‘Douse that fire, quickly!’ Rachyl hissed, drawing her sword as she jumped to her feet. She placed herself in front of Ibryen, one hand extending the sword horizontally, the other held down by her side in a peculiarly protective attitude by the Traveller’s head.
‘No, leave it,’ the Traveller said urgently, before Ibryen could respond. He reached across the fire, seized the lantern and turned it up.
‘What are you doing?’ Rachyl mouthed furiously, snatching at the lantern with her free hand. ‘We’ll be seen!’
‘Precisely,’ the Traveller said, taking hold of Rachyl’s wrist and lifting the lantern high.
‘What?’ She yanked her hand free and for a moment seemed set to knock the little man to the ground. Ibryen came between them, his own sword drawn.
‘Who is it?’ he demanded of the Traveller.
‘I don’t know, Count,’ the Traveller replied. ‘But not your Gevethen, for sure. Nor anyone native to this part of the world.’ His face looked suddenly pained in the flaring lanternlight. ‘Or even to this time,’ he said softly, as if to himself.
‘No riddles, Traveller,’ Rachyl said grimly, brushing wind-blown hair from her face. ‘Any stranger in these mountains is an enemy.’
The Traveller waved an irritable hand at her then uttered a piercing, elaborate whistle. It vanished into the booming wind and he craned forward intently after it. Rachyl looked quickly and significantly at Ibryen, but he shook his head in reply and raised a finger to his lips. Rachyl scowled and returned to her search of the darkness with occasional glances at the Traveller.
‘Can you hear anything?’ Ibryen asked.
‘Can you?’ the Traveller replied, unexpectedly. Ibryen felt the voice penetrating deep into him, asking him many other questions than that in the words alone. Involuntarily, his eyes closed and almost immediately a desperate longing swept over him.
‘It’s here,’ he heard himself saying, hoarsely.
‘What?’ Rachyl’s voice seemed to be an unimaginable distance away.
‘Come back, Count.’
Ibryen staggered as though he had suddenly been snatched back to the blustering camp from some other place by the Traveller’s command. Rachyl seized his arm and held him firm, though her sword was still moving steadily through the darkness. ‘What the devil’s…’
‘Put your sword away, Rachyl,’ the Traveller said, cutting across her oath. ‘Are you all right, Ibryen?’
‘Yes,’ Ibryen replied, gently removing Rachyl’s hand. ‘But what’s happening?’
‘Journey’s end, I suspect,’ the Traveller said, though his tone was anxious and his manner uncharacteristically fretful. He turned back to the night and whistled again; this time it was so loud that Ibryen and Rachyl put their fingers to their ears. Again there was no reply that they could hear.
‘We’ll have to search for whoever it is,’ the Traveller said. He answered Rachyl’s protest before she made it. ‘I told you, it’s no enemy. No one lives in these mountains, and the Gevethen couldn’t have come here, could they?’ He looked at Ibryen for confirmation. ‘I think it’s who we’ve been looking for, but I fear he’s very weak. There was great desperation in that call we heard.’
‘What I just felt was more powerful than anything I’ve felt before,’ Ibryen said, uncertain about the implications of what he was saying.
‘Yes,’ the Traveller said, without elaborating, though the news seemed to make him more agitated.
Rachyl looked at the two of them. ‘You’re sure about this?’ she pressed the Traveller sternly.
‘Yes,’ he said again, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if having difficulty in restraining himself from plunging off into the darkness.
Reluctantly, and after a confirming glance at Ibryen. Rachyl sheathed her sword. ‘Turn that lantern down, then,’ she said, bluntly practical. ‘It won’t last much longer burning so high, and it’s destroying what night vision we’ve got. And it’s no use as a signal if whoever’s out there can’t get to it.’ She looked concerned. ‘I suppose we’ll have to leave one as it is, to mark the camp.’
The Traveller handed her the lantern. ‘You lower this, I’ll mark the camp,’ he said. While Rachyl adjusted the lantern and Ibryen sealed the tent, the Traveller stood looking at the rock in whose lee they had been sheltering. He seemed to be weighing alternatives for a little while, then he opened his mouth slightly and a sound like a distant bell filled the tiny camp. It lingered apparently unaffected by the noise all about them. ‘Remember this,’ he said, tapping his ear as he joined the others. ‘It’ll guide us back better than a light, and it should see the night out.’
Before anyone could question him, his fidgeting legs finally took charge of him and he was striding into the gloom.
‘Come back, damn you,’ Rachyl shouted after him. ‘We must stay together.’
He stopped with patent impatience.
‘I suppose you move in the dark like a bat, do you?’ Rachyl snapped as she and Ibryen reached him.
The Traveller grimaced. ‘Well, as a matter of fact…’
But Rachyl was not listening. She flicked an angry thumb towards Ibryen. ‘You might be lighter than he is, mountain man, but I’ve still got no desire to haul you back to the village over my shoulder just because you’ve gone sprawling. We go together, we go slowly and we go carefully. That way perhaps we might find this benighted whistler and be in a condition to help him. Do you understand?’
The Traveller bridled.
‘You go first, Traveller. Slowly. We must stay together,’ Ibryen said quickly, in a commanding but more conciliatory vein. ‘I’ll follow and, Rachyl, you take the rear with the lantern.’
Maintaining this file order they moved steadily up the mountain. The terrain became steeper and rockier but it was still negotiable without resorting to climbing. Once again, the Traveller demonstrated his uncanny knack of finding the easiest routes, though, on more than one occasion, Ibryen had to call out to him as he went too far ahead. Despite the fact that they were moving relentlessly away from their camp, both Ibryen and Rachyl found that the sound the Traveller had made was lingering with them. From time to time, Rachyl put a hand to her ear and looked over her shoulder with an expression of disbelief and bewilderment on her face.
As they moved higher, so the occasional patches of snow became more frequent until eventually everywhere was covered. Visibility improved a little as the snow caught the faint lantern-light, but progress slowed markedly.
‘I’m not sure this is wise,’ Rachyl said, as they paused briefly after a particularly treacherous scramble.
‘It’s very unwise,’ the Traveller replied. ‘But I don’t think we’ve any choice. I can hear only the faintest signs now.’ He turned away and whistled again, an unnaturally loud and penetrating sound that seemed to make the wind fall silent momentarily. Neither Rachyl nor Ibryen heard any reply, but the Traveller nodded urgently. ‘We must press on as fast as we can. I don’t think it’s much further now.
‘Wait a moment,’ Ibryen said, leaning back against a rock and putting a hand to his forehead. ‘Something’s wrong.’ Rachyl held up the lantern to see his face. It was haggard.
‘For mercy’s sake, what’s the matter?’ she gasped.
Ibryen shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I feel as if I’m in two places at once. I’m having to force my arms and legs to move, and my eyes to watch where I’m going. Even talking now, you keep slipping away from me.’ He gritted his teeth as if he were struggling with a great weight. ‘Everything is taking so much effort.’
Rachyl turned to the Traveller, her face a mixture of anger and fear. ‘What’s happening?’ she demanded.
Her anxiety mirrored itself in the Traveller’s face as he looked out into the darkness before replying.
‘What is there in this other place, Ibryen?’ he asked, with forced patience.
Ibryen gave a long, laboured shrug. ‘Only hurt. A feeling of failure – no, worse – a trust betrayed, an obligation abandoned.’ Recognition came into his face. ‘It’s grief – terrible grief.’ His eyes became distant.
‘Do something, for pity’s sake,’ Rachyl burst out.
‘Listen to me, Ibryen,’ the Traveller said, his voice soft but very powerful. ‘Hold to my words – their meaning and their sound. Tell me where you are now.’
There was a long pause. Rachyl took the Traveller’s arm anxiously. He patted her hand, though more as if he needed her support than in reassurance. Ibryen’s eyes cleared.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘On this mountain with you and Rachyl, and in this freezing wind.’
‘And?’
‘In the middle of the pain. Somewhere else. Somewhere that’s near here and yet impossibly far away.’
The Traveller took a deep breath. ‘You are whole, Ibryen. Don’t be afraid of your fear. The part of you that belongs here is here, and only here. That part of you that belongs elsewhere is untutored and unskilled but not without strength. Say to that which is in pain, what you would say to a grieving soldier who has fought to his limit, back to back, but lived where his companion died – you have not betrayed, you have not failed. You have done well and could not have done more. Go your way in peace and honour and without reproach. Help for your companion in this place is coming. You…’ He hesitated. ‘You must… return… to your own. Perhaps guide his true kin to us for his future needs.’ He took Ibryen’s arms and moved very close to him. ‘Say, in this way you will serve as you have always served, but release me now or you will be a burden.’
A violent gust of wind swept out of the night and buffeted the tiny group. At its height, Ibryen gave a slight cry. His hands jerked up to touch his face, shaking off the Traveller, who stepped back a few paces.
‘It’s gone,’ he said, his face clearing. Then, ‘Most of it, anyway.’ He looked at the Traveller. ‘A small part is still there, lingering. What the devil’s happening, Traveller? What was that?’
Untypically, the Traveller looked anxious and lost for an answer. ‘I think it was what I said. A grieving companion.’ He became urgent. ‘No more questions, not now. We must move on, quickly.’
‘Now, wait a minute…’ Rachyl began, seizing his arm.
‘No!’ the Traveller said with a force that made Rachyl start away from him. ‘Come now, or I go alone.’
‘You can’t…’
‘We’ve no choice now. Move.’ The Traveller hesitated. ‘If I go too fast, follow the sound I’ll leave you. Do you understand?’ He was clambering over the rocks before either Rachyl or Ibryen could reply. Rachyl started after him then stopped in angry frustration and turned back to Ibryen. ‘Are you all right?’
Ibryen motioned her forward after the retreating figure. ‘Yes,’ he said, as convincingly as he could manage. ‘It seems to have gone, truly. My head’s clearer than it’s been for days. Come on. Quickly. We mustn’t let him get too far ahead.’
They had gone scarcely twenty paces however before the Traveller had disappeared from view. Rachyl swore and promised him a violent end under her breath.
‘He wouldn’t have left us for any slight reason,’ Ibryen said. ‘Listen.’
From all around them, twisting and echoing in the wind, came more whistling. ‘We’re supposed to follow that?’ Rachyl snarled.
‘No,’ Ibryen replied. ‘I think that’s for whoever’s out there. At least we can follow his footsteps now.’
They pressed on, moving carefully over the snow-covered rocks, following the Traveller’s footprints. ‘Ye gods, he’s running,’ Rachyl said after a little way. ‘This isn’t a walking stride.’
Ibryen could do no other than agree. ‘I’ve not seen him breathless since we left the village and you can see it’s a strain for him to move at our speed. And he came across the Hummock, don’t forget. There’s far more to him than meets the eye.’
‘Oh yes,’ Rachyl replied quietly, in a tone that made Ibryen look at her strangely.
They continued in silence, following the lightly impressed footprints. ‘Well, at least we’ll have no difficulty in following our own footsteps back,’ Ibryen growled angrily as he slithered for the second time down a short rocky slope, throwing up a spray of snow.
Then, the faint bell-like tone that had been hovering about them since they left the camp, changed suddenly, becoming louder and more resolute. And it was ahead of them now, inviting them to follow it. They stopped and looked at one another uncertainly. Rachyl’s response was unexpected. ‘Under other circumstances, I could be very afraid of such a person,’ she said.
‘Under other circumstances, one can fear anything,’ Ibryen said tersely. ‘I think all we have to fear here is our own carelessness.’
They moved on again, heads bowed against the increasing wind, the Traveller’s strange beacon guiding them and Rachyl’s faint lantern bobbing in the stormy darkness to show the way. They did not speak.
Then they were at the entrance to a narrow cleft in the rock. The sound came from it with the purposefulness of an arrow. ‘Traveller!’ Ibryen called. There was no reply, but the sound quivered impatiently. Cautiously they moved forward into the cleft. It was scarcely wide enough for them to walk side by side.
Almost immediately, the noise of the wind faded and as they made their way carefully over the uneven ground, it became an echoing moan, a resonant summation of the clattering din outside, rising and falling to a rhythm of its own, now a soft whistling, now an ominous tolling, sometimes an angry clamour. Disconcerting as the change was, the comparative stillness in the cleft was a marked improvement on the battering they had been struggling against since they left the camp, and both of them straightened up with some relief. The absence of the wind also made them feel much warmer.
The Traveller’s guiding note wound through the uneasy soughing like a silver thread, drawing them steadily on, and their progress was helped by the fact that there was very little snow underfoot. They had been walking for some time when Rachyl took Ibryen’s arm and pointed. There was a faint light ahead of them. As they drew nearer they saw that it was coming from the mouth of a cave. No sooner had they reached it than the sound faded. Ibryen was about to step inside when Rachyl, sword drawn and lantern extended, moved in front of him.
‘I’m sorry I got so far ahead.’
The Traveller’s apology greeted them. He was kneeling some way from the entrance. Balanced on a rock nearby was what appeared to be a small lantern, giving off a light which caused both Rachyl and Ibryen to shield their eyes. The Traveller reached out and the light became dimmer. Lying on the ground beside him was a figure, wrapped in a white blanket.
‘Who is it?’ Rachyl asked, wide-eyed as she sheathed her sword and knelt by the Traveller. The blanket shrouding the figure was wrapped tightly, leaving only a lean, pale face exposed. A curved nose and prominent cheek-bones gave the face a birdlike, but stern appearance.
‘Is he dead?’ Ibryen asked.
The Traveller shook his head. ‘It’s who we’ve been looking for,’ he said. ‘And no, he’s not dead, but he’s very weak. He was mumbling a moment ago, then he drifted off.’
‘But who is he?’ Rachyl was testing the material wrapping the man between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I’ve never seen cloth like this,’ she digressed. ‘It’s very soft but it’s got an odd feel to it. And how’s it been wrapped around him like this? He couldn’t have done it himself.’
‘Did you hear what he said?’ The question came out arbitrarily from the bewildering flood that was swirling through Ibryen’s thoughts. At the same time, his hand was pursuing Rachyl’s inquiry. As he took hold of the fabric, the Traveller seized his wrist with great urgency.
‘No!’
But even as it was spoken, the word was distant and faint and all about him was whiteness and longing. Like old memories, faint images of panoramas flickered into his mind; images made strange by the vantage from which he could see them, though they did not linger long enough for him to be able to identify them. Yet they were not just like old memories, theywere old memories. But whose? And of what?
The whiteness trembled. From deep within, a knowledge told him he should not be here so totally, that to be here thus was to bring extinction to that part of him which was Ibryen. Familiar but forgotten, white woven threads drifted down to him, but he could not grasp them.
‘Let me go,’ he heard himself calling silently, then he spoke as the Traveller had told him to previously. ‘You’ve done all that you could do. You’ve neither failed nor betrayed. Go to your own now and rest as you deserve. Find his true kin. We will tend him here.’
Doubt filled him.
Then, with an authority he did not understand he commanded, ‘Go. Release him. And release me also so that we can help him.’
The doubt wavered and the elusive dancing threads twisted and turned about him. As he reached for them he found that they were sounds – voices.
‘Ibryen, Ibryen!’
He was kneeling by the strange figure again, the fabric slipping from his fingers and the Traveller’s unexpectedly powerful grip about his wrist. The Traveller’s voice was echoing around the cave, calling his name. What drew his attention however, was the stark fear in the little man’s face.
‘I was right,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You are…’ He did not finish the sentence. Instead, he released Ibryen and took hold of the material and spoke to both his companions. ‘This is Culmaren,’ he said, his voice soft and full of awe. ‘The material, the plant, the… creature… that’s the very substance of the cloudlands that the Dryenvolk dwell in. That lives both here and in the worlds beyond. That is many parts and a whole. And, if I’m any judge, this is dead, or almost so. I’ve never heard of such a thing.’ He stared at Ibryen. ‘How did you come back?’ he asked.
Ibryen stammered. ‘You… you… called me,’ he said.
The Traveller shook his head. The fear had been replaced by bewilderment. ‘Yes, but that wasn’t what brought…’
‘Be quiet!’ Rachyl’s command cut across the faltering reply, making the Traveller start. She was bending over the motionless figure, her hand raised for silence. ‘He’s trying to say something.’
The Traveller placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned forward, bringing his head next to hers. The figure muttered something then fell silent. Rachyl shook her head, but the Traveller sat back and leaned against the cave wall.
‘Well?’ Ibryen asked.
‘I only caught a couple of words,’ the Traveller said. ‘They didn’t mean anything, but he is Dryenvolk. Give me a moment.’ He closed his eyes and turned his face away to compose himself. Ibryen watched him unhappily. It was some time before he spoke and then there was an undertow of agitation in his voice. ‘He couldn’t ever have been anything other than Dryenvolk. Everything pointed to it. But it’s still a shock to find him here. Conjecturing in your Council Hall is one thing. Even growing more certain as we drew nearer…’ He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘But actually seeing him… how can it be? How can a Dryenwr be down here, in the middle depths? And wrapped in Culmaren.’
‘Whatever he is and however he came here, doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Rachyl said, impatiently practical. ‘We’d better decide what we’re going to do to help him.’ She looked at the Traveller. ‘My healing skill’s confined to stopping gashes from bleeding and strapping up damaged limbs well enough to get people safely back to the village. And Ibryen’s precious little better. Do you know what’s wrong with him? Can you help him?’
The Traveller grimaced. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t dare unwrap the Culmaren, it seems to be almost part of him. I could only check some of his pulses, and they’re weak.’
‘We can’t just stand by and do nothing if he’s ill,’ Rachyl insisted. ‘And we can’t take him back to the tent in the dark without some kind of a stretcher. Still less back to the village.’
‘There’d be no point taking him back to the tent, anyway,’ Ibryen said. ‘There’s scarcely room for us and he’s not small. At least he’s out of the wind here and it’s fairly dry.’ His hand hovered uncertainly over the white fabric, then pulled away. ‘Why didn’t you unwrap this… blanket?’
‘I told you,’ the Traveller replied. ‘The Dryenvolk have a strange bond with the Culmaren. And it has healing properties, I think. I’ve heard it said that the Dryenvolk use it with weave and voice to cure all manner of ailments.’
‘Well, we’re not Dryenvolk, are we?’ Ibryen said. ‘Nor are we likely to come across any. He’s the centre of all the strangeness that’s drawn us here. You said his pulses are weak. If you know anything about healing, you must do something. He might be dying. We can’t just sit around and watch.’
‘But…’
‘Traveller, we came on this journey for answers – each of us. But there are only questions here. We must…’ He stopped, and his hand hovered hesitantly over the fabric again. A pattern was beginning to form. ‘What you’ve been hearing has been growing weaker, what I’ve been… feeling… has been growing stronger – almost taking possession of me at times.’ He frowned as the pattern became a realization. ‘If this exists here and beyond – wherever beyond is – then its existence here must be finished. It’s just clinging on. Lost, bewildered.’
His jaw stiffened as if he were preparing for a clash of arms, and, eyes wide, he reached out and gripped a handful of the fabric resolutely. The whiteness and the longing closed about him again and he felt its seductive power trying to draw him to its heart. There was no malice in it but he knew that to succumb would be to lose himself for ever. With a grim effort he forced his eyes to stay open, focusing them on the lean face of the Dryenwr. Then he took hold of the fabric with his other hand also and spoke into the whiteness as he had before.
‘Release him. Your work is done. You hinder us in ours and he may die. We will tend him while you seek out his kin. Go now!’
The longing increased, but Ibryen kept his gaze fixed on the Dryenwr’s face. No more could be said, no more would be said. Then, abruptly, the longing and the whiteness and everything about it was gone. Ibryen was aware of something vast fading into an unknowable distance, a haunting cry tailing after it. For a long moment, though he knew himself to be in a mountain cave with his companions, feeling the coldness on his face and hands, and the rocky ground hard on his knees, with the moaning wind echoing around him, he was also alone in another place, alone in a ringing emptiness. The one he knew, the other was strange beyond anything he had ever imagined. Yet he belonged to both.
He released the fabric, then, though he could not have said how, brought himself to the world he knew, as simply and easily as if he were passing over a friend’s threshold. The Traveller took his arm anxiously.
‘I’m fine,’ he said anticipating the question. ‘We’ll talk later. Look after the Dryenwr.’ He stood up and moved away.
Tentatively, the Traveller eased part of the fabric from the man’s face, then he nodded to Rachyl to help him. Carefully they began unwinding the blanket. As they removed it, a tall and muscular figure was revealed, clad in what was obviously a uniform, pale grey in colour with various ornate markings about the breast and on the arms. In his hand was a sword. Though the man’s uniform was immaculate and the sword polished and bright, its edge was hacked and scarred. The Traveller turned up his lantern. Its light flickered brilliantly from the sword to dance about the cave.
‘Warrior caste,’ he said, running a finger across one of the markings. ‘And a high-ranking officer at that, I’d say.’
Rachyl looked at the Dryenwr critically for a moment. ‘A fighter for sure,’ she said flatly, ‘if it was he who did the damage to the edge of that sword.’ Cautiously she took it from his hand and placed it on the ground, then she briskly folded the blanket and, kneeling down, laid it gently back over him with an oddly maternal gesture.
The Dryenwr’s eyes opened.