Roger Taylor - Ibryen

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.’

Ibryen looked round at the others. ‘Say what you have to say, Traveller,’ he said.

When the Traveller spoke, each listener heard him differently. It was, at times, as though his voice came from many directions at once and his words were often filled with meanings far beyond that of their seeming content.

‘This is no flippant answer, Count,’ he began. ‘But truly I can’t tell you what’s brought me here. I am a traveller. I’ve always been one. I need little to live on and I’ve got more than enough wit to be able to find what little I do need. I go from place to place as the whim takes me. Whether some other hand guides me is a question none of us can answer.’ He ran his finger idly through the watery map he had sketched on the table. ‘But I was disturbed by the events I encountered in Girnlant, for all I was merely on the fringe of them. There was something in the air… faint and distant, but there, definitely. Something beyond the immediate comings and goings of the people involved, something deep, ancient…’ He paused and for a while stared into space as if he were trying to recall some long-forgotten memory.

Rachyl leaned forward and rested her head in her hand, a deliberately weary look on her face.

‘It disturbed me much more than it should have, considering the number of political and religious squabbles I’ve been witness to over the years,’ the Traveller went on, ignoring the silent comment. He looked around the Hall though not so much at it, as at the mountains beyond the stone walls. ‘But then, I came to realize on my journey north, many things have disturbed me over the last twenty years or so, more than perhaps they should have done. There seems to be an unease about the world that wasn’t there when I began my journeying long ago. It’s as though something’s creeping into the normal tides of change. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad. Maybe it’s both.’ He turned to Ibryen, puzzled but confidential, man to man, as if he were talking to someone equally knowledgeable. ‘I’ll swear I even heard the Sound Carvers singing again. Singing about a returning to the Ways, to the Heartland, but…’ He slumped a little, and for a moment he looked like a weary old man. Then he gave a resigned shrug. ‘It was probably a dream. The Sound Carvers are long gone, aren’t they?’

Ibryen said nothing. Rachyl glanced at Hynard and discreetly tapped a finger against her temple.

‘No, young woman,’ the Traveller said, without looking at her. ‘A Teller of Stories I can be, if need arises, but I’m no more touched in the head than someone who thinks the mountains go so far south that they ring the globe – presumably to become the mountains of the north.’ He was his old self again, taunting. Rachyl glowered at him, but Ibryen intervened before she could speak.

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he said, a hint of irritation in his voice as he frowned at Rachyl. ‘Religious or political happenings in a distant land are of no concern to us, nor, with respect, are your vague feelings of unease. We’ve much more than unease to live with all the time here. And I’ve no idea what Sound Carvers are. We need sensible answers to our questions, not fireside tales.’

The Traveller half-closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Indulge me, Count,’ he said, a firmness in his voice that seemed quite out of character to his slight frame. ‘Nothing presses you at the moment. And, for all I came of my own free will, you consider me your permanent prisoner, don’t you?’

Ibryen looked unhappy at this cold exposure of his thinking. ‘We’re all prisoners here, Traveller,’ he said.

‘Then you’ve time to hear me out.’

‘We don’t have time for childish nonsense,’ Rachyl burst in contemptuously. ‘There’s plenty of work to do around here just surviving. We can’t be idling our days away listening to…’

Ibryen slammed his hand on the table, making everyone jump. The Traveller grimaced and pressed the pieces of cloth further into his ears. Ibryen levelled his finger at Rachyl – he was patently struggling with his unexpected anger.

‘Your services against the Gevethen and to me are beyond any conceivable reproach, but there are times when more than a strong arm and a stout heart are needed.’ His voice was both stern and regretful. ‘I allowed you and Hynard to stay and listen to this man because things have happened lately of which you’re unaware. Strange, puzzling things, which must be discussed thoroughly and on which thoughtful judgements must be made: family judgements as much as war judgements. They may or may not be important matters, and they may or may not involve this man, but I need your help now as much as I’ve ever needed it in battle. Set aside your suspicions for the moment, Rachyl, and listen. I need you to listen – to listen truly.’

Rachyl’s face twitched uncertainly and, briefly, she seemed to be contemplating a reply. In the end however, she simply nodded her head.

Ibryen looked round at the others. ‘Let’s all listen truly. I said before that the very fact that this man is here is a strange, perhaps frightening happening in itself. Just think about it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And before you choose to dismiss his words as so much nonsense, let me remind you of the fearful and mysterious powers that the Gevethen themselves possess. Albeit they use them rarely, they’re beyond any explanation any of us can fathom. We forget too easily what they’re like in the bustle of our daily practical concerns.’

This sobered his audience and he held out a hand to the Traveller. ‘Finish your tale, please,’ he said. ‘But remember your own words: the reactions of those who lack understanding can be unpredictable. And you must include me in such a group while you talk as you do.’

‘I accept the reproach, Count,’ the Traveller acknowledged. ‘I told you I’m not used to dealing with people, still less explaining things when my own thoughts are far from clear.’ He picked up the coin and looked at it for a moment, then placed it back in the purse on his belt. ‘You’re not the only one who stands in need of the advice of others.’

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘If the Sound Carvers are not even part of your lore, then I can see that talk of them would serve no useful purpose. To some they’re merely a legend, but that they existed is no more a matter for debate for me than the existence of this coin.’ He tapped his purse. ‘I appreciate my ancestry’s of no relevance here, but the line of the Sound Carvers is strong in me, and it’s thanks to them that I have… skills… not given to most people. Skills of hearing and the making of sound.’ He gave an airy wave of his hand to close the subject. ‘Still, returning to your questions. Many years ago, I was travelling in a land far to the north of here when I came to a village which was overlooked by a mighty castle built in a cleft between two mountains. Towers and spires soared up behind a wall that seemed to have grown out of the rock itself, and set in the wall was a massive gate. Sealed, it was, the villagers said. Had been so in living memory and beyond, but I was welcome to look at it. Indeed they took a pride in it, for it was covered with such carvings as you could scarcely imagine.’ He stopped and hummed to himself gently, then smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, recollecting himself. ‘I feel happy just to think about that land and its people, and its splendid castle. I remember the day so vividly. Sharp and frosty, with a wintry sun washing soft shadows everywhere as I walked up the long road to the castle.’ He smiled again, then his voice fell and he leaned further forward. ‘When I reached the gate, I stood for a long time just staring at it. It was magnificent. From the top to the bottom, I doubt there was a space the size of my hand that didn’t have something carved on it. Patterns within patterns – some, huge and sweeping – some, intricately detailed and so delicately carved that looking at them made me feel I’d be carried down and down into them, falling for ever.’ He paused, wide-eyed and reflective. ‘And, whatever that gate was made of, even the finest lines were as sharp-edged as if they’d only just been cut. So complex was the work that it took me some time to realize that it was no abstract patterning, but a vast history. Tableaux and text, intimately woven into one. Such stories were written there. Loyalty and treachery, heroism and cowardice, the sweep of the fate of nations, the touch of a child’s hand – all there. Even tales from my own childhood, told anew. And questions answered that I’d often asked, but still more posed to spur me forward. Then, as I drew close, to study one part of it…’ He hesitated momentarily, as if judging how, or perhaps even whether, to continue, ‘… I heard it.’ He glanced at his listeners, but despite this strange pronouncement, they were all attentive, captivated now by the manner of his telling. ‘I heard it singing at the touch of my breath misting in the frosty air. Telling again the tales that were carved there, and more. So much more.’ He touched his ears. ‘For while my sight is as dim as yours, my hearing’s beyond your imagining. I heard tales of the making and shaping of all things. Of the harmony that pervaded all things and its end with the coming of a corruption which was as old as the first making itself. And I heard too of the defeat of the One in whom this corruption took form, yet how, in His very defeat, He knew victory: for He saw that His teachings had been spread far and wide, and learned well.’