Roger Taylor - Ibryen

The mirrors twitched and the many heads of the Gevethen, tilted and viewed their Captain.

‘He is true and loyal.’

‘He served the traitor Count.’

‘He was not cherished, nor did he cherish. And he has the mark of Hagen about him.’

‘He let the Lord Counsellor die.’

There was a long silence. The heads tilted again. Grey eyes, streaking now in the rain, washed over Helsarn. He began to sweat.

‘He will account in time, will you not, Captain?’

‘I am yours to command, Excellencies.’ Helsarn tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

There was a long silence, then:

‘Indeed.’

‘Indeed.’

The scrutiny was gone. The mirrors drifted sinuously after the Gevethen and all attention was turned to the body of Hagen. A floating gesture from the hands brought the stretcher unsteadily down again and the two figures, rain falling grey and straight about them, bent over it like riverside willows. Fingertips touched, and there was a soft muttering.

‘Bring the Lord Counsellor to the Watching Chamber…’

‘…Watching Chamber.’

‘We will guide you…’

‘… guide you.’

Then, Helsarn felt the focus return to him. Two voices spoke as one.

‘Captain, we require the Physician Harik to be with us now.’

Abruptly released, Helsarn saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and started off at the double across the courtyard. He did not dare to look back, but as he passed a window he saw a reflection of the Gevethen and their mirror-bearers passing into the shade of the ornate canopy, followed by the Guards struggling to keep the stretcher level. Even as he looked, the images of the Gevethen seemed to stare back at him, probing still, urging him forward.

Get used to it, he thought. There was no worthwhile future to be had here other than by their side, and on the whole, they looked after their own well enough. It was not as satisfactory a conclusion as he would have wished, but he was spared any further inner debate by the appearance of Harik coming around the corner. With the hood of his cloak pulled up against the rain he looked even taller than ever.

‘Where?’ the Physician asked before Helsarn could deliver his message.

‘The Watching Chamber,’ Helsarn replied. He fell in beside him, matching as well as he was able the long steady strides. It was uncomfortable for him. He felt the need to speak. After the Gevethen, even Harik seemed approachable. ‘They came out for him. Into the courtyard. Into the light,’ he said.

Harik glanced up at the Citadel’s main tower. ‘Tolled the Dohrum too. Nine times,’ he said, apparently ignoring Helsarn’s remarks. ‘Could have brought the tower down on their heads.’ He became pensive. ‘Nine times, eh?’ And after a moment, he intoned softly to himself.

‘In the ninth hour of the Last Battle…’

His voice faded.

Helsarn craned forward. ‘Pardon?’

Harik shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just the beginning of a story I used to know,’ he replied. ‘Came to mind for some reason.’

Helsarn felt almost as though he had shared a great confidence with the Physician. Harik never made small talk. He must be as shaken as the rest of us, he thought. Probably scared witless under that stony exterior. Yet even as the idea came to him, he knew it was wrong. Harik might well have been shaken by the death of Hagen, but any fears he had would almost certainly be for other than his own skin. He was that kind of man. This insight merely added to Helsarn’s discomfort and he made no effort to continue the conversation as they walked across the courtyard and up the broad steps that led to the entrance the Gevethen had used. Guards opened the doors and snapped to attention.

Inside, the silence seemed even more intense than that which had pervaded the courtyard. Though more spacious than the corridors that served Harik’s quarters, those they were walking along now, in common with most of the interior of the Citadel, were claustrophobic, menacing almost, as though the air itself were afraid to move for fear of bringing down retribution. This had, in part, been brought about by the gradual but relentless removal, or defacing, of the many pictures, sculptures and furnishings that had adorned the place in the time of the Count. But added to it was the indefinable but quite identifiable quality that the Gevethen brought to everything they touched. Like a disease-bearing miasma, it clung to everything.

Even Harik looked as though he were having to wade through some unseen resistance, and Helsarn had almost to remind himself to breathe. He pulled out a kerchief and tried to disguise his unease by wiping the rain from his face. The Guards that were posted at intervals along the corridors were so still and pale that it seemed that the earlier passage of the Gevethen had turned them to stone, and such servants and officials as the pair encountered were moving very resolutely, very quietly, and with their eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

They came at last to the wide corridor that led to what had once been the Count’s Audience Chamber. Elaborately decorated, with its arched ceiling lit by daylight brought along the Citadel’s many mirrorways, it had once been as welcoming and open as the Count himself. Now the mirrorways had been sealed and the decorations draped with dark cloths, and the effect was of a descent into darkness. Count Ibryen’s Audience Chamber had become the Gevethen’s Watching Chamber.

Helsarn was relieved to see Commander Gidlon waiting by the tall doors at the far end, but his relief became concern when he realized that, apart from the door Guards, he was alone. Where were the other Commanders? He cursed inwardly and began preparing a list of names should punishment be called for. What had his men been playing at? He was not assured as he reached Gidlon. His Commander was pale and trembling, and very agitated. Quickly, he said, ‘I sent men to find the other Commanders, sir. They should have been here some time ago.’

Gidlon scowled, as if he were being pestered by an irritating child. ‘They’re organizing the purging,’ he replied off-handedly as he acknowledged Harik. ‘Their Excellencies wish you to enter, Physician.’ He nodded to the rigid Guards. They opened the doors and Harik entered.

Helsarn was about to relax a little in anticipation of a long wait in the gloomy corridor while whatever the Gevethen wished to transact with Harik was completed, but Gidlon urgently motioned him to accompany the Physician. The order disconcerted him momentarily, but using another salute to disguise any outward sign that might betray his alarm, he strode after Harik.

Like the greater part of the rest of the Citadel, the Audience Chamber had been transformed into the opposite of what it used to be. Where there had been light and openness, there was now darkness and oppression. The low dais where the Count had sat on formal occasions, and the few gentle steps by which it could be reached were no more. They had been replaced by a high throne platform, bounded by sheer curving sides, on which the Gevethen could stand aloof overseeing all and quite unapproachable.

The windows having been curtained and the mirrorways sealed, such light as there was came from a host of small lanterns. These hung at many levels from the ceiling, rested in niches and alcoves, swung from brackets which jutted, spiky and gibbet-like, from the walls, and stood also on slender, twisted columns which grew at random from the floor like so many storm-blasted trees. The lanterns burned with a cold, unwelcoming light, which heightened shadows rather than brought illumination, and they flickered from time to time, though no draught of air could find its way into the place. They also tainted the air with a fine, throat-catching smoke.