Ibryen

by Roger Taylor

  It was the final severing of Jeyan from her former life… a terrible, learning time.

  Shortly afterwards, half-crazed at the destruction of this, her second family, she crossed another awful threshold by killing the betrayer. She gave him neither warning nor mercy and he had Gevethen coins in his mouth when he was found. Tales began to circulate of a wild, vengeful spirit that flitted through the night shadows of Dirynhald. A spirit that was as cruel as the Gevethen themselves.

  By a dark irony, it was this notoriety that made those involved in the soft, silent network of opposition to the Gevethen reluctant to pursue their search for her.

  From then on, Jeyan had walked alone, living by the harsh code of the Ennerhald, watching, listening, lying, stealing, and making only such acquaintances as need dictated. And Ennerhald society, like any other, having its own hierarchy, she also learned to defend herself against those who would have preyed on her. She became horribly proficient with the knife she carried – agile and fast but, worst of all, quite without hesitation. She was greatly feared.

  Not that she was even aware of the opinions of others for, above all other things, her thoughts were dominated by a single vision – a vision of the Gevethen, dead, and dead by her hand. She nurtured it obsessively. Only the rumours and, later, the knowledge that the Count had survived and was in the mountains with many of his followers, prevented her from sinking into rambling insanity.

  Now the obsession and the skills and the temper that the Ennerhald had bred in her had come together and set her on the road to attaining that vision. And she had taken that first simple, practical and bloody step with relish. She had struck a blow close to the Gevethen’s heart. It was a rehearsal for a future event. Consequences were irrelevant.

  Rain began to fall, a few large drops heralding a spring downpour as the clouds that had been lowering over the city all day abruptly released their charge. The pace of the street changed and, with considerable relief, Jeyan took the opportunity to change her shambling gait to one more matching her mood. It carried her through the now bustling crowd without remark. The two dogs went their own way; in so far as they were noted at all, they were assiduously avoided.

  Then Jeyan was gone from view. It would have taken a keen observer to note her action, as she disappeared down an opening that gaped in front of a derelict building. Free of the public gaze at last, she slipped nimbly under the stone steps that led down from the street and, wriggling through a hole in the wall, scarcely visible in the gloom, resorted again to outright flight.

  Sharp eyes and practised but cautious feet carried her through a confusion of dank and disused cellars, lit only by occasional shafts of light which struggled through long-forgotten windows and gratings, and the holes and cracks that years of neglect had brought to the wooden floors above. Such slight sound as she made was well-hidden by the incessant dripping and splashing of the rainwater which found its way into the darkness through a myriad more devious and destructive routes.

  Once or twice she caught a glimpse of other shadowy figures moving through this twilight world but she paid them no heed, nor they her, save to avoid her.

  Away from the open street and moving at her own pace through ever more familiar terrain, Jeyan’s trembling began to abate. A cloak of unreality still hung about her however, as the enormity of what she had actually done seeped into her.

  Hagen dead!

  And by her hand!

  The Gevethen’s cruellest lieutenant no more.

  How many murdered innocents had she avenged today? Hundreds… thousands? It didn’t matter. He was gone.

  Abruptly she stopped. Alone in the darkness she found herself searching for a flicker of regret, remorse. But the only regret she could truly feel was that Hagen’s death had been so quick, so merciful. Worse, it had been banal and ordinary, just like that of any other man – now alive and thinking himself so for ever – now gone, all fears faced, all fleshly needs and ills ended, all ambitions dust. His face had shown only surprise and… irritation.

  Rage filled her. Irritation! He should have suffered more. He should have been harrowed as he harrowed others, should have felt himself dying slowly from the inside out as his victims did, felt his screams choking him because he was too afraid to utter them.

  Her victory was not enough.

  She swore under her breath and clenched her teeth. She was rambling, thinking thoughts such as these. It was sufficient that he was dead. It was sufficient that the people would know that the authority the Gevethen vested in him and which, in his arrogance, he had deemed to be a shield against all ills, had failed him. It was sufficient too that the Gevethen would know that. Would know that their protection was imperfect, that a random stone might unshoe a horse and bring down a king.

  She took out the knife and gripped it tightly until her arm ached. Would that she could come within arm’s reach of them as well.

  The moment was cathartic, and as it passed she felt much calmer, although a faint tremor still seemed to be shaking her whole person – body and mind. She sheathed the knife and set off again.

  Within a short while she came to a place where the floor above had collapsed completely. The destruction was old. Well-established bushes and shrubs now grew out of the cellar floor and swathes of grasses and climbers festooned the ramps of rubble and broken timbers that partly filled the opening. The rain had stopped but the air was filled with an elaborate tattoo as the vegetation above continued to shed the water that it had intercepted.

  Despite the gloomy sky, the area seemed unusually bright after the darkness of the cellars and, as was her normal habit, Jeyan waited, silent and still, all senses alert until she was quite satisfied that nothing was to be seen, heard, or felt there that should not be. Then she clambered through the dripping foliage and, pausing again to reassure herself further that all was safe, she emerged into the remains of one of the buildings that lay at the fringe of the Ennerhald. Around her were the decaying remains of the roof and floors that had collapsed many years before. Like the debris in the cellar they were scarcely recognizable under the vegetation that was repossessing the site.

  From here, Jeyan moved through a large and spacious hall. Who could say what it might once have been?

  Banqueting Hall, Meeting Hall, Court? Perhaps it was not even part of the old city, for, just as the Gevethen rotted Dirynhald society from within, so people edged nervously away from the unsettling presence of the Ennerhald and thus it spread outwards, slowly but relentlessly encroaching on the city that had supplanted it. Now, whatever its past, the roofless building, its stained and lichened walls perforated by circular openings and pocked with holes where floor and roof beams had once rested, was just a chasm – another way from here to there; its only significance now as a quick escape route – should need arise.

  Vaulting through a window, Jeyan glanced from side to side quickly, then straightened up. All around were other, smaller buildings, all decaying. Here and there some had collapsed across the narrow street, while others leaned forward as though to whisper profundities to their neighbour opposite, and were actually touching one another. They formed bizarre arcades. Once the Ennerhald had been as distant from her life as the moon, but now it was her land. Here, the Gevethen’s writ faltered, whether by design or through indifference did not matter. Here no Citadel Guards, no soldiers, strutted and brutalized, no officials of the new order wove their endless webs of petty regulations to control the every deed of every individual. The only enemies here would be her own kind, and few of those troubled her now.

  As she walked along, she put her fingers to her mouth and gave a loud but very short whistle. The sound bounced sharply from wall to wall, stirring the silence. Somewhere a bird fluttered up in alarm. Within a few moments, Frey and Assh appeared, one bounding through a window, the other sneaking up silently, belly low, behind her. Jeyan knelt down and embraced them. Tails wagging, they nuzzled her. These were allies that she could truly trust. Their damp fur stank but Jeyan
was a long way from being disturbed by unpleasant smells now.

  ‘Well done,’ she whispered passionately. ‘Well done. Tonight we’ll celebrate. We’ll eat.’

  It was some time before she reached her destination. She had, in fact, many places which she had made suitable for living in, and many other places which she knew to be safe from anything other than the most determined search. Today however, she had chosen the one she liked the most, the one she was inclined to call home and where she preferred to spend most of her time. It was situated at the southernmost edge of the Ennerhald, farthest from the city. Just as the Ennerhald at its opposite end seemed to be encroaching on the city, so here the forest that ran south towards the mountains also seemed intent on repossessing its ancient terrain. The strange atmosphere that pervaded the deserted city became eerie and watchful here as root and branch did their work, and man-made shapes gradually crumbled or disappeared under foliage and vegetation.

  Further south, the forest was bounded by a fast-moving and dangerous river that tumbled violently out of the mountains. Further south still, the empty land that lay between the river and the mountains was regularly patrolled by the Gevethen’s army for fear that the Count might perhaps seek to ford the river and move through the forest to attack the city. But the forest, like the Ennerhald itself was ignored – or avoided.

  At one time, Jeyan had considered moving into the forest completely, but she rejected the idea. While perhaps it might have been safer, it would have provided an even more alien and isolated existence than the one she now had; also, there would have been a feeling of desertion, treachery almost, in abandoning the city completely; she could see no life ahead of her that did not involve active opposition to the Gevethen. As it was, she had acquired enough forest lore to trap the occasional animal or bird, and forage roots and fruit to carry her over those times when a street purging or a curfew or some other activity that brought unusual numbers of Citadel Guards on to the streets, made venturing into the city to steal food too dangerous.

  Her chosen sanctuary was in the centre of a long block of buildings that had once perhaps been dwelling houses, though there was so little in common between the architecture of the Ennerhald and that of Dirynhald that few could have argued the point. Certainly the buildings were unusual: a motley arrangement of unsymmetrical roofs covered them while inside was to be found a seemingly incoherent mixture of large and small rooms, set at many levels and joined by twisting stairways and winding corridors. Some of the rooms reached up through two and more storeys to disappear into the elaborate roof space, some had curved and undulating walls, while others were rigorously straight. Here and there the faint remains of huge wall paintings could be made out and cold-eyed carvings of both people and outlandish creatures guarded unexpected places. Not that the history of the buildings or their builders concerned Jeyan. It was sufficient that parts could be made warm and dry and that they had many entrances and exits which could be well disguised.

  Before she slipped through the bushes that were growing out of an opening in the wall, she routinely looked to see if a particular loose branch had been disturbed. It never had been in the past, but that did not prevent her from always checking. Then she sent the dogs in. Branch or no branch, if someone more cunning than she had gained access then they could debate their cleverness with Assh and Frey first. She heard the dogs scuttling around noisily, sniffing as though they had never been there before, then they ran back out to her. All was well.

  Later, as night rolled over the forest and into the Ennerhald, Jeyan pondered the day. Dried from the soaking she had received earlier, and warmed by the food she had eaten, she had expected to feel replete and relaxed, able to stretch out like the two dogs, and rejoice in what she had achieved. But no ease came. Instead, a shadow of the trembling that had possessed her as she fled from the city, remained. Its buzzing insect persistence filled her entire body, keeping her restless and tense, almost as though a thunderstorm was pending.

  Perhaps one was, she thought. Regrets at what she might have unleashed flickered briefly again at the edges of her mind, but were overshadowed by both a cold satisfaction and the simple survivor’s acceptance that what was done was done, for better or worse. All that mattered were the consequences for herself.

  Consequences.

  Now there would be change. The whole structure would have been shaken. Not damaged beyond repair, by any means – there would be others to take Hagen’s place – but where change existed, so did chance, and so did opportunity. But so too did danger. None of the crowd would have recognized her, of that she was sure, and most would have presumed her to be a man. But word must inevitably reach the Gevethen that Hagen’s killer was a street creature, and from that it would be but a step to presume that she hailed from the Ennerhald. The only question that remained was how determinedly would the Gevethen seek out the murderer of their closest and most able counsellor. Forays into the Ennerhald had been made in the past, but its winding streets and innumerable buildings and hiding places would have absorbed an army far larger than the Gevethen’s city companies, and rarely had such ventures yielded anything other than a handful of pathetic souls too feeble or witless to run.

  But this time, it would be different. This time, vengeance would be sought.

  The trembling threatened to return. Out of hard-learned habit, Jeyan used it to bring herself to her feet and, snuffing out two of the candles that illuminated her adopted sanctuary, she moved across the room to the pile of blankets that served as a bed. As she sat down, she clicked her fingers and the two dogs woke immediately and looked at her, ears pricked. She beckoned them and embraced them when they came to her.

  ‘We must be careful, dogs. More than ever. Watch and listen. Smell them coming.’

  Assh yawned and Frey scratched herself and, with a final squeeze, Jeyan dismissed them. Both of them slumped down alongside her. The physical contact with the dogs was important to her. If only she could be as they were, she thought, lying back. Unaware of the future, and probably the past, also. Responding only to the needs of the moment. Now awake, now asleep; now fierce, now quiet. Their calm seeped into her. The single, tiny candle that remained reduced her world to a small domed enclave surrounded by darkness. For a moment, memories of times long gone returned. Times when the world was not only safe but inviolable, when the only danger was an angry look from a loving parent. Once, such memories used to make her weep. Then she had learned to sneer at her youthful naivety. Now she felt only anger and sadness.

  And again, hatred for those who had brought this about. As it did almost every night, her vision of the Gevethen perishing at her hand returned to soothe all ills and to sustain her. Tonight, it was more intense than ever. Jeyan was more like her dogs than she knew; she had tasted her prey’s blood and she wanted more.

  As she felt sleep overtaking her, she reached out and extinguished the remaining candle.

  Across the room, resting on a makeshift table, lay a small mirror which she had stolen one day – hardship had not laid vanity fully to rest. For a brief moment, the blackness that the mirror reflected shifted and changed. When it stilled, staring out from the mirror, cold and unblinking, was a solitary watery eye.

  Chapter 5

  Even as Vintre looked at the dark gates of the Citadel, they opened. The sudden movement made him start. He had not even considered the greeting that would be waiting for him as a result of the news that Helsarn had carried ahead, but the absence of the rigid formality associated with the opening of the gates disturbed him, so imbued was he with the Gevethen’s obsessive insistence on order in all things. Further, for a moment, it seemed to him that the gates were gaping like the mouth of some ancient creature come to take vengeance on those who had had the temerity to so handle the murdered body of the Lord Counsellor. The impression was so vivid that it made him gasp and he raised his hand quickly to his mouth to disguise the response as a clearing of his throat.

  Silently he reproached himself for thi
s foolishness. The reaction however, gave him a measure of the shock he was suffering at this ominous event. Be careful, he thought sternly. Very careful. Keep hold of the reality of what’s happening. For all the aura that had hung about him – that indeed had been assiduously cultivated by him – Hagen had been only a man, and now he was just another corpse, one person less in authority to be feared. Doubtless an awful vengeance for his slaying would be determined by the Gevethen, but that was a mere detail. All he had to remember was to look for opportunities in the re-ordering that must occur in the immediate future.

  He took one advantage immediately. In the absence of the usual formal challenges, he led the column through the gates without stopping. The outer courtyard was crowded with people – Guards, officials, servants – but Vintre ignored them as he rode on, causing them to scatter. He had already noted Helsarn standing on the steps that led to the guardhouse by the inner gate. Just joining him was the bulky figure of Commander Gidlon, the most senior of the five Commanders of the Citadel Guards. He was red-faced and struggling frantically to button his tunic.

  Fooling around with the servants again, eh, Commander? Vintre thought caustically. Getting caught out at that, plus the shock that Helsarn had just delivered to him – and a little good fortune – might well see another gap being made in the higher ranks of the Gevethen’s aides, he mused. But Vintre kept any sign of this speculation from his face, adopting an expression of stony-faced shock as he halted the column and dismounted.

  Gidlon, tunic awry, ignored his salute. He ran clumsily down the steps and threw open the carriage door. The driver’s unconscious body slowly tumbled out into his arms. Gidlon uttered a startled cry at this unexpected embrace, for a moment fearing that it was Hagen himself. It took all Vintre’s self-control to bite back an hysterical laugh at the sight. By the time he had reached his flustered Commander, the driver’s body was sprawled on the ground.