by Roger Taylor
The question came again. 'Where is the traitor Ibryen?' Marris made no effort to keep the desperation from his voice.
'I tell you, he's not here. He'd be standing where I am if he were. You know that.'
There was another sharp command, then:
'HOLD!'
Ibryen's voice rolled like a thunderclap out of the darkness.
* * * *
High on the ridge, Ibryen, pale and shaking, stood overlooking the lake of lights surrounding his followers. By him stood the Traveller, Rachyl and Isgyrn. Talking, laughing, arguing in the spring sunshine, they had been pursuing a leisurely pace back to the village, when Marris's runner had reached them. The remainder of the journey had been through the darkness. First the darkness that the news had spread over them, then the darkness of the night.
In the far distance, the sky was now beginning to grey.
'Carry my voice to them again,’ Ibryen said to the Traveller.
The Traveller nodded, though he seemed weary.
'Release my people and let them go on their way, and I shall come to you.'
The Gevethen's heads moved from side to side as they peered into the darkness.
'You hear us, Ibryen?' they asked.
'I hear you.'
'Come to us now or we shall kill your people one at a time.'
'You can't go,’ Rachyl said, seizing Ibryen's arm. ‘They'll kill you and everyone else.'
A faint cry floated up from the Valley. The Traveller clamped his hands to his ears. ‘They've shot someone else,’ he said, his voice full of horror and rage. Ibryen felt him tensing.
'Do nothing,’ he said sternly. ‘Carry my voice down again.
'But ...'
'Do it!'
Once again, his voice echoed across the valley. ‘Hurt no one else, I am coming. Be patient, it will take me some time.'
'I'm coming with you.’ All three of his companions spoke at once. He turned to them. ‘Rachyl, I'd rather you didn't, there's a fine life for you somewhere else in this world, but I know you'll follow me regardless. Just take care, Cousin. Sooner or later we'll come within arm's reach of our enemy.’ Then, to the others, almost formally:
'Traveller, Dryenwr, it's my wish that you bear witness to what happens here and that you go your own ways, taking the tale with you so that others can be forewarned.'
'I can't abandon you,’ Isgyrn said fiercely.
'Isgyrn, don't burden me further, this is no willing choice. You swore fealty to me, and this is my order. Bear witness, and carry the news. I thank you for your company and for the knowledge you've given me and I hope that my call to the Culmaren will bring your land to you one day.’ He laid a hand on the Traveller's shoulder. ‘Traveller, my thanks to you also, for more than I can find words to express. Read your Great Gate carefully when you come to it. Add our tale to it if you can.’ Then he embraced them both. ‘Look to one another. Live well and light be with you.'
He turned to Rachyl. She flicked her head to one side. ‘After you.'
Ibryen turned up the lantern he was carrying and held it high. As he moved off down the steep slope, Rachyl took Isgyrn's hand in both hers and shook it. Then she bent down and embraced the Traveller. Isgyrn looked away. By the light of Ibryen's retreating lantern he could see tears in both their eyes. As she moved off, Rachyl let her arm swing behind her, holding the Traveller's hand until the last. Neither the Traveller nor Isgyrn spoke for some time, keeping their eyes on the slowly moving lantern.
'This is beyond tolerating, to stand idly by,’ Isgyrn said eventually. ‘What would I not give for a cohort of my Soarers.'
'What would I not give for the skill of a true Sound Carver,’ the Traveller replied.
* * * *
Rachyl and Ibryen too, spoke little. ‘Remember, compliance with everything until we come within arm's reach,’ Ibryen said. Rachyl nodded. It cut through all their many and complex concerns—focused the warrior in them on the only course that circumstances had left them. Perhaps this, after all, Ibryen thought, was the way that the Gevethen could not have imagined. Simple and direct. A knife through the heart. Yet something was disturbing him. He reached out and sensed the Ways to the other worlds that were about him. The disturbance was there but it eluded him. Something was closing them to him. Something awful. He forced his attention back to the dark hillside and Rachyl.
It took the two of them a long time to descend from the ridge and make their way to the surrounded villagers. Helsarn and Vintre intercepted them. Ibryen recognized them. He looked at their soiled uniforms. ‘Commander and Captain under your new masters, I see,’ he said. ‘It seems I was right to be rid of you from my service.'
'You only demoted me, if you remember, Count,’ Helsarn said with a sneer. ‘But their Excellencies know my true worth. Give me your sword.'
'We are protected. Bring him here!' The frantic impatience in the Gevethen's voices made Helsarn start, and taking Ibryen's arm he dragged him forward.
'You can keep your sword too, for all the good it'll do you, woman,’ Vintre said to Rachyl. ‘Just wait over there, you'll probably be needed afterwards.’ He leered at her. ‘When the sport starts. I'll look after you personally.'
Rachyl's face was impassive.
As Ibryen approached the Gevethen, the mirror-bearers began to weave about him but he ignored the bewildering images that they made. Instead, he stared at the two large mirrors which were being brought together. As they drew closer, so the disturbance he had felt on the way down returned to him, but worse by far. It was as if the fabric of the worlds about him were being torn apart.
And these were the cause!
There were many things he had intended to say should he ever confront the Gevethen, but all he could do now was cry out as the mirrors finally came together.
'Abomination! What foulness conceived of this ... device?'
The mirror-bearers fluttered to and fro and the Gevethen became an angry, gesticulating crowd.
'Take care, Ibryen, for you are going to open the Ways for us. His Ways. You are going to carry us to Him who made this miracle. You will not want such blasphemies on your lips when you look upon Him ...'
'... look upon Him.'
'I will do nothing for you.'
There was almost humour in the reply. Now that Ibryen was here and trapped, the impatience had become mere excitement. 'You will, as you know, for we will kill your people, this raggle-taggle crowd that has so sorely taxed us these past five years. As you seem to value them, we will kill them—one at a time—quickly or slowly. You do not doubt us, do you?'
Ibryen moved towards them, but the force that held Jeyan away, held him also. He stiffened. ‘No,’ he said flatly, turning away from the Gevethen, not wishing them to see the pain in his face. ‘I don't doubt you.'
He found himself looking at Jeyan. Her face slowly brought back her name to him.
'Jeyan?’ he said softly, leaning towards her. ‘Jeyan Dyalith? What are you doing here? I heard about your parents. I ... I thought you'd been killed with them. I ...’ He hesitated. ‘What are you doing in that uniform?'
The sight of the Count carried Jeyan back to years wilfully forgotten. To stand so close to the creators of all the horror that had swept those years aside and be unable to act was almost unbearable, but still she was a hunter; still, like Assh and Frey, she could wait. The moment must surely come. In the meantime she must continue her part. ‘I fled to the Ennerhald, then I killed the Lord Counsellor Hagen. Now I act in his place. I impose the will of their Excellencies upon the people.'
Ibryen stared at her, aghast, but the disturbance caused by the mirrors intruded on him again and he turned back to the Gevethen, his head inclined and his eyes narrowing as if he were facing an icy wind.
'Andreyak, Miklan. As you served my father, and he honoured you, turn away from this. Forces are moving against you of which you know nothing.’ He pointed to the mirrors. ‘And this thing is an obscenity. Warping and twisting that which should be un
touched. It should not be.'
At the sounding of their names, the Gevethen had frozen, watery eyes suddenly alive with horror. Then one of them stepped forward—an individual movement, unreflected by his brother. The mirror-bearers faltered and became still, and briefly there were but the two men facing Ibryen.
'Enough!' screamed the solitary figure. His brother stepped beside him and the mirror-bearers began to move again.
'Enough! You have the gift. This we know. You will open the Ways for us. You will carry us back to Him. You will take us now!'
Ibryen snatched at the discussions he had had over the past days. ‘He is dead. Dead some fifteen years or more. As are His lieutenants. Turn away from this while you can.'
* * * *
The Traveller covered his ears at the shriek of denial that followed Ibryen's outburst. He had been carrying Ibryen's and the Gevethen's word to Isgyrn, but that was beyond him.
'I heard that without your aid,’ the Dryenwr said, his face pained.
He looked up into the slowly brightening eastern sky as if for relief from the darkness below and the horror he was hearing. Suddenly he gasped. The Traveller looked at him sharply, then followed his gaze. Glowing golden in the unseen sun, was a solitary cloud.
'No,’ Isgyrn whispered to himself, his voice agonized.
'What's the matter?’ the Traveller demanded urgently.
Isgyrn pointed to the cloud. The Traveller looked again. Then, as the cloud moved, he saw towers and spires glinting as they caught the sunlight. He let out a long, awe-stricken breath and closed his eyes. ‘I hear it,’ he said. ‘It's one of the Culmadryen. Such sounds I'd never thought to hear again.’ Abruptly, he was excited and his eyes were wide. ‘Your Soarers, Isgyrn. Your Soarers. They're here. They can rout this rabble of an army. Save the Count, and Rachyl and ...’ He stopped. The Dryenwr's face was awful. He was shaking his head.
'Many hours,’ he said, scarcely able to speak. ‘Even defying the will of Svara as they are, it will be many hours before they are here. It will be too late. My land will come too late. At best we will have only vengeance.'
He held up both clenched fists and let out a great cry of anguish. ‘This cannot be. I am to be returned to all that I love when the man who made it possible is to fall to that carrion. I cannot allow it.’ He stepped forward to the edge and swung the Culmaren about his shoulders like a cloak. The sun topped the farthest peaks and the Culmaren shone white and brilliant at its touch. ‘Carry my words to them as you carried Ibryen's,’ he ordered.
The Traveller closed his eyes, as though in pain, then nodded slowly.
'Know, Gevethen, that I am Arnar Isgyrn, Dryenwr, leader of the Soarers Tahren of Endra Hornath. Know too that my land approaches. Ibryen, Count of Nesdiryn is under my protection. Release him and his people or the consequences will be terrible beyond your imagining.'
The waiting army began to shift uncomfortably as Isgyrn's angry voice filled the Valley. The Gevethen inclined their heads, as if to listen, but did not look to see from where the voice came. ‘It seems you have more skills than we know of, Ibryen, but they will avail you nothing.'
Helsarn was less phlegmatic. First Ibryen's voice booming across the Valley, now this. And the army was beginning to look very uneasy. They had been pushed far too hard. He scanned the far side of the Valley.
'There is someone on the western ridge, Excellencies,’ he said. ‘Dressed in white.'
'A mountebank accomplice of the Count's come to play tricks on us. Nothing shall distract us now. Deal with him when we return.’ They moved towards Ibryen. He made to draw his sword, but something restrained his hand. Then they were either side of him and leading him towards the two mirrors which had now become one. The mirror-bearers began to move about frantically.
Ibryen watched as his own image and that of the Gevethen moved towards him. The mirrors were more and more like a terrible rent in the reality about him. A hideous maw. They filled his entire being with emotions he had no words for. He struggled desperately but to no effect.
'Do not resist, Ibryen. Your destiny is with us, why else would He have brought us to your land? Why else would He have brought us together in the Ways? When you come to Him, bend your knee, prostrate yourself, show humility. He is most generous to those who serve Him well.'
Ibryen wrenched his head away as, slowly, he and the Gevethen began to merge into their own reflections.
* * * *
Eyes shielded, Isgyrn peered down into the Valley. The darkness there was deeper than ever now that the sun had risen. Far in the distance, the Culmadryen seemed to be no nearer.
Then, in a fury, Isgyrn drew his sword. It glinted bright in the sun.
The Traveller, slumped wearily at his feet, looked up at him. ‘You can't do anything,’ he said weakly. ‘You mustn't go down there. We must do what Ibryen asked of us, however hard.'
'Carry my voice to them again,’ Isgyrn said.
'My skill isn't sufficient, Dryenwr. I'm spent. Within the hour, perhaps, but ...'
Isgyrn glanced down at him. The Traveller looked suddenly very old. Isgyrn reached down and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You've done all you can, I see that. But I'll not have such a man walk alone into the darkness. I will send him what small aid I can.'
He held out his sword at arm's length, the hilt in one hand, the point in the other.
* * * *
Helsarn, intent on the distant newcomer, put up his hand to protect his eyes from the sudden brilliant flash. As he turned away from it a movement caught his attention. It was one of the mirror-bearers. He was staggering as though he had been struck. Then he saw that the light from Isgyrn's sword was reflecting from mirror to mirror and flickering all about the inside of the gloomy canopy like captive lightning. The mirror-bearers seemed at once terrified by it and unable to prevent its jagged progress. They became increasingly agitated.
Then the light struck the large mirror, just as Ibryen and the Gevethen disappeared into it. A terrible scream went up and one of the six bearers supporting the large mirrors tumbled backwards on to the ground. He twitched briefly then lay still. The two halves began to swing together like a great book. It was as though they had a life of their own, like a monstrous eye come suddenly into the daylight after aeons in the darkness. They were being held open only by the desperate efforts of their bearers. The light struck the mirror again and a second bearer fell.
Helsarn watched, helpless as the four remaining bearers fought to keep the mirrors apart. He did not know what was happening, nor what to do. One of the lesser mirror-bearers crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The light from Isgyrn's sword shone still. Scrambling to his feet, Helsarn drew his own sword and, pointing to the distant figure, screamed, ‘Get up there! Stop him, now! Stop him!'
Citadel Guards, always wary of the moods of their officers, obeyed the order immediately and started running across the Valley in the direction of Isgyrn, despite the distance and the climb that would be involved in reaching him. A few soldiers started to move after them, then an increasing number. The restlessness in the watching army grew.
Jeyan too, was watching the scene in confusion, though for her it was dominated by the fading images of Ibryen and the Gevethen in the tottering mirror. Suddenly she realized that she was free. She snatched the knife from her belt and, weaving between the now frenzied mirror-bearers, she stabbed one of the four still supporting the closing mirrors. She was stabbing him again when Helsarn's cry stopped her.
'What are you doing?’ he roared, running towards her.
With Ennerhald-bred fleetness she moved around him, and without hesitation, plunged into the mirrors. Helsarn dashed after her, but stopped fearfully in front of the mirror she had entered. He saw nothing but his reflection, eyes terrified and arms extended in futility. Tentatively he touched the mirror. It was cold and hard. Then, like something in a nightmare, Jeyan's hand emerged from the mirror and her knife slashed at his throat. Only reflexes he was una
ware of saved him.
The knife was gone as suddenly as it appeared, but Helsarn, white-faced, backed away, sword extended.
* * * *
Every fibre of Ibryen's being rebelled against the place he was in. It was beyond him that anything so appalling could have been constructed—for that is what it was—a construct—a mechanism—a device—something that tore out what should be gently yielded, forced a way where none should be. Yet, even worse, he realized, it was alive! What souls were being tormented to sustain this thing? The thought did not bear thinking. Desperately he pushed it away. He must concern himself only with the destruction of the Gevethen, no matter what the cost. Their creation, if theirs it was, was failing. Battering impacts shook it, lightning flashes filled it. He must destroy it utterly, as he might destroy an injured animal. Yet, despite this resolve, a part of him reached out in an attempt to quieten the tumult, to ease the pain about him.
'He is with us, brother,' he heard one of the Gevethen saying. 'Have faith. Soon we will be at His feet, our testing over.'
Then another sound came through the uproar. Dogs howling?
He felt the Gevethen hesitate and their hold on him lessen.
'Assh, Frey, to me!'
The piercing voice was right behind him. And amid the searing lights, there came another: a blade, slashing and stabbing. He had a fleeting impression of Jeyan, manic and murderous, and amid fluttering hands, snarling moon faces and skeins of blood, the Gevethen's hold on him was suddenly gone. A powerful hand seized him and dragged him violently backwards.
And then he was rolling on the mountain turf, a different uproar all about him. In a glance he took in the mirror-bearers, frantic and screaming, as they tried in vain to escape from the light that Isgyrn's flashing sword had brought to them. And too, there was tumult from beyond the canopy as the din within it spread out to feed the growing unrest in the army, now in increasing disarray.
