‘We’ll go there, then,’ Farnor decided.
He began to regret his inspiration shortly afterwards, however, as he climbed painstakingly up ladder after ladder in leaden pursuit of the depressingly agile old Hearer. Insofar as he had considered the matter at all, he had imagined that Marken, being quite elderly, would have had a lodge somewhere below Derwyn’s; some-where much closer to the Forest floor.
Wrong, he mused bitterly, as they came to yet an-other ladder, and Marken began yet another effortless ascent.
‘Wait a moment,’ Farnor appealed, leaning his head on one of the rungs and waiting for his heart to stop pounding, his breath to stop rasping, and his legs to stop protesting. Marken released one hand and one foot and swung wide to look down. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, without a tremor of breathlessness.
‘Just wait a moment,’ Farnor demanded, this time through clenched teeth.
Marken nodded and, to Farnor’s horror, swung completely off the ladder and sat on a nearby branch. ‘How much further is it to your lodge?’ Farnor asked.
‘Nearly there,’ came the reply, with a hint of hearti-ness. ‘You should relax more, you’re terribly tense. It’s going to make you awfully…’
‘I know. I know,’ Farnor interrupted sourly and still through clenched teeth. Grimly, he began to force his legs up the ladder. Being left standing by some trim young woman was one thing, but by this old beggar…!
A powerful hand reached out and supported him as he arrived at the top of the ladder and stepped on to the platform. Farnor could not muster the energy to shake it free. ‘Thank you,’ he said, gracelessly.
‘My, you’re puffing like a gnarl,’ Marken said, half sympathetically, half mockingly.
Farnor did not reply.
‘Anyway, we’re here now,’ Marken said, indicating a door a little way along the platform.
But Farnor’s attention was elsewhere. He had straightened up and was gazing down at a panorama of brilliant lights, trailing through and between the tops of the trees in every direction. It was as if he was looking down on a star-filled sky rather than up at it. ‘How high are we?’ he asked, forgetting his fatigue.
‘Oh, it’s a nice spot,’ Marken answered, with no small amount of pride. ‘Good and high.’ He leaned against the handrail next to Farnor and stared out over the scene. ‘It took some building, this lodge, I can tell you. But it was worth it. I often come out here and just look.’ He patted the handrail, then returned to the door and opened it. ‘Of course, the lodge is quite small. Inevitable at this height, as you’ll understand,’ he said, stepping inside and holding the door open. ‘But it’s ideal for an old bachelor like me.’ He turned and looked out over the lights again then raised an appreciative finger. ‘You should see the sun come up.’ His eyes were wide. ‘Mingling with the sound of the dawn horns. Makes you weep for joy.’
Farnor turned away from him sharply as he stepped past him.
Unlike Derwyn’s lodge, the door of which opened into a long and spacious hallway off which stood several rooms and passageways, Marken’s was served only by a short porch which, as far as Farnor could see, was purely to serve as a weather guard. As he followed Marken through the inner door, the room they entered filled with light. Almost immediately, Farnor’s fatigue returned, and he slumped down into a nearby chair without invitation.
Marken snapped his fingers crossly, and motioned him to another one.
‘That’s mine,’ he declared, possessively. ‘You’ll find that one’s comfortable enough.’
‘I’d find a log comfortable,’ Farnor muttered surlily, rubbing his legs as he moved to the other chair.
‘Bildar can give you something for your aches and pains, I’m sure,’ Marken said, standing protectively by the seat he had just commandeered.
‘He did,’ Farnor replied, irritably. ‘It’s down at Der-wyn’s, and I’m damned if I’m trailing back for it. Even if I knew the way.’ Marken made a mildly sympathetic noise and went into an adjacent room. ‘I suppose you’re hungry?’ he called.
Farnor grimaced guiltily to himself as the kindly voice contrasted itself with his own churlishness. ‘Yes, I am, a little,’ he said, reflexive politeness asserting itself. ‘I had a meal at Bildar’s this morning, but… it’s been a long day.’
Marken came back into the room, chuckling. ‘That’s a considerable understatement for both of us,’ he said, thrusting a plate full of thick slices of bread into Farnor’s lap. A bowl of butter landed on a table by his elbow. Both plate and bowl were made out of finely joined and decorated wood. ‘Make a start on that,’ came the command, as Marken disappeared again. ‘I’ve got some soup, or something, heating up.’
It was simple fare, but Farnor turned to it with rel-ish. ‘Thank you,’ he said with genuine sincerity.
‘I should warn you that I’m no Bildar when it comes to cooking,’ Marken shouted. ‘But I’ve not killed anyone yet.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Farnor spluttered, spraying bread crumbs freely. Something fluttered in the corner of his vision, making him start violently and almost up-end the plate of bread. A large sparrow landed on his knee and began fussily picking up the crumbs he had spilt.
‘Sod off, Roney,’ Marken shouted, coming back into the room. ‘Greedy fat beggar.’ The sparrow looked up at him slowly, turned away with great dignity and then flew off to a shelf at the far end of the room.
‘See him off if he comes sponging around again,’ Marken ordered, sitting down. ‘He eats enough for a solstice turkey. He’s supposed to be a messenger bird, but his wings can hardly lift him.’
Farnor responded with vague head movements, uncertain how to respond to this domestic revelation. From the shelf, the sparrow eyed the new arrival superciliously.
All immediate conversation seemingly spent, and Farnor busy eating, Marken drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Then Farnor looked up and caught his gaze. ‘I may well have told them what I think about you, Farnor,’ Marken said, his face serious and his voice soft. ‘I don’t know. But I’ll tell them again, now.’ He closed his eyes.
Farnor gently laid the plate on the table and watched Marken intently. Outside, lights and tree tops swayed gently, and night hunting birds glided silently through the glistening darkness.
Farnor waited.
And waited.
The soft soughing of the trees seeped slowly into the deepening silence of the room.
And with it, came a voice.
Chapter 10
‘Mover,’ the voice said. Though it filled Farnor’s mind totally, it was soft and very tentative. Yet too, it was hung about with many meanings, subtle and indefin-able. Briefly, Farnor felt that he was watching himself, a child again, with Marna and his other friends, carefully dipping toes into the chilly lake where they would sometimes play; tensed and ready to snatch away should the trial be too fearful.
The long forgotten memory vanished.
‘Mover.’ Again the hesitancy.
‘What do you want?’ Farnor spoke the words out loud.
Marken, sitting opposite, started. Farnor raised a hand for silence before he could speak.
‘What do you want?’ he asked again. Marken drew a finger across his closed mouth and tapped his forehead then sagged theatrically in his chair.
Farnor looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded and, frowning with concentration, thought, ‘What do you want?’ very loudly.
Marken shook his head, mouthed the word, ‘Relax,’ and sagged into his chair again.
Farnor scowled irritably then rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, closed his eyes and dropped his head on to his hand. ‘How in Murral’s name am I supposed to do this?’ he thought to himself, in some despair.
A sound like a sigh pervaded him. It was laden with many emotions, not least among which was a sudden alarm. ‘Not His name,’ he thought he heard faintly. Then there was bewilderment, and excitement and even relief. Slowly, imperceptibly, it became the question, ‘What are you, Mover?’
It was still anxious and tentative though, Farnor noted. Far removed from the stern purposefulness of the voice that had forced itself upon him in the stables. As this thought occurred to him, a confused clamour of images formed in his mind: trees bending and straining against a powerful wind, being torn from the ground by crashing rock slides and flooding rivers; being scorched into black ash and nothingness by fearful wind-blown fires. Involuntarily, he lifted his hands to his head, but even as he did so, the images, and the fear and panic that pervaded them, were fading, or rather, changing; twisting and swirling until they fashioned themselves into a rich weave that once again became a single voice.