by Roger Taylor
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.'
