Antyr reeled under the unreasoning terror that, with the suddenness of a night ambush, had suddenly surged up within him. He felt panic beginning to overwhelm him.
Tarrian dropped down on to the floor and backed away slightly, his lip curling into an uncertain snarl. His powerful voice, however, smashed through the swirling confusion in Antyr's mind like a battle cry.
'Antyr! Nothing's happening! It's in your head! There's nothing here! Look at me! Look at me, damn you!'
Antyr clutched at the sound in desperation, then, briefly, as he turned towards Tarrian, he was the wolf, looking up to see himself swaying unsteadily in the lamplight, eyes wide in horror, mouth gaping. Yet almost before he could feel the wolf's purposeful, confident body about him, he was himself again, but now he was trembling less and breathing a little more easily. Tarrian, free of the inner terror that was unmanning Antyr, had used his brief tenancy to calm at least the body's frenzy, leaving Antyr the task of stilling his mind.
Antyr gasped wordless thanks to his Companion and reached out to steady himself against the table. He leaned forward heavily on his hands for some time until his breathing eased still further.
The open book with its menacing picture lay undisturbed by his violent reaction. With an effort, he forced himself to look at it again.
The figure in the foreground was beyond doubt that to which he had woken in the palace. His pulse started to race again as he looked at it, but this time he mastered it without Tarrian's aid.
He ran a hand over his face and found it damp, then, almost angrily, he reached up to the lamp above the table and brightened it. It hissed with the effort, but the library became a little smaller and the book became more obviously a book.
'What was all that about?’ Tarrian asked, his voice alarmed. ‘I've never seen you in such a state.'
Antyr, still breathing unsteadily, nodded towards the book. ‘The figure,’ he said. ‘The shadows, the lamp, everything.’ He jabbed at the book with his finger. ‘There. Just like last night. And before you ask, I've never seen this picture before, or even the book.'
Tarrian jumped up and put his front legs on the table again.
After peering intently at the picture, he began to read. “Marastrumel, the Evil Weaver. The spirit of darkness seeks for the Mynedarion, the Shapers who span the worlds, in his eternal search for possession of the Great Dream…"
Antyr felt the fear returning. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted, though his voice fell dead among the countless watching tomes.
Seeking some escape in simple acts, he bent down and picked up his chair, then he sat down and, resting his elbows on the table, sank his head into his hands.
'It's only a story, a legend,’ Tarrian said, his voice a mixture of concern and embarrassment. ‘Marastrumel's just a symbol from a primitive age, a personification of the destructive side of human nature. It's…'
Antyr looked up, his face grim, and Tarrian's voice faded.
'My head knows that, Tarrian,’ Antyr said softly. ‘Just like yours does. But something inside both of us is less certain, isn't it? Something strange is happening. Something bad. Something that's reached out to the Duke, that's reached out to me, and also to you, Earth Holder.'
A protest formed in Tarrian's mind but Antyr rejected it. ‘You followed the prompting of your instincts and they led us to this,’ he said quietly, waving a hand at the book. ‘And from out of nowhere comes a terror the like of which I've not known even on the battlefield.’ Tarrian's ears flattened along his head, and he turned his face away from Antyr sharply. ‘It's left me feeling raw and exposed as if I've been pared free of all unnecessary thoughts and habits. Seeing clearly. Seeing the charging horses and facing death and making myself not run because I saw that that would have drawn death after me as surely as water is drawn to a breach in a river bank. Stand by me, Tarrian, shield to shield, while we move forward.'
Tarrian did not reply and when Antyr continued, his voice was very steady. ‘You've seen my fear, but last night, as we marched through the fog, you let slip some fear of your own. You said it wasn't relevant to the business in hand. “Trust me, we'll talk later,” were your words if I remember correctly. I think it's later, now, and I want to know about that fear. I want to know what you know and what you've seen fit to keep to yourself.'
There was a brief silence before Tarrian replied, ‘It's not that simple.'
Antyr nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But tell me what you can, while I can hear you calmly.'
Unexpectedly, Tarrian let out a high lingering whine. Antyr heard the sound and felt the distress, but he could grasp no meaning. Some part of him, however, recognized it as the depths of the wolf striving to reach out to him and knowing that it could not.
He put his arm around his Companion.
'I'm sorry,’ Tarrian said. ‘This is difficult and I'm as bewildered as you are. So many strange things happening, as you say. Coming out of the darkness unheralded, shaking the very foundations of our reason.'
'Describe your fear,’ Antyr said.
Again, Tarrian did not reply immediately, and when he did his voice was hesitant. ‘No figures appeared to me, Antyr,’ he said. ‘No malevolent presences…’ He shook his head. ‘There are no words to describe it.'
'There are no words while you choose not to seek them,’ Antyr said, unexpectedly stern.
Tarrian bridled angrily at the comment, but some deeper need set the response aside.
'It's a fear without cause,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘So strange … so complex … so primitive. It's as if there were something there. Silent and unmoving. And invisible. And yet … it's as if it's always been there, waiting, ready to emerge. And when I sense it, fear bubbles out. But no knowledge. No knowledge, Antyr, truly.’ He paused. ‘I don't know whether it's old age, my imagination, something good, something bad, or what.'
'If it frightens you then it can hardly be something for your good,’ Antyr suggested.
Tarrian disagreed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The fear's just a flag, a signal, to tell me I don't understand something. When I have the understanding, then perhaps I can decide how good it is, and how bad. Because it will be both.'
Unexpectedly his voice brightened. ‘When I was a pup I had a fear like that. Nameless and vague. Lurking in the shadows like your figure in the picture.'
Antyr frowned at the digression, but Tarrian ignored him.
'And when the cause emerged, it was more terrifying than anything my ignorance could have conjured up,’ he said. ‘And yet, too, it wasn't.'
Antyr's scowl deepened and he made to interrupt.
'Oh yes. Far more terrifying,’ Tarrian said reflectively, as if talking to himself. ‘It's a terrifying thing when you're a pup to learn that you're not only what you are, but also partly one of them.’ A faint hint of bitterness came into his voice. Partly human. Partly one of those who slew your mother and gave you to the sing…'
He stopped abruptly as if recollecting himself. ‘No. I'm sorry. I'm rambling. That's a long time ago and a tale for another time, if ever. No gift is without burden and theirs was more blessed than it was cursed.’ Tarrian's voice had become distant again, but, briefly, it was almost ecstatic, and Antyr realized he was listening to a paean of praise to life itself.
His frown faded as he felt Tarrian's mood briefly uplifting him. We are both of us stripped raw, he thought.
Tarrian went on. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said again. ‘All manner of old memories are being shaken loose. But I'm no nearer to telling you about what's been fretting at me these … past weeks … or however long it's been. It's been like walking over a frozen pond covered in snow without knowing it. Nothing is different, but there are mysterious noises, and subtle movements under your feet that could perhaps just be your imagination. And yet you can feel the cold darkness below, but you don't know what it is. Only that it's there and it's waiting to engulf you when you suddenly tumble through.'
Tarrian paused, and when he began again, his voice was almost matter-of-fact. ‘I thought perhaps I was sick, but there was nothing else wrong with me. Then I thought, perhaps it's pain for Antyr. Destroying himself and his gift with his indifference, his indiscipline. Then I don't know what I thought and in the end I ignored it. Limped along, made the best of things. But every now and then, the fear, the unease, bubbled out-the sound of the cracking ice-and I could do nothing. Nothing but wait and hope. Hope that something, sometime, would come clear, and that I could deal with it then.'
'And has it?’ Antyr asked.
Tarrian tilted his head on one side. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘We're here, aren't we? Talking, searching. Instead of you pickling your brains in the inn and me fretting in a corner and the future looking blacker and blacker for both of us.'
Antyr let out a noisy breath. ‘I'd have appreciated something clearer,’ he said. ‘Something that might have given us a clue about what's happening before I go to sleep tonight.'
'Look at the book again then,’ Tarrian offered.
Antyr hesitated. Despite the increased light from the hissing lamp the picture still disturbed him.
'Is one man with a lamp worse than the Bethlarii cavalry?’ Tarrian asked, sensing his concern. ‘And are you going to stand in terror of a mere picture?'
Antyr looked down at the book and forced his mind to accept the logic of Tarrian's words, though it proved to be no easy task. The image in the illustration was almost identical to his vision of the previous night and he could feel a primitive terror teetering at the edges of his mind.
'A book,’ he said to himself deliberately. ‘Just a book. Paper, ink, men's words.'
Men's ancient memories, came the thought, but he brushed it aside.
Then he reached out and idly flicked over a few pages.
There were other illustrations scattered through the book, many of which had obviously been drawn by the same hand. But none of them produced any reaction and finally he returned to the figure with the lamp.
Marastrumel, the Evil Weaver, he mused as he read the text. Throughout most of the land, Marastrumel was the traditional personification of all things evil; the balancing force, some would say, of MaraVestriss the Creator of all Things, or in Dream Finding legend, the Weaver of the Great Dream.
The old tale was still vivid within him, from the many tellings he had made his father recite when a child.
MaraVestriss, it was said, came from the timeless time beyond all beginnings and, knowing himself to be, filled the universe with his searing greatness and then wove his joy into the Great Dream. And such was the greater joy that he found in this labour that he created Marastrumel to be his companion and helpmate and to share in his joy. But Marastrumel was flawed, or, as some would have it, he was the finest creation of MaraVestriss's art, and was more perfect even than his creator. Whatever the truth, and it is beyond the gift of mere men to judge such matters, Marastrumel grew to despise MaraVestriss. And, too, he began to be consumed by a desire to possess the Great Dream for his own.
But he was cunning and kept his true intent well hidden from MaraVestriss, dutifully working as he was bidden yet endeavouring constantly to fathom the mystery of MaraVestriss's subtle weave so that he might secretly change the design for his own ends.
Then MaraVestriss declared that the Great Dream was complete and he stood back and took joy in the totality of his creation.
But Marastrumel, fearful that the Great Dream would be withheld from him forever, came to him and said, ‘Look, the work is yet incomplete. See, here is imperfection, and here, and here. Surely only the merest touch will draw tight these blemishes and render perfect your design.'
But MaraVestriss shook his head and laid a hand on Marastrumel's arm. ‘These blemishes are the least that can be,’ he said. ‘Only in the timeless time was there perfection, when none was there to see it. Then I became, and saw, and knew that I had become. But in my becoming and seeing and knowing there was separateness, and separateness is imperfection. The Great Dream is completed and can be made no better.'
And Marastrumel, fearful of MaraVestriss's sternness, fell silent, and pretended to take joy in wandering through the Great Dream. But his lust to possess and change it grew as he wandered through its many wonders, and, eventually, in great secrecy, he laid his hand to the weave and drew out one of the offending blemishes.
But the Great Dream was woven from a single thread, and to touch one part was to touch all others, and on the instant, MaraVestriss knew of the deed, and with a wave of his hand, he spanned the Dream and stood before the errant Marastrumel.
'Look,’ he cried, in dismay. ‘See the harm your folly has wrought. That which you have removed from here has been multiplied tenfold across the Dream. Why did you do this thing?'
But Marastrumel looked upon his creator with scorn.
'I did this because you would not, because your eyes are too dim, your mind too slow and your will inadequate. I shall achieve the perfection that you deny the Dream.'
'No!’ said MaraVestriss angrily. ‘It cannot be. You would unravel all into chaos in your arrogance and your ignorance. You are banished from the Dream. Go now lest I unmake you as easily as I made you.'
And though Marastrumel was wroth, he feared MaraVestriss, knowing that in truth, his eye and his mind were sound and true, and his will was not to be defied.
And he set forth immediately for the edge of the Dream. But as he neared it, he turned. And seeing his creator distracted by the damage that had been wrought and by the deep sorrow and pain of their parting, he seized a part of the Dream and driving his powerful hands into the fabric, strove to tear it asunder.
But the fabric of the Great Dream could not be torn, for the one thread was of the nature of the timeless time and was indivisible. But so great was Marastrumel's strength in his anger that he split the weave and plunged his hands between and beyond and a strange new pattern was formed, the like of which was not to be found throughout the whole of the Great Dream, so pained and tortured was it.
And in this pattern could be seen the world of men, each of whom bore within him the shadow of his two creators.
And fearful of MaraVestriss's anger at this deed, Marastrumel wrenched free his hands recklessly, injuring them sorely. And, in great pain, he fled the Great Dream, departing into the outer silence.
But MaraVestriss had no true anger for his child and he looked upon the fleeing figure only with sadness. For he had seen that Marastrumel had so harmed his hands that he would weave no more. Then he turned his gaze to the strange new pattern that had been made and he pondered.
For though the damage had been done to but the tiniest portion of the Great Dream, yet also it was great, and he saw that in its repair there would lie yet greater harm to the Dream. And, too, he saw that this strange new pattern was one beyond his imagining and that it held many great wonders, such as the world of men, and other worlds, and the rich layered world of dreams within the Dream.
And he asked himself, ‘How could this, which is beyond my imagining, have come about?'
But he could find no answer.
Then, for the first time, he asked, ‘How was it that out of the timeless time, I became?'
And still there was no answer.
And the strangeness of the pattern haunted him, so deliberate and purposeful did it seem; so well wrought despite the manner of its making. So MaraVestriss knew that he too was ignorant and he turned from the Great Dream and resolved to seek an answer to his question elsewhere before he could turn his hand to mending this strange, chance, pattern.
But before he departed, he looked again at the world of men newly formed within the weave of the Dream. And he saw pain from the manner of its making and in its separateness from the Great Dream. So, in response to some unspoken voice, he touched the pattern gently, giving to certain of mankind the skill to weave the fabric of the Great Dream themselves. And these were the Mynedarion, though in his wisdom MaraVestriss left them unaware of his touch.
And he gave to others the skill to walk amid the world of dreams within the Dream.
And these were the Dream Finders.
And MaraVestriss departed to seek an answer to his question.
But from the silence beyond, Marastrumel, still lusting for possession of the Great Dream, had seen his final touch. And when MaraVestriss had departed, he returned stealthily and sought among mankind to find the Mynedarion, hoping through them to reshape the Great Dream in accordance with his own will.
But they were few, and mankind was many. And their gift was hidden in the finest of the fine weaves of the pattern, and save for the occasional chance, he could not find them.
'But he searches still,’ Antyr said into the library gloom, finishing the remembered tale and recalling how he would dive under the bed covers when his father reached this traditional end with mock menace. It was a warm, comforting memory.
There was a long silence, during which only the hissing of the lamp could be heard. Antyr could feel Tarrian wanting to say, ‘A creation myth, nothing more. There are many such,’ but he could also feel uncertainty restraining him.
'It is a creation myth,’ he admitted, sparing Tarrian his debate. ‘But even as that it must be the shadow of some dark reality. And that reality seems to be alive and happening to us now, doesn't it?'
Tarrian made no reply.
'What shall we do?’ Antyr asked.
Tarrian shook his head. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘All I can think of is that we keep searching through the legends for some kind of a clue.
Antyr looked at the picture again. At worst, his finding it was a remarkable coincidence. On the other hand …
Tarrian interrupted. ‘Doesn't the legend tell about some of the Dream Finders arming themselves to protect the Mynedarion and oppose the will of Marastrumel?'
Antyr recalled his thoughts as he and Tarrian had talked together after leaving the Duke the previous night.
'Yes. They were the Dream Warriors. Adepts of the White Way.'
Antyr and Tarrian stared at one another. Neither had spoken. Then a shadowy figure emerged silently from a gap between the shelves nearby. It stopped, and turned towards them. Then it emitted a blood-curdling shriek of rage.