by Roger Taylor
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 an
d 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 fêted 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 th
em 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.