Tarrian and Grayle walked some way ahead of Antyr and Estaan through the busy afternoon crowds. Grayle kept a fraction to the rear of his brother, but matched his stride exactly.
Antyr looked up. The grey clouds had been lightening all day and were now breaking up to reveal a watery blue sky. Occasionally, bright waves of light from the low sun washed over the city, patterning the streets with long unsteady shadows and cutting golden chasms through the haze.
The small procession had no goal at the end of this journey. Antyr had expressed a need to walk and think for a while and this was the consequence. Pandra had remained at the palace to rest a little and to luxuriate in the rooms and the new status that had been allotted to him.
Both Antyr and Estaan, however, were now rapt in thought.
Antyr was surprised at his own easy acquiescence with the Duke's suggestion-order-that he spy on the Bethlarii envoy's dreams. Dreamers allowed a Dream Finder access to their deepest and most private thoughts and however the craft might have declined over recent years, the respect for confidentiality was as strong as it had ever been, even gaining protection under Serenstad's law.
And it was deep in Antyr also. That fact he had never doubted throughout his ragged, sour career. The idea of divulging a client's dreams was unthinkable, physically distressing.
Now, quite willingly, he had agreed not only to divulge the contents of a man's dreams, but to enter them unasked; an even greater breach of his craft's time-honoured constraints. What surprised him most, however, was that he felt barely the slightest twinge of remorse or hesitation.
The logic of his case he had stated spontaneously and with great clarity when the Duke asked him to undertake the covert search of the envoy's dreams, but he felt strangely uneasy about the fact that he was suffering no emotional rejection of the idea. Indeed, he was actually looking forward to the venture.
Who am I to set aside the practice of centuries so casually, even for such an important need? he thought.
'Probably the first who's had the chance.’ Tarrian was unequivocal in his opinion. ‘Ibris is nothing if not an original thinker. Besides, what are you fussing about? What he's asked you to do is no different from crawling through hedges and ditches to see the strength and disposition of an enemy's forces. You don't all march to the battlefield wearing blindfolds and then whip them off and start fighting on the stroke of the hour so that no one has an unfair advantage, do you?'
Antyr rebelled at Tarrian's mockery. ‘No,’ he began. ‘It's not the same at all…'
'Of course it is, you jackass,’ Tarrian said brutally. ‘This envoy hasn't asked you to search his dreams so you're not betraying any special confidentiality. You're merely peeping into his documents. Under other circumstances, it'd be tortured out of him, you know that. This is a war you're talking about, and spying's an infinitely lesser evil that fighting. We might find things that'll save hundreds of lives. Look around you. Some of these people-these people-will be killed if there's a major war; particularly the young ones. Many of them will lose someone they know or love, and every one of them will suffer some form of hardship, whether it's shortage of food or just extra taxation. Where's the problem?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘And if we come across nothing worthwhile, then where's the harm?'
'Yes, I know,’ Antyr admitted, looking round at the late afternoon crowds. ‘You're only echoing my own thoughts, but it still feels strange that I don't feel strange about it.'
'Too complicated for me, I'm afraid,’ Tarrian said with a dismissive grunt. ‘I suggest you enjoy the fresh air and the walk, it might be a busy night.'
Antyr nodded. There was no point in prolonging the debate, if debate it was, with so little being spoken for the defence of the envoy's rights. He would do what the Duke had asked for many reasons, but high among them was a determination that if he could use his skills to spare others the experiences that he had had on the battlefield then he would. Perhaps, indeed, that was what such skills were truly for.
His left hand moved across to his right, not for the first time, to fiddle with the ring that Feranc had given to him before he had left the palace. ‘This is a token of high office, Antyr,’ he said. ‘Don't hesitate to use it when you need it.’ Surreptitiously, Antyr glanced at it again. It bore the Duke's insignia.
'Yes, you're right,’ he said out loud.
'I beg your pardon,’ Estaan said, starting from his own reverie and turning to him in some surprise.
'No, I beg yours,’ Antyr replied hastily. ‘I was talking to Tarrian privately. I won't do it again. We won't do it again, will we, Tarrian?'
'No,’ echoed Tarrian's voice in his head. ‘I'm sorry, it was thoughtless of me to leave you out, Estaan.'
Estaan's head twitched slightly and he looked at Antyr. ‘It's a strange sensation this speaking into the mind without sound. How do you do it?'
Antyr laughed and raised his hands in an admission of ignorance. ‘How do you walk? How do you breathe?’ he asked. ‘I've no idea how we do it. It's just something we were born with. An ability to see a little way into one another's minds, and to speak without talking. Many things about Dream Finding are profoundly strange and not remotely understood.'
Estaan's eyes narrowed. ‘You can see into people's minds then,’ he said, as if confirming a suspicion. There was a slight edge to his voice that made Antyr suddenly nervous.
It was Tarrian who answered however. ‘No, he can't,’ he replied. ‘Except in so far as I enable him to. But I can.'
'How much, how easily?’ Estaan asked, almost sharply.
'It depends,’ Tarrian replied quietly. ‘Sometimes the house is open, lights blazing, and I can wander easily from room to room. Sometimes it's locked up tight and I can scarcely peer through the windows.’ His voice became firm. ‘But I don't look unless I'm asked to, or unless I think someone represents a danger.'
Estaan looked down at him suspiciously. ‘How do I know you're not searching my mind right now?’ he asked awkwardly.
'You don't,’ Tarrian replied bluntly. ‘You have to trust me. You have to ask, is this wolf an honourable man? and then weigh the implications of your answer.'
Estaan paused and looked at Tarrian again. ‘You're teasing me, I gather,’ Estaan said.
'Only a lot,’ Tarrian said, with a laugh. ‘But, I'll answer your real question if you wish.'
'What do you mean?’ Estaan said defensively.
'I mean that there are times when I hear people without intending to. As I am with you now,’ Tarrian replied.
The group was broken up momentarily by a boisterous crowd of apprentices emerging from a building. They ran off down the street, laughing and shouting.
'What do you mean?’ Estaan repeated as the noise of the apprentices receded, at the same time lifting his hand to shield it from the suddenly brilliant sunlight flooding the street.
'I can hear you when you shout,’ Tarrian replied. ‘It's a common problem with humans, they're invariably shouting. They seem to have little or no control over their minds. We spend most of our time trying not to listen.'
'I don't understand,’ Estaan said, becoming almost agitated in his manner.
'The answer to the question you're shouting is, no, I know nothing of your history before you and the other Mantynnai came to this land,’ Tarrian said firmly. ‘If it's any consolation to you, it's in some dark, closed portion of your mind which, believe me, nothing would possess me to enter. And such bits as I sense leaking out, I refuse utterly to heed. Does that answer your question?'
Estaan stopped walking and put his hand to his mouth pensively. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I think it does. I'm sorry I doubted you. But what did…'
'Ask him yourself. That was nothing to do with me,’ Tarrian interrupted brusquely.
As if compelled against his will, Estaan turned to Antyr.
'What did you mean when you said I was tortured?’ he asked. Antyr met his gaze. The sun struck the faces of the two men and threw half of them into deep shadow. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘I spoke as I felt. I meant you no insult or pain. I said also that you have strange deep strengths within you. All of this I still feel. What do you want me to say?'
Estaan let out a deep breath. ‘Nothing,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Forgive me. So many strange things are happening. Old memories, old feelings, are rising to the surface that we … I … had thought long buried. It's as though some great force is beginning to shake the whole world and, do what we may, we'll not be able to avoid the consequences.'
Antyr offered no reply. Estaan's thoughts chimed too much with his own.
Abruptly Estaan straightened up, as if the simple speaking of his concerns had released him from them. ‘Still, we can do no more than fight the fight we find ourselves in, can we? And stay alert and aware if we want to survive. Nothing worse can happen to us than has already happened. And this time we'll be ready.'
Antyr let this enigmatic remark pass. He had not relished this inadvertent excursion into the dark reaches of the Mantynnai's mind, brief though it had been.
'Talking about survival,’ he said, snatching at the word. ‘When I was in the Threshold I had everything with me that I had had in Nyriall's room.’ He rattled the contents of his pockets to demonstrate. ‘The traditional formal dress for a Dream Finder includes a sword and two daggers and that must be why, so that they'd be armed if they entered the Threshold. In future I intend to wear a sword and carry at least two daggers, so that I can defend myself if need arises. Will you help me choose some weapons and give me some advice about using them?'
Estaan looked uncertain whether to be concerned or amused. ‘Tut tut,’ he said, opting for the latter and turning to the regulations governing the military responsibilities of Serenstad's citizens. ‘Every adult male Serens is supposed to keep and maintain…’ He began to count on his fingers. ‘… A pike, a bow and three score arrows, carry at all times a serviceable sword, and…'
Antyr raised a pleading hand. ‘I'm serious,’ he said. ‘I need your help. That was a real world I found myself in and apart from the storm, that was a real sword that someone drew against me. And Nyriall said that he found himself on the edge of a great battle at one stage.’ He became earnest. ‘I've done basic swordwork and I've had to use one once or twice in combat. I didn't kill anyone, I don't think, but I just need…'
'I'm sorry,’ Estaan said, recanting his light-heartedness. ‘I'll help you in any way I can.’ Antyr looked relieved, but Estaan looked at him solemnly. He took his arm, fatherly almost. ‘You must understand, Antyr. Fighting alone, man to man, is different from fighting in the line. A weapon doesn't make a warrior. That comes from inside. Reliance on a weapon can literally prove fatal. Without the true knowledge of your worth to yourself, carrying a sword may only mean that you're carrying it for your enemy to take and use against you. It may be that you're stronger and better protected unarmed.'
Antyr looked at him uncertainly. ‘I think I understand,’ he said cautiously. ‘And the reason I haven't got a sword is because I've had to use one in the past; I left it on the field-and gladly. But now I'd like one about me again, and such advice as you can offer about how I should use it.'
Estaan smiled the sad smile of the professional warrior for the reluctant amateur. ‘You shall have both,’ he said. ‘And the best I can find.'
The sinking sun began to turn red, turning Ibris's dazzling city into one of glittering ruby and garnet. A few delicate pink clouds drifted idly overhead, but on the horizon they were lowering black. Antyr twisted the ring on his finger again and then turned back towards the palace.
Later, he prepared himself for the clandestine observation of the Bethlarii envoy. Feranc showed him the envoy's quarters. The man's bed was in a corner. ‘I've had the rooms behind and to the side emptied,’ Feranc said. ‘Choose whichever you feel will be the best for your vigil.'
Tarrian and Grayle sniffed around the room curiously. Antyr looked at the bed. Its sheets and covers were obviously of the finest quality and delicately decorated with embroidered patterns. But they had been pulled back and meticulously folded in a manner that could only have been done by a soldier.
The sight brought memories back to him of his own time in barracks and the strange mixture of loneliness and close companionship that the disciplined communal living had inspired. For the first time since he had accepted the Duke's order, he felt a twinge of remorse at the ‘ambushing’ of this man, virtually alone among his enemies. It did not deflect him from his intention to fulfil the order, nor set aside the reasons for it, but, ironically, it made him feel a little easier.
'It'll make no difference,’ he said. ‘Choose the one which will be the least disturbed during the night.'
Feranc placed him in the side room. It was furnished identically to that of the envoy, but Tarrian and Grayle nevertheless examined it just as thoroughly.
'What time will he retire?’ Antyr asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Feranc smiled slightly. ‘Fairly soon, I think. He's responded to Lord Menedrion in largely the same way that the lord has responded to him. There's certainly no anxiety by either to be longer in one another's presence than necessary.'
He paused in the doorway. ‘Is there any danger in this … procedure?’ he asked.
Antyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It's very common. Usually it's done when someone's been having serious nightmares. You can either wake them up, or, preferably, talk them through it to remind them it is only a dream and make them feel in control. Besides, with Estaan guarding the door, two Companions guiding me, and this sword by my side, I've never been so well protected.'
Feranc glanced at the sword dubiously. ‘Will that actually be … there … with you? In the dream?’ he asked.
Antyr shook his head. ‘Not in the dream,’ he said. ‘But if somehow I'm drawn into the Threshold again, then it'll be with me there, I'm sure.'
'I won't pretend to understand,’ Feranc said. ‘Just…’ he shrugged. ‘Take care.’ He seemed to dismiss his concerns and became practical. ‘That's a Mantynnai sword, you realize. Longer and differently balanced to the standard infantry issue. Can you use it?'
Antyr shook his head again. ‘Not well, I should imagine,’ he replied. ‘But I'd rather have it than not. Estaan has lent it to me.'
Feranc nodded doubtfully then looked intently into Antyr's darkening eyes. ‘If you find yourself in danger, you must follow the true warrior's way. Listen, avoid, fly if you can, fight only if you must.'
He spoke very quietly and without any dramatic emphasis, but the words seemed to break over Antyr like a great wave, imparting meanings to him that were far beyond their apparent content.
'Thank you,’ he stammered, resting his hand awkwardly on the hilt of his sword. ‘I'll remember.'
'And if you have to draw that thing, keep it simple,’ Feranc went on. ‘Straight lunge, straight cut, basic parries. And fly as soon as you can.'
He was gone before Antyr could speak again.
Estaan, standing nearby, blew out a long breath. ‘I could have said the same words but I couldn't have taught you that much in a year,’ he said. ‘What a man. I told you that being a warrior came from inside.’ He turned to Antyr. ‘How did you feel when he spoke?’ he asked.
Antyr dithered. ‘Ineffective,’ he said after an unhappy search for the right word.
Estaan patted his stomach. ‘So did I. And I understand what he's talking about. Remember how he was when he did that to you, and be the same,’ he said. ‘I know I will.'
Feranc's influence seemed still to fill the room, and the two men spoke very little as they waited for the envoy to be brought to his room.
'Let go of him now,’ Tarrian said softly to both of them after a while. ‘Or we'll carry his presence into the dream and be detected for sure. He's only done what any good teacher does: shown you what you already knew.'
'Yes,’ Antyr said simply, swinging his legs up on to the bed and self-consciously adjusting his sword.
'What do you want me to do?’ Estaan asked.
'Nothing.’ The two wolves and Antyr replied simultaneously, making Estaan jump.
Antyr laughed. ‘Just guard the door and don't allow anyone in, except Pandra,’ he said.
The sound of voices coming along the passage outside ended the exchange.
'It's Menedrion and the envoy,’ Estaan whispered.
Antyr nodded then looked down at Tarrian and Grayle. The eyes of both the wolves were bright yellow. Briefly he was looking up at himself, his eyes black and cavernous. It happened twice as each of the wolves exchanged with him. Grayle's body felt different from Tarrian's but the exchange was too rapid for him to search out where the differences lay.
He lay back and motioned Estaan to silence.
The Mantynnai relaxed back into a large chair from which he could see both the bed and the door. The two wolves both circled a little before spiralling down gently to lie by the bed.
Menedrion's forced heartiness could be heard even through the closed door, as could its failure to impinge upon the envoy, whose harsh voice spoke only once, briefly, before the door to his room closed.
It was followed by the sound of further muffled speech and footsteps which Antyr identified as Menedrion leaving and the guards taking position outside the envoy's room.
He reached out to Tarrian and Grayle. ‘Very gently,’ he said. ‘Be very aware-very still.'
They waited in silence for a long time. All four listening and still. No sound came from the adjacent room except the occasional anonymous bump, until eventually a low murmuring began to seep through to them.
'He's praying,’ Antyr said. Somehow the sound hardened his heart. He knew a little of the Bethlarii religion and its simplistic demands for mindless obedience that sent its more zealous followers into murderous fighting frenzies on the battlefield, as careless of their own lives as of their enemies'. He had lost friends and come near to dying himself at the insane hands of such people.
He carried too, he knew, a portion of his father's moderately intolerant attitude to religions in general. ‘Religions illuminate no truth, it's truth that illuminates religion,’ he would say, adding forcefully when he began to get heated, ‘and we're all responsible for our own actions. Looking to blame some invisible deity for what we do is neither logical nor acceptable in a civilized people.'
The murmuring ceased as if at the command of Petran's long-dead voice.
Within minutes, Antyr felt the enveloping blackness that told him that the envoy was asleep. Tarrian and Grayle carried him silently into it.
For a long time nothing happened as the envoy passed back and forth through different levels of sleep. Images and random thoughts came and went. Coherent arguments and plans began to form, only to disappear into rambling nonsense. Violence against a sycophantic image of Menedrion was predominant. Antyr smiled slightly; doubtless Pandra would experience the converse of these thoughts when he came to guard Menedrion later.
They waited. Here there would be no search for the Nexus, no hunt for the dream. Here they would merely observe.
It's coming.
Antyr felt the whispering approach of the dream almost as soon as did the two wolves. The sensitivity and speed of his response gave him, for the first time, a measure of the changes that had happened to him over the past days. It was truly startling. But his control too, was growing equally and no ripple of surprise reached up from within him to reveal his silent presence in the envoy's mind.
Then they were there. Dream Finder and the Dreamselves of his two Companions at one with the Bethlarii envoy, Grygyr Ast-Darvad, walking slowly down a long avenue of columns. Tall and ghostly in the brilliant moonlight, the columns soared up dizzily into the night sky until, somewhere far beyond his sight, great arches would join them together to support the star-loaded heavens. On these arches and winding, snakelike, down the columns were carved the epic tales of the battles that Ar-Hyrdyn had fought on his way first from man to hero, then to god and, finally, to the conquest of the ancient gods themselves, to learn that he himself had been the original creator of all things, treacherously tricked and bound in the world of men by his jealous offspring.
Now, all bowed their heads before him, obedient to his every whim.
Beyond the columns, dark trees stood, solid, black, and eternally patient. In the depths of these forests waited the myriad red-eyed hunting beasts of Ar-Hyrdyn. These he used to hunt down the spirits of those who had died fleeing the battlefield, or who had betrayed their companions. Terrible and long was the rending fate of such souls.
Grygyr could feel the relentless stares of Ar-Hyrdyn's creatures, but he was safe. No such fate awaited him. Was he not true to the faith in its every particular? Was he not, even now, in the midst of his enemies, stern, aloof, fearless of death, and unyielding to their effete and decadent lures?
The envoy's self-righteous anger and corrosive hatred was repellent to Antyr, but he made no stir.
Turning to his left Grygyr looked up at the moon. It was the moon of this world. Larger and brighter by far than the moon of the waking world, it dominated the sky so oppressively that he felt he could reach up and touch it.
Its face was scarred and pocked, giving it a diseased and bloated appearance.
Even the heavens had felt the touch of Ar-Hyrdyn's wrath.
Grygyr returned his gaze to the journey before him. He had travelled it many times.
Ahead, the roadway gleamed white in the moonlight. But it was not paved with marble as it might be in some temple. It was a continuous mass of bones; human bones. They were more numerous than the pebbles on a storm beach, and they sloped up on either side of him, forming a shallow valley. At the centre, where he walked, the bones were crushed and broken, and with each footfall, white dust rose to powder his booted feet.
Grygyr exulted. Thus ended all those who opposed the one and only true god; crushed utterly beneath the feet of his invincible army. The army that would one day open its ranks and greet him, Grygyr Ast-Darvad, as one of their own when finally he fell in battle. He stood tall and proud at the prospect of such glory.
In the far distance was a light like a low, brilliant, star. This was his destination: the great Golden Hall of Ar-Hyrdyn, where his army would be singing and carousing after their day's fighting. This time he would come to it.
His stomach tightened with desire and determination and he started to stride out. Apart from his lust to come to the Golden Hall, Grygyr knew that the god had no welcome for the slow and tardy.
Despite his best efforts, however, the journey became as it always had before: the distant light seemed to come no nearer. Yet the road under his feet bore increasing evidence of the passage of Ar-Hyrdyn's army. So vast must it be and so fierce its tread, that the bones which formed the road here had been crushed to a dust so fine and deep that his feet began to sink in it, making each step an ordeal.
Onward, relentlessly, he moved; his legs first protesting and then screaming with pain as he dragged each foot from the yielding yet clinging dust. His face, however, remained set and emotionless. The journey was ever thus, and to show distress would be to find himself rejected at the very threshold of the Golden Hall itself.
Thus, though his pace slowed, he held his posture tall and proud.
A breeze sprang up out of the night and began to blow the stinging dust into his face. Purposefully, mockingly, it stuck to his sweating face, caking his dried lips, clogging his nostrils, and sealing his eyelids.
He wiped his eyes. Still the golden beacon was ahead of him; blurred and streaked, but a little nearer, perhaps?
At the thought, his legs sank suddenly to their calves in the dust.
He looked up. The moon had grown larger, more oppressive, adding its mighty weight to his burden.
The sound of his gasping breath and pounding heart filled the universe. Then came the despair. Would there be no end to this?
'Did you think that the journey to the Golden Hall of Ar-Hyrdyn would be so light a journey?’ came a voice within him. It was his true self taunting his weakness. He accepted its rebuke.
Yet his legs slowed in their rhythm. Slower … and … slower.
They must not stop. To seek rest here would be to die.
And to die here, a mortal, chosen as Ar-Hyrdyn's messenger and allowed to this most sacred of places, would not only be to die away from the battlefield, it would be the foulest sacrilege. His days for all eternity would be filled with the terrible sound of Ar-Hyrdyn's hunting horn and the howling of his beasts as they pursued and tore at him forever.
He sank now almost up to his knees, but still he moved, wrenching his legs free from the clinging dust. And still the golden light drew him on.
Faintly, on the stinging breeze, he thought he heard the sound of Ar-Hyrdyn's warriors. Were they encouraging him or were they just singing and laughing, unaware of his fate, his presence even? It made no difference. This time he would be among them; one of them. He would not yield. No pain, no fatigue could keep him from such fulfilment; could keep him from his destiny.
Abruptly, and not knowing how he came there, he was on all fours, his hands sinking into the dust. Anger welled up inside him at his body's silent treachery. He must not crawl, like some craven slave! He must stand, and walk.
Somewhere in the dark forest beyond the columns, something howled in anticipation.
Antyr felt Tarrian's and Grayle's wolf spirits responding to the call, but his will helped them to keep silent and still.
Somehow, Grygyr came to his feet, goading himself forward with the memories of ordeals he had survived before. He opened his mouth to cry out, ‘I will come there, Lord, I will come there, though it take a myriad lifetimes for each step.’ But the dust blew into his mouth, acrid, gritty, choking.
Then the whole world shook.
He closed his eyes in a mixture of fear and expectation.
When he opened them, it was to see the terrible figure of Ar-Hyrdyn himself before him. The great god of the Bethlarii towered high into the night sky, black against the huge glaring moon which, drawn by the god's presence, had swollen even further and swung silently behind him to form a ghastly backdrop.
As it always did, a fascinated terror filled Grygyr at the sight of this apparition.
'Did you think that the journey to the Golden Hall of Ar-Hyrdyn would be so light a journey?’ the figure said, echoing Grygyr's own thoughts, in a voice that sounded like rolling thunder and that shook Grygyr to his very soul.
The god extended his hand and the distant light rose into the air until it passed in front of the moon and Grygyr could no longer look at it, so bright was the moonlight.
'Lord, I will do whatever is your wish, to gain your favour,’ he said, trembling and lowering his eyes.
'You will do whatever is my wish,’ the figure announced definitively.
Face still set and resolute, Grygyr came to attention. The ground was now hard under his feet.
There was a long, timeless pause, then the voice rumbled, ‘Still you live.'
Grygyr's eye widened. ‘The Duke is a cunning and devious foe, Lord,’ he said hastily. ‘He fights like a poisoning woman, not a man. He has ignored my insults and issued loud public promises for my safety, so that only by attempting his life can I make the Serens end my own. And to act thus now would be to broadcast my treachery across the land and turn the wavering cities against us…'
'This I know!’ the voice thundered savagely. ‘This I ordained so that in living when you strove to die, you would learn the subtle ways of your enemy.'
The black form became alive with a billowing thundercloud movement, shot through with flickering lightning.
'Forgive me, Lord,’ Grygyr said hoarsely, looking down again.
The thunder subsided. ‘Your loyalty is known and will be rewarded, my priest,’ the figure said, almost conciliatory. ‘And you have done in Serenstad all that was required of you. Whendrak now will be the lure. Return home now and note what you would note as a soldier as you pass through their land for when you pass through it again with a victorious army at your back.'
'I shall, Lord,’ Grygyr replied fervently. ‘I have already learned much. I…'
'Go now,’ the voice said.
Grygyr hesitated. Was he to be denied tonight? He ventured, ‘Lord, may I not look again upon your domain so that I may better describe its wonders to your followers?’ There was a strange silence, an unexpected hesitation. Then the huge figure seemed to grow in size until it filled the entire sky. Grygyr quailed before it.
'You presume,’ came the terrible reply. ‘Go now before you anger us further with your mortal folly. You are put in the balance again. We shall return at some other time and consider your worth then. Be faithful and true, priest.'
'Your justice is boundless, Lord, I…'
Before he could finish, a great horn call rang out and the air was suddenly filled with the cries of countless hunting animals. Grygyr looked in terror from side to side. All around, dark shapes were running out of the dark shadow of the forests. He looked up at the figure, but it was gone. Only the monstrous moon remained, and it was slowly turning red.
'Go now,’ said an echoing voice out of the emptiness.
Grygyr screamed.
'No! Lord!'
He raised his hands to protect his head as the shadows closed in on him. He felt their hot, fetid breath. He screamed again.
Then the ground under his feet became dust again, sucking him down, down, down. He thrashed his arms in flailing panic, but still he sank. And still the black creatures neared. The dust rose up past his chest, his throat. It poured into the edges of his closed mouth, forced itself into his nose, his eyes, his ears, and finally closed over his head.
He felt the cold breeze blowing through his clutching fingers, then savage jaws closed about them …
Antyr opened his eyes. There was a bumping sound from the adjacent room, as if the envoy were drumming against the wall.
Antyr grimaced as indignation and horror swept over him. It was partly his own, partly that of Tarrian and Grayle. The power, the terrible skills of the men that had murdered Nyriall, that had been at the heart of all the events of the past days, stood clear in the envoy's dream.
Scarcely one jot of it had been of his own making. They had taken his most primitive fears and desires and woven them into the images of their will, to use him like some grotesque puppet. To the Dream Finder and his Companions, it was obscene beyond belief.
'Mankind unfettered is beyond all understanding,’ Tarrian said, scratching at the floor in bitter frustration.
'What's the matter?’ Estaan asked, yawning.
'The envoy's had his dream,’ Antyr replied quietly, wiping his forehead. ‘Poor devil.’ He sat up and swung his legs on to the floor. The two wolves stood up and came close to him. He stroked them both.
'You seemed quiet enough,’ Estaan said, wide awake now. ‘Not like at Nyriall's. Did anything interesting happen?'
Antyr, however, was still in quiet communion with his Companions. ‘If I had the power that these creatures have, I'd shine a great light into the souls of these benighted people,’ he said, voicing his thoughts. ‘Turn them away from their grim beliefs, turn them to knowledge and beauty. Not use it to deepen and darken their ignorance still further.'
He took the two wolves by the scruffs of their necks and shook them both gently. ‘What say you, dogs?’ he said.
'Whoever they are, they're powerful and skilful,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Who knows what devilment they intend. We must hunt them down and destroy them.'
'And you, Grayle?’ Antyr asked.
'They took Nyriall from me at a whim,’ Grayle replied. ‘I need nothing other than that to kill them.'
The wolf's single-mindedness was chilling. Antyr patted him.
'Please, tell me what's happened,’ Estaan said plaintively.
'We must waken the Duke,’ Antyr said, ignoring the plea.
'At this time of night!’ Estaan exclaimed. ‘Is it essential? I doubt he's had much sleep these past two nights. What's going on?'
Antyr looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You're right,’ he said, then he looked at the two wolves, their eyes yellow, their postures expectant.
He nodded, and lay back on the bed. Tarrian and Grayle lay down also and, with a grateful nod, Estaan relaxed back into his chair.
'Find the Duke,’ Antyr said to his Companions.
The Dreamselves of the two wolves hurtled into the darkness.