by Roger Taylor
‘Oh, we’re here already,’ he said out loud, in some relief, his voice a little strained. ‘I didn’t realize we’d walked so far.’
Immediately all interest in Antyr’s craft disappeared and the two guards quickened their pace. It was to little avail, however, for the street was quite narrow and still filled with all manner of people going about their many businesses and, Duke’s men or no, they were obliged to continue following the pace of the many.
In the distance, Antyr saw a bright spark dancing in front of the monument. It split into smaller sparks that danced away in their turn. For some reason he felt a fleeting lightness touch him as he saw it, then its firefly dance became just one of the Guild of Lamplighters’ apprentices taking the lid off a fire bucket prior to his master and the senior apprentices lighting the torches around the monument. By tradition, the public torches of the city were lit outwards from the palace square.
‘Yes,’ Tarrian said, agreeing with his earlier remark. ‘We’re well out of the Moras for today. It’ll be foggy down there by now, for sure.’
Antyr could not dispute this conclusion though he still wished he was somewhere else.
As they neared the square, the busy crowds thinned a little as the street widened and the houses and buildings became larger and more spacious.
Antyr started to stride out, but one of the guards took his elbow. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to a side street on the right. Antyr looked inquiringly towards the square.
‘The main gate’s that way,’ he said, his uncertainty growing again as he followed the guard’s lead.
‘We’re not going to the main gate,’ the man replied, mildly surprised. ‘Lord Menedrion’s . . . guests . . . rarely use the main gate.’ He nudged Antyr and winked, then both guards laughed knowingly.
‘It’s his women they’re talking about,’ Tarrian said. ‘They’re trying to impress you.’
‘I know,’ Antyr replied testily. ‘I can read my own species, you know.’
‘Sorry,’ Tarrian said huffily. ‘Only trying to reassure you.’
There were only a few people in the street, which was lined with terraces of neat, well-kept and individually distinct houses, some four and five storeys high. Expensive, Antyr mused, as the quartet followed the street round in a long, slow arc until the houses closed about in a semicircle and sealed it except for a wide, colonnaded passageway. Clattering through this they emerged into another equally quiet street which, Antyr realized, was bounded on the far side by the palace wall.
‘See,’ said one of the guards expansively. ‘It’s a lot quicker this way. Not far now.’
The street rose up quite steeply and their pace slowed somewhat until, passing under an enclosed overhead walkway, the guards stopped and one of them banged on a door set well into a deep recess in the palace wall. Antyr had not noticed the door and judged that even in broad daylight it would have been almost invisible in the shade of the walkway.
There was an almost immediate response as a small shutter behind a stout grill opened briefly then closed again. After a few dull thuds, the door opened quietly and the guard stood to one side.
Well-oiled bolts and hinges, Antyr noted, thinking immediately of his own screeching door.
‘It’s the Dream Finder, Antyr,’ said the guard into the darkness. ‘We were lucky. He was at the Guild House.’
‘Excellent,’ came a soft cultured voice in reply. ‘His lordship will be pleased.’ Then, apparently to Antyr, ‘Just a moment . . . er . . . sir, there are two steps up. Take care, they’re a little tricky. There’s a handrail on the right.’
The voice was polite and thoughtful, but apart from the brief hesitation, it had the long-rehearsed quality of one that had spoken the same words many times to unfamiliar and uncertain ears. Similarly it was a confident and practiced hand that reached out in the dim half-light to offer support.
Antyr looked at the guard who, with a flick of his head and another wink, relinquished him to the hand.
‘Thank you,’ Antyr said, both to the guards and to the unseen figure. Then, taking the hand, he stepped gingerly forward into the darkness. Tarrian scrabbled up the steps beside him and there was a faint exclamation from the speaker.
‘I’m sorry if he startled you,’ Antyr said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘It’s all right,’ said the voice. ‘I just wasn’t expecting a dog.’ As the door closed behind them, they were plunged into complete darkness, but Antyr still raised his eyebrows in surprise at the absence of any caustic response from Tarrian at this comment. Then he realized.
‘Oh, it’s a woman, is it?’ he said, mockingly. ‘I thought the voice was unusual.’
‘It’s a lady actually,’ Tarrian replied with dignity. ‘She feels very nice. And . . . Oh . . .’
‘What’s the matter?’ Antyr asked, suddenly anxious again in the darkness.
‘There’s a great sadness around her,’ Tarrian replied, his voice concerned and serious. ‘And she’s shutting it in. Like a fortress.’ Fleetingly Antyr felt the pain as his Companion reflected it. But, brief though the touch was, its vivid intensity was unmistakable. It was love. Unrequited . . . but very female . . . patient . . . waiting . . . despite the pain . . .’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ Tarrian went on guiltily. ‘It just reached out and . . .’
Before Antyr could reassure him however, the darkness was cracked open by a shaft of light which blossomed out rapidly to illuminate a narrow stone passageway. Beside him stood a woman with a hooded lantern in her hand.
As she eased past him, Antyr took in two searching sloe eyes set in a finely sculpted face, framed by a circle of lightly curled hair. She was handsome rather than pretty, and she was certainly no servant. He could make no guess at her age, but, somewhat to his surprise, the thought that came into his mind was: even the hood on the lantern is oiled for silence.
‘Come this way, sir,’ the woman said. Again, though pleasant, the words came with the bored ease of long familiarity.
Tarrian set off after her immediately. ‘Oh, that’s better,’ he said in ecstasy. Antyr stared after him in alarm until he realized that he was talking about his feet again.
Looking down, Antyr saw that while the walls of the passageway were rough undecorated stone, the floor was completely covered by a soft and luxurious carpet which deadened their footsteps completely.
All is silence along this path, he thought.
Other, less mysterious, details struck him as they walked. At intervals the carpet was broken by a narrow slot running across the passage. The slot continued up the walls and over the arched ceiling.
Portcullises. Antyr grimaced, remembering what little training he had done for the assaulting of castles such as this.
Should an enemy break down the door through which he and Tarrian had entered, they would be allowed so far in, then these great latticed gates would clang down, both preventing further progress and sealing the attackers in for disposal at leisure.
And there could be worse here. Stones that could be tilted to hurl the unwary into sealed and eyeless dungeons, or worse, below. Swinging blades so heavily counter-balanced that they could cleave a man in half, or take off his head without pause. The thought made him pull his head down into his shoulders. Then there might be sprung spears, falling stones . . .
Tarrian’s indignant voice interrupted this grim catalogue.
‘Will you stop that, and concentrate on what’s happening here and now,’ he said fiercely.
‘Sorry, I was just remembering things,’ Antyr replied.
‘Well, don’t,’ Tarrian said tersely. ‘Not unless you can remember something a little less human.’
Further debate was ended by the woman opening a door at the end of the passage and bringing the procession to a momentary halt as they were obliged to pause to allow their eyes to adjust to the bright torchlight that greeted them.
They had entered another passage through a side door. It extended in both
directions into an unlit gloom, but the woman, closing and locking the door – noiselessly, Antyr noted again – nodded them towards an archway opposite.
Through this was a long stone stairway which rose upwards.
Antyr’s already weary legs protested at the prospect of the climb but Tarrian and the woman were already rising out of sight drawing him relentlessly forward.
The remainder of the journey was, as far as Antyr was concerned, distressingly similar to that of the previous night: an interminable maze of corridors and stairways. He made a token effort to note where they were going, but the impending future and his leaden legs soon reduced it to naught.
‘Just follow the carpet,’ Tarrian said eventually, in some despair at Antyr’s lack of observation.
Finally they found themselves outside a small door in a dimly lit corridor lined with large framed pictures separated by elaborately arranged clusters of shields and weapons.
But despite all the gloom there was a feeling of space and great opulence about the corridor which impinged on Antyr immediately.
‘Don’t forget the fee,’ Tarrian whispered urgently, sensing the same.
The woman tapped on the door gently. It opened silently and, after a few whispered words with someone, she stepped to one side and indicated with a wave of her hand that Tarrian and Antyr should enter.
Inside, Antyr found himself in a small ante-chamber. Despite its size, however, the sense of opulent splendour that had hovered subtly in the darkened corridor, cried out here. Landscape paintings all around gave Antyr the momentary impression that he was standing in the countryside on a bright summer’s day. Plain, polished shelves bore delicate carvings of farm workers, the four chairs that guarded each corner of the room had embroidered backs and cushions that complemented the theme, and even the carpet underfoot felt like luxurious summer turf.
The soft click of the door closing behind him broke the spell and Antyr turned to speak to the woman. But she was gone. He had an image of her fading silently into the soft-footed darkness outside which he realized was Tarrian’s, still unable fully to relinquish her pain.
In her place stood a tall, heavily built man with long black hair and a black beard. He exuded a power and menace which was totally at odds with the gentle pastoral quality of the little room that he was now dominating. And he was staring at Antyr intently.
Menedrion. Antyr needed no introduction. As with the Duke and Ciarll Feranc, the actual presence of the man overrode the impression of all other previous, distant, encounters, exposing them as mere shadows of the grim reality.
‘Not his father,’ Tarrian said, his voice low even though only Antyr could hear. ‘Less sure of himself. Less disciplined. Watch your step.’
It was not reassuring, but it chimed with Antyr’s own response. Oddly, however, Menedrion did not disturb him as much as the strangely ominous presence of Ciarll Feranc and the truly massive presence of the Duke. This man had more the bearing of just another loutish officer and Antyr had faced enough in his time to become a fair master at handling them when need arose.
‘Look tame,’ he ordered his Companion, then he clicked his heels together and stood up straight.
A brief whiff of amused surprise from Tarrian pervaded him, but it was withdrawn immediately and replaced by sincere approval. ‘Sorry. You know your own,’ came a faint echo to him.
Menedrion, too, had apparently not expected such a response and it seemed to unbalance him slightly.
‘Parade ground or field, Dream Finder,’ he said gruffly, without looking at him as he walked past towards a door opposite.
‘Both sir,’ Antyr replied to his retreating back. ‘I was in the front rank at Herion . . .’
‘Come through, man,’ came an irritable shout. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Dutifully, Antyr doubled across the ante-chamber and, with wilful deference, leaned in a little way through the open door.
The room was a more lavish version of the ante-chamber but the same decor writ large had become garish ostentation. Under other circumstances Antyr might have expected some acidic comment from Tarrian about bad taste, but he was silent. He was learning about their new client.
Menedrion was sprawled in a large chair and though dressed in a tunic and trousers that were predominantly dark green, his black hair and beard, coupled with his lowering face and hunched posture, made him look like a great black spider waiting patiently at the middle of its web.
Antyr stepped inside discreetly.
‘Herion, eh?’ Menedrion said, pursing his lips and nodding pensively. ‘A hard day.’
‘Yes sir,’ Antyr replied.
‘You held well,’ Menedrion continued unexpectedly, beckoning him forward. ‘Broke their cavalry formation and gave me the chance to mop them up.’
Antyr’s thoughts were unashamedly ambivalent. Menedrion’s squadron had smashed into the broken ranks of the Bethlarii cavalry as they tried to regroup following their unsuccessful charge, and then Arwain’s much smaller squadron had burst out of their cover in the woods and charged the Bethlarii infantry’s now unprotected flank, breaking them utterly.
The overwhelming relief that had washed over Antyr lingered with him yet, but it was tinged with shame now, a shame that seemed to grow with time, as he also recalled his rejoicing as he had stood in the still solid ranks and watched the cavalry pursue and slaughter the routed infantry.
That the same fate would have befallen him had he and his companions not held firm held increasingly less solace for him against the agonizing folly of it all. What had been a bristling line of enemy pikes and shields singing defiance and battle fury into the boiling blue sky had become a fleeing horde of sons, brothers, lovers, husbands . . .
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, cutting short the recollection.
‘What’s the matter with the wolf?’ Menedrion asked curtly. Antyr looked down. Tarrian’s ears were flat against his head and his tail was between his legs. The vivid, visceral, memories of the battle had washed over to him also.
‘He’s nervous with strangers,’ Antyr said, kneeling down and putting an arm around him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said privately to Tarrian. ‘Will you be all right?’
The question was pointless as he knew that Tarrian’s reaction would pass as soon as his own emotional response to the memory of the battle passed.
Menedrion nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘He’s a powerful-looking animal. It’s as well he knows who’s master around here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Antyr’s parade-ground reflexes had him say.
Tarrian lay down and closed his eyes. Antyr remained by him.
Menedrion fidgeted with his beard for a moment and looked from side to side about the room awkwardly for a while.
‘Personally I’ve little time for this kind of nonsense,’ he began. ‘But . . .’ He paused and then abandoned this approach. ‘You come highly recommended,’ he decided finally. ‘You’d better be good. I warn you, I know you Guildsmen. I can smell a charlatan a league away, no matter what his trade.’ He levelled a finger at Antyr. ‘And don’t think that because I’m who I am you can conveniently double your fee.’
‘I understand, sir,’ Antyr replied keeping his voice neutral though tempted to be mildly offended. ‘The Guild have a scale of charges which you can . . .’
Menedrion waved him to silence. ‘My Counter will attend to all that,’ he said irritably. ‘You just tell me what it is you do and we’ll get on with it.’
‘I’m a Dream Finder, sir,’ Antyr said, unable to keep some surprise out of his voice. ‘I . . . find your dreams and . . . guide you through them . . .’
‘I know that!’ Menedrion said sharply. ‘That’s why you’re here. But what do you do? Do you want me to go to sleep or something because you’ll have the devil of a wait if you do.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ Antyr replied, relaxing a little and, without realizing it, beginning to take charge of the powerful figure in front of him. ‘My Companion and I will need a little ti
me to prepare ourselves but when we’re ready all you’ll have to do is make yourself comfortable, give me your hand and close your eyes. We can do it any time if it isn’t convenient now.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all, sir,’ Antyr confirmed.
‘How long will it take you to prepare yourself?’
Antyr was about to say, ‘A few minutes, sir,’ when a startled thought from Tarrian made him look down. The wolf’s eyes opened abruptly, yellow and brilliant. Briefly Antyr caught a glimpse of himself as Tarrian confirmed the night-black sockets that indicated his readiness to begin the search.
So quickly, they both thought simultaneously.
Keeping his eyes downwards, Antyr said, ‘We’re ready now, sir, if you wish to begin.’
Menedrion replied by snapping his fingers. Noiselessly, a guard emerged from behind a large tapestry. Antyr started in surprise at his sudden appearance but remained crouched by Tarrian. The man looked impassively at him as he moved to sit in a nearby chair indicated by Menedrion, but his eyes turned away rapidly as Antyr looked up and met his gaze.
Menedrion’s reaction was more vigorous – he drew in a sharp breath and a spasm of outright fear passed briefly over his face.
‘He’s superstitious,’ Tarrian said urgently. ‘Say something quickly. He knows he’s shown fear, and it’ll be face-saving anger next if we’re not careful.’
‘I was going to ask if there was anyone you’d like present, sir,’ Antyr said calmly, turning away from Menedrion and rising to his feet. ‘In my experience, the presence of someone the dreamer trusts is invariably beneficial and your bodyguard would be ideal.’ Then, prosaically, ‘May I use this chair, sir? I’m afraid I find kneeling very uncomfortable these days.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Menedrion said with another wave of his hand. ‘Sit wherever you want.’ He leaned further back into the chair, stiffly and awkwardly, and closed his eyes as Antyr brought the chair forward and placed it in front of him.
‘Would you give me your hand, sir,’ Antyr said, pulling the chair closer and then showing his own empty hands to the bodyguard. Menedrion’s massive hand jerked out suddenly, almost striking Antyr. The movement and Antyr’s startled response made the bodyguard smile.
