The Return of the Sword

Chapter 1
The water had travelled a long and ancient journey, Andawyr mused as he dipped his hand into the stream and splashed his flushed face; mountain, sea and cloud, over and over, ever changing, ever the same. And though it shaped the land, it ran through his fingers unresisting. He gave a grunt of approval at the coolness it brought, then sat back, closed his eyes, raised his face towards the sun and took a long, slow breath. As it filled his lungs, the mountain air seemed to carry the sunlight through his entire frame. It mingled with the bubbling clatter of the stream and he felt the tension brought on by his too-rapid walking through the hills ease.
'Simple pleasures,' he said to the flickering shapes dancing behind his eyelids. 'Simple pleasures. Being here is enough.'
It was no new thought, but it had as much meaning for Andawyr now as whenever it had first come to him. Not that he could remember when that had been, he reflected. It was as though he had always known the truth of this. But that could not have been so, for such a realization could only be attained after a great struggle. Or could it? Children often had it - that sureness of touch in their lives. Eyes still closed, Andawyr's nose curled. He compromised. Perhaps the realization - the insight of the child - could only be rediscovered after a great struggle. Yes, that would do. He chuckled softly - he already knew that, too.
'You're rambling, you old fool,' he said into the warm air. He'd not come here to mull over his own long-learned ways of dealing with his life . . .
He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. 'Being here is enough,' he said again, testing the words thoughtfully. They were all that could be said, but necessarily they were only a pale reflection of a truth that was, perhaps, inexpressible.
Many things were thus, but not all were so easily accepted. Or so benign.
Andawyr scowled in self-reproach. What he had come here for was to do nothing, not continue along the ruts his mind had been ploughing relentlessly for . . .
How long?
Too long . . .
He rolled on to his stomach and, resting his head in his hands, stared down into a small sheltered pool at the edge of the stream. An oval, battered face stared up at him unsteadily through the gently wavering water. A blade of grass floated idly around the image, then drifted back out into the main flow. It was followed by a scuttling insect that left brief dimpled footprints in the water as it pursued some urgent errand.
Andawyr's image looked rueful.
Not the face of a great mage, he thought, tweaking his broken nose, then running a hand through his bushy grey hair, leaving it quite undisturbed. Such a person should have a conspicuous dignity. He should be patriarchal and stern, with a looming presence and a gaze to quell men.
Lips pursed, the image weighed this uncertainly.
Or perhaps he should be beatific, saintly; exuding the inner tranquillity that came from years of devoted study and a deep and profound understanding of the world. The image raised its eyebrows knowingly and, with a self-conscious cough, Andawyr withdrew from the debate.
If only, if only . . .
If only his years of study had brought him that kind of knowledge.
The image broke and scattered as Andawyr prodded it with a knowing finger. He supposed they had, in a way. He had learned what was of real value to him and that indeed gave him an ease of mind and a clearness of vision that many would envy. Nor was he disturbed by the fact that his endless searching for knowledge had brought with it a measure of the vastness of what he did not know; it was, after all, in the nature of things that questions bred questions; children soon learned how to destroy their parents with the simple question, 'Why?'