by Roger Taylor
‘Yes?’ Jeyan pressed.
Cornered, Helsarn resorted to the truth for inspiration. ‘Others are sore and weary with the hard marching when they arrive, but the very nearness of their Excellencies sweeps all fatigue away.’ He began to walk a little more quickly, his body reflecting his anxiety to be away from this topic. In reality, the men in some of the units could barely stand and were on the verge of mutiny. The news was being kept from the Gevethen as their response was already known: ‘Execute one in ten.’ Helsarn wanted no part of that. Not that he suffered from any problem with his conscience in taking such an action, but what might be expedient in a single, isolated unit was another matter altogether when so many were being held in such close proximity to one another and in so disorganized a manner. He also had sufficient foresight to see that in the difficult mountain-fighting that was to come, opportunities for the discreet removal of unpopular officers would abound. They continued in silence, Jeyan preoccupied with what the Gevethen might want, Helsarn relieved not to have compounded his error.
As on the previous day, the Citadel was alive with activity, though to Jeyan it seemed to be a little more ordered. When they reached the Watching Hall, the Guards opened the doors without command and Helsarn entered as well. It took Jeyan a moment to orient herself amid the scattered lights and the crooked, dully glittering towers that rose, tree-like, into the dusty gloom. She was sure that these had been moved, but it did not seem possible, some of them were so large. Her eyes went first to the high throne platform at the far end, but it was empty. Then they were drawn to the only movement in the place. Turned into a milling crowd by the surrounding mirror-bearers, the Gevethen were standing at the centre of the hall, in what could almost be called a clearing in this strange forest. For a fleeting instant Jeyan felt the urge to turn and flee but her legs were already obeying the command she had given them, and were carrying her resolutely towards the waiting throng. She was aware that it was Helsarn who was now following.
As she drew nearer, the mirror-bearers continued moving. There were more of them than before, Jeyan thought, though it was difficult to tell, they moved so quickly and with such eerie precision. The Gevethen became a circle, then there were just six of them, and Jeyan became aware of converging lines of marchers on either side of her. She was approaching the Gevethen flanked by lines of herself. The marchers glanced at her surreptitiously.
A thought came to her, sudden and vivid. Should she strike now? Should she spring forward instead of kneeling, and drive her knife into the throat of one of them? The answer crashed upon her with such force that she almost stumbled. Yes! This was the moment. Another might never come. Who could say what they wanted her for, or when she might come so close to them alone and armed again? She embraced the resolve. This day in Nesdiryn history was going to be very different from the one that Helsarn imagined, though he would indeed be mentioned in it – if he lived, for she was steeling herself for a frenzy of killing that would not stop until she was exhausted or dead.
She straightened up and ran a hand casually down her tunic as if smoothing it. The actions brought her hand close to her knife. Her heart began to race. Soon it would be over. She wished Assh and Frey were with her. What an end to these creatures they’d make together!
Then something seemed to be wrapping itself about her legs. It was as though she was wading through water or deep soft sand. The resistance increased with each forward movement and within a single pace she was completely halted. She recognized the force that had possessed her on the march from the dungeons. She was powerless against it. Her tight-wound intent twisted and screamed within her at this unseen and unexpected frustration and turned instantly to terror. Did they know about the knife? Had they sensed her intention? She did the only thing she could. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head.
‘Rise, Lord Counsellor,’the two voices grated out.‘We are to the battlefield today. The worm eating at the heart of our new order is soon to be torn out.’
It took a moment for the words to register, so prepared for an assault was she, and then it was a strange excitement in them that reached her first.
‘I go where you will, Excellencies, though I am no soldier,’ she managed to say, though she remained kneeling. The excitement filled with a repellent amusement.
‘You are a life-taker, it is sufficient.’
Jeyan felt naked, exposed and suddenly sick. For a moment she could neither speak nor move. Then relief swept over her – she had not been discovered! In its wake, her hatred returned to make her wholly herself again. Let them take the consequences of bringing a life-taker so close to their scrawny throats then, she blazed silently. But it could not be now, for all about her she could feel the force that was keeping her from moving closer, like a glutinous expression of their will.
As she was about to stand, Helsarn said, ‘May I speak, Excellencies?’
‘Commander.’
‘Excellencies, I’m concerned for your safety in the mountains,’ he began. ‘Several of your servants within the city have returned with the same rumour. It’s said that the outlaw Ibryen has left his secret camp and that he plans to come upon you from a direction that cannot be guarded against.’
The amusement grew.‘Your concern is unnecessary, Commander. We are guarded in all Ways.’
Helsarn persisted. ‘I have never known so widespread a rumour before, Excellencies. It is most unusual. And there are many narrow and dangerous places in the mountains.’
Jeyan sensed the mood about her changing towards one of impatience, then abruptly there was stillness and silence.
‘Leave us, Commander.’
The command was like the snapping of dried twigs under a soft and long-feared footfall. Jeyan heard Helsarn leaving. The silence remained. Then a soft hissing filled it. The Gevethen were whispering – it was like the wind across a graveyard. She strained forward. The power that was holding her at bay had eased, but it was still there. She made no further effort. She was too far away, and besides, could do nothing from her knees. She remembered too well how quickly the mirror-bearers had moved when she was being escorted from the dungeons. She caught snatches of the conversation.
‘He is coming through the Ways.’The wind rose and fell, punctuated by gusts of panic but gradually changing to an uneasy confidence.
‘He fled from us…’
‘But he was there. And with a strange companion.’
‘Could his army come thus?’
‘Let him come.’
‘We are guarded.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
The whispering faded and she was the focus of their attention again.‘Rise, Lord Counsellor. And follow. The hand of our law must be seen to reach into all places.’
Then there was confusion and movement, and while, the previous day, she had floated idle and neglected at the edge of the Gevethen’s great enterprise, now she stood near its centre, as they moved through the Citadel. She watched, fascinated and scornful, as senior army and Guards’ officers, and high-ranking officials, came and went seeking advice about this, bringing news about that, wanting to know ‘their Excellencies’ will’. And all were afraid. It was good.
Yet, though she was by the Gevethen’s side, still she could come no nearer to them; still their mysterious power held her away.
And always, the mirror-bearers were about them, moving relentlessly to their own unheard tune. There were more than there had been before, she decided, for she noticed several if not all of her own servants amongst them, including Meirah, the only one with whom she had spoken. Twice she deliberately caught her eye, but there was no response. The woman’s face was as blank and cold as all the other mirror-bearers. Somehow their behaviour was almost more frightening than any of the overt menace of the Gevethen. Was this what was in store for her? Was this what was in store for everyone? An eerie, pointless perfection? The question tugged at her incessantly even though she knew she would never know the answer. By one means
or another she would be dead before such a thing could come about.
Then, at the front of a crowd of officials, she was witnessing the departure of the Gevethen. It was an event without formal ceremony, though there was a large escort of Citadel Guards, armoured and carrying short, axe-headed pikes which gleamed viciously even in the grey light. Apart from the group behind her, such onlookers as there were did not linger, for fear that their dawdling would be taken as a lack of enthusiasm for the Gevethen’s grand design. There were however, many discreet glances made from the safety of the Citadel’s curtained windows. For the most part these were to satisfy the watchers that their beloved masters were indeed leaving – it was a rare occurrence – but there was also great curiosity about the Gevethen’s strange carriage. Not that ‘carriage’ was a particularly fitting word for the contrivance that was to carry them to the mountains, except in so far as it resembled a funeral carriage. Black and huge, and in two articulated sections, it was pulled by six horses. Its sides flared up and out, curling over at the eaves into ornate carvings like a tangle of thorns from which wild-eyed faces gaped down at passers-by. There were apparently no windows in it though there was a platform at each end large enough to carry the Gevethen and several of the mirror-bearers had they so desired. Toiling figures decorated the rims of the wheels and the spokes and hubs were carved into angles and barbed spikes. The whole was covered in intricate carvings, though, being black on black they could be examined only by standing very closely. The only relief to the dark complexity was a single silver star set on each side. They were identical to that which adorned Jeyan’s judicial bench, though here there were no gold escutcheons nor broken rings. The effect was stark and frightening.
A row of more conventional carriages waited behind it. Jeyan watched as the Gevethen moved down the stone steps and into the back of their menacing vehicle which opened silently at their approach. The mirror-bearers moved round them as ever, only much closer than usual and in such a way that they could not be seen. Nor did any of their confusing images emerge into the dull daylight. Jeyan was reminded again of some soft-shelled creature scuttling for the darkness of its lair. Many of the enlarged contingent of mirror-bearers did not enter the carriage but moved alongside it, standing between it and the Guards. As the carriage moved off, the mirrors began to move again, making it seem that the carriage was being carried on many legs. It was an unsettling sight.
Jeyan turned away from it and looked back up the steps to the door through which the Gevethen had come. It occurred to her that before the mirror-bearers had closed about them they had seemed so much smaller, so much more fragile, so much more easy to kill. The recollection brought with it a sudden sense of incongruity about the Gevethen’s great black carriage. What use would that thing be in the mountains? she thought. There was many a street in Dirynhald that it couldn’t negotiate, let alone the terrain they would encounter once over the river. How were they going to cope then? She remembered Helsarn’s concern about the narrow passes. She shared it. The Gevethen were hers, they mustn’t fall to some nameless ambusher.
Then Helsarn was discreetly ushering her into a carriage of her own. As she was entering it she saw the Citadel officials who had been standing behind her dashing with unseemly haste for the other carriages. It was not until she had been inside it for some time and it was rattling out of the courtyard that she realized it was the one in which she had murdered Hagen. The thought amused her greatly and, leaning back, away from the window, she laughed silently to herself and laid her hand on her knife.
The journey through the city was uneventful, news of the Gevethen’s passage having sped ahead and emptied the streets more effectively than a sudden thunderstorm. Such people as were about were kneeling, heads bowed by the time Jeyan’s carriage passed them. That added to her amusement though her main interest lay in the familiar buildings passing by. This had been her territory once, or, more correctly, it had been the rich neighbour to her territory upon which she was free to prey for whatever needs she had. At one point they came near to the edge of the Ennerhald and several times it occurred to her that a bold leap from the carriage and a few strides would lead her into the confusion of alleys, cellars and derelict buildings that had long served as a protective labyrinth to her land. But it would indeed have to be a bold leap for it would have to carry her through two lines of Guards, and Helsarn and other senior officers were also moving up and down the columns on horseback. And what would be the point? Now that the possibility of escape was nearer than it had been at any time since she had been captured, she realized its futility. The Ennerhald held nothing for her now. It had served its turn. It had trained her in the skills she needed and carried her to the heart of her enemy.
When they came to the outskirts of the city, the carriage began to slow and Jeyan had to fight back an urge to lean out of the window to see what was happening. It soon became apparent as they began to pass ragged lines of soldiers moving in the same direction. Travel-stained and obviously exhausted, they contrasted markedly with the immaculate Guards escorting the Gevethen’s train. To Jeyan it seemed not that they were about to fight a battle, but that they had already fought one and were in retreat. What condition would these people be in by the time they reached the mountains? Briefly and somewhat to her surprise, she was torn. How many of these people would die needlessly in the Gevethen’s sudden manic need to capture Ibryen? How many of them had wives and families dependent on them, fretting for them? Visions of sad faces and weeping eyes began to come to her. She crushed them as violently as if they had been so many snakes. These people had betrayed their lawful lord and chosen to follow the Gevethen, now they could suffer the consequences, now they could feel the weight of the Gevethen’s justice. Had anyone seen her face at that moment they would indeed have believed that Lord Counsellor Hagen had returned to possess her.
The informal escort to the train grew as they continued, more incoming troops joining at every crossroads they came to. Not all were in the same sorry state as the first group they had encountered, but all were obviously tired.
Then there was cheering ahead and into Jeyan’s view came the transit camp whose fires and lanterns she had seen lighting the sky on the previous night. It was an inglorious sight. Bedraggled tents had been thrown up, to all appearances at random, to stand like decaying fungi on what had been rich meadow-land, but which was now an expanse of brown earth, churned into mud by foot, hoof and wheel. It seemed to Jeyan that there were hundreds of men involved in almost as many activities. More tents were being erected, carts were being wrenched through the clinging mud, equipment was being carried hither and thither, put down, picked up and carried somewhere else, reluctant horses and mules were being sworn at and whipped, reluctant soldiers were being sworn at and threatened with whipping. Harassed officers and officials were stumbling through the disorder watching the confusion increase with each step they took to bring order. Men were walking, running, marching, standing on guard, standing around fires, or just wandering aimlessly.
The cheering was coming from groups of soldiers lining the road, though there was little enthusiasm in the sound and still less in the faces that Jeyan saw as her carriage moved past them. She noticed officers standing at the rear, obviously there to ensure that this spontaneous burst of loyalty to the Gevethen and their entourage went as planned.
She glanced towards the mountains. The grey mistiness hiding them was nearer. Rain was coming. Good, she thought. The camp would be like a swamp before the day was out.
It took the Gevethen’s train some time to pass the camp, then it was moving along the road that would carry it to the mountains. Once this had been little more than a winding track used by local farmers, leading eventually to a modest bridge which served the few people who chose to live on the other side of the river. It had been adequate. It was, after all, a road to nowhere.
Now, to facilitate the regular campaigns into the mountains, the bridge, hitherto capable of carrying a few cows, had
been replaced by one which could carry columns of marching men, provided they had the wit to break step. The track too, bore the marks of progress. It had been widened and straightened and metalled, so that in parts it was the equal of some of the finest avenues within the city itself. It was still a road to nowhere, however.
And it could not cope with the traffic that was passing along it now. From time to time the carriages stopped. Jeyan gave little thought to such interludes though the causes often made themselves known as she passed carts with shattered wheels and broken shafts languishing by the roadside, their contents tipped out haphazardly and their escorts struggling to make temporary repairs or standing round staring vacantly at the damage. What price your great army, Gevethen, halted for lack of a wheelwright? she thought darkly, though her amusement was tempered by the knowledge that the halts were only temporary and that the many soldiers walking alongside, never stopped. The army, though weary, was making relentless progress.
Then it was raining. Steady, vertical rain. It rattled on the top of her carriage, splashed on the close-paved roadway, and drenched the escorting Guards. She leaned back into the comfort of the well-upholstered seat and imagined the rain making its leisurely way along to the camp, ignoring the prayers and curses of the occupants as they saw it approaching. It would take very little to turn the camp into a quagmire and, she judged from the sky, this would continue all day. It was all very satisfying.
Eventually they were moving over the bridge. The river was high with water from the melting snows. Like a panicking crowd fleeing from a great terror, waves rose and fell, grey and spuming white, as they shouldered one another aside to force their way through the constricting arches of the bridge. The sight made Jeyan thankful that she had not attempted the journey to the mountains. At some point she would have had to cross this and even at its least turbulent, during the summer, it would still have been very dangerous.