Seated beside Wilum, Kal gave a brief account yet again of all that had happened to him and Galli the day before. When he reached the point of telling about their ill-fated venture on the edge of Ferabek's camp, Wilum lifted his head and regarded Kal with a quizzical squint.
"Go on, lad. Surely you can remember more of their conversation than that. Come now. What exactly did they say? Every word, I must have every last word you can remember. Go over it again from beginning to end," he urged with kindled animation.
Knitting his brows, Kal searched his memory, struggling to recollect the conversation. The harsh Gharssûlian accents came flooding into his mind. To his own surprise he was able to piece things together again and recount almost word for word what he had overheard high up in the clearing. When, in the middle of this effort, Kal tried in turn to question Wilum about some of the more puzzling aspects of what had been said, the old man demurred.
"We'll talk about that presently. First carry on—I must say, though, what a bold masterstroke, to track the Boar to his lair. I commend you both. Dangerous and ill-advised, but well done all the same. Go on. What did they talk about next, after he and Enbarr started walking back towards you?"
"What was it now? Let me think . . ." Kal frowned. "Now I remember. Yes, it was a dream, a recurring dream, and riddling lines, he said."
"Go on."
"Well Ferabek, he didn't mention what the dream was about. Just that he always woke up with the same words in his head. He said his magus—Cromus was his name—he said Cromus said the words were prophetic, but that he couldn't explain them. He was angry, very angry. You could sense it in his voice."
"Can you remember the lines?"
Kal racked his brain, trying to recall the exact words of the prophecy, straining to re-create in his mind the rhythm and wording of the exchange between Ferabek and Enbarr in the growling gutturals of the stark foreign tongue. The doors of his memory seemed slowly to come unbolted once more. He managed to reproduce the dream-spun couplet and then, stammering and uncertain, Ferabek's bitter outpouring of hatred for the Holding and all it stood for.
Wilum thought for a moment, and then, at his behest, Kal related the story of their discovery and their hair-raising escape, followed by their hurried council of war last night at Mantling Moss under the leadership of his father, and how it had been settled that Tarlynn's Coomb would be the marshalling point for the escaping folk of the Holding. He spoke of his ride to Wrenhaven, his indiscretion and subsequent capture at the Sunken Bottle, and his escape from the Locker at Broadmeadows.
"But what is it that Ferabek is after?" asked Kal, giving voice to his bewilderment, when Wilum had again sat in pensive silence for a moment. "Master Wilum? . . . Wilum?" But the old man had slipped from the realm of the waking world and seemed lost in the depths of his inner being. "A queer old bird when he goes into that thoughtful pose," Kal pondered aloud, "like one of the doves he raises in the cote. Gentle, brooding creatures, but largely at the mercy of the bigger more savage birds that roam the skies."
Now, however, something had changed, touching Kal with a hint of respectful awe. There seemed a fiercer cast to Cloudbeard's features. "Re'm ena, but today he looks more like the gyrfalcon than the dove." Kal looked to Galli. Still plying the oars in the broad sweep of their stroke, Galli met his gaze with a look of equal bemusement under raised eyebrows.
"Master Wilum . . . ?" Kal's voice seemed now to break the trance. "What is it Ferabek wants so desperately in the Holding?"
"Ah, yes . . . yes . . . Well, lad," Wilum said, recovering himself, "first of all, he wants to get hold of me, true Hordanu of Ahn Norvys. He's keen to put paid to me and Wuldor's Howe once and for all in favour of Gawmage's pliant toady, Messaan, who styles himself the rightful Hordanu. I've been a thorn in Gawmage's side for some time.
"Ferabek finds the very fact of my existence an affront, for Gawmage's inability to bring all of Arvon under his control weakens the whole Gharssûlian League. It means that here and there, especially in our highland redoubts, there remain pockets of resistance. I've heard from Tudno that there are rumours drifting up from Dinas Antrum that even in Gharssûl, even in Pirrian D'Arba of all places, the old ways still have their loyal adherents. But much fiercer than Ferabek's desire to stamp me out is his desire to obtain the Talamadh here. This, the masterpiece of Vali's goldsmithing art," Wilum said, caressing the harp, which he held cradled now on his lap.
The famous harp with which Ardiel had tamed the disordered elements—never before in his life had Kal seen it in the clear bright light of day. He found himself squinting at the light-laden halo that radiated from the harp's surface of gold. The proud curve of its frame was slender and graceful, like a water-borne cygnet—a conscious effect of Vali's craft, for adorning the widening top of the harp's neck, where it arched haughtily above the taut strings, lifted the regal head and bill of a swan.
"Master Wilum, never have I seen the Talamadh like this. So beautiful . . . You know how keenly everybody in the Holding looks forward to the Candle Festival for weeks beforehand, just aching to listen to its music. Listening to it takes you out of yourself somehow. It's as if it helps you see deep down into things. Do you know what I mean?"
"Indeed I do." Wilum smiled.
"And its wind music, too. I've never heard it, but the old folks say its wind music used to bring a bit of heaven down into the Glence. You can tell old Sarmel is brokenhearted about the failure of the wind music. And he only heard it once, as a little boy, and Sarmel's grandfather told him that what he had heard on that occasion was like tuneless noise, a shadow of what had raptured him in his own distant youth. Sarmel says he can't bear to think about the wind music without the tears welling up in his eyes."
Kal paused a moment, lulled by the shimmer of sun on the water and the gentle lake breeze which pulled a stray lock of hair across his face, lulled by the movement of the boat and the rhythmic dip and swing of the oars groaning in the oarlocks. After the anxious vigilance of the past several hours, Kal now felt exhaustion beginning to overtake him. Yet stronger than the weariness was a deep sense of well-being, a sense of focus, almost of purpose. This overwhelming peace did not come from within himself but washed over him, flooded him, consumed him, from . . . the harp . . . the Talamadh . . . just its presence, like its music. Its presence sings a tune, a tune unfashioned by sound, unheard by the ear. It is strength—Kal's reverie was cut short by the knock of an oar on the gunwale, a slipped stroke of his friend, the oarsman. He turned back to meet Wilum's gentle gaze.
"Why? Why has there never been a breeze to charm the strings of the Talamadh for all these many years?"
"You know that's a mystery, Kal, something to do with the slow weakening of the Great Harmony. You know that we wait and we wait, none more anxiously than I." Wilum turned his gaze over the water, his blue eyes moist. "The Great Harmonic Age is drawing to its dire close, lad. The sad mystery of endings now enfolds Wuldor's Howe and the Stoneholding. Hedric descried its shadowings in his Criochoran. It may be that others did too, the writers of the unintelligible runes that have teased my tired brain during many a candlelit night. I've always sensed that there are some awful secrets in them, waiting for the time to be ripe for them to be discovered." Wilum turned from the sparkling waters of Deepmere, his face burdened with a strange fey smile. The thin shoulders beneath the coarse cloak were hunched, and Kal could see that exhaustion was taking its toll of the old bard. His body heaved a whispered groan.
"I'm a Hordanu of sere tattered endings. Endings call for resignation and submission, qualities that I've always possessed in ample abundance, sitting patiently in my Glence-shadowed keeil, the dwelling of my slow-footed dull-witted dotage, waiting . . . Always waiting . . ."
"But don't endings usually foretoken beginnings as well?"
"The beginnings of what, lad? Of chaos and misrule, of treachery and injustice? How do you turn back years and years of decline, the gathered weight of a world in headlong descent, like a great stone sent hurtling down the side of a steep mountain? Waiting . . . Always in a state of waiting . . . Until now. Now, finally, the sovereign force of events has overtaken us, you and me and all of Ahn Norvys to its very bounds and farther, beyond the fields we know, even as far as the realms that have never felt the caress of the sun's sure light."
Kal caught a flash from the fine-wrought gold of the harp. "But what about Hedric? Doesn't he say that, at the end, 'girded with might the good shall rise to take up arms against the gathered dark'? Surely that means there's hope?"
"Without a doubt." Wilum met the young man's eyes. "There's always hope. Forgive me for croodling mournfully like some old dove shrivelled in its cote, starved for sunlight and free air. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by the darkness, jaded by age and time, and I forget to be mindful of hope. Yes, Kal, even in the end there remains hope. Listen." Sitting on the thwart, Wilum began to strum the harp's supple strings and chant softly.
"When Wuldor's Howe is worsted by the brazen foe
And the Great Glence in utter ashbound ruin lies razed,
When the dark host of dreosan doth stain the Vale
And the Hordanu leaves the harrow of the Howe,
Shall rise a second foe upon whom few have gazed
From half-lit shadowed land of ancient dormant tale.
The royal one shall then rebel against the gloom,
His rank new-marked by crown and arms, by sword and belt,
Shall he seek out amid the isles shrouded by thick sea mist
The wondermaking goldsmith's well-hid island tomb.
In ocean lands where sea folk oft leave off their pelt
To take on human form by curlew-haunted cliffs."
It was a melancholy air. Kal did not recognize the ballad, but was smitten by its brooding melody. Even Galli paused for a moment, lifting his wet oars streaming into the air.
"That's an old song, lad, called 'The Unquiet Grave,' part of Hedric's Criochoran. It's about Vali's burial place and isn't often sung. An oddly turned out ballad. That's why you probably don't recognize it. Another of Hedric's prophecies."
"And it's now come to pass?"
"Aye, indeed it has. At least the first part of it has. The rest of it remains quite unclear. It has something to do with the saving and restoration of the Harmony, linked somehow with the finding of Vali's grave, somewhere among the Ocean Isles."
"That's one big swath of territory," commented Kal.
"That it is, and much of it unexplored and uninhabited."
"And what does he mean by the royal one who's to seek the grave?"
"In truth I don't know, Kal. It may be one of Ardiel's royal lineage that is meant, the lost Prince Starigan perhaps, or it may be the scion of some other royal house in Ahn Norvys. Hard to say. That part's certainly not as clear as the lines that refer to the Sacred Fire and the Balk Pit of Uäm. Alas, we're not about to solve the mystery of its meaning, so we'd better let the question pass for now."
Wilum fell to tracing the flowing lines of the harp with his fingers. "Did you know, Kal, that there was once a time, early in the Great Harmonic Age, when, if the Hordanu sang such a lay on the Talamadh, the sun would have beamed brighter in the sky and dispelled storm clouds, the flowers and trees of forest and field would have swayed with joy to its measure. All the folk to the furthest reaches of Ahn Norvys would have felt it in their bones that in Wuldor's Howe the Talamadh was being played. Their spirits would have resonated to its harmonious strains. Sitting beside me like this, you would have had to stop your ears for the sheer ecstasy of it. Alas, the Great Harmony is muted to a mere whisper of what it once was . . . But all the same, lad, take the harp and play me a tune."
"What do you mean? I touch the Talamadh? How could I, Master Wilum? It's forbidden. I'm just another farmboy, tending a few sheep in the Holding."
"Very good, lad. Keep your humility intact always. A true Hordanu should always have before his eyes that he is the servant of all that is holy and that he has no power but what comes from above in sacred trust."
"What do you mean, Master Wilum? What are you saying?"
"I mean, Kal, that as of this moment you have a special warrant to touch the Talamadh, for I'm invoking the ancient Right of Appointment, even though it's never before been invoked."
"What? I don't understand—Master Wilum?" quailed Kal.
"I can tell that your heart is all aquiver like a hen in thunder, lad, but don't be afraid. It's the power the Hordanu has in extreme danger or time of dire upheaval and war to appoint his own successor, somebody to share the office of Hordanu with him and to take over when he dies. All the normal rites of election are thereby superseded, making you, Kalaquinn, the Master of the Talamadh, with no less title than myself. Here, Kalaquinn, put your hand on the Talamadh and swear allegiance to Wuldor and all the sacred ceremonies of the orrthon."
"But I'm too young. How in the world could I be made Hordanu?"
Even Galli had stopped rowing.
"Get back to those oars of yours, Galli!" ordered Wilum. "Here we are running for our lives, and you're gawking like a mooncalf."
Quick with the oars, Galli fumblingly obeyed.
"I was only slightly older than you, Kal, when I was elected Hordanu by the folk of the Holding. That was nearly sixty years ago, and I remember it as if it were just yesterday. I was every bit as bewildered as you are now. But it was meant to be and I couldn't fight it. It would be easier to fight one of the mighty anagoroi, as Hedric did, to his cost, and to his benefit. I've long had it in mind that you would make a fine successor to me, Kalaquinn, and I've hoped that the folk of the Holding would show enough sense to elect you when the time came for my spirit to take its final leave. You've got a certain wisdom that sets you apart and belies your years. So come now, and place your hand on the Talamadh. Repeat after me. 'Arim cot adamrugud . . .' "
Too dumbfounded to offer further resistance, Kal stretched out his hand and hesitantly touched the harp. He had resigned himself in the matter and knew full well he would not refuse. He was overcome, like an innocent shepherd boy out to pasture with his flock who is stunned by a side branch of errant summer lightning fingering down on him from a cloudless sky. It would be pointless, even impious, to offer resistance. All the same, he could hardly bring himself to stumble through the solemn oath that Wilum administered by having Kal repeat after him the ancient ceremonial words of investiture.
"Take now the Talamadh and set your fingers to its strings to seal and make fast the Debrad you have just spoken," bade Wilum, when they had finished.
"What should I play?" asked Kal, as, with some uncertainty, he accepted the golden frame of the harp, holding it as if it were a searing hoop of fire.
"Any of the turusorans I've taught you in the past little while."
"And this, the Pyx of Roncador . . ." Kal held the half-round emerald vessel in his palm, still attached by its golden chain to the Talamadh.
"Indeed. It's of capital importance for our mission. But first, play. Let us finish the rite. Play, Kalaquinn."
Kal deftly positioned the sacred harp on his knee and began to pluck at the strings.
"Very good, a turusoran in the mode of the Southern clanholdings. Wonderfully appropriate."
Kal chanted "The Horn of Lynd," one of the many journey songs from Hedric's Master Legendary that he had learned in the course of his studies. Kal felt the Talamadh respond to his touch, and then he lost all sense of the golden harp as an instrument over which he could impose his will. It was as if it had taken control of his hands and was sweeping his fingers in sure mellifluent movement along its corded filaments. His heart overflowed with an even deeper sense of peace as the words of "The Horn of Lynd" sprang unbidden to his lips. He had only chanted a score of verses when Wilum asked him to stop. It cost Kal an effort of the will, however, to disengage himself from the seductive melody. Wilum placed his hand on Kal's brow.
"Hordanu, sealed in song, thine office beckons. How great thy power, no mortal reckons." Wilum withdrew his hand.
"It's absolutely amazing. Why, it's as if the harp itself took over and guided my fingers and my lips while I sang."
"Such is Vali's craftsmanship, it doesn't matter how talented or worthy the harpist is. Given the right conditions, the Talamadh has its own power. That's why the Boar would not hesitate to comb all of Arvon with a fine-meshed net in his search for it."
"To do what with it?"
"To suborn it, if he can, to deflect it from its long service of light and remake it into an instrument of his darkness."
"But how? How can he do that? I thought that the Talamadh would not lend itself to the performance of any evil."
"True enough in the past. Of course, you remember the evil-hearted Sandron, who succeeded Metan as Hordanu in the year 565. Believing he could use the Talamadh to further his own unsavoury ambitions and designs, he found the harp itself chafed under his crooked fingers and would not let him. But that was centuries upon centuries ago, when the Great Harmony was still young and vibrant. From all accounts it was a world infinitely different from our own. I fear now what Ferabek may attempt to do with the Talamadh, if it falls into his possession. At the very least he could simply hide it away from us so that its power could not be used against him."
"What about destroying it?"
"Never. He could never destroy it. Never can it perish utterly, for it is not just ordinary gold that Vali wrought it from, not gold that the fire of merely human forges can undo. No, Kalaquinn." Wilum fixed the young Hordanu with a piercing gaze from eyes that flashed like liquid blue flame. "It is human heartstrings, the mortal flesh of man that is much more easily severed and undone than Ardiel's Talamadh. That's why I'm filled with dread that his search for King Colurian's son may somehow stand on the brink of bearing fruit, that he may be ready to pounce on the lad. And he would be much more easily undone than Vali's harp."
"Now, Enbarr's told him some vital piece of news about the lost Prince." Kal pondered aloud, still half-embracing the harp. "He knows something, something he's only just discovered. If only that infernal fowl hadn't gotten free to distract the two of them, I could have heard that crucial part of his conversation with the Boar."
"Aye, in some way that old portrait of Colurian gave him the clue. How, I wonder, and what . . . If I had known . . . But in some way it has allowed the Boar to move against us, putting all within striking distance of his tusks. Ah well, perhaps the Boar would not have waited too long in any case," Wilum mused, his tone now darkening. "Perhaps he was intending with a bold stroke to capture me and extort the information from me. He's a fearful adversary, with a host of the black arts and arcane powers at his disposal. They were powerful forces that let that messenger broach the sacred barrier of Oakenvalley Bottom."
Wilum let his gaze now wander across the water to the eastern shore—deep forest rimmed by jagged heights surmounted by banks of clouds. In the sky gulls wheeled, calling mournfully.
"But for all that, my guess is that he still fears the tattered shreds of harmony that cleave yet to the Talamadh and to the Great Glence. He doesn't know how little or how much remains. For that matter neither do I, or we might have stood our ground at the Great Glence. But in my heart I'm certain it would have only been a holding action. Alas, too much of the ancient power and glory of the Great Harmony lies wasted and sapped of its strength. To think that the night drake now overflies the sheltered woodland paths of Wuldor's Howe. Unbelievable, that I should live to see the harrowing of the glencelands, what was once a mere dream vision, a veiled prophecy in the mind's eye of Hedric long ago, an event in the far-off distant future . . . I'm sorry, but there you have it." The old man's shoulders heaved in a deep sigh. "The Balk Pit can only be broached by one of Ardielid stock, and you can be sure that as long as Prince Starigan, wherever he is and whoever he is, eludes capture, the approaches to the Balk Pit will be closely watched. Aye, Kal, to recover Prince Starigan and then the Sacred Fire. Therein now lies our main task."
"But how can we even . . ." began Kal. "I mean to say, what chance do we have to get out of the Holding alive, let alone find Prince Starigan and journey to the Balk Pit?"
"Do you know what would happen to Ahn Norvys if there were no Candle Festival?" Wilum let his gaze turn back to the raven-haired young man beside him. "What small measure of harmony there remains would rapidly turn to discord, and there would be precious little to stop Ferabek and those to whom he pledges liege from enslaving all the known regions of Ahn Norvys. There would be imposed a new dispensation, grim beyond all words and conceiving, one shorn of all truth and wisdom and beauty, sundered from the sublime music of the spheres and filled with malignant chaos and blackness."
"But Wilum, even supposing we are able to get out of the Holding, and supposing we are able to obtain the Sacred Fire once again, even then where would the Candle Festival be held? Mustn't it take place in Wuldor's Howe, or not at all?"
"There are other places where the Candle Festival may be celebrated, at least in extreme times like this. Hedric explains it in his little-known Book of Festivals. I'll show you in due course. We have almost a year of grace in which to regain the Sacred Fire. And, most important of all to us at this moment of headlong flight, there exists another way out of this circling shield of mountains that only the Hordanu has ever been privy to. If we can meet the others at Tarlynn's Coomb, all may yet not be lost, Kal. Thank goodness Frysan seized on Tarlynn's Coomb as our meeting point. I couldn't have chosen a better spot myself. Here, let me show you what I'm talking about," said Wilum, who now began riffling through the oiled canvas satchel that lay at his feet.
He found what he was looking for and pulled out a small scroll of parchment held neatly rolled by a carmine leather band, which he now slipped off and placed beside him. "It's an awkward spot for us to be unrolling this map. But in the hours to come there will be no more private spot for us in all the Holding. As soon as we make land, there will be danger of hidden eyes and ears, if not open attack, and no time either to malinger over maps and strategies. And you, Galligaskin Clout—don't stop rowing—you must swear by all the sacred mysteries of the orrthon that you will not reveal any part of what you now hear or have heard. Swear it. We must trust no one, even our kinsfolk here in this valley, for what they do not know, they cannot chance to let slip, or, perish the thought, be forced to divulge."
Galli nodded his assent to the oath, still plying the oars. "That I swear, Master Wilum, by all that's sacred in the orrthon. Have no fear. I'll keep my lips firmly sealed—Look up there, back towards the Island." Galli pointed with his head.
"They've set fire to Owlpen Castle!" cried Kal. "And to the Great Glence and keeil too! There's more smoke curling up over the trees farther back towards the Howe—"
"Come, Kal . . . Come have a look at this," bade Wilum, who had averted his eyes from the distant plume of smoke and busied himself unfurling the small parchment scroll whose ends he weighed down with an old pair of otterskin boots left lying on the bottom of the boat.
The map looked quite ancient and seemed to be a detailed representation of the Holding, with its place names given in the antique cursive script favoured by most Old Arvonian manuscripts. Kal noticed a red cross that marked a spot just above Skell Force high up amid the western peaks of the Radolans. At the base of the map there was listed a legend.
"Do you see the red cross? Do you know what it signifies?"
"In the legend here it says 'path' or 'way' in Old Arvonian. What does that mean?"
"It means there exists a hidden passage out of the Holding. Hedric learned it from the echobards. Not that they told him willingly, of course. He was a young man, long before the Battle of the Velinthian Bridge, when he dared to explore our isolated little valley, a spot sacred to the echobards. One day Hedric slipped into this valley and tracked an echobard to the headwaters of the Skell, where he discovered another way past the impenetrable barrier of the Radolans besides the Wyrdlaugh Pass. This is the map he drew as a permanent record. Apart from Hedric, only Ardiel knew of it. And it was decided by them that the map would stay in the safekeeping of the Hordanu, and that its secret should be guarded by him as one of the mysteries of Wuldor's Howe. I make it known to you now, Kal, because our need is great and you share now in the solemn office of Hordanu."
"There is a pass through the mountains! In our rambles we've often mused about finding a hidden path to the other side of the Radolans. Many a time we've lain awake by the smouldering coals of a campfire looking up at the stars, excited by the thought of all the adventures that must lie beyond the mountains."
"Just like proper young men you are, aching for life on a grander stage. Well, now you've got your path to the outside and you're bound to get your bellyful of adventures, if, that is, we can reach it safely. You know what I'm asking of you, Kal, what you must help me do, once we reach the other side of the mountains. Something that must be done, desperate work, and with me too old to do it alone?"
Kal nodded slowly. "But where do we even start? It'll be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. And how can we even be sure he's still alive? And if he is, it looks more than likely now that Ferabek will reach him before we do. And if he does—"
"That Thrygian sorcerer of his will no doubt have royal human entrails for his augury."
"Is that what you think Cromus meant? I wasn't sure about the man's sneering hints, and part of me feared to ask you."
"I think so."
"I should have known. He made my flesh crawl. Almost worse than Ferabek."
"Your instincts are probably right. There's no such thing as a good Thrygian magus. It's not yardfowl whose entrails they usually examine these days."
Wilum placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "What a mission. I've hardly got the heart to ask you to undertake it. Such danger, such need. But whichever way I examine the problem, I see no other alternative. Somehow it's meant that you should share my burden, but I don't want to force you."
"I hardly know what to say. From farmboy to Hordanu all within the space of hours . . . But I will go and help you find Prince Starigan, whatever we have to do," affirmed Kal, even though formless fears clutched at his throat, and his lips trembled as he spoke.
"You must have no illusions, Kalaquinn. It will be a dangerous journey, fraught with uncertainties and perils you can scarcely conceive of, especially now that even the highlands are falling to the dominion of the Boar. Who knows how many troops he has ranging the hillsides on the other side of this valley? More than enough to overwhelm our highland men, I'm sure, doughty warriors though they be. I'm asking you to help me beard the lion, Kalaquinn, for even if you find Prince Starigan and return with the Sacred Fire, we'll be no stronger than we are now. And we must remember that though we have nearly a year to accomplish this task, the Balk Pit is two hundred leagues distant as the crow flies. The Boar, meanwhile, has one whole year to lay his traps for our capture, for he'll have at least two good tries at us, both going out and coming back. And beyond the borders of Arvon you'll be hunted by mightier and more malignant forces, seeing as the Boar has had longer to establish himself in the regions that lie beyond the Coolcower Alps. Even in Arvon, he's Gawmage's master, and this is one task he'll want to supervise closely himself. No doubt that's why he's come here to the Holding in person. His grand design depends on it. The dangers are more than great, Kalaquinn. But failure would mean the end of all mortal hopes."
"Put a Holdsman to his mettle and he'll storm the underworld itself," boasted Kal, his mood shifting, like an untested youth boldly brandishing his newly tempered sword in the safety of the village smithy. His blood rose at the thought of an adventure beyond the confines of the Holding.
"Rashly spoken words, Kalaquinn. You will want to be a little bit wiser than that and not let enthusiasm get the better of you. Nonetheless, I sense an underlying leaven of fear, and that's healthy."
"I won't deny it, Master Wilum. Here I am the wheelwright's son and now the Hordanu, I suppose, of all Arvon and Ahn Norvys. It's a lot to absorb," answered Kal, who was thinking with rue how jauntily he had tramped the Edgemere Road only yesterday morning, how eager he had been to come into his own. And now here he was. His own was a bardic title that linked him down the ages with Arvon's first and greatest Hordanu, whom Ardiel himself had invested. And with the title came a mission that seemed to defy all reasonable odds of success.
"I wouldn't dwell on the honour and glory of it if I were you, Kal. As matters stand, your being the Hordanu doesn't amount to a molehill, and you're sure to have, together with my own aged carcass, such a bounty on your head as would knot the insides of the stoutest highlander with fear. It's not just any ordinary adversary we're facing. The yoke ordained for you to shoulder is heavily laden with wrath and strife. But now, let us to the immediate task that faces us, and it's a daunting one, I must say. We and all the survivors we can muster are going to have to make our way over the Radolan Mountains down into the windward clanholdings of the coast. If we get that far, it's my hope we can find some sheltered spot to regroup."
"Where do you think we could flee?" asked Kal.
"I was thinking that the place that once harboured Ardiel long ago might give shelter to whatever remains of our Holdsfolk."
"The Marshes of Atramar?"
Wilum nodded, returning to the chart, smoothing it. "But as for you, Kal, it's important for me to acquaint you with a rough sketch of your mission in the event something happens to me. I'm an old man, after all. You'll need some knowledge of the tasks you're being called to undertake, for everything may well depend on you." Wilum placed a reassuring hand on Kal's shoulder. "And fortunately you won't have much time to fret and worry about things. The urgency is too pressing. In the end we might neither one of us survive." Wilum cut short the melancholy reflection and turned to stare over the side of the boat at the bubbling wavelets in its wake, rapt suddenly in his own train of thought.
Raven's Crag had become an ever more indistinct landmark in the offing behind them and Galli, confident now that they had not been spotted, swung the boat around and started to make a course westward towards Riven Oak Cove, the place where the waters of the Skell tumbled into Deepmere.
"Hedric's Criochoran is full of riddles and dark sayings," Wilum spoke again as if to the rippling lakewater over the gunwales of the boat. "Perhaps now they'll become clearer and free-flowing, as these waters of Deepmere used to be. How fervently I always hoped for some great burst of light to free us from the toils of darkness and uncertainty in this beleaguered tag end of Arvon. It seems for years I lived in waiting and apprehension of our adversary, wondering what sly manoeuvre he would hatch to outflank and enslave us. Alas, I had become weary, Kal, worn and weary. But now, even though Ferabek's move against us has been by far bolder than ever I thought, I feel more youthful than I've ever felt, strangely quickened by these sad events. I suppose it's because, for good or ill, they bring to a close the long plodding years of mouldering decay.
"But enough, let's sketch out a rough plan of our journey. We scarcely have time for an old man's pitiful musings." Wilum caught himself. "Here, we'll make a deeper study of the map. You'll soon see what I mean. We'll trace our best route to the Marshes of Atramar. I told Aelward as indirectly as I could that we should aim to meet at his Cot. That's all I dared say in my message, for fear my feathered messenger might get plucked from the air by an arrow or something even worse."
"Who is Aelward? You mentioned him yesterday. But it seems so long ago, doesn't it?"
"Indeed. I'm not certain I could answer that question. You'll make his acquaintance in due time, I hope. If he's back from his wanderings, he'll make shift to find us.
"Look here," said Wilum, tapping a spot on the map. "Here's where, if we can manage to stay ahead of the Black Scorpions, we'll be coming out on the other side of the Radolans. There's a big meadow there. If we bear to our left, southwards here, we'll come to a rocky outcrop of slate. From its base cascades a spout of spring water that pours itself in a little rivulet down the mountainside. The gully of that hidden little stream will bring us to the level of the Eyke Sarn and keep us from being seen. We'll have to take care, as we descend farther down the mountain, that we keep quiet, for there's no telling who or what may lurk by that old pathway. After that, we'll have to follow it south a ways 'til we reach the Old High Road. The groomed part of the Eyke Sarn ends there, but its overgrown cobblestones continue on to Hoël's Dyke, which is itself seldom used, derelict and unbrushed, a fit place for those who are hunted, the likes of ourselves. I think it would be best if we made for Hoël's Dyke.
"Time to change maps," Wilum continued, gently rolling the stiff parchment. "Every minute's precious now, if I'm to tell you at least the bare essentials before landfall." He replaced the band around the scroll of the map that showed the Holding and its immediate surroundings. In its place he brought out a much ampler, more cumbersome map, one laid out on a larger scale, including all of Arvon and the many lands that lay east of Arvon on the other side of the Coolcower Alps and Lake Lavengro and the watchtowers of the southeast.
"Now, let's quickly chart our most likely way to the Marshes of Atramar and Aelward's Cot nearby, and then I can show you where the Balk Pit of Uäm is situated."
"But what I don't understand is how can you be so certain we'll even find young Prince Starigan to begin with?"
"I'm not certain at all. That's a goodly part of the problem. The wellsprings of hope have dwindled in me. But then there's Hedric's prophetic lines that as Hordanu I can scarcely ignore, timeworn, but true. They must be. Aye, they must. Murky as they are, they bear hope for me and for Arvon. And then, more strangely, I've had the same recurring dream the past few nights running, even while the Holding has been racked by wind and storm."
"What dream is that?" queried Kal.
"I've seen old King Colurian sitting on the Coronation Stone. At least I thought it was him. Perhaps it was Ardiel himself. Who knows? I couldn't see his face. But on the frontal of his tunic were depicted a hart and hind, both milk white, facing each other rampant. In his right hand he held the royal sceptre, wielding it with firmness and authority. And hovering above him was some sort of bird, a beautiful one, with spread fantail of many colours. I've taken the dream to be a good omen. It has reassured me.
"For these reasons I feel it's somehow right and even necessary for me to speak to you about reaching the Balk Pit of Uäm. That way, if Aelward's found the Prince, you too can serve as guide to him. It will be essential for you to have some knowledge of the Balk Pit and how to get there, although circumstances may be such that you'll have to make your approach to it in a roundabout fashion from way over here by the Alnod River rather than from the direction of Arvon." Wilum pointed with his bony index finger. "From here in the highlands it would be an arduous trip of several months there and back again, mostly on foot. Whereas if you approach the Balk Pit from the east, where it seems, according to Aelward, that Starigan may well be found, it would be much closer. But even in that case you'd need to spend several months travelling in order to reach the lands of the East in the first place. Mind you listen keenly, for the fate of many will depend on what I'm telling you, and I doubt even Aelward for all his cleverness could tell you what I can." Wilum's voice had grown insistent.
Kal swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His mouth was dry. This was all too much—the breadth of the task being laid before him, the hard-edged urgency of the old man's words, and the glancing references to Aelward, whoever he was. A weight was being shifted ever more steadily onto him, a burden that he was scarcely prepared to take on. Kal felt very alone.
"Well, at least it won't be just the two of us . . ." He hesitated. "I mean just you and I, Wilum. Of course, Galli will be coming along too."
"It would be—"
"Why sure, I'll be going wherever you're going, Kal," cut in Galli.
"Aye, Galli, but you have your own job to do right now. Keep those oars of yours moving. As I was starting to say, Kal, it would be a great blessing to have Galli come along with us, given the desperate nature of our mission. Here, let me show you what some of the ground is like that lies between us and the Balk Pit of Uäm. On the windward side of the Radolans and to the south all around us here, lies some of the wildest and most mysterious country in the highlands," continued Wilum with a descriptive sweep of his fingers across the map spread out before them. "As I mentioned before, it would be best for you on this first portion of your journey if you were to hug the Eyke Sarn all the way to Hoël's Dyke. Then turn north along the Dyke. Keep in mind that, overgrown though it is, it may play host to any number of Gawmage's spies, especially since there live few loyal highlanders in that area to put the enemy's back up."
"What about the Thane of South Wold, Nuath? Doesn't he do anything to establish order in his own clanholding?" asked Kal, shifting uneasily on the thick plank thwart.
"Alas, Kal, no. He's much to be feared and little to be trusted. The rumour is that he's made a pact with Gawmage and traffics with the fell spirits. Indeed more than once he's come to the Holding with weasel words. Silvermouth they call him and with good reason, for he's sowing doubt and confusion in all the highland clanholdings. It makes me thankful that in our little valley clanholding we're liege to Thane Strongbow, although clearly I can't say as much about either his son or nephew. So here we are," continued Wilum, tracing his finger along the creased surface of the map. "As you follow Hoël's Dyke northwards, you'll be encountering the wilder regions of South Wold. You had best avoid the coast as well. It's bound to be heavily patrolled. Hoël's Dyke passes through the Woods of Tircoil. They're thickly forested, and even Thane Nuath's clansmen are afraid of the place, not daring to venture too far into them."
"What's in the forest that a body has to be so fearful of?" asked Kal, even though he suspected he already knew the answer from a score of childhood stories.
"The waldscathes. They thrive in the dense, ancient woodlands of the Tircoil. The clansmen call this peninsula the Black Cape because its woods are so dark and close. The valleys are deep and the hillsides steep with caves and embankments all mantled with a rich cover of forest. They're fearsome creatures, the waldscathes are. Cruel and dangerous, and they don't care much for other folk in Arvon. But they're night prowlers and won't go near a burning fire. So you'll need to get a strong fire going well before nightfall. The problem is that your fire will be like a beacon to anybody else who wishes you harm."
"You mean Thane Nuath and his clansmen?"
"Yes, I suppose so, if not Ferabek's scoundrels as well. But, as if this weren't enough, there are other evils to be found in the Black Cape."
"Such as?"
"I don't properly know. There's always been much whispering talk but few hard facts. Shades and shadows of things unnatural. The folk of South Wold alone have sure knowledge of the dangers in their clanholding. But for the most part they've kept to themselves even from the time of Ardiel. A tight-lipped, stiff-necked lot, but harmless up until now, although it's anybody's guess what they're about in our day. All I know is that Nuath cannot be trusted. Nor can his bard, Swaran. I should say especially not Swaran. In any case, I'd far sooner waldscathes and rumours of the wild, Kal, than Gawmage's scoundrels and Ferabek's iron-shod cohort," growled Wilum, frustrated at being saddled with these dire options. "Besides, there's a most important meeting we must attend at Aelward's Cot, and that's over here," he tapped the parchment, "just above what's called the Llanigon Mark Stone, this side of the Black Rock Gap . . . That is, if Aelward makes it back, and my message has gotten through."
"And that's just the first part of the quest? I was brought up a simple Holdsman, Wilum. How can I be of help to you? I feel like I'm being led on a thread." It was becoming clear this was not going to be just a merry walking tour through the banks and braes of highland Arvon—something he and Galli had often mused about on drowsy summer days while they lay nestled against a hayrick and boldy considered how exciting such a foray, even into the sinister clanholding of South Wold, would be. When it came down to it, however, the tales he overheard in his childhood of waldscathes and the thick trackless forests that lay on the farther side of the Old High Road loomed larger and more immediate in his imagination than the lure of adventure. Doubts came crowding into Kal's mind thick and fast. How could he ever be equal to all this, he, Kalaquinn, born and bred the simple wheelwright's son, who had only once in his living memory stepped outside of the Holding?
"Don't lose heart, lad," advised Wilum, a soothing hand on Kal's shoulder. "You're forgetting that Ardiel himself began as a simple ploughboy and Hedric the son of a forester. And remember that you may be led by a thread as readily as by a thickly braided rope, so long as you remain steady and refrain from pulling on it with your own strength. Stand firm and straight, Kal, and let yourself be led by the thread. You're not going defenceless. Why do you think you're taking the Talamadh with you?"
"How will it help us in all these dangers?"
"Didn't you feel the power of its music, Kalaquinn, even though it's merely a darkling spark of what it once was? Much of the harmony has been lost, but much remains, and even the little that is left may ravish a soul or repel an enemy. Yes, Kal, repel an enemy," reiterated Wilum, who noted Kal's look of astonishment. "Or, most importantly, perhaps, show you the way to certain places, if you're attentive."
"I don't understand. What do you mean, 'show me the way to certain places'?"
"Look at the map here again. Do you see the lines radiating out from the Great Glence?"
"Yes, they're like spokes of a wheel. A bit faint and hard to make out in spots."
"The map is faded. It's a copy I made of the original some while ago. But the lines are still discernible, if you look closely. There are sixteen of them. They're songlines, one for each of the turusorans. A turusoran, as you well know, has much minute description of landscape as well as telling a story. Well, in this case the turusoran describes the scenery of its particular songline, so that one who knows the turusoran and follows the songline can never be lost. He will be led from landmark to landmark with unerring accuracy."
"Look, this songline goes right through the Balk Pit of Uäm and then on through this island off the coast of Zacorlon, not too far from Telessar," commented Kal, who had noticed the red-inked letters marking the Balk Pit in the lands beyond Arvon to the northeast.
"Yes, Kal, these are all guiding lines for us as we journey. You will notice too, for example, how this other line runs through Wardwyst Castle, the seat of Thane Nuath's clanholding, which we will have at all costs to avoid. In the olden days it would have been unthinkable for evil in any form to be found on a songline. Not so now, so we'll follow Hoël's Dyke in order to avoid the Old High Road and Wardwyst Castle and meet with the Horn of Lynd somewhere around here, where it passes through the northeastern edge of the Woods of Tircoil and strikes a useful northwestern bearing toward the Calathros Peninsula."
"Horn of Lynd?"
"Each of the songlines is named after its turusoran. The journey song you chose to sing to seal the Debrad is the one we'll try to follow first as we put as much distance as possible between us and the Holding."
"What a coincidence!" exclaimed Kal.
"I would not be overly quick to ascribe to coincidence anything that happens in connection with the Talamadh."
"Still, how does the Talamadh show us the way?"
"If you reach a songline and pick at the strings of the Talamadh, it will cause you to enter into a recitation of the songline's turusoran at whatever point it describes the landscape you have reached, while, if you leave the songline ever so slightly, it will not respond in this way. So you see how it will help keep us oriented on our way to the Balk Pit. And its virtue is such that it can turn away much evil, especially on one of the songlines, and even then it's not certain what lies within its power still."
"Why's that?"
"Because the Great Harmony is so weak in all of Ahn Norvys that, besides the Great Glence itself, only the songlines yet hold a portion of its strength. How great this portion still is I don't know. If I had been surer, as I said, we might have made a stand at the Great Glence itself. What is clear is that the harmony is slowly, ceaselessly waning in vigour even as we speak, like a cask of choice wine that has had one of its staves pierced by a nail. Even the Candle Festival cannot forestall the steady unremitting outflow of the Harmony."
"But, where will the next Candle Festival be held, if the Boar still has the Holding in his grip this time next year?"
"In a time like this, says Hedric in his Book of Festivals, it may be celebrated along any one of the songlines, since each of the songlines is like an extension, as it were, of the power of the Glence Stone. But even so, a celebration of the Candle Festival on a songline would scarcely be the same as its celebration at the centre."
"But, it would be adequate?"
"You've hit on the right word. Yes, I think adequate is the word. Adequate, indeed, but hardly more than that . . . I'm not sure what this bodes for Arvon, Kal, or how the harmony may be restored to our world. It's not easy to understand parts of Hedric's Master Legendary. But I have a feeling that these parts of the Legendary will become clearer with time and that the extinction of the Sacred Fire is the first act in a larger drama in which you and perhaps I are destined to play a role."
"What do you mean by 'perhaps'? Surely it's you that will play the largest role."
"I don't know, Kal. I'm an old man, a Holdsman born and bred, as are you. My two journeys to Dinas Antrum have been the closest I've come to venturing forth into the wider world. I don't know that I'll have the strength to fulfil this quest of ours. I'm too old, much too old, to be dodging soldiers and scaling mountains and braving who knows what kind of hardships. My service as Hordanu is almost done. I feel it in my heart. My work as Hordanu has been one of preparing you for your work as Hordanu. You must carry on in my stead."
"It seems so futile," said Kal, absorbed in the palpable air of despondence that seemed for a moment to settle over the old man, "to make a long and dangerous search for Prince Starigan and then make a long and dangerous trek to the Balk Pit to fetch the Sacred Fire, then a long and dangerous journey back to the Holding, when it's clear that the restoration of the Harmony is the chief problem. I mean, what good is the Sacred Fire in a world that has lost its moorings in the Harmony?"
"Aye, but the one cannot happen without the groundwork of the other. First things first, as they say, even though it may be very hard sometimes to see at the beginning of an enterprise how the end is served. You'll find, too, Kal, as you journey through life, that much will happen that will appear at the time to be blind and fickle chance, but will later be shown to fit into a larger more patterned scheme of things. That is how our lives are ordained, from the greatest to the smallest amongst us, king and thane, bard and yeoman alike. We accept the task of the moment without knowing or worrying whether it's taking us backwards or forwards. It's like an intricate dance, a cosmic dance, in which we are asked to play our part, so long as we don't stand by our own wisdom and insist on dancing a haydigee when a jig is what's called for."
"And our jig now is a trip to the Balk Pit."
"Precisely my point. Although, I'd be the first one to admit I'm all but overwhelmed by the blackness that compasses us all around."
Wilum then led Kal quickly into some more of the immediately relevant details of the map and projected journey, explaining how they would make for Tarlynn's Coomb and from there continue following the valley of the Skell up to the river's source high in the Radolan Mountains above Skell Force, the mist-wrapped waterfall just below the Seven Springs. Wilum explained to him exactly where the secret passageway to the western slopes of the encircling peaks was to be found. And then Kal was admonished again as to the importance of avoiding Wardwyst Castle by following Hoël's Dyke, traversing the bottom of the Black Cape. Kal bristled at the prospect of the much-dreaded forest.
"But what about the songlines? Couldn't we use one of them to protect ourselves from the dangers that lurk in the Woods?" Kal asked.
"How would you do that? Examine the map more closely and you'll see the problem. Look, here's the Black Cape," said Wilum, pointing a finger at the spot.
"All right, I see," conceded Kal, noting that the two songlines that cleanly bisected the Black Cape would veer them off course to the western shore of the peninsula, offering no advantage. "Besides which, it doesn't seem like such a terribly long stretch of the Dyke that passes through the Woods," he observed with resignation.
"Come now, let's trace out the rest of the route to the Marshes of Atramar," urged the old man. "Mark how Hoël's Dyke coincides with the Horn of Lynd much of the way here, after it leaves the Woods of Tircoil and fords the Wellbeck River. The river forms the boundary between South Wold and Thrysvarshold. Here, see? Keep following Hoël's Dyke almost right to where it ends here at the Black Rock Gap in the upper marches of the Westland clanholdings. The Gap is one of many passes through the Sheerness Spur, but is little used, for obvious reasons."
"The Marshes of Atramar straddle the Gap on either side," remarked Kal.
"Precisely. That's why the Gap is not a normal way to cross the Sheerness Spur."
"And here's the Llanigon Mark Stone."
"Aye, Kal. It skirts the marsh area on a rise of land, very close to where Aelward has his Cot, our meeting place. You'll have to decide from there how to slip into the lowlands. Anyway, lad, this is as far as my advice about the particulars of your choice of route can take you," pronounced Wilum abruptly, lifting his hand from the map. "And I'd be less than honest if I said I didn't have doubts about this advice of mine, since Arvon, even here in our highland retreats, is in the throes of unpredictable change. As for the lowlands, I can best offer you only a pennyworth of my wisdom. Keep as much away as possible from villages and towns and roads and waterways. Keep to the byways and the forests. Look closely at the map, Kal, whenever you have a chance. You can keep this copy. I've got the original in the sack here. Take note of the rivers and roads, towns and cities, forests and marshes, mountains and plains. Examine it. See where all the songlines run. Try as much as you can to stay on one of them. Avoid the northern coast here along the Dumoric Sea and head towards the Coolcower Alps somewhere around here," he said, circling a piece of the map with his finger, "many leagues from Dinas Antrum and the Boar's head legions quartered there.
"I need not tell you how wary we'll have to be, for there will be much evil abroad in the lowland counties, some of it of Gawmage's merely human making and some of it more wicked still, for it germinates anew from the black depths of Ahn Norvys's Age of Echoes, like a patch of weeds that has overgrown the untended wheat. I shall try, lad, as far as I can, while fate keeps me at your side, to outline some of the dangers and pitfalls that await us there in the lowlands. Much of the information I can give you about lowland Arvon and about the transalpine regions of Ahn Norvys beyond the Coolcower Alps is old lore from the Legendary. Of which there's a great deal that you already know from your six years of service to me here in Wuldor's Howe. I'll make it my job to tell you as much as I can whenever we have a chance, so as to refresh your memory and so that you may learn other things as well that I've hidden from you in your youth. But the main strategy that I counsel is for you to take the songlines as your guide, travelling from the safety of one songline to that of the next, in order to reach whatever place you are bound for.
"Notice, Kal, how this songline that goes through Dinas Antrum comes closest to the Balk Pit itself. That's why, if you are bound for the Balk Pit, you can't follow its line of approach until you're past the Coolcower Alps."
"I don't understand, Wilum. Why?"
"For the same reason that you must avoid going anywhere near Wardwyst Castle. Dinas Antrum will be crawling with troops and spies and unconscionable dangers. It would be far better, I think, to skulk by night in the woods and fields around it. And notice too, quite obviously, how much greater the distance is between songlines the farther removed you are from the Great Glence. So that when you leave the safety of one of them, the security of the next will take that much longer to reach. So you see there's no easy road for us on this mission."
"That's for certain," affirmed Kal. "So . . . We're not to go alone, then?" he asked.
"No, you won't be going alone. Unwrinkle your brow. I wouldn't lay such a heavy burden on you as to saddle you with only a doddering old man as your helpmate. It's good to have company in trouble, since evil shared is more easily borne, and, more importantly for us, more easily overcome."
"Who is coming with me then?"
"Patience, Kal. How can I tell you when I don't know myself for certain? The matter bears more thought, and we've hardly had time to sit down and consider our situation. Events have happened so quickly. Galli, for one, at least, can come with you, if he wants, and if you're willing to share the dangers with him." Hearing this, Galli looked up from his rowing with a beaming smile and said nothing.
"Now that you put it that way, in terms of danger, maybe Galli shouldn't come along."
"Really, what do you think I am, Kal? Some wasted half-man? Any danger you face I will face too," asserted Galli, unable to contain himself.
Wilum nodded gently, amused.
"As I was about to say to you, Kal, before Galli let his eagerness get the better of him again, it would on the contrary be exceedingly prudent of you to have Galli come along with you. He's shown himself to be a true friend in the tried and longer way of your lives together in the Holding. I can see the deeper bond of friendship that lies between you. He's a true and trusty fellow, your friend Galligaskin Clout. A body may search high and low for such a one and never find him in this life. Yes, you would be wise to ask him to come along."
"Ask me? Who needs to ask me? Diggory's team couldn't keep me from coming along with you, Kal," blurted Galli, his face flushed with shame at Wilum's unstinted praise.
"There you are, Kal. You're stuck with him," humoured Wilum, a smile breaking the worry on his face.
"Re'm ena, but that he is, Master Wilum, begging your pardon."
"Don't worry, Galli. You're coming with me all right. I wouldn't have it any other way. There's no arguing with a Clout," returned Kal.
"It won't be long now. I can see the shoreline," Galli said, turning back to the oars.
"Here, Kal, fold the map and keep it with you," counselled Wilum. "As I said, you can look at it more closely later."
All talking ceased now, and, while Galli rowed, Wilum and Kal looked westwards towards the little inlet of Riven Oak Cove. Slowly the rugged western shore of Deepmere, brimming with a multitude of brooks and torrents, took shape. Everywhere there were heaped huge piles of rock that looked like they had been cast down from the heights by wanton giants in their sport. Some took the aspect of jutting piers, others of small peninsulas crested with tufts of dwarf oak and clinging ash. In places, rivulets cascaded in waterfalls over low-slung terraces and rocky outcrops which embossed a gradually sloping landscape of flowery meadows and deep-wooded glades.
As their boat turned into Riven Oak Cove, they heard the faint melodious tinkling of cowbells.
"Look, there's Master Tudno's animals," said Kal.
A small herd of cattle browsed beside a ruined stone bothy on a flat area of open grassland. As they drew up the long narrow arm of the Cove and the clink of the cowbells receded, a pregnant calm, framed by the trumpeting of a pair of swans, descended on them. Sweeping right down to the shore on either side of them were wych elms and maples. As well, there were wild cherry and pear trees pricked out with spring blossoms as white as the cloak of Tobar. Already the ground was carpeted with wood violet and cinquefoil. An air of mystery and awful stillness hung over the place. Small wonder that few ever ventured into this Cove. Even Warden Tudno rarely frequented this spot. Kal recalled that his practice was merely to bring his cattle up in the spring and, leaving them to fend for themselves, return to drive them up in midsummer to the higher pastures in the steeper lee of the mountains. Certainly Tudno would never have dared sleep in the decrepit old stone bothy round which his cattle grazed contentedly.
Both Wilum and Kal, who sat facing the rowing figure of Galli, looked out onto a gently sloping meadow flat at the farthest end of the Cove, where they made out the outline of King Herne's Oak, the great misshapen tree from which the Cove derived its name. Close by it, the Skell added its waters to those of Deepmere in a rock-strewn stretch of whitewater that churned and eddied under the graceful arches linking together the stout piers of the bridge over which ran the Westwynd Way.
Moments later Galli was scraping the shallow bed of the lake with his oars.