by Roger Taylor
'Close the mirrors, Count! Close the mirrors! Seal them in the endless reflections.'
He looked up. Faint, behind the mirrors, he saw Jeyan's desperate face.
'Close the mirrors!’ she cried again, her voice distant and fearful. ‘Do it! Do it now! We can't hold them longer.'
So urgent was her plea that Ibryen immediately hurled himself at the remaining bearer supporting one of the large mirrors. Whatever power was invested in these strange individuals, it was considerable, for Ibryen found himself tossed aside as if he had been no more than a child's toy. He drew his sword, then hesitated. He could not cut down this wretched, unarmed creature, bound to its grotesque life by who could say what treachery.
Then he saw the image of one of the Gevethen forming in the tottering mirror. Their eyes met and Ibryen suddenly felt the power that had bound him before, returning. He spun round and with a single stroke cut off the head of the struggling bearer.
As the man fell, so the two mirrors slowly swung to. Ibryen fell to his knees as he felt the Gevethen's construction collapsing. It was as if he too were being crushed and ground into nothingness by the convergence of the countless worlds that it had held apart.
But even as it faded, something remained. A screeching, clinging, refusal to die.
As he looked up, he saw a solitary hand protruding from between the mirrors. And still he could feel the Gevethen's malevolent power reaching out to him.
He cut off the hand.
Still clawing, it moved almost two paces towards him before it stopped.
There was a fearful, echoing scream, then the mirrors came together and, with a sound like a long sigh, they bent and twisted and folded, and were gone.
Faintly, Ibryen heard dogs barking and a woman's triumphant laughter. Part of him reached briefly into the fading world where they were and touched them. It was a healing touch—a blessing.
Then they too were gone.
As was the darkness as the black fabric of the canopy floated to the ground. Ibryen needed to examine no bodies to know that the mirror-bearers and the Gevethen's other servants had died with their masters. The morning light washed over their enslaved bodies, now finally free.
As Ibryen came fully to himself he instinctively braced himself for combat. The Gevethen might be gone, but danger was still around him. The collapse of the canopy and the disappearance of the Gevethen however, merely completed the disintegration of the army and few even noticed him as he walked towards his followers. None raised a hand against him.
None save Vintre.
Ibryen saw him approaching and knew that he was virtually defenceless. Even had he not been drained from his ordeal, he was no match for Vintre, a skilled and vicious fighter. He levelled his sword at him.
'Put down your sword and surrender,’ he shouted. ‘You know you'll get a fair trial from me.'
'I'll forego the pleasure of that, Count.’ Vintre spat the word. ‘There are always people who value the kind of skills I have. I just want the satisfaction of killing you then I'll fade into the crowd here.'
'No!'
Vintre looked casually over his shoulder. Rachyl, sword drawn, was walking down a slope towards him. ‘You said I might be needed later,’ she said.
Vintre waved a dismissive arm and, with a sneer, turned back to Ibryen.
'Don't turn away from me, you rat's vomit,’ Rachyl blasted. ‘Or are you too afraid to face me?'
Vintre's eyes narrowed and he turned again.
'You first, then, girl. I'd rather have had some fun with you before I finished you off but this'll be as good.’ He took his sword in both hands and waited with scornful patience. Suddenly, with an incongruous little cry, Rachyl tripped. Arms flailing wildly, she took two ungainly strides but failed to catch her balance. The third stride sent her headlong down the slope. Vintre's lips curled in derision and he raised his sword to strike her when she had stopped. Rachyl's fall however, proved to be a wilful dive, and before Vintre could react she had rolled up on to her feet and run her sword clean through him in a single movement.
Gripping his sword hilt, for fear of any dying stroke, Rachyl looked at his face, riven with both shock and rage. He was trying to say something.
'Bitch, is the word you're looking for, Captain,’ she said. Then she yanked her sword free and dropped him.
It was the last killing that day.
* * *
Chapter 35
In the days immediately following the destruction of the Gevethen, there was much disorder as the largely conscripted army disintegrated together with a great deal of what passed for Nesdiryn's civil administration. Many old scores were brutally settled. It was thus more than fortunate that Isgyrn's Culmadryen arrived and came to rest over the mountains. Visible even from parts of the city, its glittering tower and spires slowly changed and shifted at the touch of the sun and the wind, while beneath it, like the white haze of a distant snowstorm, the Culmaren reached down to touch the highest peaks, drawing such that it needed from them, yet leaving them apparently unchanged. It was a sight to instil awe and silence in the most garrulous, though talk of it was to last for generations. Its massive and mysterious presence seemed to spread a strange balm over the Dirynvolk as they looked up in their pain to find themselves free again, and when eventually it was gone, the horror of the memory of the Gevethen's rule was less.
Ibryen's return to Dirynhald was deliberately unspectacular. He knew that after the years of the Gevethen's domination it would be a long time before his country bore any resemblance to the one he had been ousted from, and that progress towards it would be best achieved slowly and quietly.
His first concern was that justice should forestall retribution and, to that end, only the more conspicuous of the Gevethen's followers were immediately arrested. As is the way with such people however, several were not to be found, not least amongst them being Helsarn. Reading matters more shrewdly than his erstwhile ally, Vintre, and also being sorely shaken by what had happened to him in front of the Gevethen's mirror, the Commander had shed his uniform and quietly slipped away with the rapidly dispersing army.
Those, such as Iscar who had worked to aid Ibryen from within, were duly honoured. Iscar not least for his assault on the virtually abandoned Citadel with a group of his followers even before news of the destruction of the Gevethen reached them. They tore down the shutters and sealed curtains and uncovered many of the mirrorways to flush the darkness from the place, it being their desperate intention to hold the place no matter what transpired in the mountains. It is said that it was the light that Iscar introduced into the Watching Chamber as much as the sunlight from Isgyrn's sword that destroyed the Gevethen's device, for all the mirrors there shattered on the instant.
Harik continued as the Citadel Physician and continued to affect an indifference to the changed regime, though his manner became noticeably easier.
Jeyan's name too was honoured, and the memory of her dogs, though none knew their names.
* * * *
Floating high above his village, Ibryen gazed down at it yet again.
'Well hidden,’ he said. ‘It served its purpose well. We mustn't forget it.'
To the north he could clearly see Dirynhald with the Citadel at its heart while to the south there hung the Culmadryen. He shook his head as he looked at it.
'There are words for it, Ibryen,’ the Traveller said. ‘But silence is the best in your language.'
'I'm sorry that you could not come to my land,’ Isgyrn said. ‘But it is too high. The lack of air would distress you. Perhaps when Svara's will has carried us here again our Seekers will have found a way for you to come there.’ He leaned forward confidentially and patted his chest. ‘They're doing a deal of thinking about me, I can tell you.'
Ibryen looked round at the cloud-island he was standing on. It was a bewildering place, with its strange terrain and unexpectedly angular buildings which constantly moved so that within the space of a few hours, one that had been at the top
of a small hill, would be at the bottom of it. He could not make out how they had been built, but they were beautiful, shining silver and gold and white. Yet, for all their brightness, it was no strain to look at them, for there was an iridescence about the whiteness, and many subtle shadows about the whole that protected the eye. Amongst many other strange skills that they possessed, the Dryenvolk seemed to have a rare way with light, Ibryen mused.
He and his friends had been brought there by Isgyrn's Soarers, hanging from their brilliantly coloured Culmaren wings, for all the world like great gliding birds, yet as agile in the air as ravens. The journey had been a nerve-wracking prospect, and all freely admitted to taking at least the first part of it with both eyes tightly closed, despite being securely held. Subsequent to that however, it had been difficult for Isgyrn to persuade them to call an end to their swooping flights about the peaks and the valleys and to join the celebration that had been prepared on the island. Their hard-learned discipline of silence vanished that day and their excitement was a source of great amusement to the Soarers.
Now the celebration and the talking was over. It had been a joyous interlude, not least for Isgyrn, finding his land unscathed and free from the darkness it had been threatened by when he was torn from it. And finding too, his family and kin.
Ibryen, to his considerable embarrassment, had been treated with an almost overpowering deference though at the same time he was aware that he had been extensively interrogated about his disturbing gift.
'We are doubly in your debt,’ he was told finally by the elder Seeker who had been discreetly leading the questioning. ‘You have enriched us with your knowledge—and with the return of our brave brother, long-mourned.’ There was a hint of sadness in his voice though, and drawing Ibryen to one side, he spoke softly to him, away from the others. ‘Few have been so blessed as you in your gift, Ibryen. But you must ... you must ... study it, learn everything that is to be learned. It was given to you for a purpose beyond what it has achieved so far, I'm sure. It must not be allowed to lie fallow because the immediate needs of healing your land are clamouring so.’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘You must forgive me speaking to you thus, elder to younger as it were,’ he said. ‘I don't normally regale guests with such lectures. Seeker's habit, I'm afraid—but I had to speak how the mood took me. Please accept it in good part.'
Ibryen smiled and bowed. ‘Your advice matches my intention,’ he said. ‘I regret that you can't remain longer to help me.'
But the time for parting had come. ‘Svara's will can be defied only so far,’ Isgyrn told his friends. ‘The land must move on.’ He embraced each in turn. ‘It has been a time of great learning. It seems that the Great Corrupter may indeed have been destroyed—at least in this world.’ He lowered his voice as though loath to darken the moment. ‘But His touch lingers on and my land has been travelling high and strange Ways since that time. We must concern ourselves more now with the middle depths. Learn what has happened to Him, for until He is destroyed utterly He will surely return. We will come here again.'
Then the Soarers carried them back to the sunlit ridge where Ibryen had first met the Traveller.
The little group watched in silence as the island began to drift back towards the Culmadryen. Like the mountains themselves, the scale of the great cloudland deceived, and the island was scarcely visible long before it reached it. As it shrank into the distance, becoming the merest wisp of cloud, a single brilliant light flashed from it as once more Isgyrn's sword sent the sun to Ibryen. Then, slowly, the Culmadryen began to move away from them.
They stood for a long time, staring after it.
* * * *
‘I'll be off then.’ The Traveller broke the silence. 'What?'
He flinched away from the combined exclamation. ‘I'll be off,’ he repeated weakly. ‘I have to go.'
'Why?’ Ibryen protested. ‘Your land's not blowing away on the breeze.'
The Traveller smiled. ‘Neither is yours, Ibryen, but you've much to do. All of you. And so have I.'
Rachyl sat down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘You can't leave us now,’ she said.
The Traveller gently unwound the arm, but held her hand. ‘It's been a noisy few days,’ he said. ‘Days such as I've never known before and may well not know again.’ He looked at Rachyl. ‘They've given me back many things I'd long forgotten about—renewed me. I must pay more heed to people in future. But I need to think. I need the sounds of the mountains.’ Ibryen made to speak, but the Traveller continued. ‘And my kin are returned,’ he said, his eyes distant but excited. ‘Isgyrn spoke of it when he first woke but we'd more pressing concerns then. Now the Seekers have confirmed it for me. The Ways of the Sound Carvers are being opened, the Great Song is being heard again.’ The excitement reached his voice. ‘And the Great Gate is open. I must find it, I have so many questions now.’ He looked intently at Ibryen. ‘And I must find those who can help you understand your gift and bring them to you, as well as spreading the news of what's happened here.’ Then he cleared his throat and made a shooing motion with his hands. ‘Go on now,’ he said briskly. ‘I'm not keen on goodbyes.'
There was nothing more to be said.
He took the hands of each as they left, but Rachyl remained sitting by him. He looked at her, eyes bright and full of life. ‘You too,’ he said.
'I know,’ she replied.
He ran a finger down her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly.
'Thank you,’ she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.
Then he stood up, hitched his pack on to his back and strode off.
He moved very quickly.
Rachyl stood watching him, one hand on her sword hilt, the other in her belt, patting her stomach thoughtfully.
'You will come again?’ she asked, knowing that he would hear her.
'Oh yes,’ came the reply. ‘I'll be back.'
'When?'
'Ah ...'
'I'll listen for you.'
'Yes.’ His voice was growing fainter. ‘Listen for me always.'
Then there was silence.
Rachyl leaned forward intently.
But there was only the sound of the wind.
* * *
So ends the tale of Ibryen
But for the Traveller ...
Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor
The Call of the Sword
The Fall of Fyorlund
The Waking of Orthlund
Into Narsindal
Dream Finder
Farnor
Valderen
Whistler
Ibryen
Arash-Felloren
Caddoran
The Return of the Sword
Further information on these titles is available from www.mushroom-ebooks.com
* * *
Visit www.mushroom-ebooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
* * *
eBook Info
Identifier:Taylor-Ibryen
Title:Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]
Creator:Roger Taylor
Publisher:Mushroom eBooks
Rights:Copyright © 1995 by Roger Taylor
Description:Fantasy. 156430 words long. First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1995
Language:English
Type:Novel
Format:text/xml
* * *
