by Roger Taylor
Some way down from where she had released the dogs, she came across bloodstains. Patches on the floor, still wet, showed the skidmarks of army boots and told her how much had been spilt, but the most vivid were the sprays splashed over the walls. She saw in her mind the dogs’ bone-crushing jaws gripping and then the fearsome, neck-breaking shake that so effortlessly dispatched rabbits and other small creatures unlucky enough to draw out the hunter in them.
For a moment she felt a spasm of pity for the men who had suddenly encountered this slavering and merciless terror, but she crushed it. They shouldn't have been here. They should have left her alone. Nothing else was to be said. Nevertheless, she tip-toed past the blood with a look of distaste on her face.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she let out a long breath. She had not realized how oppressive the close walls of the stairwell had become. She must get away from here as quickly as possible now. Make herself safe, near the forest, stay there for a few days—let things settle down.
A noise jolted her back to the present. As she turned, three men, in the dirty brown uniform of the Gevethen's army, emerged from the shadows to confront her, swords drawn.
* * *
Chapter 10
The thunder rolled on and on into an infinite, dwindling distance. Then there was nothing except an empty, timeless and drifting darkness, unaware and at peace.
All was silence.
Silence.
And, abruptly, it was over.
Ibryen opened his eyes and found himself gazing up into Marris's startled face. He made to sit up but Marris's hand on his chest forbade it.
'Just rest a moment,’ his old friend ordered, quickly recovering his composure after the suddenness of Ibryen's awakening. Ibryen swore, pushed the hand to one side, and struggled upright. He was in his own room and on his own bed. And the curtains had been partly drawn.
'What the devil...?’ he began.
'You fell over,’ Marris replied before the question was finished.
The answer did not improve Ibryen's mood. ‘Fell over!’ he bellowed. ‘Fell over!’ He swung his legs round and stood up. ‘What do you mean, fell over? I don't fall ...’ The room swayed perilously and he flopped down on to the bed immediately, Marris catching his arm. He shook it off.
'Give yourself a moment.'
Ibryen looked up. It was the Traveller. His voice was soothing and reassuring without any cloying hint of pity, and at its touch the room became still.
'What happened?’ Ibryen asked again, this time of the Traveller.
'I'm afraid I made you angry and when you tried to hit me, you ... fell over,’ came the reply.
Marris nodded in confirmation but Ibryen looked at both of them suspiciously as he stood up again, this time slowly. The room remained stationary. He motioned to Marris. ‘Open those curtains, for pity's sake,’ he said irritably. He began checking himself for signs of injury.
'You're better now?’ the Traveller said, as light filled the room, though, to Ibryen, the remark sounded more like an instruction than an inquiry. The memory of what he had been doing before he collapsed suddenly returned to him. He had to force himself to meet the Traveller's gaze. ‘I remember trying to strike you,’ he said uncomfortably.
'I provoked you,’ the Traveller said. ‘I told you, I'm not used to dealing with people. Sometimes I speak when I shouldn't.'
'You did indeed provoke me,’ Ibryen agreed. ‘But my conduct was inexcusable, and I apologize. I don't know what came over me.’ He put his hand to his forehead and moved to the door. ‘Nor why I should collapse like that.’ Fear welled up inside him. Such a thing had never happened to him before. Was he ill? It didn't bear thinking about. He couldn't afford the luxury of sickness now or, for that matter, at any time.
He stepped outside into the sunlight. It felt good. He felt good. The others followed him.
'Perhaps too little sleep and too strange a day,’ Marris offered hesitantly.
Ibryen gave him a sour look and sat down on a grassy bank. ‘Don't be ridiculous,’ he replied, just managing to keep enough humour in his voice to avoid offence. ‘I'm not some dizzy young girl up dancing too late.’ He closed his eyes in an effort to remember fully what had happened. ‘I recall raising my arm, then something ... hit me. No. Something swept me up. Tumbled me over as though I were a leaf in a gale. And there was a great din all around me. Like a rockfall, but louder. Then it was all gone and everything was ...’ He left the sentence unfinished.
'I heard nothing,’ Marris said, into the silence. ‘One moment you were lunging at him, the next you were measuring your length on the ground. Not a sound anywhere. Not even from you as you fell.'
Another thought came to Ibryen. He motioned Marris to sit down beside him. ‘Did anyone see this?’ he said softly and anxiously. Any hint that he was unwell could have a profound effect on morale.
Marris shook his head and replied equally softly. ‘No one saw anything.’ He pointed. ‘We were just over there; those rocks kept us out of sight of most of the village. And once we were satisfied you'd only fainted we got you on your feet and here in seconds.'
'I didn't faint,’ Ibryen snarled through clenched teeth, then, ‘We?'
Marris indicated the Traveller. ‘He's stronger than he looks,’ he said, without amplification. Then he turned sharply to the little man. ‘You say you've got keen hearing. Did you hear anything strange when he fell?'
The Traveller looked unhappy. On an impulse, Ibryen held out a hand to countermand Marris's question. ‘What did you have to do with all this?’ he asked.
'You're all right now,’ the Traveller said quickly, though again it was more of an instruction than a question. ‘There's nothing to worry about. Really.'
His evasiveness made him the immediate and intense focus of both men. Ibryen looked thoughtful. ‘You're right,’ he said. ‘I'm fine now. No dizziness, no sickness. Not even a headache. It's as though nothing had happened. In fact, apart from being concerned about what did happen, I feel very well. Almost as if I'd had a long and relaxing sleep. I'll ask you again, what did you have to do with all this?'
'He never touched you,’ Marris said to him, but more in the spirit of providing relevant information than pleading in defence of the Traveller, on whom his eyes remained firmly fixed. Under this scrutiny the Traveller folded his arms and began looking up and down and from side to side—anywhere rather than directly at his questioners.
Ibryen recognized the signs and changed tack. ‘I'm truly sorry I tried to hit you,’ he said. ‘It was unforgivable for many reasons, but you struck straight through to the heart of everything we have here and I lashed out. So many unsettling things have happened today I suppose I was on edge—still am, maybe—and your words were too close to something I suspect I don't want to think about.'
The Traveller's expression became pained as he listened. Slowly, he looked up at the surrounding peaks, his face full of a poignant longing. He was about to speak when, following yet another impulse, Ibryen said, ‘You're free to go.'
Marris started but stayed silent, though it was patently an effort. The Traveller sagged, as if he had been struck a telling blow. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said quietly, sitting down between the two men. ‘I always have been. Nothing you could do could keep me here against my will.’ It was a simple statement, quite free from challenge or bombast, but it was too much for Marris.
'You think you could have escaped from here?’ he said, with some indignation. ‘Past Hynard and Rachyl and a great many more like them scattered on sentry watch all about this region? And every one of them knowing about you and watching you like hunting birds? I think not.'
The Traveller seemed to be gently amused. ‘I didn't say I could fight my way out of here,’ he said. ‘Heaven forbid.’ He smiled broadly as if suddenly relieved of a burden. ‘Besides, I'm not so old that I can't think of better things to do with Rachyl than cross swords with her.'
Marris, about to extol further the vigilance and prow
ess of the Count's followers, found his mouth dropping open at this unexpected turn in the conversation. Ibryen fared little better. Despite their more pressing concerns, he and Marris exchanged disbelieving glances.
When Ibryen caught his breath, he said, softly and urgently, ‘I'd advise you to keep even a hint of that fancy to yourself, Traveller. Rachyl has a highly developed sense of ... maidenly honour.’ Instinctively he looked over his shoulder as though glowering retribution for such thoughts might be standing there.
'Oh yes,’ the Traveller replied, still smiling. ‘I'm not so inept in my dealings with people that I hadn't discerned that.'
Marris growled, ‘Don't change the subject, Traveller. Explain what you meant.'
The Traveller looked surprised. ‘About Rachyl? I'd have thought ...'
'About how you could have left here at any time,’ Marris interrupted sternly, still defensive.
The Traveller looked at the mountains again and his smile faded. ‘There's nothing to explain,’ he said. ‘I was about to say that I came here of my own free will and that I'd leave similarly, but there are times when I wonder about such things. I fear I'm no freer than you, really. Your Count's offer of freedom is more binding than his chains.'
Marris looked set to become angry at what he took to be continued evasion. Ibryen interceded.
'It was a contentious remark—a challenge, if you will,’ he said. ‘An explanation wouldn't go amiss. And you still haven't told me what part you played in my ... falling over.'
The Traveller looked down at his hands and hummed softly to himself. ‘I was just travelling. As always. It's strange, I rarely have a destination. I find they're troublesome—they entangle, they impede, they mar. But I'm not a passer-by, you understand. After what I'd seen and heard in Girnlant ... so many years of strangeness, unease ... taking almost physical form.’ He paused and hummed a little more. ‘I had to go back to that castle and look at that Gate—read it—study it—learn. Something in me prodded me forward. Held my feet to the path. And led me here. Not halfway to my goal and a strange hint of the Culmadryen in the air draws me down off the ridges.’ He looked at Ibryen intently. ‘And draws a man who perhaps hears beyond, up on to them.’ He stood up quickly, and spoke decisively. ‘This is the message that I heard, hung about with the aura of the Culmadryen, Count. Plain and simple. “Help me. Help me. I am nearly spent".'
Ibryen's eyes widened, but Marris grimaced and smacked his hands down on his knees.
'This is madness,’ he said to Ibryen angrily. ‘I don't know who he is, or how he got here, but he's raving. And you're on the verge of ...’ He hesitated and selected his words carefully. ‘... doing something foolish.’ He leaned towards Ibryen, almost pleading. ‘If you try to release him you'll have a mutiny on your hands.’ He shot a glance at the Traveller. ‘And, your orders or not, someone'll kill him before he reaches the next valley.'
Ibryen merely nodded in response to this outburst. ‘But he's not leaving, are you, Traveller? He won't leave because helping us is a necessary part of his journey. Because he's found the same trouble here that he found in Girnlant.'
'What?’ Marris exclaimed incredulously. ‘The Gevethen causing problems on the other side of the mountains?'
Ibryen's brow furrowed. ‘No, obviously not. But perhaps the same ... moving force, behind them. The same spirit. Am I right, Traveller?'
The Traveller did not reply.
'I am right,’ Ibryen concluded. He put his hands to his temples. ‘Tell me the truth, Traveller, and tell me now. What did you just do to me? What did you do that gave me all these thoughts that are swirling round up here?'
The Traveller cast the briefest of glances up towards the mountains—a final parting, Ibryen thought—then met his gaze squarely. ‘I defended myself against you, that's all. I'm sorry. It was a reflex.'
'You never touched him,’ Marris burst out with a violent gesture of denial.
The Traveller ignored Marris's anger, but spoke directly to him. ‘I told you—I'm from the line of the Sound Carvers, Corel Marris,’ he said. ‘The Song alone knows, I've few and poor skills as a Carver myself, but such as I have are beyond your attaining or even understanding. I'm not a warrior—I am what you see—small and weak, though I'm older than you might think—but when I'm threatened I use such tools as I have to defend myself.'
Marris turned to Ibryen for help.
'Let him finish,’ Ibryen said.
The Traveller thought for a moment. ‘Just as a stone carver might defend himself with his mallet and chisel if he were suddenly attacked, so did I.'
'You never touched him!’ Marris protested again, even louder than before.
Frowning, the Traveller reached up to touch the rolls of cloth in his ears, then he looked at Marris and opened his mouth. Marris immediately clamped his hands over his own ears and, with an oath, leapt to his feet and began looking round urgently at the mountains.
After a moment he cautiously lowered his hands.
'What was that?'
'What was what?’ Ibryen asked, looking up at him in some alarm.
'That noise. Like a ... rockfall ... thunder. I've never heard anything like it!'
'What noise? I heard nothing.'
'But you must have!'
Ibryen shook his head.
The Traveller took Marris's arm. ‘Only you heard it, Corel. Just as before only your Count heard something similar. It was me. My carver's mallet and chisel,’ he said softly and with regret. ‘Not intended to be used as a weapon, but effective enough when need arises. All things can be used as weapons—you, above all, know that, warrior. The essence of a weapon lies in the intention of the user, not its maker.'
Curiously childlike, Marris allowed the little man to sit him back on the grassy bank. He clung to his litany. ‘You didn't touch me. You didn't touch Ibryen. I don't understand.'
Ibryen watched them both, wide-eyed, struggling himself with what he had just seen and heard.
'And I couldn't explain,’ the Traveller went on. ‘It'd be easier for you to learn to speak to the birds and have one tell you how it flies than for me to tell you about the Carving. Easier by far. All you can do is accept me as I am. What you heard, you heard. And you alone. Just as before, only the Count heard.’ He picked a blade of grass and held it up. ‘Does it concern you that you don't truly know how even this inconsequential thing has come to be? Why it is what it is? Why this shape, why this colour, why this place? No. You accept. This is all you can do with my poor skills.'
Marris looked from the Traveller to Ibryen and back again, then put his head in his hands. There was a long uncertain silence. ‘Perhaps there's a sickness come into the place,’ he said eventually, half to himself. ‘A sickness to confuse our minds. I've heard it said that some can carry an illness without suffering it themselves. Is that what you are, Traveller, a plague bearer? A new horror sent by the Gevethen to drive us all into insanity?'
But there was none of the fear in his voice that should have accompanied such a question and, despite his own confusion, Ibryen frowned at his old friend's pain. He turned to the Traveller. ‘Help him,’ he said.
'I can't,’ the Traveller replied. ‘Besides, he needs no help, any more than you do. He's suffered change not hurt. He's old in his body, not his heart—or his head. What I am and what I can do is a strain for most people to accept if they're unfortunate enough to find out about it. That's one of the reasons why I keep myself to myself. But if I'm any judge, you're both too well-centred to avoid the reality of what you've experienced for too long, however strange it might be.’ His voice was unexpectedly resolute.
Marris neither moved nor replied. The Traveller sat down again. ‘Still, it's better you know than not. Especially as it seems I must stay here.'
Ibryen tried to collect his thoughts. ‘I told you, you're free to go,’ he said, still watching Marris, concerned.
'You also told me why I have to stay,’ the Traveller replied. ‘You were right. There is a fee
ling about this place that's very like what I found in Girnlant. A feeling that I've been finding increasingly, almost everywhere I go, now I think about it.'
Glad of something to focus on, Ibryen reiterated Marris's comment. ‘The Gevethen couldn't possibly have had anything to do with whatever happened in some country on the far side of the mountains. Apart from the fact that few here have even heard of Girnlant, the Gevethen have been here for twenty odd years and they rarely leave the Citadel, let alone the country.'
'I know that,’ the Traveller said impatiently. ‘What did you say? The same moving force—the same spirit. Didn't I tell you, back in your Council Hall, I've had a feeling of an unease creeping into the world. A feeling of something awful returning. Something that was described on the Great Gate. Marris and you aren't the only ones struggling with change—that's why I was travelling with a destination in mind for once.’ He tilted his head back, as if scenting the air. ‘You were right. It's here too. I feel it in every word you speak. The resonances of these Gevethen of yours cling to you and stink of it. How couldn't I have heard it before?'
'I was talking without thinking,’ Ibryen retorted, increasingly disconcerted by the Traveller's words and concerned about Marris's stillness.
'You were speaking your thoughts as they came to you,’ the Traveller announced.
Ibryen ignored the remark. ‘Marris, for pity's sake, what's the matter?'
'Give him a minute, and he'll be ...’ the Traveller interrupted.
Ibryen rounded on him. ‘Damn you, shut up...'
Marris suddenly straightened up, then leaned back on the grass, taking his weight on his elbows.
'Are you all right?’ Ibryen asked.
Marris looked up at the clouds drifting slowly overhead, and then down at his hands, resting on the grass. Idly he pushed a solitary blade from side to side with his forefinger. ‘Yes, I think I am,’ he said. ‘Bewildered and confused. And with more questions than answers, but yes, I'm all right.’ He looked at Ibryen. ‘And you, Count,’ he said. ‘Are you all right after what you've just heard?'
