by Roger Taylor
Arwain looked at Drayner, puzzled.
‘Let the lord support you. He’s stronger than I am,’ the physician said, patting her arm reassuringly. ‘And he’s not like . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence and turned away from Arwain sharply.
‘Dirkel, run ahead with one of the guards and make the surgery ready,’ he said briskly to cover the apparent slip. Arwain nodded his confirmation to the guards and then hesitantly reached out to support the young woman again. This time she accepted his arm.
‘What’s happened?’ Arwain asked as they walked slowly back. ‘And why were you trailing through the cellars?’
‘The young lady’s had a nasty fall,’ Drayner said. ‘And we came this way because it’s the quickest way and because the fog will chill this poor girl into a fever in her present condition.’ His voice, however, was a little too loud, as if he were anxious not to elaborate on the incident. For a moment, Arwain considered pressing him, but the woman was obviously in need of attention and if Drayner was choosing to lie about what had happened then it was not a matter to be aired in front of the guards: Drayner might be above politics but he was not oblivious to them.
Arwain nodded but remained silent until they eventually arrived at Drayner’s surgery where he dismissed the guards.
‘Thank you, Lord Arwain,’ Drayner said as they entered the surgery. ‘I apologize for disturbing your sleep, but your help was most timely. If you’ll excuse me I’ll have to look to my patient now. I’ll let you get back to your bed.’
He was leading the woman into a nearby room while he was speaking and he concluded his comments over his shoulder, almost offhandedly. Arwain made no reply, but instead of leaving, sat down on a long wooden bench.
The surgery was warm and bright after the journey through the cold cellars and the even colder fog, but welcome though the warmth was, Arwain felt uneasy.
Apart from the effects of his strange early rising, and his curiosity about the events that had brought no less a person than Drayner from his bed, the room held old childhood memories for him, most of which were not particularly pleasant. Drayner had been the court physician for many years before he had risen to become the Duke’s, and Arwain had been his reluctant patient on more than one occasion.
As he sat waiting Drayner’s pleasure, he did as he had done as a child – he stared around at the shelves that lined the room. A battle array of ancient mysteries defied his adult gaze: tall bottles, green and bulbous; short ones, brown and squat; dull ones, red and menacing. Dusty bottles with peeling, faded labels, strangely stained; shiny, freshly labelled bottles; bottles with strange fluted spouts and twisted necks. Then there were the flank guards: ranks of small boxes and solid commonplace clear glass jars full of pills and powders and . . . other things.
Arwain’s gaze yielded the field and drifted to the cupboards. Some were glass-fronted, dimly revealing the fearsome weapons of Drayner’s art; others, mercifully, were blank-faced with polished wooden doors and polished brass hinges and handles.
Briefly, he took in the rest of the room: the large cabinet with its ridiculous little legs and its row upon row of tiny drawers; the pictures and charts; the occasional mournful bone; that damned skull with its hollow eyes, and finally, the table. Then the vividly evocative smell of the room reached through his fog-stifled senses and he puffed out his cheeks unhappily.
Straight from his childhood came the urge in his legs to flee and, urgently, and rather self-consciously, he brought his hands to his knees to still them. Then, sitting up stiffly, he dragged his attention back to the matter in hand.
There was some coming and going in the adjacent room and the occasional muffled comment which Arwain could not distinguish. Once or twice, Dirkel, a round-faced, earnest-looking youth, came out to retrieve a bottle or a jar, but he avoided the gaze of his erstwhile adversary.
Finally, partly out of curiosity and partly to assert his authority over his legs, Arwain stood up and walked over to the door of the room. As he did so, Drayner emerged, looking both pleased and angry. He started slightly when he saw Arwain.
‘Go back to bed, Dirkel,’ he said back into the room hastily. ‘She’ll be all right now, and I don’t want you yawning all day, we’ll be busy after this fog.’ Then, fatherly, he took Arwain’s arm.
‘There’s nothing you can do, lord,’ he said understandingly, endeavouring to shepherd Arwain away from the door.
Arwain, however, did not move, leaving the physician heaving awkwardly on his arm for a moment.
‘Some goblin saw fit to wake me at this ungodly hour and draw me to the window just as you were passing,’ Arwain said. ‘I’ll see this matter through to its end.’
Drayner bridled briefly but he was unable to meet Arwain’s gaze and, reluctantly, he stepped to one side to allow him past.
The room was small and simply decorated, and a soft lamplight gave it a restful quality. Along one wall was a bed in which lay the young woman.
‘She’s asleep,’ Drayner said. ‘And will be for several hours. I’ve given her a draught. There is nothing you can do.’
Arwain ignored this last effort to deflect him and walked over to the bed.
As he looked down at the sleeping figure his frown deepened. The young woman was probably very pretty, and really little more than a girl; Arwain doubted she was twenty years old. But it was difficult to judge, for though her features were relaxed in sleep, they were swollen and discoloured by bruising; her lip was badly split and there was a gash over one eye. He had seen similar injuries often enough – on men.
‘This was no fall,’ he said quietly, turning to Drayner. ‘She’s been beaten. And savagely at that. Who did this? And why does it warrant the attention of my father’s personal physician in the middle of the night?’
This time Drayner held his gaze, but he did not reply. Arwain was about to pursue his questioning when the memory returned of teeth accidentally gouging his hand as he lashed out in his fury. Gently he reached down and parted the swollen lips; a bloody cavity squired a milk-white partner. Arwain frowned, then he looked at the side of the woman’s face; four great weals scarred it such as would result from a powerful blow with an open palm. He knew that if he pulled back the sheet a little, he would see bruising on her throat.
His hand started to shake and he felt the blood draining from his face. For a moment the room began to spin, but he stilled it with a long, deep breath. He turned to Drayner. The old physician’s face was quietly resolute. Arwain knew that he would not discuss what had happened and that there was little point in pressing him.
Arwain looked at him thoughtfully. He could walk away now with a shrug and the incident would be servants’ gossip for a while, then it would be forgotten. But the vividness of his first awakening was still with him, unsettling him for reasons he could not understand. He had had similar feelings walking into an ambush once.
He had to go forward.
‘Tell me about the dream that made Menedrion do this,’ he said.
Chapter 4
Antyr stepped forward nervously, trying to bear in mind Feranc’s instructions and supported by Tarrian’s resolve.
‘Sire,’ he managed, mustering what professional authority he could.
It quailed, however, in the face of the presence that rose from the couch to meet him. Antyr had seen many portraits of the Duke and had actually seen him several times in the flesh. But the portraits, he realized now, though accurate, missed the reality of the man, as did the previous glimpses he had had of him; a distant figure on horseback during a battle, or trotting past, surrounded by his entourage on some grand civic occasion. This man was unequivocally a ‘pack leader’.
Ibris was about the same height as his bodyguard, Feranc, but much heavier, although, despite his age, he gave the impression of muscular solidity rather than fat. But where Feranc had an eerie, disturbing aloofness about him, the Duke radiated power like a great rock-throwing siege machine. Antyr’s confidence fled him utterly.
&
nbsp; ‘Stand up straight,’ Tarrian’s angry voice rang in his head. Antyr had too few wits left to make a reply, but somehow he managed to obey the injunction. As he did so he became vaguely aware of another presence in the room, then his attention was absorbed totally by the Duke again, now stood barely a pace in front of him.
And he was speaking!
‘He’s apologizing for disturbing us so late and in such weather,’ Tarrian rasped as Antyr nearly panicked again. ‘It’s a routine courtesy to put you at your ease. Will you get a hold of yourself!’
‘You look a little jaded,’ came the Duke’s voice through the terror. ‘Would you like some refreshment?’
‘The truth!’ Tarrian demanded.
‘Thank you, no, sire,’ Antyr said hesitantly. ‘To be honest, with the fog being so bad, I was not expecting to be called out tonight and I celebrated perhaps a little too well with some friends earlier in the evening. My stomach is a little . . . fragile.’
The Duke pursed his lips and frowned a little. ‘An unwise thing, Dream Finder,’ he said. ‘You above all should know the dangers of such behaviour.’ His voice became regretful. ‘I remember your father saying he thought you didn’t know the true worth of your gift.’
Despite himself, Antyr gaped, taken aback not by the reproach, which was a familiar one, but by the unexpected reference to his father. The Duke, however, ignored the discourtesy and, taking his arm, led him across to the couch and sat him down.
‘Still, forgive me,’ he continued, sitting down by him. ‘You’re no child, and you can attend to your affairs without my advice, I’m sure. It’s just that I value great talent, and waste distresses me. We seem to have such an endless capacity for it, and . . .’
He cut himself short with a gruff snort and tapped his hands thoughtfully on his knees. For a moment he looked at Tarrian, then he nodded his head appreciatively.
‘To business then, Petran’s son,’ he said. ‘You and your Companion have my trust. Seek through my dreams.’
The brusqueness of the command took Antyr aback. Most clients usually dithered for a while, explaining what it was they wanted before making the traditional request.
Antyr, still overawed, had been about to declare his unworthiness to help such a man as the Duke – there were, after all, more successful and prosperous Dream Finders in the city – but the Duke’s manner swept the excuse away.
Ah well, a job’s a job, he thought resignedly. And there should be a good fee in it at least.
‘A chair, please,’ he said, glancing towards Feranc, standing in the shade by the door. The bodyguard did not move, but a chair appeared by Antyr’s side. He looked up to see a lean-faced old man with a sparse grey beard and a pronounced stoop. Bright searching eyes however gave the lie to his body’s age. This person Antyr did recognize.
Aaken Uhr Candessa. The Chancellor carrying a chair for me!
But, buoyed up by the Duke’s confidence, and set upon the start of his search as he was, the presence of this third illustrious person had little effect on him and he simply took the chair and placed it by the couch with a nod of thanks.
As he looked up at the chancellor, however, the old man turned away sharply.
Antyr glanced down at Tarrian for final confirmation of the cause of this apparent rudeness. The wolf returned his gaze, opening his eyes wide. Antyr nodded, satisfied. Where the wolf’s eyes had been grey they were now yellow, and bright, like sunlight, but penetrating and feral, the eyes of a Companion who would be his guide and defender in both worlds. Then, briefly, Antyr was Tarrian again, looking up at himself staring down with eyes whose black irises had spread to fill their entire sockets so that they were like deep, fearful caves of night.
All was well.
Antyr moved on to the chair while Tarrian turned two spiralling circles and flopped down beside him.
As the wolf’s baleful eyes slowly closed, Antyr turned to the Duke. ‘Would you lie down and close your eyes, sire,’ he said softly.
Without speaking, the Duke did as he was bidden and held out his hand. Antyr felt a momentary spasm of grief as he noted the Duke’s behaviour: it bore the marks of his father’s influence. Questions rose inside him again, but he ignored them.
Gently his right hand took the Duke’s, and his left moved over the Duke’s closed eyes. ‘Sleep easy,’ he said, his voice dwindling. ‘Whatever befalls, nothing can harm. Dreams are but shadows and you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength.’
Antyr nodded as he felt the Duke drifting almost immediately into sleep. Then he felt the room slip away from him and the darkness that shone through his eyes seemed to flood through his entire spirit until there was only darkness and silence; though at its heart, hard as a diamond yet insubstantial as an idle summer breeze, lay his awareness.
Gradually, into the darkness, but with no apparent beginning, came faint wisps of light. Slowly they brightened and began to move about him. A myriad of colours, some darting to and fro like sparrows flitting between hedgerows, others circling and twisting, and yet others hovering watchfully: all shifted and changed, grew and shrank. All eluded examination.
With them came strange disjointed sounds like many distant conversations carried on a silent but blustering wind. Then, seemingly without any change, the Dream Finder was whole again; conscious, purposeful, and as solid as the figure that sat holding the Duke’s hand. By him was his Companion; present, but not visible.
Antyr gazed around. Here was the Dream Nexus of the Duke of Serenstad; the strange, crowded jostling of images and sounds which were the portals to the countless dreams, forgotten and remembered, sleeping and waking, that the Duke had created through his long and turbulent life.
Here, Antyr was lost, utterly.
Here, only the Companion could guide.
Antyr felt Tarrian reaching out and seeking the way, just as his waking form would raise his head and search the air for scents beyond human perception. And, as always, he felt the wolf resisting its desire to wander at will through the rich byways that it could sense. He reached down and stroked the soft fur that was not there to remind the wolf, unnecessarily, that he was not alone.
A low whimper reached him, then, ‘This way. This way,’ said Tarrian.
Antyr felt himself moved forward by the wolf’s will.
The shifting sights and sounds passed around and through him until, again without any seeming change, Companion and Dream Finder were the Duke.
‘We are here, sire,’ Antyr said. ‘All will be as it was. As you see and feel, so shall we.’
But there was no reply. In this dream, the Duke had been struck dumb. Struggle as he might, he would make no sound, he knew. Yet the warrior leader in him accepted this and set aside the fear that would have had a lesser man waken, gasping for breath.
He was in his receiving chamber.
Matters of the day, Antyr thought. On this frame would be built the dream.
Figures came and went, with noiseless queries: a floating mixture of the known and the elusively familiar. Their roles and liveries were confused and mixed irrelevantly, and some were long dead, though this caused the Duke no surprise.
Despite his silence, he somehow held a series of brief, disjointed conversations which set easily to rights the many problems of business and state that had been brought to him for his special attention. Something, however, was troubling him and, finding that he was now in a strange banqueting hall, he brought his hand down loudly on the table. The hall, which dwindled into a far distant darkness, fell silent, and all eyes turned to him.
Slightly embarrassed, he looked down at the table. In front of him was an elaborately decorated silver goblet. The engraving seemed to be finer than anything he had ever seen and it glittered temptingly in the light of the innumerable and huge candelabras that strove unsuccessfully to light the vast hall. He reached out to pick it up but, as he tried to lift it, he found it would not move.
Puzzled, he bent forward to examine it closely. Grea
t round-headed rivets secured it to the table. Their heads were carved with sneering faces. From somewhere he heard a snigger. He was the butt of some joke.
Angry at this affront, Ibris placed his large hand over the top of the goblet and twisted it violently. Those who would mock him so lightly must learn why it was he was the Duke of Serenstad.
The goblet did not yield.
There was a strange timeless moment in which the goblet and his powerful hand filled Ibris’s vision to the exclusion of all else, though he knew that he was being watched and that the resistance of the goblet was a threat to his entire power.
Contempt for his weakness rose around him.
‘I need no help.’ The words formed in Ibris’s mind, and though he could not speak them, their import reached his unseen watchers, who wavered before his will. Then the contempt changed to an inarticulate but vivid menace.
In the Duke’s chamber, Tarrian’s yellow eyes opened suddenly and a low growl began in his throat. Both Aaken and Feranc knew that there would be no danger to them unless the Dream Finder was threatened in some way, but the wolf’s actions were frightening and, involuntarily, the chancellor stepped back a pace, while the commander of the Duke’s bodyguard focused narrow and alert eyes on the animal.
With a black anger, Ibris heaved on the goblet, his entire body tense with effort.
‘Something’s amiss.’
Tarrian’s voice, hesitant and uncertain, came into Antyr’s head and echoed his own thoughts.
Then the goblet yielded and with a silent roar of victory the Duke pulled it towards him. But it was not the goblet that had yielded. The whole table was being pulled over. Indeed, as he continued to pull, it seemed that the Duke’s endeavours were moving the very floor he was standing on, for the air was suddenly filled with a terrible rumbling and, though he stood firm and solid, all else moved around him. Triumphantly he held on to the goblet, though it was no longer a goblet and the table was no longer a table. Instead it was a great door decorated with a strange mobile design, and he was clasping a carved metal handle shaped like the head of some mythological horned animal of consummate ugliness.
