by Roger Taylor
‘Leave us,’ Menedrion said, after a moment.
‘Sir?’ The bodyguard hesitated, casting another wary glance at Antyr and Tarrian. ‘The wolf . . .’
‘Leave us!’ Menedrion shouted angrily, then, relenting almost immediately, he gave an uncharacteristic smile of self-reproach and reached out a placatory hand. ‘There’s no danger here. Truly, no danger,’ he said, his smile broadening. ‘None that I can’t handle now I’m awake, anyway,’ he added. ‘Just a particularly strange and vivid dream. And I need to talk to the Dream Finder alone about it now.’
Reassured by Menedrion’s easier manner the bodyguard did as he was bidden, albeit with some reluctance. ‘I shall be within call, sir,’ he said with quiet defiance, as he bent down to pick up his knife. Menedrion nodded.
When the bodyguard had left, however, Menedrion’s façade cracked and the tumult beneath burst through.
‘What happened, Dream Finder?’ he said, his eyes wide with anger and fear. ‘That was not the dream I had last night. The place was the same, and the enemy, but it wasn’t my dream. And you were not there then. It was some other . . . person . . . and they possessed me. Somewhere between sleep and waking . . .’ His final words tailed off.
‘I know it wasn’t your dream, sir,’ Antyr replied simply. ‘But I don’t know what happened.’
The answer did not please Menedrion. ‘I warn you, Dream Finder. Peddle me no foolishness in the hope of wringing yourself a higher fee, or ingratiating yourself at court,’ he said grimly. ‘I’m no empty-headed courtier’s woman to be gulled by such tricks, and you’ll find that life can become most unpleasant if you think otherwise. Do you understand that fully?’
‘I do, sir,’ Antyr replied with as much dignity as he could muster in the face of Menedrion’s powerful presence. ‘And I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know what happened just now. I’ve never known anything like it before, nor have I heard or read of such a thing. Nor has Tarrian, who worked with my father for many years before he came to me.’
Menedrion looked at him narrowly.
‘You came highly recommended, Antyr,’ he said darkly. ‘You’re a Guildsman. Dreams and all to do with dreams are your province. “I don’t know” won’t do. What use is a farrier who doesn’t know how to shoe a horse? Or a fletcher who doesn’t know how to make an arrow?’ He pointed at Antyr threateningly, and spoke very slowly. ‘Now, stop this nonsense and tell me what happened?’
Antyr swallowed. ‘You were attacked, Lord Menedrion. I . . . we don’t know how, or why, or by whom. But you were attacked here today just as surely as we were at Herion.’ Released, Antyr’s words became almost a babble. ‘It was not a dream we found ourselves in, nor any dream you’ve ever had. Had that been so, I’d have been you within it. A Dream Finder can’t be separate from the dreamer. That’s . . .’ He waved his hands in search of a word. ‘Basic . . . Fundamental . . . Just not possible – any more than I could occupy your place in that chair while you’re in it when we’re awake. We were in another place . . .’
‘In another place,’ Menedrion echoed in exasperation. ‘How could we be in another place when we never left this one, man? Did we saddle up and ride there? Grow wings and fly? I warn you, Dream Finder . . .’
Antyr flinched at the growing menace in Menedrion’s voice and his throat went dry. ‘Sir, if I could say anything that would remove me from your anger, I would say it. But it would be a betrayal on my part to speak anything other than the truth . . .’
‘Truth! What truth?’ Menedrion burst out. ‘If you know the truth then tell me.’
‘ . . . The truth as I see it,’ Antyr finished. ‘And the truth is, that I don’t know what the truth is.’ Menedrion stood up. Antyr raised a hand. ‘Sir, I beg of you, listen to me . . .’
‘Listen to a babbler, who doesn’t even know his own trade?’
Some part of Antyr’s infantry training fastened his feet to the floor in spite of his overwhelming desire to flee. An unexpected twist of anger curled inside him. ‘Sir,’ he almost shouted. ‘I didn’t tout for your business like some lick-spittle court tailor. You chose me. You had me sought out and brought here. You asked me to search for your dream. Sir, I do know my trade. Better than many. But you must let me think . . .’
Menedrion clenched his massive fists.
‘I can’t stop you doubting me, sir,’ Antyr went on, still just managing to hold his ground. ‘But . . .’ Inspiration came, from his own remark earlier. ‘Go to the Guild. Ask anyone there – anyone – if it’s possible for Dreamer and Finder to be separate as we were.’
The room fell very silent as he stopped speaking.
‘If he attacks me, do nothing,’ Antyr said privately to Tarrian, even though he knew the request was pointless.
‘That’s not in my choice, you know that,’ Tarrian confirmed. ‘But I don’t think he’s going to. I think you’ve held his charge, pikeman.’ There was relief in the remark, not flippancy, but Tarrian’s manner was distracted, as if he were listening to something very carefully. ‘He’s so confused I can barely snatch a coherent thought,’ he said. Then he paused, and Antyr caught a whiff of his irritated concentration. ‘But he’s thinking as well as he’s able under the circumstances.’ Another pause. ‘He’s frightened and he wants help. But he’s lucid enough to see that whether he doubts or believes you, there are problems he’d rather not face . . .’
The silence grew. ‘He wants simplicity, Antyr. Battlefield simplicity . . .’
Antyr seized the moment even before Tarrian could finish. ‘We find ourselves side by side in the same rank, sir,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Trust is something that perhaps we have no choice about.’
Menedrion’s expression changed slightly, and his manner became quieter, less menacing.
‘He thinks he’s going mad,’ Tarrian said quickly, as if just glimpsing some fleeting prey.
Antyr had been avoiding Menedrion’s gaze so far, mindful of the Lord’s first reaction. Now he straightened up and looked at him directly. Menedrion flinched, but this time it was he who held his ground.
‘There’s a danger here, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘To you and, I suspect, to others. A danger that’s none of our creating. A danger from . . . somewhere outside. From someone outside. And it’s as real a threat as Bethlarii bigotry and malice. That I’m certain of, though I know no more, except that only a Dream Finder can help oppose it.’ He hurried on before Menedrion could accuse him of self-seeking again. ‘Whether me, or another, doesn’t matter. And I waive any fee for this day’s work. But ask the question of the Guild that I gave you before you decide my fate, or what you should do next. And if I can serve you again, I will.’
There was another long silence. ‘From outside?’ Menedrion said, eventually.
‘Yes, sir,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion’s brow furrowed and he shook his head as if to dispel too many conflicting ideas. ‘How can you know that this . . . dream . . . wasn’t from somewhere inside, some strange disturbance of the mind?’
Antyr in his turn shook his head, but with the confidence of a man certain in his resolution. ‘How do you know when to commit your forces in battle, sir?’ Antyr replied. ‘You do it when your head and your stomach tell you, and they know through years of study and experience. So I know. But where a battle decision is subtle and difficult, and fraught with hazard, this is as clear to me as knowing that I’m here now and not out in the fog. And . . .’ He stopped.
‘And?’ Menedrion demanded.
Antyr took a deep breath. ‘And I’ve felt a similar assault . . . a presence . . . in the dream of another before . . .’
‘Who? When?’ Menedrion leaned forward, his eyes wide. ‘What happened?’
‘I can’t tell you who, sir, or what happened,’ Antyr replied nervously. ‘Not without the dreamer’s permission. Their secrets are as sound with me as are yours. But it was very recent.’ Then, anxious to deflect Menedrion’s curiosity, ‘And I too have been . . . sought out by some stran
ge . . . power. I was about to seek the help of another Dream Finder when your men found me at the Guild House.’
Menedrion put his hand to his head. Trust and angry doubt distorted his features. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a while. ‘You seem honest enough. And I’m no bad judge of men usually. But all this is beyond me . . .’ He clenched his fist and looked at it as if wishing to see a sword there and a problem that it could solve.
‘You mentioned farriers and fletchers, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘You can judge their work by your own needs for what they make, but isn’t the finding and casting of iron a mystery quite beyond you? And the choosing of woods and feathers?’
Menedrion looked at him suspiciously. His ownership of many of the city’s workshops and forges was an object of some cautious superciliousness by certain factions of the court. However, he sensed no subtle insult. ‘That’s not the same,’ he said, flatly.
‘It’s exactly the same,’ Antyr risked. ‘Judge me by my deeds so far. You can inquire of others afterwards, and I’m powerless before you.’
Menedrion did not answer.
‘Tell me about the dream you had that sent you looking for me, sir,’ Antyr said, picking up the chair he had been using, and forcing himself to relax. ‘You said it was the same place, and the same enemy . . . and that someone possessed you.’
Still Menedrion did not speak.
‘Sir?’ Antyr prompted. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
Menedrion scowled. ‘What will happen when I sleep again?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Despite himself, Antyr grimaced. Menedrion had voiced the concern that had been hovering on the edges of his own thoughts.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ he answered immediately and straightforwardly. Then, more insistently, ‘But tell me about the dream that’s disturbed you and why you sent for me instead of one of the more . . . popular . . . Dream Finders who tend courtiers, Senedwrs and the like.’
‘Your name was given to me by my mother,’ Menedrion said irritably, annoyed at being distracted from his main anxiety. ‘What relevance is that?’ he added, though in a tone that suggested he wanted no answer.
Nefron!
It was not, as Menedrion had said, of any relevance to their present problem, but to Antyr it was a matter for some alarm, and he recoiled inwardly from the revelation, as he felt himself take an inadvertent step into the treacherous marshland of palace politics.
No one at the palace knew him – even the porter at the Guild House didn’t know him! No one except those few who had been involved in his visit to the Duke. His name could only have come to her attention through one of these, who must be among the Duke’s chosen. He felt chilled at the thought of his name being bandied about such politically charged circles. Another loose piece to be discarded when the play was over!
For a moment the fear of the very real dangers that faced casual players in Serenstad’s political life set aside the darker mysteries that were waiting in the shadow lands of sleep.
‘Forget it!’ Tarrian said, sharply, jolting him back to the present. ‘The danger there is only for those who threaten others. Concentrate on the matter in hand, that’s far more serious.’
‘The dream, sir,’ Antyr persisted, accepting Tarrian’s advice. Another military analogy occurred to him. ‘I must have intelligence about our enemy if I’m to decide what to do.’
Menedrion grunted, then, a little self-consciously, he retold the tale he had told to his mother a few hours earlier, neglecting the assault on the girl. When he had finished, he looked at Antyr.
‘And can I sleep tonight?’ he asked again.
Antyr pondered what Menedrion had told him, but it gave him no insight. Rather, it raised more questions and uncertainties. He felt his feet reach the end of the road and an abyss open up in front of him. ‘I still don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘I see two choices. Tarrian and I can stay and watch over you tonight, or I can seek out the other Dream Finder I mentioned.’
Menedrion frowned. ‘What prevents you doing both?’ he asked.
‘Nyriall lives in the Moras district,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion’s frown deepened and he looked Antyr up and down. ‘You’re precious little advertisement for your trade, yourself, Antyr,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me that this person you need advice from isn’t some senior Guildsman, but someone even more impoverished than you!’
Antyr’s temper flared abruptly. ‘When you go into battle do you use a ceremonial sword, sir? Embossed, engraved, inlaid, beautified – useless? Or do you choose a simple well-balanced one that will hold its edge?’
Menedrion sat up and glared at him. ‘Curb your insolence, Dream Finder,’ he said angrily. But he answered the question. ‘I use a sword I’ve used before. One I know I can rely on.’ And he went no further with his rebuke. Nor did Antyr apologize.
Menedrion stood up purposefully. ‘You’ll have to stay here, then,’ he said. ‘Though it’s damned inconvenient. I had . . . plans . . . for tonight. Still, you can’t go wandering round the Moras at this time, especially with the fog coming down again. And I’m not sending an escort in, it’d start a riot for sure.’ He banged his fist into his hand and swore in frustration.
‘We needn’t disturb your plans, sir,’ Antyr said helpfully. ‘We don’t need to be in the same chamber, just nearby will suffice. And we can’t begin our watch until you’re asleep anyway.’
This seemed to mollify Menedrion to some extent, but a knocking on the door forestalled any further debate.
‘Come in,’ he shouted.
The door opened to reveal the woman who had escorted Antyr through the palace. She beckoned Menedrion forward and there was a brief whispered conversation.
When it was finished, the woman left and Menedrion turned to Antyr, frowning. ‘Come with me. I’ll find a servant to look after you,’ he said. ‘An urgent matter has arisen.’
Chapter 15
Menedrion looked round the room as he closed the door. His father, Aaken Uhr Candessa, Ciarll Feranc, and Arwain were seated in a wide circle and there were no servants or guards present.
His father turned towards him as he entered, and the other three stood up.
It needed no great perception on Menedrion’s part to know that he had entered into the middle of a vigorous debate. Indeed, he got the impression of the last words fading into the corners of the room even as he took in the fact that his father’s mood was stern. He braced himself.
‘Gracious of you to favour us with your presence, Menedrion,’ Ibris said caustically, before his son could offer any greetings.
Menedrion looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, less than diplomatically.
‘What’s the matter is that I’ve had the palace turned upside down trying to find you all day,’ Ibris replied. ‘While you’ve been doubtless dallying in the arms of your latest paramour, we’ve had the privilege of a visit from a Bethlarii envoy no less. Why the devil don’t you tell one of your secretaries where you’re going occasionally instead of using them to cover your tracks?’ He began to warm to his topic. ‘My God, we could have had the whole Bethlarii army at the palace gates by now while everybody was wandering round looking . . .’
Aaken cleared his throat awkwardly.
Ibris cast him an irritated look but stopped his diatribe with a snort. ‘Well, at least you’re here now, anyway,’ he concluded reluctantly. ‘On reflection, it’s perhaps as well you weren’t at the audience.’
Menedrion’s mouth dropped open as he floundered between preparing an account of his day, and shock at Ibris’s news. ‘What do you mean, audience? Bethlarii envoy?’ he managed, eventually.
But Ibris had returned his attention to the others. ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ he said to them with a wave of his arm. ‘And Irfan, find yourself a chair and sit down as well. There . . .’ He pointed a busy finger. ‘Next to Aaken. He’ll tell you what’s happened.’
He was barely two minutes into hi
s renewed discussion with Feranc and Arwain, however, when Menedrion escaped Aaken’s telling and his voice exploded over the proceedings.
‘What?’ he thundered, jumping to his feet.
‘Sit down, Irfan!’ His father’s equally loud, but more authoritative voice made Menedrion rock back on his heels. When he recovered, he leaned forward towards his father. ‘You hanged them all, of course,’ he said.
‘I hanged nobody, Irfan,’ Ibris said in weary frustration. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to restrain your behaviour? Will you sit down and listen, and use your head for once.’
‘But you can’t let them . . .’
‘Sit down, damn it!’ Ibris declared definitively.
Menedrion held his gaze defiantly for a moment then turned his face away sharply and dropped heavily back into his chair. It creaked in protest.
Ibris winced at the chair’s distress. ‘Irfan,’ he said deliberately. ‘When you can make a chair as fine as that, you can treat it like that. Otherwise, don’t!’ Then, in continuing exasperation. ‘I don’t know how long it’s going to take you to take you to grasp this. You’ll be Duke one day. You must control your tongue. You must control everything. An outburst like that could launch an army, and impetuosity like that could send it to its doom.’
‘There was no one here to see it,’ Menedrion protested unconvincingly.
‘There’s everyone who matters here,’ Ibris replied angrily. ‘And you’d have behaved just the same in the market place.’ Menedrion pondered a reply, then rejected it. Grinding his teeth, he folded his arms and sat back.
‘Good,’ Ibris said. ‘That’s a start. Next, learn to control your face.’
Then, placatory, ‘I understand your anger, Irfan. God knows I do. My reaction was the same.’ He almost snarled. ‘It still is,’ he added viciously. ‘But there’s obviously a lot more going on here than meets the eye. You’re commander enough to smell an ambush and to know the importance of good intelligence and careful planning. This business needs thought and consideration before it needs action.’