[Lanen Kaelar 01] - Song in the Silence (2 page)

I wasn’t overfond of Hadron, either, but then I
never had been. He always kept his distance while I was a small child, and when
I grew so tall so young he seemed appalled. From the moment I came of age he
despised me, though I never knew why. I could do nothing right in his eyes.
Sometimes I gave in to despair, knowing I was an evil creature who had no
heart, since my mother had left me and my father did not love me. The worst of
it to me, the true darkness in my heart that frightened me most and that I
whispered to no one, was that I did not love him either.

But there was one bright light in my world, one
beacon of hope and love and caring in all the desert of indifference I saw
around me.

Jamie.

For me, any words of Hadronsstead must begin and
end with him. He was there from my earliest memory, Hadron’s steward and his
right hand on the farm. Jamie managed the crops and the other livestock while
Hadron ignored his child and made a name for himself as a breeder of horses.
But to me, Jamie was ever love and kindness.

When as a child I needed comfort, it was always
his small, dark, wiry figure I looked for, not the cold tree-height of Hadron.
It was Jamie who made sure I was always looked after when Hadron forgot, Jamie
who was a quiet friend when I so desperately needed one, Jamie who later taught
me to see my strength and man-height as an advantage instead of a curse. When
at fourteen I began to walk stooped over, trying to lessen my (I thought
unnatural) height, which I feared made Hadron hate me, Jamie it was who took me
aside and told me kindly that I reminded Hadron of my mother, it was nothing I
had done, and he persuaded me to stand tall. Against Hadron’s wishes Jamie
taught me to read and write, and when I begged him he also taught me in secret
how to fight without weapons; and how to use a sword and a bow. He was always
there, never complained through all my needing him that I can remember, had a
soft word for me even when my temper lashed him instead of its true target. He
loved me as a daughter, as Hadron could not, and in return was given all the
love I could not lavish on a heedless father.

I can hear the young girls wondering why I did
not think of marriage. The true answer is that I did, sometimes, late at night
as I lay in my too short bed and dreamed. But there is a good reason I did not
escape by marriage. I have seen some of the paintings the young ones have done
of me in my youth, and they do make me laugh! I am now and always have been no
more than plain. Hadron told me so all my young life, and I learned to believe
him. Men were the same then as now; the young ones want a beauty, the old ones
want a young one, and after being trapped so long on the farm I had the heart
of an old woman and no beauty ta speak of. The best that can be said is that I
was tall as a man, strong as a woman well can be, brown as a nut from years of
farm work in the sun and rain, and had a temper I only occasionally managed to
keep in check.

Most nights, to be truthful, I thought more of
love than of marriage, and more of going away than of love.

That is the real deep truth of me, now and as a
girl. I longed to see the world, to go to those places that rang on the edge of
stories like sweet distant bells. Even the sight of the Mear Hills to the north
pierced my heart every time I saw them. Autumn was the worst, when they put on
their patchwork winter coats and beckoned like so many red-and-gold giants.
Lying on my bed in the dark I wandered through those trees a thousand times,
laughing—sometimes aloud—as I watched the sun through the stained-glass leaves,
breathing in their spicy scent and soaking in their colour until I could hold
no more.

But my real desires lay beyond the Mear Hills.
All of Kolmar was mine the dark, covered with a quilt, weary from the day’s
needs but with mine still unfulfilled. In thought I roamed east and north,
through the dark and threatening Trollingwood to the fastness of Eynhallow at
the edge of the mountains, or into the mountains themselves, into the mines
where jewels sparkled from the walls in the light of a lantern held high.
Sometimes, though not often, I would venture south to the green kingdom of the
silkweavers of Elimar—the north always called to my heart with the stronger
voice.

But those times I most resented what I was forced
to do, when despite the duty I owed him I would have cursed my father for
making me stay, when even Jamie could not console me and the bleakness of my
future came near to breaking me—then I would let loose the deep dream of my
heart.

ln it I stood at the bow of one of the great
Merchant ships, sailing for the Dragon Isle at the turn of the year. The sea
was rough, for the Storms that lay between Kolmar and the fabled land of the
Dragons might abate but they never ceased. The ship swayed and groaned beneath
my feet, spray blew keen and salt in my face but I laughed and welcomed it. For
all I knew I would find naught on the island but lansip trees, and the long and
dangerous trip there and back all for no more than my pay for harvesting the
leaves more precious than silver. But perhaps—

Perhaps the Merchants’ tales spoke true. It might
be that I should be chosen to approach the Guardian of the trees, and perhaps
as we spoke I would see him, and he would not be some giant of a warrior as
everyone but the Merchants said.

I would feel no fear. I would step towards him
and bow, greeting him in the name of my people, and he would come to me on four
feet, his great wings folded, his fire held in check. In my dreams I spoke with
the Dragon who guarded the trees.

Now, everyone knows that there are dragons, poor
solitary creatures no bigger than a horse who live quietly in the Trollingwood
away to the north. They pass their lives in deep forests or in rocky caverns,
and almost always alone, and generally dragons and men do not trouble one
another. Sometimes, though, a dragon will acquire a taste for forbidden food—a
village’s cattle, or sheep, or human flesh. Then great hunts are gathered from
all the villages round and the creature is slain as quickly as possible, or at
the least chased away. These little dragons have only faint similarities to the
True Dragons of the ballads. They have fiery breath, though it is soon
exhausted; they have armoured scales, but their size tells against them, and
they seem no brighter than cattle. Unless they fly away—and they do not fly
well—they may be killed without too great difficulty.

The Merchants, however, have the word of those
who have been there, and they say that the Dragon Isle is the home of the True
Dragons ‘of legend. They are as big as a cottage with wings to match, teeth and
claws as long as a man’s forearm and a huge jewel shining from each forehead.
Of course the Harvesters who returned were asked about them; but the last ship
to return from the journey to the Dragon Isle came home to Corli more than a century
ago, and there are none living who can swear that the True Dragons exist. It is
said that within certain boundaries it is safe to visit that land, but some old
tales whispered of those who dared to cross over seeking dragon gold and paid
the price. If you believe the tales, not one of those venturous souls ever
returned.

The bards, of course, have made songs of the True
Dragons for hundreds of years. Usually the tale is of some brave fighter
attacking one of them against terrible odds, defeating it but dying in the
process. All very noble but more than a little absurd, if the Merchants recall
truly their size and power. Still, there are some lovely lays about such
things.

Every now and then, however, you come across a
story with a different tum. The Song of the Winged Ones is a song of
celebration, written as though the singer were standing on the Dragon Isle
watching the dragons flying in the sun. The words are full of wonder at the
beauty of the creatures; and there is a curious pause in the middle of one of
the stanzas near the end, where the singer waits a full four measures in
silence for those who listen to hear the music of distant dragon wings. It
seldom fails to bring echoes of something beyond the silence, and is almost
never performed because many bards fear it.

I love it.

I heard it first when I was seven. The snows were
bad that year, and a bard travelling south from Aris (some four days’ journey
north of us) on his way to Kaibar for midwinter got stuck at Hadronsstead for
the festival. He was well treated, given new clothes in honour of the season,
and in return he performed for the household for the three nights of the
celebration. The last piece he sang on the last night was the Song of the
Winged Ones, and I fell in love. I was just warm and sleepy enough to listen
with my eyes closed, and when the pause came I heard music still, wilder and
deeper than the bard’s but far softer. I never forgot the sound. It spoke to
something deep within me and I resolved to hear it again if ever I could. When
I mentioned it to the singer later he paled slightly, told me that people often
imagined that they heard things in the pause, and swore to himself (when he
thought I had gone) never to sing the wretched thing again.

I spent the next seventeen years waiting to hear
that sound, and dreamed of meeting a True Dragon, a Dragon out of the ballads,
huge, wild and fierce, yet possessed of the powers of speech and reason. And he
would not kill me for daring to speak to him. He would respond in courtesy, we
would learn of each other and exchange tales of our lives, and together the two
of us would change all of Kolmar. Humans would have someone new to talk to, a
new way of seeing life and truth, and it would happen because I had dared to do
what few had even dreamed about.

And they would grant me the name I had chosen in
the old speech, those who came after and knew what I had done. They would call
me Kaelar, Lanen Kaelar, the Far-Traveller, the Long Wanderer.

And there the sweet dream would end, and I would
cry myself to sleep.

My world changed in my twenty-fourth year.
Hadron, rest his soul, finally had enough of raising horses and a daughter with
no prospects. He died at midsummer, and Jamie and I laid him in the ground high
on the hill overlooking the north fields.

After Hadron’ s death his lands and goods came to
me, which shocked me to the bone. I had always thought Jamie or Walther would
be his heir, but in death Hadron was more gracious than ever he had been in
life. I was amazed by the extent of his lands, many of which I had never seen,
and by the wealth he had gained. l knew well enough how to run the place—I had
been Jamie’s right hand for years—but the sheer size of it all took me by
surprise. I still thought of Jamie as my master, and he still taught and helped
me in those first months, but to my chagrin I found that I was blessed as well
with a valuable steward in my cousin Walther.

Walther had for many years now made his peace
with me, though I could never forgive him for siding with Hadron in keeping me
caged. It did not help that even as a child I found him dull and a little slow.
All his thoughts were of the farm; his one fond wish had ever been to become as
good a breeder and trainer of horses as his uncle. He had not known what his
place would be when Hadron died, but since working for me did not seem to
concern him I never mentioned it.

Hadron’s death came just as he was starting to
prepare for the Great Fair, and with him gone there was more to do than hands
to do it. There were a good dozen of the horses old enough, broken in and ready
to be sold this year. Hadron and Jamie had always gone to Illara, but Hadron’s
part now fell to me as the heir. If I had been a little less tired I would have
been delighted at the prospect of finally seeing the King’s Seat of Ilsa. As it
was, grief and weariness outweighed all else. I did not pretend to mourn Hadron
greatly, but I felt his loss, and grieved quietly to myself that I had cared so
little for my own father. In great part, though, I must admit that I felt a
weary weight lifted from my shoulders.

I could see no further than that until the night
before we left, when my eyes began to open.
      
.

The horses had just been brought into the barn
for the night. We would have to rise early to begin the journey—the fair was in
a fortnight’s time and we would travel most of that, Jamie and I and the three
farmhands who were coming to help with the horses. Still, the night before
leaving had always been exciting even when I was not going on the journey; a
time of ending and beginning, full of promise and change. Jamie had already
gone to his bed and the other hands to their lodging. Walther and I had just
finished the last chores; and I was trudging across the paving stones of the
court yard when he laid a hand on my arm and stopped me in the torchlight,
saying he had something to ask me. .

“What is it?” I asked, wondering why we had to
stop walking. I was filthy and exhausted and wanted a bath and my bed in the
worst way…

“Lanen, I—it’s been six weeks since Hadron
died. There’s been no man around here but me to look after you, and …”

He had to wait while I laughed. “You’ve a
curious sense of things, Walther. None but Jamie has looked after me for twenty
years. Why should someone start because Hadron died? Besides, I’ve yet to meet
a man who wanted the honour, and none I wished to give it to.” I moved on
towards the house.

“What about me?” said Walther loudly.

That stopped me.