The last remark made Farnor withdraw his hand from the offered staff. ‘You’ve all been very generous to me,’ he said. ‘But I can’t take this if it’s precious to you. I may never be back here.’
Marrin shook his head, and thrust the staff under a strap on the packhorse’s back. ‘Take it,’ he said briskly, slapping the pack. ‘Let’s have no foolishness, sapling. It’s only a good sturdy staff. And you being such a faller and all…’ He pursed his lips and looked knowingly at Farnor. ‘Besides,’ he said. ‘You’ll be back. Without a doubt.’
His manner allowed no argument, and Farnor gave a rather self-conscious nod of acceptance. Then, as he was searching for the words with which to make an appro-priate farewell, his horse set off without any command, obliging Farnor to grab the reins hastily and bring it to a halt. ‘A moment, if you don’t mind,’ he said indignantly, but silently, to the trees. A faint air of apology sur-rounded him and the horse became still again. He turned to Marrin. ‘They’re anxious for me to be on my way,’ he said.
‘Yes, I can feel it,’ Marrin replied, excited again. ‘I’m sorry you can’t stay. I’ve so many questions to ask you.’ A look of sadness passed briefly over his face but with a little shake he transformed it into a smile. ‘But there’ll be some other time, I’m sure.’ He slapped Farnor’s horse. ‘Travel well, Hearer. As Uldaneth would say, light be with you.’
The horse set off again, walking for a little way, then breaking into a trot. Farnor turned in the saddle and waved to the watching crowd.
As he rode through the lodge, many other people appeared out of the trees to encourage him on his way, some of the younger ones running alongside him for a while. The crowd around Marrin, however, remained stationary, as if waiting for something.
Farnor had scarcely disappeared from view when Marrin’s smiling face sobered. Nodding grimly to himself he raised his hand and beckoned. Several riders emerged from the trees. They were all heavily armed. At another signal from Marrin, they turned and rode in the direction that Farnor had taken.
Spared much of the effort of his journey by the silent guidance being given to his mount, Farnor found himself almost hypnotized by the steady drumming of its hooves over the forest turf. The release he had found on the mountain was still with him, but though much of his inner torment had gone, the way ahead remained ominous and forbidding, and he was reluctant to dwell on it too deeply.
But it could not be avoided. Each step of the horse took him nearer to whatever destiny lay in wait for him and when he considered his position it gave him no comfort. Now, despite the pain he felt at the loss of his parents, and his determination to see that some kind of justice was done, he had no desire to die at Rannick’s hands – and still less at the jaws of that fearful creature – as a result of some reckless confrontation. The lofty declarations he had made when he returned down the mountain seemed to be increasingly hollow as vivid memories of his beating by Nilsson and his pursuit by the creature returned to give him a measure of his skill as a fighter. It was a measure that turned his stomach to lead.
‘You must help me,’ he said eventually to the trees. ‘Tell me what you do know about the power that Rannick has, that I have. You speak of worlds between worlds, but I’ve had only giddy visions of what you mean. Tell me clearly.’
There was an amused despair in the voice that an-swered. ‘I would if we could, Farnor,’ it said. Despite his grim preoccupation, Farnor smiled as he noted the return of the confusion between the one and the many now that he was some distance from the place of the most ancient.
‘What are these worlds of yours that I… walk in, then?’ he asked.
‘They are what they are,’ came the unhelpful, but apologetic reply. ‘You are there now. They lie at the edges of the world where we are many. And because we are many, and there, we have the strength to reach them to become one. But how you reach them to be with us, is beyond us.’
At the edges of the world? Farnor frowned. The words made no sense to him, nor did the strange, flickering images that hung about them. He returned to his first question. ‘The worlds between the worlds. What are they?’ he insisted. ‘And why are you so afraid of them?’
‘This you know.’
Farnor felt the power of the most ancient reaching out to him in this reply. The words drew from his mind his memories of the wrongness he had felt in his contact with Rannick and the creature. The wrongness of something brought to this world from another place: something that did not belong here and which, by virtue of that alone, could be ferociously destructive. There were also fleeting images of a terrible imbalance and appalling chaos, but they were torn from his mind with such force that his hand came to his head as if he had been struck. He knew that to pursue this would be futile.
‘The worlds lie between the worlds. Lie in the infi-nite spaces between the…’ Farnor strained for the word. Again a strange flickering pervaded it. Was it heartbeats? ‘… of this world. As we lie between the…’ Again the word eluded him. ‘… of theirs. And they are beyond number. But they do not belong here, nor our world there.’
‘But the fabric can be rent,’ Farnor heard himself saying.
There was a great sigh of relief. Farnor felt again the fear of some terrible ancient and profound flaw bubbling to the surface of his mind, but again it was taken from him.
‘Yes,’ came the simple answer. ‘But that which is torn can be sealed; can be made whole again.’
‘And this I can do?’ Farnor asked.
‘This you have done,’ the voice replied.
Farnor recognized the truth in this declaration, and the memory of his inadvertent interference with Rannick’s fiery demonstration in the courtyard returned to him. As, too, did the sense of complete inadequacy that he had felt in the face of the torrent of wrongness that had swept over him as he had dashed across the fields to find his parents slaughtered and his home destroyed. What could he possibly do against such as that? ‘But how?’ he demanded. ‘How do I do it?’
Silence.
Farnor clenched his teeth. ‘You realize that I might get killed if I oppose Rannick?’ he said angrily.
‘We know a little of the pain of separateness, but it is not as yours. We grieve for you.’
‘Thanks a lot!’
‘But you will die a different, crueller death if you turn away from him. This you know too.’
There were so many meanings in this that Farnor’s only response was to swear. ‘I have to face him – him and that creature – on my own, then?’ he asked.
There was a hint of amusement in the answer. ‘You’re not that separate, Far-nor. We will be there. And we will help where I can.’ The amusement faded. ‘But where it is Mover against Mover, you are correct. There is little we can do. But you are stronger than you know. Have no fear.’
A caustic reply began to form in Farnor’s mind, but he kept it to himself. ‘Fear will keep me alive,’ he said, without thinking.
There was a pensive silence. ‘I shall think about that,’ the voice replied eventually.
Farnor rode on.
Behind him, the armed men from Marrin’s lodge followed, silent as only Valderen hunters could be.
Chapter 19
Marna stood motionless, gaping at the approaching riders. For a moment, the sight of them approaching, with long, leaf-strewn shadows cutting through the sunlit air ahead of them, held her spellbound. They looked magnificent; they might have been riding straight out of some magic fireside tale by Yonas.
Only when they were almost upon her did she re-cover her wits.
Nilsson’s men!
Her heart jolted. Hastily she bent down to pick up the knife.
‘Leave it, girl,’ one of the riders said, stopping a little way in front of her. Marna, crouching, tightened her grip on the knife despite the command. She squinted up into the streaming light in an attempt to see the features of the speaker but she was unsuccessful. The rider seemed almost to blend with the shadows. Her thoughts raced; this couldn’t be a search party looking for her, surely? Not so soon. It must be a random patrol of some kind, though she’d never noted such being undertaken before. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she must get away. Should she slash out at this man and flee? She’d probably make better progress on foot through these trees than the others would on horseback. And they’d have to tend their injured companion, wouldn’t they? Or should she stay and hover near the truth? She had been out looking for special woods for her father when she had been attacked by this man, and so on.