Imorren gazed around in wonder. This must surely have been brought about by the Anointing.
All study, all calculation, all experiment to determine the precise consequences of the Anointing foundered eventually in tangled infinities and improbabilities. More than one Higher Brother had taken refuge in insanity as a result of Imorren’s relentless drive to negotiate this shrieking intellectual vortex. More than one anonymous vagrant had perished as a result of her experiments. Yet she would not even allow the whispering of that growing consensus that the consequences were, by definition, unknowable.
‘You are flawed,’ she would say. ‘Your faith is weak. Try harder.’
All that was known for certain was that the Anointing would reach across those regions whose ultimate description defied known logic, and open Ways to the endless worlds that lay beyond and between the flickering existence of the world which held Arash-Felloren. Worlds across which He was scattered. Broken once again by cruel and treacherous enemies.
Just the prospect of this brought with it an old question. How could it have happened? How could He have been so defeated?
Imorren twitched away from it, as she did whenever it came to her. Answers to that question defied her as much as answers to the outcome of the Anointing. Not least because she could not even begin to approach them rationally with the little knowledge she had of His end. But once asked, she could do no other than wearily rehearse again the responses she had had almost from the time she first heard the news. Had she been there, would it have been different? Or would she too have been swept away by whatever power it was that had dispatched Him? Had she been sent away to learn about the crystals because He had foreseen His destiny? Was His passing and her leaving no more than part of a deeper scheme – perhaps a re-forging of His new lieutenants? That idea had come later, and held a little more comfort. But no answer seemed wholly credible. He had been so powerful. So seemingly invincible.
Yet…
As it always did, the flurry of guilt and anger dwindled into a dull ache low in her stomach. And as she always did, she centred herself. There was now, and only now. What had been, what might have been, served only to cloud and obscure. She must have faith. She was here by His will and serving His ends. She it was who must open the Ways so that He might begin His return. For only in this world could He be truly whole. And only from this world could He spread forth again to take what was rightfully His.
She returned to her vigil.
She knew that she was dreaming. She had always been able to stand aside from the swirling confusion of her sleeping thoughts. Often, she was able to control them. Deep inside, where lay that hidden ache, perhaps even deeper, she believed that this was why she had been chosen, and why it was her destiny ultimately to be by His side – His powerful right hand. For had not He Himself told her of the importance of those few who could walk the dreams of others? Those who could find the Portals and Gateways that led to the worlds beyond and between, and who could move freely amongst them, guiding those who could re-shape them.
She paused and held her breath at the memory, and her dream seemed to halt with her, watching, listening. Had she imagined it, or had some subtle demon of self-deceit placed the thought in her mind subsequently? But surely there had been a hint of envy in that telling… Even now she scarcely dared consider such a thing. It was not conceivable that He, in His perfection, could be tainted with so gross a human failing.
Yet…
She shook the thought from her violently – the dream trembled.
To think such things was heresy! No, it was worse than heresy.
Words did not exist that could adequately frame such treachery.
The failing was hers. She had misunderstood Him… some subtlety in His telling. It could not be otherwise.
Yet…
Inexorably, other thoughts slipped in to compound her crime. Could it be that she, with her control over her dreams, was one such? Did she have, latent within her, that elusive ability to move between the worlds?
It should not be so, for she could use the Power. And it did not seem so, for He would have known it, surely? For even when He was whole and strong, with many plans afoot, and she lay at His feet, He bade his servants, above all things, to search constantly for those so gifted.
Yet…
The dream slipped from her, as if fearful. It drew her back from this dangerous edge and on to familiar terrain.
For the dream was both new and not new. As ever, she was amid a vision of the Vaskyros. Towers, spires, ramping walls and vaulting arches pierced and spanned a sky, black with ominous clouds. Rooms, chambers, halls, innumerable and ornate, formed the complex weave of its heart, while dark tunnels and cellars reached over downwards, like great roots, burrowing deep below the city. And Imorren, motionless, floated amongst it – became it – seeing all things at all times, marvelling at its subtle, ever more detailed symmetries, and searching always for a sign of its true purpose that she might better create its tangible counterpart. But that too eluded her. Words such as resonance, conjunction, alignment, came and went, each striking a faint spark but bringing no illumination.
Older resources came to her aid, setting aside the conjectures resolutely and turning her mind to the unfolding vision. For this dream was of extraordinary vividness. It mustsurely be a consequence of the Anointing! The thought became the last tremor of her inner debate. Her mind was free now, so that she would see what was there, not what she thought was there, or what she felt should be there. Now, nothing would go unmarked, unrecorded, for this would be to miss much – perhaps everything. For whatever else this was, it was a nexus, a joining – an intersection – of many places and times and, as with all else, when it must come to be made, the consequences of the least error were incalculable.
The dream was totally hers again, the jagged complexity of the changed Vaskyros embedded in her mind to be carried forward into wakefulness.
But still there lingered a hint of her old belief that it would be she who one day would walk through the dream and into the worlds beyond, to hold out her hand to Him and draw Him forth into His true world.
Then, at once suddenly and as if it had been thus always, she was not alone. Such dreams had always carried a hovering unease that others too, somewhere, somehow, were watching – that the dream was not for her alone. But this was different.
Now, another was looking through her eyes! Fear possessed her.
Neither of these things could be! Fear such as this she had long since banished, and all here, she knew, was of her making, touched only by His will reaching out to guide her.
But the fear remained. And the other watcher.
Realization.
Thefear was not hers!
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
The fear grew.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded again. ‘What are you? How did you come here?’
Then, a greater realization.
It was the Anointed!
And the Vaskyros was gone. A silent cry ringing through her, she was falling. Falling, through a darkness gibbering with a myriad sounds and images. And she was nothing. All that existed was her awareness, hard as diamond, insubstantial as an idle summer breeze.
The fear became terror, and, bound as she was, it threatened to become hers.
Imorren reached out to waken herself.
But nothing happened.
She was aware of herself, lying motionless on her bed, symmetrical and ordered even in the brief sleep she was taking before her night’s work – the central flower of the elaborate patterning that dominated the room and which she must ever note. But she was here too.
She reached again. But bonds held her that nothing could break. She could not escape. An ancient will was carrying her now, and with her, the Anointed. An ancient, hunting will. It possessed her. Prey was all around, rich and bountiful. She was heady with the stink of it. Soon, she would feed again. Satiation was not possible. Her body would ring with the screeching of prey as it fought to hold to the life that was truly hers. Until the final yielding…
It was good.
Ecstasy suffused her.
Then an agonizing cry of denial was all around her. She tried to oppose it, but she was as nothing against such an intent.
The darkness was rent open. Mouth and eyes gaping, Imorren burst into the light.
Mouth and eyes gaping, Pinnatte burst into the light. For even the dull light seeping into Heirn’s room seemed bright by comparison with where he had just been. For a moment, his eyes were like black pits.
Gasping for breath, her heart pounding and her mouth awash with saliva, Imorren sat upright and rigid. Her hands, clawed, were reaching out either to seize something or to defend herself against it. The familiar pattern of the room closed about her as her eyes focused. Teeth bared, she forced her breathing to harmonize with its undulating flow. Saliva trickled down her chin. Sucking in noisily, she leaned over and spat into a basin on a table by the bed. Snatching up a glass, she took a mouthful of water and spat again. Then, standing up unsteadily, she leaned on the table and gazed into the bowl with its streaked and frothy contents.
The movement had made her feel cold. Touching her forehead, she found that it was wet – very wet. Then her arms were cold, and her gown was clinging to her. And inside she was aching and empty. Tentatively, she turned over a small mirror and looked into it.
Bright eyes shone from a flushed and glistening face. Hair was slicked and awry. She could not recognize herself.
‘Where are you?’ she asked meaninglessly.
Every part of her body urged her to sit down on the edge of the bed and put her head into her hands, but the face in the mirror snarled at the image. Slowly and with great deliberation, she replaced the mirror, face downwards – mirrors were such wild and frightening things. Then, with equal deliberation, she straightened, turned, and walked towards a door at the far end of the room.
It was no easy task. She must bathe and compose herself completely before she saw anyone, but buffeting her, like an angry wind, was a grim knowledge that was stretching her self-discipline to its limits. Disorientated though she had been, she had recognized the creature carrying her from the dream, and she had recognized the Anointed. But something was amiss – grievously so. The consequences of the Anointing might be beyond calculation, but many of the things that they could not be, were known. And what she had felt had been one such.
All had been well when she felt his presence at the Loose Pit.
Now, there was a flaw. A flaw that jeopardized everything she had worked for and achieved.
He must be found and examined.
‘You’re all right. You’re all right.’ Atlon wrapped his arms around the struggling Pinnatte, partly in an attempt to comfort him, partly to restrain him. Heirn, better suited to such a task, stood by and watched helplessly, stunned by the terrible cry that Pinnatte had uttered.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked weakly as Pinnatte became quieter.
Atlon looked into the still staring eyes, bracing himself for a return of the recognition that he had seen in the Jyolan. And the hatred. But there was nothing there except fear. He relaxed.
‘It was just a dream,’ he said.
‘Some dream,’ Heirn retorted disbelievingly. He lit a lamp. Its soft light pushed aside the city’s gloaming and made the room both smaller and more welcoming. ‘He’s whiter than my sheets and wringing wet.’ He went out and returned a moment later with a cloth and a towel. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently displaced Atlon and began washing Pinnatte’s face. The young man made no response, other than to gaze about the room.
Atlon stood back, watching the scene. For a moment he felt like an intruder. It was obvious that Heirn had performed this duty many times before, and under less than happy circumstances, he suspected.
Then Pinnatte waved him aside. This too, was something that Heirn was obviously used to. Atlon looked away as the big man hesitantly stood up. Then he turned to Pinnatte.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Pinnatte hugged his hand to his body and looked back at him suspiciously.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Atlon said again, more forcefully this time.
‘Just a dream,’ Pinnatte said hurriedly. ‘You said I might have dreams. It was…’
Atlon was shaking his head. ‘It was the same as you had last night, wasn’t it? The one you’ve been fretting about, on and off, all day. The one that made you hesitate when Heirn suggested you lie down for a while.’ He leaned forward. ‘And the reason why you tried to stay awake when you did lie down.’
Pinnatte was again oscillating between trust and distrust of this strange man. How could he know so much?
‘It was just a…’
‘No!’ Atlon interrupted him. ‘No more foolishness. Something’s troubling you badly and I might be able to help you with it. But I must know what’s happened to you – about your dream – about your hand. How did you get that mark?’
It was a risk, but Atlon was glad that the question was out. Pinnatte clutched his hand closer.
Atlon pressed on. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to you, Pinnatte, but this is something you need to be free of, you must be aware of that.’
The word ‘free’ echoed in Pinnatte’s mind. But no, this stranger should be minding his own business. There was nothing wrong with his hand. The Kyrosdyn’s touch, given for whatever reason, had brought him to this point where his life was going to be better, where a future existed in which real wealth, real freedom, might lie.
And it brought the nightmares.
The thought came from nowhere and made him shudder.
‘I am free,’ he said defiantly. He flaunted his injured hand, the graze now scabbed over. ‘I can go anywhere I want, do anything I want…’ He stumbled, realizing how ridiculous such words sounded coming from a mere Den-Mate. ‘That is, I will when…’ He stumbled again then raised his voice to force his conclusion out, ‘When Barran takes me on. I’ll have the money to do everything then.’
‘Except sleep,’ Atlon said quietly into the strained silence that followed.
‘I’ll sleep well enough,’ Pinnatte retorted angrily.
Dvolci clambered on to the bed and lay across his lap. Atlon looked earnestly at Pinnatte and shook his head. The denial seemed to enrage the young man. ‘The Kyrosdyn has shown me the way,’ he burst out, but his voice trailed off and his arm came out as if to snatch back the words.
‘So itwas something the Kyrosdyn did to you, was it?’ Atlon said sympathetically. ‘I was beginning to suspect that.’
Pinnatte stammered, ‘No,’ and ‘Yes,’ a few times, ending with an uncomfortable, ‘Yes.’
No sooner had he uttered the word than a wave of guilt and dismay flooded through him. This tormentor had tricked him! The guilt became suddenly a raving anger. Something in him reached out to destroy Atlon.
He had a fleeting vision of Dvolci, teeth bared, hackles raised, leaping up, and Atlon’s hand being lifted in front of him, filling the world. Then there came a blow that seemed to strike every part of his body, and a suffocating darkness folded around him.
‘Ye gods,’ Dvolci exclaimed. He was crouching low on top of a cupboard. ‘Where did that come from? What is he?’
‘What’ve you done to him?’ Heirn burst out. It looked to him as though Atlon had struck the young man after Dvolci had suddenly leapt away. But even as he spoke he saw that Atlon was swaying. He seized his arm. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happening?’
Atlon raised a hand for a moment’s pause. ‘I’m all right – I think. But I hadn’t expected that.’
‘Expected what? Why did you hit him?’
Atlon gently prised Heirn’s grip from his arm. Bending over Pinnatte, he began to examine him thoroughly, listening first to his breathing, then testing many pulses. He looked only partially relieved when he stood up. Heirn noticed that his hands were shaking.
‘He’s all right, as well,’ he said. ‘Which is due more to his good fortune than my skill.’ He groped backwards for a chair then sat down like an old man. ‘I didn’t hit him, Heirn,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘It was he who nearly hit me – nearly killed me – and you. I just defended myself… like I did against the Kyrosdyn yesterday.’
Heirn was about to proclaim that Pinnatte had never moved, but Atlon’s pain reached into him like a revelation. ‘You mean, he used this… Power… of yours?’ He needed no answer, even though his own protests followed immediately. ‘But he’s a street thief, not a Kyrosdyn. What would he know about such things? I’ll wager he’s never studied anything in his life except how to cut purses. And I doubt you’ll find coins on him, let alone crystals.’
But even as he was speaking, Heirn could feel Atlon’s own bewilderment and concern. It trembled through him. He motioned towards the other room. ‘If he’s all right, we can talk next door.’
Atlon shook his head. ‘I daren’t leave him. He might be quiet for the moment, but…’ He left any conclusion unspoken. ‘I need to think.’ He took hold of Pinnatte’s right hand and examined it closely. Dvolci came to the bedside and joined him, his snout twitching as he peered at the seemingly innocuous wound. His hackles were still raised and he seemed unusually energetic, as if keeping himself ready for another sudden flight. Atlon laid a hand on him.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ Dvolci said. ‘I didn’t mean to get in your way. I just didn’t see it coming fast enough.’
‘Don’t distress yourself,’ Atlon said. ‘If you hadn’t moved so quickly, I wouldn’t have seen it either. We’ll both of us have to be more careful in future. Heirn’s hospitality has made us lax. It’s as you said, we’re still on the battlefield.’
He released Pinnatte’s hand. ‘That’s the second time,’ he said. ‘First the Jyolan, now here. And both times there was virtually no warning. It was almost as though he was suddenly someone else. Someone who recognized me.’
‘More likely, recognized what you are.’
‘Would you please tell me what’s happening?’ Heirn asked into the ensuing silence. He sounded almost plaintive.
Atlon tapped his hand on his knee nervously. ‘I don’t know. That’s the problem. Something very strange has been done to this young man. Something awful. And it’s to do with that mark on his hand. I’m getting responses from it and to it which I can’t begin to understand.’ He looked at Dvolci but the felci simply shook his head. ‘He tried to attack me in the Jyolan for no apparent reason. Dvolci managed to stop him, which was fortunate, to say the least. I shudder to think what the consequences would have been if I’d had to defend myself there. But just now, he actually used it – used the Power – and as a weapon.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and Heirn was horrified to see true despair in his eyes. ‘In the name of pity, Dvolci, what have we got here?’
‘An abomination.’ The felci’s reply was harsh.
‘An ordinary young man,’ Atlon said.
‘He might have been ordinary once, but he isn’t now,’ Dvolci said, jumping on to the bed. He peered intently at the sleeping Pinnatte. ‘Though he seems harmless enough now. It makes no sense.’
‘But how long will he stay harmless?’
Dvolci did not reply.
Atlon straightened up and pushed himself back in his chair. He looked at Heirn. ‘You were right before, of course. Someone like this shouldn’t be able to use the Power. Even people who have a natural aptitude for it can’t normally use it in any significant way – certainly not like this one just did. Long and careful training is needed to turn aptitude into ability. And great personal dedication.’
Heirn, lost, snatched at ideas. ‘He says he’s a Den-Mate, and he acts like one, but perhaps he’s lying. Perhaps he’s a Kyrosdyn novice, pretending to be a thief, for some reason.’ The conclusion rang false to him even as he was speaking it. His every Arash-Felloren instinct told him that Pinnatte was what he said he was.
Atlon was shaking his head. ‘He hadn’t a vestige of control, Heirn. He was like a leaking bucket.’ He closed his eyes and laid his hands on Pinnatte again. ‘And now there’s not a vestige of Power within him, other than… something… from his hand.’
‘You can tell that?’ Heirn asked. ‘Just by…’ He ended with a vague shrug.
‘Oh, yes. And so can anyone else who knows how. That’s why I wanted to keep away from that Kyrosdyn, and why the Jyolan frightened me so much.’
Heirn was determined to help. ‘Has he any crystals on him? You haven’t looked.’
‘He wasn’t using crystals.’ Atlon was categorical. ‘It was a natural use. Uncontrolled, but unaided.’ He glanced up at Heirn and reproached himself. ‘You’re taking all this very well.’
‘I don’t seem to have a choice.’ The immediate and somewhat acid response reassured Atlon. ‘Things are happening in front of my eyes, and while I can’t understand most of them – any of them! – I can’t deny them, can I?’
Self-reproach filled Atlon’s face. ‘We’re fortunate indeed to have met you, Heirn. And I’m sorry for burdening you like this, if I haven’t apologized already.’
Heirn dismissed the remark. ‘It’s only a burden if I choose to make it one,’ he said. ‘But knowledge would help me without a doubt.’
‘And me,’ Atlon said ruefully, turning back to Pinnatte again. ‘It’s not possible, you see. The way he uses the power can’t be achieved without a certain kind of control – a structure, a shape, if you like. And he has none. It’s…’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘It’s as though he’s climbing a ladder with no rungs, or… melting iron without heat. It’s impossible. It justcan’t be.’ Angry frustration ripped into his voice. He struck his palm with his fist as if the violence would resolve the paradox.
‘But it is?’
Atlon let out a loud, grating breath, which was almost a snarl. ‘Yes – it is.’
‘Which leaves us where?’
Atlon looked at him helplessly. ‘Which leaves us with Pinnatte,’ he said after a long pause.
Heirn too, took some time before he spoke again. He searched Atlon’s face. ‘Perhaps you should just walk away from him.’
It needed no great perception to see that Atlon was sorely tempted by the suggestion. Dvolci watched the two men.
‘I’d like nothing better,’ Atlon said eventually. ‘But I can’t. I’ll walk away from you any time you tell me to, but I can’t walk away from this young man. I wish I could. I don’t know what I expected to find when I set out on this journey, but it was nothing like this nightmare. But having found it, I’ve no choice other than to find out more about it. Something terrible’s happening here.’ He pointed at Pinnatte. ‘And he’s near the heart of it, I’m sure. He’s admitted that the Kyrosdyn are involved – that they’ve done something to him.’ He fell silent, his face distressed. When he spoke again, he echoed his last phrase slowly, as if hasty speech might scatter the pieces of a delicately balanced puzzle. ‘They’ve done something to him… and it’s gone wrong. That must be it.He’s an accident.’
He stood up. ‘What could they have been trying to do? And why?’ He tapped a finger towards Pinnatte. ‘Nothing for his benefit, for sure. And it wasn’t this – not what he’s turned into. Nothing could be gained by making someone able to use the Power as he does without the discipline that’s intrinsic to it. Nothing. It’s like loosing a stampede into a crowded square. Like making a weapon which is as likely to kill its user as his enemy. Perhaps even more so.’ He nodded, satisfied with this conclusion, but little wiser. ‘Yes. They’ve tried some obscene experiment on him, and it’s gone wrong. It’s not remotely conceivable that he was ever meant to be like this.’
He took Pinnatte’s hand again. ‘Probably this open cut and Ellyn’s drawing ointment have conspired to play havoc with their scheme. Incredible.’
Heirn frowned at his tone. ‘You sound almost regretful,’ he said.
Atlon looked a little guilty. ‘No, not really,’ he replied. ‘Not at all, actually. But…’ He seemed reluctant to voice what he was thinking for fear it might give the lie to this denial. ‘To do something like this deliberately would be a staggering achievement.’ He shook his head, an admiring academic, despite himself. ‘There’s knowledge here that would have even the most sedate of my elderly brethren skipping like children. Knowledge that reaches into the profoundest depths of what we think of as our world, our reality. But it’s also an obscenity. An appalling and dangerous obscenity, with profound consequences for us here, now. Perhaps even for the whole city. They’ve been meddling near the heart of a region where infinite possibilities jostle incessantly, dabbling with a swirling dynamic equilibrium which is beyond any understanding. Even to approach it they must have known the risks they were running. And it’s gone wrong. It’s unforgivable.’ Anger lit his face briefly, then faded. ‘So, being honest, yes, perhaps part of me is regretful – but it’s a very tiny part. Mainly I’m frightened and sickened. Though if it weren’t so tragic and so dangerous, I’d also be darkly amused that Ellyn’s simple ointment has so disturbed such a sophisticated venture.’
Heirn could offer nothing against this confession. As ever, he clung to the practical. ‘What are we going to do with him, then?’
Atlon had begun to pace up and down. He stopped. ‘Ideally, what I’d like to do is take him back with me so that my Elders could find out what’s happened to him and help him.’
‘No chance of that,’ Heirn said conclusively. ‘He’s a bonded Den-Mate for one thing, and, you heard him, he’s got aspirations to further himself as a result of his escapade last night – with Barran, no less. From the melting pot into the forge as far as I can see, but that’s what he wants. He’s a young man who could use some guidance, without a doubt, but there’s nothing you can do about that – the city’s full of the likes of him. I’ll tell you this – even your horse would be hard-pressed to drag him away from the city and what he imagines to be his future prospects.’
‘I was only ordering my thoughts,’ Atlon said. ‘I wouldn’t attempt to take him away. Not least because there’s no saying how dangerous he’s liable to become, nor how soon.’
Heirn looked at the slight figure on the bed. Atlon anticipated his question. ‘He mightn’t look dangerous, but he is, believe me. If he’d released the Power he intended for me just now, you’d have been killed as well, and no small part of this building wrecked.’
Heirn’s doubts flared. ‘I’m doing my best with what you’re telling me, but he’s not the size of two good nails, for pity’s sake. What could he possibly…’
‘Have you forgotten how casually you were pinned against that wall, so soon?’ Atlon cut across his outburst, almost angrily. ‘And that Kyrosdyn was little larger than Pinnatte here.’
Pinnatte stirred. Despite his protestations about Pinnatte’s size, Heirn jumped back. Atlon took a deep breath and moved to the side of the bed.
‘You feeling better now?’ he asked, as Pinnatte’s eyes opened.
Pinnatte levered himself upright. ‘Yes. Did I fall asleep in the middle of something?’ He started and turned anxiously to Heirn. ‘The time, the time. I mustn’t be late to see Barran. He’ll forget me for sure if I keep him waiting.’
Without waiting for a reply, he swung off the bed.
‘It’s all right,’ Heirn replied, taking note of Atlon’s studied calmness, and trying to copy it. ‘You just nodded off. There’s plenty of time. I wouldn’t let you miss your appointment.’ He was not entirely successful in keeping an edge from his voice.
‘Do you remember what you just did?’ Atlon asked.
Pinnatte looked at him, automatically assuming a puzzled and innocent expression, and preparing to reach for one of his extensive collection of well-rehearsed excuses. He hadn’t taken anything here, he knew. Oddly enough, the idea had not even occurred to him while he had been with these people.
‘Don’t you remember getting angry with me, a moment ago?’ Atlon pressed.
Pinnatte became genuinely puzzled. Then the memory of the nightmare crashed in on him with a force that was almost physical – the scents, the screams, the emotions, the helplessness. He gasped and lifted his hands as if to fend them off.
Heirn took another pace backwards. Dvolci planted his front legs on the side of the bed opposite Atlon, his eyes flicking intently between him and Pinnatte. Atlon managed to remain outwardly calm, but his mind was racing. The disturbance about Pinnatte that he had felt before had returned strongly, and though it lacked the power and vividness it had had when first he encountered it in the Jyolan, it nevertheless confirmed that Pinnatte’s condition was not improving. If he let him return to the Jyolan, who could say what the consequences would be in that awful place?
Another thought came – startling him with its obviousness. Why was Pinnatte wandering loose? It did not seem probable that the Kyrosdyn would have performed such an experiment on him and simply let him walk away. Or did they not know what had happened to him – that their experiment had been marred? Both options alarmed him. Despite the risks, he had no alternative but to try to win the confidence of this young man. At least this time he would be ready for a violent reaction. Reaching the decision calmed him, and his voice was soft and encouraging when he spoke.
‘If that dream’s still troubling you, you’d be best advised to spit it out. Many night-time monsters shrivel at the touch of the light.’
Once again, Pinnatte shot him a look full of doubt and suspicion, and for an instant Atlon sensed the antagonism that he had faced before, though this time it was distant and weak.
‘I don’t understand,’ Pinnatte blurted out. ‘I don’t have dreams. At least, I don’t think I do. I’ve never remembered one, ever.’
‘Some people don’t,’ Atlon said, heartened by this first response.
Restraints suddenly broke in Pinnatte. ‘It’s the creature,’ he said. ‘I know it is. I didn’t realize until just now. It looked at me last night. Looked up at me -me. Singled me out of the entire crowd and bowed to me. It wants me for something.’
Atlon said nothing but motioned him to continue. Pinnatte’s voice fell to a whisper. He was almost a child now. ‘It’s joined to me in some way. It reached into my mind last night – took me hunting.’ He shuddered.
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
Briefly the antagonism flared again, but it could not survive against the torrent of fears that Pinnatte had released. ‘I was there with it. No, Iwas it. I could hear prey screaming.’ There was cold resonance about the word prey. ‘I was making them scream. I was feeding on their screaming – their terror.’ Pinnatte shuddered again, but this time the shudder turned into an uncontrollable shivering. Though he did not move, Atlon braced himself inwardly, for he could feel a maelstrom of conflicting forces struggling for supremacy within the young man’s tortured frame. Carefully he held out a hand to prevent Heirn from stepping forward to help.
Pinnatte’s shivering showed no sign of abating, and indeed, Atlon could feel his inner struggle worsening. He could not sit by and watch idly, but in such confusion there was no saying what the results would be of anything that he did. His every instinct was to put his arms around the young man again and offer him some simple comfort in his pain. But he knew enough to realize that Pinnatte had probably never had such treatment and that its unfamiliarity might be more disturbing than calming. Instead he risked an approach he thought Pinnatte might well have encountered. He took him by the arms and shook him firmly.
‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘All you’ve had is a nightmare – a bad dream. It’s out in the open now, and it’s gone. There’s nothing to he frightened about. Besides, do you think Barran would be interested in someone who trembles at his dreams?’
Almost immediately, Pinnatte became calmer. Atlon felt the darkness within him slip away.
Then it was back again, taking him completely unawares.
Pinnatte’s hand shot out and struck him in the chest, hurling him against the wall. The same fate befell Heirn who reached forward to seize him.
‘No!’ Pinnatte bellowed at Atlon, even as he was brushing Heirn aside. ‘I know what you are, warlock. The time is coming. You too will be prey soon.’
Then the room was echoing to the sounds of his fleeing footsteps.