Dream Finder Page 11

  Menedrion looked away from her and stared across the room, but he did not see what his eyes focused on. There was a long silence. Nefron watched and waited. The grey daylight from the window cut cold shadows in Menedrion’s face.

  ‘It was a battle, mother,’ he said eventually, reluctantly turning towards her again. ‘But I’m not sure it was a dream.’

  Nefron frowned in genuine concern. For an instant all her ambitions for her son began to teeter as images of insanity formed before her. There was no history of it in either family, but . . .?

  ‘It was . . . real . . .’ Menedrion continued. ‘I was . . . somewhere else. Somewhere bleak. And dark, like an unnatural night. And cold.’ He began to rub his arm with his hand. ‘Bitterly cold. And all around were shadows. Blacker than the darkness. In the distance at first, but moving, searching. Searching for me.’

  His breathing became shallower. ‘I looked round, but I couldn’t see anything but this expanse of dark emptiness. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They knew I was here because they’d brought me here and now they were just looking for me.’

  Nefron watched in mounting horror as the blood drained from Menedrion’s ruddy face and the haunted gaze returned. ‘Then, as if they’d heard my thoughts, they saw me . . . sensed me. They began to close in . . . like hunters. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker. I couldn’t run, because that was what they wanted and I knew they’d take the power of my running for themselves and pursue me the faster.’ Menedrion’s hands rose up as if to protect himself. ‘As they closed, I struck out, but . . . they weren’t there . . . yet they were.’ He looked at his mother intently, explaining now. ‘When I struck, I passed right through them . . . and they through me . . . like a coldness . . . a deathly coldness. Possessing me, mother. Wanting me. “Yes,” they kept saying. “Yes, yes, this one too.” They were drawing me away . . . drawing me . . . I couldn’t stop them . . . I didn’t want to . . . I . . .’

  He let out a massive gasping breath and seemed unable to continue for a moment. ‘And then someone else was with me, inside me . . . no . . . I was someone else . . . someone who didn’t belong there . . . and they couldn’t reach me any more . . . except one . . . more silent, more terrible than the others. He, it, touched me just as I . . . woke . . . came back.’

  Menedrion ran his hand over his chest as if to assure himself of something. ‘But some of it was still with me . . . tiny, but real . . . dancing deep inside me like a black candle flame. And I was still someone else. Someone else being me. Someone else who didn’t feel the flame. Who didn’t hear it say, “Strike. Let me be fed.” But who struck anyway.’

  Suddenly he let out an anguished cry and dropped his head into his hands. Nefron looked at him, wide-eyed and, for the first time in her life, speechless with shock.

  ‘I’m not mad, mother,’ Menedrion said unexpectedly, without looking up. ‘I’m not mad.’

  Nefron opened her mouth to speak some reassurance, but she knew her voice would betray her. Instead she laid a hand on his head as the cold, reasoning part of her mind struggled to dominate the powerful emotions that had swept through her in response to her son’s pain.

  Menedrion looked up. ‘I’m not mad,’ he said viciously into her silence. ‘I know that. I thought I might be, but telling you about it has told me I’m not. It could have been a madman’s dream, but it wasn’t. But I am frightened.’

  Nefron had never heard, nor thought to hear, such an admission from her son in all his life, but still she could not trust her voice. Menedrion had many flaws in his character, but he had both faced and dealt out death in combat and his judgement in the heat of action was to be trusted utterly. Beset by enemies, Menedrion knew where every part of his mind and body were to an extent that would be the envy of a meditative sage. It was his wholeness that made him so formidable, often robbing his opponents of their will even as they attacked him.

  It came to Nefron gradually that she must do as others had done in the past. She must shelter behind his shield while she sought a few moments’ respite. She must trust his baffle-tested judgement.

  Yet she knew she could not be seen to be doing this for that in itself might mar this judgement.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said firmly, standing up and hoping that the flow of her words would lead her correctly. ‘There’s no question of madness here. Your feet are far too well planted on the ground and besides . . .’ She allowed herself a knowing smile. ‘You haven’t the imagination to go mad.’

  It was a gentle taunt, but an old familiar one, and Menedrion’s grim face lightened a little.

  ‘We have two problems,’ Nefron continued, taking command again. ‘One is the girl.’ She turned to her son. ‘You must see to that. Go and see her, see her parents. Make what amends you can. Say . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Say it was a nightmare . . . probably something you ate . . . something noxious in the fog . . . it kills enough people, after all. Be contrite. I don’t have to tell you, do I? A judicious combination of money and that grotesque charm of yours should do it.’ She paused pensively for a moment. ‘Attend to that as soon as you leave here, and don’t delay.’

  ‘What about Drayner?’ Menedrion asked, glad himself to be shielding behind his mother’s will.

  Nefron was dismissive. ‘Drayner doesn’t gossip,’ she said. ‘And if anyone else knows about it, it won’t matter if there’s no complaint from the family.’

  She nodded to herself, satisfied. Then, as she had expected, the answer to the second problem came to her. She smiled to herself at its elegance. It would deal with this matter and help with another one also.

  She sat down opposite Menedrion again. ‘This other business is more serious, though,’ she said, concerned, but purposeful. ‘We need to know what happened to you last night, but we can’t find out on our own.’ Then, as if the thought had just occurred, she laid a hand on his knee. ‘You must consult a Dream Finder,’ she said in mild triumph.

  Menedrion looked at her uncertainly. ‘A Dream Finder?’ he echoed.

  Nefron nodded by way of a reply.

  ‘No one uses Dream Finders these days,’ Menedrion said, dismayed. ‘They’re quacks. Like . . .’ He searched for a word. ‘Fortune-tellers, market tricksters. Reading the future from the dregs of a wine cup. They’re for merchants’ wives with too much time and money on their hands . . .’

  Nefron smiled broadly at the outburst and shook a silencing hand at him. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘There are some charlatans about, but they’re still a respected Guild and they were much used once. I heard of one recently. Not a famous one, but very good. Used by some important people . . .’ She snapped her fingers softly. ‘What was his name now?’

  Her face lit up. Menedrion bathed in its certainty.

  ‘Antyr,’ she proclaimed. ‘That was it. When you’ve made your peace with the girl and her family, Irfan, go and find the Dream Finder, Antyr.’

  Chapter 7

  Arwain scowled as he jumped down from his horse and handed the reins to the waiting groom.

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’ said an officer stepping forward to greet him.

  Arwain returned his salute and, with an effort, smiled. ‘No, no, Ryllans, he said. ‘Just the dampness after the fog. It seeps into the bones.’

  Ryllans raised his eyebrows. ‘I heard there was some disturbance at the palace last night,’ he said straightforwardly.

  Arwain shook his head and chuckled. ‘One of the servant girls had a bad fall and needed help, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you don’t hear about, Ryllans?’

  ‘Not too much, I hope, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘Your safety and the Lady Yanys’s . . . are my responsibility and I need eyes and ears everywhere for that.’

  Arwain nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Doubtless you’ll tell me why this servant girl warranted the attention of the Duke’s personal physician when you’re ready, sir,’ Ryllans went on softly, his slight foreign accent betraying his true anxiety.

&nb
sp; ‘Doubtless,’ Arwain replied, laughing. ‘If you don’t tell me first.’

  But Arwain’s laughter did not invoke the same in Ryllans. Instead, the older man held Arwain’s gaze in silent, but relentless, inquiry. His charge and his guards wandering the cellars at night had to be explained to his satisfaction sooner or later. That they found a physician and his patient instead of secret plotters was irrelevant. Clandestine movement through the palace was always a matter for concern. And there was the matter of the Duke’s physician being called out in the middle of the night to attend to a mere servant.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Arwain said, more soberly, and also lowering his voice. ‘There was no danger, and there’s no plot brewing. It was just an . . . excess . . . by my beloved half-brother. I’ll tell you what happened later, have no fear, there’s no urgency, trust me. Let’s proceed with the task in hand.’

  Ryllans nodded and turned on his heel.

  Arwain looked at the back of the Commander of his bodyguard as he followed him. A little shorter than himself, balding and clean-shaven, Ryllans walked with a slight roll which made him look heavy and clumsy. He was neither. Arwain knew that he would already have quietly wrung all that happened from the guards who had accompanied him through the cellar and that he would probably be well on his way to identifying the girl and the servants.

  He knew, too, that the fact that Drayner and the others had been spotted purely by chance would be concerning him greatly, for the security of Arwain and his house came second only to his ultimate loyalty to the Duke, and dominated his thinking.

  Arwain liked and respected Ryllans, yet he was always aware of a distance in the man. Not that he was cold or aloof – indeed he was invariably good company – but somewhere inside, there was a part that Arwain knew he could not reach. Not that he was alone in that, he consoled himself, for Ryllans was the most senior of the Mantynnai: the men who had defended the city of Viernce during the Bethlarii inspired rebellion and siege some ten years ago. To a man, they were, at bottom, unreadable.

  A small group of foreign mercenaries in the employ of Duke Ibris, and garrisoned at Viernce, the Mantynnai had put down the rebelling faction after the local militia had thrown down their arms. Outnumbered, that in itself had been no easy task, but they had then found the city besieged by the Bethlarii army and had taken appalling losses holding it until the Bethlarii, not expecting and not equipped for a long siege, were put to flight by the unexpected arrival of the Serenstad army with the Duke at their head, soiled and raging, after a prodigious forced march over the snowbound countryside.

  As a reward for their exceptional courage and loyalty, Ibris had immediately appointed the survivors to his own palace guard, an elite regiment, entry to which hitherto had been exclusively restricted to the citizens of Serenstad only.

  It was a decision that had caused some controversy at the time, prompting angry and anxious debates in both the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. ‘They’re not Serens,’ was the cry. ‘They’re not even from this land. A raggle-taggle bunch of foreigners. Warriors for money. We know nothing of them. Not even where they come from, or how they came here.’

  The comments were accurate, but the Duke had rounded furiously on the carpers, at one stage throwing a handful of gold on to the floor of the Sened House, and standing over it, sword drawn, shouting, ‘Warriors for money! That’s a half year’s pay for a Mantynnai infantryman. Which of you here would die for it, or for ten times that amount?’

  Then into the silence he had said, ‘They stood, fought and died, where our own kind surrendered or fled. Had they not done so then Viernce would now be a subject city of Bethlar. Do you think we’d be sitting here debating so calmly with the Bethlarii holding all our northern territories?’

  ‘Nevertheless, they are foreigners and we don’t understand them truly. They should not be brought so close to the seat of power,’ had come a quieter voice from an older Senedwr.

  The Duke had answered him in like vein. ‘Power goes to those who are most fitted for it,’ he said sadly, sheathing his sword. ‘And, believe me, such men could have taken power at any time had they so wished. If they take it now, then it will be by stealth and silence and it’ll be a gentler bargain than that which our ancestors, as foreigners, offered the original inhabitants of this land.’ It was the definitive statement of a man who understood the true value of force in governing a people.

  The opposition had eventually faded in the face of his determination and as the full truth of the events at Viernce became more widely known. Subsequently, the Mantynnai survivors had taken up their new roles in the palace guard as quietly and inconspicuously as they did most things.

  ‘One of my better decisions,’ Ibris later remarked as he watched this ‘raggle-taggle bunch of foreigners’ gradually improving the weapons and tactics of his guards, and thence the whole army.

  More subtly, they also began to develop in the army a sense of discipline and independent loyalty to him as Head of State which did much to lessen the more bloody partisan excesses that stained the politics of the cities.

  Now all the Mantynnai held high-ranking posts in the palace guard, and were regarded in many ways as its heart.

  ‘We’ve made them more Serens than the Serens,’ someone said to the Duke, but he shook his head and replied, ‘No. They’ve made us more Mantynnai, and we’re better for it.’

  And I have their finest in my bodyguard, Arwain constantly reminded himself.

  It was a source of some irritation to Ibris’s other sons that ‘the bastard’ had such a bodyguard, but Ibris was straightforward.

  ‘As you know, certain factions are particularly ill-disposed to him,’ he said to them. Menedrion looked at him darkly, but Ibris carefully avoided mentioning Nefron’s name. Her imprisonment was still a topic which they both avoided if possible.

  In earlier days, Menedrion, ever headstrong, had quarrelled violently with his father, naively protesting Nefron’s innocence. For a while it seemed that nothing would restrain him, but eventually he became quieter. This Ibris attributed to his own quite specific threats, but ironically it was Nefron herself who bade her offspring keep silent for fear that his wildness would permanently estrange him from his father, and see him banished and barred the succession.

  Not that she was alone in her concern about that matter. It taxed Ibris also. In the past, internecine fighting between the great families over the succession had done fearful damage to Serenstad and, gradually, the tradition of hereditary succession coupled with the approval of the Sened had evolved. But the problem was still fraught with hazard, and violence was always near the surface.

  Like many rulers before him, Ibris found himself facing a dilemma. While he did not name an heir there was the risk of fighting among his sons, and of sudden coups by other families either before or after his death. If he did name an heir, however, the situation would be little improved, as the chosen son would then be a particular target for other aspirants, and he himself perhaps a target for his heir.

  In an attempt to minimize this possible mayhem, Ibris had gradually devolved more responsibility for government to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. But, as the Mantynnai had equally gradually consolidated the loyalty of the army to him, he decided on balance that there would be more chance of stability if his family knew his mind while he was alive and strong. He fulfilled Nefron’s prophecy.

  ‘Menedrion, I name you as my heir. You’re the eldest and you’ve shown yourself a capable leader in battle if little else. Arwain, you in turn shall be his heir until he settles down and breeds one of his own. Goran . . . Goran! . . . Don’t mutter. And stop sulking! Arwain’s bastardy doesn’t preclude him as you know full well! You’ll be third in line, though the gods protect us if it ever comes to that.’

  Then he had wilfully dominated them all. ‘You can choose to fight among yourselves if you wish, but if I get one whiff of it, I’ll disown you utterly and banish you to the farthest island I can find. And you’ve got plenty of cousi
ns waiting to step into your shoes. Menedrion, you will swear the Ducal oath of protection over your brothers, here and now. Arwain and Goran, you will swear your allegiance to Menedrion in turn.’

  The oaths were duly sworn and Ibris then gave them his final, quieter benison. ‘Look at our city,’ he said. ‘Rich, powerful, a fine place and one that will become even finer, given peace and thoughtful guidance. Wealth and prosperity are what we must seek. Men won’t leave comfortable hearths for the warring streets, believe me. Honour your oaths all of you, not because they’re oaths but because they’re in everyone’s best interests. No one will benefit from a war of succession except the Bethlarii. Menedrion, settle down, get married, breed. Listen to your brothers when you’re Duke. Arwain, if I’ve judged aright, you’ve little desire for leadership, but help Menedrion for my sake and for the people’s. Goran . . . Goran! Pay attention! You’re a fine artist. You above all will make Serenstad the city that will draw the universe to it. Be what you are and be well pleased with it. I envy you.’

  It was the best he could do, he reasoned. Menedrion lacked much that was needed in a good duke but he might well grow into one with help from the others. And he did covet the role, which was no small consideration. Naming him might also diminish the influence of his scheming mother. Arwain, on the other hand, was probably ideally suited for the task. But he seemed to have neither ambition nor expectation and, it had to be admitted, to have named him ahead of Menedrion would have been to sentence him to death. As it was, there was little love lost between him and Menedrion.

  And yet, of the three sons, Arwain was the most like his father, and Ibris knew he could not read him fully. That caused him some concern, but he consoled himself with the thought that if Arwain secretly intended to oust Menedrion, then he’d have the wit to at least attempt to do it both efficiently and quietly. Yes, Ibris’s darker side mused, it had been right to place his most loyal guards around Arwain. They might well also be protecting all of us.