Chapter One
"I don't believe it!"
The guards looked around the room, carefully avoiding the furious gaze of their new captain, whose stern face was swiftly reddening with rage.
"Are you seriously telling me what I think you are telling me?" he snapped. His men exchanged glances, and by silent consent the role of spokesperson fell onto the shoulders of the tall lieutenant who, the new captain remembered, had been the first to greet him.
"Things here work... differently, sir," the man said slowly. "You'll learn to go with the flow soon enough."
The captain growled, and turned to look out of the guard-tower window behind him. To any casual observer, the view below would have looked like a village. The wooden fence that surrounded it was high, but not remarkable given the bandits that sometimes attacked small settlements. The grey stone houses were small, but their smooth arrangement around a central meeting-space and their neatly thatched roofs were typical features of nearly every rural village in the kingdom.
The first clue that all was not as it seemed was the lack of farms, of fishing, or a market. In fact, the people seemed to have nothing in the way of industry or trade, and there were a large number of them for the relatively few houses. The walls were patrolled, day and night, but the guards looked little like the people below, and their gaze was turned inward rather than out. The gates were chained and padlocked, not on the inside as was usual, but on the outside. Finally, there was the fact that this "village" was within a few miles of Gelarden, capital of the kingdom and, by common consent, the greatest city in the world. Its graceful spires, colourful plazas and spacious streets had evolved over the centuries, every new addition making it all the more beautiful and wonderous. There was no need for any other settlement nearby, and indeed there were no others. For the village that the captain of the guards stood looking at was no village, but a compound, and its inhabitants were not free people but slaves.
The captain looked at the scene below, and scowled. A great pile of wood was being piled up in the centre of the meeting-place, the busy figures shining crimson in the light of the setting sun. His gaze lifted, looking beyond the walls of the compound, and was caught by the towering trees of the Royal Forest.
"Sir?" asked a voice behind him. The captain turned to see the lieutenant standing behind him.
"Do you see that wood?" he asked, keeping his voice level. The lieutenant nodded, and the captain fixed him with a glare.
"Where do you think it came from?" he asked. His subordinate shrugged.
"The forest?" he suggested. "They've got a way out back there, although we can't find it."
The captain, about to start shouting, paused. He sighed.
"They have a way out? And you haven't stopped them from using it?"
"Yes, sir. Of course," came the puzzled reply. The captain took a deep breath.
"WHY NOT?" he roared, furious. The lieutenant, to his amazement, merely smiled.
"Because they don't run away, sir. Ever."
The captain blinked. Of all the answers in the world, that had been the last one he expected. "What?"
"They don't run away, sir. Never have, never will. Even if we weren't here, or if the wall was gone."
A young guardsman broke in. "I heard that the old king tried to free one of them once, and was refused."
The captain shook his head. "They're slaves," he said. "Slaves always try to escape."
His lieutenant smiled. "Not these ones," he replied.
"But why?" asked the baffled captain.
"You'll see," came the cryptic reply.
An hour later, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the stars were just beginning to shine in the sky. The captain and his lieutenant stood leaning on the parapet, looking out over the compound.
"So what are we watching for?" the captain asked. Since his earlier parade, he had heard nothing more from his men, and his curiosity had been aroused. In reply, his companion pointed wordlessly to the space where the bonfire had been built up. The captain looked down, and saw a large crowd beginning to mill about. They watched in silence as the bonfire was lit, shining like a beacon in the night. The people gathered into a rough circle around it, leaving a clear band of space that flickered orange in the firelight. The captain opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment a line of figures wove their way into his line of vision, and he was struck dumb.
The rest of the people wore clothes that were old and worn, shirts and trousers for the most part. But these people were dressed in black robes and hoods, with metal masks in the shape of a sun with waving rays concealing their upper faces. Even from the parapet, it was clear that the masks were ancient. In their hands, the robed figures held drums, all different sizes and shapes, and all meant to be played in different ways. The drums were painted garishly bright, as far as could be seen in the darkness. The figures formed a circle around the fire, facing outwards towards the crowd, and as they did so a drumbeat that the guard captain hadn't even realised he was hearing stopped. Then the crowd parted, and out walked a woman.
She was tall, her long chestnut hair coiled atop her head. She wore a robe like the others, but hers was all the colours of the rainbow, each strip of colour blending into the ones beside it. The drum she carried was small and plain, designed to be spun by means of the stick it sat on. The woman strode to the west side of the fire, and raised it above her head, clasped in both palms. There was a still moment, and then with practiced ease she began to spin the drum, producing a strong, even rhythm. There was a loud roar from the watching crowd, and then the black-robes began to play too. As they played, they began to dance clockwise about the fire, weaving in and out, and the sounds of the drums all melded together to create a strange melody, that beat with the heart and pulsed with the blood. The people in the crowd all began to dance, too, in their own way, shifting in time to the wild rhythm that throbbed with life and fire. And throughout there was the tall woman, moving anticlockwise about the fire, her drum singing through the others, and with a shock the captain realised that it was her drum that sang the pulsing beat that made his feet twitch.
"There is magic here," he breathed, and his companion laughed.
"Not that any wizard could tell you!"
The night moved on, but the men on the parapet hardly noticed. The hours passed like a single moment, time itself becoming irrelevant. It was there but not measured, present but ignored, real but ineffective. There was nothing but the drumbeat and the dance, the one being the other and both flowing on together. The dance changed, the beat too, but each time it moved seamlessly from the one before. The moon rose and looked down on the dance, the magic built and built, and the world shrunk to that place and time. There was no other. And then, just as the moon reached its highest point, the drumming stopped. The feeling that had built up burst as the fire was hurredly doused and the people scurried back into their houses. The captain felt a strange sadness and sense of loss well up in him, but before he could voice it the lieutenant touched him on the arm.
"It's not over yet," he said, comfortingly. "Look."
The captain followed the direction of the other man's pointing finger, and saw an old man, straight-backed and tall despite his age, climbing a hill near the edge of the compound. A short tree, its twisting trunk a testiment to its ancient age, stood atop the hill, shedding white blossom onto the simple stool that rested below it. The man sat down firmly on the stool before bringing something to his lips, impossible to see from that distance. There was a moment of silence, of expectation, and then suddenly a single note, the voice of a pipe, sounded throughout the compound.
It was light and clear, and although it was loud enough to be heard for miles around it still managed to sound quiet and whispering. The note was followed by another, and another, and before long it was a melody that played in the night. Time faded again, but this time it stretched outwards, carrying with it the shimmering silver song of the pipe. It was soft and restful, but something about it sang of ages past, forgotten magic and distant lands. Unbidden, images sprung into the mind of the listeners, images of stars and ice, past and future. The captain felt as though the world around him faded, and places distant were close enough to reach. He listened, his mind soaring, until the first rays of dawn touched the eastern hills and the music faded into silence. Suddenly, he realised that he wasn't in the least tired or hungry, and the surprise on his face must have shown, for his companion laughed at him and gently guided him off to the barracks.
"Do you see?" the lieutenant asked, gently. The captain slowly nodded.
"Yes," he said, amazed. "I think I do."
Meanwhile, down in the camp, the old man stood to leave, but was interrupted when a young girl hurtled up the hill and almost crashed into him.
"Wait!" she gasped, standing in front of him. He chuckled.
"'Nia! What a charming surprise!" He sat back down on the stool. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I didn't go to the dance tonight," the girl informed him. "I slept instead."
"Why would you do that?" asked the old man, surprised. Everyone went to the dance, except for him.
"So that I could stay up and listen to the pipe properly," he was told. "I like it better."
"You wish to become my apprentice," the old man realised, astonished. How had he missed a potential candiate? The girl nodded wildly, and he sighed. With a keen eye, he studied her.
Dania was twelve, and small. Her face had high cheekbones and delicate features, which left no doubt that she would be beautiful when she was grown. Of course, her colouring helped. 'Nia's skin was as pale as skin could be, and the short-cropped fine hair on her head was delicate silver, but her large eyes were as dark as the midnight sky. She wore the same rough brown trousers as most people here, and her shirt was sleeveless and formerly white, but their bedraggled condition along with the scrapes and general grubbiness of the girl herself showed that she was more tomboy than her face suggested.
"Dania's a Moon name," the girl declared, as if it was a major factor. As well it might be, Athatila conceded. There was no predicting who would make a good Piper, really. Like his old master, Dundor, who had been unable to count to five but had played better than anyone else had for a hundred years. Or the legendary Melira, who took up the pipe as soon as she failed to become a Dancer. So, he thought, why not a young tomboy? With a smile, he took from his belt the second pipe, the one that apprentices used.
"Play," he commanded. With a nod, the girl put the pipe to her lips and began.
The sun was clearly in the sky, and it was the beginning of a warm day, yet as the music flowed from the pipe Athatila felt as though it were night again. As clearly as if he were there, he saw stars dancing in the velvet sky, and the strange rhythms rang through his body. An expression of careless abandon on her face, Dania played as well as an apprentice of several years practice or more. A smile creased his face as he listened. How had he missed her?
She played for mere moments before stopping and looking at him nervously. His mouth dry, he gave a quick nod.
"You were meant to be a Piper," he told her, and her face broke into a delighted grin. She offered the pipe out to him, but he shook his head, pushing it back towards her.
"That one is yours now," he explained. "Take care of it! It's almost as old as mine!"
As Dania danced off happily, Athatila mused to himself on how strange the workings of fate could be.
"Aleen! Naden! I did it!" 'Nia squeaked, rushing into the tiny wooden hut she shared with her two best friends. Aleen turned over with a mumble, pulling her blanket over her head, but Naden sat bolt upright with a grin on his face.
"'Nia! That's great!" he exclaimed. He jumped off his bed-shelf and ran over to shake Aleen. "C'mon, wake up!" he yelled. "'Nia's the Piper's apprentice!"
"Go 'way," Aleen muttered. 'Nia grinned. Her friend was terrible at getting up in the mornings, and probably hadn't understood a word that had been said. With a wink at Naden, she hauled the blanket off Aleen, who scrunched up into a ball and regarded her friend coldly.
"That," she stated, "was uncalled for."
"'Nia's the Piper's apprentice!" Naden yelled. Aleen uncurled and shot out of bed.
"I take it back! That was called for!" she exclaimed, hugging 'Nia. Then she ran over to squint at a timetable that hung on the wooden wall. "And a day off, too!" she grinned.
"For all of us. I checked last night," 'Nia told her, delightedly.
"Then let's party!" Naden exclaimed. Aleen nodded enthusuastically.
"It's not every day the Piper takes an apprentice," she agreed.