Pandra dashed through the camp, accompanied by the guard who had been posted outside his wagon. The air was cold and damp and, after only a few paces, the dew-sodden grass had soaked his feet and the hem of his robe.
The dull red remains of camp fires, and the guttering efforts of a few torches were all that lit their way, though, to the east, the sky was greying slightly.
The guard, still bewildered by Pandra's abrupt and explosive emergence from the wagon, was leading the way.
'There, sir,’ he said, pointing towards a large tent.
Menedrion's tent, however, needed no identification, for the entrance flap had been thrown back and the Duke's son was standing there, illuminated by lamplight from within. He was berating two sentries who were making a desperate attempt to rekindle a fire.
Pandra stopped and raised his hands in relief.
'Sir!’ he shouted. Menedrion started and peered into the gloom. Pandra stepped forward and without any courtesies took Menedrion's elbow and guided him back into the tent.
Inside, Menedrion yanked his arm free. ‘I was about to send for you, general,’ he said acidly. ‘I have the feeling that you left our retreat a little late there, or am I mistaken?’ Then, angrily, ‘What in thunder's name is going on? And why was Arwain there? And where is he now?'
Pandra dropped down into a nearby chair and leaned forward, breathing heavily.
'Give him a chance to catch his breath, man,’ Kany's voice snapped angrily into Menedrion's mind. ‘He's older than your father, you know. He shouldn't be being bounced about the countryside in a cart like a pig going to market. And even less should he be running around at this time of night to be roared at by ungracious louts. He'll be lucky if he doesn't catch a chill.'
Menedrion started back at Kany's commanding tone and began to raise his hand apologetically. Then he clenched his fists and, after taking a long breath, burst out furiously, ‘I won't be spoken to like that by a … a … rabbit! By a … pie filling!'
Kany struggled out of one of Pandra's pockets. Pandra was still catching his breath, but he placed a restraining hand on his Companion's indignant head. It was to little avail.
'I'd give you a rare belly ache, Irfan Menedrion,’ Kany retorted furiously. ‘It's me you can thank for getting you out of there at all.'
Menedrion's jaw came out and he raised a menacing finger.
'Enough, enough,’ Pandra managed at last. ‘No more, please. It's like being in a sack with a cat and a dog with you two. Please give a moment then we'll talk quietly, and calmly.'
Kany, his nose twitching ferociously, scrambled awkwardly round into Pandra's lap where the old Dream Finder stroked him gently. Gradually both began to breathe more easy.
'I don't know the answer to any of your questions, sir,’ Pandra said eventually. ‘My hope is that you saved your brother, but in all honesty I don't know.'
Menedrion abruptly sat down on the edge of his bed, his angry face becoming bewildered.
Pandra did not wait for him to speak. ‘You and your brother are both sensitives,’ he said. ‘It was probably him who became tangled in your dream and brought you back from the Threshold the other night; drawn to you unknowingly in your danger.’ He shrugged. ‘By some quality in your bloodline, just as you were drawn to him tonight.'
Menedrion, however, was hardly listening.
'That world through the archway seemed so real,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly soft and distant. ‘So bright, powerful…'
'It was real, sir,’ Pandra said. ‘And viewing it from the grim darkness of your dream made its brightness all the more vivid.'
'You wanted to go into it as well, didn't you?’ Menedrion said, looking into Pandra's eyes.
The old man nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘But it would have been too dangerous.’ He paused. ‘Every world has its sunny days.'
'Why didn't you warn us?’ Menedrion asked.
'I couldn't,’ Pandra replied. ‘I'm not a Mynedarion. I can't change things. I can speak, reassure perhaps, and certainly wake you if necessary, but dreams pursue the course the dreamer sets at some level beyond his knowing or controlling. Besides, I've never encountered even a shared dream before, let alone found one of the Threshold Gateways. I took risk enough in making Kany wait until I saw … felt … what was happening.’ He looked down at Kany. ‘It may be that I stayed too long. It puts a great strain on a Companion to leave a dream like that.'
Menedrion nodded. ‘I felt it,’ he said. ‘A great surge of power. I sat bolt upright, wide awake. I've been drowsier waking to a night ambush. It was … very strange.'
Tentatively he reached out and stroked Kany with his thick forefinger and the three fell silent.
Their reverie was disturbed by the entrance of a guard.
'Look-outs report that Lord Arwain's platoon is in sight, sir,’ he said quietly but urgently.
'Saddle my horse,’ Menedrion said, standing up quickly.
He looked at Pandra as he struggled to fasten his tunic in haste. ‘We'll wait, sir,’ Pandra replied to the unasked question. ‘Whatever's happened, there's nothing I can do now.'
Within minutes, Menedrion and two guards were galloping towards the approaching platoon. A dense, ground-hugging mist gave them a ghostly quality in the greying dawn and as he looked at the slow-moving hospital cart and its shadowy escort seemingly rising up out of this soft cloud-carpet, Menedrion wondered for a moment whether he was not dreaming again, and that he would wake up suddenly to find himself in his tent, or perhaps even in his rooms at the palace.
Hailing outriders dispelled his fancy, but Menedrion ignored them and rode straight to the cart. The driver made to halt, but Menedrion waved him on and swung from his saddle directly on to the small platform at the rear.
Inside, the hospital cart was lit by a swaying lamp and sitting opposite him as he entered was his company physician. He could not see the man's face in the dim light, but his head was bowed slightly and Menedrion presumed he was asleep.
Baring his teeth, he stepped forward to shake him awake angrily, but a voice stopped him.
'Irfan, what's happening?'
Menedrion turned. It was Arwain. He was lying on a low bunk, a bandage about his head. His eyes were open and inquiring. He was alive! Menedrion knelt beside him and as he did so, Ryllans entered.
'Lord Arwain needs rest, gentlemen. Please don't disturb him further.'
It was the physician. He was standing behind the two men, very much awake. And his voice and manner were unequivocal. He outfaced the two warriors.
'He woke up sharply a few minutes ago,’ he said, answering the unasked question. ‘Don't ask me why or how. Head injuries are peculiar and such recoveries aren't unheard of; a lot depends on the individual's inner resources. I think he's out of whatever danger he might have been in, but he does need rest and a little natural sleep, so I must ask you to leave, or at least remain here in silence.'
Arwain's hand came out and caught Menedrion's sleeve.
'What's happening?’ he asked again.
'You were struck by a stone as we left the Council hall in Whendrak,’ Ryllans replied softly.
Arwain ignored the answer and drew Menedrion lower. His face was anxious. ‘For my sanity, Irfan. Did you dream as I did just this moment, and was there someone else present?'
'Yes,’ Menedrion replied simply. ‘The city in ruins, the archway. We shared the same dream, and an old Dream Finder and his Companion saved us from some danger at the arch.'
Arwain lay back, his manner easier. ‘Dream Finder,’ he muttered. ‘Dream Finder.’ Then he frowned. ‘What were you doing using a Dream Finder?’ He put his hand to his head, agitated again. ‘And father. He's been using one. What …?'
Menedrion anticipated the physician whose hand was coming out to end the discussion. ‘Rest easy,’ he said. ‘There's nothing to worry about. You're on your way home now and father will tell you what he's been up to when you get there. I'm escorting the Bethlarii back home.'
Arwain looked doubtful, but a long, loud yawn possessed him before he could pursue the matter, and his eyes started to close, albeit reluctantly. The physician took Menedrion's arm and with a glance motioned both him and Ryllans to the door.
Outside, Menedrion shivered. It was the first time he had noticed the morning cold.
'Ryllans, I got the bones of this affair from your messengers, but what the devil's going on?’ he demanded angrily. Taking the reins of his horse from one of the guards, he mounted. ‘And why the devil didn't you look after him properly?'
Ryllans ignored the criticism, but related the events at Whendrak accurately and quickly. His telling was too insistent and detailed for Menedrion not to pay attention and, when the tale was finished, his mood was quieter. At least here was something he could deal with; enemies with weapons and all too human malice in their hearts.
He pulled his cloak about him. ‘We have to go past Whendrak with the envoy, Ryllans,’ he said. ‘What's your advice?'
'Avoid the city and the nearby routes,’ Ryllans said, without hesitation. ‘The problem must be serious if such fanatical Bethlarii supporters have actually been appointed to the Council, and another Serens’ presence so soon will almost certainly cause more unrest.'
'The ridge way then?’ Menedrion said.
Ryllans nodded. ‘And take some of my company with you. They can quietly drift into Bethlarii territory when the envoy's left. We need to find out how far their army's been mobilized.'
Menedrion looked at him in some surprise. ‘As bad as that already?’ he asked.
'I think so,’ Ryllans replied. ‘And that's what I'm going to report to your father when I get back. The Bethlarii can mobilize more quickly than we can, we can't afford to delay. We can always stand down again if I'm wrong.'
Despite the grimness of their conversation, Menedrion chuckled. ‘You'll be popular with Chancellor Aaken,’ he said. ‘Have you any idea how much it costs to mobilize the army to its attack strength? All the wages and compensation for taking men from their trades? And the disruption to commerce? We'll need no formal challenge, they'll hear Gythrin-Dy howling all the way to Bethlar.'
Ryllans blew out a steamy breath into the cold morning air and, his own mind still dark with his recent concern about Arwain, answered the remark seriously. ‘I know how much it'll cost both in money and lives if the Bethlarii move on Whendrak and we're caught with unprepared companies and regiments scattered all over the land. And I know which way some of our less enthusiastic allies will jump as well.'
Menedrion, sobered by the cool response, nodded in agreement. ‘Anyway, that decision is my father's, fortunately. You choose the men you want to go over the border and give them their instructions.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘I think it would be better if they didn't join our company, but continued on with you for a while and then returned quietly and shadowed us. That envoy doesn't miss much and he'd certainly notice your field uniforms suddenly appearing in the middle of all our fancy dress.'
Ryllans saluted. ‘I've chosen and instructed them already, sir,’ he said. ‘If you don't require me further I'll go and confirm details with them right now.'
Menedrion nodded and then dismounted and returned to the hospital cart. He remained quietly by his sleeping half-brother, his erstwhile rival, for a long while after the platoon had moved quietly past the awakening camp.
Later that day, the company, strung out to some length along the narrow ridge way, passed by Whendrak. The weather was cold, misty and damp, but occasionally the mist lifted and the city could be seen in the distance below.
Pausing on a grassy knoll, Menedrion stared at it in some distress. Columns of black smoke were rising from it at many points, and, as far as he could see, the various gates were all closed. He was not certain whether or not it was his imagination, but he thought he heard the faint sound of clashing arms and shouting crowds wafting on the chilly mountain air.
Grygyr Ast-Darvad joined him. With an effort Menedrion made his face impassive. With considerably less effort, the envoy's face remained so.
'Did you think to keep the persecution of our people away from my sight by taking this route?’ Grygyr asked. ‘Ar-Hyrdyn's breath blows away the mist of your deceit.'
Surreptitiously, Menedrion took a very deep breath and drove his fingernails into his palms to remind himself of his father's instructions.
'As I told you, envoy,’ he said, slowly and carefully. ‘We received word that there's been some rioting in the city, and that the mood of the Whendreachi was uncertain. As my first responsibility here is your safety I deemed it necessary to take a route that would keep us well away from the city.’ Then, letting his restraint slip slightly, he added, ‘And if you can see any of your people, as you call them, being persecuted from this distance, I commend your eyesight.'
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled his horse away and rejoined the company.
The brief remainder of the journey was without incident. They dropped back down into the valley and eventually came to the tall standing stone that had been placed there to mark the formal boundary between the territory of Bethlar and the neutral region around Whendrak. It was a bleak, desolate area, and apparently deserted, but Menedrion had little doubt that, somewhere amid the crags, Bethlarii eyes would be watching keenly.
Bearing in mind his father's remark that it would do the Bethlarii envoy little good to be seen to be being feted by the Duke's son, Menedrion drew the company up in formal array on the east side of the stone, and offered them for inspection. The envoy refused as curtly as he had refused every other courtesy, but Menedrion rode close to him and obliged him to move along the line while he bombarded him with fatuous pleasantries so that, to a distant observer, it might seem that they were in earnest conversation.
Then, by way of a finishing touch, he reached across and embraced him before easing his horse back and saluting. The whole company saluted and then gave a formal cheer. Grygyr glared at Menedrion furiously. ‘Until we meet again, Serens,’ he said, through clenched teeth, laying his hand on his sword hilt.
It was the first recognizable emotion the envoy had shown since he had arrived and it heartened Menedrion considerably. ‘Until we meet again, envoy,’ he echoed, with a bow and a broad, satisfied smile.
The envoy and his three aides galloped off quickly, but Menedrion had the company remain at its station until they had passed out of sight. Then he had them rest and eat, and finally he sent out several small parties ostensibly foraging for firewood and fresh water, but in reality providing a source of confusing movement which might be of value to the Mantynnai following on behind.
Not that he knew where Ryllans’ men were. Deliberately he had not asked how they would enter Bethlarii territory and Ryllans had not volunteered the information. They might be in this very section of the valley right now, or they might be high on the ridges. But it did not matter. By keeping the company active for some time he was ensuring that they and not the silent trespassers would be the focus of attention for any watchers.
Finally they left. Menedrion risked taking one of the lower routes, but skirted wide when they came again to Whendrak. As they passed by the city, however, the fires were noticeably worse and this time there was no doubt about the sound of fighting.
Grim-faced, Menedrion led the company past at a steady trot.
It was night when the remainder of Arwain's platoon arrived back at Serenstad, and the fog was descending again, yellow and sulphurous.
Ryllans had set an easy pace and they had been met eventually by a concerned Drayner. Arwain, however, after a few hours’ sleep, had woken free from headache and all other ill effects of the blow he had received, save the pain of the wound itself. He pronounced himself fit to ride.
Drayner differed. ‘I'm here as the Duke's representative,’ he said at the first sign of reluctance by Arwain to submit to examination. ‘To dispute with me is to dispute with him.'
Arwain glowered at him for a moment, but he was no match for the physician's moral authority under such circumstances. With an ill grace he submitted, confining himself to a small gesture of childish defiance, by swinging athletically from his horse directly on to the hospital cart.
Ryllans caught Drayner's eye, and the two older men exchanged a brief and knowing smile.
Inside, Drayner spoke to Menedrion's physician as though, after the manner of physicians, Arwain were not there. Then he examined the wound, peered into his eyes, down his ears and, opportunely, in the middle of an increasingly angry inquiry from his patient, down his throat, all with a similar detachment.
In reply to Arwain's questions about the sudden appearance of Dream Finders in the middle of this crisis, Drayner maintained a steady litany. ‘I know nothing. You must speak to your father about it.'
In the end, however, he had been obliged to agree that Arwain would probably suffer more harm fretting about returning home as ‘…part of a damned baggage train!’ than by riding, and it was in this position that Arwain finally led his men on to the bridge over the river Seren.
There were no other travellers on it that night and it was a very different sight from when they had left two days earlier. The hovering firefly lights of the torches strewn about it emerged out of the gloom first, haloed and streaked, and giving it the atmosphere of a dimly lit cave; an atmosphere scarcely lessened by the gradual appearance of sections of its latticed sides which faded upwards into the yellow vagueness above like great cobwebs.
And the river itself seemed to be moving more slowly, its surface black and glistening and dully throwing back such of the torchlight as reached it.
No one spoke as the platoon rode slowly across the bridge, cloaks pulled protectively across their faces. The sound of the horses’ hooves, and the occasional cough, fell flat and dead in the stillness.
'This is intolerable!’ Ibris thundered as he yanked the great curtains together brutally to blot out the sight of the smothered, suffocating city. ‘It's been getting worse for a decade now.’ He waved his arms vaguely as if signalling his own futility in the face of this massive assault on his demesne. ‘And it's all Menedrion's fault,’ he continued, half-heartedly. ‘With his stinking workshops and factories. We didn't have fogs like this when I was young. If we had them at all they were grey and damp, not yellow and slimy!'
He sat down heavily in a large chair and pointed at Aaken. ‘And don't bother defending him,’ he said with a significant look. ‘He's more than capable of doing that. And I'm well aware of the weapons we need and all the other trade implications.'
He fell suddenly silent and his expression changed to one of concern. ‘When this Bethlarii business is over, if we're spared, we'll have to do something about it seriously,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This stuff's doing more harm to our people and the city than all the wars we've ever fought.'
It was an unequivocal judgement, and one he had never made before in such clear terms, although he had inveighed against the annual fogs often enough.
Aaken followed his Duke's advice and said nothing. The builder of the dazzling city needed no allies to his great cause and, having now voiced his new intent, would give short shrift to any who chose to oppose him. Besides, his outburst was not truly at the choking fog. It was at the Sened, with its bickering factions: some, for the most part safely beyond the chance of conscription, indignant and blustering, reproaching him for not summarily executing the Bethlarii envoy for his insolence and breach of the treaty, and demanding that war be declared on Bethlar immediately; others, whingeing and appeasing … we must compromise, give them this, give them that; while yet others, shrewd-eyed, were scenting the air like predators, looking for what advantage they might gain for themselves by agreeing with one side or the other.
And the Gythrin-Dy was different only in the emphasis of its rhetoric: Who's going to pay for all this? What about the disruption to trade and commerce? Special pleas for special trades, and their counterpart, ‘Would the Duke ensure this time that men will be drawn equally from all trades?’ And so on.
His own vision and will so clear, Ibris found the collective blunderings of others difficult to sympathize with and, particularly in times of emergency, would frequently remark in private that he was hard-pressed to know which of the many groups he despised the most.
On such occasions he regretted having delegated so much power to the two bodies, and it was little consolation to him that he knew he had had no alternative if his city and its dominions were not to be torn apart, either now or later, by the bloody tribal and family strife that had been the dominant feature of the land's long history.
Nevertheless, despite their failings, both houses had, reluctantly and after much noisy debate, given him the financial authority to mobilize the full army if need arose, ‘which need to be reported to this house immediately'.
Without that, he would have had to risk bearing the initial costs of the mobilization himself and had it proved unnecessary he would have received little or no compensation. Such a financial loss could have weakened his and his family's position so seriously as to jeopardize their role as, effectively, the city's hereditary leaders. Some among the Senedwrs, he knew, had looked to that in opposing his request. He would remember them in due course.
Familiar with his Lord's moods at such times, Aaken remained silent; glad that his irritation with the day's proceedings had found some kind of a voice in abusing the fog. He knew also, however, that Ibris's anger was compounded with concern for Arwain following the news of his injury brought by Menedrion's messengers. And too there were the alarming implications of the street violence in Whendrak.
The two men sat in silence for some time, Ibris lounging back and staring sourly at the faint halo around a nearby lamp.
Then, with a subdued snort of self-reproach at such idleness, he leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees, preparatory to standing up. As if on cue, the double doors at the far end of the room opened and Arwain entered, accompanied by Ryllans and Ciarll Feranc. The sound of busy activity washed in with them from the corridor beyond. It was cut off abruptly by the closing of the doors and the three men approached him.
Ibris rose quickly and without the old man's leverage on his knees he had been intending.
Embracing Arwain briefly but warmly, he pointed to his bandaged head, and with an unsuccessful attempt at curtness, asked, ‘Has Drayner seen that?'
'Yes, of course,’ Arwain replied with the slightly patronizing tone of the grown child towards its over-anxious parent. ‘And he's declared me fit for duty.'
Ibris grunted suspiciously and then led Arwain over to the fire, motioning Ryllans and Feranc to follow. He looked at his son's damp hair and wrinkled his nose.
'You stink of the fog,’ he said. ‘Sit down, both of you, and give me your report. All I've heard so far is that you were hurt in some street fighting.'
Arwain told such of the tale as he could and Ryllans completed the remainder. Ibris, leaning against the mantelpiece, asked few questions, and nodded approvingly at Ryllans’ sending some of the Mantynnai into Bethlarii territory.
When they had finished, Ibris stared thoughtfully into the fire for a long time. When he looked up he turned to Feranc.
'How near are the local garrisons to being fully mobilized?’ he asked.
'Very near,’ Feranc replied. ‘But despite the gossip about the Bethlarii envoy, the feeling is that it's an exercise.'
Ibris nodded. ‘Well, none of us likes to face reality,’ he said. ‘But I want them ready for a forced march to Whendrak within the week, with first and second reserves standing by.’ He turned to his chancellor. ‘Aaken, what's the position with our mercenary groups?'
'Most of them have signed for winter duty, but I've no doubt they'll be clamouring for extra payment if there's actual fighting to be done,’ Aaken replied.
Ibris frowned slightly. ‘Keep an eye on that, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘An agreement's an agreement, and they've had precious little to do these last few years. Let me know if you're not happy with anything, I don't want any of them suddenly changing sides in the middle of a battle.’ Feranc nodded in reply but did not speak.
Ibris paused to push a smouldering log back into the fire with his boot.
'Send to Meek and ask them to mobilize also, with a view to watching for incursions south, just in case this is only a diversion after all. And tell them at Herion, Nestar and Veldan. Any havering there and invoke the Treaty right away. And find out if there's been any unusual Bethlarii activity in their areas recently. And tell our divisional commanders at Tellar and Stor what's happened so far, and that I want them ready for a march on Whendrak at a moment's notice. It'll cause some flurry, but impress the urgency of the matter on them.’ He looked at Feranc significantly. ‘And I think they'd better mobilize their reserves also, if only for domestic protection. We'll review the situation when Menedrion and the Mantynnai get back.'
Feranc nodded silently again, but Aaken fluttered slightly. Ibris spoke: ‘You know how fast the Bethlarii can mobilize if they want to, Aaken,’ he said. ‘Their whole society's built around the procedure. They could field an army ready to march into Whendrak in half the time it takes us. And it'll cost a damn sight more than mobilizing a few reserves if they do that.'
'I wasn't going to quibble about the cost,’ Aaken replied defensively. ‘At least, not now we have Sened backing. But what you're doing could be construed as a provocation and give the Bethlarii the excuse they've been looking for.'
'No,’ Ibris said, definitely. ‘They need no provocation from us; they've made up their minds, I fear. Their envoy having survived, they're going to use the trouble they've stirred up in Whendrak as an excuse for whatever large-scale military adventure it is they intend. I don't know what it will be, and I certainly don't know why, except that it's something to do with that damned religion of theirs…’ He stopped abruptly and his gaze drifted thoughtfully towards the fire.
'Although it occurs to me now that what they're doing is not more than self-defence in a way,’ he said softly, after a long silence.
Arwain looked up, his bandaged forehead wrinkled into a surprised frown. ‘We don't threaten them,’ he said, almost indignantly. ‘We've been meticulous in observing both the letter and the spirit of the treaty.'
Ibris nodded. ‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But nevertheless we threaten them, and will continue to do so increasingly.’ He was speaking half to himself, as if to clarify his thoughts. ‘We've grown and prospered through this long peace. Gained wealth, and won increasing influence in the land. Spread knowledge and invention and beauty. While the Bethlarii have clung-remained true, they'd say-to their old ways … to their ancient traditions. And stagnated as a consequence. Just by being what we are, we've struck at their very heart. Blow after blow after blow. And to oppose us in kind would be to change: to accept our way, and destroy their old ways even further.'
'You'd be the last to denounce tradition,’ Arwain said. ‘The rope that joins our shifting present to the solid anchor of the past.'
Ibris smiled slightly at this use of his own past rhetoric. ‘In its place,’ he agreed. ‘While we know why we're following it-for remembering and learning from the past-for harmless pleasure, even.’ His smile faded. ‘But never blindly. Never just because it is. We all seek security and safety from the world's crueller ways, but change is the natural way of things no matter what we think about it, and the only true security is to accept that and act accordingly. The Bethlarii have sought to deny it; to deal with growing knowledge and complexity with ignorance and wilful simplicity. Now, in contrast to the light we've brought to ourselves, they've turned back to the dark centre of their nature, of all our natures, manifest in their savage old god and his bloodthirsty ways. They seek the annihilation of our whole way of life whether they realize it or not, and we must be prepared to seek theirs if we're to survive.'
Arwain frowned. ‘A grim conclusion,’ he said.
Ibris nodded regretfully. ‘One prevails in combat only by being willing to be more ruthless than your enemy,’ he said. ‘You know that.’ It was the dark adage that had pervaded all Arwain's military education and that encapsulated the true horror of combat, be it between individuals or nations.
Briefly, visions of a war of conquest and the suppression of a people passed through Arwain's mind, but it was Ibris himself who dispelled them before they found voice. He let out a noisy breath. ‘Still, it probably won't come to that,’ he declared. ‘If we can hit them hard enough, their very rigidity may bring the whole thing down about their ears.’ He became brisk. ‘And I've spent enough time conjecturing. Gentlemen, I'm detaining you from your duties.'
Arwain remained behind after the others had left.
Ibris became preoccupied again, standing staring into the fire. For all the hectic activity of the past days, it was the information that Antyr had brought to him in his strange, dreamlike visitation that loomed largest in his thoughts.
Without preamble, Ibris told his son of the strange events that had drawn Antyr and Pandra and their strange Companions into his confidence.
In so far as he had considered the matter Ibris had half expected Arwain's reaction to be one of rather caustic suspicion, but when he had finished, his son was silent and wide-eyed.
Ibris looked at him narrowly. ‘Have you had any strange dreams recently?’ he asked anxiously.
'Two. Both involving Irfan.’ Arwain answered without hesitation, his voice hoarse.
Ibris stood up and tugged urgently at a bell pull by the fireplace. Almost immediately a servant entered.
'Ask Antyr and his Companions to join us immediately,’ Ibris said, sharply. The servant disappeared even more quickly than he had appeared.
'You'll tell Antyr all about your dreams, and answer any of his questions fully and truthfully,’ Ibris told Arwain, his manner forbidding any debate.
A few minutes later, Antyr was shown into the room followed by Tarrian and Grayle.
The two wolves moved to Ibris, their tails wagging, and he bent forward to stroke them. Arwain, however, stood up suddenly and pointed at Antyr. ‘You were the one in the Moras the other day, with the Liktors and the Mantynnai…’ He clicked his fingers. ‘…Estaan.'
Antyr edged back slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said, suddenly nervous. ‘But I thought that that had all been attended to.'
Ibris laid a hand on Arwain's arm and eased him back into his seat. ‘I heard about your little encounter,’ he said with a smile. ‘But we've more important matters to deal with at the moment.'
The sight of Antyr, however, had brought all Arwain's concerns about the Mantynnai flooding back.
'More important than Ryllans hearing something that left him openly afraid and had all the Mantynnai holding late-night discussions in their own language?’ Arwain replied in a low, urgent voice.
Ibris frowned briefly. ‘I know something's disturbed them badly,’ he said. ‘But I'm not prepared to question them about it. My trust in them is total.'
'But…'
'Total, Arwain!’ Ibris said definitively. ‘The Mantynnai won't let anything threaten this land. In this matter we must wait on their will. However…’ he motioned Antyr to sit down. The wolves circled down to rest at his feet. ‘Their … unease … is duly noted and I'll be giving them every opportunity to talk about it.'
'And the two riders on the bridge that they recognized and who disturbed them as much as Estaan's message?’ Arwain added, his voice still soft and urgent.
Ibris hesitated at this news, then, ‘Tell me later,’ he said, a flick of his hand ending the conversation. ‘Right now, just tell Antyr about your dreams.'
Arwain hesitated, loath to have his concerns set aside so lightly.
'Now, Arwain!’ Ibris said quietly but unequivocally.
Arwain hesitated again briefly, then with some awkwardness recounted the two dreams he had seemingly shared with Menedrion.
When he had finished, Antyr turned to Ibris and shook his head. ‘I've no explanation,’ he said. ‘But your sons are sensitives, just as you are, sire. When Menedrion was threatened, Arwain was drawn to him and saved him. When Arwain was in danger of slipping into the Threshold, Menedrion was drawn to him in turn. I'll speak to Pandra, and Tarrian and Grayle will speak to Kany, but I doubt we'll find an explanation.’ He raised his hand to prevent Ibris's pending interruption. ‘However, I feel no danger here. Something deep inside your sons draws them to protect one another. They're bound by some old tie of blood. It's good.'
'But why was Arwain attacked in his dream?’ Ibris asked anxiously.
'He wasn't,’ Antyr replied. ‘I don't know how he came to find the Gateway to the Threshold. Perhaps it was something to do with his earlier contact through Menedrion's dream, perhaps it was his injury…’ A thought occurred to him. People often died from apparently slight head wounds. Could it be that some injuries led them towards and through a Gateway? He left the idea unspoken. ‘But there was no power drawing him forth, no malign presence. He felt none and had they been aware of one, Pandra and Kany would have snatched him away on the instant. He was in danger, but he wasn't attacked.'
Ibris looked uncertain. He turned again to Arwain. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
Arwain was quietly battling for self-composure. Had it not been for his own experience he would not have given any of the current proceedings a moment's credence. Now, however, he had no choice but acceptance.
'Oddly enough, both more and less bewildered, more and less alarmed,’ he replied. ‘Less, because I'm reassured that I'm not going mad; more, because it seems to make both us and the Bethlarii part of some game between players who're beyond our reach and beyond our measure in power. How can we protect ourselves from such … creatures?'
'People,’ Antyr corrected. ‘One with a gift like my own, though greater, and one with a rarer, stranger, gift still. But people nevertheless. Not mythical creatures, not gods.'
'But as powerful as gods, from your telling,’ Arwain replied. ‘And I ask again, how can we protect ourselves from them?'
'After our encounter with them, I don't think any of you will be assailed again,’ Antyr said. ‘I think they'll be reluctant to wander indiscriminately through the Threshold again, judging by their treatment of the envoy.'
'But if?’ Arwain persisted.
'Then knowledge will be your best protection,’ Antyr replied. ‘Knowledge of who you are and who they are, and that dreams are but shadows of your own making. In addition you should remember that even in ignorance, you and your brother watched over one another. And now Pandra and Kany will be watching you as well.’ He pointed to the two wolves, seemingly asleep across Ibris's feet. ‘We will watch for the Mynedarion and pit ourselves against him if we come upon him. You must turn your mind to the enemy you can face-the Bethlarii.'
'But…'
Antyr's hand came out to silence him. Ibris raised an eyebrow in some amusement as he noted the growing confidence of Petran's son.
'The Mynedarion will come. Have no doubt about it,’ Antyr said, his black eyes peering into Arwain's powerfully. ‘He's mad with power and desire. That much I've felt for myself. And though he pursues an end we can't see, you've no choice now but to cut off his sword arm-the Bethlarii army. That done, if it can be done, then perhaps his intention may become clearer.'
'Sound strategic thinking,’ Ibris said to Arwain, with a slight smile.
When Antyr had left, Ibris summoned Ryllans and Feranc again.
'Two things,’ he began. ‘Firstly, take especial care of my son here. With all the confusion of mobilization there's a great deal of unusual coming and going about the palace and for all we're preparing to meet the Bethlarii, we'd be ill advised to ignore our normal enemies, not least my wife. Her reach and malice are considerable…’ He forestalled an interruption by Feranc. ‘I know you've increased the guard on the Erin-Mal, Ciarll, but Nefron has many friends who're not my friends, and many of my friends who are caught in her grip, and my stomach says caution, so I mention it to you. Take what action you see fit and keep me informed.'
Feranc bowed.
'Secondly, there is the disturbance among the Mantynnai,’ Ibris went on.
Ryllans stiffened slightly. Ibris looked at him squarely. ‘I have no doubts about your loyalty,’ he said quietly. ‘And I'll press you on no matter. But I gather that you've encountered … aspects … of these recent happenings in the past-before your time here. Arwain will tell you and Ciarll everything that's happened here tonight with Antyr, then I want you to talk with your companions and come to me with what you feel I need to know.’ He cast a brief, significant glance at Ciarll Feranc to impart the message.
'Remember this,’ he said, placing his hands on Ryllans’ shoulders. ‘You are all Serens now, while we still struggle to be Mantynnai. You have not only my trust, you have my protection.'