by Roger Taylor
As she scrambled to her feet, a figure, oddly mobile in the still-moving lights, loomed up in front of her. It reached out to her as she lifted a hand to defend herself then it retreated as she did. She snarled as she realized that it was only another mirror, but it was gone before she could gather her wits fully. It was replaced by two others. Jeyan spun round, looking to flee, but crouching, twisting forms were all about her except on one side. As she edged towards it, the corralling figures moved with her.
Then she was in front of the throne platform. Its curving sides drew her gaze upwards. From the top of it, a host of Gevethen looked down. They swayed hypnotically. Then they were beside her, their features and forms subtly twisted by the strange reflected journey that had brought them there.
‘Child.’
The two voices grated through her.
‘You have a name?’
She did not answer. The two figures looked at one another, red lips pouted in mocking sorrow.
‘Do you think that our knowing your name will put you in our power, child?’
‘Or that not knowing it will protect you?’
‘Do you think we are magicians?’
‘Conjurors and mountebanks?’
Regretful heads were shaken.‘A superstitious primitive. A simpleton. The great Lord Hagen has been destroyed by a simpleton.’
‘It does not seem possible.’
‘But it is so. The scent of his dying is all about her. What could he have thought, our proud Lord Counsellor, to find himself impaled on the cruel thorns of this sapling from the Ennerhald?’
‘This ragged simpleton.’
‘With no name.’
‘What could he have thought?’
‘He was surprised. He was irritated like a peevish child.’ The words, sneering and venomous, spat out of Jeyan, driven by an anger goaded beyond restraint by the nerve-jangling tones of the Gevethen. ‘He could not believe what was happening even as I killed him.’
‘Ah!’
‘And my name is Jeyan. Jeyan Dyalith.’
‘Ah.’
‘The child of the traitor.’
‘No!’
‘A tainted line. We were right to expunge it.’
‘To root it out.’
‘To lop it off.’
‘Tainted.’
‘No!’ Jeyan screamed and swung the edge of her fist at the nearest moon-faced image. On the instant it was gone and her fist struck only the fist of her own reflection. The impact made her recoil violently. Then the mirrors were all about her and she was staggering to and fro, lashing out wildly, a jerking hobby-horse leading her own wild scarecrow round dance. Someone, somewhere, was clapping out a beat for the buffeting mirrors.
Abruptly, and without signal, it was over. Jeyan slumped to her knees. Aisle upon devout aisle of kneeling figures appeared beside her. But still she was filled with a rage sufficient to hold her terror at bay. ‘Come within arm’s reach and I’ll surprise you too,’ she snarled.
‘Would you?’
The pallid faces and floating hands were beside her again, though the voices still came from the swaying figures above. Nevertheless, their sudden reappearance and an oddly plaintive note in the voices, shook Jeyan. As she struggled to rein in her passion, her mind began to race. She must escape this place. But the problem was the same as it had been before. Even if she could escape this room, how could she escape the Citadel? And, in any event, how could she escape this room? These mirror-bearers moved with uncanny and alarming speed. And, incongruously, she did not even know where the door was.
‘Excellencies, forgive me,’ she heard herself pleading. ‘I’ve been so long in the Ennerhald. And so alone. A madness must have seized me. A madness that required the payment of blood debt for the murder of my parents by Lord Hagen.’
‘Blood debt!’
The tone was awful. Jeyan cowered, truly fearful now.
‘You do not know the meaning of the words, child.’
‘When He comes to collect His blood debt, then you will know.’
‘All will know.’
‘Great will be the winnowing.’
‘The levelling.’
‘And where will you be with your petty vengeance, mote, amid this dusting storm?’
‘Safe under a sheltering wing?’
‘Or crushed utterly and scattered into oblivion?’
Jeyan had the feeling of a great power having been released. A power before which she could not hope to stand. A power which at best she could only seek to avoid. ‘I don’t understand, Excellencies,’ she managed to say. ‘Who are you talking about? Who…?’
In-drawn breaths like the sound of a rushing wind filled the hall, mirrors domed up over her and the power that had marched her from the dungeons returned to throw her face down on the wooden floor. She could not move any part of her body. It was as though a great hand was pressing down on her and that with the least effort she could be extinguished absolutely.
‘It is beyond greater minds than yours to understand such things.’
‘Seek not to know His name, lest you feel His touch…’
Struggling though she was under the unseen weight, Jeyan heard a quality in the Gevethen’s voices that frightened her more than anything she had ever experienced before. It was fear. The Gevethen were afraid! How could there be anything – anyone – who could strike such fear into this awful pair? But the impression was momentary, swept aside by the dreadful weight now pressing her into the floor.
‘Forgive me, Excellencies,’ she gasped. ‘Forgive me.’
The pressure did not ease but there was a faltering in the atmosphere as though her faint plea had sufficed to catch the attention of the Gevethen amid their own fearful concerns.
‘Forgive me, Excellencies.’
For an instant, the pressure increased sharply and a gleeful malice was all about her. Then it was gone and the scream of terror and pain that had been forming inside her leaked into the shadow-streaked gloom as a whimpering sob.
There was a long silence, broken only by Jeyan’s gasping.
‘You distract us with your lies, child.’
The voices were steady again.
‘Do so at your peril.’
‘You stray into regions where Death itself is the least of terrors.’
Hesitantly, Jeyan pushed herself into a kneeling position. She dared not speak and all thought of escape had gone. She knew now that, however it was achieved, the Gevethen could exert a power over her person unlike anything she had ever known, or even heard of. The spirit that had taunted the soldiers in the Ennerhald in the hope that her fleetness would carry her from harm, was silent. Now she must look only to survive the moment.
‘Jeyan Dyalith, do not lie to us.’
‘Nothing can be hidden.’
‘We have known of you always.’
Denial rose in Jeyan but she neither moved nor spoke.
‘As we peered into the darkness we felt your vengeful spirit blooming.’
‘Saw it glowing in the night, along the Ways.’
‘A black magnetic star, luring us forward.’
‘Watched you.’
‘Wanted you.’
‘You are kin.’
Jeyan could remain silent no longer, but she forced her voice into courtesy. ‘Excellencies, I am Dirynvolk. You are from another land. I cannot be your kin.’ Then, with an effort, ‘I am not worthy to be your kin.’
Amusement descended upon her like a cloying mist.
‘True. But that is mere flesh, Jeyan. You are kin to our spirit. True kin. You are one of the chosen. We are few. Power will be given to you beyond your imagining. You will stand with those destined to bring order to an ill-created world where now there is only the squabbling ferment of a myriad petty tribes and chieftains. You will stand with those who will re-create the world in His image, with those before whom all others will bow, with those who are destined to prepare the Way for the coming of the One True Light.’
To he
r horror, Jeyan felt a distant thrill stirring in response to this enigmatic call.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, searching amongst these strange words for something that might enable her to get away from this bizarre, disorienting hall, with its flickering lights, and its silent moving shadows.
The amusement returned.
‘It is not necessary. Does the axe understand the tree?’
‘Does the plough understand the soil?’
‘You are the blade.’
‘You are the tool.’
‘We the wielder.’
‘Clearing the ancient tangled roots, the foetid by-ways.’
‘Making pure and whole.’
Jeyan could do no other than remain silent. Such questions as struggled through her jangling thoughts she dared not ask, fearful of what had happened before. It came to her that perhaps all this was no more than a subtle torment. Perhaps the Gevethen were playing some elaborate game with her. How far would it go? Would she be lured to within a fraction of some greatness, only to have it snatched from her, and then be delivered into the hands of the Questioners? Zealously placed there by the soldier she had killed, images of a protracted public execution filled her mind. She wanted to vomit, so awful was the sudden terror. Yet, instead, she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. She was where she was. She was not on the gallows. She must, above all, retain control of herself, of her thoughts, if she was to avoid such a fate. At the worst, she realized coldly, she must find some weapon with which she could end her own life. A simple edge across her wrists and she would enjoy the same fate as the man who had brought her here. The irony almost amused her. The finality of the decision quietened her. Carefully, she stood up.
The minors shifted and all about her were the strained images of the Gevethen, watching, waiting, bird hands hovering.
‘How can this be?’ she asked, looking up at the figures crowding the throne platform. The Gevethen around her gazed up and then down and were gone. She was alone, save for the silent mirror-bearers. There was a long pause.
‘You are kin.’
‘You are chosen.’
‘I killed the Lord Counsellor Hagen. Was he not chosen?’ She braced herself for some brutal impact. But none came.
‘He was flawed.’
‘He served his turn.’
‘One more fitting dispatched him.’
Stepping to the edge, she said, ‘Am I not to be punished?’
‘Is the axe to be punished, for felling the tree?’
‘The plough for turning the soil?’
She leapt. ‘But I did what I did of my own free will. No one urged me. No one bought me.’
Laughter, cold and humourless, rose to a climax that filled the hall. The mirrors about Jeyan began to tremble.
‘Take the Lord Counsellor to her chambers…’
‘… her chambers.’
Chapter 18
After a little scrambling over the rocky crest of the dip between the two mountains, the descent into the valley took on the atmosphere almost of a family jaunt. Although on occasions the Traveller seemed to drift off into a reverie, there was a vigour and a sprightliness in his step which, his companions saw by contrast, had been conspicuously absent when he was in the village. The sky began to clear.
Ibryen and Rachyl moved uncertainly at first. It was a valley on the fringe of their domain and the head of it was routinely patrolled, even though it was, for all practical purposes, inaccessible to the Gevethen. ‘There’s no one about,’ the Traveller assured them, though in more carefully measured tones than he had used before. Years of caution when moving through the mountains had taken their toll however, and his reassurance was politely ignored. Only as they moved further down from the ridge did Ibryen and Rachyl begin to feel easier.
‘Keep a careful note of our route,’ Ibryen said, as they began to stride out down a long grassy slope. ‘It’s fine today, but it could be mist and rain when we come back.’
Rachyl acquiesced, but with that air of polite toleration reserved by the young for respected elders who tell them the obvious. Both Ibryen and the Traveller noted it and exchanged knowing looks.
On the whole they did not talk a great deal as they moved along the valley, though at one point Rachyl stopped and gazed round at the enclosing peaks. Not, this time, with the shrewd-eyed warrior gaze that searched into shades and crevices, alert for the subtle wrongness – the movement, the shape, that should not be there – but almost with wonder.
‘Probably no one’s ever been here before,’ she said, speaking softly, as if she were in a holy place.
‘No people,’ the Traveller confirmed. ‘At least not for a very long time. Certainly before ideas like Nesdiryn and Girnlant came into their thinking. Perhaps, as you say, never.’
He stopped and joined her in her study. ‘Who knows. Perhaps some solitary wanderer, with his own joys and burdens has stood right here and felt them come into a different perspective, just like you are. Mountains are very good at doing that. That’s one of the reasons I like them.’
Rachyl did not seem too sure. Ibryen took her arm and gently urged her forward. The last thing that Rachyl needed was a new perspective on her life, especially the last few years. Circumstances had made her a soldier and it was the best thing she could be until the need for soldiering was gone.
‘What are the other reasons?’ Ibryen asked the Traveller, anxious to draw Rachyl back to the present.
‘No people,’ the Traveller replied, slapping his stomach with both hands and then holding them out in a wide embrace. ‘No people and no people.’
Ibryen laughed. ‘I’m sorry if we give you such offence. Shall we walk in our bare feet to preserve the ancient silence?’
‘I’d hear the grass bending under your feet,’ the Traveller laughed in return. ‘Listen!’ he put a hand to his ear. ‘I can hear the voices of the countless tiny creatures that dwell here, the tumbling of Marris’s tiny pebbles on their way to the avalanche, the wind twining around the high peaks and sighing through the tangled gorse, the fluttering wings of nesting birds, the scuttling feet of moles and rabbits and…’
Ibryen and Rachyl were listening spellbound, there was such joy in his voice, when, abruptly, he stopped and tilted his head forward, a hand raised for silence. He turned from side to side intently as if searching for something. Alarmed, both Ibryen and Rachyl quietly reached for their swords and, instinctively turning back to back, began scanning the surrounding slopes. Then the Traveller sagged slightly and his look of concentration became one of resignation.
‘What’s the matter?’ Ibryen whispered, his hand still on his sword. ‘Can you hear someone coming?’
The Traveller held out his thumb and forefinger. ‘Twice now,’ he said. ‘Twice I’d swear I heard the Song.’ Ibryen frowned. ‘Sound Carvers, Count. My ancient kin. But so faint, so far away. The faintest wisps – deep, deep down, beneath the creaking roots of the mountains themselves.’ He gave a little sigh and was himself again. ‘Imagination I suppose,’ he decided. ‘We see what we want to, we hear what we want to. The Sound Carvers are long gone, aren’t they, Count?’ He snapped his fingers and set off walking. ‘Ah, I forgot. You’ve never heard of them, have you?’
Ibryen wanted to question the Traveller about these strange ancestors, but the little man was gathering speed and was already some way ahead. For a moment he was inclined to call after him, but decided against it. His interest was little more than idle curiosity; he had nothing to offer the man in what was plainly a disturbing, if not distressing matter. Rachyl was starting to stride out with a view to catching up with him, but Ibryen motioned to her to slow down. There was a quality in the Traveller’s posture that said he wished to be alone for a while.
When they eventually caught up with him, he was sitting on a rock, swinging his feet, and seemed to have recovered from whatever had unsettled him. Ibryen met his concerns head on.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You seemed upset before.
That’s why we left you to walk on.’
The Traveller smiled broadly and gave an airy wave. ‘A touch of nostalgia, a whimsy, a mishearing – it happens when one reaches too far. I should know better. But I thank you for your thoughtfulness. It’s very pleasant to be reminded that not all people are braying oafs.’ He looked at Rachyl. ‘And that some of them are quite lovely.’
Ibryen responded as he had before when the Traveller had offered Rachyl his heavy-handed compliments – he started in alarm. He also prepared to move quickly, this particular compliment having been uttered to Rachyl’s face. Any man in the village foolish enough to speak thus would soon have measured his length on the ground, nursing a bruised jaw, or worse. Somewhat to Ibryen’s surprise however, Rachyl merely levelled a finger at the little man and said, ‘Stop that!’ like a matriarchal schoolteacher. The Traveller drew in a sharp breath and patted his heart in a gesture of mock pain. Rachyl turned away, and became apparently engrossed in adjusting a strap on her pack. Ibryen eyed her carefully. He could swear she was blushing. The hearty companion in him laughed and jibed, but the leader of his people grieved that his cousin’s life had been so needlessly distorted. Images of the life she should have led burst upon him. He allowed them no sway, and they passed leaving only a dull ache behind, but, without fanfare or declamation, his long-formed resolution to destroy the cause of this pointless and painful destruction reforged itself even as he laid the distress aside.
Rachyl finished fiddling with her pack and drew a hand across her flushed forehead as if she were hot. ‘Why are you helping us when you’d prefer to be without us?’ she asked the Traveller without warning, though there was no reproach in her voice.
The Traveller jumped down from the rock and set off again. The others followed him. ‘I told you before. I’m as much like you as I’m unlike you. Knowing what I know, I can’t walk away and expect my life to be unsullied by the neglect.’ Suddenly he was walking quickly and waving his arms. His voice rose. ‘The average folly of the average individual brings enough inadvertent pain into this world, but that’s part of our lot. Somehow, we need it. But wilful sources of evil like your Gevethen…’ He growled ferociously and clenched his fist. It was not the comic sight it should have been from so small a figure and both Ibryen and Rachyl winced at the passion in his words. ‘… should be rooted out and destroyed utterly. They are diseased.’ He twisted his foot as he spoke, as though crushing something under his heel.