Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan] Page 6

  Ibryen rode on down towards the village, motioning the growing number of new arrivals to turn about. Just before he reached the village he saw the form he had been expecting from the beginning. He reined his horse to a halt and dismounted.

  'Someone woke you,’ he grinned.

  'How can a man sleep when his Lord prowls about the night, climbs alone to the ridge and then returns with a stranger?’ Marris replied. ‘Not to mention the din of the entire village talking about it. I'd be surprised if they don't hear it in Dirynhald.'

  Ibryen's lightness vanished and he laid a hand on his old friend's shoulder. Gently he turned him round and began walking with him towards the village, leading his horse. ‘I prowled the camp last night because something was troubling me. While I was thinking about it, I took the opportunity to test some of the sentries. They were awake and alert. Then I went up on to the ridge because I was still troubled.’ He made his voice reassuring. ‘It was no foolish act. I was careful and I knew that even if I didn't solve my ... problem ... I'd at least be able to see the state of the passes. Incidentally, they're clearing rapidly, we must extend the posts again.’ Marris's face began to wrinkle irritably at what he took to be a distracting ploy. Ibryen made a gesture which asked him to be patient, then told him quickly and without embellishment, of his encounter with the Traveller.

  Marris's eyes opened wide. ‘From the south?’ he said. ‘Ye gods, it's not possible. He must be some kind of spy. Some foreign mercenary the Gevethen have found. An assassin.'

  Ibryen shrugged slightly. ‘Except for the fact that he could have killed me while I was half-dozing in the sun, and he didn't.'

  'He was that close?’ There was both concern and reproach in the question.

  'That close,’ Ibryen admitted, offering no excuse.

  'Perhaps he didn't know who you were,’ Marris said, but dismissed the conclusion even as he spoke it. The Gevethen were hardly likely to send out an assassin without giving him a likeness of the victim. ‘He's probably just a spy, then. Thinks he's going to be able to get away from here when he's learned enough.'

  'Possibly,’ Ibryen conceded. ‘But what's to be learned here, that couldn't be learned from up on the ridge? All the Gevethen need to know is where we are. Our numbers and dispositions are of no interest to them. Besides, he could have walked past me as easily as stop and speak to me.'

  They walked on in silence for some way.

  'I need to talk to him,’ Marris said eventually.

  'We all need to talk to him,’ Ibryen agreed, then, as an afterthought, ‘It'll be interesting to see what effect he's had on Rachyl by the time they get here. She was all for killing him on the spot.’ He chuckled, and Marris cast a glance skywards.

  They had reached the building that served as headquarters for the organizing of the Count's new domain. Irreverently dubbed ‘the shippen’ by most in the village, though still assiduously referred to as ‘the Council Hall’ by the Count, this was set at the foot of what was apparently a small knoll. It was largely covered by grassy ramps, and looked little different from any of the other buildings in the village. Inside however, it consisted of a large and roughly circular hall with several smaller rooms leading from it. These served as temporary sleeping quarters for duty guards, or as stores, meeting rooms or whatever suited the current need—some were kitchens and washrooms using water diverted from the stream that wound through the village. The walls of the hall, though of roughly hewn stone, were closely jointed, and rose up to form a high curved ceiling before continuing downwards to find support on a single central column. During the day the whole was lit by daylight carried in by ingenious arrays of mirrors and lenses—a common feature of Nesdiryn architecture. The Council Hall was a considerable achievement, especially considering the haste with which it had been built and the difficulties then facing the newly arrived and bewildered fugitives.

  Ibryen gave his horse to a man who emerged from the deep-set doorway, then entered the hall. Silence greeted him. Gone was the constant sound of the stream and the irreducible murmur of the many tiny sounds of the valley. It was a feature of the place that Ibryen particularly appreciated, for although the village was not a noisy place, his followers being all too aware of the need for silence in the echoing mountains, such noise as there was could not penetrate the hall's dense walls.

  He motioned Marris towards a long, solidly built wooden table. ‘They'll be here soon,’ he said, sitting down and leaning forward on to his elbows.

  Without preamble, Marris asked, ‘What problem was troubling you so badly that it dragged you out of bed and sent you wandering the valley and the ridges?'

  The sudden question caught Ibryen unawares. He stammered as he replied. ‘Nothing ... I ... nothing important. I just ...’ The reply foundered under Marris's gaze. ‘I don't know,’ he ended flatly. He knew that he could not keep his concern from Marris for long. The old counsellor knew him too well, and would pry gently but relentlessly into the reasons for his seemingly eccentric actions until he obtained satisfactory answers. More importantly, Ibryen felt the need to talk to someone about what had happened. But where to start? And what to say?

  He held up his hand in a plea for a tolerant and silent listening. ‘Something's been disturbing me for a few days now,’ he began. ‘Even waking me up in the night. I've no way of describing it. I'd call it a sound, but I can't hear it ... not as I normally hear things, anyway. I'd call it a feeling, but it's sharper and clearer than that. I thought at first ...’ He shrugged unhappily. ‘I don't know what I thought. One of the reasons I went up on the ridge was to be completely alone for a while, to think—to listen—to clear my mind.’ He fell silent.

  'And?’ Marris prompted after a short pause.

  'And I'm not a great deal wiser,’ Ibryen replied. He looked at Marris directly, knowing that he was looking at someone who, if necessary, would put his loyalty to the Dirynvolk, and certainly to the people of the village, before any personal loyalty if he judged that his Count was no longer fit to lead. ‘Except that I'm certain now that, whatever it is, it's not some folly on my part—a pending sickness, or the remains of some unspoken fancy. For all it's intangible and elusive, it's real. Just like the wind blowing on your face is real, even though it can't be seen, or grasped, or smelt.'

  'But we all feel the wind,’ Marris said.

  Ibryen nodded slowly in agreement.

  'Perhaps we could all hear this if we knew how to listen,’ Ibryen retorted, adding thoughtfully, ‘if we had the right faculties. Some of us have keener senses than others. Can see better, hear, even smell.'

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Hynard and Rachyl, escorting the Traveller.

  'We must talk again. I'll need to think about what you've told me,’ Marris said hurriedly as the trio walked over to them.

  'I'd not have mentioned it to you otherwise,’ Ibryen replied firmly. ‘I need your thoughts. But do nothing until you've spoken with this man. When I mentioned the sound to him, he ...'

  'You mentioned this to a stranger?’ Marris's eyes widened in horror. Ibryen quickly waved him silent as he stood up to greet the new arrivals.

  The Traveller was gazing about the place with undisguised curiosity. Rachyl's face, already grim when she entered, darkened further at what she obviously took to be yet more spying by this intruder. She shot an angry look at Ibryen who returned it with one of his own that told her to keep her thoughts out of her face.

  'Traveller, this is Corel Marris,’ Ibryen said.

  The Traveller bent forward slightly as if listening for something as he took Marris's rather tentative outstretched hand. ‘Corel,’ he said softly, pronouncing it in an oddly ringing fashion as though he were testing it in some way. He seemed satisfied. ‘This is an interesting place,’ he went on, his manner genial. Reaching up, he very cautiously, and only partially, removed one of the small rolls of cloth from his ear. Ibryen and the others watched him uncertainly and in complete silence. After a moment, the Trav
eller nodded. ‘More interesting than I think you realize,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there are Sound Carvers in your lineage somewhere too.’ He hummed a few notes, very softly, nodding to himself as he did so. His smile broadened appreciatively.

  Rachyl, fretful still, shifted her feet and cleared her throat quietly. The Traveller jumped and, with a sharp in-drawn whistle of distress, hastily thrust the cloth back into his ear. There was an awkward pause.

  'Please sit down,’ Ibryen said, to end it. ‘Would you like some food, or something to drink?'

  'A little water, perhaps.'

  Ibryen glanced the request towards Hynard, meticulously avoiding Rachyl's gaze.

  'It's many years since I've been in this part of the world,’ the Traveller said, before anyone else could speak. ‘But seeing this place brings back many memories.’ His manner became quite intense. ‘Circumstances have constrained you to such simplicity here that the underlying roots of your architecture are exposed quite vividly. There are signs of many cultures here. All made distinctly yours.’ He hummed to himself tunelessly for a moment as he looked around the Hall again. ‘And your use of mirror stones is very good. A marked improvement.'

  Ibryen felt an uncomfortable mixture of pride and irritation at this unexpected praise.

  'It serves our needs,’ he said simply. ‘We're quite pleased with it.'

  The Traveller stopped humming then uttered a series of soft but very rapid whistles. As he finished, his eyes widened and his face broke into a broad smile, as yet again he glanced around the Hall. This time however, his movements were sudden and erratic, as if he were following the fate of the sounds he had just made. Both Rachyl and Marris found themselves imitating the man as they tried to follow his gaze.

  Then he was still, and looking at Ibryen. ‘You should be more than pleased, Count,’ he said. ‘There are ancient traits running strong in your people yet. You've built more than you know here. Perhaps one day ...’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, smiling at his hosts. ‘I'm not used to people—to talking so much. I'm afraid I'm chattering on about things you're not interested in when you probably want to ask me all manner of questions.'

  Rachyl cleared her throat again.

  Marris nodded, as if to accept the point, but unbalanced by this voluble newcomer, he merely made a vague circling gesture about his ear. ‘Are your ears troubling you?’ he asked. ‘We've a good physician here.'

  The Traveller looked puzzled for a moment, then his hand went to the cloths sealing his ears. ‘Oh no,’ he replied. ‘My ears are fine. It's just that with being in the mountains so long, my hearing's ... very sensitive.'

  Another awkward silence descended on the group. It was broken by Hynard returning with a large ewer of water and a handful of earthenware beakers. Catching Ibryen's eye, he filled one and offered it to the Traveller, who took it gratefully.

  'Who are you? Who sent you? And how did you get here?’ Rachyl's impatience got the better of her as she seized one of the beakers and filled it hastily, splashing water on the table.

  The Traveller's eyes shone as he peered over the top of his beaker. ‘Ah, you have the gift of creation, young woman. Look, jewels as bright as your eyes, to form a necklace for your lovely neck.’ He pointed to a string of water drops arcing across the table. They shone brilliantly in the sunlight that was being carried into the Hall, and cast rainbow shadows.

  Marris and Ibryen exchanged identical wide-eyed glances full of equal proportions of surprise, amusement and anticipation. Hynard's mouth dropped open. As did Rachyl's, the beaker clattering against her teeth. Then, after a moment's uncertainty, she caught the looks of her comrades, and coloured. She brought the beaker down on to the table with a bang, sending another small fountain of water into the air. Her mouth slammed shut and her jaw stiffened as she jabbed a determined forefinger into the table. Her words had to fight their way past clenched teeth.

  'Don't you ...'

  The Traveller reached forward and laid a hand briefly on Rachyl's. ‘Don't be angry,’ he said gently. ‘It was just a compliment.'

  Ibryen interceded quickly. ‘Compliments are a rarity here,’ he said. ‘And, sadly, confined for the most part to praising fighting attributes rather than anything else.’ He became more purposeful. ‘But Rachyl's questions are as valid as when I asked them up on the ridge, and we need to know your answers.'

  The Traveller nodded. ‘I can appreciate that more now,’ he said. ‘But my answers are unchanged. I am ...’ He pronounced his name. As Ibryen had done when he first heard it, the other three listeners leaned forward to catch it, then shook their heads and looked at one another in confusion.

  'Well, you're not from anywhere around here, that's for sure,’ Marris said after a moment.

  'We'll continue to call you Traveller,’ Ibryen said authoritatively and a little impatiently. He motioned him to continue.

  'My homeland's a long way from here. I've travelled to and through many places over the years, but I've come here now from the land you probably know as Girnlant.'

  The reaction was as Ibryen's had been.

  'Girnlant's supposed to be to the south,’ Rachyl burst out. ‘It probably doesn't even exist. No one could possibly get over the mountains.'

  The Traveller snorted slightly. ‘Girnlant exists well enough,’ he said, and dipping a finger in his water he began drawing a crude map on the table. At the top were a series of peaks representing the mountains. ‘You're here,’ he announced, poking a glistening spot above them. ‘And Girnlant's down here.’ A broad sweep finished the map. ‘It used to be one land once, but there are about twenty or more states there now ... all of them at least as big as Nesdiryn.’ He sat back, adding with some heat, ‘Just because you can't walk to the moon doesn't mean it doesn't exist, girl.’ Rachyl bridled at the word ‘girl’ but Ibryen's look kept her silent. The Traveller fumbled in a purse at his waist and eventually produced a coin. He put it on the table and flicked it towards Rachyl. ‘That's from one of them. Somewhere in the middle. Here.’ He prodded the map again. ‘I can't remember the name of the place.’ Rachyl examined the coin cursorily then handed it to Ibryen. On one side was a mountain, on the other a ring with a number in it.

  'It's not gold,’ he said, handing it to Marris.

  The Traveller chuckled. ‘Not a golden people, I'm afraid,’ he said. ‘Somewhat burdened by their religion.’ His mood became suddenly sadder. ‘Heavily burdened when I left them, although before I headed north I did hear that the individual who was causing the problem had died, or been killed, so maybe all's well now.’ He shrugged to himself reflectively. ‘People have a great capacity both for self-deception and for doing harm to themselves. It's such a shame when you look at what other things they can do.'

  'Some foreign coin tells us nothing,’ Rachyl sneered.

  'It tells us he's been somewhere a long way from here,’ Marris said, fingering the coin thoughtfully. ‘It's vaguely familiar. I've seen something like this before. When I was a boy, I think. It certainly doesn't come from any of our immediate neighbours, nor from any land that I've ever been to.'

  'It means nothing,’ Rachyl insisted forcefully. ‘Except that he's a foreigner, which we can tell just by listening to him. What we need to know is who sent him and why.'

  'I'd swear he never got past the sentries.’ It was the first time Hynard had spoken. He had been in command of the inner posts through the night and, though less forthcoming than Rachyl, he was deeply disturbed by the mysterious arrival of the Traveller. ‘They were fully alert when you came round, Ibryen, and they were even more so afterwards. He's either better than anyone I've ever known, or he got up on to that ridge by some unknown route.'

  'Or he came from the south,’ Ibryen offered.

  The Traveller did not speak. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, deepening further that which already filled the Hall.

  'Why are you here, Traveller?’ Ibryen asked, almost whispering into the heavy stillness. For the first time since h
e had arrived at the Hall, the Traveller seemed uncertain. ‘No flippant answers, please,’ Ibryen added. ‘I'm sure you've got some measure of our problem here by now, and our natural concerns about you.'

  The Traveller looked straight at him. When he spoke, his voice was strange and his words seemed to contain more than they said. ‘Do you not think that you and I should discuss this alone?'

  'No!’ Rachyl and Hynard replied urgently at the same time, albeit almost whispering, like their lord.

  Ibryen held out a restraining hand, and thought for a moment. He reached a decision. ‘I make no excuses for my lack of care, other than that I'd no cause to imagine anyone would be up on the ridge. But I was idling in the sun—eyes closed, half-dozing—when he spoke to me. I was quite unaware of anyone near me. He could have killed me, or turned and left, just as easily as speak to me.'

  Hynard and Rachyl watched him unhappily. He turned to the Traveller. ‘I trust the judgement of my friends and kin here completely. That's how we've survived so long against the Gevethen. Whatever it is that drew us together up there, whatever you and I have to discuss, we can ... we must ... discuss it before them.’ He glanced quickly at Marris. ‘However strange.’ There was reservation in Marris's eyes, but he said nothing.

  The Traveller gave a disclaiming gesture. ‘As you wish, Count, but in such matters, the reactions of those who lack understanding can be ... unpredictable.'