'I don't know whether this is becoming repetitive or alarming,’ Tarrian said as, head bent low, he loped steadily along beside Antyr and Menedrion's guards through the busy afternoon crowds that were thronging the wide streets of Serenstad's commercial district.
'Alarming,’ Antyr replied with conviction. ‘No. Terrifying. My stomach's churning. First the Duke, now Menedrion. They say he's a mad dog. Like the Duke but without his good qualities. What on earth can he want? I really don't think I want to think about any of this too closely … I think.'
'Perhaps word got round about last night. Perhaps we're becoming fashionable,’ Tarrian said optimistically. ‘You'll have to buy some court clothes. You'll be able to declare yourself Dream Finder by appointment to the Duke and his court and…'
'Stop it,’ Antyr snapped. ‘You're not helping. I told you, I'm scared.'
'You didn't have to come,’ Tarrian said off-handedly.
'Oh no. Of course not,’ Antyr replied acidly. ‘I told them we had to see someone urgently, you heard me. And you heard the guard. No threats, no arguments, just “Yes sir, of course. Would you like me to tell the Lord Menedrion to wait for you, sir?” What am I supposed to say to that?'
Tarrian offered no reply and they walked on in silence for some time, each occupied with his own thoughts.
The small outburst, however, seemed to have eased Antyr's tension. ‘Still, these two are pleasant enough, and at least we're not being marched along at dead of night like prisoners under escort this time,’ he said eventually. ‘And the Duke was a surprise. Much pleasanter than I'd imagined.'
He felt an ill-disguised wave of irritation rise up from Tarrian, but when the wolf spoke, his voice was conciliatory. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I know this isn't much fun but all I can think about at the moment is my pads. They're sore as the devil with all the walking I've done today. And whoever thought these cobbles were a good idea must have been a shoemaker. And these crowds…'
He left the sentence unfinished, with an expression of disgust.
Then, like the sun appearing from behind a dark cloud, he brightened suddenly. ‘Still, on the whole, I'd rather be going to the palace than to the Moras district at this time of day. We can always visit Nyriall tomorrow. And there might be more food at the palace. At least they've got some regard for a creature's needs there.’ The sun retreated behind the cloud again. ‘And we can get our fee from that Aaken while we're at it. Typical civil servant. Wants this, wants that, wants it now. But doesn't want to pay for it until he's good and ready-if at all. You take some poor artisan's wife now, she's only too anxious to pay you on the dot. It's…'
'Oh, shut up,’ Antyr said, brushing the subject aside and then immediately picking it up again. ‘And by “we” getting our fee off Chancellor Aaken, I presume you mean me?'
'That's normal procedure,’ Tarrian replied sharply. ‘What good's money to me? You're the only one who can use it. You're the one with the much prized opposing thumbs, after all.'
Despite his anxiety, Antyr chuckled at the remark. One of the guards turned to him inquiringly. ‘Sorry,’ Antyr said. ‘Just something my Companion said.'
The guard looked at him uncertainly and then down at Tarrian. ‘I didn't hear anything,’ he said.
'They talk in their heads,’ the other guard said before Antyr could reply, and as if he were not there. ‘My mother used to use one. Swore by him. He had a cat. Big ginger thing.’ His expression became reflective. ‘He was all right. Bit oily, but down-to-earth when you got to know him. But that cat used to give me the creeps, especially when its eyes lit up.’ He shuddered.
Antyr smiled.
The first guard caught the expression and scowled from Antyr to Tarrian. ‘He's not talking about me, is he?’ he inquired suspiciously.
Antyr shook his head hastily. ‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘I was smiling at…’ He indicated the second guard. ‘…your friend … and the cat. Tarrian doesn't like cats either.'
'Well, him being a dog, he wouldn't, would he?’ came the knowing reply.
Tarrian's groan filled Antyr's mind.
'Can he talk to me in my head?’ the first guard asked after a short silence.
'No,’ Antyr lied.
'I'd be deafened by the echo,’ Tarrian muttered.
'Will you be quiet,’ Antyr snapped at him. ‘This is hard enough as it is.'
'Can he hear what I'm saying in my head?’ the guard persisted.
'No, no!’ Antyr lied again with great conviction. ‘It's not talking and hearing like we're doing now. It's a special thing, and we were both born with it. No one really understands how it works.'
'Oh,’ the guard replied, mollified, though still looking at Tarrian uncertainly. He screwed up his face in concentration.
'He's shouting “Cats, boy, cats!"’ Tarrian wailed in disbelief.
Antyr looked up, rubbing his slight growth of beard with casual vigour to stop himself from laughing. As he did so, he saw the familiar shape of the Ibrian monument at the far end of the long street, its spiky irregular pyramid black in the growing gloom.
'Oh, we're here already,’ he said out loud, in some relief, his voice a little strained. ‘I didn't realize we'd walked so far.'
Immediately all interest in Antyr's craft disappeared and the two guards quickened their pace. It was to little avail, however, for the street was quite narrow and still filled with all manner of people going about their many businesses and, Duke's men or no, they were obliged to continue following the pace of the many.
In the distance, Antyr saw a bright spark dancing in front of the monument. It split into smaller sparks that danced away in their turn. For some reason he felt a fleeting lightness touch him as he saw it, then its firefly dance became just one of the Guild of Lamplighters’ apprentices taking the lid off a fire bucket prior to his master and the senior apprentices lighting the torches around the monument. By tradition, the public torches of the city were lit outwards from the palace square.
'Yes,’ Tarrian said, agreeing with his earlier remark. ‘We're well out of the Moras for today. It'll be foggy down there by now, for sure.'
Antyr could not dispute this conclusion though he still wished he was somewhere else.
As they neared the square, the busy crowds thinned a little as the street widened and the houses and buildings became larger and more spacious.
Antyr started to stride out, but one of the guards took his elbow. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to a side street on the right. Antyr looked inquiringly towards the square.
'The main gate's that way,’ he said, his uncertainty growing again as he followed the guard's lead.
'We're not going to the main gate,’ the man replied, mildly surprised. ‘Lord Menedrion's … guests … rarely use the main gate.’ He nudged Antyr and winked, then both guards laughed knowingly.
'It's his women they're talking about,’ Tarrian said. ‘They're trying to impress you.'
'I know,’ Antyr replied testily. ‘I can read my own species, you know.'
'Sorry,’ Tarrian said huffily. ‘Only trying to reassure you.'
There were only a few people in the street, which was lined with terraces of neat, well-kept and individually distinct houses, some four and five storeys high. Expensive, Antyr mused, as the quartet followed the street round in a long, slow arc until the houses closed about in a semicircle and sealed it except for a wide, colonnaded passageway. Clattering through this they emerged into another equally quiet street which, Antyr realized, was bounded on the far side by the palace wall.
'See,’ said one of the guards expansively. ‘It's a lot quicker this way. Not far now.'
The street rose up quite steeply and their pace slowed somewhat until, passing under an enclosed overhead walkway, the guards stopped and one of them banged on a door set well into a deep recess in the palace wall. Antyr had not noticed the door and judged that even in broad daylight it would have been almost invisible in the shade of the walkway.
There was an almost immediate response as a small shutter behind a stout grill opened briefly then closed again. After a few dull thuds, the door opened quietly and the guard stood to one side.
Well-oiled bolts and hinges, Antyr noted, thinking immediately of his own screeching door.
'It's the Dream Finder, Antyr,’ said the guard into the darkness. ‘We were lucky. He was at the Guild House.'
'Excellent,’ came a soft cultured voice in reply. ‘His lordship will be pleased.’ Then, apparently to Antyr, ‘Just a moment … er … sir, there are two steps up. Take care, they're a little tricky. There's a handrail on the right.'
The voice was polite and thoughtful, but apart from the brief hesitation, it had the long-rehearsed quality of one that had spoken the same words many times to unfamiliar and uncertain ears. Similarly it was a confident and practiced hand that reached out in the dim half-light to offer support.
Antyr looked at the guard who, with a flick of his head and another wink, relinquished him to the hand.
'Thank you,’ Antyr said, both to the guards and to the unseen figure. Then, taking the hand, he stepped gingerly forward into the darkness. Tarrian scrabbled up the steps beside him and there was a faint exclamation from the speaker.
'I'm sorry if he startled you,’ Antyr said. ‘Don't be afraid.'
'It's all right,’ said the voice. ‘I just wasn't expecting a dog.’ As the door closed behind them, they were plunged into complete darkness, but Antyr still raised his eyebrows in surprise at the absence of any caustic response from Tarrian at this comment. Then he realized.
'Oh, it's a woman, is it?’ he said, mockingly. ‘I thought the voice was unusual.'
'It's a lady actually,’ Tarrian replied with dignity. ‘She feels very nice. And … Oh…'
'What's the matter?’ Antyr asked, suddenly anxious again in the darkness.
'There's a great sadness around her,’ Tarrian replied, his voice concerned and serious. ‘And she's shutting it in. Like a fortress.’ Fleetingly Antyr felt the pain as his Companion reflected it. But, brief though the touch was, its vivid intensity was unmistakable. It was love. Unrequited … but very female … patient … waiting … despite the pain…'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry,’ Tarrian went on guiltily. ‘It just reached out and…'
Before Antyr could reassure him however, the darkness was cracked open by a shaft of light which blossomed out rapidly to illuminate a narrow stone passageway. Beside him stood a woman with a hooded lantern in her hand.
As she eased past him, Antyr took in two searching sloe eyes set in a finely sculpted face, framed by a circle of lightly curled hair. She was handsome rather than pretty, and she was certainly no servant. He could make no guess at her age, but, somewhat to his surprise, the thought that came into his mind was: even the hood on the lantern is oiled for silence.
'Come this way, sir,’ the woman said. Again, though pleasant, the words came with the bored ease of long familiarity.
Tarrian set off after her immediately. ‘Oh, that's better,’ he said in ecstasy. Antyr stared after him in alarm until he realized that he was talking about his feet again.
Looking down, Antyr saw that while the walls of the passageway were rough undecorated stone, the floor was completely covered by a soft and luxurious carpet which deadened their footsteps completely.
All is silence along this path, he thought.
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 him 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.
There was a timeless pause, then, softly, but with the urgency of a hissing arrow, he said, ‘Go, hunter. Find what has to be found. Go!'