by Roger Taylor
The library was a large, annular room, radiating out from the central stairwell and occupying much of the basement of the Guild House. Circular rows of shelves stood tall, silent and burdened in the gloaming, marking out shadowy circular pathways which were cut at intervals by equally shadowy radial paths to form a rudimentary maze of dark high-walled alleyways. Here and there, small clusters of tables and chairs stood huddled together under solitary lamps as if gathered there for protection against the weight of darkness that surrounded them.
Antyr chewed his lip uncertainly, feeling suddenly helpless as he stared at the rows of books and scrolls vanishing into the gloomy distance. It was said that the library contained every known written work on the art and craft of Dream Finding and certainly it needed no keen perception to realize that a lifetime could be spent in study in such a place.
Yet would there be an answer here anyway? Despite Tarrian’s positive denial, Antyr could not yet be certain that what had happened was not in some way his own doing.
He pulled a wry face. ‘I don’t know that this is going to help,’ he said, his anxiety surfacing again. ‘We don’t even know what we’re looking for. Or, for that matter, why.’ He waved his arms around the waiting ranks of shelves. ‘And as for where we start . . .’ He shrugged in some despair.
Tarrian’s tone was unexpectedly sympathetic. ‘Your father used to say, “If you don’t know where to start. Start!” It’s a very sound principle. Come on! Don’t let this place intimidate you. Myths and Legends are over there if my memory serves me correctly.’
‘Myths and Legends?’ Antyr queried in some surprise.
‘Myths and Legends,’ Tarrian confirmed confidently. ‘Where else would we look? There’s precious little in the standard texts that we don’t already know and we’ll get less than nothing from some of these modern learned papers.’ He placed a withering emphasis on the word ‘learned’. ‘What’s happening has got to be something that’s either never happened before or happened so long ago that everyone’s forgotten about it, and my instincts are for the latter. Come on. Into the past.’
Antyr picked up a nearby lamp and struck it into life, then dutifully followed his Companion down the gloomy canyons formed by the lower shelves.
Tarrian’s memory did serve him correctly and soon he was running along the aisles, enthusiastically dragging books from the shelves and issuing instructions to Antyr to collect those that he could not reach.
‘That’s enough, that’s enough,’ Antyr cried, as he struggled with the lamp and the ninth volume that Tarrian had just pulled to the floor. ‘It’ll take us a week just to read through these.’
‘Have you never heard of skimming, for pity’s sake?’ Tarrian replied heatedly. ‘Come on, don’t . . .’ Further comment, however, was forestalled by an uncontrollable spasm that seized his snout and, after two of three tentative and grimacing starts, he let out a ferocious sneeze that sent a vibration running from his head to the very tip of his tail. Then another, and another. Then came a stream of abuse.
‘It shouldn’t be beyond the bounds of even this Guild to employ someone to dust this place occasionally.’ He blasted out another sneeze. ‘I’ve been in barns that were less dusty.’
‘If you weren’t so impatient, you wouldn’t stir it up so much,’ Antyr offered unsympathetically.
‘That’s hardly the point, is it?’ Tarrian retorted crossly. ‘They should never have let this place get into such a mess. This isn’t what we pay our Guild fees for . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ Antyr said indifferently, turning away and heading towards the nearest table with his burden.
Still muttering and emitting the occasional small but explosive splutter, Tarrian followed him. ‘There’s a lot more, you know,’ he said.
Antyr dropped the books on to the table, and picked up the largest. ‘I’m well aware of that,’ he said. ‘But what are we doing with these, Tarrian? Just look at this.’ He brought the book close to the lamp and peered at the title intently.
‘The Saga of MaraVestriss, Weaver of the Great Dream. ’ He thrust the book at Tarrian, thumbing through it quickly to reveal pages black with densely packed print. ‘Or these.’ He waved at the others. ‘The Lore of the White Guardians. An Anthology of the Tales of the Knights of the Light – Defenders of the Golden Nexus. The History of Andrasdaran, the Fortress of the Gateway. What on earth can we find in these? We need logic and reason not superstition or the ramblings of ancient storytellers.’
He picked up another and read the title. ‘Marastrumel, the Evil Weaver and the Making of the Dark Mynedarion. ’ But even as he read out the name, his voice faltered and he cast a hasty glance into the shadows beyond the lamplight, muttering, ‘May the Blessed protect us.’
No sooner had he uttered the words, than his hand started towards his mouth and his face began to redden. He prepared himself for a mocking onslaught from Tarrian.
There was a long silence, then Tarrian said, ‘Well, well,’ very softly, as if he had just seen something profoundly surprising.
Antyr braced himself, but Tarrian simply said, ‘If that’s the way things are then I think we’d better start with that one.’
Antyr could not restrain himself. ‘All right. All right. Spare me the sarcasm. It’s not my fault. It’s just a foolish leftover from my childhood.’ He glowered at Tarrian defensively, still expecting to receive the full benefit of his acid humour.
But it was not forthcoming. Instead, Tarrian just repeated his previous comment. ‘We’ll start with that one, definitely.’
Antyr’s expression turned to one of uncertainly, but Tarrian simply stood on his hind legs and, with his front legs on the table, flicked opened the book awkwardly with his nose.
‘You turn the pages, I’ll read,’ he said. ‘You’re too slow.’
‘What are you up to?’ Antyr said, still embarrassed at his brief display of superstition and still suspecting that Tarrian was laying an ambush for him.
‘Nothing,’ Tarrian said, his manner serious. ‘Truly.’
Antyr shuffled self-consciously. ‘It’s just a childhood thing,’ he repeated, still attempting to defend himself against a non-existent attack. ‘My father used to read me . . .’
‘It’s a pack thing,’ Tarrian said before he could finish, then he turned and looked at Antyr. ‘We perceive with more than our eyes and our ears and our noses, and our deeper selves guide us in ways we can’t begin to appreciate. Good as you are, you don’t even know how you can take me to a dream nexus and I don’t know how I guide you to the dreams. But we do it and we do it well because we trust these strange resources of ours. Now you’ve led me to some strange nexus and I’m hunting. Trust yourself, Antyr. Trust me.’
Antyr looked pained and a hint of impatience began to creep into Tarrian’s voice.
‘Just reflect a moment, Antyr,’ he said. ‘It’s fair to say that nothing – nothing – would have possessed you to speak the invocation in my hearing, would it?’
He returned to his study of the book while Antyr sought for a reply to this harsh question.
‘Indeed, you do your best to not even think it whenever the word Mynedarion is mentioned, don’t you?’ Tarrian went on. ‘Turn over.’
‘Well, you can be quite caustic,’ Antyr managed after a moment. ‘Not to say downright unpleasant if you’re in the mood.’
‘Quite true,’ Tarrian conceded. ‘And rightly so, I would have said up to a moment ago. And yet you said it – turn over – said it out loud – walked into my den at feeding time, as it were. In the very same breath as a plea for reason and logic, you invoke the Blessed Mynedarion at the mention of the Dark like some frightened apprentice or some demented priest.’
Antyr stared at him in silence.
‘Whatever guided you to that indiscretion, Dream Finder, I intend to follow it – turn over.’
‘But . . .’ Still unsettled by his slip, Antyr was unbalanced further by Tarrian’s uncharacteristic response.
‘T
urn over,’ Tarrian repeated.
‘I don’t understand you,’ Antyr said, shaking his head.
‘Of course you do,’ Tarrian retorted. ‘I told you. Your wiser self made you point the way. Pushed aside our petty foolishness and pointed. Now I’m following. Turn over!’
Antyr sat down and put his hand on Tarrian’s powerful shoulders affectionately. Reason and logic he had asked for, and now his Companion had pinned him to unreason with it. Part of him still wanted to bluster away from his childish utterance. But why? he asked himself abruptly. Tarrian’s analysis had been right. Their faith in one another was total yet neither understood the true mystery of Dream Finding.
Perhaps the inner self that guided him to the nexus had indeed prompted him thus. He relaxed. If Tarrian thought it worthy of attention then so should he. In any event, what harm could come of it? When you don’t know where to start: start.
‘Turn over.’ Tarrian’s voice interrupted his reverie. Idly fingering the page, Antyr glanced down at the book. The paper was thin and, in common with the first book he had opened, the print was small and dense, making reading difficult in the poor light. Gently he raised the page vertically and then let it fall with a light tap of his fingers. The page floated down to reveal an illustration.
Antyr felt, rather than heard, a choking breath being drawn in noisily through his throat as he looked down at the picture, and from somewhere deep inside him came a black spiral of terror. He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair.
The lamplight wavered, making the figure in the picture seem to move. It was the silhouette of a tall, hooded figure set against a background of ominous, live shadows. The figure held a lamp and was leaning forward.
Chapter 9
Antyr reeled under the unreasoning terror that, with the suddenness of a night ambush, had suddenly surged up within him. He felt panic beginning to overwhelm him.
Tarrian dropped down on to the floor and backed away slightly, his lip curling into an uncertain snarl. His powerful voice, however, smashed through the swirling confusion in Antyr’s mind like a battle cry.
‘Antyr! Nothing’s happening! It’s in your head! There’s nothing here! Look at me! Look at me, damn you!’
Antyr clutched at the sound in desperation, then, briefly, as he turned towards Tarrian, he was the wolf, looking up to see himself swaying unsteadily in the lamplight, eyes wide in horror, mouth gaping. Yet almost before he could feel the wolf’s purposeful, confident body about him, he was himself again, but now he was trembling less and breathing a little more easily. Tarrian, free of the inner terror that was unmanning Antyr, had used his brief tenancy to calm at least the body’s frenzy, leaving Antyr the task of stilling his mind.
Antyr gasped wordless thanks to his Companion and reached out to steady himself against the table. He leaned forward heavily on his hands for some time until his breathing eased still further.
The open book with its menacing picture lay undisturbed by his violent reaction. With an effort, he forced himself to look at it again.
The figure in the foreground was beyond doubt that to which he had woken in the palace. His pulse started to race again as he looked at it, but this time he mastered it without Tarrian’s aid.
He ran a hand over his face and found it damp, then, almost angrily, he reached up to the lamp above the table and brightened it. It hissed with the effort, but the library became a little smaller and the book became more obviously a book.
‘What was all that about?’ Tarrian asked, his voice alarmed. ‘I’ve never seen you in such a state.’
Antyr, still breathing unsteadily, nodded towards the book. ‘The figure,’ he said. ‘The shadows, the lamp, everything.’ He jabbed at the book with his finger. ‘There. Just like last night. And before you ask, I’ve never seen this picture before, or even the book.’
Tarrian jumped up and put his front legs on the table again.
After peering intently at the picture, he began to read. “Marastrumel, the Evil Weaver. The spirit of darkness seeks for the Mynedarion, the Shapers who span the worlds, in his eternal search for possession of the Great Dream . . .”
Antyr felt the fear returning. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted, though his voice fell dead among the countless watching tomes.
Seeking some escape in simple acts, he bent down and picked up his chair, then he sat down and, resting his elbows on the table, sank his head into his hands.
‘It’s only a story, a legend,’ Tarrian said, his voice a mixture of concern and embarrassment. ‘Marastrumel’s just a symbol from a primitive age, a personification of the destructive side of human nature. It’s . . .’
Antyr looked up, his face grim, and Tarrian’s voice faded.
‘My head knows that, Tarrian,’ Antyr said softly. ‘Just like yours does. But something inside both of us is less certain, isn’t it? Something strange is happening. Something bad. Something that’s reached out to the Duke, that’s reached out to me, and also to you, Earth Holder.’
A protest formed in Tarrian’s mind but Antyr rejected it. ‘You followed the prompting of your instincts and they led us to this,’ he said quietly, waving a hand at the book. ‘And from out of nowhere comes a terror the like of which I’ve not known even on the battlefield.’ Tarrian’s ears flattened along his head, and he turned his face away from Antyr sharply. ‘It’s left me feeling raw and exposed as if I’ve been pared free of all unnecessary thoughts and habits. Seeing clearly. Seeing the charging horses and facing death and making myself not run because I saw that that would have drawn death after me as surely as water is drawn to a breach in a river bank. Stand by me, Tarrian, shield to shield, while we move forward.’
Tarrian did not reply and when Antyr continued, his voice was very steady. ‘You’ve seen my fear, but last night, as we marched through the fog, you let slip some fear of your own. You said it wasn’t relevant to the business in hand. “Trust me, we’ll talk later,” were your words if I remember correctly. I think it’s later, now, and I want to know about that fear. I want to know what you know and what you’ve seen fit to keep to yourself.’
There was a brief silence before Tarrian replied, ‘It’s not that simple.’
Antyr nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But tell me what you can, while I can hear you calmly.’
Unexpectedly, Tarrian let out a high lingering whine. Antyr heard the sound and felt the distress, but he could grasp no meaning. Some part of him, however, recognized it as the depths of the wolf striving to reach out to him and knowing that it could not.
He put his arm around his Companion.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tarrian said. ‘This is difficult and I’m as bewildered as you are. So many strange things happening, as you say. Coming out of the darkness unheralded, shaking the very foundations of our reason.’
‘Describe your fear,’ Antyr said.
Again, Tarrian did not reply immediately, and when he did his voice was hesitant. ‘No figures appeared to me, Antyr,’ he said. ‘No malevolent presences . . .’ He shook his head. ‘There are no words to describe it.’
‘There are no words while you choose not to seek them,’ Antyr said, unexpectedly stern.
Tarrian bridled angrily at the comment, but some deeper need set the response aside.
‘It’s a fear without cause,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘So strange . . . so complex . . . so primitive. It’s as if there were something there. Silent and unmoving. And invisible. And yet . . . it’s as if it’s always been there, waiting, ready to emerge. And when I sense it, fear bubbles out. But no knowledge. No knowledge, Antyr, truly.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know whether it’s old age, my imagination, something good, something bad, or what.’
‘If it frightens you then it can hardly be something for your good,’ Antyr suggested.
Tarrian disagreed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The fear’s just a flag, a signal, to tell me I don’t understand something. When I have the understanding, then perhaps I can decide how good it is, and how bad. Because it w
ill be both.’
Unexpectedly his voice brightened. ‘When I was a pup I had a fear like that. Nameless and vague. Lurking in the shadows like your figure in the picture.’
Antyr frowned at the digression, but Tarrian ignored him.
‘And when the cause emerged, it was more terrifying than anything my ignorance could have conjured up,’ he said. ‘And yet, too, it wasn’t.’
Antyr’s scowl deepened and he made to interrupt.
‘Oh yes. Far more terrifying,’ Tarrian said reflectively, as if talking to himself. ‘It’s a terrifying thing when you’re a pup to learn that you’re not only what you are, but also partly one of them.’ A faint hint of bitterness came into his voice. Partly human. Partly one of those who slew your mother and gave you to the sing . . .’
He stopped abruptly as if recollecting himself. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. That’s a long time ago and a tale for another time, if ever. No gift is without burden and theirs was more blessed than it was cursed.’ Tarrian’s voice had become distant again, but, briefly, it was almost ecstatic, and Antyr realized he was listening to a paean of praise to life itself.
His frown faded as he felt Tarrian’s mood briefly uplifting him. We are both of us stripped raw, he thought.
Tarrian went on. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘All manner of old memories are being shaken loose. But I’m no nearer to telling you about what’s been fretting at me these . . . past weeks . . . or however long it’s been. It’s been like walking over a frozen pond covered in snow without knowing it. Nothing is different, but there are mysterious noises, and subtle movements under your feet that could perhaps just be your imagination. And yet you can feel the cold darkness below, but you don’t know what it is. Only that it’s there and it’s waiting to engulf you when you suddenly tumble through.’
Tarrian paused, and when he began again, his voice was almost matter-of-fact. ‘I thought perhaps I was sick, but there was nothing else wrong with me. Then I thought, perhaps it’s pain for Antyr. Destroying himself and his gift with his indifference, his indiscipline. Then I don’t know what I thought and in the end I ignored it. Limped along, made the best of things. But every now and then, the fear, the unease, bubbled out – the sound of the cracking ice – and I could do nothing. Nothing but wait and hope. Hope that something, sometime, would come clear, and that I could deal with it then.’
