deal with it. Thought and calmness in action, coupled with a steadfastness of purpose…'
'Murderous ruthlessness, you mean,’ Arwain interrupted.
Ryllans nodded and continued. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Thought and calmness and murderous ruthlessness will give us the day.'
The two men fell silent and, after a moment, Arwain drifted off to sleep. Ryllans reached across and pulled his cloak about him, then settled back against the rock and closed his eyes.
To a casual observer, it would have appeared that the Mantynnai had fallen asleep like his Lord, but at the sound of a soft footfall nearby, a thin bright line appeared under the seemingly closed lids.
He was surrounded by his own kind and those that they trained, but his hand eased itself inconspicuously into his cloak and towards one of his knives. There was something odd about the sound; it was too soft, and there was no call for stealth in this place.
The reason for the softness manifested itself almost immediately as a woman emerged into view around the rock. It could have been one of the nurses from the medical corps, but Ryllans’ hand did not move from his knife, and for an instant there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
'Lady Nefron,’ he said.
The woman drew in a sharp breath and lifted her hand to her heart as she turned quickly towards him.
'You startled me,’ she said.
Ryllans made no apology, but he stood up and stepped towards her, placing himself between her and the sleeping Arwain.
'What are you doing here?’ he asked, politely, but authoritatively. ‘This may yet be a battleground again. Do you have the Duke's permission to be here?'
Nefron's eyes blazed. ‘Of course,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Do you imagine I'm free just because I'm no longer in the Erin-Mal? I can do nothing without his word, nor go anywhere without an escort of stone-faced troopers following me. But you'd know that, wouldn't you? As you and your kind trained them.'
'Yes,’ Ryllans replied.
Nefron flinched as if her own venom had rebounded from Ryllans’ flat reply. ‘I asked to come because I thought I'd be able to help your wounded,’ she went on. ‘That's what I've been dragged along for, isn't it?'
'The Duke doesn't consult me on such matters,’ Ryllans said. ‘But the men will appreciate your concern. Fighting is a cruel matter, all solace is welcome.'
Nefron looked at him intently.
'I can't read you, Mantynnai,’ she said after a moment. ‘Most men I can read, manipulate if I have to. But not you; none of you. Always you elude me. What are you thinking? Why are you the way you are? Foreigners dying for this land, this man, my husband?'
'We are what we are,’ Ryllans answered. ‘Who can say why?'
'You can,’ Nefron answered unequivocally. Ryllans did not reply.
Nefron blew out a long irritated breath, then shivered. She hunched her shoulders and pulled her cloak about her tightly. Involuntarily, Ryllans’ hand reached out to help her.
'Careful, Mantynnai,’ she said tartly, her lip curling. ‘That was a touch of humanity.'
There was a brief flash of terrible anger in Ryllans’ eyes. ‘You waste your life in this futile railing at your own pain, Nefron,’ he said, his voice quiet but very powerful. ‘You ask who I am, who we are, the Mantynnai. You should first ask who you are, before you concern yourself with others.'
Nefron's eyes widened at this unexpected rebuke and she drew herself up angrily. Before she could respond, however, Ryllans was standing in front of her with a knife in his hand. He had drawn it with a movement so swift and skilful that she had scarcely seen it.
Terror replaced the anger in her face, but the hand that came up was as defiant as it was defensive.
Ryllans grasped it forcefully and placed the knife in it, his own hand tightening her fingers around its hilt.
'Kill him,’ he said with a casual nod towards the sleeping Arwain that belied the immovability of his grip. ‘Have your heart's desire. The object of your endless scheming. Fulfil your darkest ambitions. I'll not hinder you, on my word.'
Nefron's lean, handsome face had become contorted with shock and bewilderment and she began to sway. Ryllans put a powerful arm around her and jerked her upright. ‘No, Nefron, there's no escape on the battlefield, you kill or you are killed,’ he said, his foreign accent suddenly strong. The hand holding the knife in hers pointed it towards Arwain.
'Kill him now,’ he said. ‘As you've always wanted. Destroy the product of your husband's divided, perhaps foolish, love; his few stolen couplings with your sister.’ He bent her forward. ‘What's a little more blood this day? It's soon done. I can show you how to do it. Show you where to plunge the point, turn the blade so as not to make too much mess, see…'
The knife was almost at Arwain's throat.
With a strangled cry and a prodigious effort, Nefron wrenched herself upright and stepped back. Calmly, Ryllans released her hand and stood staring at her.
She hurled the knife away with a mixture of fury and revulsion, then she turned on her unexpected tormentor. Her mouth was working, but no sounds came. A lesser woman, a mere Lord's wife, would have screamed and sobbed, protested about such unwarranted and brutal handling. But instead she managed to gasp out, after a long, agonizing struggle, ‘How did you know?'
Ryllans held her gaze. ‘Mud stains over the bloodstains on your elegant cloak. Fine-crafted shoes soiled beyond repair. Blood on your hands … and on your face.’ He pointed, and Nefron lifted a hand to her face, though she lowered it before it reached its destination. ‘You've been wandering this field, oblivious to where you were. Doubtless you rushed here on the pretext of comforting our wounded for some subtle, scheming reason of your own. Perhaps you even came as a mother anxious about Menedrion. Or perhaps you came to see if your long, wearisome vengeance had been wrought at last, and Arwain killed.’ Nefron could not turn away and Ryllans continued relentlessly. ‘But you've seen the dead and their fearful mutilations. Seen men's entrails and precious limbs scattered across the mountain turf, with birds and animals waiting to snuffle among them, but hopping and scuttling to one side as you approach; deferential, fearful in the presence of one of the great predators. You've seen the faces of the dead, with their shocked, unbelieving eyes. And you've seen the terrible, screaming wounds of the maimed.’ He leaned forward towards her. ‘But worst of all, you've seen into their eyes, and into the eyes of all the men who fought here.'
'How did you know?’ She mouthed the phrase distantly, as if it were all she had left to hold on to.
'It's in your eyes now,’ Ryllans said. ‘But I know because I myself am not yet returned from the raw, bloody edge of today's events. I'm still in the killing vein. Life, death, a flick of the wrist.’ He made the gesture in front of her face. ‘My sight is still too sharp, too clear. It sees into your soul and cannot do other than kill the monstrous folly it sees dwelling there.'
There was a long silence.
The noises of the crackling fire and of the camp eddied idly around the two motionless figures.
Then Nefron bowed her head slightly, and, without speaking, turned back towards the camp.
Ryllans watched her retreating figure until she was completely out of sight, then he sat down again, his face unreadable. His hands were shaking again.
Arwain slept.
Lying in the camp nearby, drifting in and out of sleep were Antyr, Tarrian, and Grayle. They had arrived with Menedrion somewhat the worse for wear: Antyr sore and weary through the long-sustained ride, Tarrian and Grayle footsore and thirsty with the relentless pace that Menedrion had set.
Despite his tiredness, however, Antyr's increasing sensitivity felt Arwain's sleeping thoughts and he was with him on the instant. The dreamselves of Tarrian and Grayle joined him almost as quickly.
Estaan, sitting near Antyr's rough bunk and idly flicking through a book, noted the change in the demeanour of the three sleeping figures. Increasingly familiar with the ways of the Dream Finder and his Companions, he knew that beneath the closed lids, Antyr's eyes would be black as night, like deep pits, while those of the two wolves would be yellow, wild, and all-seeing. Quietly he moved his chair to the entrance of the tent so as to prevent any incautious entry.
Arwain's sleep was slight and flimsy, and, like Ryllans, his sensitivities raw. In the mists he felt the presence of Antyr and the wolves and he grimaced inwardly. Discreet and intangible though it was, their attention felt
