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.
Like all male Serens, Arwain had undergone the basic military training that was both necessary for the security of the city and its dominions and traditionally marked the passage of young men through into manhood. As the Duke's son and as a future officer, his training, like Menedrion's and Goran's, had been more severe than average and he had encountered enough instructors who used brutality and humiliation as their stock in trade to value Ryllans at something like his true worth.
And indeed, as yet another measure of this, Arwain realized that he was alert now. Not tense or anxious, fearful of some impending but unknowable event, but … wide-awake, for want of any more profound phrase … more aware of everything that was going on around him. It was as if Ryllans’ brief lesson had released some inner resource just as a strike on a flint box would make it burst into crackling brightness with the flame that could go on to banish any darkness.
Body and mind, both to be trusted, both to be trained, both to know their strengths and weaknesses. That was the essence of all Ryllans’ teaching. And an unthinking habit was a weakness beyond doubt.
As he walked silently by his mentor, Arwain searched for the deeper lessons that must lie beneath this last one.
Why did he always look up at the walls of this man-made pit? Was he, as he would like to have imagined, quickly and shrewdly examining the terrain for any subtle signs of change that might perhaps mean danger? Ryllans certainly would have approved of that. Or was his action simply a childish retreat into the comforting familiarity of ritual in an attempt to avoid the challenge of newness that must inevitably occur in this place?
Or was there yet some deeper unease that disturbed him? ‘This place is alien,’ he said, stopping suddenly, his breath steaming in the chilly air. Ryllans stopped also and half turned his head towards him, inviting an explanation. ‘It's a Mantynnai place, wherever you come from,’ Arwain went on.
Ryllans did not reply, but looked up at the walls as if he had not done so for a long time and gave a slight, pensive nod.
'Or perhaps not,’ Arwain went on. ‘Perhaps it's just a Serens place, made alien and sightless by your Mantynnai touch.'
'Blinded, eh?’ Ryllans said.
'Blindfolded,’ Arwain added, more compassionately.
Ryllans chuckled, intrigued. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I'll think about that.'
'Or perhaps it's that lonely place that each of us carries inside, even in the middle of the crowd,’ Arwain said, warming to his thoughts, but adding, almost inadvertently, ‘especially in battle.'
'Ah,’ Ryllans said significantly. ‘You are in good fettle today. I'll think about that too. In the meantime, let's continue your training.’ He nodded towards the waiting men. ‘I've asked Hadryn to work on your close-quarter fighting with you.'
Apart from his formal military training, Arwain had received training in the arts of war throughout his youth in the course of his normal education. He was familiar with the principles involved in the use of cavalry and infantry in many terrains, ranging from large set-piece battles across open plains, to close-quarter skirmishing in the mountains. He had been taught about the logistical problems involved in raising, maintaining and moving armies, and he had learned about siege warfare and the use of artillery and blockades and sapping.
As a classroom discipline, this had been interesting, exciting even, but subsequently he had also had much of this theory complemented by some grim practical experience as the constant political manoeuvring of the many cities and towns of the land gave rise at times to outbreaks of armed violence.
What he learned from Ryllans and the other Mantynnai in his bodyguard, however, was different.
Initially, when Ryllans had suggested that he train and practice with his bodyguard, Arwain had declined; time had lent no charm to the memories of his basic training.
Ryllans, however, knew when to charge and when to infiltrate.
'Your father has given me charge of your protection, sir,’ he said. ‘This is a relatively simple matter on the battlefield, but here…’ He waved an airy hand around the busy palace grounds they were walking. ‘It's much harder, perhaps even impossible, given the will and power of the lady Nefron even though she is confined to the Erin-Mal. And there are others with little love for the house of Ibris. Only you can truly protect yourself and protection is more than skill at arms. It's here.’ And he had patted his stomach and then tapped his temple with an extended finger. The latter in particular was to become a familiar gesture to Arwain.