Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'I don't know,’ she said. ‘I'm dizzy with it all. Only moments ago I'd have laughed to scorn the idea of Culmadryen being anything other than a tale for children. Now I've been told they exist.’ She looked uncomfortably at Marris. ‘And told by someone whose word can't be doubted. And if they exist, what else is possible? But other worlds around us—here, now! How can I credit such a notion?'

  'Hynard?'

  Hynard ran a hand through his hair and shook his head violently, as if in the hope that he might wake to find he had merely been dreaming. But no such solace came. ‘I'm no wiser than Rachyl,’ he admitted. ‘Things have been said which sound like nonsense, yet which ring true. But even ignoring that, all the time I'm thinking about simple practical matters.’ He nodded towards the Traveller. ‘How did he get here? I'd swear it's not possible that he could've got past the sentries and the traps, even at night. Just not possible. Unless he came from the south as he claims. In which case he's truly a very ... unusual ... person. And if he didn't, if he's been sent here by the Gevethen and somehow avoided the sentries, why didn't he just flee with his information, or kill you while he could?'

  Rachyl took charge of their predicament. ‘We've duties to do and we need to think,’ she said, her voice a mixture of appeal and brusqueness. ‘May we leave, to do both?'

  Ibryen nodded. ‘But speak to no one about any of this,’ he ordered. ‘No one.’ As they rose, Ibryen suddenly held out a detaining hand and addressed the Traveller. ‘Where did you camp last night, and which way did you come up on to the ridge, precisely?'

  The Traveller thought for a moment and then told him. Ibryen gave his cousins an order. ‘There's enough of the day left. Take a party, find his tracks and follow them back as far as you safely can.’ The pair looked relieved to be given a purposeful task to perform.

  'I leave no tracks,’ the Traveller said, with some indignation. ‘I have respect for the mountains.'

  'If you camped, you left signs,’ Hynard declared. ‘Even if it was only the scooping up of snow for water.'

  The Traveller gave a conceding nod. ‘Well, if it'll make you easier in your mind,’ he said.

  'It will, greatly,’ Ibryen said.

  When Hynard and Rachyl had left, Ibryen sat silent for a while, then rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Too early a start, too long a day,’ he said, standing up and motioning Marris and the Traveller to follow him. He led them out of the Hall and into the afternoon sunshine. There were more people than usual in the vicinity of the Hall, but they were all moving away quite briskly. Ibryen smiled as he detected Rachyl's hand in this dispersion.

  'I'm not sure it was the wisest thing to do, inviting those two to listen to all that,’ he mused.

  Marris pursed his lips and spoke reassuringly. ‘It would have been unwise to leave them out. They'll say nothing, you know that. And they'll think a lot, you know that too. They'll bring something to the debate that you and I might well not see.'

  'I've caused you a great many problems,’ the Traveller said.

  'Problems?’ Ibryen echoed with a slight smile. ‘No. I think perhaps all you've done is rearrange the ones I already had.’ He became practical. ‘You'll have to stay in my quarters until we find a proper place for you, and I'll have to arrange a guard detail for you.'

  'I've no plans to leave at the moment,’ the Traveller said. ‘If you remember, I invited myself here.'

  'You did indeed,’ Ibryen agreed. ‘But I don't think you realized then that it was a prison you were walking into.'

  The Traveller smiled. ‘I invited myself,’ he repeated.

  They walked on in silence for some way then Ibryen said simply, ‘Why?'

  'I told you why,’ the Traveller replied.

  'You told me some nonsense about my having a gift to hear things from another world.'

  'Nonsense? You believed it in there.'

  'You're a fine story-teller. I half believe it yet,’ Ibryen said.

  The Traveller pointed back towards the Hall. ‘Rachyl's your kin, isn't she? And some part of her heard the same call that you did.'

  'Just because she mentioned the Culmadryen?’ Ibryen asked sceptically. ‘Coincidence, that's all.'

  The Traveller was dismissive. ‘In my limited acquaintance of her, I'd say she's more interested in arm wrestling, sharpening blades and laying ambushes than whiling her time away recollecting the days when she played with dolls and listened to magical tales at her mother's knee.’ He jabbed a finger towards Ibryen. ‘She heard, Count! Far less so than you did, but she heard nonetheless. It's in your blood. A special attribute, a talent, a gift, call it what you will, but we have to find out about it.'

  'Coincidence,’ Ibryen repeated, with some force. ‘For all I know, you just wove your entire tale around her casual remark, and you're continuing in the same vein for some devious purpose of your own.'

  The Traveller seized his arm. He had an unexpectedly powerful grip. Marris stepped forward urgently, but the Traveller let go immediately. ‘I may be wrong in my judgement of you, Count,’ he said fiercely, ‘but I don't think so. And know this: I don't lie, I don't fabricate fictions, I don't seek to deceive. I'm too old to have even the slightest interest in scheming and plotting and the petty seeking after temporal power, though where I can I'll try to help those who find themselves under the heels of those who do. And the greatest strength that any people can have against such, is knowledge.’ He stepped forward and stood directly in front of Ibryen. ‘I know nothing of the enemy ... this Gevethen ... you face, except such as I've gleaned from casual remarks. They overthrew you by treachery and force of arms, and now hold your people in thrall by the same means. Am I right?'

  'In essence, yes,’ Ibryen said. ‘Though you could add ruthlessness and terror to your list.'

  'It's nothing new,’ the Traveller said, then he waved his arm around the valley and said, acidly, ‘But what do you expect to do against them with this?’ Ibryen started at this sudden jibe, and his shoulders rose menacingly.

  'You're fighting a hit and run campaign, aren't you? And you live in mortal terror of your little enclave here being discovered,’ the Traveller continued in the same manner. ‘You're going to die here, all of you, eventually, unless you do something drastically different from what you're doing at the moment.'

  'That's enough!’ Ibryen began angrily.

  'No, it's not,’ the Traveller ploughed on. ‘I haven't begun yet.'

  Ibryen made to step forward and seize him, but unexpectedly, Marris caught his arm. ‘Let him finish,’ he said softly.

  'But ...'

  'Let him finish!'

  The Traveller cocked his head on one side as if listening intently to something. He looked at Ibryen thoughtfully, then spoke again, more quietly. ‘I don't know whether the Counts of Nesdiryn are warriors by tradition, or whether circumstances have made you one, but you need no military education to know that you cannot defeat the Gevethen going on the way you are. You know it's only a matter of time before they find you and come in force.'

  Ibryen listened grimly.

  'But they don't even need to find you, do they? All they need to do is let you keep venturing out to harry their force and take a few of you each time. I doubt they give a fig for any casualties they take, but a warrior lost to you strikes at the heart of everyone here, and most of all at yours. Insidiously, wearing you down, drip by drip. How many more such blows can you take, Count, before your heart breaks and you and all your people fall?'

  Ibryen swore violently and lifted his hand to strike the Traveller across the face.

  Then he was in darkness, thunder all about him.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Helsarn did not move. Indeed, he was scarcely capable of moving. Though he could not see anything, he knew that the Gevethen were approaching him—they sent fear before them like a shadow. At the edge of his vision he could see the legs of one of the stretcher party. They were shifting as Hagen's body was hoisted up on to their owner's shoulders
as the Gevethen had ordered, but all Helsarn could see was that they were trembling. A visible reflection of his own inner feelings. He was glad he could not see the man's face.

  'Stand firm, my children ...'

  '... my children.'

  'Hold him steady and strong as he held you...

  '... held you.'

  'Where will this city, this land, be without the likes of him, brother?'

  'Where indeed, brother?'

  'Chaos may ensue.'

  'Chaos.'

  'Sure of touch, perceptive of heart, gentle arbiter of our will ...'

  '... our will.'

  'Such men are as water in the desert, as diamonds in the mire.'

  'Rare beyond price.'

  'Where shall such as he be found?'

  'Who would seek to wound us so?'

  Both voices came together to speak this last; cold, piercing and dissonant. They spoke again.

  'Who, Captain Helsarn?'

  Helsarn had had comparatively few dealings direct with the Gevethen, but they had been enough to teach him that no bravado could disguise his feelings from them and it would be folly to try. Hagen himself had bent the knee before them, and he was not Hagen. The question skewered him like an icy spear.

  'I do not know, Excellencies,’ he said, his voice steadier than he had hoped. ‘People have been brought here from the scene for questioning, but I fear the true culprits had escaped even before we knew what had happened.'

  'Merely fled, Captain. Not escaped. Escape is not possible. Such a deed carries the inevitable destruction of the doer at its very heart. Time will bring him to us.'

  Rain began to fall. Helsarn could feel large, cold drops striking his bent back. They threatened to release the violent shivering that he was holding pent within him. Dark robes came into his vision. The Gevethen were in front of him.

  'Rise, Captain. We would look on your face ...'

  '... your face.'

  Helsarn forced his legs to respond, but the fear of the consequences of disobedience only just outweighed the fear of facing his masters.

  Pale moon faces and drifting watery grey eyes hovered in the darkness of the hooded robes before him, while white and flaccid hands floated against it, having what appeared to be a life and will of their own, moving in ways quite divorced from anything that was being said.

  The Gevethen were identical.

  They were never apart.

  When they moved, they moved as one. Sometimes like shadows, each of the other, and sometimes like reflections, opposing one another, unsettling and disorienting for any who saw them.

  When they spoke, one voice would often follow the other, trailing behind like a lingering echo, though at times they would speak simultaneously, and then their voices were jarring and jagged, tearing through the hearer like a barbed weapon.

  None knew from where they came.

  Nor could any surmise what they thought.

  Since the ousting of the Count, they had set aside all that might have drawn away from their disconcerting appearance, wearing now only simple black robes, undecorated save for the shattered half of a small iron ring which hung about the neck of each on a fine black chain. Frequently, the restless hands would carry fingertips to run delicately over this broken remnant, then they would linger down the palm of the other hand, and sometimes across the face. And, at times, after this, each would touch the other, as if to assure themselves that they were truly there.

  The only colour to be seen about them lay in red, voluptuous mouths, as full and sensual as their garb was ascetic and spare.

  And where went the Gevethen, there went their mirror-bearers; mute servants whose own gaze, fixed, as it seemed to be, on some other place, was almost as disconcerting as that of the Gevethen themselves. They moved elaborately about their masters as if dancing to music that they alone could hear, carrying black-edged mirrors which they shifted and turned constantly. Sometimes these were held so close as to form almost a shield wall, while at others they straggled in loose, fluttering skeins as though they were being swept out by a buffeting wind. When talking to one another, the Gevethen would often address their images instead of each other until the conversation appeared to exist only between the images, and reality and reflection became indistinguishable.

  Occasionally a soft, hissed command would send the mirrors into a frenzy, quivering and changing for no reason that was readily apparent. Always however, they were arranged so that many images of the Gevethen paraded in front of the hapless onlooker. Who the mirror-bearers were, and how they had come by their appointment, no one knew, and no one inquired. They disturbed Helsarn. They disturbed everybody, as did all the Gevethen's close servants.

  Helsarn came to attention and fixed his eyes forward. The Gevethen being shorter than he was, he hoped that way to avoid looking directly at them. Who could tell what they could see when they looked into a man's eyes? Or, worse, who could tell what he would see? It was said that men had been driven insane by their gaze. But he knew that the attempt would be in vain; the gaze of the Gevethen was not to be avoided. The rain began to fall more heavily.

  The mirrors twitched and the many heads of the Gevethen, tilted and viewed their Captain.

  'He is true and loyal.'

  'He served the traitor Count.'

  'He was not cherished, nor did he cherish. And he has the mark of Hagen about him.'

  'He let the Lord Counsellor die.'

  There was a long silence. The heads tilted again. Grey eyes, streaking now in the rain, washed over Helsarn. He began to sweat.

  'He will account in time, will you not, Captain?'

  'I am yours to command, Excellencies.’ Helsarn tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

  There was a long silence, then:

  'Indeed.'

  'Indeed.'

  The scrutiny was gone. The mirrors drifted sinuously after the Gevethen and all attention was turned to the body of Hagen. A floating gesture from the hands brought the stretcher unsteadily down again and the two figures, rain falling grey and straight about them, bent over it like riverside willows. Fingertips touched, and there was a soft muttering.

  'Bring the Lord Counsellor to the Watching Chamber ...'

  '...Watching Chamber.'

  'We will guide you ...'

  '... guide you.'

  Then, Helsarn felt the focus return to him. Two voices spoke as one.

  'Captain, we require the Physician Harik to be with us now.'

  Abruptly released, Helsarn saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and started off at the double across the courtyard. He did not dare to look back, but as he passed a window he saw a reflection of the Gevethen and their mirror-bearers passing into the shade of the ornate canopy, followed by the Guards struggling to keep the stretcher level. Even as he looked, the images of the Gevethen seemed to stare back at him, probing still, urging him forward.

  Get used to it, he thought. There was no worthwhile future to be had here other than by their side, and on the whole, they looked after their own well enough. It was not as satisfactory a conclusion as he would have wished, but he was spared any further inner debate by the appearance of Harik coming around the corner. With the hood of his cloak pulled up against the rain he looked even taller than ever.

  'Where?’ the Physician asked before Helsarn could deliver his message.

  'The Watching Chamber,’ Helsarn replied. He fell in beside him, matching as well as he was able the long steady strides. It was uncomfortable for him. He felt the need to speak. After the Gevethen, even Harik seemed approachable. ‘They came out for him. Into the courtyard. Into the light,’ he said.

  Harik glanced up at the Citadel's main tower. ‘Tolled the Dohrum too. Nine times,’ he said, apparently ignoring Helsarn's remarks. ‘Could have brought the tower down on their heads.’ He became pensive. ‘Nine times, eh?’ And after a moment, he intoned softly to himself.

  'In the ninth hour of the Last Battle ...'

  His voice faded.


  Helsarn craned forward. ‘Pardon?'

  Harik shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just the beginning of a story I used to know,’ he replied. ‘Came to mind for some reason.'

  Helsarn felt almost as though he had shared a great confidence with the Physician. Harik never made small talk. He must be as shaken as the rest of us, he thought. Probably scared witless under that stony exterior. Yet even as the idea came to him, he knew it was wrong. Harik might well have been shaken by the death of Hagen, but any fears he had would almost certainly be for other than his own skin. He was that kind of man. This insight merely added to Helsarn's discomfort and he made no effort to continue the conversation as they walked across the courtyard and up the broad steps that led to the entrance the Gevethen had used. Guards opened the doors and snapped to attention.

  Inside, the silence seemed even more intense than that which had pervaded the courtyard. Though more spacious than the corridors that served Harik's quarters, those they were walking along now, in common with most of the interior of the Citadel, were claustrophobic, menacing almost, as though the air itself were afraid to move for fear of bringing down retribution. This had, in part, been brought about by the gradual but relentless removal, or defacing, of the many pictures, sculptures and furnishings that had adorned the place in the time of the Count. But added to it was the indefinable but quite identifiable quality that the Gevethen brought to everything they touched. Like a disease-bearing miasma, it clung to everything.

  Even Harik looked as though he were having to wade through some unseen resistance, and Helsarn had almost to remind himself to breathe. He pulled out a kerchief and tried to disguise his unease by wiping the rain from his face. The Guards that were posted at intervals along the corridors were so still and pale that it seemed that the earlier passage of the Gevethen had turned them to stone, and such servants and officials as the pair encountered were moving very resolutely, very quietly, and with their eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

  They came at last to the wide corridor that led to what had once been the Count's Audience Chamber. Elaborately decorated, with its arched ceiling lit by daylight brought along the Citadel's many mirrorways, it had once been as welcoming and open as the Count himself. Now the mirrorways had been sealed and the decorations draped with dark cloths, and the effect was of a descent into darkness. Count Ibryen's Audience Chamber had become the Gevethen's Watching Chamber.