‘Always the healer, Hawklan,’ Andawyr said quietly. ‘Always the healer.’
Hawklan’s touch perhaps more than any other single thing had ensured that killing hands were stayed after the battle. Without doubt it had ensured that the three allied nations determined to learn what they could about the dank land of Narsindal and its wild inhabitants, the Mandrocs, rather than simply crushing them in a war of mindless vengeance.
Andawyr propped himself on his elbows again. It was a long time since he had thought of Hawklan. He clicked his tongue. Everywhere he looked, paradoxes. In his studies, in the little rock-formed ripple where water flowed upwards, even in what he was doing now – ignoring his questions in order to answer them. And now, Hawklan. Healer, warrior, ancient prince – what was he? How had he come to this place, this time? Andawyr let the questions go. They might well be intriguing, but they were neither new nor answerable. What Hawklan knew of himself he had shared freely, and that had raised more questions than answers. Besides, attempting to analyse a friend thus was somehow distasteful. It had to be sufficient that he had been there. More than sufficient. For what would have happened without him? He had been pivotal. He it was who had appeared out of the mountains years before and opened Anderras Darion, Ethriss’s great fortress in Orthlund. And it was the opened Anderras Darion that had disturbed Oklar into the precipitate and reckless actions that had led ultimately to the exposure and downfall of his Master. Hawklan’s quiet words had affected so many decisions. And, in the end, it was Hawklan that Sumeral had sought, not to destroy but to turn to His cause.