Dream Finder Read online

  ‘And has it?’ Antyr asked.

  Tarrian tilted his head on one side. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? Talking, searching. Instead of you pickling your brains in the inn and me fretting in a corner and the future looking blacker and blacker for both of us.’

  Antyr let out a noisy breath. ‘I’d have appreciated something clearer,’ he said. ‘Something that might have given us a clue about what’s happening before I go to sleep tonight.’

  ‘Look at the book again then,’ Tarrian offered.

  Antyr hesitated. Despite the increased light from the hissing lamp the picture still disturbed him.

  ‘Is one man with a lamp worse than the Bethlarii cavalry?’ Tarrian asked, sensing his concern. ‘And are you going to stand in terror of a mere picture?’

  Antyr looked down at the book and forced his mind to accept the logic of Tarrian’s words, though it proved to be no easy task. The image in the illustration was almost identical to his vision of the previous night and he could feel a primitive terror teetering at the edges of his mind.

  ‘A book,’ he said to himself deliberately. ‘Just a book. Paper, ink, men’s words.’

  Men’s ancient memories, came the thought, but he brushed it aside.

  Then he reached out and idly flicked over a few pages.

  There were other illustrations scattered through the book, many of which had obviously been drawn by the same hand. But none of them produced any reaction and finally he returned to the figure with the lamp.

  Marastrumel, the Evil Weaver, he mused as he read the text. Throughout most of the land, Marastrumel was the traditional personification of all things evil; the balancing force, some would say, of MaraVestriss the Creator of all Things, or in Dream Finding legend, the Weaver of the Great Dream.

  The old tale was still vivid within him, from the many tellings he had made his father recite when a child.

  MaraVestriss, it was said, came from the timeless time beyond all beginnings and, knowing himself to be, filled the universe with his searing greatness and then wove his joy into the Great Dream. And such was the greater joy that he found in this labour that he created Marastrumel to be his companion and helpmate and to share in his joy. But Marastrumel was flawed, or, as some would have it, he was the finest creation of MaraVestriss’s art, and was more perfect even than his creator. Whatever the truth, and it is beyond the gift of mere men to judge such matters, Marastrumel grew to despise MaraVestriss. And, too, he began to be consumed by a desire to possess the Great Dream for his own.

  But he was cunning and kept his true intent well hidden from MaraVestriss, dutifully working as he was bidden yet endeavouring constantly to fathom the mystery of MaraVestriss’s subtle weave so that he might secretly change the design for his own ends.

  Then MaraVestriss declared that the Great Dream was complete and he stood back and took joy in the totality of his creation.

  But Marastrumel, fearful that the Great Dream would be withheld from him forever, came to him and said, ‘Look, the work is yet incomplete. See, here is imperfection, and here, and here. Surely only the merest touch will draw tight these blemishes and render perfect your design.’

  But MaraVestriss shook his head and laid a hand on Marastrumel’s arm. ‘These blemishes are the least that can be,’ he said. ‘Only in the timeless time was there perfection, when none was there to see it. Then I became, and saw, and knew that I had become. But in my becoming and seeing and knowing there was separateness, and separateness is imperfection. The Great Dream is completed and can be made no better.’

  And Marastrumel, fearful of MaraVestriss’s sternness, fell silent, and pretended to take joy in wandering through the Great Dream. But his lust to possess and change it grew as he wandered through its many wonders, and, eventually, in great secrecy, he laid his hand to the weave and drew out one of the offending blemishes.

  But the Great Dream was woven from a single thread, and to touch one part was to touch all others, and on the instant, MaraVestriss knew of the deed, and with a wave of his hand, he spanned the Dream and stood before the errant Marastrumel.

  ‘Look,’ he cried, in dismay. ‘See the harm your folly has wrought. That which you have removed from here has been multiplied tenfold across the Dream. Why did you do this thing?’

  But Marastrumel looked upon his creator with scorn.

  ‘I did this because you would not, because your eyes are too dim, your mind too slow and your will inadequate. I shall achieve the perfection that you deny the Dream.’

  ‘No!’ said MaraVestriss angrily. ‘It cannot be. You would unravel all into chaos in your arrogance and your ignorance. You are banished from the Dream. Go now lest I unmake you as easily as I made you.’

  And though Marastrumel was wroth, he feared MaraVestriss, knowing that in truth, his eye and his mind were sound and true, and his will was not to be defied.

  And he set forth immediately for the edge of the Dream. But as he neared it, he turned. And seeing his creator distracted by the damage that had been wrought and by the deep sorrow and pain of their parting, he seized a part of the Dream and driving his powerful hands into the fabric, strove to tear it asunder.

  But the fabric of the Great Dream could not be torn, for the one thread was of the nature of the timeless time and was indivisible. But so great was Marastrumel’s strength in his anger that he split the weave and plunged his hands between and beyond and a strange new pattern was formed, the like of which was not to be found throughout the whole of the Great Dream, so pained and tortured was it.

  And in this pattern could be seen the world of men, each of whom bore within him the shadow of his two creators.

  And fearful of MaraVestriss’s anger at this deed, Marastrumel wrenched free his hands recklessly, injuring them sorely. And, in great pain, he fled the Great Dream, departing into the outer silence.

  But MaraVestriss had no true anger for his child and he looked upon the fleeing figure only with sadness. For he had seen that Marastrumel had so harmed his hands that he would weave no more. Then he turned his gaze to the strange new pattern that had been made and he pondered.

  For though the damage had been done to but the tiniest portion of the Great Dream, yet also it was great, and he saw that in its repair there would lie yet greater harm to the Dream. And, too, he saw that this strange new pattern was one beyond his imagining and that it held many great wonders, such as the world of men, and other worlds, and the rich layered world of dreams within the Dream.

  And he asked himself, ‘How could this, which is beyond my imagining, have come about?’

  But he could find no answer.

  Then, for the first time, he asked, ‘How was it that out of the timeless time, I became?’

  And still there was no answer.

  And the strangeness of the pattern haunted him, so deliberate and purposeful did it seem; so well wrought despite the manner of its making. So MaraVestriss knew that he too was ignorant and he turned from the Great Dream and resolved to seek an answer to his question elsewhere before he could turn his hand to mending this strange, chance, pattern.

  But before he departed, he looked again at the world of men newly formed within the weave of the Dream. And he saw pain from the manner of its making and in its separateness from the Great Dream. So, in response to some unspoken voice, he touched the pattern gently, giving to certain of mankind the skill to weave the fabric of the Great Dream themselves. And these were the Mynedarion, though in his wisdom MaraVestriss left them unaware of his touch.

  And he gave to others the skill to walk amid the world of dreams within the Dream.

  And these were the Dream Finders.

  And MaraVestriss departed to seek an answer to his question.

  But from the silence beyond, Marastrumel, still lusting for possession of the Great Dream, had seen his final touch. And when MaraVestriss had departed, he returned stealthily and sought among mankind to find the Mynedarion, hoping through them to reshape the
Great Dream in accordance with his own will.

  But they were few, and mankind was many. And their gift was hidden in the finest of the fine weaves of the pattern, and save for the occasional chance, he could not find them.

  ‘But he searches still,’ Antyr said into the library gloom, finishing the remembered tale and recalling how he would dive under the bed covers when his father reached this traditional end with mock menace. It was a warm, comforting memory.

  There was a long silence, during which only the hissing of the lamp could be heard. Antyr could feel Tarrian wanting to say, ‘A creation myth, nothing more. There are many such,’ but he could also feel uncertainty restraining him.

  ‘It is a creation myth,’ he admitted, sparing Tarrian his debate. ‘But even as that it must be the shadow of some dark reality. And that reality seems to be alive and happening to us now, doesn’t it?’

  Tarrian made no reply.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Antyr asked.

  Tarrian shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All I can think of is that we keep searching through the legends for some kind of a clue.

  Antyr looked at the picture again. At worst, his finding it was a remarkable coincidence. On the other hand . . .

  Tarrian interrupted. ‘Doesn’t the legend tell about some of the Dream Finders arming themselves to protect the Mynedarion and oppose the will of Marastrumel?’

  Antyr recalled his thoughts as he and Tarrian had talked together after leaving the Duke the previous night.

  ‘Yes. They were the Dream Warriors. Adepts of the White Way.’

  Antyr and Tarrian stared at one another. Neither had spoken. Then a shadowy figure emerged silently from a gap between the shelves nearby. It stopped, and turned towards them. Then it emitted a blood-curdling shriek of rage.

  Chapter 10

  Antyr jumped to his feet in terror, and Tarrian, tail well between his legs, scuttled behind him, crouching low.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,’ the figure said hastily, stepping forward and waving a reassuring hand. ‘I’m afraid it’s Kany, my Companion, he’s just realized that your Companion’s a wolf.’ There was a pause as the figure craned forward, obviously listening to something intently. Antyr caught part of a high-pitched and earnest babble. ‘And that he’s just eaten a rabbit,’ the figure concluded, his voice fading into nothingness as the sentence proceeded, so that the word ‘rabbit’ was mouthed significantly rather than spoken.

  Antyr’s wits cleared sufficiently for him to see that he was being addressed by an old man, grey-bearded, hunched and frail.

  ‘You frightened us half to death,’ he said, both more loudly and more aggressively than he had really intended. ‘Coming out of the shadows like that . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the figure apologized again. ‘I can see I’ve upset you.’ He held out his hand. ‘My name’s Pandra, Indares Pandra. I’m afraid we dropped off when we were reading and when we woke we accidentally overheard your conversation.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly.

  ‘You mean you were eavesdropping,’ Tarrian said, erect now, and mildly indignant as he stepped out from behind Antyr.

  The old man began a long and pensive, ‘Er . . .’ which was obviously rising to buttress a strong denial, but which concluded in a staccato ‘Yes’ as the speaker opted for the truth at the last moment.

  ‘Forgive me . . . us,’ he added.

  The sudden slide into abject contrition released Antyr’s tension and made him smile. His still uncertain legs however, prompted him to sit down again and he indicated a nearby chair for the new arrival.

  The old man hesitated for a moment.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tarrian said, his voice echoing slightly so that Antyr knew he was speaking so that both Pandra and his Companion could hear. ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, you savage,’ came the high-pitched voice that Antyr had heard briefly before. ‘I’ll have your snout off if you give me any trouble.’

  Somewhat to Antyr’s surprise, Tarrian sat down looking rather sheepish and made no attempt to answer this seemingly unwarranted abuse. Then, as Pandra sat down, he pulled from the pocket of his gown a black rabbit. It was quite small, but its ears were well chewed and its face was scarred, giving it a distinctly bad-tempered, not to say ruffianly, appearance. After a pause for a long and rather laboured scratch it scuffled lopsidedly to the edge of the table and peered over at Tarrian.

  Antyr caught a whiff of some swift animal exchange between the two, during which Tarrian spent most of the time with his ears drawn back while Kany chattered his teeth fiercely at him. Then, after some hesitation, Tarrian craned forward slowly, and rabbit and wolf touched noses briefly.

  Antyr knew better than to inquire into the details of the debate. Companions were necessarily wild and free, and their animal affairs were very much their own, as most Dream Finders usually discovered quite early in their careers.

  Satisfied, however, that the two Companions had made some kind of a professional peace – albeit, he suspected, based on a mutual dislike of ‘moggies’ – Antyr turned again to the old man.

  ‘Perhaps it’s we who should apologize for waking you with our noise,’ he said. ‘We thought we were alone.’

  Pandra shook his head. ‘No, it’s fortunate you came,’ he said. ‘We could have slept till Dreamsend if you hadn’t. I doubt anyone is likely to be down here before then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Antyr agreed regretfully, though smiling again at the old man’s manner. ‘I was surprised to see the place so deserted. It used to be so busy once.’

  ‘Before your time, though, I suspect,’ Pandra replied, then he looked at Antyr intently. ‘What’s your name, young man?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got the look of someone.’

  Antyr introduced himself.

  Pandra’s eyes narrowed. ‘Antyr,’ he said, testing the name for a moment before realization dawned. ‘You’re not Petran’s lad, are you?’ he asked.

  Antyr nodded. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Well, well. Fancy that,’ Pandra exclaimed, ignoring the question but sitting up and smiling broadly. ‘Kany, it’s Petran’s lad.’

  ‘I heard,’ said the rabbit irritably.

  Pandra continued, unabashed by his Companion’s manner.

  ‘Well, well,’ he repeated. ‘I should have known from the wolf, I suppose. They’re not common these days. Now what’s your name, Antyr’s Companion? Don’t tell me.’ He turned his face up towards the gloomy darkness of the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Tra . . . Tra . . . Tranian . . . no . . . Tarrian, that was it. Tarrian. Well, well. Don’t you remember him, sitting alongside Petran, Kany?’

  ‘All carnivores look the same to me,’ Kany replied testily, muttering as an afterthought, ‘all teeth, curled lips, and slobber.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Pandra mouthed softly to Antyr. ‘Neither his memory nor his manners are what they were once.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Kany said. Pandra stroked him gently and made a clicking noise with his tongue.

  He looked at Antyr and shook his head proprietorially. ‘It’s good to see you, Antyr,’ he said. ‘I can just about remember you as a little thing by your father’s side. I didn’t know him well, you understand. I don’t think anyone really did. He was a bit stiff in his ways. But he was a fine man. Great integrity. Knew his craft, and always willing to help. He was highly regarded by those who mattered. I was shocked when he died so suddenly.’

  He pursed his lips reflectively.

  ‘Let’s leave,’ Tarrian said privately to Antyr. ‘We’ve things to do and we’re going to get his life story in a minute.’

  Antyr flicked him with his foot discreetly.

  ‘He used to worry about you, as I remember,’ Pandra went on. ‘Used to say you were something special, but he didn’t know what. Still, that’s parents for you, isn’t it. Fuss and fret. Think their kids are going to be great artists, or Senedwrs, or some such, but you go your
own way in the end, don’t you? End up like the rest of us. Getting by. Earning a crust. Fussing and fretting over your own children in your turn.’

  ‘Antyr . . .’ Tarrian murmured significantly.

  ‘Do you remember anything particular that my father said about me?’ Antyr said, on an impulse. Tarrian let out an audible sigh and flopped down on the floor.

  Pandra shook his head. ‘To be honest, I can’t say that I do, Antyr,’ he replied. ‘It was just fathers’ talk, and as I say, I didn’t know him all that well. He was always a bit distant.’

  His eyes met Antyr’s. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Antyr was about to shrug off his inquiry casually, but something in Pandra’s gaze drew him forward. ‘I’ve a problem,’ he said somewhat to his own surprise. ‘Something strange has happened – to both of us.’ He indicated Tarrian. ‘And I, we, just don’t know what to make of it or where to turn for advice.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Pandra said sympathetically, but not particularly hopefully. ‘If I can help you I will, of course, but I’m very slow these days, virtually retired now. Very much out of touch with modern developments.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a modern problem,’ Antyr said. ‘I think it might be a very old one.’

  ‘Ah. I wondered what you were doing thinking about the MaraVestriss legend.’ Kany’s high-pitched voice interrupted the conversation. ‘What were you looking for?’

  Though the rabbit looked old, the curiosity in its voice was that of inquiring and vigorous youth, and both Antyr and Tarrian started.

  Pandra lifted a restraining hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid Kany’s very nosy. Not to say rude.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Kany ignoring the comment.

  ‘I don’t know what we were looking for, but this is what we found,’ Antyr said, indicating the illustration.