As Feranc closed the door behind a bewildered Antyr, Ibris sat down again by the fire. He beckoned Feranc over and indicated the chair opposite.
'An act of wisdom or folly, Ciarll?’ he asked.
'I think his wolf seduced you,’ Feranc replied. Ibris laughed and raised an admonishing finger. ‘You're too perceptive by half, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘But I know that wolf about as well as I know you, which is to say, quite well, and not at all. Now answer my question.'
'It was an act of judgement,’ Feranc said.
Ibris growled disparagingly. ‘Don't you start playing the courtier with me,’ he said.
Feranc smiled broadly. It was a sight that probably only the Duke ever saw.
'It was an act of judgement,’ he repeated. ‘And probably a sound one, but whether wisdom or folly, only time will tell.'
Ibris's eyes narrowed. ‘You're as evasive with words as you are with your sword blade when you want to be,’ he said. ‘What would you have done then?'
'Not have had myself made Duke in the first place,’ Feranc replied. Then, before the Duke could offer him any further reproach, his manner changed, as if his brighter nature were afraid to be seen abroad for too long.
'How is the ground under your feet?’ he asked, using the Duke's own question to Antyr.
Ibris leaned back in his chair and folded his hands quietly across himself. ‘Shifting and uncertain,’ he replied sombrely. ‘Not through all the battles for the succession; not through all the innumerable wars and skirmishes with the Bethlarii and their allies, have I ever felt so unsure, so beset. Is it old age catching up with me, Ciarll?'
'No,’ Feranc replied simply. ‘Old age merely slows the thinking a little, but the quality's better. It seems that we're being attacked by forces we've never known before, and it's unsettling, not to say frightening. But your judgement about the Dream Finder is almost certainly sound.'
Surprise suffused Ibris's face. ‘You accept these ramblings with considerable equanimity for a rational man, Commander,’ he said.
Feranc avoided his gaze briefly. ‘It's the nature of my training,’ he said, almost reluctantly. ‘To see what's there, and to see it and accept it for what it is. That is the action of a rational man.'
'Your training?’ Ibris said quietly but expectantly. It was the first time that he had heard Feranc make any reference to the time before he had come to Serenstad. Feranc, however, ignored the invitation to amplify the remark and remained silent.
'What have you seen then that you're so certain of my judgement?’ Ibris went on, regretting the passage of the moment.
'I've seen a Bethlarii envoy skulk into our land like a spy, in itself a profound change from their normal behaviour. I've seen at his shoulder the spectre of the threat of war on a scale that hasn't been known in generations. I've seen him behaving in a manner which virtually asked for his immediate execution and which gives us a grim measure of his religious fervour. Then I've seen the man I chose to help in his battle to bring order and civilization to this land seek the aid of a drunken practitioner of a strange and perhaps fraudulent art, and I've seen both Duke and Dream Finder transformed by their meeting; the latter especially. Now I hear that this same Dream Finder has been drawn to Menedrion, a fact even more improbable than his being sought by you.'
Feranc's delivery was flat and almost terse, as if he were a junior officer reporting intelligence to his seniors. He continued.
'The Bethlarii have turned towards the darkness of the primitive certainty of their religion. In your doubt, you've sought aid from a Dream Finder. Both actions lie beyond reason; they come as a response to something deep inside the human spirit. I've learned enough through the years to know that my head will tell me when to use my heart, and my heart will tell me when to use my head, and that while I'm prepared to use both I'll perhaps both survive and retain my sanity. I accept your judgement that the Bethlarii threat and the dreams could be related, perhaps deriving from some common source, and that being the case we must tend our Dream Finder as we'd tend our arrows and our pikes and our siege machines, even if we don't know what to do with him.'
There was a long silence.
'You never cease to surprise me, Ciarll,’ Ibris said eventually. ‘I'd have thought to get the sharper edge of your tongue for this last deed at least.'
Feranc raised one eyebrow quizzically but did not reply.
'Would you care to conjecture on the nature of this common source?’ Ibris offered.
Feranc shook his head. ‘I've seen … and felt … many strange things in my journeyings. Enough to know that sometimes the only thing that can be done is to wait and see what happens and then accept the reality of events no matter how divorced from reason they seem. Only thus can we gain the knowledge that will give us our defence. We're like the natives who must once have faced the first arrows.'
'That's not much consolation,’ Ibris interrupted. ‘They probably lost.'
Feranc smiled slightly. ‘A bad analogy,’ he said with an apologetic shrug.
'But apt, perhaps?’ Ibris replied.
Feranc moved his hand palm downwards across himself in a cutting action as if he had nothing further to add. ‘Analogies are for teachers and storytellers,’ he said. ‘We deal with reality directly. At best, your decision about Antyr may prove crucial at some unforeseeable time in the future. At worst, the palace has another mouth, or rather, pair of mouths, to feed. And they'll do no harm. From what I've found out, Antyr fought well enough when he had to, bravely even. And so far in his life, he's been more of an enemy to himself than anyone else.'
'He's not afraid to speak his mind,’ Ibris added with mild indignation.
Feranc smiled again. ‘He'll need to with you as a “client",’ he said. ‘He'd have been counting his bruises from the palace square stones by now if he hadn't defied you when you accused him of breaking the law. I said he was changing. Personally I'm getting to like him. Underneath his doubts I think he's very sound.’ He paused reflectively. ‘There's certainly more to him than meets the eye. And the wolf's beautiful.'
'Seduced you too, did he?’ Ibris said.
Feranc's smile broadened again. ‘If you'll excuse me, sire. I have duties to attend to,’ he replied.
Ibris nodded. ‘I'll join you in a few moments, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘I need to think a little.'
Feranc stood up and bowed.
As he reached the door, Ibris clicked his fingers. ‘Ciarll,’ he said, his brow furrowed. ‘Some time tonight or tomorrow tell Menedrion I need to speak to him. And make sure that Antyr's being looked after properly before you go back, will you? Rooms and procedures etc.’ He tapped his mouth thoughtfully. ‘And that Aaken pays him for last night and makes proper arrangements for a stipend,’ he added. ‘You know how “forgetful” he can get about such matters when it affects the palace purse.'
'Yes,’ Feranc agreed, not without some feeling. ‘He can be a very zealous guardian of our coffers at times.’ Then, in an echo of Tarrian's own observation, ‘Antyr could well starve to death in this place if we're not careful.'
Ibris nodded. ‘Him starving is one thing,’ he said. ‘That wolf starving is another.'
As Feranc quietly closed the door, Ibris turned and stared again into the flickering landscape of the fire with its black cliffs and crags, and its clefts and fissures glowing red and scorching yellow under the touch of invisible winds. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and allowed the fire to fill his vision.
Smoke swirled hither and thither, sparks rose and scattered up into the blackness of the chimney or tumbled in cascades into the depths. Spurts of flame burst out angrily. The more he looked, the more intense and complex became the activity.
Where can such frenzy come from? he thought as he glanced at the unburnt coals at the edge of the fire, black and lifeless; just so many dull, inert stones, their appearance not giving the slightest indication of the forces bound within.
* * * *
Once again, Antyr found himself following a servant in a daze. He and Tarrian had been taken from one office to another and had their names and needs noted by one officer after another. At each stage they had been treated with increasing deference, especially after a brief intervention by Ciarll Feranc at one point, but Antyr was in no mood to notice.
Now they were being taken to their official quarters.
'What have I done?’ Antyr said to Tarrian.
'The right thing for once,’ Tarrian retorted. His excitement swept over Antyr. ‘Working for the Duke himself,’ he exulted. ‘Just like your father. I never thought I'd see the day.'
The comment released a long-restrained bubble of resentment within Antyr. ‘You might have mentioned that, incidentally,’ he said, sourly.
'To what point?’ Tarrian replied immediately. ‘You felt overshadowed by your father as it was. To be constantly reminding you that he once worked for the Duke would only have depressed you further. Besides, it's none of your business, you know that.'
'Well…’ Antyr concluded sulkily.
'Oh, come on,’ Tarrian said. ‘It's not important, nor ever was. But if it'll make you feel better you should know that he was never resident here, not once. Now forget it. We've present matters to concern ourselves with now. Just be thankful that the Duke will deal with Menedrion for us and that we'll be close to the heart of events where we can be of real value.'
'You'll forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm,’ Antyr replied. ‘But just how are we going to be of value? I certainly don't know what's happening let alone know what to do about it. And now it seems there might be a war in the offing. Ye gods, it's awful.'
'These are your quarters, sir,’ the servant said, his high, fluting voice unwittingly interrupting the silent conversation. He was holding open a door.
Startled, Antyr managed to stutter his thanks as he stepped into the room.
'Nice,’ said Tarrian, who was already inside and sniffing out the bounds of his new territory. ‘Very nice.'
As Antyr gazed around, he felt his dark preoccupations yielding to Tarrian's continuing elation. And it was indeed a nice room. Plainly decorated and with a few pictures and some elegant furniture, it was not as lavish as the Duke's rooms by any means, but it was certainly better than those he had occupied previously.
The servant finished lighting the lamps and then withdrew with a final fluted instruction that Antyr shouldn't forget to wear his temporary badge of office and that, if he needed anything, he was to ring the bell.
When he had gone, Antyr stood still and silent for some time. Then he felt the soft pile of the carpet under his feet and a smile sneaked on to his face. Tarrian chuckled. ‘That's better,’ he said. ‘If we keep our wits about us, and keep well clear of politics, we can do very well for ourselves here.'
Images of unlimited supplies of food drifted into Antyr's mind and he nodded knowingly. ‘I admire your altruism and sense of civic duty, dog,’ he said.
'I'm impervious to your sarcasm,’ Tarrian replied. ‘This is splendid, and I intend to enjoy it while I can.'
Antyr sat down on a nearby chair. Suddenly he was tired. It had been a bizarre and exhausting day and he realized that both emotionally and physically he was drained.
'The bedroom's through there,’ Tarrian offered.
Antyr nodded and, heaving himself to his feet again, he trudged off in the direction that Tarrian had indicated.
The sight of the bed merely increased his feelings of fatigue and pausing only to kick off his boots he flopped down on to it without either dignity or ceremony.
'I've not even got anything to wear,’ he thought vaguely, as he drifted into sleep. ‘I'll have to go back home tomorrow … and … pick … up…'
Tarrian looked at the sleeping form for a moment and then dropped down with a noisy breath and a dull thud and almost immediately joined his friend in sleep.
Nothing disturbed the dreamless sleep of the Dream Finder and his Companion that night and when Tarrian's voice woke him gently the next morning Antyr half expected to see summer sunshine pouring in through the windows, so rested was he.
But the light was only that of the lamps which he had left burning all night. He glanced at the window. The sky outside was still a wintry grey.
A winter campaign. The thought came suddenly and unbidden and made him shiver despite the warmth of the room. What madness was afoot in Bethlar?
'Let's attend to our own problems,’ Tarrian said, catching the thought. ‘Good grief, Antyr. There's not even a war yet and you're already doing pike drills.'
Antyr was about to remonstrate with him, but the wolf was in high spirits and taking the lead. He mimicked the high-pitched voice of the servant who had acted as their guide the previous night. ‘Put on your temporary badge of office…’ then, himself again, ‘…And let's find some food.'
'Sorry,’ Antyr managed, with some sincerity, stretching himself luxuriously. He reached down and stroked Tarrian, then another cold thought struck him. The Duke! Had anything happened during the night while his newly appointed Dream Finder had been lying unconscious?
'No,’ Tarrian answered. ‘I've been keeping watch on both of you. Something unusual was happening somewhere, I think, I kept getting whiffs of it.’ Briefly he became excited. ‘I feel so sharp … so far-seeing … it's incredible…’ Then it was set aside. ‘But nothing untoward came near you, and Ibris scarcely dreamed at all.’ There was an uncharacteristic note of awe in his voice. ‘He's a stern man. Such control. More so than I remember. I'm sure he knew I was there.'
'That's not possible,’ Antyr said off-handedly, still stroking him.
'Maybe,’ Tarrian said. ‘But the impossible happened in Menedrion's dream, didn't it? Anyway, that was my feeling. We'll see if he mentions it if we meet him today.'
Antyr stood up and scratched himself.
'Really!’ Tarrian exclaimed, mocking again. ‘Can't you do that outside?'
Antyr eyed him narrowly. ‘I think we should go and find Nyriall before we eat,’ he threatened.
Tarrian did not argue. ‘It just so happens that the way out passes by our refectory,’ he said smugly. ‘The special one for the Duke's personal assistants.'
Thus they resolved to eat before they ventured out into the streets that morning.
As they left their room, a man sitting nearby stood up and walked over to them. He had a confident and purposeful manner and obviously belonged to the palace. Antyr looked at him warily, suddenly filled with trepidation. Perhaps the Duke had repented of his appointment already. Perhaps they'd offended someone in their blunderings through the palace the previous day. Perhaps Menedrion …
He chose not to finish that thought.
Catching his eye, however, the man smiled affably and then bowed slightly. Uncertainly, Antyr bowed in reply.
'Antyr Petranson?’ the man inquired, though his tone indicated he knew the answer.
'Yes,’ Antyr replied, his trepidation not being eased by the use of this formal address.
'My name is Estaan,’ the man said. ‘Commander Feranc has appointed me to be your escort and to help you settle into palace life.'
He had a slight accent.
'Oh,’ Antyr said in relieved surprise. ‘That's very thoughtful of the Commander. This is a bewildering place in every way.'
Estaan nodded slightly in agreement but did not seem inclined to continue with any conversation on the topic.
'We were just going to eat,’ Antyr said. ‘Will you join us?'
There was a glint of gratitude in Estaan's eyes. ‘It's been a long and busy night, sir,’ he said, his accent a little more pronounced. ‘Breakfast would be appreciated.'
'Come on.’ Tarrian's impatient voice intruded into Antyr's mind. Having satisfied himself that the newcomer was harmless, the wolf was already halfway along the corridor. Antyr set off after him, motioning Estaan to follow.
'You know the way to the refectory already?’ Estaan asked, mildly surprised.
'He does,’ Antyr replied pointing after Tarrian who was disappearing round a corner.
A little later as they sat in a smaller and much more congenial refectory than the one they had used the previous day, Antyr weighed his escort. He had an oval, weather-beaten face, with alert, deep-set eyes and short, dark hair which was greying in places, though Antyr could not have attempted to guess his age. And though he was similar in size and build to Antyr, if anything slightly more spare, he had a quality about him that made Antyr feel he was much bigger.
And there was that accent.
'Where do you come from, Estaan?’ he asked eventually. Estaan glanced at him briefly as if the question had a significance beyond its immediate content, then, discreetly, he turned his eyes away. ‘Far away, sir,’ he replied after a slight pause. ‘But I am Serens now.'
Though there was no offence in the voice, Antyr sensed that his question had caught the man unawares and he raised an apologetic hand. As he did so, his several disparate impressions of the man fell into place. It was the lack of a uniform that had confused him.
'Don't call me sir, Estaan,’ he said. ‘It's not fitting. Call me Antyr. I'm just a Guildsman temporarily in the Duke's service. You're one of the Mantynnai.'
'As you wish, Antyr,’ Estaan replied pleasantly, but showing no reaction to Antyr's revelation.
'Why should a senior officer of the Duke's personal bodyguard be appointed to look after a mere Dream Finder?’ Antyr asked, provoked by this lack of response.
Estaan smiled disarmingly. ‘I think I'll have to let you question Commander Feranc on that point,’ he said with open evasiveness.
Antyr nodded knowingly and pushed his empty plate to one side.
'What do you want to do now?’ Estaan asked.
'What I want to do is one thing, what I have to do is another,’ Antyr replied, smiling ruefully. ‘I'll need to get some of my things from home, then I'm afraid I've got to seek out a colleague in the Moras district.'
Estaan nodded. ‘Well, we can ride on the first errand but we'd better walk on the second,’ he said. ‘And I'll need to wear something a little less ostentatious.’ There was some irony in his voice as his clothes were simple and virtually unadorned. They were, however, of a high quality and would be provocatively conspicuous in many parts of the Moras.
A short while later, Antyr found himself mounted on a horse carefully selected by Estaan, and clattering nervously through the damp, grey streets towards his home.
He found the brief visit strangely poignant, experiencing an unexpected sense of betrayal as he removed some of his clothes and bits and pieces from the protection of the house's stained and worn familiarity. The front door screeched its traditional call reproachfully as he closed it, and he locked it with a peculiar gentleness.
Estaan watched his reluctant parting in silence, then took the small package of goods from him and held out his hand to support him as he mounted his horse again.
Tarrian chuckled as he walked along by the two riders. ‘It's fortunate for Serenstad that you weren't needed in the cavalry,’ he said. ‘I could ride better myself.’ Antyr, however, was absorbed totally in remaining in the saddle and declined to reply.
Later again, and following Estaan's advice, it was a much more untidy pair that walked down through the city towards the Moras to seek out Nyriall.
Situated by the edge of the River Seren, the Moras was the oldest part of Serenstad. A mixture of warehouses, workshops and ramshackle, multi-storeyed houses, some occupied, some abandoned, it had grown out indiscriminately from the jetties and landing stages which had been built, and were still being built, to serve the ever-increasing numbers of barges and ships that carried the life-blood of trade to and from the city.
A hectic bustling area, packed with all manner of trades and businesses, it was also a congested and, in parts, largely decaying home for the people who served its needs in their turn; some permanent residents, many transient. Relentlessly, however, it drew all down to its decaying, disordered level and, inevitably, became also a haven for those who wished not to be seen, or who knew how to feed off the misery and squalor that grew there.
Though it was the artery for its wealth and well-being, the Moras was as far from Ibris's ‘dazzling city’ as could reasonably be imagined, and he was well aware of the horror and deprivation it housed. Yet, by a bitter irony, the very momentum of its success and frantic industry left little time and resource for its improvement and, despite considerable efforts on Ibris's part, the greater part of the Moras had remained effectively unchanged for generations.
Antyr and Estaan, with Tarrian loping along close beside them, walked steadily through the maze of narrow, crowded streets and alleyways that meandered between the tight-packed, jostling buildings.
As they moved into an area dominated by old housing, Antyr instinctively hunched his head down into his shoulders as the overhanging upper storeys of the houses began to close in overhead like watchful giants.
The lowering presence of the old buildings was made worse by the fact that nearly all of them showed signs of the settlement that was the hallmark of the area and that had resulted in the city gradually spreading up the valley's sides on to more solid ground. Indeed, hereabouts, this settlement had conspired with the original architecture to extend some of the houses so far across the narrow streets that anyone so inclined could reach from the upper windows and touch the buildings opposite.
Here and there also, crudely nailed boarding ineffectively sealed twisted doors and windows, and tattered notices pronounced buildings unsafe. While at other points, the grey sky burst through into the streets, incongruously bright, where some building had finally succumbed to the lure of gravity and collapsed completely.
Antyr was vaguely familiar with the part of the Moras in which, according to the Guild House porter, Nyriall lived, but he found that Estaan was striding through the area as if he knew it intimately.
'You seem well acquainted with the place,’ he said eventually.
'Yes,’ Estaan answered simply.
Antyr felt a twinge of irritation. The man seemed to speak only when he was spoken to and then he confided nothing other than what was sought of him.
'Did Commander Feranc tell you not to talk to me or something?’ he blurted out abruptly.
To his surprise Estaan stopped briefly, looked at him and then shook with internal mirth. ‘I'm sorry, Antyr,’ he said, setting off again when it had faded away. ‘I didn't mean to be rude, but I'm afraid that discretion becomes a deeply ingrained habit in the palace.'
Even as he spoke, he flicked out his hand to direct his charge into a narrow alley. Antyr followed him automatically, and for the moment he set his inquiry aside as he picked his way through the anonymous debris and filth that lined his path. He grimaced at the succession of foul smells that assailed him. Tentatively he reached out to Tarrian.
'Don't ask,’ the wolf warned menacingly. ‘How you creatures can live like this defies all reason. In fact, it defies everything! And if you'd got the remotest sense of smell…'
Antyr withdrew quickly and turned his attention back to his escort.
'Well,’ he said out loud, inadvertently venting some of Tarrian's anger on to the Mantynnai. ‘Why are you so familiar with this place?'
They had reached the end of the alley and Estaan led them diagonally across a noisy, crowded street before he replied. ‘Apart from silks and cotton and foods, animals and timbers and all the other things that the city uses, what else comes out of the Moras?’ he shouted above the din, looking at Antyr significantly.
'Plague,’ Antyr said.
Estaan acknowledged the reply but waved it aside. ‘Apart from plague,’ he said.
Memories of violent riots and street fighting came to Antyr. ‘Trouble,’ he replied.
Estaan nodded. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And if guards are to be led into a place like this to sort it all out, then we need to know the terrain at least as well as the natives, don't we? What was that address again?'
Caught between the rhetorical and the actual question, Antyr stuttered briefly before he repeated the address. Estaan pointed to the entrance of a narrow street just ahead of them.
'That's it,’ he said. ‘Down there somewhere.'
They turned out of the crowd and into the quieter side street. Antyr puffed out his cheeks in weary dismay. Like many parts of the Moras, this had obviously been an attractive, if not select, area. Now, every little recess and alcove in the large, once dignified, houses that lined the street had been adapted by successive landlords to accommodate as many individuals and families as possible, and neglect hung almost palpably in the air.
Several ragged children were playing a hectic and noisy game, elfin voices already becoming raucous with the sharp-edged accent of the Moras. As Antyr and Estaan gazed around, at a loss to know where to look next, the children were drawn inexorably to them like stray planets to a new sun. Once in arm's-length orbit, they stopped and stared up at the new arrivals curiously.
'What y'looking for?’ one of them demanded proprietorially.
'We're looking for Nyriall, the Dream Finder,’ Antyr replied courteously. ‘Do you know where he lives?'
There was a collective wrinkling of noses and shaking of heads, and some giggling mimicry of his voice.
'He's an old man,’ Antyr offered, wilfully calm and still courteous. ‘With a … dog … like this one.’ He pointed at Tarrian who looked at him balefully.
'That's a wolf, not a dog, mister,’ the boy replied contemptuously.
'Delightful child,’ Tarrian muttered caustically to Antyr. ‘I'll eat him last, I think.'
The reference to Tarrian, however, had provoked a response among the children and a huddled conference ensued with some gabbled arguments and denials, much pointing and one or two threats of violence.
'You got any money, mister,’ the leader inquired after he had silenced the group.
'Thanks, men,’ Estaan said suddenly to the children, briskly terminating the conference with a comradely salute, and taking Antyr's elbow.
Antyr resisted slightly but Estaan was unyielding. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to a dingy building some way down the street.
'How do you know?’ Antyr said glancing back at the children who were now regaling them with cries of abuse. ‘He could live anywhere in any of these buildings.'
'They told us,’ Estaan replied with a smile. ‘You should listen more carefully.'
Antyr gave up, and contented himself with following his escort's lead.
'Wait here,’ Estaan said as they reached the building he had indicated. A short flight of uneven and worn stone steps led up to an open door and into a dark passageway. Entering first, Estaan looked round for a moment before beckoning Antyr forward.
As he reached the top of the steps Antyr hesitated in the crooked doorway. Tarrian growled.
'What's the matter?’ Estaan asked urgently, his eyes suddenly anxious.
Antyr shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I don't know,’ he said vaguely. ‘Something's … about.’ But the words were not adequate.
'What happened?’ he asked Tarrian silently.
But Tarrian was no wiser than he was. ‘I don't know,’ he echoed. ‘But I scent something nearby. Something bad. Like I felt in the distance last night, but … nearer. Take care.’ Distaste, distress and alarm leaked into Antyr's mind. Then, unexpectedly, the wolf cried out as if a careless boot had crushed his paw, and with two bounds he was up the steps and into the building.
Estaan stepped smartly to one side to allow him past, but held out a restraining hand as Antyr, overcoming his shock at Tarrian's sudden action, ran up the steps after him.
'Careful,’ he said. ‘He's gone up those stairs there and they don't look too safe.'
'Something's wrong,’ Antyr said desperately. ‘Let me past.'
'Wait,’ Estaan commanded, as he looked intently up the stairs. The sound of Tarrian's flight was floating down to them. He was half whispering, half howling.
Antyr pushed Estaan to one side and set off up the stairs two and three at a time.
'Tread lightly and keep close to the wall,’ came Estaan's urgent command as he followed behind him.
On the third storey, the stairs ended, leaving Estaan breathing deeply and Antyr gasping for breath in a long corridor lit by the occasional grimy window. Tarrian was not in sight, but his yelping was beginning to fill the entire building.
A door opened nearby and a burly figure emerged, swearing foully at the noise Tarrian was creating. Oblivious, and drawn on by Tarrian's distress, Antyr tried to push by him, only to be seized roughly and lifted up on to his toes. An angry, shouting face intruded into his alarm, filling his vision.
'Shut your blistering dog up or…’ it continued, but an upsweeping arm blow ended the imprecation and released Antyr abruptly.
As he staggered backwards into the wall, Antyr saw Estaan deliver an open-handed blow to the man's chest that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him skidding along the floor back into his room. Briefly, Estaan was silhouetted in the doorway as he reached in to take the door handle.
His other hand was extended purposefully towards the still-sliding figure. ‘Stay there and be quiet,’ he said in a voice whose authority was indisputable. Then he slammed the door loudly and, turning to Antyr, nodded him in the direction of Tarrian's crying.
Not that Antyr needed urging. The sound of frenzied scratching was now accompanying Tarrian's frantic yelping, and great uncontrolled waves of distress and frustration were so filling his mind that he barely knew which of the partnership he was.
He staggered as his arms became Tarrian's flailing paws. ‘Quieten down,’ he thundered into the din of his head, but it had no effect other than to add to it.
'Here,’ Estaan's voice intruded.
Although not fully understanding what was happening, the Mantynnai could see Antyr's disorientation and, seizing him forcefully, supported him as he tottered along the corridor until they came to the foot of another narrow flight of stairs. At the top was a short landing and a single door and scrabbling frantically at it was Tarrian.
Abruptly he stopped and let out a heart-rending howl.
Estaan ran up the stairs, with Antyr, still unsteady, close behind him, almost on all fours.
For a moment, he wrestled with the door handle, then he stood back and gave the door a powerful kick. The wooden landing shook with the impact, but the door did not yield. Tarrian fell silent and Antyr saw Estaan relax before he delivered another blow. He found himself holding his breath. At the fourth kick, the door yielded and Tarrian dashed through the opening, brushing violently through Estaan's legs and unbalancing him.
Antyr, infected by Tarrian's mood, also pushed recklessly past Estaan, unbalancing him further.
Inside he came to an abrupt halt.
A single, inadequate lamp lit the room, and facing him was a wolf, its upper lip drawn back into a fearsome snarl. It was as large as Tarrian but it was thin, unkempt and savage-looking. And, to Antyr's horror, its eyes were glowing bright yellow.
Even as he sensed the wolf preparing to spring, Antyr took in his vision of an old man lying on a low bed behind the wolf. His hand hung down limply to trail on the floor, and his face was turned towards the door, his mouth gaping. His open eyes were like black pits.
A tidal wave of mingling emotions swept over Antyr; the unbridled death savagery of the Dream Finder's Companion, demented and protecting its charge; the instinctive animal reaction of Tarrian faced suddenly by a challenge from his own kind and with a threat to his own Dream Finder. All added to his own horror at the scene. And there was something else …
And amidst it all was an almost unbearable poignancy as the life and death of this old Dream Finder was borne in upon him by the simple utilitarian neatness of the few small ornaments and articles of furniture that decorated this dank, chilly room.
Then he was pushed violently to one side, and Estaan was in front of him, a long knife in his right hand. He was hastily winding his heavy cloak about his left.
The turmoil in Antyr's mind rose to an agonizing pitch as Estaan and the two wolves accelerated towards a seemingly inevitable conflict. In response, he felt some force inside him surging upwards.
It burst out suddenly.
'No!'
His voice rang out both audibly in the room and in the minds of the two wolves, overwhelming the hurtling intentions of the three antagonists.
The power and command in it shook Antyr, but it had a momentum of its own.
'No!’ it went on, as intense and dominating as before, but calmer. ‘There are no enemies here, only frightened friends.'
Following in its wake, Antyr stepped forward quickly, gently easing past Estaan and laying a restraining hand on his knife arm.
He crouched down by Tarrian and placed a comforting arm around his hackled shoulders. The wolf's responses quietened a little at his touch.
'Carry my words to Estaan, while we try to reach Nyriall's Companion,’ Antyr said to him, still authoritative. ‘I want no misunderstandings and sudden movements.'
As Tarrian's wolf reactions began to withdraw however, so also did those of the other, although its manner was still fierce and defensive. Then Antyr felt another emotion rising up within Tarrian. And within the other wolf, he realized. It was the pain and distress that had sent Tarrian yelping through the house in a frenzy.
But now it was more coherent. And through its heart rang something else. Recognition!
Antyr's eyes widened as the revelations spread through him also. The wolf opposite was Tarrian's brother.
As the thought formed in Antyr's mind, the other wolf's expression changed suddenly, becoming placid and submissive. It dropped on to its belly and crawled towards Tarrian who bent down and sniffed it intently. Antyr withdrew from the mind of his Companion.
'What's happening?’ Estaan asked softly.
Antyr stood up slowly, raising a hand for silence.
Estaan looked significantly towards the old man. Antyr shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘His Companion's still dangerous.'
Then the wolf wriggled to its feet, and for a few seconds the two animals romped and wrestled like pups. Images leapt unsought into Antyr's mind from their excitement. Images of laughter and echoing chambers. Of strange haunting song, though not, oddly, human. Images of sunlit mountains and valleys, of people and animals unafraid, of great peace and harmony. Then came sadder images of parting and travelling … endless travelling …
Then the images faded as the two wolves returned to the grim present. Gradually they became still. Tarrian stood for some time with his head held over his brother's bowed neck.
Antyr waited.
Eventually, Tarrian spoke, the resonance in his voice showing that he spoke to Estaan also. He said, ‘This is…’ The word he uttered was rich in subtle meanings. Antyr had never heard the like before. ‘We share dam and sire. Nyriall called him Grayle.'
Estaan looked round uncertainly, lifting his hands to his head.
'Don't be afraid,’ Antyr said. ‘You're being granted a rare privilege. Just listen, this is important.'
He looked at Grayle, but made no attempt to speak to him. Then he turned again to Tarrian. ‘What's happened here?’ he asked.
'I don't know,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Grayle's shocked and barely coherent. He's talking about Nyriall being separated from him. Like we were. And about being attacked somehow. Powers, forces, searching. Nothing clear though.'
Antyr looked at the old man. ‘Ask him if we can attend to Nyriall, would you?’ he said gently.
'You may,’ Tarrian replied immediately.
Antyr nodded to Estaan who, still watching Grayle warily, sheathed his knife and disentangled his cloak from his arm as he walked over to the bed. Sitting on the edge, he lifted Nyriall's dangling arm, felt for a pulse and then laid it across his chest with a shake of his head. Almost tenderly he laid a hand on the dead man's face.
'He's still warm,’ he said. ‘It feels to me as if he's only just died.’ He examined the body. ‘I can't see any signs of violence, and he doesn't look as though he's been poisoned. Perhaps some shock burst his heart.'
Grayle started to whimper uncontrollably.
Antyr looked down at the dead man and his night-black eyes. Why had he and his Companion been prepared for the search when from the state of his clothes he had not been intending to go out?
Shapeless questions flitted darkly about his mind like gibbering bats. This was the man from whom he had hoped to obtain explanations of recent events. It had been a slender hope at best, but now where was he to turn?
He frowned.
And yet, Nyriall's strange death showed that perhaps it had not been such a slender hope after all. A frightening thought began to form.
It grew with appalling rapidity until it filled his mind like a black cloud.
'No!’ Tarrian shouted at him fearfully. ‘No. You can't.'
Antyr felt all his options run out. He had no choice. It seemed that all the wandering of his life had been but to bring him to this, in this tired, simple little room in the Moras.
'Tarrian, remind your brother of his duty. Grief is for later and we've little time left,’ he said, sternly.
He turned to Estaan, who was trying to keep his bewilderment from his face. ‘Estaan, guard the door. Make sure no one disturbs us, and under no circumstances must you touch me. The wolves will kill you, or you them, if you're lucky and fast, and then all could well be lost. If anything untoward happens, Tarrian will speak to you. If he can't, then seal this room as well as you're able and go for the Dream Finder Pandra.'
Estaan's bewilderment had become concern. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked anxiously.
Antyr looked at the dead Nyriall again, then he pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.
'I must learn what killed him,’ he said. ‘I must enter the dead man's dream.'