Dream Finder

by Roger Taylor

  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.