by Roger Taylor
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 hi
m 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 time 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.
Taking Menedrion's hand in his right, Antyr again showed his empty left hand to the bodyguard and then passed it gently over Menedrion's closed eyes.
'Sleep easy,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever befalls, nothing can harm. Dreams are but shadows and you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength.'
Menedrion did not so much drift into sleep as tumble into it. His whole frame sagged suddenly into the chair, his rigid arm fell limp, and his head slumped forward. Alarmed by this sudden collapse, his bodyguard started forward but Antyr stopped him with a gently raised left hand.
'He's only asleep,’ he said. ‘Look at his breathing. Just ease his head back and put a cushion behind it to make him comfortable.'
Despite his soft speech there was a commanding quality in Antyr's manner that made the bodyguard accept the role of nursemaid without demur.
'Have you seen a Dream Search before?’ Antyr asked, his voice becoming fainter.
The man shook his head, still avoiding Antyr's gaze.
'Very well,’ Antyr said. ‘It's nothing very exciting, but don't be alarmed if either the Lord or I speak strangely or if Tarrian whines or growls. And don't interfere or let anyone else interfere except another Dream Finder. Above all, don't touch me. If you do, the wolf will attack you and it's unlikely I'll be able to get back quickly enough to save you. Do you understand?'
The man nodded and mumbled an uncertain, ‘Yes, sir.'
Satisfied, Antyr followed Menedrion into the darkness, although, somewhat to his alarm, he had the feeling of being drawn after him, falling uncontrollably, almost.
He seemed to touch the moment of dark silence for only the most fleeting instant, yet it was also a slow eternity, and his awareness was at once sharper and more insubstantial than he had ever known before.
And too, the shimmering lights and sounds that were suddenly there and yet which had always been there, were more vivid and intense than ever before, swirling and dipping around and about him; dancing wild formless dances, and singing wordless, broken, songs; now near, now far.
Then he was whole and at the Nexus of the dreams of Menedrion, at the heart of the myriad leaking images from the edges of his lifetime's dreams that formed the portals of entrance for those who could find them.
But only the Companion, the Earth Holder, had that skill. Here Tarrian must lead, and Antyr follow.
Then Antyr realized that Tarrian was not beside him. For an instant his hold on the Nexus wavered and his heart jolted as a choking spasm of panic began to seize him. But even before his heart could beat again, the wolf was there; unseen but whole and strong.
'So fast, so fast.’ Tarrian was breathless and, for a moment, almost incoherent. ‘What happened? … it doesn't matter … hold on to me … hold tight … I nearly lost you … you dwindled into the distance … alone … unbelievable…’ He became quieter. ‘Your talent wakens, Antyr, it sweeps all before it. Take care, I fear you can go where I can't. I hold the earth here, solid and true, but you must hold me now, for both our sakes. Hold me tight. Do you understand?'
'Yes,’ Antyr replied hesitantly, countless questions forming in his mind which he ignored only with difficulty. ‘And no, my control's uncertain. What shall we do? Go on or withdraw?'
Doubt hovered around them.
'Not my choice to make, Dream Finder,’ Tarrian said after a moment. ‘You know that. If it'll help, Menedrion's doing this at the instigation of his mother because of a strange dream he's had. It disturbed him greatly but he's also concerned that by consulting you he'll look ridiculous.'
Doubt.
To retreat now would be to face the wrath of the Duke's son, drawn into what he saw as this ludicrous, even humiliating, performance-a business for merchants’ wives-and then being casually told by this charlatan that he wasn't quite up to the job today!
But, fearful though the consequences of that might be, Antyr wavered. He had been beaten and humiliated before now and survived; in the sometimes too realistic war games that had been part of his army training; at the hands of thieves and gangs of youths as he had staggered home too late at night; in drunken brawls at various inns. Fear of that must not stop him withdrawing if he felt that some greater danger for all three of them lay ahead.
But what danger could lie in a dream? None, surely-you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient power-the time-honoured pledge. But the eerie
presence in the Duke's dream returned to him, and then the hooded figure with the lamp.
Yet there was pain here, too. Pain that Menedrion's undoubted courage could not contend with. Antyr did not need Tarrian to tell him that. Menedrion's embarrassment was proof enough of the man's distress.
Suddenly his motivation became important to him. The feeling rose within him that whatever decision he made, it would be the reason he made it that would be important and not the decision itself.
And scarcely had this conclusion appeared than he realized he must go forward. Not because he was afraid of Menedrion's anger, though it was no pleasant prospect, or even because somehow he sensed that such a reverse in his life now might redirect it into bitterness and wretchedness for ever. But because of Menedrion's pain. This was what the strange gift of Dream Finding was for. Retreat would not only be failure, it would be a betrayal.
Despite the clarity of this vision, however, he knew that he was not wholly master of events and that, in some way, circumstances were shaping his deeds for him, bearing him along. Certainly he knew he could not justify his decision rationally; betrayal of what? for example. And indeed, in the wake of his commitment, other, more selfish reasons bobbed to the surface, mocking its altruism. Curiosity: what was happening to him? what could the Duke of Serenstad's son possibly have dreamt that so disturbed him? And fear: whatever the vision of the hooded figure with the lamp was that had taken him from the protection of his Earth Holder, he knew that he must hold his ground at no matter what cost, and that to break and flee was to invite both pursuit and capture … destruction …?
A weight lifted from him suddenly, and he gazed into the Nexus, shimmering and swirling, cloud-streaked with black and red like a battlefield sunset, resonating with the jangling clatter of screaming men and horses, laughing women, clashing arms and clinking goblets.
Here, he, the Dream Finder, was master. None could gainsay that. None could oppose him with impunity.
'Adept.'
The word formed somewhere, soft and transient; a chance pattern in the clamour.
He reached down and felt the unseen powerful presence of Tarrian.
