Avoiding gestures from individuals trying to catch his attention, Brandor stayed focused on the recently arrived group ahead, pleased that at least something had turned out right. Wasting the last turn trying to persuade High-tard Drola to unite with Polon of Tardoc, they were still no further forward.
‘What a fool,’ he cursed. How much time had he spent charging around The Freelands drumming up an alliance only to be undermined here by a petty argument dating back twenty full seasons. Permitting that despicable dispute to come between life and death for The Freelands was beyond words. Unable to contain his anger, he had left Drola to Maloree, the very reason behind this whole ragged affair.
Born of the Yarmi Folk, Maloree had come forward to re-establish a link between her people and the peoples of Tardania. A link severed scores of generations ago during a period of great darkness, only the mountain city of Tardoc had existed in Tardania at that time. Greedy men from the planes had started influencing the ancient Tardocians, threatening to destabilise that early society. Amongst the turmoil, a small group had withstood those influences. Honourable people with a love of life, they had separated to form a new civilization, known today as the Yarmi Folk. Receiving numerous revelations, they had manipulated reality and created a realm running parallel to this one. Inaccessible to the aggressors who had vowed to wreck their plans, the Yarmorians’ harmless ways had been saved.
A similar initiative had emerged a few generations later, when a splinter group had left to form what is now Tarden. The one city of Tardoc, eventually splitting into three, it had been a tumultuous period in their history. Nevertheless, Tarden and Tardoc had retained a link across the generations. Not until the two present High-tards had come to blows over Maloree had a wedge formed between them; some saying Maloree’s original efforts at reconciliation had caused more damage than it was worth.
Attracting the attentions of the young Drola of Tarden and Polon of Tardoc, getting close to both, she had set a number of challenges to see who would win her hand. Drola had won but not convincingly, to the disapproval of many. To say Maloree, now High-lady of Tarden, had manipulated the circumstances was unacceptable. Intelligent, her sincerity had won countless admirers, himself included. Witty and sensitive, just like her brethren, he had visited the Yarmorians many times in the deep past. Their kindness had always been consistent, and Maloree was no different. The fact the Yarmorians had not answered his call recently did not warrant the suspicious remarks talked about by some. Huffing, Brandor let the issue go, concentrating on more immediate matters instead.
Approaching the table, the familiar face of Hallen nodded to the Dai-laman, and so did Tarmon and Timal. Stone-faced and without his usual friendliness, Kifter appeared detached. Trusting they had not encountered trouble, he was keen to see Hanor above all. Sitting with his back to him, the boy continued to pick at the food. Taking a second look, he could not recall Hanor having dark locks of hair.
“It is good to see you made it,” he said, his eagerness obvious. Whatever potential lay dormant in the young man was to be encouraged when considering the diabolical situation here at Tarden. Powers of the unseen kind would be vital to defeat the Dark One,. The Masters here were eager to meet him too.
Swallowing a slither of tasty meat, Bane gulped. Cowering inside, he could do little but get it over with by facing the old man. Turning, apologetic for not being what was expected, “Hel… hello,” he dared.
Brandor’s mind raced when looking again. “Who is this?” he asked, confounded that he had even considered it to be Hanor. Was this an ill-timed joke?
Kifter, who had closed his eyes at the moment of impact, steadied himself. Wary, peering up at his powerful friend, the Dai-laman was staring towards the Eating Hall expecting Hanor to walk out.
“Well…! Where is Hanor?” Brandor pressed.
Hallen spoke before the Fife could answer. “We ran into some difficulties.”
“Difficulties!” the man of power cut him short, forewarning he was not in the mood for surprises. “What do you mean? Hanor is here…, is he not?” Glancing again at Bane, certain he had seen him before, “Kifter!”
The bark snapped the Fife from his daze. “There were a number of incidents,” he blurted, rattled.
“Incidents…! Where is Hanor and who is this?” The Dai-laman demanded to know, temper held at bay by confusion. “Did you not do as I asked? What did you bring him for?”
“I did set out with Hanor as requested, but... complications arose. This is Bane, Hanor’s friend.”
“Bane… yes, I will deal with that in a moment. Where is Hanor?”
Whatever reasons Kifter gave, he would be slaughtered anyway. “After losing Hanor’s brother Nole at Boverns Crossing,” Brandor looked aghast, but Kifter continued before he could interrupt. “The next morning, Hanor disappeared. We followed his tracks until they vanished too.”
“Disappeared…?” The Dai-Laman could not believe what he was hearing.
“His trail led to a mysterious circular pattern on the ground, and he never came out.” A deep-seated shame drew over the Fife, especially as Tarmon was hearing it for the first time as well. Discerning now that it was for pride’s sake and fear of losing his abilities that he had been so moody of late, he waited for the outburst.
“Come here,” the Dai-laman ordered.
The command lifted the small Fife automatically from his seat. Failure, the word was more painful than a knife. Standing before the powerful man, disgraced, gloom returned with a vengeance.
“Look at me.”
Again, Kifter obeyed. Wise piercing eyes stared down, the Dai-laman’s disappointment clear. Mortified, he had been set an important task, why should he be trusted to do so again? His parents had half-abandoned him, he expected nothing less from his mentor.
“I need to see what happened,” the determined figure said.
Unsure of its implications, Kifter waited for his old friend to do as he pleased.
Extending both hands, Brandor placed one on Kifter’s forehead and the other at the back, clasping tight. No words were uttered, the Dai-laman concentrating on the Fife.
Tingles behind Kifter’s eyes developed as images of their recent past emerged, presuming his trusted friend was surveying them too. The force of the Dai Laman’s mind unnerved him but he held steady. Observing just how small his own part in the struggle for The Freelands survival was compared to this man of power, he was but a short knife alongside a mighty sword.
Memories filed through his mind. From the outset when leaving Manson, images of the Freeloaver, the Nyshifter and Boverns Crossing surfaced before disappearing. Tuning into Brandor’s thoughts whilst undergoing the scrutiny, Kifter was shocked to sense his old friend’s dismay at the potential threat of the Dark One. If Brandor was inadequate to meet such a challenge, then just how powerful was their enemy?
Finally, images arrived at the mysterious circle, the intricate spiral baffling the Dai-laman. Examining every detail, Kifter hoped his friend would know what it was, but he was giving nothing away. Flicking back and forth through the Fife’s memory, nausea started whirling, clouding Kifter’s thoughts. Losing strength in his legs, dizzy, Brandor registered the change.
Cringing as if a tiny needle was withdrawing from his eyes, Kifter staggered, relying on the Dai-laman’s firm grip to prevent him falling. Thankful for Tarmon’s additional support, he took a few moments to recoup his balance. Not knowing at what point Brandor let go, a sense of intrusion attacked as if violated. Shuddering, Kifter felt sick.
“How do you feel?” the man of power asked, sensitive to what he had done.
“I need to sit down,” the Fife said, Tarmon ushering him to his seat.
“I am sorry, Kifter,” Brandor’s apology was unexpected. “But under the circumstances, I needed to know. We cannot afford anymore mishaps.”
Composed at last, the Fife knew his inquisitor had overstepped the mark. Conceding no description could have portrayed the right picture, whatever it was about Hanor, the Dai-Laman was pinning a great deal of hope in him. Sipping some water, when looking up, he was pleased to see the Dai-laman’s blood was no longer boiling.
“Well…?” Kifter queried. Better now the burden was lifted, a genuine concern for Hanor’s whereabouts moved him. “As you can see, our journey was far from uneventful. Do you know what happened to him?”
Pursing lips, Brandor was still far from happy. “Fortunately for you, I have a good idea, but that does not mean it is acceptable.”
“I know,” Kifter said, the relief observable.
“He is not in trouble but… that does not mean he is out of it either.”
“Is he still alive then?” Bane asked, hopes firing.
“You, young man, need a good talking to,” Brandor said, whirling to face Bane. “But yes, I would say he is quite alive.”
Yelping, delighted, the sense of loss and guilt evaporated before tears got the better of Bane. Others along the balcony were staring but he did not care.
“What has happened to Hanor then?” Hallen asked.
Cutting a slither of meat, Brandor ate it before taking another slice. Life on the road was becoming tiresome, especially when covering for others. “I will tell you when I get back,” he said, grabbing a handful of short-bakes when leaving. “I will return tomorrow at sunset. Tarmon and Timal, sort out your leader!” Entering the Food Hall behind, he was gone.
“You still do not remember the names of your parents?” Coreema asked. It was the third time of asking since beginning these exercises.
“No,” Hanor replied, disappointed. Some names seemed to stick but the most important ones did not. “It is annoying.”
Seated by a small pool trying to search out his past, he had already forgiven Coreema for leaving him on his own. Those tender words, “I am sorry, Hanor,” had melted away any lingering upset. Even though she was mentally beyond him, just her presence was enough to unbalance him, finding it difficult to concentrate, just like when with Sulie.
“There I go again,” he said. “Another name remembered…, Sulie.”
“Sulie…?” Morn queried.
“I think she was a girl who lived near me.”
“Nothing more?”
“No,” he said, hoping to see a glimmer of heightened attention from Coreema. Such hopes were pointless.
“You vaguely remember the people at your camp but not the reason for your journey?”
“Correct.”
“This is very strange,” he said, mulling over what they had covered.
The turn was drifting towards evening, and they had spent a considerable time searching Hanor’s past without any control on their part. He was a free agent, so whatever was blocking his recollections had nothing to do with them. Undecided whether to mention Boverns Crossing, the fact Coreema was prevented from going there with Hanor by that Presence raised a great many concerns within their Clan. Some wanted to try whilst others sought the patient way. The fact the Sacred had shown some interest in this was enough to persuade everyone that caution was still necessary.
“You want to say something to me but you are wary of how I will react?” Hanor said, saying what he saw. Both Coreema and Morn did not flinch, but his heightened senses detected their surprise.
“You are merging with the Oneness Principle of Yarmoria, and your mind is becoming evermore attuned to ours,” Coreema said, a flicker of disquiet present. Shocked, the Lani Clan’s Plans were now potentially open for his discovery.
Picking up on the fear, Hanor was confused. What was so important it could keep them occupied for the best part of two turns of the day?
Dissolving the alarm, she continued. “You are correct, we do want to talk about a particular issue, but the risks are high.” Waiting for her heart to flutter, ordering her to retract from this direction, but nothing happened. Discovery of her people’s long-term plans by Hanor was one thing, but to upset the Sacred was quite another. Yarma Torna did not respond either. “We know your group was involved in a serious incident the night before you entered Yarmoria.”
“Like what?”
“Are you certain nothing comes to mind?” Morn asked, cautious.
“I am eager to know anything that will rid me of this blindness.”
Pausing just long enough to be sure, Coreema proceeded. “Have you heard of Boverns Crossing?”
Preparing for an impulsive rush, a sudden dawning of something terrible, the two waited alongside the many others tuning into this process.
Willing for a glimmer of recognition, Hanor rubbed his hands, now oily from the tension. But hope soon faded the longer he waited, his memory staying blank. “No.”
“You do not remember being at the bridge with these people?”
“I cannot even remember if I have a family.” Deciding he should not stay in Yarmoria, even if Coreema were to draw near again, he felt empty and lost.
Tuning into his sadness, Coreema reached out and held his hand. Unable to suppress her feelings for him completely, he saw the sparkle, the glint that would reach out and embrace freedom if she so desired. Sadly though, her hand left his, a pang pinching his heart. Choosing otherwise, at least it made his decision to go easier. With the so-called openness of this place, he wondered how many of his thoughts they could now see. Ridiculous to pretend, staring at her delicate hands, to have his memory back now meant everything to him. Looking up at the two, “I do not think this is going to work.”
Running out of answers, Coreema and Morn knew the last option was precarious. To take him physically back to Boverns Crossing would be going against the Sacred’s wishes, their encounter with the Presence in Coreema’s stay proof enough. But what else could they do? Hanor’s question interrupted their thoughts, too preoccupied by his own problems to note the next possibility.
“Where are my friends now?” Supposing they had left the area, whatever their original purpose, they had probably given him up for dead.
“We did not follow their direction, Hanor,” Morn said. “Our attention was on your unexpected arrival.”
“So they are no longer looking for me?” Solidifying the emptiness around him, it was a foolish question that did not need answering. Exhausted from the endless questions, cupping head in hands, Hanor felt quite alone.
“Come,” Coreema said rising, holding her hand out to him. “We will sit and watch the fading light in my Stay.”
Limp, he took her hand. Sensing her defences were in place, determined not to fall for him again, he said nothing when leaving the tranquil pool. Subdued, even her sweet scent did little to succour him.