Antyr sat alone in his room. A fire, lit by a servant, burned cheerily in a corner grate, and several lamps, also lit by a servant, complemented the fire's earnest efforts. Heavy velvet curtains, drawn by Antyr himself, stood solid and purposeful between the light and warmth of the room and the yellow, dank darkness, moving softly and treacherously through the city streets outside.
Antyr was oblivious to the comfort of his surroundings, however. He was rapt in thought. Save for his attendance on the Duke to listen to Arwain's dreams, he had done little else but think since reporting the details of the envoy's dreams to the Duke in person following his more unorthodox nocturnal visit.
Ibris had listened, asked a few questions, thanked Tarrian with a knowing smile for the dream that the wolf had retrieved for him, and then dismissed them politely.
'What am I supposed to do now?’ Antyr asked Estaan surreptitiously after he had left the Duke. Estaan had laughed.
'You're a Ducal adviser now,’ he said. ‘You don't do anything.’ Then recanting a little. ‘Sorry, I couldn't resist that,’ he added, insincerely. ‘But you've no specific duties, so if the Duke hasn't asked you to do anything, then you can please yourself what you do until he sends for you.’ He raised a cautionary finger. ‘Then, you run, and you prepare to go without sleep. If you'll take my advice, you'll make the most of whatever leisure comes your way.'
They had spent some time wandering about the palace, with Estaan generally continuing to instruct Antyr in the ways of the vast sub-culture of palace life. In particular, he introduced him to those who held the real administrative power and responsibility in the palace, and whose friendship would be ‘worthwhile'. He also advised him about various individuals who were ‘best avoided', and also what to say and do if he was accosted by any of the guards. ‘It'll be some time before they all get to know you.'
It was a bewildering lesson for the Dream Finder, though had he paused to consider, he might have realized that the ways of his own lifestyle up to the last few days would seem no less complex to a stranger thrust suddenly into it.
He did not consider it however, being for the most part preoccupied by the events that had brought about this improbable change; events that had surged out of nothingness to overturn his bleak, pointless life and thrust him into the circles of Serenstad's most powerful as some kind of a principal player.
But what kind of a player was he? That his life of ale-swilling and corrosive self-pity now seemed to belong to someone else, long ago, was a source of both surprise and satisfaction to him, but with his new-found well-being and increasing excitement about his strange burgeoning skills, came darker thoughts. It was as if he had struggled at last from some great, clinging morass, but finding himself safe on firm ground, armed and armoured even, gradually realized that he was on the enemy's shore. An enemy whose numbers, weapons and intent he knew nothing of. And there was no retreat open to him; he could move only forward. It was not possible for him to return to his old ways now, to plunge back into the morass. Too much had been awakened inside him.
Thus, sensing his charge's preoccupation, Estaan had eventually gently abandoned his instruction for the day and advised his pupil to, ‘Go back to your quarters and sit and think. I'll attend to the other matter you wanted me to look at.'
And thinking for the most part was what Antyr had been doing, though, he mused, shifting position slightly to relieve a stiff leg, to little avail. He had spoken to the Duke and Arwain with great confidence about the possible intentions of the Mynedarion and his guide, and indeed he had felt confident. But who was he to interpret the motives of such creatures, such men?
Yet even on reflection, his conviction did not waver. The Mynedarion and his guide would not return lightly to the Threshold for some time. This had been confirmed when they had faltered at the prospect during the Bethlarii envoy's dream. But why …?
The thoughts circled again.
The Mynedarion's longing for him had been beyond dispute. ‘You shall be my guide,’ the dark figure had said amid the din of the storm, and the memory of the cloying desire that had surrounded the words hung in Antyr's mind like a sickness. But the guide, the Master who had brought the Mynedarion to the Threshold, had been afraid; afraid enough to draw his sword, despite the awesome power of his ghastly companion.
Of what he had been afraid, however, Antyr could only surmise. Was it simply the sight of a stranger approaching him so purposefully? Unlikely, Antyr decided, remembering Nyriall's reference to a battle he had encountered in one of the other Threshold worlds. Some at least of the Threshold worlds were obviously well populated. And the sword had been drawn before Tarrian's and Grayle's hunting spirits had merged with him to make him truly formidable.
Suddenly it came to him that the guide had been afraid to lose his charge. He had been afraid that the Mynedarion would, for some reason, discard him in favour of this new arrival …
An ill-focused power struggle formed in Antyr's mind. Not only was he now a player in the affairs of Serenstad and the Duke, he was a player in the affairs of the Mynedarion and his guide, and who could guess at their intention beyond seemingly fomenting war between Bethlar and Serenstad?
The revelation felt like a step forward, but he could clarify the matter no further. And other thoughts still bewildered him. What had possessed him to venture after Nyriall, to seek out a Dream Finder's dream-the dream that couldn't be-and a dead man's dream at that? And then to walk into that storm, towards the heart of that raging darkness? And as for how he had escaped …? It was beyond Tarrian's or Grayle's ability to tell him. The whole experience seemed to defy all analysis.
His thoughts circled and swirled, and his moods came and went; now fearful, now courageous, now sad, now happy. But he arrived at no conclusions.
He looked down at his two Companions stretched out asleep in front of the fire. Tarrian was on his side with his nose close to the fire, while Grayle was on his back with his front legs daintily crooked in the air and his back legs splayed wide. Had he been awake it would have been a deliberate posture of submission, but now it was simply a brief unstable equilibrium, and very soon he would roll over into some other position.
So relaxed, Antyr thought. Just to watch them motionless was to learn about the true nature of movement.
Then an imp took hold of his foot and poked Tarrian with it.
'Hedonist,’ Antyr said. ‘Why can't you fret awhile like I am instead of hibernating?'
Tarrian did not move but a patronizing sigh filled Antyr's head. ‘We don't need to fret,’ came the reply. ‘You're doing more than enough for us all.'
Grayle chuckled and slowly rolled over.
'Thank you for your support,’ Antyr retorted caustically.
'Our pleasure,’ the two wolves replied simultaneously with some mirth.
'You've both been suspiciously quiet these last two days,’ Antyr said, ignoring their patronizing. ‘What have you been up to apart from finding every eating hall and kitchen in the palace, and ingratiating yourselves with cooks and servants?'
'Thinking, like you. And talking, and listening,’ Tarrian answered.
The reply was more serious than Antyr had expected and for a moment he did not know what to say.
'Talking and listening to whom,’ he said, eventually.
Tarrian struggled to his feet and stretched himself luxuriously before lying down again. ‘Talking to each other. Listening to you,’ he replied.
'To me?’ Antyr said, in some surprise.
'Oh yes,’ Tarrian replied. ‘We're as confused as you about everything that's happened. We need to know what you've made of it all.'
'Precious little, I'm afraid,’ Antyr said, wearily. ‘My thoughts simply go round and round, getting nowhere.'
'You misjudge yourself,’ Tarrian said. ‘Your whirling thoughts are necessary to feed the true knowledge that lies deeper inside you.'
'In my wolf self?’ Antyr retorted ironically; the topic was not unfamiliar.
'Indeed,’ Tarrian replied, in like vein. ‘In your wiser self. The part of you that truly knows, when the thinking mind alone cannot. I've told you often enough, just follow your nose.'
Antyr rubbed his eyes for no particular reason. He did not disagree with his Companion. Dream Finding was a born gift and while, to those possessing it, techniques could be taught and learned, it was at heart beyond rational explanation. And the strange bond between Dream Finder and Companion was rooted in trust; a trust that could only come from some deep inner certainty.
And it must still be so, he realized abruptly. In doing the things that he had done, he had acted correctly. Just as the two wolves, in doing what they had done, had acted correctly. That logical reasons could not immediately be found to justify their actions was irrelevant. Dream Finding came first from within-from a logic not immediately apparent. Whatever attributes had awakened in him must be no different in their nature from those that were already there and which he took for granted. Just like roots hidden in the dark soil. Unseen they grew and changed, and from them, into the light, came trees and flowers and grasses for all to see. And they, in their turn, sustained the roots.
'See. You got there in the end,’ Tarrian said. ‘Laboured away and arrived at the answer you've known all your life.'
Antyr looked at the wolf narrowly, but the comment was straightforward and quite without irony.
True,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But it's not enough. I still feel I must have reins in my hands. Knowledge of what I'm doing. Control over it.'
He faltered and, sitting upright, became agitated. ‘Who knows what these people can do? What powers they can bring against us? Faith in my ordinary Dream Finding skill is one thing. I have experience-past knowledge to guide me. But this …?'
Tarrian crawled along the floor towards him and flopped across his feet. Grayle did the same. Antyr leaned forward and stroked the two wolves. For the moment, it seemed that nothing else could be said about his concerns.
With a brief touch of remorse he turned to the needs of his Companions. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I've been so preoccupied with my own problems I've ignored you entirely, haven't I?’ Under other circumstances such a comment might have provoked an acid response from Tarrian, but all Antyr felt was a wave of understanding and support.
'It's all right,’ Tarrian said. ‘We've had a great deal to talk about and we could do nothing to help you.'
Antyr bent right forward and embraced the two wolves in silence for a long time. ‘Brothers reunited,’ he said eventually. ‘I'm happy for you.’ Then, without thinking, he intruded, ‘How did you come to be separated?'
He tried to call the words back even as he spoke them, but the wolves showed no dismay. ‘It's the way of things,’ Tarrian replied quietly. ‘We were pups together, in the care of others, learning. Then when we had grown, and learned, as we thought, enough, we went our separate ways.'
There was a strange quality in Tarrian's speech that Antyr could not identify. Homesickness …?
Antyr could not keep the next question from his mind. ‘Where do you come from?'
Then, like birds released from a cage, others came; how had Tarrian learned of his strange ability, how had he met his father, how had the two wolves come together in the city and not known of one another?
Flustered by his indiscretion, Antyr struggled to set the questions aside, but Tarrian began to answer them, as if the time was now appropriate.
'We come from a land, far, far away,’ he said, his voice oddly resonant with meanings that Antyr felt inadequate to grasp. ‘We were born, suckled, and orphaned, in the darkness, nurtured and taught in the Great Song, and let free to roam blessed mountains and wide lands unhindered by the men who lived there; men who took joy in our being; saw us for what we were and were unafraid.'
The images in Antyr's mind were vivid and alive, though the words told him nothing.
'And we left unhindered. Drawn away by curiosity…’ Tarrian stopped abruptly. ‘It was a mistake,’ he said. ‘There is no other land or people to compare with…’ Again, Antyr felt and rejoiced in the images, but found he could not form the words that he heard.
'When this is over, perhaps we will return,’ Tarrian concluded.
The words struck Antyr like a spear thrust. He knew that Tarrian was, above all, a free spirit; he could, and would, do as he wished. Yet Antyr had never even contemplated being without his Companion. The joy faded and he went suddenly cold inside. But reassurance came, though unasked for.
'Just a fancy,’ Tarrian said. ‘A human trait we've picked up. Don't fret. It's only humans who live in the past and the future. We live here, in the present. All futures are unknown.'
Antyr made no reply except to stroke the wolf's upturned head.
'How did you come here together?’ he asked, in spite of himself.
'Who can say?’ Tarrian replied. ‘We parted in the wilds as we became wolves again and gathered and guided our own packs. But who knows what powers took us from our packs and led me to your father and Grayle to Nyriall and yet kept us apart?'
There was a mixture of conflicting emotions in his voice and the soft knock on the door that ended their discussion was not unwelcome.
Antyr's thoughts darkened again, however, as he identified the knock as Estaan's. Not because it was the Mantynnai but because the knock was one which Estaan had told him to expect, despite the fact that he had left a guard outside Antyr's room while he was away. It was one of the small tokens that reminded Antyr that now he stood close to the Duke and that he was part of the endless political dance that skipped and stepped through the corridors of the palace and the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. A small part, admittedly, but nonetheless perhaps a part to be manoeuvred by bribery, calumny, gossip, or even assassination if matters grew more heated. Both words and shadows would become different now, and he must learn to listen and watch more carefully. And whether he liked it or not, some of the steps he would have to dance himself.
Then he dismissed the thoughts angrily. He would follow the advice that Ciarll Feranc had given him before his first fraught meeting with the Duke. Be honest and straightforward. And, where possible, silent, he added. He had already learned that for himself watching the conduct of Estaan. What was not said could not be disputed. Grayle and Tarrian wagged their tails faintly at the sound of the knock, but otherwise did not move.
'Thanks for leaping to my defence,’ Antyr said with heavy reproach.
'Go and open the door, and stop moaning,’ Tarrian retorted. ‘Estaan's got a gift for you.'
'Come in,’ Antyr shouted, turning in his chair slightly to see the door better. Estaan entered quietly. He was smiling and carrying a sword and sheath. Antyr stood up to greet him.
'I think this will suit you better than the one I lent you,’ the Mantynnai said. He held out the sword to Antyr who took it gingerly and after a brief hesitation looped the belt about his waist.
The two wolves grudgingly clambered to their feet and ambled across to inspect the weapon. ‘Just something else for me to trip over when I'm in there, I suppose. As if walking on two legs weren't hard enough as it is,’ Tarrian concluded after subjecting the sword to a thorough sniffing. ‘I hope that thing's not sharp, he'll cut something off himself for sure,’ he added.
Antyr did his best to ignore the remark, and cautiously drew the sword. The two wolves scurried away at speed, with mock cries of alarm, to sit side by side against the wall furthest away from him.
'Very droll,’ Antyr said, glowering at them. Then he brandished the sword at them, making Estaan wince and take a pace backward himself. Tarrian laughed.
Antyr blushed and apologized to the Mantynnai. Estaan waved the apology aside, but looked at Antyr doubtfully.
'I've no choice,’ Antyr said, answering the unspoken concern. ‘I know you can't make me into a swordsman, but I need to be armed, and I need to … loosen up what I can remember of my sword drills.'
Estaan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But it's here and here, you need to loosen up as well.’ He tapped his stomach and then his head. ‘Would you like to come down to the training hall for a while?'
Antyr accepted the offer uncertainly. At least it would be something to do other than brood. Besides, despite Tarrian's mockery, he already felt easier with a sword by his side.
The training hall was small and deserted, though, dutiful ever, the Guild of Lamplighters had done their work and it was brightly lit. Countless feet had worn the wooden floor smooth and shiny in places and the characteristic smell of years of heated endeavour pervaded the place. Tarrian muttered something uncomplimentary but Antyr did not catch it.
The walls were without ornamentation and exuded a dusty, no-nonsense utilitarianism indicative of too long without decoration. Completing the exclusively functional appearance and aura of the place were racks of worn and battered training weapons at one end, a series of fading mirrors along one side, and several items of mysterious, but equally worn equipment crowded carelessly into a corner.
'Oh, I brought you these as well,’ Estaan said as he inspected his pupil. He produced two daggers; one, to Antyr's eyes, very large, and one of a more conventional size. Antyr looked at them, unsure of what response he should make apart from a vague, ‘Thank you.'
Estaan clipped the large one on to Antyr's belt and then disappeared behind him to fit the other one horizontally into a sheath at the back of the belt. Then he led Antyr to a chair by the wall.
'Sit down,’ he said.
Antyr did as he was bidden. Estaan watched the awkward performance critically, then beckoning Antyr to rise, made further adjustments to the various sheaths.
After two or three attempts, Antyr protested mildly that, ‘They're all right now, I'll get used to them.’ But Estaan had survived because he knew the importance of small things.
'Riding, walking, running, sitting, standing, lying, you must be comfortable,’ he said, gently brushing the remark aside as he continued adjusting straps and loops on Antyr's sword belt.
And when he had finished, some considerable time later, Antyr was just that. He had run, jumped, walked, sat, lain, and-thanks to some of the equipment in the corner, which, despite its aged appearance proved distressingly effective-demonstrated that he could climb and also sit a saddle without losing his new weapons or tangling himself in them.
'Good, we'll begin,’ Estaan said eventually, just as Antyr was hoping he would say, ‘We'll finish for now.'
His dismay showed, and Estaan chuckled softly. ‘Just a little practice to give you something to think about,’ he said, walking over to the weapons rack and selecting a stout wooden sword.
'Draw your sword,’ he said, as he returned. Self-consciously, Antyr obeyed.
'Now attack me,’ Estaan went on. Antyr frowned and looked at the gleaming edge of the sword in his hand. He was no expert in such matters, but he could see that it had recently been ground and sharpened and he had seen enough on the battlefield to know what appalling injuries a sword could inflict.
'Not with this,’ he replied, making to sheath it. ‘I might make a mistake. I might hurt you.'
Estaan nodded. ‘That's true,’ he agreed. ‘But training is mutual learning. This is for our benefit, not just yours. If you hurt me, the fault is mine.'
Antyr shook his head and did not move.
'Don't worry,’ Estaan said, smiling. ‘I didn't survive so long by taking risks with novices. As soon as you're anything like proficient, you'll be using the wooden sword, and I'll be using the real one.'
Despite this reassurance, Antyr still hesitated.
'A straight lunge is invariably the best attack,’ Estaan offered, encouragingly. ‘Do it slowly if you're worried.'
With an effort, Antyr brought the sword up and lunged weakly towards his mentor. Estaan did not move, and the point stopped half a pace in front of him. He looked down at it wryly, ‘Hardly fatal I think,’ he said. ‘Try again.'
Embarrassment and nervousness vying with one another, Antyr lunged again, a little more purposefully. As the point approached, Estaan walked quietly around it and tapped the extended blade with his wooden training sword. His movement alone took him out of any danger, but the blow further deflected Antyr's lunge and, lightly but definitely, Estaan drew the edge of the training sword along Antyr's throat.
'Don't stop, lunge again,’ he said as Antyr was about to lower his sword and wait for criticism.
After a few minutes of similar futile effort, Antyr, despite himself, began to grow angry at this elusive figure casually avoiding his lunges and poking him with the training sword or drawing its rounded edge across his throat, his wrists, the back of his knees and ankles, and various other places.
Eventually he lowered his sword in frustration. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said irritably, thrusting the weapon back into its sheath.
'No it's not,’ Estaan said quietly. ‘I need to see where you're strong and where you're weak if I'm to help you.'
'What do you keep running away and hitting me with that damned thing for, then?’ Antyr burst out, gesturing towards the training sword and involuntarily denouncing the Mantynnai's calm with his own agitation. ‘Show me something!'
Estaan looked straight at him, his gaze penetrating. ‘First rule when training and practicing is to remember that there's no such thing as training and practicing.'
Antyr's forehead furrowed.
'There is no trying, only doing,’ Estaan went on before Antyr could protest. ‘There's not one way of fighting in here and another out there. If I just drop my guard and debate with you after I've avoided each of your attacks, because this isn't … real … then I'm teaching my mind and my body to do just that, and that's what they might do against a more serious attack.’ He stepped close to Antyr. ‘As it is, I teach my mind and body only how to kill or immobilize you after every one of your attacks. And you will learn to do the same.'
Antyr looked uncertain.
Estaan's manner became unexpectedly stern. ‘No,’ he said, taking Antyr's arm firmly. ‘Have no doubts about this. Grasp it if you grasp nothing else that I tell you, and it'll help you towards the knowledge that might save your life one day.'
'I have used a sword in combat, you know,’ Antyr protested defensively.
Estaan nodded, but there was denial in his expression. ‘You told me you left your sword on the field because of what you'd done with it,’ he said. ‘Injured someone badly, I suppose.'
Despite his sternness, his voice was sympathetic. ‘Saw your flailing, panic-stricken efforts to tear him open and heard him scream. Saw a wild enemy suddenly become an ordinary man who never wanted to be there and who wanted nothing more than to flee. Saw wife, mother, children.'
Antyr closed his eyes in a vain attempt to shut out long-dormant memories suddenly re-awakened. ‘Damn you. It was a battle, man,’ he said, grimacing. ‘We'd no choice. They were through the pikes and splitting the ranks. We had to draw swords and fight or…’ He stopped.
'They'd have killed you.’ Estaan finished the sentence. ‘And many more.'
Antyr turned away from the Mantynnai's gaze. ‘You don't have to justify yourself,’ Estaan said. ‘Least of all to me.'
There was such pain in his voice that Antyr's anger faded.
'Your salve for your memories is that you did what you did to save yourself or your comrades,’ Estaan went on. ‘That's all you're ever going to have. That's all you can possibly have. And if that's insufficient for your pain, then take the sword off now. You'll be safer unarmed.'
His manner was unequivocal.
Antyr gazed at him helplessly. ‘I can't go unarmed,’ he said eventually. ‘But I can't face…’ He grimaced. ‘I can't face that horror again.'
Estaan nodded again and, looking at Antyr very intently, said simply, ‘You can.’ He brought his face close to Antyr's. ‘Because some part of you enjoyed the butchery…'
There was a brief, agonizing silence in the old hall. Antyr tried to denounce the accusation, but the words he wanted refused to be spoken.
'It's in all our natures, Antyr,’ Estaan pressed on, softly relentless. ‘And your only salve for that is that having seen it, you learn to accept it for what it is, and know that when need arises, it is right that it be given rein.'
Antyr gazed from side to side, like a trapped animal looking for escape. But Estaan's brutal honesty permitted no flight. Antyr felt tears filling his eyes.
'You've no right to speak like that,’ he managed hoarsely and pathetically.
'I've no right not to,’ Estaan replied softly. ‘If I'm to give you such a weapon and show you how to use it. If I'm to let you go to face unknown enemies, while you're not aware of the realities of your own nature … of combat…'
With a desperate effort, Antyr found his voice. He tore away from Estaan. ‘I need no lectures from anyone about the realities of fighting,’ he shouted angrily. ‘I may not be any great soldier, but I've stood in the line and held, with arrows and missiles falling all around. And people and horses screaming and dying.’ He shook his head as if to dispel the sound. ‘I've seen … comrades, enemies … who cares … whimpering and howling, with limbs half hacked off … bodies trampled under countless hooves … brains and guts leaking into the mashed earth, great feathered arrows sticking out of gaping faces and barbed heads sticking out through backs…'
He fell suddenly silent. The pain of the old memories made him want to lash out, to strike someone down. He raised his hand towards Estaan. ‘Why do you pursue such a calling?’ he asked, his face almost scornful.
Estaan started slightly.
Antyr felt a gasp in his head and then the word, ‘Gently', followed in its wake. Tarrian and Grayle spoke simultaneously, and with such feeling that, despite his own pain, the judgement he had offered Estaan for his cruel honesty seemed to fly in his own face.
'I'm sorry…’ he began, but Estaan waved his apology aside sadly.
'I do it because it's the right thing for me to do,’ he said simply. ‘How that came to be, I won't discuss with you. But I learned long ago that such skills and self-knowledge as I have I must place between those who are possessed by their destructive natures and those who cannot adequately protect themselves.'
Antyr made to speak again, but Estaan continued. ‘I look at Ibris and his great city, so full of beautiful things, and I watch him strive endlessly to make it more beautiful, and to tear the whole land away from its obscene and bloody history into a future where war becomes a sick and distant memory.’ Passion seeped into his voice. ‘Creation is the work of lifetimes, Dream Finder, destruction the work of moments; a knife, a hammer, a flame. I take pride that I can use my own dark skills in the ways of destruction to protect creation from destruction.'
Antyr looked at the Mantynnai and, for a brief moment, felt the man's wholeness, his inner balance. Felt his understanding of the terrible deeds that lie within the depths of all men, and felt the will that had accepted them and that strove to use them as servants not masters. Here indeed, he realized, was a man from whom he could, and should, learn much.
'I'm sorry,’ he said again, after a long silence. His demeanour added content to the inadequate words. ‘I was wrong to reproach you. I'll do as you say. I'm ready to learn whatever you're prepared to teach.'
Estaan smiled slightly and bowed.
The brief outburst had been in some way cathartic and Antyr seemed to feel that both his mind and his body were moving more easily now.
Without speaking, they resumed their practice, Antyr gradually gathering the courage to attack more purposefully, and Estaan continuing to avoid the attacks effortlessly and deliver his painless but lethal counters.
After a little while, Estaan called a halt and they sat down on the floor.
'I'm not telling you anything you don't know when I tell you that you're no sword master, am I?’ he said.
Antyr, breathing heavily and wiping his forehead with a kerchief, shook his head.
'Still,’ Estaan went on. ‘I've seen worse, by far, and there are one or two little things-simple straightforward things-that we can work on, that you'll find helpful, as well as…’ He tapped his forehead with a smile. ‘Also you need more exercise. You're not in the best of condition.’ His smile broadened as Antyr looked at his sweat-soiled kerchief. ‘The heart of your personal combat strategy is going to be flight; you understand that, I know, and you'll need to be as fit for that as for fighting.'
Antyr lay back on the hard, wooden floor and nodded again, ‘I'd forgotten how hard all this business was. Can't I be excused effort, on compassionate grounds?’ he pleaded faintly.
'I have no compassion,’ Estaan replied, grinning.
Antyr groaned softly.
'Don't worry, I've not lost a trainee yet,’ Estaan went on unsympathetically. He stood up. ‘But I've seen enough, and you've done enough for now. What I want you to do now is think.'
With a remarkable lack of both grace and dignity, Antyr managed to struggle to his feet. ‘I understand,’ he replied. Estaan took his arm and began leading him towards the door. Tarrian and Grayle padded after them.
'Think about the question you asked me,’ Estaan replied. ‘And apply it to yourself. Why do you wish to carry a sword? Turn it round and round, and don't turn away from your darker nature.'
Later, washed and rested, Antyr lay back in his bed and did as he had been told. A single lamp on a nearby table threw comforting shadows about the room.
It took him a little thought, however, to reach a conclusion and see the implications. In his anger he had demanded that Estaan justify himself for being what he was, and, to his distress, he had received an answer. This must now be his own, though the motivation was more selfish than the Mantynnai's.
He was entitled to carry a sword and, should need arise, protect himself from the strange, armed figures who stalked the Threshold. He would seek no confrontation, but if it were forced upon him-forced upon him-then the consequences, however horrific, were not his responsibility. He must harness the will of the darkness within him, keeping at bay its bloodlust if he could. He must strike; strike hard, strike fast; strike without pity; strike unencumbered by screaming bloodstained memories, past or future; strike from that most ancient need, the need to survive. Then and only then should he stay his hand.
'Very complicated creatures, people, aren't they?'
Tarrian's voice intruded into his conclusion. ‘Rambling round and round just to reach the blindingly obvious.'
Antyr reached out and lowered the lamp's flame to a tiny point. ‘Go to sleep, dog,’ he said, and, much more quickly than he had for several nights, he drifted gently off to sleep.