Antyr stood up and stared after him. Tarrian's words had carried him back to that fearful battlefield; the stomach-wrenching waiting as the enemy marched to and fro, manoeuvring and feinting, then the screaming terror when the thundering charge came, when only each instant existed and all you had to do was hold-hold at any cost- for yourself, for all the others around you.
'Hold your ground and you're safe,’ had been the constant cry in training. ‘Ever see a horse daft enough to run on to a pike?’ Uncertain laughter. ‘And after that, it's just men. Ugly, I'll admit, but I can see uglier standing here. Remember your drills, keep together. And be angry not frightened. They started this. They're the enemy.'
Antyr shivered violently, though whether from fear or cold he could not have said. He had been frightened- and angry. And he had held. And survived. Faced the enemy, steel for steel, arrow for arrow. Faced them and prevailed.
Face the enemy.
He shivered again, then folding his damp cloak about him he set off down the rocks towards the pathway that would take him back to the Norstseren Gate.
Chapter 6
Nefron examined herself thoughtfully in the mirror. Her long black hair was as full as ever, and pulled back just enough to display the elegant bone structure of her face. Her complexion was unblemished and, though pale, was not pallid. A lingering touch from her long hands confirmed that her skin was as soft as it looked. She nodded in approval. Though she affected to despise such vanities, Nefron was well pleased with her appearance. It would serve her well as a weapon for some time to come yet.
In fact, she decided, her narrow, finely drawn face was in many ways more handsome than it had been those-what was it? — thirty-six years ago, when she had married Ibris.
Sixteen years old she had been then. And beautiful. But with a blandness about her, a naivety. She was a foolish consort for a powerful, worldly man almost twice her age. A wiser man would have passed her by. Now both she and her face were far more interesting.
The memory of her early self made her lip curl into a withering sneer. What Nefron never truly saw in her mirror was that sneer and the fine lines about her eyes that highlighted their searching, scheming gaze.
Turning from her inspection she looked again at the letter lying on the table. The arrival of a letter was an unusual event for Nefron as she gained most of her information by word of mouth. It was a necessary discipline for her, developed over many years. Written messages could be lost, forged, copied, held in evidence against her. They had little to commend them. There were, however, one or two of her most trusted ‘allies', as she called her spies, who could not safely seek her ear at any time and for whom the coded letter was the only way. This was one such. Her sneer became a mildly triumphant smile. It was always a source of satisfaction to her when one of her eyes and ears in Ibris's palace brought her something that the Duke wished to be kept secret.
The contents of the letter, however, were puzzling and, for a little while, she thought she had misinterpreted it. Ibris consulting a Dream Finder? She shook her head pensively. Somewhere in her memory lay a faint recollection that Ibris had used Dream Finders in his youth, but he had certainly not done so in all the time they had been together. Nor since, as far as she was aware. And she was aware of most of the things in the palace that Ibris did.
And who was it he had consulted? Antyr. She mouthed the name silently, testing it. It was quite unfamiliar. Whoever he was he wasn't one of the popular, successful Dream Finders. What was Ibris up to? Whether it was something or nothing, she must know about it. It would inevitably come in useful eventually. She would have someone inquire of the Guild who this unexpected adviser to her Lord and erstwhile husband might be.
A soft knock on the door ended her consideration.
'Come in,’ she said, laying the letter down and tapping it thoughtfully with her long fingers.
It was her maid with another letter. Nefron frowned. Two letters in one day. Was this a scheme by Ibris to incriminate her in some way? To lay a false plot and then threaten to expose her to the Sened? Had one of her spies been discovered and turned against her? It wouldn't be the first time, and Ibris was always seeking opportunities to restrict her freedom even further. Her eyes narrowed as she took the letter from the maid.
It bore the seal of the Guild of Physicians. Nefron could not forbear raising an eyebrow in surprise.
'Who delivered this, Maara?’ she asked as she scrutinized the seal carefully.
'It was Dirkel, lady, physician Drayner's servant,’ the woman replied. ‘I wouldn't have taken it otherwise.'
Nefron nodded approvingly and dismissed her. Maara was loyal to her beyond doubt and almost as vigilant as she herself in guarding her interests.
Drayner! Nefron's lips parted to show her teeth as she broke open the letter and unfolded it. What could Ibris's incorruptible leech want with her?
The letter, however, was unequivocal to the point of bluntness about that.
'My lady,’ it began. ‘You must speak with your son, the Lord Menedrion.’ Must! Nefron registered darkly. ‘Last night he almost killed a young girl-one of the servants’ daughters. This is not his way, as you know. He will not see me, and his servants say that though he seems well in his body, he is in some way distracted. From what I hear in their words I am deeply concerned and I ask you to intervene because I sense the need for your particular affection to calm him. Should the incident reach the Gythrin-Dy, as well it might, and the Lord appear in a distressed condition, then great harm may ensue. I remain your respected servant, Eron Drayner.'
Nefron hissed an oath of disbelief under her breath. She turned the letter over as if looking for some sign that it was false, but the seal was indisputably that of the Physicians’ Guild and, in any case, the writing and style were unmistakably Drayner's.
What in thunder had Menedrion done? She read the letter again: ‘almost killed a young girl … not his way…'
Not his way, she echoed to herself. No it wasn't, she agreed. Menedrion was a physically dangerous man who had killed willingly and often both in battles and in brawls, and, when he was drunk, it was a commonplace for him to beat servants and even innocent citizens who might inadvertently cross him. He was also a lecher and utterly unscrupulous in his use of women. But the two cruelties had never come together before. Despite his callousness, his women returned to him and pronounced him a gentle and thoughtful lover.
Nefron scowled. She had her elder son clearly marked as a brute and she always found the idea of his being gentle and thoughtful extraordinarily amusing in its incongruity. His father certainly hadn't been, but then, neither had she. Now, however, the humour rose unwanted, to mingle with serious concerns, and the disturbance angered her.
’ … distracted…’ the letter said. Did he mean mad? No, had Drayner meant mad he would have said mad.
With an effort, Nefron sat down on a long settle by the window and forced herself to read the letter again, slowly and carefully. The grey morning light fell coldly on the paper and quietened her. She could see no subtle plot beneath it all, nor did she sense any danger. There was nothing in the letter that could not be brought before the Duke himself. Only a concern for a patient and for the harm to the city that Menedrion's strange behaviour might cause should it become too public.
Drayner knew well enough that though bitter differences lay between the Duke and his wife, these were concerned predominantly with the succession to the rule of Serenstad and its dominions and no benefit lay to anyone, except perhaps the Bethlarii, if some scandal involving the Duke's eldest son were to undermine confidence in the future. And he would not have written had it not been a truly serious matter.
For a moment it occurred to Nefron that if there were more like Drayner in public affairs, then much of the factional and family quarrelling that bedevilled them would stop. The thought barely received an acknowledgement, however. Drayner could afford to be above it all. All he had to do was mend cracked heads and gashes. Greedy merchants, scheming, envious relatives, malcontented citizens, power-hungry lords and Guild Leaders were a different matter by far.
Then a genuine spark of motherly concern rose within her. Her little boy was ill. Abruptly she was by his cot again, next to her concerned Duke, bathing a fevered brow, and hanging on to Drayner's confident reassurances.
