‘How are we supposed to know whether the singers have had any effect?’ grumbled Medlo. ‘What are the names they have sung?’
‘Names of a place, a place long gone. A special place, which meant something to the one whose help we seek …’ Terascouros’s attempt at explanation was cut short by Old Aunt.
‘Terascouros, there are times when I am inclined to wish that you had shared your mother’s infirmity. Often now I think I may have loved Mawen best for her silence.’
‘He doesn’t ask an unreasonable question, Aunt. How are we to know, after all?’
‘We will know when we know. You may help by watching for anything unusual. It will occupy your time at least.’
Terascouros shook her head, pantomimed a sentinel’s pose, hand across her eyes. ‘I see a flight of bright birds from the copse at the brook. I see a fox at the edge of the meadow – thank the Powers for long sight – making his way home from our hen coops, no doubt. There is a cloud of crows over the forest edge to the north, disturbed by those crimson banners.’ She choked on the word, repeated it in amazement. ‘Banners!’
The dark line of trees broke on the crimson flags; the procession came toward them over the meadow’s winter dun, figures as slender as reeds, green and swaying as they came in a dance of incredible grace beneath elegant undulations of the long, bright banners which lifted and fell in joyous calligraphy against the pale sky. They spelled a message of air and wind which the central figure below them echoed with each silken ripple of the gown he wore. It glittered with jewelled flowers, sparkled with vines, visible even at the limits of their vision and becoming only clearer the closer he carne. After a time in which they did not breathe, its wearer stood before them, full in the morning sun, attendants grouped in attitudes of respect and attention. Old Aunt fell to her knees, drawing Terascouros down beside her.
‘Magister Omburan,’ she whispered. ‘I have not learned the proper titles of honour.’
Thewson thought that the tall one smiled. Medlo seemed to hear words. Later they found it hard to remember. Leona, however, heard clearly and did not forget.
‘Contentment in time, Singer. Is it your people who have sung the names, weeping?’
‘Magister, I did not know what else to do.’
It was your intention to summon me, Singer?’
‘You. Any one of you, Magister. Or any servant of yours. We meant no disrespect.’
‘None has been shown. May not the foster children of Taniel call upon the kindred of Taniel in time of trouble? Tell me the troubling.’
‘There is a place south of here, Magister. A place called Murgin.’
‘True. A great barren. A filth. A grieving and desecration.’
‘One was taken into that… barren. Magister. One of us, my kinswoman, called upon certain Powers. She was answered, Magister, and that barren was cast down. Yet… things remained, a kind of mist, a gathering of ghosts. It grows, Magister, grows and fumes beneath our singing. It has injured some of our people. Here in our Hill is the one brought out of Murgin. The ghosts seek that one, perhaps. That one only sleeps, sleeps as though never to wake.’
Above them the banners described a turbulence of air and sun. Presently she went on, ‘We are frightened, Magister. Have we consented to some evil? We do not know what Power it was that cast Murgin down. We do not know what Power gathers here. We are greatly troubled.’
‘So. The troubled may sing the names, ancient and unforgotten, revered and cherished, the names of the long vanished.’
‘So we were told, Magister. By Taniel.’
A bird cried jubilation. In that moment they lived long. All minor motions were stilled and only the great ones were perceived. Beneath them the earth turned, singing. At last the Magister moved slightly.
‘As you have sung to summon, sing to waken. Taniel gave herself for you, for earth, and gives herself still. This time was not unforeseen. Await my messenger. Hold fast to your way. All may yet be well.’
In the forest near the ledge an oak blazed forth, haloed as though to mark some marvel. A shadowy way led behind it as though it were a roadway. For a moment they saw it. Something moved there briefly, and then the oak was only an oak once more. Time returned. Sound returned. Sandals scraped on stone. Old Aunt rose from her knees, moaning at the pain of stiffened joints. They stirred as though wakened from a dream, sought memory of it only to find the noon sun, the wind, the ordinary call of birds. Terascouros was unwontedly quiet, and Old Aunt glanced at her from the corner of an eye suddenly wondering and joyous. ‘Well, Teras?’
‘Well, Aunt?’
‘Shall we use the useless old rituals to wake the sleeper?’
‘Why not?’ Terascouros mocked herself. ‘It seems they have power yet.’
Seven weary, footsore singers were summoned to the cavern for the Song of Naming. Medlo thought the language bore some resemblance to the ancient court language of Drossy. There was no reason he should have wept at that, yet he wept. One singer began by singing a name, then moved on to another name as the second singer repeated the first, each in turn and in succession when each name had been sung seven times, the last name falling
