Then Ryllans was returning and Estaan and his companion were making their way through the crowd again. Arwain watched Ryllans as he drew nearer. His eyes were wide and preoccupied giving him an expression that Arwain had never seen before, nor thought to see ever, and his progress through the crowd was rough and awkward. Something had unsettled him profoundly.
'What's the matter?’ he asked urgently as Ryllans reached him.
The Mantynnai looked at Arwain blankly for a moment before recognition came into his eyes. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he began, flustered, almost. ‘May I …?’ He drifted off again briefly. ‘May I speak to … my men.'
'Yes, of course,’ Arwain replied, resisting the strong temptation to repeat his question.
Then, still on foot, Ryllans was talking to his men-not the entire platoon, but
Reading Ryllans response as Arwain had, the Mantynnai had surreptitiously gathered together and they bent low in their saddles to hear his message.
Arwain listened shamelessly, but it was to no avail. Ryllans was talking in what was presumably the Mantynnai's native language. It dawned on Arwain that he had never heard it before; not even when he had come upon groups of them unawares when they might reasonably have been expected to be speaking in their own language.
And it was beautiful and resonant, like something that might have come out of an ancient saga. But even to Arwain's ears there was an occasional harshness rasping through it, and its effect on Ryllans’ listeners was dramatic. Without exception, the men stared at him with expressions of disbelief and denial; all composure gone, making them very ordinary men. One or two of them made a brief circling hand movement over their hearts which was obviously reflexive, while others went pale and muttered to themselves.
There was a brief attempt at debate by some of them, but Ryllans cut it dead with a few terse phrases and, as he returned to his horse, the quiet stillness of the men descended over them, though to Arwain it was now not an outward manifestation of some inner resource, but a shield behind which they were withdrawing in the face of some fearful attack.
'What's happened?’ Arwain demanded, Ibris's son now, and shaken by the response of the Mantynnai.
Before Ryllans could reply however, the traffic started to move forward again and there were some cries of abuse from the riders and carts behind them.
Uncharacteristically, Ryllans turned round and abused the abusers before clicking his horse forward. It was an action that gave Arwain a further measure of the man's turmoil.
'What's happened?’ he asked again as the platoon began to move off, though this time his voice was concerned rather than commanding.
Ryllans’ face was grim and he stared resolutely forward in silence for some time. Arwain sensed that he was debating what to say, perhaps even whether to lie or not, and he knew that, whatever he was told, he had no way of judging its truth. He reached out and laid a hand on Ryllans’ arm, the hand of a friend.
'The truth will probably be the wisest and safest,’ he said. ‘If it's frightened you then it's dangerous. But if it offers no threat to this city or this land then keep your peace and I'll not press you, though I'll listen if talking about it will ease your burden. But if it does offer a threat, then the more we know about it the better we'll be protected.'
Ryllans glanced at him, his face riven with regret. ‘I doubt there's any true protection against this,’ he said. ‘We'd thought it … long dead.'
Despite himself, Arwain turned away from the pain in his face. He looked up at the untidy, hectic buildings of the Moras that lined their route. A patchwork of windows, gantry hatches, chains and ropes, large signs, small signs, painted signs, carved signs, all manner of commercial paraphernalia carried his eyes up to the jumbled clutter of uneven gables and eaves that fringed the skyline. Pock marks of decay and neglect, patched repairs and bright paintwork jostled for his attention.
Here and there, carved gargoyles gazed down unblinkingly with squint-eyed indifference on the shuffling stream of human endeavour below.
Nothing offered him release from Ryllans’ pain however, and he turned back to him again.
Ryllans was looking round at his companions. Abruptly he seemed to come to a decision.
'Estaan's been escorting your father's Dream Finder on some errand,’ he began, without preamble
'Dream Finder!’ Arwain exclaimed. ‘My father?'
Ryllans waved a disclaimer. ‘I know no more than that,’ he said hastily. ‘Your father's Dream Finder.'
Arwain gave a slight, resigned shrug.
'They went to see a … colleague … of the Dream Finder for some reason,’ Ryllans went on. ‘But apparently the old man was dead when they arrived and in trying to help him, this Dream Finder … released … found … something…’ He stopped, seemingly unable to continue.
'Something you'd thought long dead,’ Arwain offered, using Ryllans’ own words.
Ryllans nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Long dead. Well dead.’ He put his hands to his eyes and blew out a long, trembling breath.
'What in pity's name was it?’ Arwain said urgently but softly.
Ryllans, however, shook his head. ‘The tale's not mine to tell,’ he said.
'But…'
Ryllans continued shaking his head. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I shouldn't have mentioned it.’ He affected a casualness that was patently false. ‘Possibly Estaan was distraught. Misunderstood something. Dream Finding's an odd business by all accounts, and not one most of us are familiar with.'
Arwain's eyes narrowed. ‘Don't trifle with me, Ryllans,’ he said angrily. ‘Either as your pupil or your Lord. You insult me and demean yourself. Mantynnai don't go faint at the sight of a dead man. Tell me the truth. If there's a danger here, we need to know. Perhaps the army may need to be mobilized and prepared. Weapons forged, horses and wagons…'
He stopped as Ryllans turned towards him, his presence stern and hard. ‘An army will be of no avail,’ he said categorically. ‘Vaster and finer armies than any this land could muster have trembled before the presence of this … power.’ Seeing the effect of his words however, he held up a reassuring hand. ‘Have no fear though,’ he said. ‘We've learned. We'll know if it's truly here. It uses men. We'll feel it this time before it grows and takes root, and if we can't tear it out, then…’ He hesitated and took a deep breath. ‘We'll find those who can.'
Arwain frowned and made as if to speak.
'Truly, I can tell you no more,’ Ryllans said quickly but politely, and with almost a plea in his voice. ‘And if we fret about this strange … perception … of Estaan's when we should be thinking about the Whendreachi and the Bethlarii, then we might find ourselves walking into more real trouble than we can handle before this journey's out.'
Arwain looked at him earnestly for a moment, then nodded. ‘You're right,’ he said acknowledging both the plea and Ryllans’ unassailable defences. ‘But school yourself to the idea of discussing this further when we get back from Whendrak.'
Ryllans looked at him enigmatically.
'I'd be a poor pupil if I asked less of you, wouldn't I?’ Arwain said.
Ryllans bowed.
And I'll find out about my father using a Dream Finder, too, Arwain resolved.
They rode on in silence through the rest of the Moras district until they passed through the main western gate to the city and found themselves on the crowded and bustling waterfront of Serenstad's harbour: a man-made extension to a natural lake, with rows of green-stained groynes and causeways jutting out into it to provide the moorage that the city's trade needed.
Ships and barges were being loaded and unloaded. Wagons, pack horses, people, were arriving, leaving, queuing, wandering lost, and the air was full of voices: crying orders, shouting abuse, making bargains, singing even, the whole shot through with the clatter of horses’ hooves and iron wheels on stones, rattling chains, creaking beams and pulleys, and occasional anonymous thuds and crashes.
It was colder here than in the crowded streets, and Arwain felt the open aspect and the energy of the place washing away the lingering concern he had about Ryllans’ unusual behaviour.
Vaster and finer armies, he thought with some amusement. What peoples, what power, could bring to the field anything finer than the army of Serenstad? Or for that matter, Bethlar? The discipline and skill of such forces
