A brief look of angry frustration passed over Nefron's face. ‘I despair of you sometimes, Irfan. The Gythrin-Dy is not the Sened. They're jumped-up traders and Guildsmen full of their own importance. Always anxious to chip away at the authority of the great merchant houses and the lords. Even your father has difficulties getting things quietly set aside there. If they catch wind of this there are those who'll gladly call for your father to punish you in some way, and some who'd speak to have you prosecuted.'
Menedrion looked up, his face a mixture of alarm and disbelief. ‘They don't have the authority,’ he said uncertainly.
'No,’ Nefron confirmed. ‘They don't. But they're free to speak and they have money and the public ear. And if this blows into a scandal then you'll soon find the mob who acclaimed your battle successes will be howling for your head, and there's precious little anyone can do if that happens.'
She paused. Even Menedrion knew the power of the mob, but he did not seem to be listening.
'Don't you understand?’ Nefron ploughed on, her eyes narrowing and her tone sharpening. ‘You could end up being banished to one of the islands for a year or more and the succession denied you forever. Arwain would rule in your stead.’ She could see that no response would be forthcoming so she drove her final words in like a lance. ‘Now what happened?'
Physically, Menedrion was his father's son. Slightly shorter but equally powerfully built, he was a brave man and had a commanding presence. There, however, the resemblance ended, for Menedrion did not have his father's innate and subtle understanding of people, placing his faith instead in his ability to use force and bluster to deal with most problems. He had many staunch and loyal allies, but on the whole, his wild behaviour had made his popularity brittle and uncertain.
A phrase that Aaken Uhr Candessa had once used about Menedrion came to Nefron now as she waited for some response. ‘The Duke could hang a thousand and be cheered by their friends and relatives as he did it. Menedrion could get himself hanged for kicking a cat.'
It was not a statement that Nefron could wholeheartedly deny as much as she would have liked to. She was thus prepared for a robust, blustering rebuttal, either denying the incident or proudly and defiantly proclaiming it. Instead, however, Menedrion put his hands to his head, and, for one heart-stopping moment, Nefron thought he was about to burst into tears.
But the expression on his face was one she had never seen before. The faint flicker, that she had glimpsed earlier, bloomed to full light as she watched. Her son's face was haunted.
Her own face reflected his expression and, uncharacteristically, her hands dithered uncertainly, involuntarily drawn to reach out to him, but also repelled.
'What is it?’ she said in soft alarm.
Menedrion looked at her, then his eyes began gazing about the room like some trapped creature looking for an escape. And, indeed, Nefron's hands were not unlike striking predators as they suddenly shot out and grasped his oscillating head to hold it firm.
'What is it?’ she said again in a voice calculated to drive out any phantom.
Strong though he was, Menedrion could not pull himself free from his mother's grasp. ‘I did hit her, Mother,’ he said hesitantly, as though unable to believe his own words. His eyes met hers and Nefron released him. ‘In fact … I beat her.’ He held out his powerful hands and stared down at them. ‘I half strangled her. But it wasn't me. I…’ His voice faded.
'What do you mean, it wasn't you?’ Nefron asked severely, ill-disposed towards any pleading.
Menedrion pulled away from her again. ‘I don't want to talk about it,’ he said brusquely, preparing to stand. ‘I'll deal with the girl and her parents. They're the only ones involved. There'll be no problem, no scandal. I'm not so foolish, mother. I've sorted out worse than this before now.'
But his heartiness rang hollow.
'Drayner told me about you, Irfan,’ Nefron said starkly. ‘He said that you needed my help in some way. And Drayner is considerably less foolish even than you, isn't he?'
'He had no right.’ Menedrion began, goaded by his mother's acid tone. ‘What game's he playing?'
'He had every right,’ Nefron said, sweeping his protest aside. ‘Drayner plays no games, you know that. He sides with no one, but he's more political wits in his finger than many a Senedwr has in his entire body. And if he's concerned enough to bring your affairs to my attention then the matter's serious. Now, stop this nonsense. I want to know everything that happened. Do you understand?'
For a moment Menedrion held his mother's gaze, then he conceded defeat with a scowl. ‘It was just a bad dream, that's all,’ he said with airy self-consciousness. ‘I was fighting. Fighting in a battle … unhorsed … surrounded … I wasn't awake properly … I didn't realize…'
Nefron was shaking her head slowly as he spoke and his voice tailed off. ‘No dream about a battle put the look on your face that I just saw,’ she said, leaning forward and bringing her own face very close to his. Menedrion swallowed and she went on. ‘Because you're half-berserk when you fight, Irfan Menedrion, and no battle odds would frighten you. And while you might wake up thrashing and flailing, you wake like a warrior; wide awake and well aware of where you are. You know dream from reality well enough. And no dream of a battle would make you go pale at the memory hours later.'
Menedrion looked away from her and stared across the room, but he did not see what his eyes focused on. There was a long silence. Nefron watched and waited. The grey daylight from the window cut cold shadows in Menedrion's face.
'It was a battle, mother,’ he said eventually, reluctantly turning towards her again. ‘But I'm not sure it was a dream.'
Nefron frowned in genuine concern. For an instant all her ambitions for her son began to teeter as images of insanity formed before her. There was no history of it in either family, but …?
'It was … real…’ Menedrion continued. ‘I was … somewhere else. Somewhere bleak. And dark, like an unnatural night. And cold.’ He began to rub his arm with his hand. ‘Bitterly cold. And all around were shadows. Blacker than the darkness. In the distance at first, but moving, searching. Searching for me.'
His breathing became shallower. ‘I looked round, but I couldn't see anything but this expanse of dark emptiness. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They knew I was here because they'd brought me here and now they were just looking for me.'
Nefron watched in mounting horror as the blood drained from Menedrion's ruddy face and the haunted gaze returned. ‘Then, as if they'd heard my thoughts, they saw me … sensed me. They began to close in … like hunters. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker. I couldn't run, because that was what they wanted and I knew they'd take the power of my running for themselves and pursue me the faster.’ Menedrion's hands rose up as if to protect himself. ‘As they closed, I struck out, but … they weren't there … yet they were.’ He looked at his mother intently, explaining now. ‘When I struck, I passed right through them … and they through me … like a coldness … a deathly coldness. Possessing me, mother. Wanting me. “Yes,” they kept saying. “Yes, yes, this one too.” They were drawing me away … drawing me … I couldn't stop them … I didn't want to … I…'
He let out a massive gasping breath and seemed unable to continue for a moment. ‘And then someone else was with me, inside me … no … I was someone else … someone who didn't belong there … and they couldn't reach me any more … except one … more silent, more terrible than the others. He, it, touched me just as I … woke … came back.'
Menedrion ran his hand over his chest as if to assure himself of something. ‘But some of it was still with me … tiny, but real … dancing deep inside me like a black candle flame. And I was still someone else. Someone else being me. Someone else who didn't feel the flame. Who didn't hear it say, “Strike. Let me be fed.” But who struck anyway.'