Roger Taylor: Ibryen

‘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 Traveller 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.’