By an irony that she would not have appreciated, it was fear of the Gevethen’s all-pervading power, and the ambition of their servants that fed upon it, that saved Jeyan’s life again that day. Citadel Guard Captain Aram Helsarn, routinely supervising part of the purging, intercepted the army company withdrawing from the Ennerhald with their dead and injured and their wild tale about death-pit dogs lurking in one of the buildings. ‘I left three men on guard, just in case there was anyone about,’ the captain confided shrewdly to demonstrate that it was not only the Guards who were adept at dealing with city-spawned events. But Helsarn had affected a patronizing indifference to the incident and parted from him with a cursory nod of sympathy for his losses which verged on the insulting.
When the column had moved on however, Helsarn uttered a prayer of thanks for the idiocy of his army compatriot and, taking a dozen of his best men, headed rapidly for the Ennerhald and the five-towered building. The reputation of death-pit dogs was coloured by their undoubted ferocity but was disproportionate to their real threat. Helsarn knew, as did most who had ever had to enter the Ennerhald, that while a pack might occasionally attack a lone individual, they would not attack a large group, nor would they wait in pairs to ambush people. And they certainly wouldn’t linger about on the upper floors of buildings! A will far more purposeful than brute hunting instinct was behind the attack or he was a mirror-bearer.
The destruction wrought by Assh and Frey was easily found, and Helsarn could scarcely keep the excitement from his face when the trail of the three soldiers was also located. He actually glanced casually away for fear of what would be seen in his eyes when he heard, ‘There’s someone with them, Captain.’
They had someone captive and they were going for the assassin! An inveterate schemer, an account quickly formed in his mind of Hagen’s murderer overpowered by the Citadel Guards who, sadly, arrived just too late to save the three brave soldiers left by the army captain. Due honour could be given to the army provided that due reward went to him – and his men.
His elation began to wane as the trail became harder to follow through the twisting stone-paved streets, and he was beginning to consider alternative schemes such as waiting for the return of the three men and their prisoner, when sounds of a gasping struggle drifted to him through the Ennerhald silence.
It took four of the Guards to drag the manic Jeyan from her prey and contain her. Finally, already drained as she was, a single blow rendered her unconscious. She received several others before she hit the ground and Helsarn had to intervene to prevent further harm coming to his prize.
Descriptions of Hagen’s assassin had varied considerably, all the witnesses’ views being radically distorted by the significance of the event, but a substantial number had referred to him as being lightly built and nimble, and to his having a scruffy, unkempt appearance. Helsarn noted that the figure lying at his feet could fit such a description, but he was genuinely puzzled when he compared the youth’s slight frame with the bulk of the desperately wounded soldier. Then one of his men removed the crude bandage from the man’s arm only to be sprayed with pumping blood before hastily retying it. So it had been a lucky knife thrust that had evened the odds, had it? But where were his companions? They wouldn’t have abandoned him with such a prisoner, surely? Perhaps, seeing the worth of his captive, the soldier had killed them… that was more likely, that’s where the knife wound had come from. His conviction grew as the soldier gasped out, ‘My prisoner!’ as soon as he recovered his voice, but subsequently faltered as the saga of Jeyan’s capture was hastily revealed. Not least because the telling was frequently punctuated with an all too genuine. ‘Dangerous, very dangerous, not what he looks like. Be careful.’
Helsarn made reassuring noises. ‘We’ll have to get you back to the Citadel and proper help. That wound’s bad.’ He shared a professional joke with the fading man, patting his shoulder in a comradely manner. ‘We don’t bother carrying field dressings when we’re on purging duty, do we?’ His men laughed and the injured soldier smiled faintly.
Still, there’s no point in hurrying, Helsarn thought. If he received help soon enough, this man might survive and that would present political problems with the army about the prisoner which were best avoided. Responding thus to his thoughts rather than his words, he affected to ponder something for a while then crouched down and asked, ‘Where are your comrades? We should find them. They may not be dead after all, they could just be wounded, like you.’
The soldier waved his good arm about vaguely and began muttering incoherently. Helsarn bent low over him, as though listening carefully, until the man slipped into unconsciousness.
‘Shall we look for these others, Captain?’ one of the men asked him as he stood up.
Helsarn glanced around and gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘They could be anywhere,’ he said. ‘It’s probably like he said, I doubt they’re in any better shape than he is, or they’d be here. We’ll get the army to look later. It’s their problem if they lose their own men anyway. Let’s get these two back to the Citadel.’ Indicating Jeyan’s body, he gave a grim warning to his troop. ‘This could be the one we’re after. Tie him up properly and watch him, but make sure he doesn’t get hurt any more. He’s the Gevethen’s. We deliver him to their table trussed and in good condition; how they carve him is their concern. We lose or damage him and…’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘If we’re lucky.’
Thus, when Jeyan groaned out of black and fevered nightmare into black and icy consciousness the following morning, she had few more extra bruises about her than when she had fallen to the Guards – not that that lessened the pain that was throbbing through her. She did not move, however; she always lay still when she woke to darkness – it was a long developed habit. For some time, confused images and thoughts spilled through her mind to tumble wildly amid the jabbing rhythms of her pain, urging her to thrash and scream, but still she did not move.
As some semblance of true consciousness began to emerge, her hand groped cautiously for a small hooded lantern that she always kept near to wherever she was lying. Her hand fell on cold damp stones. Only as she flinched away did it come to her that she did not know where she was. And following this, without the mercy of even a pause, the events of the immediate past crashed in upon her with agonizing clarity. A sickening terror filled her. The trembling that had never been far from her since she struck down Hagen, returned in full vigour. So fierce was it now that all semblance of control was torn away from her on the instant. It was as though some desperate spirit within her was seeking to end its pain by rending her frame utterly.
The duration of such racking cannot be measured by the moving of the sun and the beating of hearts; without beginning or end it is beyond and outside the lumbering progress of such crude contrivances. Yet their inexorable momentum cannot be denied and eventually the awful, buffeting tide receded, leaving Jeyan abandoned and empty save for a faint but all-pervasive tremor.
Where was she?
What had happened to her?
There was a dank coldness all about her and she was lying on her side on a hard, uneven surface. Carefully, and finding new pains with each movement, she eased herself on to her back and stared up into the blackness. Slowly, a hazy greyness appeared above her. For a while it seemed to be moving and changing shape but, gradually, as her eyes adjusted, it became still. It was a door grille.
Even as she stared at it, the greyness started to brighten and yellow. She blinked to reassure herself that this was not just another trick of her eyes in the darkness. It became brighter still. Unsteady, swinging streaks of light began to slice between the bars and sweep across damp stone walls. Oozing fungal blossoms glistened briefly – gross, winking eyes. Shadows leapt frantically from side to side unable to escape from the hanging array of calcified skeleton fingers and cobwebbed tendrils that pinioned them to a low-arched ceiling.
And with the light came sounds – footsteps, voices, the clattering of… arms?
Keys!
Almost before she realized what was happening, the grille had swung away from her to be replaced by a tall and widening slash of light, unbearably bright after the almost complete darkness. She lifted a hand to her eyes for protection and thus had only a fleeting impression of the figures who had brought the light.
‘It’s awake. And it’s not manacled!’ The harsh voice was as intolerably loud as the light was bright. There was also a startled urgency in it and immediately a weight pinned Jeyan to the floor while something was clamped tightly about her wrists. Then she was being dragged to her feet. Her legs, shaking and unnerved, would not support her however, and she slumped painfully to her knees unbalancing her captors. A blow and an oath followed, knocking her to the floor. She sensed another blow pending.
‘That’s enough,’ said a stern voice. ‘Pick him up and carry him if he can’t stand.’
‘Prisoners are my responsibility, Captain.’ There was venom in the word, ‘Captain’.
The voice softened dangerously. ‘Indeed they are, Under Questioner,’ it said, emphasizing Under. ‘And it’ll be you who explains to the Gevethen why this very particular prisoner was damaged before they had a chance to interrogate him in person.’
There was a tense silence, followed by some rebellious muttering then several hands dragged Jeyan to her feet once more. Of the journey that followed, she had only a vague, kaleidoscopic vision: her swinging manacled hands, her own stumbling feet between those of her escort, swaying lanterns and flickering torches, uneven stone steps, damp and lichened walls. And many doors, stout and studded with great bolts. And too, noises. People in pain. She shook her head so that the pounding in it would not let her hear.
Then she was gathering her faculties. Looking around she saw she was being marched along a passage which, though still oppressive and ill-lit, was wider than those she had just passed through. She was somewhere in the dungeons of the Citadel, she deduced; this conclusion only served to terrify her further.
The procession halted and there was a hiss of in-drawn breath and a nervous curse. The hands that had supported her so far now forced her down on to her knees. Those around her also knelt. She looked along the passage to see what had caused this sudden halt though she could make out nothing other than an eerie pattern of dancing lights and shadows some way ahead. As she tried to focus on them, a hand from behind forced her head down.
‘Don’t move, don’t speak unless you’re told to,’ the voice said fearfully. She had no urge to disobey, not least because the hands still gripping her were beginning to shake.
The shifting lights drew nearer, mottling and rippling across the stone floor like a moving mosaic. The hands holding her began to shake even more.
Then, two high-pitched, echoing voices spoke.
‘This is the one, Captain Helsarn…?’
‘… Captain Helsarn?’
‘I believe it could be, Excellencies, though I was not certain enough to disturb your Night Vigil. He and his two dogs killed and injured several soldiers in the Ennerhald and he is much stronger than his size indicates. We were bringing him to you now to know your pleasure.’
‘Pleasure?’ The two voices spoke at once – grating.
Jeyan felt the focus move from her briefly.
‘We know only the burden of office and duty…’
‘… and duty.’
‘To know your will, Excellencies,’ Helsarn clarified, a little too quickly.
The focus returned to Jeyan. Something touched her head. She squirmed away from it. There was a dark humourless chuckle.
‘He is strong is he, this cruel slayer of our right arm?’
‘Slayer of our valiant soldiers.’
Jeyan felt as though the voices were wrapping about her throat, choking her. The touch was on her head again, but this time she could not escape it. Something inside her was preventing her from moving. The touch became a hand. It stroked her matted hair as though she were a pet dog. The action repelled her but still she could not move. Then there was a hesitant pause in the hand and a brief stillness in the lights patterning the floor. Another hand was laid on her head, though this one was motionless, like a blessing, or, in truth, like a mockery of a blessing, for though it made no movement, it was as repellent as the first.
‘Ah…’
The humourless chuckle gurgled into the stale air again, and the two voices came together.
‘Stronger than you know, Captain. That which has wrought such hurt has indeed youth, but is not one.’
Both hands began to move.
‘Are you, woman…?’
‘… woman?’
‘What?’
Jeyan felt the violent start behind her even as she sank deep into herself at this exposure. She was vaguely aware of attention moving away from her again. Helsarn made no attempt to keep the fear from his voice.
‘Forgive me, Excellencies. You… your revelation… startled me. I… I… have not your vision. I…’ His words stumbled off into breathy silence.
The lights patterning the floor became absolutely still.
‘And too, she is indeed the slayer of our beloved Lord Counsellor. His blood is on her. His death perfume.’
Then, intimately, to Jeyan,‘A rare cloak you wear, child.’
The hands caressed her head.
‘You have done well, Captain. Unchain her and withdraw a pace.’
‘Excellencies, he… she is most dangerous. She’s responsible for the deaths of several men as well as Lord Hagen.’
‘Your concern moves us, Captain, but He guards His servants always.’
The Gevethen did not repeat orders and even as they were speaking, hands were fumbling with the manacles about Jeyan’s wrists. They vanished, but Jeyan could hear them rattling behind her as the Under Questioner struggled to stop his hands from shaking. She became aware of the mirror-bearers moving around her.
‘Let us look upon you, child…’
‘… child.’
Almost to her horror, Jeyan felt a slender thread of rage and hatred slithering sinuously through the roaring terror that was filling her. She was at their feet, alone save for the wretched mirror-bearers. And, whatever else they might be, the mirror-bearers were not warriors. The spirits of Assh and Frey seemed to possess her. One powerful leap, and rending hands and teeth could perhaps halve this loathsome pair. One brief desperate endeavour with all its attendant chances in this narrow, congested passage… a shard from a shattered mirror, a defender’s dagger carelessly held – and who could say what might be achieved? Assh and Frey were no more, and she herself was already one of the dead. Better she perish here in bloody, purposeful action than suffer the torments that were undoubtedly being prepared for her! But though the desire suffused her, hard and sharp in its intent, and crying out for release, no part of Jeyan would respond. It was as though her body were no longer her own. And indeed it was something other than her will that raised her head to look at the objects of her long hatred.
Like an unholy constellation, a score of pallid moon faces hovered above her, white hands gliding amongst them like lost birds. Watery eyes searched into hers. Loathing joined the hatred that was possessing her, screaming now at her impotence.
‘Ah…’The many heads nodded as the two voices grated together again. All the birds perched protectively on the shattered rings.
‘We hear your song.’
‘She is kin.’
‘She in one of us.’
‘She is ours.’
‘She is His…’
‘His.’
The birds were in flight again, beckoning. Jeyan’s legs straightened, unbidden. The many Gevethen swirled and twisted and then there were but two, side by reflecting side, in the lantern-lit passage. But fringing them was a multitudinous and bedraggled escort. As Jeyan looked at this scarecrow troop, fearsome staring eyes and gaping mouths turned to peer back at her. Only when the figures lifted their arms in reply to her own unintended salute did she recognize them as herself. She, who had stayed silent through her suffering since her capture, let out a small cry. The scarecrows reached to their own faces in sympathy.
Then the escort turned away. The Gevethen were leaving.
‘Follow us, child…’
‘… child.’
‘There is much to be learned…’
‘… to be learned.’
‘Follow.’