Dream Finder cohs-1

by Roger Taylor

  The image was gone almost before he could register it, but like some alchemist's trickery, its brief appearance irresistibly transformed the whole in the instant, and Antyr's grief and fear was suddenly transmuted into a boiling anger while his trembling body began to tear him free from whatever power held him.

  The figure seemed to make a final effort to reach him, lurching forward sharply like a striking snake, but the shadows were drawing it away and the strange scrabbling was growing louder and more frenzied.

  Then it seemed to him that for a moment he was at the heart of a great battlefield, one hand clutching a torn and bloodstained standard, the other a hacked and battered sword.

  'To me! To me!'

  His voice filled all that was, echoing and echoing, and with a final exhalation of loathing and hatred, the shadows were gone.

  'Where were you? Where were you?’ Tarrian's voice crashed over him, frantic and desperate. ‘Where did you go?'

  Antyr found himself still on the bed but staring now into the wolf's eyes, bright yellow and feral as if he had been dream-searching.

  'What …?’ he muttered, bewildered.

  'Where did you go? What happened?’ Tarrian repeated the questions, seizing Antyr's shirt in his mouth and shaking him violently. ‘Are you all right …?

  Antyr reached out and put his arms about the wolf's neck both to stop him and for needed solace. He could feel the powerful animal trembling, as he himself had trembled. And, he realized, he had never known his Companion so distraught, so out of control.

  'I don't know,’ he managed to say as slowly he recognized the palace room and remembered the events of the evening.

  'Don't know? Don't know! Ye gods, man…’ Tarrian's voice showed his relief, but was still full of a barely controlled hysteria.

  'Please, Tarrian. I'm all right. I don't know what happened. Just give me a moment to gather my wits,’ Antyr said, tightening his hold on his friend. ‘Just a moment.'

  Tarrian lay still briefly, then wriggled free and jumped down on to the floor.

  Antyr struggled upright until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. A rectangle of dim grey light indicated a window he had not noticed when he first entered the room, and indicated also that it was dawn, or later. He sat motionless some time with his head resting in his hands, then he looked up and stared into the watching wolf's eyes.

  'I need a drink,’ he said.

  Tarrian's anger overwhelmed him. ‘It's probably the drink that did this, you jackass,’ he thundered. ‘Eroded such enfeebled discipline as you have and left you defenceless against…’ He stopped for a moment, unable to finish the sentence. ‘In all the time I was with your father I never met anything like this-never! And your father ventured into regions where many others wouldn't go, I can tell you.'

  Despite himself, Antyr responded in kind. ‘I don't want to know,’ he shouted out loud. ‘All this is madness. What am I doing wandering about other people's dreams? Scrutinizing their fantasies like some quack priest peering into entrails. Hell knows what phantoms I've let into my own mind. I've had enough. I wash my hands of it all before I lose my mind. I'm…'

  'Going into the country. Get myself a simple job on a farm somewhere, tending vines, cutting corn.’ Tarrian completed his plaint for him with blistering scorn. ‘Somewhere where there's peace and calm. Somewhere where I can get my throat cut by bandits…'

  'Damn you, dog,’ Antyr said through clenched teeth. ‘Go back to your pack.'

  A silence came between the two protagonists, such as can only exist between two old friends; sour and bitterly unpleasant.

  Tarrian lay down and rested his head on his front paws. His eyes were still brilliant and fixed resolutely on the Dream Finder. Antyr swung his legs back up on to the bed and lay down again to avoid the gaze.

  'Tell me what happened,’ Tarrian said simply, after a moment.

  Antyr shook his head. He was about to swear at the wolf, but the brief explosion had been cathartic. ‘I don't know,’ he said resignedly. A spasm shook him and he wrapped his arms about himself. ‘I don't know. But it was terrifying. We were apart. Truly apart. As if you'd been … killed. And there was someone here. A figure … with a lamp … and shadows at his back. Watching, waiting … trying to reach me … I…'

  His voice faded and the silence descended again. Gradually the sounds of the awakening palace began to seep softly into the room.

  He looked up and met Tarrian's gaze. ‘It was like a dream,’ he said, his voice flat but fearful.

  Tarrian did not reply, but his concern and denial flooded into Antyr's mind. Dream Finders did not dream; could not dream, seemingly. Yet despite this response there was doubt also.

  'You were gone … somewhere,’ he said eventually. ‘Your body was here, but your Dreamself was gone. Gone as if it had never existed. And all ways were closed to me. Like when your father died.'

  The wolf's very quietness brought chills of fear to Antyr again.

  'Do you really think I've brought this on myself,’ he asked, almost plaintively.

  This time there was confusion in Tarrian's response: the habitual anger that inevitably arose when Antyr's indiscipline was discussed, and a newer, deeper anxiety; a sense of the need to set old matters aside and to both give and receive companionship in the face of some unknown threat.

  'I don't know,’ Tarrian concluded soberly. ‘Let the daylight in and then tell me exactly what happened … what you saw and felt.'

  Antyr was surprised how unsteady he felt as he walked to the window to draw back the curtain. Nevertheless he was mildly expectant. He had a vague impression that behind it would lie some splendid view of the city, the palace being a high and dominating building. Instead, however, he found himself overlooking a small, enclosed chasm of walls, gloomy and lichen-streaked in the grey morning light that filtered down from a ragged skyline high above. Looking down, he saw a paved yard littered with random and ill-repaired outbuildings, their roofs shiny with the morning's dampness.

  A small piece of the Moras district in the very heart of Ibris's palace, he thought wryly. The light, however, brought with it some optimism.

  'Well, at least the fog's gone,’ he said as he turned away from the window. ‘And we've survived to greet another day.'

  It was a phrase he had not used since he was last in the army. Tarrian, however, was indifferent. ‘Tell,’ he demanded.

  It took Antyr only a few minutes to relate the events he had experienced but he found that the daylight did little to mitigate the deep alarm which he had felt and which was on the fringe of returning even as he recounted the tale.

  'Well?’ he asked when he had finished.

  Tarrian had been silent during the telling, and now he offered no observations.

  'Let's leave,’ he said, standing up and stretching luxuriously. ‘Let's get out into the country for a while. We both need to think.'

  Antyr hesitated. ‘Do you think we should?’ he said. ‘The Duke said we shouldn't leave the city.'

  Tarrian was dismissive. ‘He meant travelling abroad,’ he said. ‘As if we ever did. He won't mind us wandering the countryside for an hour or so.'

  Antyr was unconvinced. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should tell someone.'

  'Open the door, for pity's sake,’ Tarrian said testily. ‘After what's happened-whatever it was-I need room to move, and air to breathe. And you need … something … I don't know what. Exercise probably. Come on, no one's going to be bothered about us and we'll be back before noon.'

  Antyr bowed to his friend's insistence and cautiously opened the door. He had half expected to find a guard standing there and was uncertain whether to feel relieved or disappointed to find the corridor deserted.

  'I told you no one would be bothered,’ Tarrian declared in offhand triumph. ‘Come on.'

  Antyr, however, had no idea where he was or how to go about finding his way out.

  'You should pay more attention,’ Tarrian said impatiently. ‘It's th
is way. Just follow your nose.'

  They had no difficulty in leaving the palace. Tarrian guided them unerringly through a bewildering maze of corridors, hallways and staircases, and such people as they met paid them little heed, seeming intent on tasks of their own. Indeed, as they passed through the palace gate, some of the guards acknowledged them. Their escort from the previous night, Antyr presumed.

  The weather was cold and damp, with a residual taint of the night's fog still lingering, making the grey sunless sky yellowish. The streets too bore the glistening signs of the fog and were virtually deserted except for the Torchlighters’ apprentices dutifully extinguishing the public torches. A forest of ragged black pillars of smoke rose up like slender supports to the greyness above.

  Tarrian trotted on relentlessly through the waking city, occasionally stopping to wait for Antyr, but making his impatience quite clear.

  Eventually they reached the great Norstseren Gate. As it was still early in the day, the main gate was closed except for a wicket just large enough to admit a horse. This had been opened to allow in those travellers who had been benighted outside. Later in the day there would be carts and caravans and innumerable travellers arriving and leaving, and both leaves of the gate would be thrown wide in welcome.

  'Tarrian taking you for some exercise,’ guffawed one of the guards, echoing the wolf's own comment, as they passed through the wicket into the shelter of the broad arch of the gate. Antyr gave a self-conscious shrug, disoriented for the moment by the surge of disapproval that came up from Tarrian.

  'One of your drinking cronies, I suppose,’ he said scornfully.

  The guard came over to them and gave Antyr a look of knowing confidentiality. ‘Make sure you see the Exactor,’ he said softly through barely moving lips. ‘He's new and a real son of a whore. He'd Gate Tax his mother for the mud she brought back on her shoes.’ He terminated the advice with a broad wink.

  Antyr nodded his thanks, at the same time throwing a small jibe at Tarrian. ‘You see. My cronies sometimes prove useful. You'd be less than pleased if I'd to spend half the day proving you were mine when we came back, wouldn't you?'

  'Yours?’ Tarrian replied with withering disdain. ‘You people are unbelievable.’ Then, despite his preoccupation, a small flood of righteous, very human, anger burst out. ‘And you're as stupid as you're barbarous. Exactors! Who in their right mind would pay taxes to pay for wars to make more money to pay more taxes …?’ The brief diatribe ended in an incoherent snarl.

  Antyr grunted. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said dismissively, walking across to the small enclosure that housed the Gate Exactor. ‘You're right. You've said it all before and your logic's impeccable. I know exactly where we fit into your scheme of things. In the meantime, a little less philosophy and a little more pragmatism, please. Just make sure this one remembers you for when we come back if you want to get home before sunset.'

  Their short, familiar skirmish ended, the two became trusted conspirators again and Tarrian bounded into the enclosure.

  Antyr, several paces behind, heard the startled cry from within and as he stepped through the door he beamed his friendliest smile.

  Tarrian had his feet on the collecting table and was leaning forward and panting dubiously into the face of a wide-eyed official who was sitting motionless, his red cap of office incongruously askew.

  'We'll be back before sunset,’ Antyr said heartily. ‘No goods in or out.’ The Exactor's eyes flicked an appeal for rescue which Antyr wilfully misconstrued as an acknowledgement and, with a friendly wave, he turned and left. Tarrian stopped panting and, craning forward a little further, abruptly licked the Exactor's face wetly, before dropping back on to the floor and following Antyr.

  Outside the Norstseren Gate, Antyr and Tarrian made their way through the tents and temporary dwellings that were always clustered there. Known as ‘The Village’ by the residents of Serenstad, this strange, ever-changing community consisted of all manner of people drawn from all manner of distant places by the fame and splendour of Ibris's city. Merchants, scholars, entertainers, travellers, seekers after fame and fortune, seekers after anonymity; all were there from time to time.

  It was often a colourful and exciting place, but today the cold dampness of the morning following on the night's dank fog gave the place a sodden, down-at-heel appearance and such gaudy signs as there were looked glumly futile while streams of pennants and buntings hung listless and unmoving like some weary fisherman's unsold catch.

  For a little while, Antyr and Tarrian walked on in the self-satisfied glow of the small mischief they had wrought on the Gate Exactor, but the only signs of life they encountered were four dour-faced riders, and as the mournful atmosphere of the Village gradually weighed in upon them, the strange events of the night soon rose to dominate their thoughts again.

  'Where are we going, Tarrian?’ Antyr asked eventually, some time after they had left the Village.

  Tarrian started from some silent reverie. ‘Er … west,’ he said absently, as if he had only just thought about it.

  'West,’ Antyr echoed neutrally. ‘To the cliffs, I suppose?'

  There was another pause before Tarrian replied vaguely, ‘Yes … yes.'

  Serenstad was built by the river Seren in a lush and fertile valley, but the practical difficulties of building in the soft valley soil and the incessant need to maintain defences against many enemies had led successive rulers to expand the city up the side of the valley until, in the west, it had reached a ridge which dropped away sharply in precipitous cliffs and afforded the city at least one boundary that needed little or no defence.

  Antyr offered no comment. There was little point. Tarrian needed to walk, needed to think, needed to do whatever it was a wolf did when it was burdened with human follies and happenings that ran contrary to everything it had ever known. It would be a long walk, and steep at the end, where the city's walls began to dwindle as they merged into the rising rocks.

  Antyr felt reluctance dragging at his feet like soft dune sand as his long-held doubts about his calling surfaced again. What was he doing searching the Duke's dreams? Keeping the company of the likes of Aaken Uhr Candessa and Ciarll Feranc? And what was he doing, following Tarrian on some chilly and pointless ramble around the city? He knew that Tarrian was not listening to his thoughts but, fearing the wolf's acid responses, he tried to dismiss his fears and the longings he had for some other, less … bizarre, calling.

  But even as the familiar thoughts emerged again, they changed. He did not long for some other calling. He longed for any other calling. Deeply and profoundly. He longed to be free of the burden of his gift, his talent.

  The intensity of the feeling made him stop.

  'How are you burdened?'

  Tarrian's voice made Antyr start. ‘I … I … didn't know you were…’ he began awkwardly.

  'Listening?’ Tarrian finished the sentence. ‘I wasn't. I was somewhere else. But you called me back.'

  'I don't understand,’ Antyr said.

  'Nor I,’ Tarrian replied simply, then he began walking again, keeping his usual station several paces ahead of Antyr as is the way with pack leaders.

  Antyr's thoughts reached out to question him, but there was no response; Tarrian was ‘somewhere else’ again.

  They continued their walk, each preoccupied with his own thoughts and largely oblivious to both the terrain and the dismal weather. When Antyr finally looked about him he was surprised. He had not realized they had walked so far or so high, though, almost immediately, his legs began to ache.

  From where they were, the view could be breathtaking. To the east, the sweep of the city walls down into the rich greens of the valley, and the silver thread of the river Seren winding south through the undulating countryside on its way down to the port of Farlan and the wide ocean. While, to the west, stood the dark, imposing rock-face of the neighbouring valley, a fitting partner to that which formed the western boundary of Serenstad.

  Today, however, the winte
r mist hid not only the horizon but most of the valley. Antyr looked up at the dark bulk of the city's outer wall rising above him in response to the steepening slope of the rocks. It was solid and grim in the greyness. Last night he had thought it a prison, but now it seemed to assume once more the mantle of protector, standing steadfast and immovable, taking upon itself the anger and hatred of the enemies of the city.

  The anger and hatred of enemies. The words resonated around Antyr's mind.

  Enemies. Whose enemies? What enemies?

  The questions came unbidden and had an insistence about them that made Antyr frown. He had no interest whatsoever in the complex and convoluted politics of Serenstad and its subject domains, except in so far as he had been obliged to serve in the army when younger to defend its interests or to punish some upstart town or city that was getting above itself.

  But the questions hung in his mind, almost defiantly. He looked up at the wall again. It glowered back at him, like a stern matriarch, allowing him no relief.

  Why should he be asking himself such questions here, now? It was not as if it were a matter that needed any subtle debate. There was always opposition to Ibris's rule from one faction or another, but, in its more violent forms, it almost always stemmed from the agitations of the Bethlarii, the citizens of Bethlar, several days’ ride to the north-west.

  A severe, warlike people, they had once dominated almost the whole of the land south of the northern mountains and even now they held sway over most of the cities to the north and west.

  The problem with the Bethlarii was that they still claimed dominion over the whole land, declaring, perhaps rightly, that they were the direct descendants of the original settlers, the sea peoples who had arrived to drive out the barbarian tribes that had then occupied it.