by Roger Taylor
‘Ivaroth, Mareth Hai! Ivaroth, Mareth Hai!’
The echo of the memory merged with the present as Ivaroth started out of his reverie, and found himself leading his caravan into Carthak amid excited milling crowds. Repeating the gesture of that distant day, he drew his spear from its scabbard and standing high in his stirrups, lifted it triumphantly over his head.
Now, we are ready, he thought. The last threat to his own power was gone. Now the people could be told the truth about the imminence of the assault on the south. Except for his closest aides, none knew how advanced were the preparations. And no one, save he and the blind man, knew of the strange, unwitting, allies that they had.
Chapter 20
Estaan sat down. He had positioned his chair so that he was in the shade, and, with a turn of his head, could look through the grimy window, or at the broken door, which he had wedged shut with another chair, or at Antyr and the two wolves sitting and lying by the dead Nyriall.
He drew his knife and slipped it under the folds of his cloak. Then he steadied his breathing. A silence filled the room which seemed to act as a focus for the random noises that reverberated through the tired fabric of the old building. A distant door slammed; a dog barked; voices, unclear, came and went, some conversational, some angry, some laughing; the thin sound of the children in the street filtered through occasionally; footsteps too, came and went, pattering, pounding, running. And boards creaked treacherously. But Estaan remained still; watching, listening, guarding.
Antyr’s instructions had been unequivocal and he had repeated them more than once. Do not interfere. If anything goes amiss, seal the room and seek out the Dream Finder Pandra. Do not interfere.
Then, his eyes black and frightening, he had taken Nyriall’s hands, while the two wolves had lain at his feet and seemingly gone to sleep.
Estaan waited; watching, listening, guarding, learning.
* * * *
At once motionless and mobile in the darkness of Nyriall’s mind, Antyr was hurtling forward recklessly.
He could not afford the luxury of thinking too closely about the folly of what he was doing. His father had died searching for the dreams of a dying man. Nyriall was dead. It was as if some inner force had taken control of him and was propelling him onward under the urging of a desperate need that he could not begin to fathom.
Tarrian was by him, nervous and unsettled, but faithful and trusting; and grimly determined, the hunter in him wild and hungry. And with him too was Grayle, quiet and strange, barely perceptible, running by the side and in the shadow of his newly found brother; his older, more powerful brother. Yet though Grayle was not the dominant Companion, he was, ironically, foremost in this precipitate chase; his slight, silent presence disturbing – eerie even.
Then how could it be otherwise? Antyr thought. Prepared by Nyriall for a search of a dreamer who was not there. Then torn from his Dream Finder by death under who knew what circumstances.
And, more prosaically, searching with a new Companion was always a strange, unsettling experience, so intimately linked were their thoughts and emotions.
‘Don’t fret, I’m with you, and whole.’ The voice startled Antyr. So much of its tone and aura was Tarrian’s, yet it was very different. And it was hung about with grief and the dreadful turmoil of emotions that follow in its wake.
‘I will grieve when my duties are done.’ Grayle answered the unspoken question, though Antyr could sense all too human traits of vengeance fringing the wolf’s words.
‘We’ll all grieve, Grayle,’ Antyr replied. ‘But now we must hurry. Run with your brother to wherever your instincts take you. My faith in you is total . . .’
‘Yes,’ Grayle said, interrupting him. Antyr sensed Tarrian’s surprise. ‘Your faith is total, and it strengthens mine and sharpens my every sense. You’re stronger and more skilled even than Nyriall, and I’d have judged him almost a Master. You above all can search out what has happened, and what has been happening. My brother and I will guard you where we can, and will watch and call for you when you go from us. Have no fear, you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength.’
‘What do you mean, go from you?’ Antyr asked.
But Grayle did not reply.
On through the blackness they sped. Antyr alone and motionless yet drawn along by the surging, hunting wolves; a nothingness in the darkness save for his bright, sharp awareness, intangible yet as purposeful as a flying arrow.
On they plunged.
No familiar flickering wisps of light and sound came to greet them, to dance and shimmer and whisper. For this was the inner realm of a Dream Finder and there were no dreams to leak into the darkness of his hidden nature and form the bright and shimmering nexus to draw the Companions forward.
Yet Antyr had set off in pursuit of the dream that could not be. Fear began to buffet him, a stinging, dust-laden wind in his face.
‘No,’ he cried out, denouncing it. Each step we take through life is into the darkness, he knew. It cannot be otherwise. And fear of the darkness was fear of life.
Knowledge alone could light the way and we must not fear to enter the darkness to seek it. And where knowledge stopped while need yet existed, then we must follow the deeper reasoning that our prattling minds make us deaf to, until we reach the light again.
His thoughts seemed to be part of a huge chorus of other voices, coming from both within and without.
Then he was alone!
The wolves were gone. Gone utterly. No sound. No faint, lingering hints of their presence. Just silence. And darkness.
They had been gone forever. Indeed, they had never been. And he was in a bright sunlit field, strewn with swathes of white flowers like the stars on a clear summer’s night. Above him a scattered flotilla of small white clouds drifted leisurely across a blue sky at the indifferent behest of some scarcely felt wind.
A few paces in front of him and facing away from him, a figure was crouching. He was looking at the flowers; touching them gently. Antyr coughed. The figure started violently and, turning, stood up, almost tumbling over in the process.
Antyr drew in a sharp breath. The figure was Nyriall, his face fearful and his eyes still like pools of night.
‘Who are you, Dream Finder?’ Nyriall said, his voice shaking and his posture defensive despite his age. ‘And why do you pursue me?’
‘I’m sorry I frightened you, Nyriall,’ Antyr replied hastily, concerned at this response from the old man. ‘Please don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm. I’m Antyr, son of Petran. I’m not pursuing you. I came after you to find out what had happened.’
Nyriall looked at him narrowly for a moment then put his hand to his head as if trying to remember something. ‘You came to find . . .’ he muttered vaguely.
Antyr waited.
‘I remember now, I think,’ Nyriall said slowly. ‘Grayle was suddenly no more. Not torn from me. Just no more.’ He took Antyr’s hand anxiously. ‘Where is Grayle, how is he?’
‘He’s safe,’ Antyr said, as reassuringly as he could. ‘He’s lying in your room with my own Companion, his brother, Tarrian, by his side. And I’m there too. And one of the Duke’s own Mantynnai guards the door.’
Nyriall touched his head again. ‘Room?’ he said, puzzled, then, ‘Mantynnai? Mantynnai? Yes . . . The Viernce mercenaries . . . Serenstad . . . Ibris.’ His voice grew louder. ‘What are you doing here?’ he burst out suddenly.
‘We found you . . .’ Antyr hesitated. ‘We found you, in your room, in the Moras. You were . . .’ He changed direction. ‘You were . . . unwell . . . but searching . . . and with no dreamer. I was anxious about you so I followed. With Grayle and Tarrian. I don’t know how I came here. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’
Nyriall seemed to be recovering from his confusion. ‘You found me?’ he said. ‘Unwell?’ Antyr nodded unhappily. Then, very calmly, Nyriall said, ‘I was dead, wasn’t I? They killed me. Severed me from Grayle and from that reality.’
&nbs
p; Antyr felt suddenly cold, but there was no comfort to be found for him. ‘Yes,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry. There was no sign of life in you . . . your body when we arrived. And Grayle was greatly disturbed.’
He retreated into the reassuringly practical. ‘Tarrian managed to calm him somehow. He didn’t hurt anyone.’
Nyriall was silent for some time then his mouth dropped open and he looked at Antyr. ‘And you followed me?’ he said in disbelief. ‘I’m a Dream Finder, I don’t dream. And you followed me? Into a dream that I couldn’t have had? And a death dream at that? What possessed you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Antyr said, a little irritated at Nyriall’s tone. ‘And I didn’t question. I just followed an impulse. Tell me what happened to you, Nyriall. I don’t know how much time I have. Where are we? How did you come here? Who . . . killed you?. . . and how? Your room was empty and Grayle uninjured.’
Nyriall looked around at the field. Sunlit meadows and forests rolled into the distance towards white-topped mountains. He breathed in deeply. Antyr copied his actions. The air was sweet and cool and laden with the scents of rich grasses and flowers. It was a beautiful place.
‘I don’t know where I am,’ Nyriall said softly. ‘Nor can I answer any of your questions. My mind is still . . . scattered . . . confused. Something to do with dying, I suppose,’ he added with an unexpected flash of humour.
It faded rapidly however. ‘And if I could answer, how would you return to . . . Serenstad . . . with the knowledge? This is no dream, man. I think this is . . . one of the dreams beyond dreams. A place that only the likes of us can reach, and then perhaps only by chance.’ He took Antyr’s arm, unexpectedly excited. ‘I think this is part of the Threshold, the ante-chamber of the Great Dream itself.’
Antyr grimaced. ‘I want no children’s tales,’ he began. ‘I want an explanation . . .’
Nyriall rounded on him before he could continue. ‘Children’s tales!’ he said angrily. ‘Look around you, man. Do you doubt what you see? Ask yourself why I’m here, when you say I’m lying dead in Serenstad. And ask why you’re here, real and solid, crushing the grass beneath your feet and feeling the sun on your face, when you’re sitting next to my corpse.’ He reached out and slapped Antyr’s face lightly as he spoke. ‘And if your Earth Holders rest in my room with you, where are their dreamselves, Dream Finder?’
His brief anger gave way abruptly to near panic. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said fretfully. ‘Maybe this isn’t the Threshold.’ He shook his head. ‘But wherever it is, we’re lost. I know no way back for either of us. And if you say a Mantynnai guards our bodies somewhere, then he may soon find he’s guarding two corpses and coping with two demented wolves. What possessed you to follow me?’ he said again.
‘A way back will be found for me,’ Antyr said urgently, suddenly determined to take control of this rambling debate. ‘Perhaps even you. I don’t know. All manner of strange things have happened to me these last few days.’ He, in turn, began to ramble. ‘A presence in the Duke’s dream. A visitation from a figure that looked like Marastrumel. A separation from both Companion and dreamer with Menedrion. And menace in all cases. Some evil’s afoot that I seem to be being drawn to. And now I’m here, as a result of who knows what impulse, perhaps to find out what had happened to you, perhaps because you have knowledge that I need. To help myself and to help others. I don’t know . . .’
Nyriall took a pace back during this tirade, then lifted his hands to stem it.
‘I hear you, Antyr,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘You look a poor soul to be Dream Finder to such wealthy and powerful men, Antyr. But I hear you. And I believe you. Calm down. I understand. Truly.’
‘But . . .’
Nyriall waved him silent. ‘I understand because I too have felt strange things,’ he said earnestly. ‘But not just recently; over many years. Small things. As you said, a . . . presence . . . in the dreams, as if there were another Dream Finder there, watching, listening.’ He shook his head, his brow furrowed. ‘And occasionally . . .’ He hesitated, searching for words. ‘The feeling that the dream was being . . . changed . . . manipulated. It wasn’t good.’ He looked at Antyr. ‘I know my craft, Petran’s son. And I practice it well, and with caring.’ He curled his lip derisively. ‘Not like the clowns and dandies who fop around the Guild House, dancing to the whims of courtiers’ and merchants’ foolish women.’
Antyr winced at Nyriall’s suddenly vitriolic tone even though he sympathized with the comments. Then he found his conscience pricking him. Perhaps if he’d spent more time practicing and studying his craft and less time carousing he too might have felt what was happening the sooner. He dismissed the reproach quickly. Whatever had been, was no more. And now was now.
A cloud drifted briefly over the sun, bringing a momentary chill to the two men.
Nyriall let his passion subside before he continued. ‘It’s been getting worse, I’m sure. Then a week or so ago, it broke out like plague. And always this feeling of someone searching, or worse, someone changing things for some reason. I had one client, a middle-aged man – a sensitive, I suspect. All of a sudden, nightmares. Appalling things. As bad as any I’ve ever searched. And unequivocally from outside. I feared for his life; certainly his sanity.’ He shook his head, his black eyes looking at some other place far from this pastoral idyll. ‘Then . . . today, I suppose . . . I was resting, very still, very quiet. Thinking about him. What I could do or say to help him. It wouldn’t be putting it too strongly to say that I was desperate. Then I felt something, nearby, and before I knew what was happening, Grayle and I were prepared.’ He turned and looked at Antyr, his voice suddenly awed. ‘We moved into a dream . . . but not a dream . . . when no dreamer was present. I’ve heard of such things. And not only in children’s tales,’ he added. ‘Gateways through into the Threshold of the Great Dream. Accessible only to Dream Finders who had become Masters of the craft . . .’
He stopped and looked down at his hands. ‘But I’m no Master,’ he said. ‘Competent, yes. Perhaps above average. But no Master. Where a Master might walk with measured step, I suspect I tripped and blundered in.’
‘To here?’ Antyr asked.
Nyriall shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘Some other place. Dark and barren. A great bleak plain with a bitter wind blowing across it.’
‘And figures, shadows, waiting for you?’ Antyr said, unable to contain himself.
Nyriall nodded. ‘Two,’ he said. ‘And they radiated the menace that had been haunting me. Without thinking about what had happened or where I was, I just challenged them.’
He wrapped his arms about himself and his face became drawn. ‘They seemed surprised as they turned to look at me . . .’ His voice became hoarse and he shuddered at the memory. ‘I panicked. Suddenly I was aware that Grayle was gone and that I was in this awful place with these strange, frightening people. I had to escape. I ran. They followed, hissing, whispering. Then I felt . . . hope . . . in front of me. I ran towards it and suddenly I was in the bright daylight.’
He caught Antyr’s look, but shook his head. ‘No, not here. It was bright and sunny, but I was on the fringes of a terrible battle. The air was full of screams and dashing arms. I carried on running, and then the . . . hope . . . was there again and I ran to it again.’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘And here I am,’ he concluded. ‘In this beautiful place. No longer pursued, but ignorant, lost and now, you tell me, dead.’
Antyr puffed out his cheeks. Nyriall’s brief bewildering saga had raised more questions and provided no answers to the ones he already had. He did not know where to start.
Nyriall straightened up and looked out over the countryside. ‘It is the Threshold,’ he said quietly. ‘Scorn the idea how you will.’ Antyr raised a hand of denial. Nyriall’s tale had shaken loose much Dream Finding lore that he had either long forgotten, or dismissed as old-fashioned foolishness.
When a Dream Finder’s knowledge and understanding became sufficient, it w
as said, he could find the Gateways in the dreams of others, or sometimes directly, without the aid of a dreamer. Gateways into the worlds beyond the dreams. The myriad worlds that jostled and mixed together, yet were separate, and which were the Threshold of the Great Dream itself.
‘And as the Nexus is but the echoing shadows of the dreams, so the dreams themselves are but the echoing shadows of the worlds of the Threshold. And, too, these worlds are but the echoing shadows of the Great Dream that lies beyond the Inner Portals and contains all things.’
Nyriall looked at Antyr. ‘Treatise on the Ancient and Wondrous Art of the Dream Travellers,’ he said, identifying the book that had for many generations been regarded as the definitive work on Dream Finding lore. ‘It’s a long time since you’ve read those words, I suspect,’ he said.
Antyr nodded.
‘Don’t forget the rest,’ Nyriall went on. ‘And a Master may pass through the Gateways into the Threshold, and there journey through the Doorways between the worlds. But only if his skill be great, and his courage high. For he must go alone, separated from his Earth Holder. And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.’
Antyr let out a great breath. ‘But only if his skill be great and his courage high,’ he repeated. ‘I’d have thought both those attributes precluded me.’
Nyriall shrugged. ‘Me also,’ he said. ‘But who can say what forces lie within us? Or, for that matter, manipulate us. I’m no Master. I came here perhaps by an inadvertent talent, perhaps by mischance and ignorance, and, seemingly, died for it. You, I suspect, might be different.’ He looked at Antyr regretfully. ‘But I can tell you no more than I have. Perhaps that’s all you needed to learn. To be reminded of what you already knew.’
Antyr returned his gaze, but did not reply.
‘Cry out for your Earth Holder, Antyr,’ Nyriall said, encouragingly, then, correcting himself, ‘Your Earth Holders. Perhaps there is a way back for you if you trust yourself enough.’
‘But what about you?’ Antyr said.
