by Roger Taylor
Rachyl's face was darkening. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked, unequivocally rhetorical.
'Well, now that you mention it ...'
Ibryen interceded. ‘Are you familiar with this way of signalling?’ he asked, stepping between them both quickly. ‘I knew it wasn't Marris's invention, but even he didn't know where it had come from.'
'Such a long time.’ The Traveller pulled his hood forward so that his face could not be seen. ‘It's not just a means of signalling,’ he said. ‘It's derived from a language. A beautiful language once—maybe still is somewhere, I suppose, though I doubt it.'
'You sound sad,’ Ibryen said.
The Traveller shrugged. ‘Not really,’ he replied, though his face was still hidden. ‘When I heard it yesterday, it started jostling all sorts of old memories, but I was so preoccupied with everything else that was happening I gave it no heed. Now, hearing it up here, I see a long, winding line going far back through time. A line decked with flags and battle pennants and shrouds and loving sheets—so much. It is sad that the last time I heard it, it was as a battle language, and it's that that's come down to you.’ His hood edged back and a smiling face emerged. ‘Still, I'm happy to be reminded of it, even if you are grunting it.'
Rachyl's face, which had been softening, began to harden and Ibryen intervened again. ‘Would you teach it to us properly?’ he asked.
The Traveller stopped. ‘I suppose I could try,’ he said after a long, pensive pause. He looked at the rocky slope rising ahead of them and disappearing into the mist. ‘But you're asking me to climb a mountain steeper than any you'll find around here.'
Rachyl prodded a finger at him. ‘It seems to me you're very free with your abuse about our efforts, but full of ... metaphor ... when it comes to actually doing anything.'
The Traveller set off again, drawing in a hissing breath.
He spoke to Ibryen. ‘Of all the sounds I've ever heard I don't think there's anything quite as unpleasant as a woman's taunt, Count, don't you agree?'
'I never provoke them,’ Ibryen replied, siding with his soldier. ‘If you wish to live recklessly then who am I to gainsay you?'
'Are you deserting me, Count?'
'Yes. As you appear to be losing I've realized where my better interests lie.'
'Weather's breaking,’ the Traveller said, pointing ahead.
'Full of metaphor,’ Rachyl said to Ibryen, conspicuously stretching the word as they began to clamber up another rocky slope.
Ibryen looked at Rachyl surreptitiously. As is the way with women who take to fighting, she was as ferocious and determined in combat as any man. Indeed, she was greatly feared amongst the Gevethen's soldiery and the sight of her suddenly joining the fray had more than once tilted cautious withdrawal into full-blooded retreat. But she was also far more ruthless both in her vision and her actions, and tipped rapidly into cruelty at times. It was a trait that Ibryen watched for constantly. He wondered at times what would become of her if peace ever came, but it was a fruitless speculation and he never dwelt on it. Here, she was better the way she was. The future would have to take its chance with her as would she with it. Nevertheless, he had been concerned that her stern and suspicious temperament would prove a considerable burden on their journey, for all she seemed to have begun accepting the Traveller after having seen his footsteps across the Hummock. He was pleased therefore with the relationship that was emerging between them. There was a tension in it, but they were sparking off one another. It was a good sign.
And as if in acknowledgement of this happier thought, the sky ahead started to lighten. Then the rain began to peter out. Not that it made the travelling any easier, for the rocks were still treacherously wet and for some time no one spoke as once again they found it necessary to concentrate on progressing safely.
They stopped from time to time, apparently by common consent, though Ibryen, who frequently found himself slipping behind, suspected that it was because the Traveller was keeping a particular eye on him—or, perhaps, a particular ear, he mused as he caught up with Rachyl and the little man again, puffing loudly.
'Not got the right pace, yet,’ he said, lowering himself on to a rock.
Rachyl looked as if she were about to say something caustic, but refrained.
'My fault,’ the Traveller said. ‘I keep forgetting. It's some time since I mixed with people, but it's a long time since I walked through the mountains with anyone. A very long time.'
Ibryen ventured a question. ‘Where do you come from?'
The Traveller smiled and gestured to the north. ‘You didn't altogether lie when you told your people I was on my way home. The place where I was born was north of here.'
'Was?’ Rachyl inquired, picking up the word immediately. ‘What happened? Was your village destroyed? A war? A disaster?’ Ibryen raised an eyebrow in surprise at the uncharacteristically maternal note in Rachyl's voice, but the Traveller just shook his head, unperturbed by this gentle barrage.
'No, no,’ he replied with a chuckle. ‘I was moved about a lot when I was a child. Along and through the Ways, from hollow hill to hollow hill. It was inevitable, I was quite unusual.'
Rachyl's eyes narrowed.
'Rachyl doesn't respond well to being teased,’ Ibryen said quickly.
The Traveller laid an affectionate hand on Rachyl's arm. ‘I wouldn't dream of mocking such an inquiry,’ he said. ‘But I suspect my childhood—if that's what it was—is quite beyond anything you could understand, even if I had the wit to describe it to you, which I doubt.’ The hand patted the arm. ‘I don't know where I was born, but don't concern yourself. There's no village or mansion lying ruined at my beginning, either by brutal war or brutal nature.'
Rachyl withdrew her arm. ‘Perhaps the land had a name though,’ she said.
'Oh yes. We called it ...'
But the word he spoke eluded both Ibryen and Rachyl, though it left Ibryen with a sense of mountains even more commanding than those around him, and ringing to their hearts with strange music. He craned his head forward, reluctant to lose the impression as it slowly faded.
It seemed to be having a similar effect on Rachyl, though, more earth-bound than Ibryen, she recovered sooner. ‘Perhaps it had a name that we could understand,’ she persisted, with heavy emphasis.
'Possibly,’ the Traveller replied. ‘But I don't know what it was. And it might well be different now. You know how ephemeral words are.'
Rachyl made to speak again, but Ibryen, laughing, spoke first. ‘I think that's all you're going to learn, Rachyl. You'll have to be content with the hollow hills filled with music.'
'Everywhere has a name,’ Rachyl insisted, heatedly. ‘A proper name that ordinary people can say.'
The Traveller prodded the rocky ground by his side. ‘What's this called, then?’ he asked.
Rachyl's chin came out. Ibryen stood up. ‘I'm rested now, thank you. Let's get on while the weather's clear.’ He started walking. ‘Mark the trail would you, Rachyl.'
Within a few paces the Traveller was alongside him. Lowering his voice, Ibryen said with disclaiming urgency, ‘If you persist in provoking Rachyl she may well throw you over the edge of somewhere very high before I can stop her, or, I suspect, before you can do one of your tricks. Life in the mountains has made her quite abrupt in both judgement and execution at times.'
Though there was some seriousness in his comment, his manner was ironic and he had expected a light-hearted response. The Traveller however, looked quite grave. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But just as you seek to understand those closest to you in your land, so must I here, for this is my land—the land to which I belong—and this is my journey, my song. Who knows what tests lie ahead? You might think I'm strange with my crude Sound Carving, but you should see yourself as I see you with your deeply strange inner hearing.’ His face became almost grim. ‘I need to know what I need to know. Just as Rachyl changed to serve you, so she—and you, and me—will change to serve whatever end has drawn us
together.’ A broad smile banished the gravity. ‘But no hurt will come of that. Change is what you make of it.'
He made a signal for silence as Rachyl reached them. She seemed to have set aside her irritation at the Traveller's previous manner but Ibryen recognized the mood and knew that matters had only been postponed. ‘We've several choices when we get to the top,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea which way we're going to go?'
'No.’ The two men spoke simultaneously. Ibryen motioned the Traveller to move on alone.
'Are you all right?’ he asked Rachyl when the Traveller was well in front of them.
'Yes,’ Rachyl replied with an edge to her voice that said quite the opposite.
Ibryen spoke straight to what he took to be the heart of her concern. ‘He's very strange,’ he said. ‘The more so to us because we've had to force ourselves into a very conservative way of living just in order to survive. But you don't need me to remind you there are many strange things in this world.'
'That strange?’ Rachyl said, glancing significantly at the retreating figure ahead of them.
Ibryen could not forbear smiling at her manner, but her question had to be addressed. ‘You've not forgotten the Gevethen already, have you?’ he replied, equally significantly. ‘The way they speak now, their mannerisms, their ability to sway people—or terrify them. And that business with the mirrors. Vanity we thought at first, if you remember—a foolish but harmless affectation. A trio of servants carrying decorated glasses, and two eccentric advisers making sly glances at them, then later, openly preening and posturing before them.’ His eyes widened at the memory. ‘And look what that turned into.’ He trailed off into an awkward silence which neither of them seemed to know how to end.
Eventually Rachyl said, ‘You're right, of course. We don't forget, we just don't bother remembering. It's too disturbing. But when you squeeze several years into a few words, it's all there again, isn't it? The horrific unreality of it all.’ She looked up at the Traveller, now on the lightening skyline. ‘He's still strange, but at least he seems to be human.'
Ibryen reached out and stopped her. He looked into her face. ‘The Gevethen are human enough,’ he said. ‘Only creatures like us, permanently in thrall to the darker side of their natures, could do what they do. They're in all of us. That's why they frighten us. Sicken us.'
Rachyl held his gaze, but her face was again unreadable. In the end it was Ibryen who turned away. Waving towards the Traveller, he began walking again, reiterating the Traveller's own remarks. ‘We're probably very strange and frightening to him. He doesn't avoid people for no reason presumably. We should try to remember that. And as for what he's doing, or why, all we can do is judge him by his deeds, and try to understand him while he tries to understand us.'
Rachyl's hand moved unconsciously to a knife in her belt. ‘It's difficult. One minute I take him for a sprightly little old man, the next—I don't know. When I think of what he did to Hynard and me, and the things he talks about, I feel quite afraid of him. Then ...’ She was surprised. ‘... it's almost as if he were my own age. Vigorous and strong.’ She stopped uncomfortably.
'By his deeds, Rachyl,’ Ibryen repeated. ‘I've trusted him this far because he's had ample opportunity to do us all great harm and he hasn't taken it. I'll continue trusting him for the time being, but not to the point of foolishness. Not to a point beyond reason.'
'And you think trailing after mysterious ... noises ... that only you can hear, isn't beyond reason, isn't illogical?'
The bluntness of this sudden question shook Ibryen. He saw the Traveller, a considerable way above them now, stop. Somewhat to his own surprise, he answered immediately. ‘It's not illogical for me, because whatever's pulling at me is as real as the air around us. I know it makes no sense to you and that you're just trusting me, and too, that it's taking a toll. But judge me by my deeds as well. And whilst we might be searching for something that doesn't exist—a mirage—the reason why we're going—the strategy, Rachyl—none of that's beyond reason, is it? Looking for another way, unsettling the Gevethen by doing nothing. The least we'll gain, all of us, up here and back down in the valley, is a breaking of our rutted thoughts—a re-examining of what we think we already know. And perhaps somewhere in that will be the tiny thing that'll change our direction.'
As the stark question had shaken Ibryen, so his answer silenced Rachyl and they did not speak again until they reached the waiting Traveller. ‘Do you want to rest again?’ he asked Ibryen.
The Count shook his head. ‘No. I'll be fine now. I'm getting my climbing legs back. Let's get to the top and decide which way to go from there.'
The weather continued to ease, occasional strips of blue sky appearing through the thinning cloud. A breeze was blowing as they reached the top of the rise. As Rachyl had said, several alternatives now faced them, for the far side of the rise dropped down into a valley while on either flank, hulking peaks shouldered down towards them.
Rachyl, first to the top, authoritatively directed the others to one side so that they would not appear against the skyline. ‘There's no one about,’ the Traveller protested. Rachyl looked at him and then motioned him to follow her. He gave Ibryen an arch look as he obeyed. Ibryen sat down and closed his eyes. The call was still there, but it was different.
Rachyl led the Traveller around a small outcrop towards a pile of tumbled rocks. As they drew near she placed her hands on his shoulders so that he could only move where she dictated. Finally, she pushed him almost to his knees and then the two of them were peering around the edge of a boulder. Her hand was pointing. ‘Those two peaks,’ she said, whispering as though they might be overheard. ‘The most northerly of this region and the nearest to Dirynhald. The Gevethen regularly post small companies of troops on them, just to watch. The passes being the way they are, almost certainly there'll be some there now, and their seeing stones are as good as ours.’ She sneered. ‘I understand they call them their elite, though we have no difficulty killing them from time to time when they're being particularly troublesome. But we never underestimate them, nor forget them, nor the fact that they also send small scouting parties and even individuals looking for us.’ Pressure on the Traveller's shoulders emphasized these points. Now a powerful hand came to rest on his neck. It exerted no pressure, but it was quite resolute. ‘You must understand. Any serious hint of where the village is and the Gevethen will bring their every resource against us. We'll not survive such an attack, and who can say what horror the Gevethen will go on to without the fear of the Count at their backs?’ The grip became more forceful and Rachyl's voice even softer. ‘You may know a great deal about mountains and all manner of things, but I know these mountains and the particular dangers we face here. Ibryen has his own concerns at the moment, which I won't pretend to understand. I've got just one—to make sure that he, and the village, come to no harm. If you do anything to jeopardize either, then notwithstanding his protection, I'll kill you before you can purse your lips to whistle. Do you understand?’ With what limited movement he was allowed, the Traveller nodded. ‘Good. Don't dispute with me again in such matters,’ Rachyl concluded, releasing him and slapping him on the shoulder with ominous heartiness.
'Quite a sophisticated communicator,’ the Traveller confided as he returned to Ibryen.
'Oh yes,’ the Count replied, having deduced the possible nature of the conversation from Rachyl's posture as she led the Traveller away. ‘She can explain things very well at times.’ He bent close and lowered his voice. ‘I should have impressed it on you more seriously before. Listen to what she says very carefully; she tends to mean what she says, and she's a very dangerous person.'
The Traveller gave a slight gesture that inferred both acknowledgement and dismissal, then asked, ‘Which way?'
Ibryen looked at him for a moment, concerned that perhaps he had not fully appreciated the significance of the advice he had just been given, then he held out a tentative hand. The route would carry them into the valley on th
e far side of the rise they had just climbed. The Traveller nodded. ‘Yes, I think so too. But the sounds I can hear are getting weaker. Are you sure?'
Ibryen grimaced. ‘As I can be,’ he said. ‘But something's changing. Something's happening. It's going beyond.’ Pain filled his face. ‘We must hurry.'
* * *
Chapter 17
As the procession wended its way through the shadowed passages and hallways of the Citadel, the force that Jeyan could feel impelling her limbs gradually lessened. Though she could scarcely begin to order her thoughts, strands of curiosity began to filter into the swirling fear that was consuming her. That she was alive after being twice captured was bewildering, but that she was alive after facing the Gevethen themselves was almost numbing. It needed little coherent thought however, to realize that she had been allowed to live because some torment was being prepared for her.
Her knees started to buckle. If only she could think properly! But the reflected images dancing all around her snatched thoughts away even as they formed. For, like prancing flank guards, the mirror-bearers were making her escort herself as array upon array of ragged scarecrow figures marched and wheeled through the flickering gloom alongside her. Now staggering, now slouching, now staring at her, wild-eyed, now in lines curving into a dark unseeable distance.
Only two things had any semblance of constancy—the retreating backs of the Gevethen, and even these disturbed, moving as they did, now together, now like reflections of one another. Occasionally they turned and their moon faces displaced the ranks of scarecrow guards so that they seemed to be converging on her from every direction.
Then she was walking up steps, and carpeting appeared under her feet. Briefly, hints of bright early morning daylight slanted down on to the troop. They bounced off the mirrors like glinting spear points and the movement of the bearers faltered momentarily.
