Ibryen

Chapter 4

Chapter 4Every part of Jeyan cried out for continued flight. She wanted to run and run until Hagen’s corpse, the Guards, the city, this whole damned land was far behind her. But, well away from the scene of the murder now, she forced herself to slow to a walk as she emerged from an alleyway into the busy street. The two dogs, Assh and Frey, who had been running ahead, slowed without turning round. Long-developed habit made Jeyan slouch and lower her head to take on the semblance of one of the many indigent street-dwellers that littered the city. But it was difficult. Her whole body was shaking violently and she felt as though her inner turmoil must surely be resounding through the afternoon crowd like a clarion, drawing all eyes towards her. Grimly she made herself stand still for a moment while she stared at the ground, nudging a mound of rubbish with her foot, as though searching for something. Her passion and hatred had done their part in giving her the courage to stare into the face of that creature, Hagen, and slay him — her shaking increased at the recollection — but now her wits must ensure her escape. And running was not the way. Running was the way that would indeed draw all eyes, and hence the Guards, to her. She allowed herself to start walking again, carefully maintaining her slovenly posture. At the same time she signalled to the dogs to move away. They obeyed immediately, Assh surreptitiously trotting ahead and busying himself sniffing amongst the piles of refuse that lined the street, and Frey dropping back and crossing to the other side to do the same. Though they were soon weaving casually through the passers-by, Jeyan knew they would be watching and listening, waiting for her least signal. She, in her turn, was listening for the sounds of pursuit or, worse, for the sounds of the street purging that must surely follow what she had done. In the shivering chill that followed the heat of her slaughter of Hagen, colder counsels were emerging from time to time. Much more than a street purging would follow on such a deed. How many innocent people had she condemned with her act? What trials had she unleashed on the city?

She gritted her teeth. No more than the city deserved, she thought. Hadn’t the city stood by, timid and compliant, when her parents were hounded with lies and petty persecutions before finally being selected for trial and execution? Trial — the word made her want to spit — what an obscenity! All the forms and procedures, full of dignity and pomp, glibly displayed to cover and at once reveal the Gevethen’s grinding cruelty. But that was the way they ruled — paying obsessive attention to the superficial details of the Law, while wilfully corrupting its very heart. Turning it into just another subtle instrument of torture and so tainting it that even if the Count should return, he would find its ancient face disfigured beyond repair.

There would be plenty of trials after today’s work. Jeyan had known this from the moment she began to contemplate it, but it was of no concern to her. Only by the merest chance had she been absent from her parents’ home when the Citadel Guards came... and it was the cowardly response of her erstwhile ‘friends’ that had set her on the inexorable way to today’s deed. One after another, once welcoming doors had remained implacably shut against her tearful pleadings as, frantic, she had gone searching for help. Angry voices had spurned her, threats had been made to hold her for the Guards, dogs had been set upon her. The greatest kindness she had received that day had been a loaf of bread thrust through a briefly opened shutter, and even that had been accompanied by a fearful, whispered injunction to go at once, to flee the city.

And there had been little kindness or help since, so frightened were the people. For once the Count had been swept aside and his remaining followers silenced, the secret denunciation had become the Gevethen’s most insidious weapon. So pervasive had it become that spouse feared spouse, parents feared children, each feared his neighbour. Where there had been debate and laughter, there was now sullen silence. Where there had been warm and open faces there were now suspicious, uneasy glances. Even the least whisper seemed to reach the ears of the Gevethen, and the whisperer would be pursued and brought to account. There would be a well-rehearsed public trial, or the offender would simply be no more...

Those who saw the Guards marching at night turned their faces away.

Yet Jeyan had survived. She had eaten the loaf while softly cursing the giver, then, with the vague idea that perhaps she might meet survivors from the m******e of the Count’s followers, she had fled into the Ennerhald: the labyrinth of crooked streets, broken buildings and crumbling cellars that were the remains of the old city from which grew Dirynhald. She had found only such as herself there however, together with those who had no place under either the Count’s rule or the Gevethen’s — petty thieves and pathetic rogues and others whose grasp on the direction of their lives was, at best, tenuous.

For a little while, as the daughter of one of the Count’s staunchest allies, she had found herself the focus of a group who talked boldly about rising up and ridding the land of the Gevethen. She was no longer alone. Hope blossomed again. But just as her father’s name drew this band about her, so too it drew the attention of the Gevethen and soon a whispering betrayer brought the Citadel Guards upon them. Jeyan’s revolutionaries had neither the stomach nor the skill for such a conflict, and those who had not fled, had died.

It was the final severing of Jeyan from her former life... a terrible, learning time.

Shortly afterwards, half-crazed at the destruction of this, her second family, she crossed another awful threshold by killing the betrayer. She gave him neither warning nor mercy and he had Gevethen coins in his mouth when he was found. Tales began to circulate of a wild, vengeful spirit that flitted through the night shadows of Dirynhald. A spirit that was as cruel as the Gevethen themselves.

By a dark irony, it was this notoriety that made those involved in the soft, silent network of opposition to the Gevethen reluctant to pursue their search for her.

From then on, Jeyan had walked alone, living by the harsh code of the Ennerhald, watching, listening, lying, stealing, and making only such acquaintances as need dictated. And Ennerhald society, like any other, having its own hierarchy, she also learned to defend herself against those who would have preyed on her. She became horribly proficient with the knife she carried — agile and fast but, worst of all, quite without hesitation. She was greatly feared.

Not that she was even aware of the opinions of others for, above all other things, her thoughts were dominated by a single vision — a vision of the Gevethen, dead, and dead by her hand. She nurtured it obsessively. Only the rumours and, later, the knowledge that the Count had survived and was in the mountains with many of his followers, prevented her from sinking into rambling insanity.

Now the obsession and the skills and the temper that the Ennerhald had bred in her had come together and set her on the road to attaining that vision. And she had taken that first simple, practical and bloody step with relish. She had struck a blow close to the Gevethen’s heart. It was a rehearsal for a future event. Consequences were irrelevant.

Rain began to fall, a few large drops heralding a spring downpour as the clouds that had been lowering over the city all day abruptly released their charge. The pace of the street changed and, with considerable relief, Jeyan took the opportunity to change her shambling gait to one more matching her mood. It carried her through the now bustling crowd without remark. The two dogs went their own way; in so far as they were noted at all, they were assiduously avoided.

Then Jeyan was gone from view. It would have taken a keen observer to note her action, as she disappeared down an opening that gaped in front of a derelict building. Free of the public gaze at last, she slipped nimbly under the stone steps that led down from the street and, wriggling through a hole in the wall, scarcely visible in the gloom, resorted again to outright flight.

Sharp eyes and practised but cautious feet carried her through a confusion of dank and disused cellars, lit only by occasional shafts of light which struggled through long-forgotten windows and gratings, and the holes and cracks that years of neglect had brought to the wooden floors above. Such slight sound as she made was well-hidden by the incessant dripping and splashing of the rainwater which found its way into the darkness through a myriad more devious and destructive routes.

Once or twice she caught a glimpse of other shadowy figures moving through this twilight world but she paid them no heed, nor they her, save to avoid her.

Away from the open street and moving at her own pace through ever more familiar terrain, Jeyan’s trembling began to abate. A cloak of unreality still hung about her however, as the enormity of what she had actually done seeped into her.

Hagen dead!

And by her hand!

The Gevethen’s cruellest lieutenant no more.

How many murdered innocents had she avenged today? Hundreds... thousands? It didn’t matter. He was gone.

Abruptly she stopped. Alone in the darkness she found herself searching for a flicker of regret, remorse. But the only regret she could truly feel was that Hagen’s death had been so quick, so merciful. Worse, it had been banal and ordinary, just like that of any other man — now alive and thinking himself so for ever — now gone, all fears faced, all fleshly needs and ills ended, all ambitions dust. His face had shown only surprise and... irritation.

Rage filled her. Irritation! He should have suffered more. He should have been harrowed as he harrowed others, should have felt himself dying slowly from the inside out as his victims did, felt his screams choking him because he was too afraid to utter them.

Her victory was not enough.

She swore under her breath and clenched her teeth. She was rambling, thinking thoughts such as these. It was sufficient that he was dead. It was sufficient that the people would know that the authority the Gevethen vested in him and which, in his arrogance, he had deemed to be a shield against all ills, had failed him. It was sufficient too that the Gevethen would know that. Would know that their protection was imperfect, that a random stone might unshoe a horse and bring down a king.

She took out the knife and gripped it tightly until her arm ached. Would that she could come within arm’s reach of them as well.

The moment was cathartic, and as it passed she felt much calmer, although a faint tremor still seemed to be shaking her whole person — body and mind. She sheathed the knife and set off again.

Within a short while she came to a place where the floor above had collapsed completely. The destruction was old. Well-established bushes and shrubs now grew out of the cellar floor and swathes of grasses and climbers festooned the ramps of rubble and broken timbers that partly filled the opening. The rain had stopped but the air was filled with an elaborate tattoo as the vegetation above continued to shed the water that it had intercepted.

Despite the gloomy sky, the area seemed unusually bright after the darkness of the cellars and, as was her normal habit, Jeyan waited, silent and still, all senses alert until she was quite satisfied that nothing was to be seen, heard, or felt there that should not be. Then she clambered through the dripping foliage and, pausing again to reassure herself further that all was safe, she emerged into the remains of one of the buildings that lay at the fringe of the Ennerhald. Around her were the decaying remains of the roof and floors that had collapsed many years before. Like the debris in the cellar they were scarcely recognizable under the vegetation that was repossessing the site.

From here, Jeyan moved through a large and spacious hall. Who could say what it might once have been?

Banqueting Hall, Meeting Hall, Court? Perhaps it was not even part of the old city, for, just as the Gevethen rotted Dirynhald society from within, so people edged nervously away from the unsettling presence of the Ennerhald and thus it spread outwards, slowly but relentlessly encroaching on the city that had supplanted it. Now, whatever its past, the roofless building, its stained and lichened walls perforated by circular openings and pocked with holes where floor and roof beams had once rested, was just a chasm — another way from here to there; its only significance now as a quick escape route — should need arise.

Vaulting through a window, Jeyan glanced from side to side quickly, then straightened up. All around were other, smaller buildings, all decaying. Here and there some had collapsed across the narrow street, while others leaned forward as though to whisper profundities to their neighbour opposite, and were actually touching one another. They formed bizarre arcades. Once the Ennerhald had been as distant from her life as the moon, but now it was her land. Here, the Gevethen’s writ faltered, whether by design or through indifference did not matter. Here no Citadel Guards, no soldiers, strutted and brutalized, no officials of the new order wove their endless webs of petty regulations to control the every deed of every individual. The only enemies here would be her own kind, and few of those troubled her now.

As she walked along, she put her fingers to her mouth and gave a loud but very short whistle. The sound bounced sharply from wall to wall, stirring the silence. Somewhere a bird fluttered up in alarm. Within a few moments, Frey and Assh appeared, one bounding through a window, the other sneaking up silently, belly low, behind her. Jeyan knelt down and embraced them. Tails wagging, they nuzzled her. These were allies that she could truly trust. Their damp fur stank but Jeyan was a long way from being disturbed by unpleasant smells now.

‘Well done,’ she whispered passionately. ‘Well done. Tonight we’ll celebrate. We’ll eat.’

It was some time before she reached her destination. She had, in fact, many places which she had made suitable for living in, and many other places which she knew to be safe from anything other than the most determined search. Today however, she had chosen the one she liked the most, the one she was inclined to call home and where she preferred to spend most of her time. It was situated at the southernmost edge of the Ennerhald, farthest from the city. Just as the Ennerhald at its opposite end seemed to be encroaching on the city, so here the forest that ran south towards the mountains also seemed intent on repossessing its ancient terrain. The strange atmosphere that pervaded the deserted city became eerie and watchful here as root and branch did their work, and man-made shapes gradually crumbled or disappeared under foliage and vegetation.

Further south, the forest was bounded by a fast-moving and dangerous river that tumbled violently out of the mountains. Further south still, the empty land that lay between the river and the mountains was regularly patrolled by the Gevethen’s army for fear that the Count might perhaps seek to ford the river and move through the forest to attack the city. But the forest, like the Ennerhald itself was ignored — or avoided.

At one time, Jeyan had considered moving into the forest completely, but she rejected the idea. While perhaps it might have been safer, it would have provided an even more alien and isolated existence than the one she now had; also, there would have been a feeling of desertion, treachery almost, in abandoning the city completely; she could see no life ahead of her that did not involve active opposition to the Gevethen. As it was, she had acquired enough forest lore to trap the occasional animal or bird, and forage roots and fruit to carry her over those times when a street purging or a curfew or some other activity that brought unusual numbers of Citadel Guards on to the streets, made venturing into the city to steal food too dangerous.

Her chosen sanctuary was in the centre of a long block of buildings that had once perhaps been dwelling houses, though there was so little in common between the architecture of the Ennerhald and that of Dirynhald that few could have argued the point. Certainly the buildings were unusual: a motley arrangement of unsymmetrical roofs covered them while inside was to be found a seemingly incoherent mixture of large and small rooms, set at many levels and joined by twisting stairways and winding corridors. Some of the rooms reached up through two and more storeys to disappear into the elaborate roof space, some had curved and undulating walls, while others were rigorously straight. Here and there the faint remains of huge wall paintings could be made out and cold-eyed carvings of both people and outlandish creatures guarded unexpected places. Not that the history of the buildings or their builders concerned Jeyan. It was sufficient that parts could be made warm and dry and that they had many entrances and exits which could be well disguised.

Before she slipped through the bushes that were growing out of an opening in the wall, she routinely looked to see if a particular loose branch had been disturbed. It never had been in the past, but that did not prevent her from always checking. Then she sent the dogs in. Branch or no branch, if someone more cunning than she had gained access then they could debate their cleverness with Assh and Frey first. She heard the dogs scuttling around noisily, sniffing as though they had never been there before, then they ran back out to her. All was well.

Later, as night rolled over the forest and into the Ennerhald, Jeyan pondered the day. Dried from the soaking she had received earlier, and warmed by the food she had eaten, she had expected to feel replete and relaxed, able to stretch out like the two dogs, and rejoice in what she had achieved. But no ease came. Instead, a shadow of the trembling that had possessed her as she fled from the city, remained. Its buzzing insect persistence filled her entire body, keeping her restless and tense, almost as though a thunderstorm was pending.

Perhaps one was, she thought. Regrets at what she might have unleashed flickered briefly again at the edges of her mind, but were overshadowed by both a cold satisfaction and the simple survivor’s acceptance that what was done was done, for better or worse. All that mattered were the consequences for herself.

Consequences.

Now there would be change. The whole structure would have been shaken. Not damaged beyond repair, by any means — there would be others to take Hagen’s place — but where change existed, so did chance, and so did opportunity. But so too did danger. None of the crowd would have recognized her, of that she was sure, and most would have presumed her to be a man. But word must inevitably reach the Gevethen that Hagen’s killer was a street creature, and from that it would be but a step to presume that she hailed from the Ennerhald. The only question that remained was how determinedly would the Gevethen seek out the murderer of their closest and most able counsellor. Forays into the Ennerhald had been made in the past, but its winding streets and innumerable buildings and hiding places would have absorbed an army far larger than the Gevethen’s city companies, and rarely had such ventures yielded anything other than a handful of pathetic souls too feeble or witless to run.

But this time, it would be different. This time, vengeance would be sought.

The trembling threatened to return. Out of hard-learned habit, Jeyan used it to bring herself to her feet and, snuffing out two of the candles that illuminated her adopted sanctuary, she moved across the room to the pile of blankets that served as a bed. As she sat down, she clicked her fingers and the two dogs woke immediately and looked at her, ears pricked. She beckoned them and embraced them when they came to her.

‘We must be careful, dogs. More than ever. Watch and listen. Smell them coming.’

Assh yawned and Frey scratched herself and, with a final squeeze, Jeyan dismissed them. Both of them slumped down alongside her. The physical contact with the dogs was important to her. If only she could be as they were, she thought, lying back. Unaware of the future, and probably the past, also. Responding only to the needs of the moment. Now awake, now asleep; now fierce, now quiet. Their calm seeped into her. The single, tiny candle that remained reduced her world to a small domed enclave surrounded by darkness. For a moment, memories of times long gone returned. Times when the world was not only safe but inviolable, when the only danger was an angry look from a loving parent. Once, such memories used to make her weep. Then she had learned to sneer at her youthful naivety. Now she felt only anger and sadness.

And again, hatred for those who had brought this about. As it did almost every night, her vision of the Gevethen perishing at her hand returned to soothe all ills and to sustain her. Tonight, it was more intense than ever. Jeyan was more like her dogs than she knew; she had tasted her prey’s blood and she wanted more.

As she felt sleep overtaking her, she reached out and extinguished the remaining candle.

Across the room, resting on a makeshift table, lay a small mirror which she had stolen one day — hardship had not laid vanity fully to rest. For a brief moment, the blackness that the mirror reflected shifted and changed. When it stilled, staring out from the mirror, cold and unblinking, was a solitary watery eye.