The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter
the sorcerer only shook his head and listened again. ‘Come!’ he said, heading swiftly away. ‘We must take our leave of this place. By my shadow, look at the time! We should have crossed the Evenlode Bridge and passed into the Wychwoode by now!’
As he hurried on, Will’s sense of danger mounted. The sorcerer behaved as if something truly dreadful was following hard on their heels, but he could neither see nor hear any sign of pursuit. At last, they entered the shade of a wooded valley bottom, and Will’s fears began to fall away again. The waters of the Evenlode flowed over stones and glimmered under fronds of beech and oak and elm. A stone wall snaked out of sight across the river and led down to a well-used stone bridge. A woman seemed to be standing some way along the far bank next to a willow tree. She was beautiful, tall and veiled in white, yet sad. It seemed she had been crying. She watched him approach then stretched out a hand to him longingly, but the sorcerer called gruffly to him not to dawdle, and when he looked again the woman was gone.
As they followed the path up into the woodland green, he asked who she was and why she had been weeping. But Gwydion looked askance at him and said only, ‘By that willow tree? I saw no one there.’
Will stopped and looked back again, but even the shaft of sunlight in which the woman had seemed to stand had faded. He knew he had seen her, though now he could not say how real she had been.
Gwydion had raised his staff and was exclaiming, ‘Behold the great Forest of Wychwoode! Rejoice, Willand, for now you will be safe for a little while at least.’
They travelled deeper into the forest along whispering runnels, among towering trees where sunshine flecked the green gloom with gold. Will heard the clatter of a woodpecker far away in the distance. Cuckoos and cowschotts and other woodland birds flittered among the trees. After a while, he said, ‘Master Gwydion, how is it you’ve got memories that go back eighty generations? Are you immortal?’
‘I have lived long and seen much, but that does not make me immortal. No one is that. I was born as other men were born. My first home was Druidale, on the Ellan Vannin, which some now call the Island of Manx – though that was long ago. I can be hurt as other men are hurt – by accident or by malice – though it is quite hard to catch unawares one who has lived so long in the world. I do not grow old as other men grow old, and many magical defences protect me from different kinds of murderous harm, but one day I will cease to be just as all men cease to be. As for what I am, there is no proper word for that in these latter days. I am both guardian and pathfinder. Once I might have been called “phantarch”, but you may call me a wizard.’
‘Aren’t wizards the same as sorcerers, then? Or is one good and the other evil?’
‘There are many fools who would have you believe it. But be careful of such words, for believers in good and evil cannot understand true magic.’
‘Believers?’ Will said, frowning. ‘Do you mean there might be no such thing as good or evil? But how could that be?’
But Gwydion said only, ‘For the present you would do well to forget all you have ever learned of light and dark, for the true nature of the world is not as you suppose.’
Will looked about. ‘So am I to live with you here in this wood, and learn magic?’
Gwydion seemed puzzled by his question, but then he laughed and clapped Will on the shoulder. ‘See there, we are nearing the tower of Lord Strange. He will settle some of your endless questions.’
As Will followed, he wondered who Lord Strange might be. He had never seen a lord, for no lord had ever bothered to tramp through Quaggy Marsh down by Middle Norton. No one except Tilwin ever visited the upper reaches of the Vale. Even so, Will had heard tell of lordly ways, about their finery, about how they feasted in stone-built castles and rode snow-white horses, and most of all about how they wore shining armour and wielded swords in battle. Lords had sounded at once a fine and a fearsome lot.
As for Gwydion, he did not look as though he did any of those things. He dressed simply, like a wayfarer, not in robes of velvet or cloth-of-gold, but in plain wool and linen. And he went barefoot like a man who could not afford himself a pair of shoes. There was no metal about him, nor anything that came from the killing of an animal – no fur, no leather and no bone – except for the bird’s skull charm that he wore around his neck.
‘Why do you wear that?’ he asked, pointing to it as they came over a mossy bank and headed down towards a forest glade.
The wizard looked sidelong at him. ‘This? It is an ornament…and a safeguard.’
‘Against what?’
‘The unexpected.’ He intercepted Will’s finger as he tried to touch it. ‘Be careful! It is a trigger that sets off a very powerful piece of magic. It works much as a crossbow works upon a bolt. If the spell were invoked, I would become the bolt.’
Will did not understand. It was only a bird’s skull. But there was no time to dwell on the matter, for just then Will saw a fallow deer hind. He touched the wizard’s sleeve and pointed her out. She was watching them nervously from beyond a stand of birch trees, but as soon as she knew she had been discovered she leapt away.
Will saw the marks of her cloven hooves in the damp earth, but there were others that were bigger and uncloven. Gwydion examined some droppings then a half-smile appeared on his face. ‘These are rare fumets indeed,’ he said. ‘Unicorn dung! It is most odd. They are not often to be found so far south. Something is amiss here.’
The forest deepened around them and the undergrowth thickened, but just as it seemed their path would be blocked the ground began to fall away into a clearing. There stood a double tower of dressed stone which rose to many times the height of a man. Will marvelled at it, though it seemed a dismal place. It was old and round and green with moss. Its top was battlemented and set with pointed roofs and several small, high windows. Below the tower there was a square moat.
Will’s fears returned as they approached the gate. When they reached the bridge a frightening figure came out to bar their way. He was a man, but he was wearing a bonnet of iron and a coat that jangled with countless interlinked iron rings. His body was covered with a red surcoat that displayed the likeness of two silvery hounds. Will had never seen cloth so bright. It was as red as blood.
‘Who comes to the dwelling of Lord Strange?’
Gwydion spread his hands. ‘Tell your master there is a friend at his gate. One who brings tidings of wind and water and of war to come.’
‘Wait here for your answer.’
When the man had disappeared, Gwydion said, ‘The warden of the forest is named John le Strange. This is his lodge. His own domains are in the North where many men follow him, but King Hal has made him warden here. The king hunts rarely and has never come to this place, but Wychwoode is a royal forest and must be kept as such. You will soon see why Lord Strange has been appointed to a place where few eyes can linger upon him.’
‘Is he…ugly?’
Gwydion looked up to the top of the tower. ‘He was once the handsomest of men, but his appearance has been changed. He wears a ring of gold in his nose. That is his wedding ring which he is loath to cut and cannot otherwise remove. Take care not to stare at him.’
Will’s fears surged. ‘Why not?’
‘Because first impressions count for a lot. You do not want to be thought rude.’
Will swallowed hard. ‘Master Gwydion, why have you brought me here?’
‘To learn, Willand. To learn.’
The man returned. This time he lifted up the front part of his iron hat and bade them enter. Will followed as Gwydion crossed the threshold and entered the hall. There, attended by his people, Lord Strange came out to greet them both. He was a big man with a chest like a barrel, but what was terrifying about him, and what made Will reel back in horror, was the fact that his head was more than a little like that of a wild boar.
Will