Ryllans seized Arwain to stop him falling from the saddle, at the same time searching through the milling crowd to see who had thrown the rock and whether more were likely to follow.
The rest of the platoon closed in around him rapidly, while the Whendreachi guards, drawing short staves, charged into the noisiest group of youths, scattering them briefly.
Like skirmishers, however, the youths merely dodged and weaved between the horses and the flailing weapons, and whenever opportunity presented itself, stood their ground to throw more stones and other missiles at the platoon and its escort.
It took Ryllans little time to realize that they were in considerable danger. Except for himself and Arwain, the platoon was unarmed, which effectively left them only with their horses as weapons. But the street was crowded not only with attacking youths but also many other people who were obviously innocent of any ill intent; indeed some had already been injured by the indiscriminately thrown stones. If he led the platoon out at the charge, many people would be badly hurt and, in any event, he was not sufficiently familiar with the city to know which would be the best way to flee.
A screaming woman, with blood running down her face, bumped into his horse to emphasize his dilemma.
He looked around again and, somewhat to his relief, saw that the Whendreachi guards seemed to be familiar with this type of problem. After their initial charge they were working in groups to pick out and deal with individual offenders. This tactic not only lessened the intensity of the assaults, but made the guards the new focus as the youths sought to rescue their compatriots.
'This way!’ an officer shouted to Ryllans. He was pointing to a narrow alleyway nearby. Instinctively, Ryllans looked up at the rooftops for would-be ambushers, but the officer shouted again more insistently.
A figure surged from between two horses and grabbed at Ryllans in an attempt to unhorse him. For his pains he received a snakelike flick of the Mantynnai's fingers across the end of his nose which sent him reeling backwards, howling in pain, but uninjured.
The next assailant was treated less charitably and caught the heel of Ryllans’ thrusting boot squarely on the jaw. He collapsed without a sound.
Others among the platoon were dealing similarly with such of the youths as reached them, and a degree of reluctance was beginning to show itself in their attackers. It was no victory however: the youths merely fell back and increased their stone-throwing.
'Hurry. Follow me,’ the Whendreachi officer shouted urgently, riding into the alleyway. ‘My men will form a rearguard. We can reach the other street before they can get around.'
Still supporting Arwain, Ryllans rode after him, and the rest of the platoon followed. The alleyway was barely wide enough for two horses to ride side by side, and Ryllans had to lean forward awkwardly to support Arwain as they clattered along it. Shouts and screams followed after them.
The street they entered at the far end was quieter, and such people as were there seemed to offer no threat, though seeing the horsemen emerge from the alleyway at speed, several of them began to scurry away, obviously in anticipation of trouble. Ryllans handed Arwain to one of his comrades as he checked the rest of the platoon leaving the alleyway.
All arrived safely without serious injury, though there were several with cuts and bruises. He noted, however, that several of the Whendreachi guards were missing.
'Your men?’ he said, catching the officer's arm as he rode by.
'They'll keep them occupied for a while,’ the officer replied. ‘Don't worry, they're used to this kind of thing. And the Watchguards will be along soon. But we must keep moving.’ He nodded towards the bleeding Arwain. ‘We can't stop to look at your man. Just keep him in his saddle and follow me.'
He made no further delay but galloped off immediately, beckoning Ryllans to follow.
As they swung to the left at the end of the street, a group of youths came running from the right.
This time, seeing his attackers clearly, and unhindered by passers-by, Ryllans led a group of the Mantynnai wide and scattered them without losing speed. The Whendreachi officer gave him a wave of thanks.
There were no further incidents as they galloped through the city, but it was apparent to Ryllans that the officer was avoiding the larger streets. Despite the urgency of their flight, he noted that many of the buildings they passed were similar in style to those in the Moras district, although they were clean and well maintained. He felt an incongruous twinge of regret that he had not been able to spend more time looking at the famous Whendreachi architecture.
As they neared the gate, it became clear that, though rapid, their pace had not been rapid enough; a crowd was already gathering. And people were arriving from every direction. Again they were mainly youths, though Ryllans saw several older men among them, and many were wearing the grey uniform that Garren and his supporters had worn. A small force of guards was struggling to keep the gate open.
The officer swore softly to himself. ‘We'll do our best,’ he said to Ryllans. ‘But I can't guarantee your safety.’ There was anger in his eyes as he looked at Ryllans. ‘You'll understand what it costs me to say this, soldier. These are my people and my problem, and we neither want nor need you here. But do what you have to do to survive if we can't hold them for you. Try not to kill anyone if you can avoid it.'
Ryllans nodded. ‘Triple file, and trot,’ he shouted to the platoon. ‘Follow the guards and defend yourselves as needed. Minimum effective force.'
As they moved forward, Ryllans jumped from his horse on to Arwain's and, pushing him forward, covered him with his own body.
The crowd began shouting and throwing stones as they drew near and the group trying to shut the gate increased its efforts.
Unexpectedly, the Whendreachi officer signalled a halt and then walked his horse forward a little way.
Ryllans, fearing treachery, discreetly positioned himself to draw his sword quickly and to lead his men through at the charge.
The officer conspicuously returned his staff to its loop on his saddle, then he held up his hand for silence. The stone-throwing stopped and the shouting began to die down.
'These people are official representatives of Duke Ibris of Serenstad,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘They're here unarmed, bar two of them, in strict accordance with both the letter and the spirit of the treaty. They're entitled under our law to courtesy and safe passage.’ The crowd grew quieter, as the majority tried to hear what he was saying. Their general demeanour, however, was still hostile and abusive.
Someone gave a cry of command and the group by the gate began trying to close it again.
The officer stood in his stirrups and pointed to the group. Then, in a voice that had obviously rung out across many training yards, and through which a marked Whendreachi accent was breaking, he bellowed, ‘Shut that if you want, but be advised. If you do, we'll have no alternative but to hand our weapons to the Serens so that they can fight their way out. And whatever they do to you will then have the sanction of our law and the treaty. It's your choice.'
The group around the gate faltered. Some stood back, though others began redoubling their efforts to close it, jeering and catcalling raucously as they did. The officer gave a resigned shrug and casually drew his sword. He nodded towards Arwain. ‘You surprise me,’ he said. ‘This man here wasn't struck down by some hero. He was hit by a stone, as were several passers-by.’ Carefully he took hold of the blade of his sword with his left hand and, holding the hilt forward, glanced around at Ryllans’ men as if looking for someone to whom he could hand it. ‘I think you should know, however, that stone throwing will be no defence against these men. They're less than pleased at being attacked for no reason, and many of them are Mantynnai; you know … Viernce.’ He paused briefly to allow the significance of the words to sink in. ‘So if you wish to lock yourselves in with them, armed and angry and with free rein to do whatever they have to to defend themselves, then feel free. It'll save me and my men a great deal of trouble.'
The crowd fell completely silent, and the group by the gate thinned still further, some of them now actively dragging others away.
Seeing the opportunity in the lull, the gate guards moved quietly forward, and opened a passage through the crowd. There was no resistance.
The officer sheathed his sword and motioned the platoon forward. Cautiously, Ryllans moved back on to his own horse. But the balance of mood within the crowd was almost palpable. A careless gesture now could tip them over into riot regardless of what individuals among them might think about tackling the Mantynnai.
'Eyes front,’ he ordered calmly and formally. ‘Walk.'
As he passed the officer standing in the gateway, he saluted him but did not speak. The officer returned the salute. The only sound to be heard was the leisurely clatter of the horses’ hooves on the stone roadway.
Then they were all through the gate. The palace guards closed in quietly behind them, blocking the gateway with their horses while the members of the platoon began quickly recovering their weapons from the gatehouse.
For the first time Ryllans was able to examine Arwain's injury. There was quite a lot of blood, but the wound appeared to be only superficial.
He dismounted. ‘A little water to bathe this?’ he asked the officer.
The man glanced back through the crowded gate and regretfully shook his head. ‘I'm sorry. You see the way it is,’ he replied. ‘You mustn't stay here. We've been lucky. The crowd's getting bigger and I haven't the men to defend you.’ He looked straight at Ryllans. ‘I don't want you taking swords to them despite what I said, and that's what you'll have to do. Whendreachi slaughtered by Serens, however justifiably, will tear the city apart, and bring the Bethlarii down on us like wolves. Please go now, there are good streams not far along the road.'
'I understand,’ Ryllans replied. And to give truth to the officer's words, the noise of the crowd began to grow again. Suddenly a single figure wriggled between the horses and, evading the lunging guards, charged, screaming, towards Ryllans. He was wildly waving an axe.
Ryllans stepped away from the officer with a quick shake of his head to indicate that he should not interfere. Then, as the demented figure reached him, the axe raised for a skull-splitting blow, he stepped casually aside as if nothing untoward were happening, and swung up into his saddle.
His attacker, unable to stop because of the timing of Ryllans’ movement, ran through the place where he had been standing and straight into the gatehouse wall. His hysterical screaming ended with an abrupt and incongruous ‘Erk!’ as he struck the wall. Staggering back, stunned, he dropped the axe on to his foot and flopped down on to the ground with a winding thud.
Ryllans ignored him and, with a final salute to the officer, signalled the platoon forward. The officer was grinning broadly at the Mantynnai's treatment of his attacker, and quite a few of the crowd were also laughing. It was as good a gift as he could give them under the circumstances.
The platoon moved to the canter almost immediately. Glancing back, Ryllans saw that the gate was being closed.
They maintained the pace until they came to the first stream, where they stopped and Ryllans began treating Arwain's injury.
He could not keep the concern from his manner. Cleared of blood, the gash, as he had thought at the gatehouse, did not seem to be deep. But Arwain was showing no signs of recovering consciousness.
He shook his head. Arwain needed attention more skilled than he could give, but the nearest city where such help could be found was now Serenstad itself. ‘We can be there before midnight if we ride hard,’ someone said.
Ryllans shook his head. ‘A journey like that might kill him for sure,’ he said.
'So might the delay,’ was the reply.
'I can't risk it,’ Ryllans said. ‘We'll have to travel slowly. But if we can't get to the city quickly, we'll have to bring the city to us.’ Without further delay he selected three men to travel to Serenstad as fast as possible, with instructions to return with the Duke's physician, Drayner, and a suitable vehicle for transporting Arwain.
As the men galloped into the distance, Arwain was carefully lifted back into the saddle and the platoon moved off again, leaving a further three men to act as rearguard in the event of pursuit from Whendrak.
Ryllans grimaced as he mounted up behind Arwain to give him as much support as possible. Nothing he had done could have avoided the injury, but …
He let the self-reproach go, it served no useful purpose. Nevertheless, walking when his Lord and friend needed urgent help would be agonizing, and there was little or no consolation in the fact that he knew that this decision also was correct.
Help, however, was nearer to hand than Ryllans had thought, as late in the afternoon the three messengers encountered Menedrion and his company escorting the Bethlarii envoy back to the border.
Where Arwain's platoon had been dressed in simple field uniforms and had moved quickly but with alert discretion, Menedrion's company was moving at a leisurely pace and was dressed with formal pomp. It was a blaze of colour even in the dying daylight.
Alert for any excuse to leave the sour presence of the envoy, it was Menedrion himself who made his way through the vanguard that had halted the three riders. He was wearing a black fine-linked chain mail and a red surcoat emblazoned with his own eagle crest, and he looked like some hero from Serenstad's ancient literature. He was, however, a soldier of the present, and after a quick glance at the breathless riders and the foam-covered horses, it took him but a few questions to find out what had happened and to determine his course of action.
Within minutes, three of his own men, fresh mounted, were galloping back towards Serenstad, while his company physician and an escort were galloping towards Whendrak, followed by the hospital cart, moving as fast as it safely could.
Menedrion returned to the envoy's side, but did not speak.
You can ask if you want to know, you bastard, he thought.
To his annoyance, however, Grygyr was as impassive as ever, seemingly quite indifferent to the commotion that the arrival of the three riders had caused.
Not that the lack of conversation distressed Menedrion immediately. His mind was now full of questions following the brief account given to him by the messengers. Arwain hurt in Whendrak by rioters? Serious disturbances in the streets? He had not asked why. Had there been some pursuing danger, the messengers would have volunteered the information.
His father's words came back to him ominously. ‘…if something's seriously amiss then it'll only be my bastard son they've got, not my heir…’ Ibris had been thinking in terms of hostages, Menedrion knew, not injury.
Once upon a time, and largely due to the influence of his mother, Menedrion would have been quite happy to see Arwain come to grief, but since he had been named his father's heir and he, Arwain and Goran had sworn oaths of loyalty to one another he had mellowed a little towards him.
It helped too that Arwain showed not merely no outward inclination to rival him for the Dukedom, but a positive disinclination, though Menedrion did not have his father's sight in this. Ibris knew that if Arwain wished to oust Menedrion then he was quite capable of doing it both effectively and quietly.
However, Menedrion's concern as he tried to settle back into this leisurely diplomatic escort, was, somewhat to his own surprise, quite genuine, and the stony indifference of the envoy seemed to increase his need to speak in order to put a stop to the whirling, repetitive thoughts that were besetting him.
With an effort, he forced himself to speak of other matters.
'It'll be an hour or so before we can pitch camp,’ he said. ‘I confess I'll he glad to stretch out tonight. I find this kind of slow progress more wearying than a forced march.’ He turned towards Grygyr. ‘I suppose you'll be glad to get back to your own field quarters again after sleeping in our effete feather beds.'
Menedrion made the remark in all innocence, adopting a ‘companions in adversity’ manner. He was startled therefore at the envoy's expression as he turned sharply to face him. Throughout his brief stay, Grygyr's face had borne no other expression than contempt and indifference. Now fury and alarm mingled unashamedly.
'What do you mean?’ he asked, hoarsely.
I don't know, Menedrion thought. But if it's stinging your backside I'm going to find out, and mean it again.
'Nothing special,’ he said blandly, as if the small outburst had not happened. ‘I couldn't help noticing that you seemed tired this morning. I presumed you hadn't slept well.'
Grygyr's control reasserted itself. ‘I slept well,’ he said, tersely.
Menedrion persisted, the soldier in him felt a weakness in his enemy that needed to be probed. ‘I'm glad,’ he said. ‘Sleep is important. Lack of it is apt to mar the judgement and can lead to serious mistakes.’ He paused. ‘Mistakes that envoys and soldiers can't afford, eh?'
'I slept well,’ Grygyr said again, looking stonily forward.
'As I'm sure you will tonight,’ Menedrion said, nodding.
Later, as the company began to make camp, he sought out Pandra. Mindful of Ibris's instructions about the old man, Menedrion had established him in a covered living wagon with a soft bed and many cushions. When he found him, however, Pandra was alternately rubbing his back and banging the bed.
'What's the matter?’ Menedrion asked in some concern. ‘Is the bed too hard?'
Pandra shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘I'm afraid it's too soft. I need a hard bed. I'll lie on the floor tonight. I'll be fine.'
The incongruity of the frail old man's reply released some of the tension from Menedrion, and he laughed loudly. ‘I'll have one of the pioneers find a couple of planks for your bed,’ he said. ‘I can't have my father finding out that I made you sleep on the floor.'
He laughed again as he leaned out of the door of the wagon and shouted orders to someone.
'Did you want something from me, sir?’ Pandra asked when Menedrion came back inside. He was puzzled by the mirth he had unwittingly caused.
Menedrion became more serious and motioned him to sit down. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Something's disturbing the envoy. Something about sleep, I think. Do you think you could…’ He gesticulated vaguely. ‘…get into his head tonight and see what's happening?'
Pandra looked at him. ‘No, sir,’ he said carefully, shaking his head. ‘It…'
Menedrion scowled. ‘I thought you could enter dreams without the knowledge of the dreamer,’ he interrupted.
Pandra raised a hesitant hand. ‘That's true, sir,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you already that you're right about the envoy. Antyr kept watch on him last night and he spoke to your father about what he encountered there. He didn't tell me anything except that it was useful and that I should keep clear of the envoy's dreams myself.’ Briefly he held Menedrion ‘s gaze. ‘He was quite emphatic about it, sir. My task is to protect you, not to venture into regions where I might well be lost, and you with me.'
Menedrion's jaw tightened. Nothing untoward had happened while he had slept the previous night, and the subtle presence of Pandra and Kany had been oddly reassuring, but though he was still uneasy about going to sleep, it unsettled him in some way to have this odd pair in his entourage as ‘protectors'.
Pandra noted his returning tension. He became confidential. ‘But he also said that, though we should not lower our guard, he felt the danger to you and your father had actually become less because of his own encounter in the Threshold.'
Menedrion shook his head. ‘I don't understand any of this,’ he said finally. ‘My bodyguards carry swords and shields. And I need enemies that I can take a sword to, not all these shadows … vague images.'
He fell silent, his face perplexed.
'This whole business is unmanning me,’ he said eventually, lowering his head. ‘And I've actually got a stiff jaw being … diplomatic … to that stone-faced Bethlarii, knowing that he's as anxious as I am to try knocks with me.’ He looked up, his face frustrated. ‘Now I have to have my sleeping hours patrolled by an old man and a rabbit.'
Under other circumstances, Pandra might have chuckled at such an observation, but it needed no great sensitivity to see that Menedrion was in a dark mood, and would have to be handled carefully. Before he could speak, however, a face appeared briefly round the door of the wagon.
'Who wanted their bed making harder?’ it said irritably, then, without waiting for an answer, it disappeared and several wooden boards were precipitated noisily through the door followed by a large canvas tool bag. The wagon shook under the impact as it landed. ‘You civilians don't know you're born,’ continued the face, as its owner followed and plunged straightway into the bag. He raised his voice to make himself heard over the noise of his rattling tools. ‘Everyone else is moaning because the ground's too hard, as if it was my fault, for crying out loud. And it's fetch this, fetch that, as if I didn't have my own duties. And now your bed's too soft. I've more important things than this, you know…'
He stopped suddenly as he looked up from his bag in search of the culprit and found himself staring into Menedrion's face. There was a brief, confusing flurry as he stood up hurriedly and saluted; not easy in a low, crowded wagon and with a large saw in one hand. Both Pandra and Menedrion were obliged to take evasive action.
'At ease,’ Menedrion said grimly, when the wide-eyed man came to a shaking stillness at last, but before he could find the words to fill his desperately working mouth.
The man's stamping foot shook the wagon again.
Menedrion seemed to be holding a brief debate with himself, then he stood up. ‘Tell him what you want and then join me outside,’ he said tersely to Pandra.
A few moments later, Pandra climbed carefully down the steps of the wagon; behind him a desperate hammering began. Despite himself, Pandra could not forbear a subdued laugh.
Menedrion, however, seemed still to be preoccupied by his own thoughts and Pandra laid his amusement at the pioneer's antics on one side. He seemed to have established some rapport with this wild, dangerous son of Ibris, but he had no illusion about understanding him, and knew only too well that an injudicious familiarity might bring down a dire punishment, if not on his own head, by virtue of the protection his age and Ibris's will offered him, then on some other innocent's such as the churlish pioneer.
Falling in beside Menedrion he looked about him at the purposeful activity of the company establishing its camp around them. All manner of noises filled the air: hammering and banging, shouted commands, laughter, oaths, some vigorous but tuneless singing, the occasional bark of a dog somewhere, the neighing of disturbed horses …
And it smelt of damp, newly crushed grass, savoury meats from an impromptu kitchen somewhere, smoke from the dozens of torches that were transforming the camp into a flickering world of brightness and shadows.
'May I speak, sir?’ he said eventually.
Menedrion grunted.
'I don't think you should concern yourself with what's happening in the dream worlds,’ he said. ‘There's nothing you can do except follow my, or Antyr's, advice. There's some Dream Finder blood in your family's veins without a doubt, that's why you sensed the Bethlarii's pain. But the true skill hasn't been given to you and you're helpless there. As helpless as I'd be these days in an infantry line.'
'Does this have a point?’ Menedrion said.
Pandra felt the edge in his voice, but continued.
'Strange forces are moving against us, sir,’ he said, watching Menedrion carefully. ‘Forces that none of us understand, but which will destroy us if we don't accept their reality. And the reality is that they're attacking you through your dreams and only a Dream Finder can truly protect you.'
A twitch of impatience made a fleeting appearance on Menedrion's face, but Pandra went on, his voice unexpectedly forceful.
'You know the truth of that, sir,’ he said. ‘You've felt it and you're too clear-sighted to deny it.'
Menedrion did not reply.
'The cavalry trust the infantry to split the enemy line so that they can drive into it,’ Pandra continued. ‘The infantry trust the cavalry to guard their flanks and rear. If you climb a siege tower you trust your engineers know their work and that it won't collapse under you. So it is here. You must trust me and get on with the tasks that are yours. I'm your shield-bearer in the dream world. Kany and I might be just a rabbit and a frail old man here, but our Dreamselves are not so. We've more than enough skill to protect you. Kany on his own has spirit enough to quell a wolf; you've felt that too, I know.'
Menedrion stopped and looked at him, doubt beginning to replace his angry impatience.
'You must fight where you fight best, sir,’ Pandra said, almost reckless now. ‘Not cloud your judgement with matters beyond your knowledge and training. Your task is to help your father avoid war with the Bethlarii, or, if that fails, to arm his army from your forges and lead it against them. If you fail in this, then we're all lost.'
'And if you or Antyr fail against these … powers … as you call them?’ Menedrion asked soberly.
Pandra looked into his eyes. ‘Then, too, we're probably all lost,’ he replied slowly.
'This isn't easy,’ Menedrion said, expelling a noisy breath.
'Have you ever fought a battle that was?’ Pandra retorted. ‘Or one that wasn't different from every other? Or one that didn't cause you pain and loss even when you won?'
Menedrion did not reply.
Pandra went on. ‘Each new weapon that's invented, each new tactic that's thought of, always breeds its own reply. Defences are invented that were never dreamt of before. So it is here. Despite feeling the reality of what's happened to you, you still rebel at the idea of strange forces assailing us through our dreams. Yet, just as they came from some place beyond our knowledge, in response to them comes an equally strange, improbable defender; a poor spark of a man, seemingly hell-bent on destroying himself for most of his life, suddenly thrust forward by … fate … chance … who knows?’ He echoed Feranc's words. ‘Just like some inconsequential pikeman who somehow rallies his comrades when they're about to break.'
He hesitated. ‘I think perhaps we must accept, sir, that we may not be the principals in this conflict. We may be unwitting participants in some greater battle. But whatever, we must each face the enemies that we can face and trust others to do likewise.'
Menedrion looked up into the night sky. It was too dark to see the clouds and the air was full of rising sparks and a swirling haze of smoke from fires and torches. ‘I concede your conclusions,’ he said. ‘They're scarcely profound. But let's not pretend this is some “battle of the gods” we're involved in, Dream Finder. Somewhere at the back of it all are men. What you could be usefully doing is finding them. Once you've done that…’ He slapped his sword hilt. ‘I'll need no magic skills for dealing with them.'
Then with an abrupt though not discourteous nod, he dismissed Pandra and strode off through the hectic camp, his heavy form black in the torchlight. Pandra watched him go, then turned to head back to his wagon.
'You handled that very well,’ came a patronizing voice in his head.
'Thank you, Kany,’ he replied. ‘And thank you for the support you gave me by pretending to be asleep all the time.'
The rabbit ignored the jibe. ‘Spirit to quell a wolf, eh?’ he preened. ‘Very poetic. And very true.'
'No. Just very poetic,’ Pandra replied caustically. ‘I've a professional and patriotic obligation to keep up the morale of my client, and that allows me a little … licence … with the truth at such times.'
Kany gave a dismissive snort, then, abruptly serious, he said, ‘Do you think he understands?'
Pandra shrugged. ‘Why should he?’ he replied. ‘We don't. Nor, for that matter, does Antyr. I just hope I told him the truth when I spoke about Antyr as our unheralded defender. What he can do awes me, but I'd feel a lot easier if I could see a little more technique and a little less luck in the proceedings.'
'Technique? Luck?’ Kany burst out scornfully. ‘I despair of you creatures. You're so…’ He struggled for a word. ‘…so cluttered … disjointed … unaware…’ He gave up. ‘Of course you told Menedrion the truth. You just weren't listening! How you ever survived as a species, being so deaf, blind and stupid, defies me utterly. I suppose it's MaraVestriss's idea of a joke.’ His mood darkened. ‘In which case, with a sense of humour like that, he must be human himself. That's a grim thought I could well have done without.'
'Would you like a carrot?’ Pandra said into the inky silence that followed this revelation.
Later, Pandra lay down luxuriously on his hard bed and prepared to search out the sleeping Menedrion's mind. Had he chosen, he could have reached it instantly, but he preferred to allow his Dreamself to wander through the great cloud of whirling night thoughts that rose from the camp, rather as a general might survey the terrain he was in before moving his forces against a particular foe; though to Pandra this preliminary excursion was more like entering a great library or a beautiful garden than preparing for a battle.
Just as the smoke from the fires and torches rose into the sky and diffused and reflected their light to form a hazy, orange dome over the camp, so the thoughts and dreams of the company hovered like a shimmering golden cloud around Pandra as Kany carried him forward on the search. It was a skill that had grown immeasurably since they had met Antyr, and both revelled in it.
They drifted, timeless, weightless, unhindered.
Where they chose to listen, the noise was clamorous, and where they chose to look, the scenes were hectic and boisterous. But all was well; the company was predominantly male, and no strange shadows moved through the haze, nor untoward sounds or movements disturbed it.
Very tentatively, and despite Kany's stern disapproval, Pandra touched the Bethlarii's mind. It made him start: it was raw with swirling emotions, dominant among which was fear. But there was nothing untoward and Pandra abandoned it feeling slightly ashamed at his intrusion.
Then he did sense a presence. It was faint, like a star in the corner of his eye, appearing fitfully between slowly drifting clouds. It was, however, quite definite.
Without speaking, Kany brought Pandra instantly to the fringes of Menedrion's night thoughts.
Nothing was amiss.
Although Menedrion was not dreaming, Pandra knew that the tide of his sleep was carrying him into the dreamlight of the Nexus.
Then the presence was there also; still faint, but nevertheless sharp and hard. Pandra sensed Kany's cruel fighting instincts preparing to defend their charge, but feeling no immediate menace himself he gently breathed a soft word of patience.
Silently, but very alert, Dream Finder and Companion waited, as Menedrion drew nearer to his dream. The presence waited also.
Pandra began to feel a sense of loss about it. Helplessness.
Confusion.
Then, as he had always been, he was Menedrion. He was alone and desolate, and sitting on the Ducal throne amid a deserted and decaying palace. A group of crows were bickering noisily around a gaping hole in the ceiling; the floor was littered with debris and the remains of broken furniture; pictures were defaced and statues smashed, and beyond the lichen-stained walls, he knew, lay a country ravaged by plague, famine, and war.
Pandra did not speak, but let his reassuring presence be felt. The scene, though grim, was no more than might be expected from a leader facing unknown responsibilities.
And yet, there was more. The presence was there also, but now it was in the dream; of the dream; he, Menedrion, felt it. Yet still it had no menace.
Kany waited. On the instant, he would snatch Menedrion back to wide-eyed wakefulness.
Then he was outside the palace, walking through the wrecked streets of Serenstad. Some of the houses were burning and the air rang with the cries of the sick and the dying. Here and there, groups of people were running from building to building. Looters.
Pandra reeled. He was no longer Menedrion! He was … Arwain!
And yet he was Menedrion!
He was both! He was inside the palace, surrounded by decay, and he was outside, walking the ruined streets.
Sensitives. Kany formed the word in his mind. Ibris's bloodline. The dreams of the half-brothers had come together. Arwain it must have been who unwittingly rescued Menedrion from the Threshold three nights ago, Pandra realized.
What shall I do? Pandra thought softly to Kany.
Nothing, came the reply. Watch and wait. There's no danger … so far.
Menedrion rose from the throne and walked down the steps of the dais on which it stood. Dust and rubble crunched under his feet. Angrily he kicked away a silver goblet and it clattered noisily along the floor until it came to rest against an overturned table.
Arwain wandered, bemused and lost. Beggars held out their arms to him; mothers, their sick children. Smoke drifted into the street adding an acrid edge to the sweet smell of decay and death. He felt so weary, so sick. Somewhere was an answer to all this; but where? All the streets were familiar, but they were not where they had been-it was as if they had been shuffled and rejoined like the pieces of some child's game. He moved from place to place that should not have been together and yet were, and always had been.
Menedrion stepped up on to the fallen gates of the palace and looked across the palace square at the jagged, broken remains of the Ibrian monument. The square was surrounded by broken walls and charred ruins.
Rage boiled up within him. ‘No!’ he thundered. ‘I will not have this.'
He started to run.
Arwain also began to run. His head pounded.
Menedrion felt the city streets moving under his feet as though he were motionless on a great treadmill. It came to him that, run as he might, he would not be able to escape.
Arwain, however, ran faster and faster, his breath gasping, his heart racing. He had to escape the destruction around him, the pain in his head. He had to escape.
Then a strange feeling of hope seemed to be just ahead of him.
Pandra felt Kany stiffening then releasing himself for movement. Nyriall had run towards hope in the Threshold, and moved from world to world!
'We must waken them,’ Kany said urgently.
'No,’ Pandra replied. ‘Not yet. They need each other.'
'I don't understand…'
Arwain reached a small archway. It was a focus; the end of his chase. He reached out his arms to touch both sides then he leaned forward into it.
Beyond, brilliant against the begrimed horror of the destroyed city, was a beautiful land, with rolling countryside and forests through which great rivers flowed, shining silver and gold under the bright summer sun. He breathed in the heavy scents of grasses and trees that came to him softly on a warm summer breeze. Two paces more and he could lie down and rest his pulsing head among flowers and clovers.
Menedrion began to turn and turn, making the city whirl about him.
'No!’ he shouted again. Then, ‘Arwain! To me! To me! This must not be. To me!'
Abruptly, he stopped.
Arwain turned.
Ibris's sons faced one another. Behind Menedrion lay ruined Serenstad like a crumpled map. Behind Arwain stood the archway, blue with summer sky and bright with the hope of a world beyond that of men.
Arwain beckoned Menedrion forward, gesturing towards the archway.
Pandra, bound to each of the Dreamselves, found their two desires, needs, resonating with his own. This was, beyond a doubt, a Gateway to the Threshold. How it came to be found by a dreamer unaided was a question that could perhaps never be answered …
He is sensitive, he is injured, and he has travelled here before, came Kany's thoughts, colder, less awed than the Dream Finder's, but fearful for all that.
… but he had found it, and just as Arwain, bruised and hurt, sought the seeming solace of the world it opened on to, so Pandra, the Dream Finder, was drawn almost irresistibly to step through into the world he knew he might never find again. Yet too he knew that dangers lay beyond the Gateway with which he was not equipped to contend. And to step through would be to enter a world from which he might not be able to return, leaving his body perhaps to perish here.
And it was not the way, Menedrion knew. Here was where they both belonged. Fighting to bring the beauty of the world beyond to this world here. Fighting to prevent the horrors about them. Not chasing after vague shadows; resting while their people suffered.
Pandra was surprised at Menedrion's perceptiveness and his deep feeling for his future role.
The situation, however, was dangerous and, to his horror, caught in both Dreamselves, Pandra knew he could do nothing. He could speak to either, but he could not instruct the dreamer; the Dreamself was not the real self and would not necessarily be directed by reason.
And, in any event, he was as torn as they were. The desires of the half-brothers began to mingle. Both felt the lure of the beautiful world beyond, both knew that they did not belong there.
Then the archway began to grow larger. Arwain staggered towards the brightness.
Menedrion's hand closed about his brother's in the instant that Kany's powerful reflexes, beyond all conscious control now, tore away the veils of sleep.