by Roger Taylor
True, she was utterly lost, and surrounded by darkness, but though she was afraid of many things, darkness was not one of them. Perhaps she was its creature, perhaps it was simply that as a hunter she knew that what she could not see, could not see her.
She was about to turn around when she remembered what the Gevethen had said when they first carried her through the mirrors. ‘You must not look back. Not yet. There is a deep and awful madness here for those who are unprepared.’
She paused for a moment, then sneered and turned around.
Nothing happened. The darkness was all about her.
Arms extended she began to walk slowly forward. Then she became aware of a familiar presence.
‘Hagen?’
There was a shifting in the presence, as of something waking, or pulling itself away from a deep reverie.
‘The new Lord Counsellor again, I presume.’
The voice was full of sour weariness. Gall rose in Jeyan’s throat at the sound of it. ‘Indeed,’ she snarled. ‘The new Lord Counsellor. And your judge and executioner. I trust that whatever passes for your soul is burning endlessly here.’
There was a long silence.
‘It seems you are to share this place with me, upstart. Sent here without their protection for me to dispose of. Have they discovered the flaw in you already?’
The presence closed about Jeyan. For an instant, fear threatened to flare up inside her but it was transformed into anger and hate almost immediately. The presence faltered. ‘You’ve no terrors to offer anyone, Hagen,’ Jeyan rasped. ‘Least of all me. I opened your veins. Sent you to this place. I’ve slept in your bed, eaten from your plates, sat in your grand seat of judgement, seen into your worthless soul. Whatever you are here, you are nothing in the real world. A mouldering corpse somewhere. Probably dumped in the death pits, where my dogs used to play, your precious limbs mingling with those of your victims, while this dried and shrivelled remnant lingers howling in the dark.’
‘You’ll see how dried and shrivelled a remnant I am when you look into your own worthless soul, Jeyan Dyalith.’ Hagen’s voice was full of taunting rage. ‘Already I can feel the joy inside you that comes from the power of the Judgement Chair.’
A dreadful chill closed around Jeyan’s stomach as memories returned of the relish she had taken at times as she had sat in Hagen’s chair during the last two days. ‘No!’ she cried out. That had been in revenge for the betrayal of the Count, she wanted to say but dared not. As it was, there was grim disdain in the response.
‘Too loud, Lord Counsellor. Too loud. Too shrill a protest. If you lift the veil that hides your true self you’ll see me looking out at you. We are one and the same.’
The taunting continued. ‘How do you think I came here? Even after death I was to serve them. My body was committed to the Ways. They needed me to find the truth of them, but all I found was that those who come here without the gift or a true guide can look to be trapped in Ways of their own making. Like you, Lord Counsellor. Ask me why you’re trapped in the Way that is mine and mine alone if you are not me?’
Jeyan found herself almost choking. ‘You’re rambling, dead man. The Gevethen bound you here. They need nothing from you; they have the mirrors to bring them here and guide them.’
Black amusement and scorn washed about her. ‘Here is nowhere, child. A rough-hewn ante-chamber, crude and ill-formed, at best a window of bent and crooked glass.’ Then, incongruously confidential, ‘Great knowledge. Knowledge beyond our imagining made the mirrors, but they are as nothing to the gift. And they are dangerous. So dangerous. This I know now.’
‘This you know,’ Jeyan echoed witheringly, recovering herself. ‘You know nothing. Leave me. You contaminate even the darkness with your bleating.’
The response was almost childishly petulant. ‘They needed me to find the truth of the Ways, to open again that which would bring them to…’
It stopped abruptly and Jeyan felt the presence withdrawing. Suddenly suspicious, she seized it. ‘To where?’ she demanded, then, savagely, ‘To whom?’
There was no reply. ‘To Him, of course,’ she said slowly, testing the idea. ‘This Master of theirs.’ She felt Hagen’s presence squirming. ‘Who is He, Hagen?’ she said, driving the words into the growing distress like stilettos. Still there was no reply. ‘Who is He, damn you!’ she blasted, suddenly furious. ‘Who is this creature that the Gevethen grovel before? Tell me!’ The darkness quivered with her rage, wringing a reply that was the merest of whispers.
‘He is the One who gave them their powers. Gave them the mirrors to enter the Ways. Sent them here to prepare for His Coming, for the time when the Righting of the Beginning shall begin.’
Jeyan’s anger became contempt once more. ‘You’re parroting their words, Hagen. I’ve heard them. And they’re as meaningless from you as they were from them. If you know anything worth knowing, tell me who He is and where He is, so that when I’ve finished with the Gevethen I can stick a knife in His throat like I did in yours and avenge us all.’ Hagen’s presence began to flail and gibber in terror. Jeyan’s rage grew in proportion. ‘Tell me why this all-powerful Master has abandoned His servants.’ Hagen finally tore himself away. Jeyan screamed after him, ‘He has, hasn’t He? Abandoned them? TELL ME WHERE HE IS, DAMN YOU! I’ll spill His blood like I spilled yours! I’ll drown His every follower in a flood of it!’
Her scream dwindled into the empty darkness.
Then it was echoing back, ragged and broken, bringing with it shards of sound and light, glittering and shining. They hovered about her, merging imperceptibly into the chaos of movement and noise of where she had been with the Gevethen before her casual question to them had wrought such havoc. And, to her horror, in front of her, silhouetted against a brilliant, whirling maelstrom of light, were the Gevethen.
What had they heard?
Hastily she tried to calm herself, pushing from her mind the murderous frenzy into which she had wound herself. Should she turn and flee while she was still free?
But there was something strange about the Gevethen that held her there. It took her some time to realize what it was. They were motionless. Even the drifting birdlike hands were still. And they were leaning against one another, like two once-proud statues, now tilted with age. But the real strangeness lay in the fact that she could see only two of them. There were no mirror-bearers flowing about them making milling moon-faced crowds and marching ranks and files. There were just two men.
If she had a knife she could kill them both, she knew.
But she had not!
Rage and frustration flooded through her, threatening to bring back the screaming passion with which she had just blessed Hagen. Mirror-imaged, the two figures started apart slightly, then slowly began to turn to face her. Quickly she dropped to her knees and bowed her head.
‘Ah!’
She waited, holding her breath, still and silent. Had they heard?
There was a faint whispering, but she could not catch any of it through the all-pervading clamour. Well, knife or not, if she was threatened here she would rend at least one of these creatures with her bare hands! Mar their precious perfection!
‘Ah!’
‘You have learned…’
‘… learned.’
‘We feel the spirit of Lord Hagen about you.’
‘I have been in his presence, Excellencies,’ she said, choosing the truth in the absence of any other inspiration. It brought its own. ‘Seeking the benefits of his wisdom, the better to serve you.’
‘How did you come there, Lord Counsellor?’There was uncertainty in the question and she could not avoid a hint of surprise in her answer.
‘By your will, Excellencies.’
There was more whispering, then,‘Rise.’
As she stood up, the Gevethen’s grip closed about her shoulders again. It was different, however. There was a hint of a tremor in it and a weight which told her that they were leaning on her as they had just been leaning o
n one another. Vulnerable, vulnerable, she thought. She had hurt them with the least of questions. She must seize the initiative again. Who could say what might follow?
She looked at the whirling confusion of lights in front of her.
‘What is that, Excellencies?’ she asked, affecting a nervousness she did not truly feel.
There was a pause and the grip on her shoulders shifted.
‘Beyond your understanding, Lord Counsellor.’
‘A wonder few have seen.’
Liars! It’s the wreckage left from your attempt to reach your precious Master, isn’t it?
Oh for a knife, she could surely slay them both now!
Perhaps she could pitch them into this swirling violence? But while the Gevethen were obviously weakened in some way, they were not leaning so heavily on her that she could hope to unbalance them without throwing herself in as well. And too, what end would it serve even if she could? Would that maelstrom destroy them? She had no answer. Besides, she realized starkly, not only did she not know what it was, she did not even know where it was, so disorienting was this place. True, it was in front of her. But was it a dozen paces away, or ten dozen, or half a day’s walk? She could not tell, nor was there anything nearby that could help her.
The Gevethen were drawing her firmly backwards. Reluctantly, she offered no resistance, trying to take solace in the thought that having tried to create the tunnel twice within the last few days, the Gevethen would undoubtedly try again and probably have no greater success. But, despite herself, a raging frustration at the loss of this opportunity swept aside any consolation.
The Gevethen hesitated.
‘The Lord Hagen has truly inspired you, Lord…’
The single voice stopped. An urgency was suddenly patterning the shapes and sounds that filled this world. And moving with it, as though it had been there for an eternity, was the sound of Assh and Frey, baying in full cry.
Chapter 27
Ibryen and Isgyrn walked slowly through the forest. With no destination in prospect they seemed tacitly to have agreed that nothing was to be gained by moving quickly. Ibryen’s gait however, was markedly at odds with his racing thoughts. What had happened? Where were they? How were they to return? Could they return? But worst of all, clutching coldly and tightly at his stomach, his many and long-carried responsibilities returned with unusual force. What would happen to his beleaguered people if he could not return? He tried desperately to keep the speculations that cascaded frantically from this question from overwhelming him with guilt and shame, but with little success.
Unexpectedly, and despite his many other dark thoughts, he also found himself burdened with an acute sense of responsibility for Isgyrn, though the latter, now that he was whole again, seemed to be accepting this further inexplicable and bewildering change in his circumstances with remarkable equanimity. Ibryen glanced around at the sunlit forest. Stern and logical was he, this man? he mused bitterly. I wonder how calm he would be if our surroundings were not so idyllic? Then he grimaced and inwardly apologized.
‘We must try to find a high place,’ he said. ‘See if we can get some idea of where we are.’
Isgyrn agreed readily. ‘The higher the better,’ he said.
They talked as they strolled. Ibryen told Isgyrn of his land and of the Gevethen who had treacherously ousted him and now held the people in thrall with brutality and terror. And he told too, of the strange call that had carried him alone up on to the ridge to meet the Traveller. The story of the Gevethen seemed to disturb Isgyrn disproportionately and though he seemed reluctant to discuss his own concerns, either from fear of further burdening his host, or because the memories and uncertainties were too recent, he told enough to show a common bond between their fates. For the evil that had usurped some of the Culmadryen lands had also come at first in the guise of good will offering betterment to the people.
‘It seems that for all our many differences, our peoples are tragically alike in their folly,’ he concluded.
Ibryen was less harsh. ‘Alike in our willingness to trust and reluctance to see evil in others.’
They had not pursued the debate. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Isgyrn said. ‘We warriors have no excuse. We must bear the guilt. It’s our task above all to see things as they are, even when we can’t see why they are, and to defend those less able when the need arises.’ Ibryen nodded. That could not be disputed. They continued in silence.
Though their arbitrary path carried them over undulating ground, they came across no consistent inclines nor even any broad clearings that might give them an indication of the land beyond the forest. And it was with mixed feelings that they encountered signs that others frequented this place. One was a broad grassy track, obviously used by horses. Another was a carving of a face ingeniously worked so that it was peering out between the branches of a tree.
Ibryen looked at the mischievous face. ‘This is not my land,’ he said unequivocally. ‘Nor any that I know of.’
The possible implications, both bad and good, of meeting strangers in this forest flooded into a mind already awash with doubts and fears, and, despite himself, he sat down on a nearby embankment and put his head in his hands. He could not think any more.
Isgyrn looked at him for some time then crouched down in front of him. ‘At the height of my people’s despair, I found myself in two places at once. Speaking with a man, himself fighting an awful battle. A strange man who, like you, had had a great and unwanted responsibility thrust upon him. I spoke to him as I speak to you now, at one with him in the middle depths and yet, at the same time, soaring above my land.’
Ibryen looked up and met his gaze. ‘I remember,’ he said flatly. ‘You told me. The sword bearer, you called him.’
Isgyrn nodded. ‘Who he is… was… is of no great import here. Whatis important is that without any witting action on my part, such a thing happened to me – a Warrior, frantic with battle fever. I had never heard of such a thing. Not even happening to Hearers, silent and secluded and at peace, surrounded by comfort and friends.’
He looked down guiltily. ‘Whatever’s troubling you, be as clear in your mind as I am that it’s my fault we’re here. I don’t know why I left your camp secretly, like a thief. Perhaps it was because I didn’t wish to burden you with my helpless presence when you had a war of your own to fight, perhaps it was just a quiet desperation to learn what had happened to my Land. Perhaps I just wasn’t thinking clearly.’ He looked up again and met Ibryen’s gaze. ‘But even when I was floundering, maybe about to die, in the Culmaren’s world, a small part of me knew that it was real, that it was true, that it was not just a frenzy in my imagination. I was suffering because of my ignorance about where I was, not because I was suddenly crazed. I was untutored in the ways of the place, not insane.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Not that the knowledge served me much, but it was there.’
Ibryen frowned a little and made to speak but Isgyrn waved him silent. ‘You and I have strange skills – you more so than me – skills that we’re barely aware of and certainly don’t know how to use. Wherever this place is, and whatever people live in it, it’s real and so are we. Yet we’re also still on that cold mountainside where the Culmaren brought me and tended me.’
‘You seem suddenly very knowledgeable,’ Ibryen said acidly.
Isgyrn took no offence but shook his head. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I’m guessing, but guessing with a part of me that I trust – a part that I trust in battle. Knowledge deep and long-learned. Some things come only with time.’
The remark struck Ibryen like a winding blow and he started perceptibly. Despite the urgency of his immediate concerns, the phrase carried him across the years to bring him again to the feet of his old instructor and he felt a lightness spreading through him. He clapped his hands softly and smiled. ‘Let’s go. Only dead things are rigid, and rigid things shatter,’ he said.
Isgyrn eased back a little, nervously. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Ibryen
stood up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just remembering an old lesson.’
Isgyrn’s eyebrows rose, but he opted for a pragmatic response. ‘Has it told you where we are?’
‘I’m afraid not. It just reminded me not to worry about things I can’t change.’
‘We’re to continue awaiting events, then?’ Isgyrn said with some irony, though his face remained serious. ‘Still, not worrying about the unavoidable isn’t as easy as it sounds.’ He levered himself up. ‘I’ll confess I don’t know what I said to remind you of such a valuable lesson, but shall we continue?’ He indicated the grassy track.
They had not walked far along it before the sound of running water reached them.
‘Well, at least we’ll not perish of thirst in this place,’ Ibryen said.
When they reached the river however, they encountered another reminder that they were not alone in this land. It was a timber bridge, built with considerable skill and decorated with bright colours and many carvings. They stood for some time admiring it and Ibryen took some consolation from the fact that a people who spent time on such work were perhaps not given to spending time on excessive warring and feuding. Nevertheless, he reminded himself, he must still be very cautious in approaching anyone they might meet.
They decided not to cross the bridge, but moved instead upstream, Isgyrn seeming to have a strong natural inclination to move always upwards. After a little while they came to a clearing where the river meandered quietly between shallow banks. They sat down.
Ibryen looked around and frowned. ‘There’s an unease about this place,’ he said, answering Isgyrn’s unspoken question. ‘Like a thunderstorm coming.’
Isgyrn cast a glance up at the sky. It was cloudless. ‘There’s no thunder about,’ he said confidently. ‘And I sense no ambush being laid for us. But this is even less my land than yours so I don’t know to what extent my instincts can be trusted here.’
‘It’s not a feeling of threat,’ Ibryen said uncertainly. ‘It’s just…’ He gave a shrug and left the sentence unfinished. Then he leaned over the bank and looked down into the water. Isgyrn joined him. The water, eddying slowly, sent back their reflections, sharp and clear.
