Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'More than enough,’ Isgyrn said. There was a suggestion of both surprise and sadness in his voice. ‘Even dead, it would seem that the Culmaren has many ... worthwhile attributes. Do you wish to share again?’ She smiled and shook her head. Isgyrn fell silent. Then, unexpectedly, as the others were turning back to the fire, ‘I did a little calculating on our way down, to keep my mind focused. It wasn't easy, I haven't the flair that makes a good Seeker but my head serves well enough.’ He was drifting in and out of sleep. ‘Perhaps fifteen years since ... fifteen years ... my family ... people ...'

  He was asleep. Ibryen watched him for a little while then turned to gaze into the fire.

  'Are you easier with yourself now?’ It was the Traveller. Ibryen understood the question.

  'Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I've no doubts about my sanity now. Though I'd be lying if I said I was anything other than bewildered by what's happening.’ His voice fell. ‘And something's happened to me.’ Both Rachyl and the Traveller watched him intently. He was almost talking to himself. ‘It's nothing bad,’ he went on. ‘Just strange—very strange. Almost as if I'd just discovered I could hear like you do, or see things vast distances away. But it's neither of those, nor anything like them.’ He frowned as he struggled to find the words. ‘A talent's been awakened in me—a gift. But I don't know what it is, or what it's for.’ He was silent for a moment then shrugged and became prosaic. ‘But I'm no easier about the future. Now that the lure that pulled me out here has gone, my thoughts are turning back to the Gevethen and the problems we face back in the village. Part of me is sorely tempted to uproot everything and take our people further south. There must be other valleys where we can live in peace.'

  Rachyl's head jerked up. He held out a reassuring hand. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘It was just an idle thought. It's probably because we've been so free to move these last few days. We forget the values of such simple things. I know well enough that enemies like the Gevethen always have to be faced in the end and the only thing that keeps us all together as a community is our opposition to them.'

  'But how's he going to be able to help us?’ Rachyl flicked a thumb towards the sleeping Dryenwr. The question crystallized Ibryen's concerns.

  'He offered us his blade,’ he said.

  Rachyl pursed her lips. ‘One more's better than nothing, I suppose. Even though he's weak, he's obviously been a commander of some kind and, judging from the state of his sword, he commands from the front. But tactically we're still back where we started.'

  'Too premature a judgement,’ Ibryen said firmly, straightening up. ‘Who can say what kind of an avalanche might come of the dust that's been stirred up these past few days?'

  Rachyl gave him an arch look. ‘I'd prefer dispositions and logistics to Marris's poetry,’ she said caustically.

  'What happened fifteen years ago?’ The Traveller's voice cut through their dying debate.

  Ibryen leaned back and yawned. ‘Nothing special, as far as I can recall,’ he said after a little thought. ‘The Gevethen were here. Very powerful already, though we didn't realize it as they'd wormed their way into the workings of the court so quietly. They weren't as openly crazed in their manner as they became later, with their mirror-bearers and everything, but they were beginning to become conspicuously odd.'

  The Traveller turned to Rachyl. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said pensively. ‘Such a long time ago. Several lifetimes at least.’ She smiled at some long-forgotten memory. ‘I was a burgeoning woman,’ she announced with heavy irony.

  'You were a ruffian,’ Ibryen interjected. ‘The terror of the Citadel. You were always up to some devilment.'

  'Probably as well,’ Rachyl said, briefly more sober, though the weight of happy memories made her smile again, almost immediately. ‘Do you remember those wretched little brown birds?’ she said. ‘Creepy little things with yellow eyes. They used to be all over the city. And they were always buzzing about inside the Citadel. There seemed to be more and more every year.’ She nodded to the Traveller. ‘We could've used your stone-throwing in those days. We tried all sorts to catch one but never managed it. And they flew so fast! We never even found where they nested. What was it we called them?’ Her teeth glinted in the firelight as she bared them.

  'Gevethen's eyes,’ Ibryen said coldly. For some reason, the memory of the birds made him feel uncomfortable.

  Rachyl snapped her fingers. ‘They vanished suddenly, didn't they? All of them.'

  Ibryen nodded. ‘Some change in the wind brought them and some change in the wind probably took them away,’ he said off-handedly. Even as he spoke however, the memory came to him again that he had had as he lay in the sun on the ridge before his encounter with the Traveller. It seemed to drop into place as part of a pattern that he could not fully identify. He voiced it. ‘It was about then that the Gevethen became more ... exposed ... for what they truly were. More open, or more clumsy in their manipulations, less subtly knowledgeable of events than they had been.’ The memory brought him no enlightenment, however.

  The Traveller rested his chin on his hands. ‘Birds, eh? Doesn't seem to be of any great significance, does it?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I wish I'd read that Gate more carefully. There was something about birds on that, I'm sure.'

  Their conversation faded and shortly afterwards Rachyl and Ibryen emulated the Dryenwr and lay down to sleep. The Traveller sat staring into the fire for some time, then stood up and walked off into the forest.

  * * * *

  There was only the faintest hint of light in the eastern sky when an insistent hand shook Ibryen awake roughly. It was the Traveller.

  'Wake up,’ he was saying. ‘Isgyrn's gone!'

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  Jeyan did not sleep well that night. She had achieved a degree of inner quietness by her resolution to watch, listen and wait, and to take her strange new life moment by moment, heartbeat by heartbeat, but the Gevethen's brief visit had shaken her badly. There had been such menace in the words.

  'As you judge, so shall you be judged. Prepare yourself.'

  What did they mean?

  Was she to come to trial after all? Had the past two days been only the beginning of a punishment? Were they only taunting her with luxury and the promise of power? Raising her high so that her fall might be the harder?

  It did not help that her body made no demands upon her for rest. She had spent the day in enforced idleness where normally she would have been wandering the Ennerhald and the city, preoccupied with her next meal and the avoidance of the Citadel Guards. Thus she woke many times, each time forgetting the sleep she had just had.

  At one point, during the deepest part of the night, she found Meirah by her bedside; a dimmed lantern in one hand, a glass goblet in the other. She started violently, causing the woman to step back.

  'This will help you to sleep,’ Meirah said, offering the drink.

  Jeyan nearly knocked it from her hand in a spasm of anger, but she caught herself in time. ‘Did I wake you?’ she asked. Meirah shook her head and offered the goblet again. Jeyan thought for a moment. Was this a kindness or some kind of trick? Who could say what was in that drink, what consequences might flow from addling her brain with it?

  'Put it on the table,’ she said. ‘I may take it later.'

  And Meirah was gone.

  The visit did little to ease Jeyan's mood. How had the woman come so close without waking her? No dogs, of course, came the sad answer immediately. She set it aside with a small moue of pain and the question was replaced with others. How did these servants know what she was doing all the time? Were they spying on her even now? She made a promise to herself to search the room carefully tomorrow for spy-holes. The thought of tomorrow however, merely served to remind her of the Gevethen's words and she was soon tossing and turning fretfully again.

  She was thus jaded and weary when the servants woke her in the morning, at one stage even making a slight resistance to their endeavours. The ineffectivene
ss of this gesture brought her to her senses and she implemented the policy she had determined the previous day of saying what she did and did not want doing. It ensured her a marginally more private ablution, and made her feel that she had some semblance of control over events. It was the merest semblance however, she knew, and though her head relished the fine food that was placed before her, her stomach nervously protested otherwise.

  'What's to happen today?’ she said casually, as though she had a whirl of social events before her. There was no reply. ‘You may speak,’ she added. ‘I should prefer it if you would.’ She risked a little menace, to test her authority. ‘I do not like to be ignored when I ask questions.'

  There was a flutter of unease amongst the servants, but still no one answered. ‘What's to happen today?’ she asked again.

  Silence.

  She caught Meirah's eye but received no acknowledgement. She let the matter lie. The question had indeed given her a measure of her authority. She had very little. Speaking was not approved of by the Gevethen, and that was that.

  She forced herself to eat something.

  * * * *

  Jeyan was not the only nervous person that morning. Helsarn had been given the task of escorting the new Lord Counsellor. The euphoria following his sudden promotion was gradually beginning to wear off. Though no hint had been given, it must have caused considerable concern to the other Commanders, with its implications for the reduction of their own power, and to give the Commanders concern was to court mysterious and silent disappearance.

  Of course, the very suddenness of the promotion gave him the Gevethen's implicit protection, but that could not be relied upon indefinitely; they were notoriously indifferent to the jockeying for position that went on in the Guards, providing that it did not impair their effectiveness. It was important that he did not appear as a threat to his new peers. He must make himself useful and relatively inconspicuous, at least until such time as he had increased the size of his loyal following amongst the men. He had little anxiety about those from his own company; he knew their various ambitions and characters well enough by now, and he had already taken the precaution of raising them up along with himself. They would thus have enhanced status as and when other companies were brought under his command.

  But more pressing concerns were troubling him that morning as he stood before the mirror and checked his uniform for the fourth time. He it was who had hauled the prisoner in and thrown her in the dungeon, and that was hardly likely to endear him to her now that she had become Lord Counsellor. He thanked his good fortune that that oaf of an Under Questioner hadn't realized she was a woman, with all that would have meant, but the thanks dwindled into insignificance against his railing at the fate that had prompted the Gevethen to do such a thing. He had long ago learned that little was to be gained by trying to anticipate the Gevethen's actions, but replacing Hagen with his murderer was unbelievable even by the standards of seeming arbitrariness that they set.

  Who was this woman? What did they know about her? What qualities had they seen in her that would make her a substitute for a sadistic fanatic like Hagen? It was a chilling thought even for him, and it brought back vividly the sight of her face as she struggled to choke the life out of the wounded soldier who had captured her. And there were the others. The patrol that her dogs had savaged, and the other two soldiers who had been left on guard. Where were they now? Doubtless rotting somewhere in the Ennerhald with knife wounds as the marks of her benediction. He struggled to contain a shudder. The depths in a woman were far more fearful than in a man once they were plumbed. It was no new insight, but it did little to calm him and he set about checking his uniform yet again.

  He had prepared one or two excuses—explanations—for his conduct in case the need might arise. ‘Only doing my duty, ma'am.'

  Ma'am? He tested the word and wrinkled his nose. Lord Counsellor, he decided. That was, after all, what the Gevethen called her. ‘Only doing my duty, Lord Counsellor.’ That was better.

  Then there was, ‘Very dangerous characters in the Ennerhald—safety of my men—not got the vision of their Excellencies, didn't recognize who you were.’ Quite a good one, that last, he thought, though he wanted to say none of them. Nor would he, if opportunity allowed. It would be better by far if he could confine himself to the clipped courtesies of his office as official escort. Behave as though they had not shared such an unfortunate history. As though she had always been Lord Counsellor. Yes, he decided, that was what he would do.

  He turned away from the mirror angrily as he caught himself fiddling yet again with his uniform.

  * * * *

  Jeyan waited before the door. She had been dressed in the familiar replica of Hagen's uniform when she woke, but after her breakfast the servants placed a cape about her shoulders. It glistened golden even in the subdued lighting, and it was decorated with a single silver star. ‘What is this for?’ she had asked, but as usual, had received no reply. Then she had been stood in front of the door.

  Almost immediately it opened, both leaves swinging wide to reveal Helsarn, immaculate and standing stiffly to attention. Behind him were two ranks of Citadel Guards in equally formal uniform. The servants closed behind and to the side of her and her stomach lurched. Was this the moment? Had they come to take her for punishment? To strip her of all this finery before destroying her?

  But Helsarn was saluting. ‘Commander Helsarn, Lord Counsellor. I have the honour to present your escort for the day.'

  She recognized him. It was the one who had captured her. Whatever game was being played here she would give no one the satisfaction of seeing her fear. She fixed him with a cold gaze. Unexpectedly she caught a flicker of nervousness in him.

  'Their Excellencies have asked me to take you to the Judgement Hall, Lord Counsellor,’ he said.

  'Why?’ Fear, and the control of it, made her response sharp and commanding.

  Helsarn hesitated. The Gevethen's orders were to be obeyed immediately, not debated, but he couldn't remain silent in the face of a direct question. ‘Many have been arrested in the purging, Lord Counsellor,’ he said. ‘They are to be brought before the law for trial and judgement.'

  What do I know about the law? Jeyan screamed inwardly. And I'll be no one's judge.

  As you judge, so shall you be judged.

  The memory of the Gevethen's words strangled any response and held her rigid. Helsarn, anxious to avoid any further questioning, saluted again then turned about. The Guards turned with him. A soft drumbeat behind her startled Jeyan, but before she could turn to see what it signified the servants hedged about her, obliging her to move after Helsarn and the Guards who had set off at a slow march.

  The procession wound its way through the Citadel's interminable corridors, the drumbeat relentlessly setting its pace and marking its progress. Eventually they came to the part that, in the Count's time, had often been open to the people of Dirynhald who would come to marvel at both its high arches and ornate architecture, and the magnificent paintings and statues that decorated it—some of the finest works of art to be found in the whole of Nesdiryn. Then, the place had been made to seem even more spacious and open by the light which came from innumerable, subtly crafted mirrorways. Now, with the paintings and statues either removed or replaced by mocking pastiches, and the mirrorways sealed, it had been transformed into an echoing, gloomy cavern, full of concealing shadows, their darkness increased by the occasional shafts of mote-filled light that escaped the sealing of the mirrorways to shine through the interlaced woodwork of the ceiling.

  Jeyan had been there as a child and vaguely recognized where she was. The contrast with her childhood memory weighed on her and the grotesque events of the past few days became almost unbearable. For a moment, she thought her legs were going to buckle and she staggered slightly. Hands discreetly supported her but she was herself again almost immediately.

  They moved into a wide entrance hall which led to what had once been the Banqueting Hall. Along t
he sides, shadows amongst shadows, were rows of people. The drumbeat pulsed on, unforgiving, shrivelling with its touch the faint murmur of voices that had preceded the arrival of the Lord Counsellor. Jeyan, at once curious, fearful, and full of anger, looked from side to side as she passed by. It was not easy to make out details in the gloom but she could see that heads were bowed. As she peered more intently, those onlookers who felt the weight of her examination sank to their knees, like grass before a withering flame. It took her a little time to associate the two events and when she did she felt first shame, then elation, then shame again.

  She became aware of more Guards falling in behind her and then the crowd itself. The sound of shuffling feet and rustling clothes rose up to fill the shadows with dark whisperings that scurried to and fro at the goading of the unyielding drum.

  Then they were at the Gevethen's grim Judgement Hall—the Count's once glorious Banqueting Hall—another example of the Gevethen's wilful corruption of the richness that had preceded them, their brutal fist replacing the Count's open-handedness.

  Towering doors, already opened, led to a wide aisle that ran straight down the centre of the Hall between the tiers of banked seats that now filled the place. Clusters of sallow lanterns hung from the ceiling and walls, replacing the glittering chandeliers and mirrorways that had brought light to innumerable past celebrations. Now, as though lit by a jaundiced moon, the Hall was pervaded by cold pallor and deep, concealing shadows.

  Jeyan saw there were already a great many people present. Faces, rendered corpse-like by the light, turned to greet her entrance, then faded into the shadows as they bowed. Those following the procession drifted silently sideways up stairs and along walkways to fill the standing galleries at the rear and sides of the hall.

  The tone of the drum became sharper and more jagged, attenuated by the shape of the Hall and the number of people occupying it.