Riding through the night, Brandor urged his beloved Tunder on, relying on his Kyboe’s keen sight to avoid any obstacles in the dark. Considering the extraordinary details of the group’s journey, Kifter’s memories were astounding. From the mystery behind the dead Freeloaver to the return of the Boverns, the fact Nyshifters were flying this far south again was an additional nightmare he did not need.
Continuing undeterred through the early short-turns of the morning, dawn arrived, the lush terrain succumbing to the encroaching barrenness of the south. Trees began solidifying around him, needing to travel this far south to ensure the Yarmi Folk’s power did not conflict with Tarden’s. Trusting his call would be answered this time, he would not leave until it was.
Bleak, the region’s sorry state was getting worse. Some Masters at Tarden decreed the Yarmorians were starving the area of vital life-giving properties, but his once close affiliation with them prevented him agreeing with the idea. Those old affections he knew were a hindrance, generating a bias not easily dispelled.
Presuming Hanor would be fine, but something grim kept gnawing at him. If in their care, why did he feel nervous?
Daylight arrived. Pulling up, he watered and fed a panting Tunder before resting. Checking the silent setting, a rise in the ground in front would be a good place to invoke the Yarmorians. Trees stretched in every direction, the thick canopy above swaying in the breeze. Brown and drab, a thick bed of needle-seeds suffocated the ground. Only the hardened, well-lined stomachs of Kyboes could eat such bland seeds. Something had to be done, it was just a matter of what and by whom.
Starting a few breathing exercises to steady himself, he made his way over to the low mound. Rechecking his bearings, Tunder was chewing nearby. A final sharp intake of air, he closed his eyes and began chanting the words of beckoning.
“Mas sum oll as a ma.” Repeating the words but with a deeper tone, each utterance took him closer to the correct pitch. “Mas sum oll as a ma.” Saying it for a third and final time, the last one vibrated as it should, unifying with invisible powers. Hitting the right note, he waited.
Searching the area with his mind’s eye for anything approaching, the invocation registered, his call vibrating like a continuous knock at the door. When invoking them previously, he had been sensitive to their needs, and not forced the issue. But with Hanor at stake, he was not going anywhere.
A sudden rush of energy came hurtling forward like an invisible wave about to crash down on his vulnerable position. Daunting for the humble individual perceiving such an approach, the Yamorian’s immense power had grown beyond measure. Their arrival encompassed the entire region, vibrating the surrounding area into insignificance. Proving they were the reason why the lower regions of Tardania were dying, the evidence hovered before him.
Aggrieved, convinced they were examining him from their still hidden position, had it been so long since he was last here that nobody recognised him? Did the once loving Yarmi Folk now harbour suspicion over openness? Disbelieving they could not see his peaceful intentions, this was distressing.
Radiating energies that were not as harmonised as before, reservations increased as to why. Once gentle and welcoming, but this verged on too much power and not enough of the unifying energies that produced harmony. A long time had passed since he had entered their Realm, and he would not have thought such a drastic change was possible. Still scrutinising him, this was not good.
Responding to his uncertainties, the landscape shimmered before transforming. Enormous Woodell trees disappeared, finding himself standing on a large grass clearing surrounded by about thirty, what he supposed were Yarmorians. Slender like he remembered of old, but their features had altered, their temples more pronounced. Catching his breath at the sharpness of their eyes, so dark and unyielding, he could not believe how menacing they looked compared to the tender gazes he had once adored. What had happened to them? Noting the changes in Maloree when she had first arrived at Tarden over twenty full seasons ago, but she was far less prominent than her brethren. A ring of trees at the clearing’s outer edge was not the place he remembered either. The sky appeared unnaturally blue, forced to keep its tone by some unnatural power. Details flashed, the whole place unnatural.
Waiting for someone to step forward to welcome him, but instead, he felt like an intruder. Composing himself, searching the onlookers for any recognisable features, but only indifferent expressions stared back. Slightly smaller than what he remembered, there was no sign of the unconditional love of yester-season either. No one was in a rush to speak on their behalf, leaving Brandor to make a start.
“Your answer to my call is gracious,” he said, sensitive, peering around the mixed group. Both males and females of differing age, still no one moved. Accustomed to standing before large gatherings, but rarely in a situation like this, he had no choice but to improvise. “You probably have your own work to do, so I will not keep you for long.”
Responding to his doubt, a figure stepped forward. Slender and toned like the others, his pointed stare softened, a tame smile apologising for their evasiveness.
“You are known to us,” the one said, suspicion still present. “You are Brandor of the Sleep, a Dai-laman and Knower of The Hidden Mysteries.” The word knower was said as if in disdain. “We know your works and concerns. A noble cause you have undertaken.”
“Then you are aware of the threat from the north?” Brandor said, the Yarmorian still not extending a hand of welcome.
“Yes…, we know of the dangers.”
“I have called upon you before but received no reply, I assume you are busy preparing your own response to the Dark One.”
“We consider all things before acting.”
Ambiguous, Brandor took it in a positive light. “You intend to repel the attack then?”
“We in Yarmoria cannot live alongside such evil.”
“We are on the same side at least,” Brandor said, managing a slim smile. The opposing numbers however, did not share his gladness.
With that out of the way, the Dai-laman felt more confident about the situation, even under the strain. Still hoping they had come into contact with Hanor, he could not see the boy anywhere. “Yarmoria appears different since I was last here,” he said. Brave enough to turn in a circle, the entire arena emitted a warmth that seemed strange. Illusionary and out of balance, noticing it before entering, it was far more prominent here.
“Times change…, and so do people,” the one standing forth replied.
A vague answer, Brandor was still puzzled by their aloofness. “I was a good friend of your ancestors.”
“It is known that your seasons are long, and you have a history with our people, hence why your entry was not through the Vortex. We respect decisions already made.”
Generating further doubts as to whether they agreed with that original decision, perplexed by their detachment, the Dai-laman could not understand why. What was their agenda? Maloree, High-lady of Tarden, was at least friendly and respectful. It was difficult to imagine that she was born here amongst these people. Contacting them on his behalf shortly after his first failed attempt to reach them, but she had returned and said they were not free to talk yet. Now he could see why they were not so eager.
“You said you know of me and my work, may I ask your name?” Brandor tried. The fellow had not once glanced at the others for support.
“I am known as… Yarma Torna.”
“It is pleasing to meet you Yarma Torna, and everyone else here,” Brandor said, shedding warmth even though there was none in return. These modern Yarmi Folk were not light-hearted as were their predecessors. Disappointed that a race could change so dramatically, what had crept into their covert world to distort it? A grim reflection of the southern regions of Tardania, he was not enjoying this, deciding to get to the point of why he was here.
“Another reason for coming is regarding a young man who was given into my care. He was on his way to Tarden with friends of mine, but he has gone astray.” Recognition charged the ring, encouraging him. “I was hoping you may be able to help. Your reach stretches wide, have you come across him?”
Hesitant, Torna searched the Dai-laman for lines of ill intent. “Many young men wander through our realm, and many get lost, roaming for many turns before stumbling back out onto the grassy planes. Does this boy have a name?”
“Hanor.”
“And what would your interest be with him?”
Treading carefully, “He was entrusted to me by his parents, and I intend to teach him about the Hidden Mysteries. At Tarden…, I was to start his training.”
“Why Tarden?” Torna asked. Hanor remained an enigma, a fascination deserving closer study. “Why not at the Sleep?”
“You know of the dangers we face, I have other pressing work that cannot wait. I will teach him wherever I can.” Unsure what exactly he was to do with Hanor, but he could not just leave him at the Sleep, doubting his fellow members of the Hisian-Set would see the potentials of the boy. “Your questions suggest you know of him or his whereabouts?”
The Yarma required more. “What do you intend to train him for?”
Quick to reply, it was clear they recognised Hanor was different. “I look for strengths in all those I meet, Hanor included. There is great potential in him, and we need all the strength we can muster, young or old.”
Unexpected, an older looking Yarmorian left the circle, disappearing into the trees behind. Brandor was hopeful, but stalled when looking back at Torna, suspicion still evident. “Do you doubt me?” he asked, now just wanting the boy and to get out of here.
“Your words appear true,” Torna said. “But Hanor does not belong to you or his parents, he will decide his own fate.”
“Then you have him here?”
“Yes…, we have grown fond of him.”
“He has a rare quality.” Brandor’s relief was unmistakable.
The ring remained steadfast, no one stepping forward to offer any further assurances. Treating him as an outsider, this was most odd. “I remember your forebears were friendly, but since arriving, I have felt nothing but suspicion, questioning my integrity. Why this reaction?”
Unsettled murmurs from the onlookers proved there were issues.
Torna glared straight at him. “Your present work we do not question, and is commendable even, but great Laws ensure ill works of the past are never forgotten. Those who suffer menace will find peace, for justice is at hand. In time, your past actions and those of your companions will be made known and dealt with.”
Disturbed, Brandor had no idea what he was talking about. To think he and others had done something terrible was awful, wracking his mind for what it could be. Yarma Torna returned to the circle’s edge, ending the discussion. Wherever the Dai-laman looked, disgust stared back. What was going on?
“Hanor!” the soft voice spoke, wary of startling him. “Hanor!” the voice repeated, more urgent this time.
Interplaying with his dreams, it was difficult to know if he was asleep or not. Troubles for the moment forgotten, but the intruding voice would not let Hanor rest.
“You must wake up,” the voice said, accompanied by a gentle touch on his shoulder.
Opening his eyes, Hanor was surprised to see a hasty Morn peering down.
“Come Hanor, something has happened.”
“Happened?” Rubbing dry eyes, he sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Someone… has turned up!”
“Do you mean… someone I know?”
“It appears to be so,” Morn said.
“Who?” Hanor asked, excited.
Morn turned away, hiding his unease. “That is for you to remember.”
“Is it one of those from my camp?”
Hesitant, Morn considered if he had made the right decision to come. “No, for we would have known.”
Dressing, anticipation rising, the Yarmorian appeared troubled. “Why are you acting like this? Should you not be happy for me?”
“I am pleased that this person could trigger your memories, but…” He did not finish.
“What…?”
“He claims to know you, but he is not one we would wish to see you leave with.”
“Why not..., is he someone who would do me harm?” Disliking the behaviour of his elder, yester-turn, the three of them, Coreema included, had become quite close. What could stir Morn like this?
“You need to make your own decisions, but I warn you Hanor, there is more to him than you know. I will say no more on the matter.” Morn left the Stay.
Considering the words of caution, Hanor followed him. What did he mean, was this a good thing or not? Without breaking into a run, it was difficult to keep up. Heading back towards the main gathering place where he had first arrived, excitement dissolved the doubts. Was this his chance to go home, to leave this place and find out who he really was? Enchanting as Yarmoria was, to live here like this would drive him mad.
“A link to my past!”.
Entering the final tunnel, a cluster of Yarmi Folk were gathered at the end of the wooded corridor, peering out towards the grassy glade. Turning, curiosity stared at him as he passed through, somewhat exposed by the added attention. Leaving the tunnel, the grass clearing lay open, enhanced by the glorious blue sky. Did he really want to leave?
Out in the middle stood a group of Yarmi Folk, and in their midst was a tall figure standing on his own. Approaching the circle of people, the man’s short white hair with thin streaks of black was familiar, enough to stall him. The older man’s demeanour was recognisable, but only just. Talking to him somewhere about mysteries, the memory had been one of his first when arriving here. Proving he had not been forgotten after all, Hanor willed a deeper connection to rise. Ignoring the attentions of the gathering, he waited, urging the flood of recollections to surge. But to his grim fate, no emotional eruptions lit up his world to what went before. Yearning for a reaction, but nothing happened, the excitement fading.
Observing the young man still standing behind those encircling him, the Dai-laman was shocked to see the brightness in Hanor disappear. Replaced instead by confusion, thoughts about the loss of the boy’s brother Nole sprung to mind, not considering its consequence enough and what he might be feeling. The lad usually bounced with life, but something was now missing, a part taken horrifically at the bridge. The Boverns were another issue he had hoped to clear up with the Yarmi Folk, but under present conditions, he would be lucky to leave with the boy.
Relieved when the ring parted to let Hanor through, the one who had fetched him fell into line as before, guarded like everyone else. What did they believe he had done? Hanor stood just inside the ring, the young man’s questioning appeal surprising. Wearing a loose purple over-gown, the Dai-laman feared they had tampered with him.
Cautious, Brandor dared a step forward. “Hanor…, it is good to see you are safe and well.” Halting, the boy seemed distant, and not in full use of his faculties. Looking at the ground as if lost, this was worse than expected. “Hanor…, are you all right?” The boy glanced behind Brandor at Yarma Torna and another by his side, a female. What was going on? The Dai-laman took another step. “Hanor, do you remember me?”
Subdued by the lack of connection, an image of them both standing by a window staring into a moonlit garden was the only vivid encounter Hanor could recall. Longing for those deeper stirrings to lift him out of this void, he knew the man he was certain, but why the emptiness? Glancing up, examining the fine lines and sincere appeal, kind brown eyes showed affection, but why was he not feeling anything? This man was a link to his life before, but where was the tide of remembrance?
Peering across at Coreema, feelings for her were strong. Could she not grow to love him? Their intimate union had affected her as well, but the returning gaze was not what he sought. Any cherished thoughts she had were concealed behind a detached exterior. With the others watching, she would not abandon herself to him again, coming too far to let it all go now. Refusing to shy away from her responsibilities, she held his gaze for as long as he wanted. Her destiny was on another path.
“Hanor…!” the older man said, this time a step nearer.
Supposing the newcomer was as qualified as the Yarmi Folk, such mindful people was hard to get used to. “Yes…, I am Hanor.”
“How are you?” Brandor asked. At least the boy had not lost everything.
“I am… fine,” Hanor replied, uncertain how to react. “What is your name?”
No doubt in shock after the loss of his brother, the question still startled the Dai-laman. “My name is Brandor,” he said, judging whether the Yarmi Folk would release him without a clear-cut recognition.
Confused, Hanor recalled what he knew. “I see us… by a large window… looking up at patchy clouds and a moonlit sky.”
Much relieved, “Yes, that was at your home in Manson. I asked if you could see anything in the garden, do you remember?”
Rubbing his forehead, he had hoped the memories would just come rushing forth. Forcing the insights was difficult.
“Take your time Hanor. I asked you to look into the garden, at first you saw nothing, but then what?” Brandor was careful not to say too much, needing to convince the Yarmorians as much as Hanor.
Darkness seemed to fill Hanor’s mind. Starting to believe all was lost, a point of light formed, like a lantern on a distant hill. “A light,” he said, the light expanding into a white glowing orb. “It is a reflection of the moon on water.” Boosted by the memory, it fired hopes that the doorway to his past was with this person.
“You are correct,” Brandor said, relieved, extending his arm for him to come close.
Confident that anyone who could help him out of this mire should be welcomed, walking over, Hanor stopped just short of the old man. “Who… are you though?”
The whole ring seemed to hold its breath. “My dear Hanor, I am a friend of your parents, High-man Manon and High-lady Lizan of Manson.”
“My… parents!” Hanor wondered at this.
Vague memories skittered, too remote to be certain. Finding those he belonged to was a powerful incentive to go, but Hanor was waiting for something substantial before deciding. A picture of his father doused by a bucket of water from his mother filled his vision. Unable to locate a time or place, but it was enough to go on. “What do my parents look like?” he asked, seeking further clarification. Morn’s warning could not be ignored.
“Your Father is a slim, charming man, with narrow features and kind, dark eyes,” Brandor said. “Black, silvery shoulder length hair is matched by a neatly trimmed beard…, like so.” Using his own face to illustrate, examining his young charge for a reaction, Brandor continued. “Your Mother is a most eloquent lady, who enjoys playing games with her family. A proud Mother, deep brown eyes are matched only by her long dark hair. Your parents love green and blue, for much of your home is decorated by these colours. They love each other and their two sons very much.” Testing Hanor by mentioning about a brother, the young man’s eyes did not latch onto the comment.
Comparing the descriptions to patchy recollections, some appeared true, but others were unprovable to Hanor. Enough to convince him, but the lack of feelings left him wanting. Sighing, what sort of life was this?
“What is it?” Brandor asked, worried by the boy’s reaction.
“Hanor!” Yarma Torna moved forward, protective of him. “You do not have to rush this.” Still troubled by the boy’s presence here in Yarmoria, especially with the rapid expansion of his consciousness, but to hand him over to Brandor was equally disturbing. Another way could be found. Doubting Hanor would accept their long term plans if he were to stay, it was up to him what he wanted to do.
Respecting Yarma Torna’s concerns, it was difficult for Hanor to think straight when so much was at stake. “These past few turns have been hard,” he began, sensitive. “You have shared your home, and I have not been deserving of it. Much of what you have said is beyond me, even though I am sure greater understanding would come with time.” Sounding like a far