by Roger Taylor
‘Dream Finding is something I’ve no experience of,’ Feranc said. ‘But there are many strange things in the world and the wolf’s advice is sound under the circumstances.’
Ibris nodded thoughtfully. ‘Strange indeed,’ he said. ‘I can’t avoid feeling that events are moving quite beyond my control. As if some . . . outside . . . power were forcing them along.’
Feranc waited impassively.
Then, rather awkwardly, Ibris said, ‘The Mantynnai came much later than you, but they are your countrymen, aren’t they?’ He looked at Feranc, almost plaintively. It was a subject he had touched on lightly at times, but Feranc had never responded and he had never pressed the question.
Feranc nodded. ‘They are,’ he said, without deliberation. ‘But I know none of them, nor why they’re here. And, clear-sighted though they are, I doubt any of them know me for one of their countrymen.’
Ibris rested his head on his hands. Feranc’s almost casual admission was in itself oddly unsettling. As if in some way it implied further the importance of events far beyond his knowledge or his will.
‘You understand that nothing would have made me pry into this but a great sense of unease and Estaan’s specific reference to his past,’ he said. ‘You know that I accept them for what they are, here and now, and for what they’ve been since they came to this land. Just as I’ve always accepted you.’ Feranc nodded again.
‘But tell me what you can that might give me some guidance,’ Ibris went on. ‘Tell me what there is in your country that could terrify one of my Mantynnai.’
Feranc sat down opposite the Duke, his face unreadable. ‘This is my country, Ibris,’ he said. ‘But I understand your need.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I know of nothing in my birthland that could produce such a reaction. It was a country with a strong . . . soldierly . . . tradition. But it wasn’t warlike. It was civilized, peaceful, well governed, and above all free. A rare balance, as I’ve found on my travels since. Strength doesn’t bring freedom, but freedom can’t survive without true strength; the strength that comes from inside a people. The strength to see your neighbour wearing a sword and to be glad of it, knowing that he is well capable of using it, and will draw it to protect you if need arises.’ He paused and his eyes became distant and unfocused.
‘Why did you leave?’ Ibris asked, almost immediately regretting the haste of the question.
Feranc started slightly from his reverie. ‘The countries on our borders were very different from us, but similarly blessed with peace and order, and self-knowledge. Then one of them was attacked. Hordes of barbarians came to their shores, burning, killing, destroying . . .’ He shook his head. ‘We went to their aid. We could do no other. I was a . . . King’s man . . . like I am now, albeit more lowly. But my . . . regiment . . . was special – very highly trained – the eyes of the King’s army, and a secret dagger in the heart of the enemy. There weren’t many of us.’
He stopped. Ibris remained silent.
‘I saw such things . . . did such things. Things that must inevitably change the direction of a man’s life ever after.’ He shook his head slowly and pensively. ‘When word reached us that the enemy was routed and had fled back to the sea, I think I just wandered away, out of those freezing mountains.’ He wrapped his arms about himself involuntarily. ‘I scarcely remember. I just knew I couldn’t go home. I was defiled in some way.’ Ibris grimaced at the distress his request had caused.
‘I just wandered and wandered. South. Away. Anywhere,’ Feranc went on. ‘From land to land, people to people. Until I came here. Saw a faint shadow of my homeland in this city and its dominions. And you, striving relentlessly to better it all. Here I’ll stay, I thought. Put my peculiar skills at the service of this man. Build the heart of my country here anew.’
Ibris reached across and touched his arm gently. ‘I’m sorry, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb such painful memories.’
Feranc smiled slightly. ‘There’s little or no pain in them now,’ he replied. ‘Even though they’re with me every day. I couldn’t be of any value to anyone if they weren’t. Now I’m more whole. And Serens. Besides, your need is great, and I was lucky. I was taught by wise men, so while I did foul things, they were none of them truly avoidable. I have at least the consolation that I can face my conscience. I can account for my deeds.’
He fell silent.
‘And the Mantynnai?’ Ibris asked, tentatively, after a moment.
Feranc frowned thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘They’ve not been trained as I was, very few were. But they’ve all been in the King’s service at some time, I’d say, or at least been trained by his men. It’s difficult to say exactly, they’re a very mixed bunch.’
Ibris looked surprised. ‘That’s the last thing I’d have said,’ he remarked. ‘It doesn’t need much of a soldier’s eye to pick one of them out of a crowd.’
Feranc nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘But what you see is the unifying effect of whatever drove them from their country. I see many different traits in the way they conduct themselves. And their fighting techniques are fascinating. They reveal a great deal. I can recognize the basis of all of them but, quite independently, they’ve also developed them in the very direction that I was trained to. I had a teacher once who said that all paths become the same eventually if pursued for the right reasons. I didn’t know what he meant then, but I do now.’
‘But why would they leave their country?’ Ibris asked gently as Feranc fell silent once more.
Feranc shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I feel that they left bearing an even greater burden of guilt and pain than I, and that, for all their calm and quietness, most of them are a long way from being truly at peace with themselves. They’re driven by something. That’s why they stood and died at Viernce. Even now I think they’d form a ring around you and die to a man if need arose.’
‘And you, Ciarll?’
‘I might,’ Feranc replied, with an unexpected smile.
Ibris smiled too, but his face was soon dark again.
‘It’s just occurred to me,’ he said, very slowly. ‘That perhaps once they followed this evil that Estaan spoke of.’
‘A sad thought,’ Feranc replied softly. ‘But perhaps apt. Though I can’t imagine what it could have been. For the most part, even the barbarians who invaded our neighbours were not evil. They were misled and ignorant, and by virtue of their ignorance, they did evil deeds which warranted armed opposition. But that wouldn’t frighten a man like Estaan. It would make him reach for his sword.’
‘So presumably something happened in your land since you left?’ Ibris said.
Feranc nodded. ‘Presumably,’ he echoed. ‘But I doubt the Mantynnai will tell you, me, or anyone. Nor do I think we should ask. If they know of some strange threat, then they’ll take steps against it. I think we must watch them and learn that way, until perhaps an opportunity for an open question presents itself.’
Ibris sat silent for some time. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We must trust them. They’ll do nothing that will allow any harm to happen to Serenstad. God knows, they’d no reason to stand and fight at Viernce, but they did, and if they hadn’t, then we wouldn’t be here today. And they would fight to the death for me if need arose.’ He looked at Feranc. ‘As I would for them,’ he added deliberately. ‘Whatever they did and whatever drives them, they’re fine and true men now, by any measure. Perhaps like you, they see some . . . what was it you said? Some shadow of their homeland here. But whatever it is, we owe them a debt beyond measure.’ He paused. ‘We must just be careful that we don’t allow them to sacrifice themselves to assuage some long-past misdeed.’
Feranc bowed his head in acknowledgement.
‘But I still don’t know what to do with this Dream Finder and his wild tales of worlds beyond,’ Ibris said, in some exasperation.
‘Nothing’s changed much since last night,’ Feranc said quietly. ‘Except that the Dream Finder seems to be
growing in stature almost as we watch him.’
‘Yes,’ Ibris agreed. ‘He’s a more powerful spirit than he realizes. A true Serens.’
‘A true man,’ Feranc corrected.
‘Yes,’ Ibris said softly.
‘Take him seriously,’ Feranc said, uncharacteristically authoritative. ‘If only for the effect he had on Estaan. He’s no charlatan, we both feel that. He believes what he’s seen and he’s struggling with something, beyond a doubt.’
Ibris looked uncertain.
Feranc leaned forward, suddenly almost animated. ‘Consider the worst, however improbable,’ he said. ‘A strange, malign power loose among us. Attacking us through our dreams in some way. You can raise an army to face the Bethlarii and many of us can help you lead it. But who can fight a foe that can come through the darkness into our sleeping minds and perhaps kill us there?’
Ibris watched him.
‘You can’t charge cavalry against a city wall,’ Feranc went on. ‘And you can’t tunnel under an infantry line. Tactics and troops change with circumstances. If we need someone to . . . fight . . . in dreams then we must have someone who understands dreams, who can enter them, and who’s no coward. And heed his warning about Menedrion. I’ve already told him that you want to see him today. You must tell him about all this and ensure that he’s . . . guarded . . . in his sleep, however these people do that kind of thing. And speak to the man again now. Question him. Listen to him. And give him immediate access to you at all times.’
Ibris’s eyebrows went up.
‘At all times,’ Feranc repeated. ‘I’ll be honest, the man intrigues me. You yourself likened him to the kind of man who springs up from nowhere in a broken pike line and somehow pulls it together again. And it’s only another mouth or so to feed at worse. If he becomes troublesome or foolish he’s easily dealt with.’
‘I recall,’ Ibris said, sitting up. ‘Find Menedrion and bring him here immediately, no matter what he’s doing – or to whom – then bring them all back in. And you may as well stay yourself, I doubt there’s any point trying to hide you from those wolves. They probably knew you were there all the time.’
Menedrion needed little persuasion to leave his duties as host to the Bethlarii envoy.
‘Father, my face is aching with smiling at that black-hearted, intolerant bigot,’ he blustered as he entered the room. His clenched fist came up. ‘The sooner we . . .’ He stopped as he saw Antyr.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he demanded.
‘He’s here for the same reason you are,’ Ibris said, curtly. ‘Because I told him to be.’
Sensing his father’s mood, Menedrion held his tongue, but he gave Antyr a look of such menacing suspicion that Ibris was obliged to speak again. ‘You can rest assured he’s done you no ill-service, Irfan,’ he said. ‘And since he attended you he’s been appointed as one of my senior advisers.’ He looked narrowly at his son.
Menedrion seemed to be considering commenting but in the end he just sniffed loudly, and sat down heavily on a nearby chair.
Ibris turned to Antyr. ‘Tell me everything again,’ he said simply.
Antyr was less than happy at being the object of dispute between Ibris and Menedrion, and far from certain about his status in such a gathering following the Duke’s earlier outburst. He stepped forward however, and did as he was told: telling of his visits to both the Duke and Menedrion, and ending with his experience at Nyriall’s, adding this time Pandra’s conjectures about the Mynedarion.
There was a brief silence when he had finished, then Menedrion gave a blast of disgust. ‘What blithering nonsense,’ he burst out derisively. ‘Wondrous worlds in the great beyond. Magicians conjuring thunder and lightning out of nowhere. I didn’t believe tales like that when I was three. What’s it going to be next? The Winterfest Giver with his red cloak and white beard? What are we doing here, father? We’ve all got important matters to attend to.’
He leaned forward purposefully, but before he could continue, Ibris intervened. ‘Look in the mirror, Irfan,’ he said sharply. ‘When did you last have any sleep? And what drove you to your mother seeking a Dream Finder?’
Menedrion’s jaw jutted out angrily and, for a moment, it seemed almost that he was going to leap up and strike his father. Then he turned away abruptly, and slumped back morosely in his chair. It creaked in protest.
‘Have you ever known me to play foolish games, Irfan?’ Ibris said, his voice mildly conciliatory. ‘I can’t pretend that I believe this business of the Threshold and strange worlds beyond where dead men can be alive again, but I’m satisfied that I was menaced in some way in my dream. And I’ve enough experience of Dream Finding to know that a Dream Finder can’t be separated from the dreamer as you were. We don’t need to know exactly what’s happening to know that something’s badly amiss. And I intend to take action to protect our flanks by using the only troops we have to hand for the job.’
Menedrion looked up and the two men gazed at one another silently for some time, the one fatigued and afraid beneath his air of angry bluster, the other determined and concerned. Eventually Menedrion lowered his eyes.
‘Whatever you say, father,’ he said. ‘I’ll own that I was frightened in that . . . dream. Wherever it was, it was as real as here.’ He slapped the arm of his chair. ‘And so was the threat that I felt. It was like no dream I’ve ever had. I don’t know who protected me the first time, but he and the wolf saved me the second time.’ He indicated Antyr.
Ibris looked openly relieved; a danger accepted was a danger that could be met. He turned to Antyr. ‘You must advise,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘We can’t go without sleep or our ordinary old-fashioned enemies in the here and now will defeat us.’ He was almost light-hearted.
Antyr, finding himself suddenly the focus of attention, froze. Under other circumstances he might have expected a spine-straightening rebuke from Tarrian for such dithering, but the wolf was silent.
The Duke nodded at him expectantly.
Desperately, Antyr took refuge in the truth. ‘I don’t know what to do, sire,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’ve no experience in such matters. Nor do I know anyone who has. I don’t know what powers this . . . Mynedarion . . . or his guide have. What their intentions are . . . who they are . . . where they are . . . anything . . .’
‘Nonetheless,’ Ibris said, levelling a finger at him. ‘You must advise. Useless though you feel yourself to be, you’re still the only one here who’s made real contact with this enemy. Think! You’ll find you’ve come away with more information than you’ve realized.’
Antyr stared at him vacantly.
Ibris leaned forward. ‘Firstly, you survived,’ he said simply. ‘You say this . . . creature . . . raised a great wind, darkened the sky with thunder and lightning. That’s a power beyond anything that even our artillery machines, or Menedrion’s great forges can achieve. But still you survived . . .’
‘Because he wanted me,’ Antyr interrupted, without thinking.
Ibris nodded. ‘Further information,’ he said. ‘Which I’d forgotten myself. And also you thought that you noted a division in their ranks.’
Antyr shrugged. ‘It was only a thought, sire. An impression,’ he said.
Ibris cast a glance at Feranc, who smiled slightly. ‘Battles have been won and lost on far less than that, Antyr,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the reasons why they should be avoided if at all possible. Too much rests on random chance.’
Antyr opened his arms in a gesture of inadequacy.
Ibris became more stern. ‘We cannot see a danger and do nothing,’ he said. ‘You are the only one who can help. Trust your judgement. Advise.’
Antyr looked at Pandra and then at Tarrian and Grayle. The two wolves looked at him unblinkingly, but neither spoke. A pack thing, he thought grimly.
There was a long silence.
Then he looked squarely at Ibris. ‘You’ve never had a dream such as you had the other night, sire?’ he asked.
; ‘Never,’ Ibris replied.
Antyr turned to Menedrion. ‘Nor I,’ Menedrion replied, before the question was asked.
Antyr closed his eyes. He felt an abyss opening before him again.
‘We are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength,’ he said resolutely and, releasing a long slow breath, he stepped into the darkness.
Walking over to Menedrion, he stood over him and stared at him intently. Menedrion met his gaze unflinchingly, but with some suspicion.
‘You are Irfan Menedrion,’ Antyr said, his voice unexpectedly commanding. ‘Son of Serenstad’s greatest Duke. A man who will be Duke himself, one day. A great leader of men in battle. Where you are, men rally, lines re-form, and enemies quail. A great warrior. No one opposes you willingly.’ He reached out and placed his extended forefinger in the middle of Menedrion’s forehead. ‘Remember all this. Remember it as you would remember the battlefield earth, firm and solid, under your feet, supporting you faithfully as you swung your sword. Remember it as you would remember the weight of your lance, the movement of your horse. Remember. You are master of yourself. You cannot be moved if you do not wish it. Sleep with the sword that you’ve used before beside you; the one you can rely on. It will remind you of your power. Sleep brings you no threat. Dream in peace.’
Menedrion made no movement as Antyr removed his hand, but all hostility had gone from his face.
Antyr turned to the Duke and fixed him with the same, black-eyed gaze. ‘You understood these things well already, sire, although you did not realize it,’ he said. ‘Now you understand them more. Sleep brings you no threat. Dream in peace.’
The room became very still and Antyr moved softly through the silence like drifting smoke.
He looked at Estaan. ‘You are not of this land,’ he said. ‘You are tortured, but you have strange deep strengths from another place. Dream in peace.’
