by Roger Taylor
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 the 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.
As they reached the end of the Hall, Helsarn and his Guards moved to each side to form a line between the people and a dais on which was mounted a wide judicial bench. It had two levels. Behind the lower, standing motionless, was a group of people whose dark robes identified them to Jeyan as scribes and clerks. Like many officers of the Gevethen’s regime, they looked little different from those who had served the Count. Indeed, many of themwere those who had once served Ibryen, their new leaders keenly appreciating that there is no better device for the working of human cruelty than the belief that service to another or to an institution in some way absolves individuals from personal responsibility for their actions. But Jeyan noted these clean-handed toilers in the Gevethen’s charnel-house only in passing, as her attention was drawn inexorably to the bench itself. Unlike the clerks, this was markedly different from the one that had served the Count. That had been simple, elegant and workmanlike in its design; a symbol of the clarity and honesty that the Count strove for as he dispensed Nesdiryn’s law. The bench now
facing Jeyan however, was a tangled mass of intricate carving; elaborately woven branches, full of barbed thorns and sinister blooms, formed recesses and shadows from which sharp-featured faces peered and tiny mirrors glittered like predatory night-eyes. The whole was obsessively symmetrical, patterns unfolding within patterns and all seeming to grow from a golden escutcheon at the centre which, like Jeyan’s cloak, bore the symbol of a single silver star. Unlike Jeyan’s cloak however, the star was surrounded by two sections of a ring, broken in the same manner as those which hung about the Gevethen’s necks. The bench was obviously the work of a considerable craftsman – a considerable, but tormented craftsman.
Jeyan hesitated as the Guards parted, but she was allowed no uncertainty about where she was to go as the servants manoeuvred her up on to the dais and thence to a chair behind the bench. Even when she sat down, the servants remained close to her, two of them flanking her, standing slightly behind. The chair was the centre of three and a partner to the bench, its straight, carved spine unwelcoming as she leaned back against it. Someone had placed a deep cushion on the seat. Presumably to allow for the difference in height between herself and Hagen, she decided, but the impromptu character of the adjustment heartened her a little – it was a peculiar flaw in the fearful perfection that surrounded the Gevethen, the perfection that had made the copy of Hagen’s uniform for her, that had turned servants almost into automata, that had turned the mirror-bearers into who could say what… and that reflected itself perhaps above all, in their meticulous, disturbingly symmetrical movements. She squeezed the cushion as if it might give her some kind of reassurance as she stared out at the moonlit rows of watching faces. It did not, though she valued the effort if only because it smacked of secret personal independence. Such small benefits as accrued from this rebellion however, were set at naught by the intensity of the focus she could feel boring through her.
Let me faint, she thought. Let me sink into darkness and wake up somewhere far from this. The thought had a pathetic, childlike quality to it such as she had not experienced in many years, and it brought a snarling scorn in its train. Let them stare. Cravens! Lickspittles! Sustaining this grotesque pair with their fawning cowardice. Her long hatred flared up suddenly, almost snatching her breath away. The Gevethen had murdered her parents and many of her friends and, whatever game they were playing with her, she would play it too, until eventually some further flaw in the seeming perfection of their rule would give her that one opportunity that would bring her revenge. She was not aware of any of this showing on her face, but the atmosphere in the hall changed perceptibly.
Her gaze drifted from the watchers to the bench in front of her. Save for a part of the top which was smooth and level and on which various papers were laid, the rest of the bench was a continuation of the elaborate carving that formed the front. It was as though the entire bench was a world of its own, a solid mass of labyrinthine weavings housing a myriad strange populations, all darkness and hidden movement. It added to her unease.
She had little time to ponder about the desk however, as a fluttering disturbance caught her eye. She did not need to look to know that it was the mirror-bearers presaging the entrance of their masters.
No drums to herald them, no guards to protect them, she thought. Fear announced them and the enigmatic mirror-bearers shielded them. There was a rustling from the assembled people as they slipped from their seats to kneel. The clerks below her bowed also. Presuming that she was expected to do the same, Jeyan made to move from her chair. However, though the servants on either side of her scarcely seemed to move, purposeful hands took her elbow and motioned her to stand. She had already felt the intent in such hands too often to dispute with them though she was half-expecting a further hand to push her head down into a respectful bow. None came however, and in its absence, she kept her gaze on the approaching group.
It was the first time she had looked at the Gevethen clearly from a distance, but it gave her no insight. The mirror-bearers moved about them with a precision and deftness that was chillingly unnatural. And even though she was aware of what she was looking at, it became difficult for her to differentiate the two principals from the images that hovered about them. Now a throng, now ordered rank and file, now a twisting line of pilgrims vanishing into an infinite distance…
The movement and constantly changing perspectives made her feel dizzy. Focus onthem, she demanded fiercely of herself. On them. Everything else is transient. Whatever purpose this endless reproducing of themselves served, whatever need it fulfilled, she could not begin to imagine, save that it was diseased, but any killing stroke she had to deliver eventually would have to be to the heart, and that is all she must see. Nothing must distract her.
Then, glowing inside her, came the revelation that she need only destroy the one to unbalance the other beyond recovery.
Only the one!
The Gevethen had reached the end of the aisle and were directly in front of her. A long row of dead, watery eyes stared up at her. No prompting came from the servants and she did not move. Instead, she looked at one of the two figures at the centre of the row.
Imbalance. The word came in the wake of her revelation. What it implied she could not hazard, but it was important, she knew.
Then, alarmingly, the two figures were moving apart, walking towards steps on either side of the dais. Though it was only a few paces, she sensed a tension growing as they moved further away from one another. As if to calm it, the mirror-bearers glided to and fro so that the diverging figures became merely the vanguard of two striding columns emerging from a busy cluster of their own kind at the centre, immediately before their Lord Counsellor.
Despite her new resolve Jeyan found herself still staring at this oddly shifting crowd when it abruptly disappeared, and the two Gevethen were at the chairs on either side of her. Hands took Jeyan’s elbows again and eased her down on to her seat. Only when she was sitting did the Gevethen sit, and only then did the audience rise from its knees. Though she did not look, she was aware of mirror-bearers seeping into the edge of her vision, as they began to hover at the ends of the bench. Others she could just hear moving behind her. Then merely by turning her eyes she saw more of them at the ends of the bench. What ghastly display was she part of for the benefit of this audience? she wondered.
Without any hint of an introduction, the Gevethen suddenly began speaking. Their harsh, simultaneous tones rasped across the Hall.
‘The Lord Counsellor Hagen has been translated from this place. It was his time. He has been taken so that he might better serve He who is to come. No greater honour can be granted. Yet too, he serves us as faithfully and diligently as ever, for his spirit remains with us still, in the body of his successor, Lord Counsellor Jeyan Dyalith.’
The power that had carried Jeyan from the dungeons now straightened her legs and slowly brought her to her feet. She reached forward and rested her hands on the bench to catch her balance. The force that had lifted her from her seat took her arms also then held her solid and leaning slightly forward in a posture of silent menace. Although she was a little calmer now than she had been when she first encountered the Gevethen, the complete absence of control over her own limbs was nevertheless terrifying. She could not begin to imagine what ghastly power it was that these creatures possessed, that enabled them to manipulate her thus, but it was overwhelming. The thought of disputing with it did not even occur to her. The part of her mind that was still thinking coherently tried to tell her that it was just something else about the Gevethen she would need to study, quietly and carefully, but it was the merest whisper of rationality in the tumult of panic that was suddenly clamouring inside her and she barely heard it.
It seemed that only her eyes could move, and as they searched through the coldly lit assembly she became aware of a movement rippling through them. It was like a wind blowing across a field of tall, dark grasses. They were standing and bowing. When the wind had passed and there was stillness, Jeyan’s head incline
d forward a little as if in acknowledgement of this obeisance. Then she was seated again and released, and the dark grasses were swaying as the audience too, resumed their seats.
‘The forms must be observed, Lord Counsellor,’came the voices from either side of her, soft and sibilant.‘Remember this well. Without them, all is disorder and chaos, and His way is the bringing of order, of perfection, in all things.’
The question, ‘Who is this person you serve?’ formed, and despite herself was almost spoken, but the voices turned from her and raked out across the Hall.
‘Bring forward the first accused.’
There was a brief flurry of activity from the clerks just beneath her, then heavy rhythmic footsteps heralded the arrival of a solitary individual escorted by two Guards. He was barely capable of standing and his swollen face gave testimony to a severe beating. Blood was seeping through his torn shirt even as Jeyan looked at him.
One of the clerks intoned the man’s name, to which, after a none too gentle prod from one of the Guards, he nodded. The clerk continued. ‘You are charged with fomenting disorder and with the preaching of rebellion against the will of the people and to the detriment of the peace, in that you did aid and abet the followers of the outlaw Ibryen.’
The man gazed at the clerk blankly.
‘Serious charges,’the Gevethen said, their voices even more acid than normal. The sound seemed to bring the man to his senses.‘Who is Pleading Voice for this man?’
