Dream Finder cohs-1

by Roger Taylor

  At the same time he replied to Tarrian, ‘All right, all right. Calm down. You forget how nervous you can make people. I'll trust you-not that I've any alternative at the moment. But I didn't like the feel of that and I want to know what it is you're keeping to yourself. I don't…'

  Tarrian interrupted him again, though now his voice was calm and controlled. ‘I'm sorry, Antyr,’ he said. ‘It was a slip on my part. We'll talk later … I promise.'

  'But…’ Antyr began.

  An order from one of the guards cut across his doubts and made him look up. Preoccupied with his inner debate with Tarrian, and content to be swept along by his escort, he had not paid any attention to where they were walking. Gazing around, he saw that there were now many more street torches. Some were isolated and brilliant, others formed ordered lines that curved away from him in all directions. There was something familiar in the pattern, but seeing the lights hovering seemingly unsupported in the fog disorientated him for a moment.

  'It's the palace square,’ Tarrian said.

  'I know, I know,’ Antyr lied irritably. ‘I'm not that addled.'

  A scornful silence rose up from the wolf.

  As the group strode purposefully across the square, the torches that decorated the surrounding buildings with their balconies and high, winding walkways faded into sullen dots, while overhead, several lines of torches began to converge.

  They would meet, Antyr knew, at the top of the spectacular Ibrian Monument, a legacy from an earlier Duke Ibris who had had it built following a great victory by a then much frailer Serenstad over a numerically far superior alliance of other cities, if cities they could have been called in those distant days. Now, however, the horrors surrounding its origins had long been softened by time, and the monument was regarded with amused affection by those citizens of Serenstad who ever gave it a moment's thought. Current critical opinion-though not that of artists and craftsmen-patronized it witheringly.

  Sure enough, as the converging lines of torches faded into the gloom overhead, there appeared ahead of the advancing group those torches that decorated the monument itself. By their light, Antyr could just make out the lower tiers of the monument; close-packed ranks of ferocious infantrymen brandishing their heavy-bladed pikes. It should have been a familiar sight, but looming out of the swirling, ill-lit fog, the motionless stone figures looked like some grim ambush and Antyr felt a brief shiver of alarm. Worse, he realized abruptly the alarm was not his, but Tarrian's. He glanced down at the wolf, but the moment was gone and Tarrian's resolute control forbade any questioning.

  Then they were at the palace, its great double-leaved gate emerging from the fog to greet them. The massive close-timbered body of the gate was secure behind an ornate iron facing, brutally decorated with great spikes and bolt heads. At the centre of each leaf, lit by large, flickering torches, was a carved relief of the Duke's insignia, the lamb in the talons of an eagle. The carving was traditional and cruelly realistic, but no one commented on the merits of this particular piece of work.

  In the unsteady torchlight, the insignia seemed more alive than ever, and Antyr looked at the terrified lamb nervously. Abruptly, however, his concern vanished and, for an instant, he found himself looking up at the lamb though Tarrian's eyes and savouring the warm taste of freshly hunted quarry.

  'Sorry,’ came Tarrian's hasty and sincere apology before Antyr could rebel against this unexpected and unwelcome intrusion.

  Returned to his own mind again, Antyr looked up at the gates expecting them to swing open. Instead a small wicket door opened anti-climactically and the officer, with Antyr and Tarrian following, strode through without even pausing. Behind them, the escort broke formation and lowered their pikes to follow in their turn. Glancing over his shoulder to watch them as they came into the brightly lit courtyard, it seemed to Antyr for a moment that the ancient stone figures from the monument were pursuing him.

  The officer paused while the escort reformed itself into two straight lines and came to attention. Antyr gazed about him, momentarily a forgotten spectator. Never in his life had he been on this side of those great gates, though from the square outside he had many times glimpsed the courtyard. Now, however, even this was as he had never seen it, for it was so ablaze with torches that their very heat seemed to be dispersing the fog.

  'Come with me.'

  Antyr started out of his reverie. It was the officer again; his voice still quiet but, like his entire demeanour, radiating unopposable authority. Antyr turned away from the silent ranks of the escort and followed the cloaked figure as it strode up a wide flight of stairs.

  As they neared the top, a door opened and, as at the wicket gate, the man passed through without even having to break his step. Antyr noted a servant behind the door as he followed the man, but this did nothing to assuage the feeling he had that the door would have opened at the inexorable approach of this figure without any human aid.

  After the brightness of the courtyard, the interior of the palace seemed quite dark and Antyr hesitated until his eyes adjusted. The warmth of the place, however, washed over him luxuriously and, with some relief, he threw back his hood. The officer did the same, then he swung off his cloak and threw it over his arm. The quality of his livery alone confirmed Antyr's guess about the man's status as an officer in the Duke's bodyguard, though he had no idea what the various symbols of rank meant. As he took in the man's appearance, Antyr's eyes were drawn to his sword and dagger. The hilts of both were finely decorated, but worn with use.

  Then the man looked at him. Antyr judged him to be a few years his junior, though his striking angular face was pale and drawn from the cold. Beads of moisture in his short black hair sparkled in the lamplight like inappropriate ornaments.

  Brown eyes that in a woman Antyr would have been glad to gaze into, scanned him coldly, critically, and without faltering. That too told him much about the man, for few could look easily into the eyes of a Dream Finder who was one with his Companion. Antyr felt his stomach go cold and he remembered his earlier thought about this man's probable history. ‘Be afraid,’ said the man's gaze.

  'Don't be afraid,’ said his voice in contradiction. ‘The Duke asked me to bring you to him…'

  The Duke? The word thundered in Antyr's ears and he did not hear the end of the sentence. His eyes widened and, despite himself, he drew in a sharp breath and held it. His mouth began to go dry.

  'Duke Ibris?’ he managed shakily after a moment.

  A faint hint of amusement lit the searching brown eyes and the set mouth pursed a little. ‘How many dukes do we have in Serenstad, Dream Finder?’ he asked rhetorically, running a hand over his damp hair.

  Antyr replied with some vague, silent mouthings. ‘The Duke!’ he gasped inwardly to Tarrian. The wolf made no reply, but Antyr felt him alert and watching.

  'I'm going to take you to him now,’ the officer continued, his voice commanding attention through Antyr's confusion. ‘Just bow when you meet him, then stand up straight, speak when you're spoken to and answer quickly, honestly and straightforwardly. The Duke's hard on fools and ditherers.'

  'But …?’ Antyr began.

  The officer waved him to silence and motioned him to follow.

  'I really should … clean myself up,’ Antyr stammered as he trotted after the retreating figure.

  There was no reply however, and it came to Antyr, as vividly as if it had been bellowed out loud, that had his appearance been important it would have been corrected by now. As it hadn't then it was not important and no answer was warranted. The man's manner told him this, without a word being spoken.

  From his past came long-forgotten memories of men he had met on occasions during his army service. Men who seemed to see through to a truer, more basic reality in whatever they looked at. Men who acted without hesitation but with a strange economy of effort and totality of purpose. Men who were perhaps not always comfortable to be with, but with whom he was profoundly relieved to lock shields when the arrows and spe
ars were flying. This man was one such, beyond a doubt.

  And the wolf had called him a pack leader, he remembered. Then he noticed that Tarrian was trotting by the side of the officer and a small spur of pride goaded him forward to join them.

  As he followed the man's easy stride, he tried to make a note of the route they were travelling, but after some three changes of direction, he gave up. In any event his impending meeting with the Duke, and whatever that might imply, was looming across his future like a dark and unclimbable rock-face and he could no more think beyond it than fly.

  Despite this however, and despite the low night-time lamplight illuminating the tall vaulted corridors through which they were passing, Antyr found himself gazing around in some awe. Apart from the architecture itself, the walls were lined with pictures and carvings of extraordinary quality. He knew that the Duke was a patron of many artists and craftsmen, but had never before thought about the extent of this patronage.

  'This is overwhelming,’ he said softly, largely to himself. Again the man did not reply, but he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the remark.

  The corridors were largely deserted, but the occasional servant they passed would stop and bow to the officer, and sentries stiffened at their posts.

  Eventually the pace slowed a little and the elaborate tiled floor gave way to a soft, patterned carpeting. Apart from other, more subtle changes in the decoration, the muffling of their marching footsteps in itself made the atmosphere more intimate, and Antyr's stomach began to churn painfully as he realized he must be in or near the Duke's private quarters. He licked his lips uneasily, but his mouth was dry.

  No more ale in future, he thought piteously, wincing a little as the word ‘future’ seemed to mock him.

  'Be calm,’ Tarrian offered gently, but to little avail.

  Then they stopped. Outside an imposing double door set inside a deep archway, Antyr noted that the sentries who stood either side of it wore a livery similar to that of his guide.

  'Excuse me,’ the man said to him, unexpectedly polite. ‘Stand still.'

  Before Antyr could protest, the man was running his hands over him; expert searching hands. Around his neck, down his arms, his back, front, sides …

  There was a pause.

  'Empty your pockets,’ came the soft command.

  Antyr obeyed without thinking, emptying his keys, coins, scraps of paper, a small knife, bottle opener, and various other oddments on to a small, immaculately polished table nearby. A small flicker of irritation-or was it distaste? — passed over the man's face as the untidy little heap grew.

  'I've no weapons on me,’ Antyr said reassuringly but with an in-drawn breath as the man completed his search with an examination of his legs that left the Dream Finder balancing gingerly on his toes.

  The man nodded curtly.

  'Do you want to search my Companion?’ said Antyr, scarcely believing the note of injured dignity that had crept into his voice.

  This time, however, he saw the man wilfully suppress a smile.

  'No, no,’ he said. ‘The wolf might be fiercer than you but treachery's the danger here, not ferocity, eh wolf?’ And he reached down as if to stroke Tarrian's head. Without thinking, Antyr reached out quickly and stopped him. As the Dream Finder's hand closed about his arm, the man looked up sharply and Antyr felt his balance subtly wavering. This time, however, although he held Antyr's gaze, his guide flinched a little.

  'My mistake,’ he said softly as Antyr shook his head in mute appeal.

  Then one of the sentries opened the door and the officer walked through, signalling Antyr to follow.

  'Feranc,’ came a voice as the man stepped inside. ‘At last. Have you found him?'

  Feranc! Antyr thought. Ye gods! Ciarll Feranc; variously Feranc the shield and Feranc the slayer, and bearer of many other, harsher names in the mouths of those who had opposed the Duke with force. Not one of the Duke's bodyguard, but their commander. A man whose name alone had sent shivers through the armies of the city's enemies and stiffened the resolve of its allies more than the arrival of an entire division on the battlefield.

  And I tried to talk to him about the weather … twitted him about searching Tarrian. And grabbed his arm! The last residue of moisture in Antyr's mouth dried up.

  'I have, sire,’ Antyr just heard Feranc reply through the noise of his pounding heart. ‘This is he.'

  Then the shield had stepped to one side and Antyr found himself staring open-mouthed at a figure stretched out casually on a long couch, his face largely hidden in the shadows thrown by the three lamps that strove to illuminate the room.

  'You're gawping!’ came Tarrian's furious thought abruptly. ‘Bow smartly and then stand up properly!'

  Somehow, Antyr managed to obey his Companion's instruction. Then the lounging figure reached out and beckoned the Dream Finder and his Companion forward.

  Chapter 3

  Menedrion, eldest son to Duke Ibris, started upright, suddenly wide awake. His heart was pounding with terror, and he was bathed in sweat.

  For a moment he flailed his arms about wildly as if fending off a multitude of closing enemies. Then quite suddenly he stopped as awareness joined his wakefulness and familiar surroundings began to take shape around him in the faint glow of the small night-lamp.

  Pulling up his knees he wrapped his arms around them and dropped his head forward. He stayed thus for some time until both his breathing and his heartbeat had quietened. Wilfully he kept his mind from returning to contemplate the nightmare which had just wakened him. He would think about it in a moment-when time had interposed a little more safety.

  Eventually, still resting his head on his knees, he turned and looked at the night-lamp. It stood on a nearby table and a soft yellow halo surrounded its flame to tell him that not even the guarded depths of the palace were proof against the assault of such an intangible enemy as the fog. But he was oblivious to such a conclusion. For a moment he was a child again, seeking the comfort of the light in the darkness.

  Yet that very comfort angered him. Menedrion frightened in the dark! Frightened by a dream! Almost guiltily he glanced quickly from side to side as if fearful that this lapse might have been observed. Then his mouth curled viciously. It wasn't possible. It couldn't have happened. He would not be unmanned by the unbridled ramblings of his own imaginings.

  But it was not in Menedrion's nature to accept blame or any form of self-reproach and, clenching his fist, he lashed out angrily at the body next to him.

  It landed with a satisfying thud and was followed almost immediately by a desperate cry of pain and terror. The sound rose like a spectre to mock him with the fear he was trying to excise and in a fury he struck again.

  'No, please, Irfan,’ came a fearful, trembling voice out of the darkness. In the gloom a figure was struggling to evade this unprovoked onslaught. ‘Please, I…'

  Menedrion lashed out again, ending the plaint by inadvertently catching the speaker in the mouth. Teeth grazed his hand painfully, and with a snarl he brought his other hand round, open-palmed, to deliver a merciless slap to the face of his victim.

  The body crashed down on to the pillow and, swinging round, Menedrion straddled it and seized it by the throat.

  'Enough!’ he roared, tightening his grip. ‘You sicken me!’ Hands-pleading hands-reached up and covered his face.

  Then, as suddenly as before, he was awake again. But though he knew he was awake, there were hands still clawing at his face.

  'No!’ he cried out, before realizing incongruously that the hands were his own.

  In a mixture of anger, humiliation and relief, he brought his hands down savagely on the embroidered sheets that covered him.

  There was a grunt from beside him. ‘What's the matter, Arwain?’ it articulated eventually.

  'Nothing,’ Arwain replied hastily, laying a now gentle hand on his wife's arm. ‘Just a dream. I thought I was…’ He stopped. ‘I'm sorry I disturbed you. Go back to sleep.'
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br />   The instruction, however, was superfluous, as the Lady Yanys was already breathing steadily and peacefully. Arwain patted her arm again affectionately.

  Just a dream, he thought. But not a dream. A nightmare. And a nightmare within a nightmare at that. He shuddered at the horror of his first awakening. To awaken as someone else! And Menedrion of all people!

  He could not have imagined such a thing, yet, beyond doubt, he had been utterly and completely his half-brother, full of his hates and fears-his darkness. He shuddered at the memory.

  Tentatively he ran his hand over his chest … he was dry and warm. As Menedrion he had been soaking wet with terror.

  And that fearful assault on his bedmate …?

  He looked at the sleeping form of his wife. What if he had been truly awake? What if, in the demented mind of Menedrion, he had …

  The thought was unbearable and with a grimace he turned his face sharply away as if just seeing his wife there might in some way bring back his half-brother to possess him.

  Carefully he climbed out of bed and pulled his night-robe about him. Part of his mind told him he was too wide awake to return to sleep, but another part told him he was too afraid. Too afraid to sleep lest he waken as Menedrion again.

  'No,’ he muttered angrily into the soft darkness. That way lay madness. It was a bad dream, nothing more. Probably something he'd eaten, or this damned, smoke-laden fog; certainly that would bring Menedrion to mind. It was his forges and mills that turned the grey winter mists into yellow, choking fogs.

  Arwain shook his head. Just a dream, he thought again. Insubstantial, and powerless to do anything other than frighten. No person, no thing, least of all an image of that lout Menedrion could make him harm his wife.

  Yet it had been extraordinarily vivid.

  Arwain stared at the low flame of the night-lamp. Somewhere in the palace a muffled bell struck the hour and brought him back to the present. Four o'clock. A long way from the daylight in both directions, but not too long before the palace would begin to stir. Arwain knew that, whatever the reason, he would not sleep again that night and, turning up the night-lamp a little, he began to dress himself quietly.