by Roger Taylor
Ibryen looked round at the others. ‘Say what you have to say, Traveller,’ he said.
* * *
Chapter 7
When the Traveller spoke, each listener heard him differently. It was, at times, as though his voice came from many directions at once and his words were often filled with meanings far beyond that of their seeming content.
'This is no flippant answer, Count,’ he began. ‘But truly I can't tell you what's brought me here. I am a traveller. I've always been one. I need little to live on and I've got more than enough wit to be able to find what little I do need. I go from place to place as the whim takes me. Whether some other hand guides me is a question none of us can answer.’ He ran his finger idly through the watery map he had sketched on the table. ‘But I was disturbed by the events I encountered in Girnlant, for all I was merely on the fringe of them. There was something in the air ... faint and distant, but there, definitely. Something beyond the immediate comings and goings of the people involved, something deep, ancient ...’ He paused and for a while stared into space as if he were trying to recall some long-forgotten memory.
Rachyl leaned forward and rested her head in her hand, a deliberately weary look on her face.
'It disturbed me much more than it should have, considering the number of political and religious squabbles I've been witness to over the years,’ the Traveller went on, ignoring the silent comment. He looked around the Hall though not so much at it, as at the mountains beyond the stone walls. ‘But then, I came to realize on my journey north, many things have disturbed me over the last twenty years or so, more than perhaps they should have done. There seems to be an unease about the world that wasn't there when I began my journeying long ago. It's as though something's creeping into the normal tides of change. I don't know whether it's good or bad. Maybe it's both.’ He turned to Ibryen, puzzled but confidential, man to man, as if he were talking to someone equally knowledgeable. ‘I'll swear I even heard the Sound Carvers singing again. Singing about a returning to the Ways, to the Heartland, but ...’ He slumped a little, and for a moment he looked like a weary old man. Then he gave a resigned shrug. ‘It was probably a dream. The Sound Carvers are long gone, aren't they?'
Ibryen said nothing. Rachyl glanced at Hynard and discreetly tapped a finger against her temple.
'No, young woman,’ the Traveller said, without looking at her. ‘A Teller of Stories I can be, if need arises, but I'm no more touched in the head than someone who thinks the mountains go so far south that they ring the globe—presumably to become the mountains of the north.’ He was his old self again, taunting. Rachyl glowered at him, but Ibryen intervened before she could speak.
'I don't understand what you're saying,’ he said, a hint of irritation in his voice as he frowned at Rachyl. ‘Religious or political happenings in a distant land are of no concern to us, nor, with respect, are your vague feelings of unease. We've much more than unease to live with all the time here. And I've no idea what Sound Carvers are. We need sensible answers to our questions, not fireside tales.'
The Traveller half-closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Indulge me, Count,’ he said, a firmness in his voice that seemed quite out of character to his slight frame. ‘Nothing presses you at the moment. And, for all I came of my own free will, you consider me your permanent prisoner, don't you?'
Ibryen looked unhappy at this cold exposure of his thinking. ‘We're all prisoners here, Traveller,’ he said.
'Then you've time to hear me out.'
'We don't have time for childish nonsense,’ Rachyl burst in contemptuously. ‘There's plenty of work to do around here just surviving. We can't be idling our days away listening to ...'
Ibryen slammed his hand on the table, making everyone jump. The Traveller grimaced and pressed the pieces of cloth further into his ears. Ibryen levelled his finger at Rachyl—he was patently struggling with his unexpected anger.
'Your services against the Gevethen and to me are beyond any conceivable reproach, but there are times when more than a strong arm and a stout heart are needed.’ His voice was both stern and regretful. ‘I allowed you and Hynard to stay and listen to this man because things have happened lately of which you're unaware. Strange, puzzling things, which must be discussed thoroughly and on which thoughtful judgements must be made: family judgements as much as war judgements. They may or may not be important matters, and they may or may not involve this man, but I need your help now as much as I've ever needed it in battle. Set aside your suspicions for the moment, Rachyl, and listen. I need you to listen—to listen truly.'
Rachyl's face twitched uncertainly and, briefly, she seemed to be contemplating a reply. In the end however, she simply nodded her head.
Ibryen looked round at the others. ‘Let's all listen truly. I said before that the very fact that this man is here is a strange, perhaps frightening happening in itself. Just think about it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And before you choose to dismiss his words as so much nonsense, let me remind you of the fearful and mysterious powers that the Gevethen themselves possess. Albeit they use them rarely, they're beyond any explanation any of us can fathom. We forget too easily what they're like in the bustle of our daily practical concerns.'
This sobered his audience and he held out a hand to the Traveller. ‘Finish your tale, please,’ he said. ‘But remember your own words: the reactions of those who lack understanding can be unpredictable. And you must include me in such a group while you talk as you do.'
'I accept the reproach, Count,’ the Traveller acknowledged. ‘I told you I'm not used to dealing with people, still less explaining things when my own thoughts are far from clear.’ He picked up the coin and looked at it for a moment, then placed it back in the purse on his belt. ‘You're not the only one who stands in need of the advice of others.'
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘If the Sound Carvers are not even part of your lore, then I can see that talk of them would serve no useful purpose. To some they're merely a legend, but that they existed is no more a matter for debate for me than the existence of this coin.’ He tapped his purse. ‘I appreciate my ancestry's of no relevance here, but the line of the Sound Carvers is strong in me, and it's thanks to them that I have ... skills ... not given to most people. Skills of hearing and the making of sound.’ He gave an airy wave of his hand to close the subject. ‘Still, returning to your questions. Many years ago, I was travelling in a land far to the north of here when I came to a village which was overlooked by a mighty castle built in a cleft between two mountains. Towers and spires soared up behind a wall that seemed to have grown out of the rock itself, and set in the wall was a massive gate. Sealed, it was, the villagers said. Had been so in living memory and beyond, but I was welcome to look at it. Indeed they took a pride in it, for it was covered with such carvings as you could scarcely imagine.’ He stopped and hummed to himself gently, then smiled. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, recollecting himself. ‘I feel happy just to think about that land and its people, and its splendid castle. I remember the day so vividly. Sharp and frosty, with a wintry sun washing soft shadows everywhere as I walked up the long road to the castle.’ He smiled again, then his voice fell and he leaned further forward. ‘When I reached the gate, I stood for a long time just staring at it. It was magnificent. From the top to the bottom, I doubt there was a space the size of my hand that didn't have something carved on it. Patterns within patterns—some, huge and sweeping—some, intricately detailed and so delicately carved that looking at them made me feel I'd be carried down and down into them, falling for ever.’ He paused, wide-eyed and reflective. ‘And, whatever that gate was made of, even the finest lines were as sharp-edged as if they'd only just been cut. So complex was the work that it took me some time to realize that it was no abstract patterning, but a vast history. Tableaux and text, intimately woven into one. Such stories were written there. Loyalty and treachery, heroism and cowardice, the sweep of the fate of nations, the touch of a child's hand—all there
. Even tales from my own childhood, told anew. And questions answered that I'd often asked, but still more posed to spur me forward. Then, as I drew close, to study one part of it ...’ He hesitated momentarily, as if judging how, or perhaps even whether, to continue, ‘... I heard it.’ He glanced at his listeners, but despite this strange pronouncement, they were all attentive, captivated now by the manner of his telling. ‘I heard it singing at the touch of my breath misting in the frosty air. Telling again the tales that were carved there, and more. So much more.’ He touched his ears. ‘For while my sight is as dim as yours, my hearing's beyond your imagining. I heard tales of the making and shaping of all things. Of the harmony that pervaded all things and its end with the coming of a corruption which was as old as the first making itself. And I heard too of the defeat of the One in whom this corruption took form, yet how, in His very defeat, He knew victory: for He saw that His teachings had been spread far and wide, and learned well.'
Something in Ibryen told him he should urge the Traveller forward to matters of greater moment, but he could not give it voice.
'I've seen many wondrous things on my journeys but nothing ever like that gate. The memory of it has stayed with me always. The stories—the histories—it told me, return to me constantly. And more and more they return to me as my ... unease ... grows. I have a sense of powerful forces moving; of the world being shaped yet again. As though what happened then might be happening again.’ He paused. ‘It's almost as if He who carried the corruption had returned.’ He shook his head, dissatisfied with this conclusion. ‘Or perhaps was trying to return.’ He frowned, still not satisfied. ‘Whatever it is, it's deeply disturbing and it won't go away. Indeed, it seems to grow stronger by the day.’ He fell silent for a moment, preoccupied, then he sat up suddenly, bright again, like a parent anxious to reassure his children after a frightening tale. ‘Still, that's no concern of yours, is it? Suffice it that I was travelling through these mountains on my way back to that sealed castle and the Great Gate to study what I should have studied when I was there last, when I heard the call that brought me here.'
He looked at Ibryen, seeking permission to continue. Ibryen nodded.
'For days now, I've heard a cry clinging to the edges of the wind,’ the Traveller told them. ‘A sound such as I've never heard before, though I've been taught that such things exist. A sound which is said to be an echo here of happenings in another world.'
Ibryen sensed Rachyl's restraint faltering again.
'Listen,’ he said to her, very softly, laying a gentle hand on her arm. Then, to the Traveller, ‘Explain.'
'I'm pursuing my thoughts as best I can,’ the Traveller said. ‘I told you I'm far from clear in my mind about what's happening and why I'm here when I should be journeying north. And I've certainly no words of simple clarity for you.’ He settled back to his tale. ‘I don't know whether this exists in your lore or not, but it's said, by people wiser than I, that what we see about us is far from the totality of things; that there are many worlds other than this, all sharing this time, this space. Worlds—perhaps an infinity of worlds—that exist between the very heartbeats of all we think to be whole and solid.’ He gave a slight, disclaiming shrug. ‘It's a disturbing idea and certainly not one I can either deny or confirm. But it's also said that there are pathways between these worlds, many pathways, and that some—a few—have the gift to travel them.'
Ibryen frowned at what seemed to be mounting eccentricity in the Traveller's story. His expression released Rachyl.
'You'll be asking us to believe in Culmadryen next,’ she sneered.
The Traveller looked at her sharply and mouthed the word to himself.
'Cloud lands,’ Marris said, by way of explanation.
'Children's tales, like everything else you're telling us,’ Rachyl added caustically, turning to Ibryen. ‘What are we wasting our time like this for? We should ...'
'No.’ Marris's voice cut across her plea. ‘Hear him out.'
Rachyl gritted her teeth and threw up her hands in disbelief. ‘I suppose you believe in Culmadryen too, do you?’ she taunted viciously, leaning towards Marris provocatively.
'Enough!’ Ibryen shouted. ‘Rachyl, you're dismissed. Go to your ...'
'It's all right.’ Marris's voice over-topped Ibryen's anger. His restraining hand was towards Ibryen, but his gaze was squarely on Rachyl. ‘She's telling the truth as it happens. I do believe in Culmadryen.’ The certainty in Rachyl's posture, already strained by Ibryen's anger, evaporated at this revelation.
'Sit back, girl and do as you've been asked. Listen,’ Marris went on, a soft purposefulness in his voice pushing Rachyl back into her seat. Glancing at Ibryen for permission, he pressed on in the same tone. ‘I don't know what they are, how they can be, or what kind of people live on them, but I believe in them just as I believe in you and this Hall and the mountains around us. Because I've seen one.'
A small flicker of desperation passed over Rachyl's face and she looked rapidly around the gathering as if in search of some more sane witness. Marris snapped his fingers to draw her attention back to him.
'It was a long time ago and a long way from here. I couldn't even tell you where it was now. I was only a child, and my father was a restless soul in those days. He travelled us all over the place, keeping us fed and clothed by mending pots and pans, helping with the harvest, doing anything that came to hand.’ His eyes became distant. ‘But I remember that day. Bright and sunny, like today. Me clutching my father's hand, people running out of their houses, then just standing there gazing upwards—a straggling crowd in a sunlit street full of crooked shadows. And there it was, floating high above us and just beyond the village, slow and majestic.’ He echoed the Traveller's words. ‘A city of towers and spires rising from a bright, white cloud. Everyone was standing still and silent, as if to move or make a noise would be a desecration. I remember thinking they looked as though they'd all been trapped in a painting, and I was the only one left who was real.'
He smiled at the memory, then, recollecting himself, glanced round the watching faces and cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘It was a long time ago, as I said,’ he declared gruffly, by way of apology for this whimsy. ‘And I've never seen one since. But they're real enough.'
Then he spoke exclusively to Rachyl. ‘You've learned many things you shouldn't have had to over the last few years, Rachyl,’ he said. ‘And you've not learned things that you should have done. One of these is to understand that we know very little about most things and probably nothing about a damn sight more, and that if we want any semblance of control over our lives then we must keep not only our eyes and ears open, but also our minds and our hearts.'
He turned back to the Traveller. ‘But your tale's rambling far and wide,’ he said, with a hint of reproach. ‘You must have a measure of our concerns by now. Address yourself to them.'
'I am,’ the Traveller said. ‘Truly.’ He looked at Rachyl, subdued again by Marris's tale. ‘Why did you speak of Culmadryen?'
Rachyl gestured vaguely. ‘I've no idea,’ she replied. ‘It just came to mind.'
'And how long is it since such a fancy came to mind last?'
Rachyl hesitated. ‘I've no idea. Years, I suppose.'
The Traveller's eyes narrowed and he looked at her intently as though searching for something. Rachyl edged away from the scrutiny.
'Well, here's a strangeness for you, fighting woman. The clouds that sustain the cities of the Dryenvolk high above us are not really clouds, though they seem to be, changing shape and changing colour like the true clouds around them. They're known as Culmaren, living things that are said to exist both here and ... in the worlds beyond. What we see is but a reflection of something whose true perfection blooms elsewhere.'
'That is the stuff of children's tales,’ Ibryen said gently, but the Traveller raised a hand and shook his head.
'Like Marris, I've seen Culmadryen,’ he said. ‘Not often, but more than once. And I've met Dryenvolk too. Tal
ked with them, high in the silent, distant mountains where no people go and where the Culmaren reach down for the sustenance that they need in this world. There's mystery in the Culmaren that eludes even the Dryenvolk themselves, and their knowledge of it is great. It sustains them in many subtle ways and they revere it even as they use it.'
He turned and spoke directly to Ibryen. ‘Count, I came here because of the cry I heard. It was faint and distant and very strange, as I've said, but it had a quality of need about it. It also had, shall I say, an aura about it, such as I've only heard in my contact with the Dryenvolk. You told me that something similar had drawn you up on to the ridge, for reasons you didn't understand. Well it's not possible that you heard the same as I did. Not possible. That gift hasn't been given to you. But I'm beginning to suspect you may have an even greater gift. I think you may have heard that part of the cry of the Culmaren that comes from beyond. I think that you may have the skill to reach across the worlds. Perhaps even to move between them.'
There was an awkward silence.
'There was need in what you felt, wasn't there? A great need,’ the Traveller insisted, before Ibryen could speak. Ibryen nodded. His mouth was dry. Like Rachyl, he wanted to denounce this strange little old man as deranged—too long alone in the mountains—too long alone in life. But the word need chimed through him. Every part of him cried out, Yes! But there was more than need. Something out there, wherever that might be, was in extremis, was reaching out in desperation. And it had touched him.
The Traveller sat back, seemingly satisfied at last with his conclusion. His manner radiated great excitement. Ibryen now felt all eyes turned to him, waiting for his verdict. Instead, he returned their questioning.
'Rachyl, what do you make of our visitor and his story now?’ he asked.
Caught unawares, it took Rachyl a moment to compose herself. So violently had her moods swung since she first met the Traveller that she was deeply uncertain about what she had heard.