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
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 cousins 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.
Arwain followed Ryllans along the familiar corridor and through the familiar double door. ‘You'll enjoy this today, sir,’ Ryllans said, turning and smiling at him as he stepped through the door. ‘At least it'll get the damp out of your bones.'
Arwain looked around the enclosed courtyard and returned the smile. ‘I had a feeling that was a foolish remark when I made it,’ he said.
The palace was an ancient building and had been altered and extended many times at the whims and wishes of its successive occupants. As a result, apart from innumerable towers and spires joined by high arching bridges and walkways, there were many isolated alleyways and courtyards such as the one Arwain now stood in. This particular one, however, was unique in that all the windows and doors that opened on to it, save the one the two men had just used, had been sealed.
This courtyard was used by the Mantynnai as a training ground. It had a further uniqueness in that it was the only area used exclusively thus, it being the Mantynnai's general practice to train anywhere that suited the needs of the moment: fields, mountains, rivers, corridors, stairways, rooftops and cellars, and, on occasions, even the rambling, cavernous sewers.
Arwain looked up at the now blind windows with their panels of wood and masonry, each carefully chosen to harmonize with the room or the corridor they had opened from.
Though the surrounding buildings were high, the courtyard was large and spacious, yet to Arwain it always felt claustrophobic. Somehow, he felt, it was the almost obsessive care that had been taken in sealing the windows that affected him. It was like a secret within a secret. And yet the courtyard and its function were not secret. Many knew of its existence, many used it, and any could walk into it should they be so inclined. But only the one way.
It was like the Mantynnai themselves, he thought suddenly. At once secretive and open, approachable and distant.
Ryllans watched Arwain's customary inspection of the courtyard then he pushed him; not violently, but unexpectedly and enough to send him staggering backwards against the wall.
Arwain opened his mouth to protest, but Ryllans pointed an admonishing finger at him before he could speak. ‘You tell me why,’ he demanded.
Arwain knew what was expected of him; an explanation of the lesson he had just been taught. Ryllans’ lessons were always simple but their very simplicity usually obscured them.
Arwain's mind raced for some clue but nothing was apparent. From experience he knew that he had missed the moment and that any amount of searching would not reveal it now.
'I don't understand,’ he said apologetically.
'Go out and come in again,’ Ryllans said, indicating the door. Arwain frowned a little but did as he was bidden.
This time he watched Ryllans carefully as he stepped through the doorway. There was nothing unusual in his behaviour. No indication of a threat. Then his eyes flickered upwards to the sealed windows and Ryllans’ hand came out and struck him lightly on the face.
'Every time you come in here, your actions are identical,’ Ryllans said, laying emphasis on the last word.
Arwain nodded. Sometimes Ryllans taught by talking, long and expansively. At others, as now, his actions were enigmatic and his words brief to the point of terseness.
'And therefore predictable,’ Arwain finished the small lesson.
Ryllans acknowledged the reply with a slightly mocking smile.
'How many times will I have to learn that lesson?’ Arwain asked self-consciously.
'As many times as I will,’ Ryllans replied, taking him by the arm and motioning him towards a group of men at the far side of the courtyard. It was Ryllans’ willingness to admit himself as much a pupil as a master that particularly endeared him to Arwain.
