Roger Taylor - Ibryen

‘It seems that for all our many differences, our peoples are tragically alike in their folly,’ he concluded.

Ibryen was less harsh. ‘Alike in our willingness to trust and reluctance to see evil in others.’

They had not pursued the debate. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Isgyrn said. ‘We warriors have no excuse. We must bear the guilt. It’s our task above all to see things as they are, even when we can’t see why they are, and to defend those less able when the need arises.’ Ibryen nodded. That could not be disputed. They continued in silence.

Though their arbitrary path carried them over undulating ground, they came across no consistent inclines nor even any broad clearings that might give them an indication of the land beyond the forest. And it was with mixed feelings that they encountered signs that others frequented this place. One was a broad grassy track, obviously used by horses. Another was a carving of a face ingeniously worked so that it was peering out between the branches of a tree.

Ibryen looked at the mischievous face. ‘This is not my land,’ he said unequivocally. ‘Nor any that I know of.’

The possible implications, both bad and good, of meeting strangers in this forest flooded into a mind already awash with doubts and fears, and, despite himself, he sat down on a nearby embankment and put his head in his hands. He could not think any more.

Isgyrn looked at him for some time then crouched down in front of him. ‘At the height of my people’s despair, I found myself in two places at once. Speaking with a man, himself fighting an awful battle. A strange man who, like you, had had a great and unwanted responsibility thrust upon him. I spoke to him as I speak to you now, at one with him in the middle depths and yet, at the same time, soaring above my land.’

Ibryen looked up and met his gaze. ‘I remember,’ he said flatly. ‘You told me. The sword bearer, you called him.’

Isgyrn nodded. ‘Who he is… was… is of no great import here. What is important is that without any witting action on my part, such a thing happened to me – a Warrior, frantic with battle fever. I had never heard of such a thing. Not even happening to Hearers, silent and secluded and at peace, surrounded by comfort and friends.’

He looked down guiltily. ‘Whatever’s troubling you, be as clear in your mind as I am that it’s my fault we’re here. I don’t know why I left your camp secretly, like a thief. Perhaps it was because I didn’t wish to burden you with my helpless presence when you had a war of your own to fight, perhaps it was just a quiet desperation to learn what had happened to my Land. Perhaps I just wasn’t thinking clearly.’ He looked up again and met Ibryen’s gaze. ‘But even when I was floundering, maybe about to die, in the Culmaren’s world, a small part of me knew that it was real, that it was true, that it was not just a frenzy in my imagination. I was suffering because of my ignorance about where I was, not because I was suddenly crazed. I was untutored in the ways of the place, not insane.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Not that the knowledge served me much, but it was there.’

Ibryen frowned a little and made to speak but Isgyrn waved him silent. ‘You and I have strange skills – you more so than me – skills that we’re barely aware of and certainly don’t know how to use. Wherever this place is, and whatever people live in it, it’s real and so are we. Yet we’re also still on that cold mountainside where the Culmaren brought me and tended me.’

‘You seem suddenly very knowledgeable,’ Ibryen said acidly.

Isgyrn took no offence but shook his head. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I’m guessing, but guessing with a part of me that I trust – a part that I trust in battle. Knowledge deep and long-learned. Some things come only with time.’

The remark struck Ibryen like a winding blow and he started perceptibly. Despite the urgency of his immediate concerns, the phrase carried him across the years to bring him again to the feet of his old instructor and he felt a lightness spreading through him. He clapped his hands softly and smiled. ‘Let’s go. Only dead things are rigid, and rigid things shatter,’ he said.

Isgyrn eased back a little, nervously. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

Ibryen stood up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just remembering an old lesson.’

Isgyrn’s eyebrows rose, but he opted for a pragmatic response. ‘Has it told you where we are?’

‘I’m afraid not. It just reminded me not to worry about things I can’t change.’

‘We’re to continue awaiting events, then?’ Isgyrn said with some irony, though his face remained serious. ‘Still, not worrying about the unavoidable isn’t as easy as it sounds.’ He levered himself up. ‘I’ll confess I don’t know what I said to remind you of such a valuable lesson, but shall we continue?’ He indicated the grassy track.

They had not walked far along it before the sound of running water reached them.

‘Well, at least we’ll not perish of thirst in this place,’ Ibryen said.

When they reached the river however, they encountered another reminder that they were not alone in this land. It was a timber bridge, built with considerable skill and decorated with bright colours and many carvings. They stood for some time admiring it and Ibryen took some consolation from the fact that a people who spent time on such work were perhaps not given to spending time on excessive warring and feuding. Nevertheless, he reminded himself, he must still be very cautious in approaching anyone they might meet.

They decided not to cross the bridge, but moved instead upstream, Isgyrn seeming to have a strong natural inclination to move always upwards. After a little while they came to a clearing where the river meandered quietly between shallow banks. They sat down.

Ibryen looked around and frowned. ‘There’s an unease about this place,’ he said, answering Isgyrn’s unspoken question. ‘Like a thunderstorm coming.’

Isgyrn cast a glance up at the sky. It was cloudless. ‘There’s no thunder about,’ he said confidently. ‘And I sense no ambush being laid for us. But this is even less my land than yours so I don’t know to what extent my instincts can be trusted here.’

‘It’s not a feeling of threat,’ Ibryen said uncertainly. ‘It’s just…’ He gave a shrug and left the sentence unfinished. Then he leaned over the bank and looked down into the water. Isgyrn joined him. The water, eddying slowly, sent back their reflections, sharp and clear.

Jeyan froze as the sound of the dogs rolled over her. The hovering lights became angular and jagged, and began to dance to the hunting rhythm being sounded. Then she could feel the spirit of the dogs bounding all about her, wild and savage, yet bursting with affection and joy at finding her again. She wanted to cry out to them, to embrace them, but her brief time with the Gevethen had already taught her to judge her every action carefully, and even as she recognized the dogs, she knew she must force herself to affect an ignorance of what was happening until the Gevethen responded.

She did not have long to wait. Their response was swift and alarming.

And full of fear.

They began to tremble and, to her considerable surprise, Jeyan could feel flight building up in them. Their fear seeped through into her. Who could say what the consequences would be, should they abandon her in panic and flee screaming through this bizarre world with the spirits of the dead hounds pursuing them? Already she could sense an instability around her that she had not felt even when the ill-fated tunnel had crashed to its end. Then she noted that the faint images of her room which lingered at all times, were wavering. What was happening to the mirrors there?