now you lie to us. Sumeral and His Uhriel were crushed utterly. Swept from this world forever. All that remains of Sumeral is what is carried in the hearts of humankind.’