Dream Finder Read online

  ‘Aaken, Arwain,’ he said in appeal.

  The Chancellor shrugged uneasily. ‘I remember a priest we caught once, years ago,’ he said, his brow furrowed as if he were looking at something in the far distance. ‘He was a big man, powerful. And a tremendous . . . presence. We thought we’d caught ourselves a lord. I remember thinking as I looked at him, there’ll be a fine ransom in this one.’ He paused and shook his head reflectively. ‘I was already planning how to spend it. There were six of us, surrounding him, with pikes. Nowhere for him to go. No dishonour in surrender. “Come on, your highness,” someone said. “Your war’s over. Time to get you to market.”’

  He paused again, and his eyes widened. ‘He just drew himself up. Looked at us as if we were so many dog turds, then he took hold of one of the pike shafts . . .’ Aaken’s hands came out, re-enacting the long past deed. ‘. . . and just walked on to the blade. Slow as you please. Just walked on to it. Didn’t utter a sound. Didn’t bat an eyelid.’

  He turned to Menedrion. ‘That’s a follower of Ar-Hyrdyn. You can forget about reason and logic. All they’re interested in is dying valiantly in battle so that they can fight in Ar-Hyrdyn’s legions. They’re mad by any definition we know, but they’re not stupid, and they’re terrifying. I’ll never forget the look in that priest’s eyes. Triumphant even though he was dying.’

  Menedrion wriggled uncomfortably.

  ‘That envoy reminded me of him,’ Aaken finished. ‘Same carriage, same arrogance, disdain . . .’

  ‘He’s still only one man,’ Menedrion protested. ‘Perhaps the Handira didn’t know what he was really like. We’ve had some strange ones in our own diplomatic corps. In fact, we’ve still got some, if you ask me.’

  Ibris nodded and smiled faintly. ‘That’s true,’ he agreed. ‘He could be here as part of some internal political strife. But the seal was genuine and we can’t plan on that hope. We can only plan on what we’ve seen and heard. And if the Bethlarii are going to be fighting for the honour of a place in the Golden Hall of Ar-Hyrdyn then we’ll have to be in top fettle to meet them.’

  He paused and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Does anyone disagree with that conclusion?’

  No one spoke, and Ibris became businesslike.

  ‘We must find out what’s happening in Whendrak first of all. Arwain, can you get a platoon of your guards ready to travel up there by first thing tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Arwain said, taken aback somewhat by this sudden commission. ‘But it’ll take most of the night.’

  ‘Good,’ Ibris replied. ‘Do it. You can sleep in the saddle tomorrow. Aaken, make sure he’s properly briefed on the treaty conditions concerning Whendrak. And prepare the appropriate documents. I don’t want us causing the very thing we’re trying to prevent through some diplomatic carelessness.’

  Menedrion scowled at this abrupt development. ‘I could . . .’ he began.

  ‘You, as my heir, will be looking after our honoured guest, Irfan,’ Ibris said, cutting across his complaint before it was voiced. ‘And we’ll be continuing to treat him as such until he’s safely back across the border.’

  Menedrion rebelled petulantly. ‘He needs a keeper, not a host,’ he protested. ‘Let Arwain do it. He’s politer than I am. I can be in Whendrak before nightfall . . .’

  ‘Irfan, that’s an order,’ Ibris said sharply. ‘This is too serious for any of us to consider our own wants and fancies. Arwain’s Mantynnai will see what’s to be seen better than your guard, and Arwain’s a better listener than you and he knows when to run away, which you don’t. In addition, if something’s seriously amiss then it’ll only be my bastard son they’ve got, not my heir and one of my best commanders.’ He shot a glance at Arwain. ‘I’m sorry, Arwain, but you understand?’

  Arwain bowed an acknowledgement.

  Menedrion was still not wholly mollified. ‘In addition, Irfan,’ Ibris went on, his manner more conciliatory, ‘I want you to get a feel for this Grygyr. Talk to him, and listen to him. See what you can smell out. It’ll be much needed practice for you in controlling your tongue and it could well be important. You may have to face him in the field yet. Get a . . . company . . . ready tomorrow, with a view to starting back with him the day after.’

  Menedrion gave a reluctant nod. ‘And remember this, Irfan,’ Ibris added. ‘If their envoy returns not only alive and unhurt, but seemingly feted and personally escorted by no less a person than my heir, it’ll do little for him at home. The Hanestra is as riddled with intrigue as our Sened and Gythrin-Dy, and suspicion and jealousy are the norm. Rot from the inside will destroy a house just as effectively as flame from the outside.’

  Menedrion’s eyes narrowed. ‘They may also just take it as an act of weakness on our part.’

  Ibris leaned back with a shrug. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let them underestimate us to the full.’

  Menedrion’s lip curled in reluctant agreement. ‘Very well. Considerate host and travelling companion I’ll be,’ he said, sourly.

  Arwain watched the exchange with some relief. His relationship with Menedrion was such that any sign of preferment by his father made him extremely wary.

  Ibris turned to his Chancellor and the commander of his bodyguard. ‘Aaken, Ciarll, we’ve a lot to do,’ he said. ‘The city’ll be seething with rumours by now. I can avoid holding an emergency cabinet meeting until tomorrow but no longer, I think. And I’ll have to have at least an announcement ready for the Sened before they finish their business tomorrow evening. But I want our basic policy decided here and now or we’ll get bogged down in endless rhetoric and debate.’

  Aaken frowned. ‘They won’t like that,’ he said. ‘It’s not like the old days. They’re used to having their say.’

  Ibris was dismissive. ‘They won’t know it’s happening if we’re careful about it,’ he said. ‘And I still have complete command of the army as I recall.’

  ‘True,’ Aaken conceded. ‘But without Sened approval for any action you take, you may have to pay them out of your own pocket.’

  Ibris waved his hands. ‘I’m well aware of that,’ he said irritably. ‘Don’t be obtuse.’ Then he brought his hands down on the arms of his chair with a crack. ‘That’s exactly what I mean about getting bogged down. This is sufficient of an emergency for me to assume all executive authority quite legally, but I don’t want to do that yet; or at all, if it’s avoidable. It would cause a lot of bad feeling and probably outright panic among the merchants and traders. No, we treat the Sened as we treated the envoy; gently and pleasantly. But nevertheless, we decide here, now, what’s needed, then we decide what we’ve got to say to get the necessary approval. Is that clear?’

  Aaken lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘That’s a detail, anyway,’ Ibris went on. ‘What’s more important is the state of the army and the attitudes of our border allies. I want your sharpest, most loyal people out there quickly. Doing what Arwain will be doing. Looking, listening. And get someone down to Crowhell and across to Nestar to see if any unusual groups of men have been arriving and taking ship up river.’

  ‘If it’s a crusade they’re looking to start, they won’t be using mercenaries, foreigners, will they?’ Arwain ventured.

  Ibris looked at him. ‘I told you this morning about priests, didn’t I?’ he said, though not unkindly. ‘When they’re so inclined they make most politicians seem as open as little children. We’ve already seen one of the Bethlarii aristocracy resorting to disguise. It’ll be no trouble for their priesthood to decide that anyone who wishes to fight for them for whatever reason has been led to them by the will of Ar-Hyrdyn.’ His nose curled up in distaste. ‘In any event, even if some religious clique has the ascendancy at the moment you can rest assured that there’ll be plenty of straightforward opportunists rallying to their flag and bringing their influence to bear.’

  Arwain inclined his head in acknowledgement of the lesson. Ibris snapped his fingers. ‘And talking of disguises, Ciarll
. . .’ he began.

  ‘The matter’s in hand, sire,’ Feranc replied. ‘I’ve already sent messages to the Liktors and to the garrisons to be on the lookout for unusual strangers.’ Uncharacteristically, he frowned. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been lax . . .’

  Ibris waved him to silence. ‘We’ve all been lax,’ he said. ‘I should have had the wit to realize that too long without war would have had some dire effect on their society . . .’ He cast a quick, acknowledging look at Arwain. ‘And all of us should have remembered that the Bethlarii are our enemy and that just as nothing ever remains the same, so nothing changes.’

  He nodded to himself pensively. ‘We’d better start mobilizing the local garrisons at least. Let’s also hope we’ve not been lax in our training.’ It was a dark thought.

  The room fell silent and the four men sat motionless for a little while, held by Ibris’s concern. Then Menedrion stood up and stretched.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘If I’ve got to get a company ready for escort duty I’d better make a start. What with that and entertaining my guest, I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep tonight.’

  Arwain looked at him sharply. There was an odd note in his half-brother’s voice.

  Fear? No, Arwain decided. It was relief.

  Chapter 16

  Antyr walked behind the servant in a trance. Without further comment, Menedrion had led him briskly away from his private quarters, and, with a curt dismissal and an order to remain in the palace, had abandoned him to his present guide; a round-faced old man with hunched shoulders and a worried frown that seemed to be permanent.

  He also seemed to be none too pleased with his new duty and kept muttering, half to himself, half to Antyr.

  ‘This isn’t my job, you know . . . I’ve enough to do as it is without running around trying to find rooms for his lordship’s . . .’ He looked Antyr up and down critically. ‘. . . visitors . . . And telling the duty guards and the cooks. I’m in charge of the laying of tables for the whole of this wing, I shouldn’t be having to do this . . . It’s not right . . . He should’ve found one of the room servants . . . It’s just typical . . .’

  He rang several irritable changes around this theme as he wound an elaborate pathway through the palace, but Antyr heard hardy any of them. Nor did he notice any of the statues, pictures, furniture, tapestries and other artifacts that lined his progress and that had so impressed him the night before.

  Uncharacteristically, Tarrian remained silent.

  Eventually they reached their destination and Antyr was shown into a small suite of rooms. He heard himself thanking the servant absently and was vaguely aware of the old man lighting several lamps and then departing, still muttering.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Antyr leaned back on it. He felt numb all over. His body seemed scarcely his own, and his mind refused to think. Some reflex carried him towards a large couch and made him lie down on it. He was vaguely aware of Tarrian padding off somewhere.

  As he lay back, his eyes focused on the ceiling, but they saw nothing, and the only movement in his mind was that of Tarrian’s ancient curiosity and caution as he quickly toured the bounds of this new territory.

  ‘We’re coming up in the world,’ Tarrian said when he had finished, but the remark was empty of real meaning and the words hung lifeless and regretted in Antyr’s head.

  Then, from nowhere, a black wave overwhelmed him. His confrontation with Menedrion had been unnerving, but somehow it had kept him upright and sane. Now, alone, he felt the full shock of the events of the past day. The very articles of faith that suffused and supported his craft had been tossed aside, as if they had never existed, and he was adrift in an ocean of madness without star or landmark to steer by. All that was familiar and solid had become alien and menacing, like a solid shore turned suddenly quicksand.

  He covered his hands with his face and squeezed as if trying to reduce himself to infinite smallness and insignificance, but the blackness sought him out and rolled over and through him irresistibly, shaking and tossing him like the least pebble on that shore.

  Somewhere in the middle of it, after a timeless, buffeting agony, he heard a sound; a distant moaning, sobbing. It went on for a long time, gradually coming closer. Then slowly, he realized it was himself, pouring out a great grief for some terrible, unknown, unknowable, loss.

  Yet with this realization came also a faint hint of relief, and he felt the tide of blackness falter. Slowly his convulsing sobs eased and he swung himself up into a sitting position, though still his hands were over his wet face as if the sight of the reality of the world around him would shatter what sanity he still had left.

  He felt Tarrian nearby, waiting, watching, with that almost frightening animal fatalism that seemed to leave him largely immune to the emotional effects of matters which he could not control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Antyr managed eventually.

  Tarrian did not reply, but moved over to him and leaned heavily against his leg. A pack thing. One of Antyr’s hands relinquished his face and reached down to stroke the soft fur. More sobs shook him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  Again Tarrian did not reply. He did not understand, at least not fully, so he could offer nothing. Yet in knowing that he did not understand, he offered everything he had. Antyr patted him, finding some solace in the purposeful presence of the wolf’s powerful frame.

  ‘I don’t know what brought that on,’ he said, his voice unsteady.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Tarrian said. ‘It was necessary and you allowed it. It was a wise act.’

  This time it was Antyr who did not reply.

  The two sat in silence for a long time, then, eventually, Antyr started hunting through his pockets for a kerchief.

  ‘There are towels and water next door,’ Tarrian said.

  Antyr heard himself chuckle weakly as he stood up and followed Tarrian’s direction. ‘Thank you, Earth Holder,’ he said. ‘It’s as well one of us keeps his feet on the ground.’

  But the darkness had not left him completely and it welled up again as he worked the small, silvered pump handle and watched a stream of water splutter into a plain white bowl. The water glittered with the lamplight as it swirled and danced around the bowl, obeying hidden laws that were as immutable as those binding Antyr’s craft were now capricious. The sight seemed to mock him and he felt his body begin to shake uncontrollably.

  He reached out and steadied himself by leaning against the wall as he dipped his other hand into the water and splashed his face carelessly with it.

  The effort seemed to take all his strength and slowly he slithered to the floor.

  Again Tarrian came and sat by him, silent, but solid.

  ‘I’m so frightened,’ Antyr said, after a long silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Tarrian said. ‘You reek of it.’

  Antyr gave a soft rueful laugh at his Companion’s simple bluntness, but still his body was reluctant to move. Tarrian lay down patiently.

  ‘What’s the matter with me?’ Antyr asked after a further long silence.

  Tarrian looked at him, but did not speak.

  ‘Too much change, too fast?’ Antyr said, turning and resting his forehead against the cold, tiled wall. ‘Too much foolishness. Too much weakness.’

  ‘You’re too harsh on yourself,’ Tarrian said, standing up and walking out of the small washroom as if he were no longer needed. ‘What’s happening to you is perhaps a little of all those things, but mainly it’s an attack. An assault at your very soul.’

  Antyr rolled his head from side to side against the tiles.

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to say to myself. That’s what I told Menedrion. But what does it mean?’

  He struggled to his feet awkwardly and followed Tarrian.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he repeated.

  ‘It means you’re being attacked,’ Tarrian replied.

  ‘Damn it, Tarrian,’ Antyr shouted. ‘Talk sense. My head . . . everything’s . . . whi
rling.’ He clenched his fists savagely and then let his hands fall limply to his sides. ‘I need some clarity, not more riddles. I feel so lost. So helpless. I’m not even sure about my own sanity any more.’ Then, angrily. ‘And if I’m being attacked, then presumably so are you. Why aren’t you frightened?’

  It was a pointless question, he knew. Tarrian was an animal. He carried some human traits, just as Antyr carried some wolfish traits, but it was not in his true nature to be afraid of what he could not immediately sense. Tarrian responded to circumstances as a mirror reflects an image, even though his slight humanity made the mirror blur and shake a little at times.

  ‘I am,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Your fear wakens fear in me like an echo. But that’s all it is: an echo. Your fear is fear of many things. Fear of yourself, your weakness, the unknown depths inside you. Then there’s fear of Menedrion, of the Duke, of your dead father’s reproach, of my contempt . . .’

  Antyr raised a hand to stop him. ‘And of the hooded figure with the lamp,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Him certainly.’

  ‘And what do I do with this grand chorus of fears?’ Antyr went on, his voice hardening.

  Tarrian stared at him. A cold, grey, wolf’s stare. ‘Live or die,’ he said simply.

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Antyr’s voice cracked into a squeak as his anger forced the question out.

  ‘It means live or die,’ Tarrian repeated.

  ‘You’re not helping,’ Antyr said, dropping his head into his hands again.

  Tarrian padded over to the window and jumped up to place his forepaws on the sill. ‘I can’t,’ he said, peering curiously from side to side through the window. ‘Not yet. All this is from inside you. From somewhere deep in your human nature. I can feel your pain, but its cause is beyond anywhere I can reach. You’ll have to deal with it yourself. All I can do is watch and be here. But what I said is true. You have to decide whether you want life or death. If death, then jump out of this window now, and I’ll mourn you. If life, then don’t, in which case your next decision is fight or surrender.’