Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Like an unholy constellation, a score of pallid moon faces hovered above her, white hands gliding amongst them like lost birds. Watery eyes searched into hers. Loathing joined the hatred that was possessing her, screaming now at her impotence.

  'Ah ...' The many heads nodded as the two voices grated together again. All the birds perched protectively on the shattered rings.

  'We hear your song.'

  'She is kin.'

  'She in one of us.'

  'She is ours.'

  'She is His ...'

  'His.'

  The birds were in flight again, beckoning. Jeyan's legs straightened, unbidden. The many Gevethen swirled and twisted and then there were but two, side by reflecting side, in the lantern-lit passage. But fringing them was a multitudinous and bedraggled escort. As Jeyan looked at this scarecrow troop, fearsome staring eyes and gaping mouths turned to peer back at her. Only when the figures lifted their arms in reply to her own unintended salute did she recognize them as herself. She, who had stayed silent through her suffering since her capture, let out a small cry. The scarecrows reached to their own faces in sympathy.

  Then the escort turned away. The Gevethen were leaving.

  'Follow us, child ...'

  '... child.'

  'There is much to be learned ...'

  '... to be learned.'

  'Follow.'

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  A fine grey drizzle marked the start of Ibryen's journey. He had wakened to it at his normal hour and had deliberately turned over and gone back to sleep. The previous day had been long not only metaphorically, in the changes it had spawned for him, but actually, in the length of time he had been awake. It had been drawn out to its fullest by the impromptu meeting in the Council Hall of almost every member of the community who was not on duty.

  Ibryen's followers formed a disciplined fighting unit, but they were such because they were also free individuals and resolute in their defence of that freedom. Many procedures and practices, both formal and informal, had developed over their time there in an attempt to ensure that the tensions, inevitable within such a community, were identified and aired before they could erupt into any seriously destructive form. For the most part these functioned well enough, but still much depended on the judgement and demeanour of Ibryen, Count of Nesdiryn by ancient statute and by common acclaim. When he opened the door of the ante-room where he had been talking with Marris and the others, to see the main chamber of the Council Hall filled with a large and silent crowd, he was both intimidated by what he knew he had to do, and heartened by the patient demeanour of his people.

  As all there knew, he would have been acting fully within his authority if he had dismissed the gathering out of hand, harshly even, and instructed the various Company Commanders to attend on him the following day. Instead however, he gave a courteous acknowledgement to the man who had knocked on the door and stepped into the hall, signalling to the others to follow him.

  Immediately, a questioning murmur began to rise from the crowd, but as he sought for somewhere to stand where he could see, and be seen, Ibryen spoke the honest thought then dominating his mind. ‘If you can, sit please.’ His hands beat them gently down. ‘It's been a long and strange day for us all, and I've a feeling it's going to be some time before it's finished. I'm not inclined to spend the rest of it on my feet. Besides, you make the place look too full, standing up.'

  His easy-humoured remarks and the consequent shuffling and rearranging of benches and tables lightened the darker tones of the atmosphere that had been building.

  Not that the meeting went without difficulty. Studiously avoiding any reference to the Traveller's strange gift and the mysterious call that had drawn him there, Ibryen explained the events of the day and submitted his intentions to the meeting as he had just agreed them with his cousins. He avoided too, the bleak analysis of the future of their present form of resistance that the day had forced him to face starkly.

  Even without these mysterious and dark elements, the tale and its conclusions provoked extensive debate. There was universal delight at the news of Hagen's death, but the presence of a stranger in the valley struck at the very roots of the community and the way it conducted itself, and even such news could not completely sweep aside concerns about the Traveller. Ibryen deliberately did not allow Rachyl and Hynard to say too much at first, sensing that it was the evidence of those who had accompanied them up on to the south ridge that would be the most telling. And so it proved, though tempers flared more than once, culminating in a circle suddenly clearing as Seeing Stones were angrily thrust into the hands of one individual by the leader of the team, with the advice, ‘Go and look for yourself,’ uttered in a tone that was far more menacing than the words themselves.

  A signal from Ibryen prevented his cousins and Marris from intervening. Now above all, it was imperative that he receive his authority from his people and not they from him.

  'Go on!’ the man blasted to the entire meeting. ‘Get up there and look. Do you think that I—that any of us—wanted to see footsteps coming across the Hummock? Like it or not,’ and he pointed at the Traveller, ‘that man came from the south.'

  The balance shifted and a reluctant acceptance began to seep into the crowd. The debate turned, almost gratefully, to Ibryen's proposals that he should go into the mountains and that there should be no harrying raids against the Gevethen's army this spring. As Hynard had predicted, the inclusion of Rachyl in his party stilled most of the doubts about the wisdom of Ibryen accompanying the Traveller, and the idea of unsettling the Gevethen by using rumour and inaction, eventually appealed greatly.

  'I intend to be away for no more than about two or three weeks,’ Ibryen concluded. ‘In the meantime, though no raids are to be mounted, all training must continue as usual, while vigilance must be redoubled. There's always the chance that the Gevethen might seek to draw attention away from problems in Dirynhald by mounting a large expedition against us.'

  This caused a stir, but Ibryen quietly crushed it before it gathered momentum. ‘That's no more than we've expected and trained for every year. As agreed many times before, Marris has command in my absence. Has anyone any objection to that?’ There was no reply but the ensuing silence was unsatisfactory. He smiled and ploughed through it. ‘Yes, I know. He's stricter than I am. But you all know your duties. Fulfil them properly and then the absence of Rachyl and me will only mean that our force is two fighters the less. Its heart and head will remain unaffected.'

  Fastening his cape to keep the seeping rain out, and hitching his pack on to his back, Ibryen felt markedly less confident in the cool grey morning than he had in the warm gloaming of the Council Hall. He looked around at the mist-shrouded peaks. Still, the reasoning that had brought him to this point was sound enough even if it was directed at no particular conclusion. And too, he realized, the cause was still with him. Faint but quite definite, the strangeness that had carried him up to the ridge with such unforeseeable consequences was all about and through him. Not a sound, nor anything that he could define in words, but wilful and clear for all that, and tugging at him relentlessly. It was more urgent than before.

  'What do you hear, Count?'

  It was the Traveller. Ibryen looked down at him in surprise. He had his pack on his back, much larger now than it had been, and he was wearing exactly the same clothes as the day before except that they were fastened more securely and a hood engulfed much of his face. Dressed thus it was even more difficult to judge how old he was.

  'Will you be dry in that?’ Ibryen asked.

  The Traveller patted his attire in a proprietorial manner.

  'Drier and warmer than you by far, old man.'

  Ibryen's eyebrows rose at the epithet but no indignation could bloom in the light of the Traveller's joviality.

  'Had it for years. Made for me by people who know about mountains.’ He winked knowingly. ‘And I've added one or two little things of my own.’ He returned immedi
ately to his question. ‘Can you hear anything?'

  Ibryen answered him seriously. ‘Only the sounds of the camp in the rain. And my own clothes creaking.'

  'But ...'

  'But it's there,’ Ibryen admitted, accepting the prompt. ‘No sound, but ... something. And either it or my perceptions have changed. It's clearer than it was, I'm sure, if clearer makes any sense.’ He countered with the same question. ‘And you? Can you hear anything?'

  'Oh yes,’ the Traveller replied darkly. ‘We mustn't delay further.'

  Ibryen was about to press him when the little man put his fingers to his mouth and blew a penetrating whistle, followed by a bellowing shout. ‘Come on, Rachyl. Move yourself!'

  Ibryen flinched openly. He was about to advise the Traveller that it was not an act of wisdom to address Rachyl like that when his cousin appeared almost immediately, hastily fastening her cape about her. Ibryen prepared to intervene but, unexpectedly, she said, ‘I'm sorry, I'd forgotten to pack one or two things.’ As they set off she peered around into the mistiness and pulled a face. ‘I'd have preferred pleasanter weather,’ she said.

  'Better this way,’ Ibryen replied. ‘Fewer people will see us leave and we won't have to fret about being caught against the skyline.'

  When they reached the Council Hall, Marris and Hynard were waiting for them with some of the Company Commanders. There was little left to debate however, and their parting remarks were confined to minor details about the first part of the journey and the amount of supplies they were carrying. It was territory already well covered and quite unnecessary.

  'Mark your trail well,’ was Marris's final offering, also unnecessary. ‘We'll expect you back within the month. After that we'll come looking for you.’ Then, after some cursory farewells, the trio left.

  For the next few hours they walked on in silence. Neither the weather nor the terrain were conducive to conversation as the three trudged steadily up steep, grassy slopes and thence over tumbled piles of shattered rock and scree, all rendered treacherous by the rain. Thoughts were thus concentrated on the immediate problem of where to take the next footstep. Eventually they reached the ridge where Ibryen had rested on the previous day. It was greatly changed, the vast panorama of sunlit peaks having been swept into oblivion and replaced by rain-streaked greyness. Following the Traveller's signal, they moved into the lee of an overhanging rock and sat down. The Traveller threw back his hood and puffed out his cheeks.

  Ibryen and Rachyl exchanged an amused glance. ‘I thought you were used to mountains,’ Ibryen taunted.

  The Traveller shook his head ruefully. ‘Not at this pace,’ he replied. ‘You two will wear me out.'

  Rachyl nodded sagely, lips pursed. ‘We're not mountain folk by birth, but we spend almost all our time either fighting or training amongst these crags. I suppose we move a lot faster than you're used to.'

  The Traveller looked from one to the other, his expression pained. ‘You mean this is the best you can do?’ he asked.

  Rachyl's face became indignant, but Ibryen laughed softly and raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I think you're fighting beyond your weight, Rachyl,’ he said. Then, turning to the Traveller, ‘I'll admit to being the slowest, so I'll have to ask your indulgence—younger to elder.'

  This time the Traveller laughed. It was a sound full of joy. ‘Indulgence granted, Count,’ he said. ‘I'm certainly not going to fight beyond my weight. I'll leave that to the young folk.'

  He gestured for silence. ‘Let me listen for a moment to see if I can get some indication of which way to go next.’ He looked at Ibryen significantly, but made no further comment. Ibryen closed his eyes.

  Slowly silence formed about him. Then, for the briefest instant, it seemed that he could hear the trembling movement of each raindrop cutting through the air, followed by its splattering impact against the rocks. A low pulsing rumbling in the background he sensed was Rachyl, though no reasoning could have led him to that conclusion as he knew she would be sitting still and silent as the Traveller had asked. But scarcely had this impression formed than it was gone, and the silence returned.

  And with it, the call. No stronger than it had been when he had been waiting for the Traveller an hour or so earlier. But it was clearer. As was the urgency that hung all about it. Suddenly he was filled with a desperate fear, and his mind was awash with strange images: duty, a long struggle ending, failure, an endless caring. Yet, though they could have been, they were not his. And there were other feelings too, deeply alien, for which no words could begin to exist. We mustn't delay further. The Traveller's words came back to him, full of force now.

  Then a new fear arose abruptly. This time he knew it for his own. Had the years of leading his people in their seemingly futile resistance against the Gevethen finally taken their toll and plunged him into insanity?

  He opened his eyes. Rachyl was gazing into the mist, one hand idly playing with a lock of damp hair. The Traveller was sitting with his head slightly canted and his hand still raised for silence. His eyes flicked towards Ibryen and he moved a finger to his lips.

  The call and the urgency that impelled it slipped away, as though a door had quietly been closed. Yet, faint though they were, they were still there.

  The Traveller lowered his hand and turned to Ibryen, eyes searching into his intently. ‘Frightened?’ he asked.

  Ibryen started and, as his hand came to his head, the truth gasped out of him before he could think what to say. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What's happening to me?'

  'What?’ Rachyl inquired, coming wide-eyed out of her own reverie.

  The Traveller abandoned Ibryen and turned quickly to her. ‘What were you thinking about, Rachyl?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘Just day-dreaming,’ she replied. ‘Just thinking about Marris and his Culmadryen. I always thought they were just tales. It's hard to imagine such a thing. A city, a whole land, floating in the clouds. What kind of people would live in such a place? What would they live on? What kind of a society would it be?’ She leaned her head back against the rock and looked up into the rain. ‘Would they know what the wind was if their land always moved with it?'

  The Traveller clapped his hands in delight. ‘Magical questions, every one,’ he said, but neither answered nor pursued any of them. ‘Keep them always in your mind so that more will gather around them. Then, maybe, who knows?’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked then returned to Ibryen.

  'What has frightened you?'

  Again, Ibryen answered without hesitation. ‘Doubt.'

  The Traveller shook his head. ‘Doubt, a man like you has always. Be specific.'

  'Doubts for my sanity.'

  He should not be speaking like this in front of Rachyl! But the Traveller was hustling him forward.

  'Tell me what you just heard—what touched you. Quickly. While you can.'

  Ibryen did his best, but the words he managed were barely shadows of what he had felt and after a few moments he waved them all away angrily. ‘It's no use. Perhaps I am going mad after all.'

  'No,’ the Traveller said, quietly but categorically. ‘I think not. And neither do you.’ He clenched his fist and held it out in front of Ibryen. As he spoke, he slowly uncurled it. ‘Who can say what a bud feels as it unfurls to find itself no longer in the dark, but bathing in the sunlight?'

  Ibryen looked at him suspiciously then quickly glanced at Rachyl. However, there was no hint of mockery in the little man's demeanour and Rachyl's expression was unreadable. Was she judging him? What of his authority if she should carry tales of this conversation back to the camp? Then, it occurred to him, why should she not judge him? If he couldn't face her judgement, he had no right to ask her loyalty. The conclusion made him feel almost light-headed.

  The Traveller's strange observation was still hanging in the damp air.

  'A bizarre analogy,’ Ibryen replied.

  The Traveller looked at his hand. ‘More of a metaphor, I'd have thought. And rather a good one too,’ h
e said in mild dismay, though he was immediately serious again. ‘You can't hear what I hear and I can't explain it to you. I can't feel whatever it is that's pulling at your insides, and you can't explain that to me. The only common ground we have are these poor words and the pictures we can make with them.'

  'All of which means what?’ The question came from Rachyl and it was bluntly put.

  'All of which means we go that way,’ the Traveller said, pointing. He stood up and began walking without further comment. The others scrambled hastily to their feet and, pausing only to mark the trail, set off after him.

  'Sorry,’ he said, when they caught up with him. ‘I forgot.’ His brow furrowed thoughtfully. ‘If I get too far ahead, just call out, I'll hear you.'

  'We don't call out here,’ Rachyl said sternly. ‘And see you don't. Whistle like this if you need to signal.’ She blew a short, staccato whistle similar to those that had greeted the arrival of Iscar. She became patronizing. ‘It's much harder for the enemy to work out where the noise is coming from. We've a great many calls that we use, but you don't need to know about them. Just remember not to shout out.'

  The Traveller nodded interestedly. ‘Who taught you that?’ he asked.

  'Marris. Why?'

  'Whistle me something.'

  Rachyl glanced at him uncertainly, then whistled four notes. The Traveller frowned and then clicked his fingers. ‘Friend coming,’ he announced in triumph.

  Rachyl did not seem inclined to join in his celebration. ‘How the devil did you know that?’ she demanded.

  'It wasn't easy the way you were whistling it,’ the Traveller retorted. ‘The dialect's strange—from north of here, I'd say—but your accent's very fetching, quite charming.’ He took her arm confidentially. ‘Don't be offended,’ he said, ‘but your intonation's a little shaky, and it can be very misleading. And watch your rhythm. And your accents.'