Roger Taylor - Ibryen

‘No, Isgyrn,’ he shouted, over and over. ‘Stop fighting. You’ll destroy us both.’ Then a small inspiration floated into the mayhem. ‘Think Warrior, think. The Hearer in you has failed, the Warrior in you brings only pain here. Be a Seeker. Think. Think of your land, of your kin. Think of the Culmaren that died to bring you this far and keep you alive until help came for you. Is this a fitting reward for its sacrifice?’

The onslaught faltered, though whether because of Ibryen’s challenge or Isgyrn’s exhaustion was not apparent. Part of Ibryen tensed instinctively, scenting victory and preparing to leap and seize the advantage. But the part of him that was a leader of his people, reined the urge back and waited. Twice, in the ensuing silence, Isgyrn seemed set to renew the conflict, but twice he hesitated and twice Ibryen remained still, carrying only the thought of the dead Culmaren in his mind.

Then came a hesitant and bewildered voice. ‘Ibryen, is this truly you? How have you come after me? Where is this place? What has happened to me?’

Ibryen winced as an acrid mixture of fear and shame touched him. He did not allow the Dryenwr to speak further, but reached out in reassurance and silent, unconditional forgiveness. ‘More questions than I can answer, Isgyrn,’ he said. ‘But I am Ibryen here just as I am Ibryen elsewhere. As to how I came here, I don’t know, but I can take no more pride in it than in my black hair and black eyes, as it seems I was born with the skill to travel thus for all I’ve only just come to know of it.’

Understanding suddenly washed over Ibryen. ‘I remember,’ Isgyrn gasped out. ‘I came here to call the Culmaren. To see if I could touch them and learn about my kin, my land.’

There was such an aching loneliness in his voice that Ibryen could do no other than reach out to him again. ‘This is the place where the Culmaren dwell, but it’s also a place where you do not belong,’ he said. ‘That you’re still sane is perhaps a tribute to the Hearer’s blood you carry within you.’

There was a brief stab of sharp and fierce resentment that he, a Dryenvolk Warrior, should be addressed thus by this dweller in the middle depths, but it was gone almost before Ibryen could respond to it, though he felt a flicker of resentment of his own that he should be drawn into this predicament when his people were placing their trust in him to find a way of bringing down their own enemy. And, whatever else was happening on this strange journey, that prospect was as far from him as ever. He felt suddenly burdened.

Though both remained silent, Ibryen sensed their combined anger coiling and twisting and shifting something fundamental in this world. No, he realized suddenly, not in this world, which was beyond disturbance by such trivia, but in his grip upon it…

And in his grip upon his form that sat on the mountainside.

He seized Isgyrn protectively, uttering again the injunction, ‘Hold to me.’

A soft, haunting call echoed through the vast emptiness that was Ibryen’s perception of the world of the Culmaren. Another followed it.

But neither of the flickering consciousnesses that were Ibryen and Isgyrn heard it.

They were gone.

Jeyan’s second passage through the mirrors was no less frightening than her first, though this time it was quicker. The Gevethen moved to either side of her and led her forward as before. Despite the pressure of their grip, she could do no other than close her eyes and flinch away as her reflection strode towards her. The wash of bitter coldness passing through her made her gasp, then she opened her eyes to find herself once more in darkness. Vague reflections of the dimly lit room she had just left hung about her.

There was little time for pondering these matters however, for the Gevethen’s grip about her shoulders was urgent. Once or twice she felt them hesitate, and she caught the faint whisper, ‘Gateways’, passing between the two unseen figures.

Fearful that the Gevethen might learn that Hagen had in some way failed to perform whatever task it was they had set him, Jeyan searched frantically for some means of postponing what was presumably an imminent meeting. Escape was impossible. Even if she could break away from the Gevethen’s grip – which felt very unlikely – where could she go in this place? She was not even sure that she would exist here without the presence of the Gevethen.

Wisps of light began to appear. And hints of sounds.

‘What is this place, Excellencies?’ she asked, snatching at the first coherent idea to form.

There was a short stillness as though everything about her was holding its breath.

‘This is the place between the worlds, Jeyan Dyalith.’

‘The place of the Gateways.’

Jeyan risked again. ‘Forgive my foolishness, Excellencies, but I don’t understand. What worlds? How can there be…?’

The grip about her shoulders tightened painfully.

‘Seek not to understand.’

‘Obey.’

Jeyan gritted her teeth against the pain. ‘If I understand, will I not be better able to serve you, Excellencies?’

There was another stillness. Longer this time, and tense. There was a strange quality in the Gevethen’s voice when they replied, as if they were reluctant to discuss the matter.

‘Obedience to His will is all, Jeyan Dyalith.’

‘What is needed, you will be shown.’

‘Understanding is His and His alone.’

Jeyan bit back her inquiry about who He might be. Instinct told her that pain, even death or worse, lay down that road if she persisted.

Though the vague reflections of her room were unchanged, the shifting patterns of light and the eerie chorus of sounds had been growing in intensity. And something was hovering in her mind, something small, but important.

Suddenly, she knew what it was. It was the Gevethen’s voices; there was fear in them! There had been a hint of it when she had been brought here before, but she had been too shocked and afraid to think about what it meant. It was taking the edge off that cold harshness in their tone. It was making them into ordinary men. Brothers. Wretched twins. Loving and hating one another at the same time, inextricably bound together.

‘The strange passageway you showed me when you brought me here before, Excellencies. Was that one of the Gateways to the other worlds?’

‘No, that is…’

‘Hush!’

The word, with its urgent sibilance, echoed into the movement about her, and arrowed off into some unknowable distance, all shapes and sounds drawn after it, twisting and dancing in its wake.

Conflict! Her question had caused a conflict between the Gevethen! Even the hint of such a thing had never manifested itself in the time she had been with them. Had she thought about creating such, she would have deemed it impossible. Yet Jeyan allowed herself no triumph; there was no saying what she might have released. She braced herself for whatever might follow, becoming suddenly desperately fearful, and resolving to break away from the Gevethen if opportunity presented itself, regardless of the consequences. Better to wander lost in this mysterious place than to suffer what might come to pass at their hands.

Then she became aware of a whispered dispute being carried on behind her. It was reflected in a quivering of the arms about her shoulders. For a fleeting instant she had the impression that the two men were pummelling one another, like spoilt children, but she wilfully tore her attention away by focusing intensely on what appeared to be a pale yellow mist that had floated into her view. Like everything else about her, the mist shifted and changed, both in shape and colour. And, she noted, the sounds that were hovering about it changed also.