by Roger Taylor
During the latter part of the day, without any spoken agreement, they began to edge away from the river, gradually moving to higher ground. Rachyl noted the change, but made no comment.
It was early evening and they were contemplating stopping for the night when they came to a great swathe cut through the forest. Splintered and uprooted trees were scattered about as if they had been so much kindling and, here and there, boulders were visible. Somewhere underneath it all, a noisy stream could be heard. Though burgeoning spring foliage, long grasses, and creepers were seeking to repair the hurt, the cause of the damage was quite apparent.
'More of Marris's dust blowing in the wind,’ Ibryen said as he surveyed the scene.
'Only a few years ago too,’ the Traveller remarked.
Rachyl looked at it sourly. ‘What a mess. It's going to be awkward to cross, to put it mildly.'
Ibryen nodded absently. He was looking around and frowning. Suddenly he stopped and pointed up towards the peak that lay at the head of the damage. It looked ominous against the darkening sky.
'That way,’ he said.
* * *
Chapter 19
Jeyan stared up at the gloomy ceiling. She was shaking. In so far as she was thinking at all, it seemed to her that she had been trembling continuously since she had killed Hagen and that there would be nothing but trembling for whatever the rest of her life was going to be.
Dryness in her mouth and throat forced its attention on her. Her legs unsteady and her head floating uneasily, she got up from the long, luxurious couch and carefully moved down three carpeted steps and over to a table at the far end of the room. On it was spread an array of ornate silver dishes and plates, each laden with food, together with several bottles, jugs and decanters. There was also a tray of elegant glass goblets, all either decorated with fine-lined etchings or engraved and elaborately chequered. They glittered even in the subdued lighting. She picked up a decanter of what she took to be water and lifted it to her mouth. A sharp, sweet smell struck her, making her grimace. She returned it to the tray. Amongst the many things that the Ennerhald had taught her, one was not to get drunk. That was for others—it made them easier to deceive and rob when need arose; for all that had happened to her, her wits were not so addled yet that she could not use some of them. She worked her way through the jugs until finally she found one containing water then, in a manner markedly at odds with the refinement implicit in everything around her, she drank from it directly. The water that spilled down her chin she wiped with the back of her hand as she carried the jug back to the couch.
She sat for a long time as she had been sitting since she was put in this room—shocked and vacant, her eyes barely registering what they saw, her mind numb with conflicting thoughts and emotions. The excursion to the table had been the first sign of conscious activity. It signalled the return of her faculties however, and slowly, coherent thoughts began to form. Not that coherence brought any understanding to what had happened, or offered her any indication of what was to follow.
Following the Gevethen's instruction, the mirror-bearers had surrounded her and ushered her from the Watching Chamber into a room occupied by a group of what she presumed were the Gevethen's personal servants. These had been as silent and blank-faced as the mirror-bearers, but they had treated her with great deference as they had escorted her through parts of the Citadel that were apparently the personal quarters of high-ranking Citadel officers. Deference or no, she noted that their careful attendance left her no opportunity to attempt an escape.
Then had followed a bizarre humiliation. The servants, some male, some female, had stripped and bathed her. The instant hands had been laid on her ragged clothes she had feared the worst and reacted with massive ferocity, struggling, screaming and shouting. All to no avail. The hands that held her were at once gentle and immovable. And the only harm that came to her was the physical discomfort she had suffered in trying to break free from their grip. The bathing had proceeded as if she had been a small and unwilling child. She was far from certain which was the worst, her naked indignity or the seeming indifference of the stone-faced servants, performing their duties regardless of anything she did, pinioning her arms, her legs, her head as circumstances dictated, and oblivious to her abuse. Eventually she had stopped resisting and lapsed into sullen lassitude. She had had to fight too, against the reaction of her body which, after so long in the cold squalor of the Ennerhald, had eventually started to revel in the warm and scented water.
Then, to her horror, the Gevethen had been there, examining her, a circling reflected throng of them staring down at her. Watery, indifferent eyes had scanned her as they might a piece of furniture and, though nothing was said, full red mouths worked to and fro as if they were holding their own silent conversation.
And the floating white hands had touched her!
She shuddered and drew herself along the couch as she had tried again to edge away from the advancing hands. Water spilled from the jug still clutched in her hand. Yet, though the sight of the hands had been repellent, their touch was alive and vibrant, and they were laid only on those parts of her that had been injured: her face, her wrists, her ankles. She touched her face—it was less painful now, as were her wrists and ankles, though it was as if the pain had been driven from her rather than gently healed. Then the Gevethen were gone and she was being dried and dressed in the formal clothes she now wore. Men's clothes—a formal livery such as Hagen had worn. When she had realized what it was, she had tried to tear it off but a hand had stopped her and, for a fleeting instant, she had looked into the eyes of one of the servants and seen a human being, trapped and terrified. Then, with a movement so swift and slight that it was barely perceptible, the woman shook her head and, with a terrifying vividness Jeyan understood her—was her. The intensity of the fear and the plea that swept over her snatched Jeyan's breath away. Whatever she did that was not acceptable to the Gevethen would redound manyfold on these servants. And who could conjecture what torments they were already suffering behind those blank faces? The woman's fearful glance had been perhaps the first real human contact Jeyan had known since her early friends in the Ennerhald had been slaughtered and the impact of it shook her severely. She had offered no further resistance and was eventually led to the room she was now in. There she was shown the table of food and drink and sat down on the couch like some large, stiff-jointed doll. The servants had then silently slipped away, bowing as they went.
As she began to think, so the events of the recent past re-enacted themselves and she was afraid once again. She looked about the room. Her father had been rich by the normal standards of Nesdiryn and her life had been comparatively privileged and protected, yet she had never experienced anything which compared with the luxury that was all around her in this room. The clothes she was wearing, this awful mockery of Hagen's hated uniform, were made of materials of the finest quality. The perfumes which clung about her from the water she had been bathed in were more subtle and delicate than anything she had ever known. Even the food on the table bespoke great care and attention in its preparation.
And then, without a vestige of warning, she was weeping. Not in many years had she wept, but now nothing could have stopped the torrent of tears. She had scarcely cried out once during the ordeal of her pursuit and capture, and it is probable that she would have suffered much more before she would have allowed her tormentors such satisfaction, but the softness all around her struck her with a greater force than the cruellest torturer's iron.
She did not rant and scream as her life poured from her eyes, but sat bolt upright and, save for her heaving shoulders, motionless, on the edge of the couch. Memories overwhelmed her. Memories of her parents, of what she had once been and what she might have become, of Dirynhald and Nesdiryn as they had been, of old friends slaughtered or turned craven by fear. And, not least, she wept for fear of what was going to happen to her. For everything that had occurred since she had been taken from the dungeon this morning
must surely be part of some scheme of the Gevethen's to punish her for the murder of Hagen. It was not possible that she could do such a thing and fall into their hands and not be treated with appalling cruelty. That was how the Gevethen maintained their power over the land. Ostensibly there was freedom, but to disobey, to speak against, was to risk dying unpleasantly; perhaps publicly, perhaps secretly. It was hard to say which struck the greater fear into the people, the public executions or the nightmare uncertainty of the silent disappearance and the fearful speculation about what went on in the Citadel's dungeons—for everyone knew about the death pits beyond the city.
Eventually the tears slowed then stopped and she sat, still unmoving, staring bleakly at the richness all around her. It could not have contrasted more with everything she had known since she fled into the Ennerhald, and yet there was an emptiness, a deadness, about the room that she had not felt even in the most ancient and decayed parts of the Ennerhald. The workmanship in the furniture and the many artefacts placed about the room was exquisite, as it was in the carvings and paintings that decorated the walls and ceiling. Only great love for the work could have made it so. But the whole seemed to be incomplete. Worse than that, it was barren. Some vital ingredient was missing. It came to her that the room was not an expression of love or delight, but a shield, an accumulation, a barricade, to protect the occupant.
But from what?
From his own dark and dead soul. The answer followed without pause.
This must have been Hagen's room, she realized with a start. She stood up and began to walk round it. As she gazed about her, she found it impossible to imagine the brutal Hagen seeing what she saw and delicately selecting this, rejecting that. How could such a man attend to the slaughter and sadistic persecution of his fellows and then display the sensitivity necessary for the selection of such works?
He could not, of course. A man who did what he did could only be dead to such matters. That was why the whole was flawed. It reflected his true nature. It was incomplete, just as he was. He had gathered it together not from an inner response to beauty but out of some bizarre vanity, as if it could redeem him in some way. And as each item was a reflection of some other person's taste, so the whole was a reflection of him. Her thoughts darkened. How many of these items had been thoughtfully selected from the home of one of his murdered victims? The thought sickened her and her hand flinched convulsively away from a small statuette she was about to touch.
Reflections, reflections.
As the word echoed through her mind, she caught sight of her own in a long mirror. She stepped back in alarm, before realizing what she was looking at. For a moment, her thoughts full of him, she had taken the figure to be Hagen himself returned from the dead, full of youth and suppleness and seeking retribution. She seized the front of the tunic to tear it off, but even as she gripped the soft fabric, she saw again the terror that had flickered briefly into the servant's eyes. It occurred to her that she knew absolutely nothing about the underworld of this place: who these servants were, where they came from, how they came to be here, and what bound them so. Who, for example, had prepared that bath, made this food, and, not least, made sure that these clothes fitted? For fit they did, and she was shorter and slighter than Hagen by far. Who could say what consequences might flow from anything she did in this place? And for whom? Her hand fell away.
The reflection gazed out at her, frowning slightly. It was vastly different from the ragged scarecrow that had formed the heart of her escort from the dungeons, but it was still slouching a little and its hands were hanging limply by its side. Instinctively Jeyan straightened as a long-silent paternal voice reached out of the past to reproach her. A movement beyond her reflection caught her attention and she turned quickly. There was nothing there. Nothing except another mirror. And another. And another. There were mirrors everywhere, large and small, all reflecting images from one another. Most of them were encased in elaborately decorated frames but one was conspicuous by its simplicity. She went to it.
Mounted on a wheeled stand, it had what appeared to be a plain wooden frame, though it was blacker than any wood or varnish that she had ever seen. Indeed, it had an unsettling quality about it. As though it were the deepest part of the night made solid. The mirror, by contrast, reflected the room about her so flawlessly that she felt she would be able to reach into it and take things from the reflection of a nearby table. She remembered the fragment of mirror that she had found in one of the buildings in the Ennerhald and that was now lying in her erstwhile home. It must have been very old, yet that too had reflected with such clarity, despite the dirt and grime of her existence there. An old habit reached up and adjusted her hair. Then, drawn in some way, she reached out to the mirror. As she touched the fingertips of her reflection it was almost as if she had touched not a cold smooth surface, but another hand and the reflection pulled back from her, startled. As it did, the mirror moved slightly and, gathered from the other mirrors, an array of young Hagens swung in to surround the confrontation between herself and her mirrored half, all with hands extended accusingly.
She pushed the mirror away hurriedly. She had seen enough fantastic, mirror-formed images that day taunting her to judge what was and what was not real. And she could not forget them. They lingered in her mind, mocking her from the edges of her sanity. Why did the Gevethen move always with this eerie entourage? Even more than with the servants, the questions as to who the mirror-bearers were and where they came from, seemed unanswerable. As for how they had become what they had become, or why, these were questions whose answers were beyond even conjecture.
She drifted back to the long couch, her mind beginning to flounder. Not that she allowed herself too much time pursuing these strange questions; her education in the Ennerhald had made her deeply pragmatic. She would watch and listen constantly and if answers existed, then doubtless she would learn them in time. She managed to hold her worst fears at bay by clinging to the resolutions she had made in the Watching Chamber. She must survive moment by moment until an opportunity to escape appeared, and she must find a weapon with which to destroy herself if the need arose. The thought of weapons took Jeyan's hand to her belt, but her knife had gone, along with her old clothes, and this new livery sported no weapons. Hagen had had no need for weapons, his reputation was armour enough. Jeyan was darkly amused. Until he met her, that is. Whatever else happened, that had been a deed well done. She must cling to that as well.
But she must find a weapon. She must not be left defenceless. The tray of goblets caught her eye, glittering in the dull light. She ran to it and seized one with the intention of breaking it and secreting a shard about her somewhere. But even as she picked it up she saw the futility of her action. If the Gevethen were merely taunting her, luring her with softness and hope, with the intention of tearing it away from her, then these fine clothes would be the first thing to go. She put the glass back on the tray and sat down in a chair opposite the plain mirror. It was difficult to watch moment by moment when nothing was happening.
Into the silence came, for the first time, the Gevethen's pronouncement: ‘Take the Lord Counsellor to her chambers.'
Lord Counsellor!
What had they meant?
Their words tumbled after this question.
'We have known of you always.'
'You are kin.'
'You are chosen.'
And, of Hagen, 'He was flawed.'
'He served his turn.'
'One more fitting dispatched him.'
The implications were as chilling as they were unbelievable. She ran her hand over the tunic. It was ridiculous. Indeed, if it had not been so grimly awful, it would have been laughable. How could she be anyone's Counsellor? She was well-educated but she had no training in matters of state, or the administration of public affairs. And surely they could not imagine that she would replace the monster she had just killed? Surely even they could not imagine that she would do anything to assist their vile regime?
'... Lord Counsellor.'
Jeyan and her reflection leapt from their seats as the voices grated into the room. The Gevethen were standing at the head of the three steps. Reflections of them flanked a widening path down the steps towards Jeyan. Despite herself, a snarl formed inside her. It never reached her throat however. Instead she felt one leg drawing back and the other bending in obeisance. Then her head was lowered. She could do nothing about either.
'This will become unnecessary in due time,’ said the two voices. ‘Soon you will learn the correct way to behave before your Liege Lords.'
Jeyan could feel them moving towards her. She was unable to move.
'You have eaten?'
'No ... Excellencies.’ She had to force the word out.
'Ah. Overwhelmed by the honour we have bestowed upon you. It is understandable in one so young, but you must eat. The position of Lord Counsellor is peculiarly taxing. It seeks out the frailties in its officers.'
The almost maternalistic expression of concern filled Jeyan with disgust and brought rage, thick and bitter, to her throat, though she could utter none of it.
