As soon as they entered, however, the horse slowed to a cautious walking pace and the dripping silence of the woodland mist folded round them. As the cold dampness struck through him, some impulse made Hawklan draw his sword.

It felt strange in his hand powerful and alive as if leading him. He looked at the hilt. The two intertwined strands at its heart seemed to be catching a light from somewhere and were glinting brilliantly, threading an infinite way through the myriad stars that surrounded them.

'Ethriss, awaken.'The voice was faint and weak, but a flicker of light seemed to run along the strands in response.

A soft movement in the air thinned the mist briefly and, shimmering in the distance, Hawklan saw four indistinct figures. He leapt down from his horse and ran forward along the road, the sound of his footsteps dying flatly in the greyness. The mist sighed silently back again and the figures were obscured, but Hawklan ran on.

'Wait!' he cried. 'Wait!' Then he halted suddenly as a dark hooded figure emerged through the mist a little way head.

'Wait for what?' it asked in a sharp, cross voice. A woman's voice. Hawklan ignored the question and ran up to her. 'Where are the others?' he asked.

'Others? What others, young man?'

'They were with you. Three of them. They were calling out to me.'

The woman's head tilted to one side quizzically. Hawklan ran a few steps forward into the mist, looking desperately from side to side in a vain attempt to see through it and swinging his sword wildly as if to cut a pathway. A sense of loss was rising in him. He ran in another direction.

'There's no one here, young man, as you can see. I'm on my own.' The woman's voice showed marked impatience. Hawklan stopped his pacing, his face pained.

'But I saw them,' he said quietly. 'And I heard them. They were here with you. Standing behind you.'

The woman flicked her hood back revealing a face as cross as her voice. It was an oddly striking face; one that drew the eye, though not beautiful. Its predominant feature was a long pointed nose overhanging a tight-lipped mouth and b.u.t.tressing a determined forehead. From under the shade of this, two piercing blue eyes peered out. Judging from her stooped posture and the support she took from a stick, she was old, but Hawklan could not have guessed her age. Her gaze was remarkable.

'Three you say?' she asked. Hawklan nodded. She gave a non-committal grunt and stared at him relentlessly.

'You a bandit?' she demanded after a moment. The suddenness of this eccentric question nonplussed Hawklan and his mouth opened and closed vaguely.

'No,' he managed eventually and rather weakly.

'What's that then?' she asked, bringing her stick up and pointing to his sword.

'A sword,' he replied helplessly.

She took a purposeful step towards him. 'Do you always address a lady with a sword in your hand?'

Hawklan felt his face redden, and clumsily he put the sword back into its scabbard with a mumbled apology.

'Should think so too,' snorted the woman. 'Charging out of the mist shouting and yelling and waving your sword looking for people who aren't there. Frighten a defenceless old woman to death you could.'

Hawklan was beginning to think this was most unlikely, but he kept his own counsel. He gazed round again, but he knew that the three other figures would not be there. They had been round this woman whether she knew it or not, but they were gone now, that was beyond doubt. A vision of a great glowing answer to the questions that plagued him had opened before him, he knew, but it had slipped away as easily as the mist through the leaves of the trees. Now in place of this vision, he was standing in a dank, foggy dell, talking to a cantankerous old woman he had never seen before and who could quite legitimately reproach him for his conduct.

'May I escort you through the rest of the wood?' he offered tentatively. Up came the stick again. 'Don't you soft soap me, young man. What would I want with an escort who sees things, hey? Be on your way, or I'll give you a taste of my stick.'

Hawklan was not a man to hold on to an indefensible position indefinitely and he was about to go back for his horse when a great shape loomed up out of the mist.

'I don't believe it,' came Isloman's voice. 'I thought I recognized those dulcet tones.' He jumped down from his horse. 'Old Memsa Gulda, as I live and breathe. And not changed a jot.'

The woman looked at him ferociously.

'Don't you recognize me, Gulda?'

The woman stepped forward and peered intently up at him. 'I used to know an impudent young whelp called Isloman who had the look of you snotty-nosed little imp. Quarrelled with his brother over some girl and then went off to the wars as I recall.'

'Not so snotty-nosed by then, Gulda,' said Isloman, slightly subdued.

She was contemptuous. 'You're all snotty-nosed. Men. Eternally in need of some attention or other or you'll be off creating trouble.' She stepped back a little and looked him up and down as if she were contemplating a purchase. 'You've aged, lad.' Her voice was quieter.

The mist brightened a little as the morning sun skimmed over the hollow.

Isloman stroked his horse. 'Of course I've aged. It's been a long time since you left, Gulda,' he said.

'Probably twenty years or so. Where did you go? Why did you leave so suddenly?'

The stick came up and prodded him in the stomach. 'Cheeky as ever, I see, young Isloman. I go where I go, and for my own reasons.' Then, with a prod for each word, 'Just like you did.' The stick relented.

'A woman needs a little peace now and then, a little time away from people and their noise.'

Isloman was about to speak when the woman released another barrage. 'And it's Memsa to you, my lad,' she added indignantly. 'Gulda indeed. I'll give you Gulda. And a little less of the old if you please.

I'd say I've weathered the years better than you have, wouldn't you?'

Isloman seemed uncertain about how to react to this fierce reminder of his youth. He found boyhood fears surprisingly near the surface under the threat of her gaze and her stick.

She spared him further reflection. 'What are you doing here then? Looking after this lunatic?' She continued looking at Isloman, but the stick pointed to Hawklan, standing listening to this exchange with some amus.e.m.e.nt.

'Gul . . .' Isloman faltered. 'Memsa, this is Hawklan,' he finished formally.

Slowly she turned her head and looked at Hawklan severely. The she grunted thoughtfully. 'Hawklan.

The healer. The Key Bearer. I've heard a lot about him round and about.'

She walked round him, looking him up and down as she had Isloman. 'Who is she?' Hawklan mouthed silently to Isloman over her head.

Isloman made a tiny movement with his hand to indicate explanations later.

'Stop that,' snapped Gulda without altering her pace. Then suddenly, to Hawklan, 'Perhaps you'd tell me, young man, why the Key Bearer of Anderras Darion should charge about in the mist, sword in hand, chasing shadows?'

Hawklan spoke quietly. 'I'm sorry if I frightened you. I heard someone calling and I saw the figures by you.'

'You've said that once,' said Gulda impatiently. 'And I've told you I'm alone.'

Hawklan shrugged. 'They were there. I saw them. Just behind you.'

'She wrinkled her nose suspiciously. 'What were they calling?'

Hawklan told her.

'Ethriss, eh?' she muttered, again to herself. Then, to Hawklan, sharply, 'Is your name Ethriss?'

'No,' he replied.

'Then why did you gallop into the mist like a madman at the sound of his name?' she pressed.

Hawklan shrugged uncertainly. 'It was me they were calling out to,' he said quietly. Gulda looked at him darkly for a long moment and then pulled up her hood so that her face disappeared into its shade except for the end of her nose which floated white in the darkness.

Abruptly she turned round and headed off down the road. After a few paces she turned. 'Come on,' she said crossly.

Hawklan waved vaguely in both directions. 'I thought you were going . . . that way.'

'Bah,' she snorted and, turning again, stalked off into the mist. Her voice floated back through the greyness. 'I'll see you two at the Castle.'

Isloman swung up on to his horse, a wide grin on his face. 'Loman'll be pleased, I don't think. Get your horse and catch her up. I'll fetch the others.' Then a deep chuckle bubbled out of him. 'But keep out of the way of that stick. And watch your lip, young fella.'

Before Hawklan could speak, Isloman had trotted off into the lightening mist and Hawklan could hear him laughing to himself.

Mounting, he urged Serian gently forward after the woman. As he reached the top of a small rise and emerged into the sunlight, he was surprised to see how far the woman had travelled. For all her appearance of age, and her stick and stoop, she had a long purposeful stride and he had to trot Serian forward briskly to catch up with her.

He debated offering her the saddle, but was dubious about the reception of such a suggestion, so he dismounted a little way behind her. 'Come along, young man, don't dawdle,' she said without turning round. 'I've got questions to ask you.

Quickly, quickly!'

Hawklan found himself running forward like a schoolboy in response to these instructions. When he reached her he found he needed his long legs to match her unrelenting pace. He cast a sideways look at her, but the hood covered her face and he could see nothing but the end of her nose ploughing steadily forward like the prow of a ship.

A combination of courtesy and amused alarm stopped him asking any questions as they strode on in silence along the old stone road. Occasionally she would mutter to herself as if partic.i.p.ating in some internal debate, then, 'Give me your sword, young man,' she said sharply.

Hawklan hesitated. Her right hand stretched out impatiently and the morning bird-song was silenced momentarily by two resounding cracks as she snapped her fingers to indicate that hesitation was not what she had asked for. Hawklan drew the sword and handed it to her gingerly.

'Take care,' he said. 'It's very sharp.'

Gulda grunted and her long fingers closed around the hilt. Hawklan noted the grip. It was not that of a woman examining a dangerous curiosity. It was a swordsman's grip.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't realize you were used to weapons.'

Briefly her pace slowed and there was a slight inclination of the head. Then there was another grunt and she strode out again. The sword hilt went to the end of the long nose and was turned round and round, then each part of the sword in turn was similarly scrutinized. Abruptly she stopped walking.

'Well, well, well. Ethriss's sword. His black sword.' Her voice had lost its cantankerous quality and was quiet and full of many emotions. 'I thought it might be, but I couldn't be sure in that mist. Then, who'd have expected to see it ever again? How did you come by it, healer?'

'I found it in the Castle Armoury,' Hawklan said. The hooded head turned towards him. With the sun in his eyes he could see nothing of her face, but he could sense those piercing blue eyes, sharp in the blackness of the hood, missing nothing. Then she turned away, and striding out again gave an enigmatic laugh.

'That I doubt, Key Bearer. That I doubt. Ethriss's sword couldn't be found because it was never hidden.It foundyou . Have no illusions about that.It foundyou .' Then the hilt disappeared into the hood, as if she were listening to it. 'And it's killed Mandrocs recently. Iknew it!' There was triumph in the voice. 'I knew it. I've not lost all my wits yet.'

Hawklan's eyes widened in surprise. 'How could you know that?' he asked.

Her voice was distant. 'Gulda knows Mandrocs. Could smell them. That's why I came back. Couldn't believe my nose after all this time. They've been killing again. Taken life here in Orthlund, haven't they?

That's what's upsetting all the Orthlundyn, although they're too sleepy to know it. Running about like ants under a stone instead of feeling what's happened.'

Hawklan shook his head. 'Gulda, I don't understand you. How do you know these things?' Then partly to himself, 'I don't understand any of this. All these strange and awful happenings. What do you knowabout them?'

The dark hood turned towards him, and there was a long deep watchful silence. Then suddenly, 'Here, catch.' And with a flick of her wrist she sent the sword spinning towards him. Without thinking, his hand went out and caught it solidly. A strange humming vibration came from the blade.

Gulda chuckled. 'You understand more than you know, healer. I wonder who you are? We'll have to talk later.'

Unsteadily, Hawklan put the sword back in its scabbard. He wanted to talk now. He had an acc.u.mulation of questions that more than accounted for twenty years of indifference, but she was off, clumping along the road towards the village.

He sighed resignedly. Patience, Hawklan, he thought. Patience. There'll be plenty of time when we reach the Castle. But, as that very thought came to him, he sensed that time was becoming more scarce, and that the meeting of the elders, and whoever else would be there, would be the last chance he would have to draw on the collected wisdom of Orthlund. After that, he could see only vague images of dispersion and scattering; even breaking.

Chapter 15.

As at all the other villages, the people of Pedhavin came out to meet them in straggling groups before they reached the village proper. Greetings were genuine and warm, but concern lined almost every face, and Hawklan noted again that everyone gravitated first to Isloman to hear his brief account of what had happened.

Gulda, too, created quite a stir, being obviously acquainted with many of Isloman's generation, and Hawklan was amused to see so many grown men looking sheepish after some encounter with her. Her cross voice echoed through the village and she did a great deal of poking and prodding with her stick, both at carvings and people. A clumping, black, stooped figure stalking around the village, she looked like part of their shadow lore come to life, thought Hawklan.

Tirilen almost charmed her. Hawklan detected a more pervasive quiet in Tirilen's manner, and felt both glad and sorry. The responsibility of being the village's healer in his absence had subtly altered the villagers' att.i.tude towards her, but the new, deeper quietness came mainly from within Tirilen herself. It was like a flower starting a summer-long blooming after the turbulence of spring. Though bewildered and hurt by the news of what had happened, Tirilen also showed the strange relieved acceptance that the other Orthlundyn had shown and she faced Gulda's scowling inspection with a manner that was at once both pleasant and unyielding and which provoked an entirely new range of grunts from the old woman.

Some, to Hawklan's ear, seemed quite complimentary.

Loman, however, fared less well; he appeared considerably less than enthusiastic about Gulda's return.

Hawklan gained the distinct impression that the great barrel-chested man was hiding behind his daughter's skirts, but Gulda winkled him out and transfixed him against a wall with both stick and blue-eyed gaze, while her face reflected a memory's journeying through the years. Then her eyes narrowed as a destination was reached.

'Young Loman, isn't it?' she proclaimed. Loman coughed slightly, nodded, and went red. Gulda pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes further. The stick tapped him twice on the chest. 'I'll be watching you more carefully this time, young man,' she said. That was all. Loman cleared his throat and looked vaguely into the distance. Gulda cast another look at Tirilen who was trying not to smile at her father's discomfiture.

'Hrmph. You take after your mother, child,' said the old woman, turning and walking away.

It was Gulda who led the procession up the steep winding road to the Castle. This time Hawklan did offer her the saddle, although her pace had not slackened. The stick twitched menacingly.

'Are you trying to make a fool of me, young man?' came the unhesitating reply. Hawklan declined to answer, knowing by now when his foot was on quicksand and when a further step would leave him in inextricable distress. He walked quietly by her side, discreetly listening to her mutterings and snorts.

Many of the others continued to ride, but none felt inclined to pa.s.s Gulda.

Gavor gazed groggily down at the approaching group from far above in a cosy cranny high in the eaves of one of the towers. The front tip of the distant, shuffling snake gave him trouble. Closing one eye, and concentrating hard, he still failed to make the two black images merge into one. He looked reproachfully at his 'friend' snoring contentedly in the dusty sunlight and muttered something about abstinence, then he wriggled cautiously to try to straighten out some troublesome feathers. His companion's eye opened.

'Gavor,' said a soft voice, carrying a quite unmistakable implication.

Gavor affected to ignore the request and squinted gamely down the dizzying perspective of the tower.

'Gavor.' More urgently.

Gavor debated with himself. Should he fly down and greet Hawklan or should he . . .?

'Gavor . . .