Dream Finder Read online

  Arwain frowned and made as if to speak.

  ‘Truly, I can tell you no more,’ Ryllans said quickly but politely, and with almost a plea in his voice. ‘And if we fret about this strange . . . perception . . . of Estaan’s when we should be thinking about the Whendreachi and the Bethlarii, then we might find ourselves walking into more real trouble than we can handle before this journey’s out.’

  Arwain looked at him earnestly for a moment, then nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said acknowledging both the plea and Ryllans’ unassailable defences. ‘But school yourself to the idea of discussing this further when we get back from Whendrak.’

  Ryllans looked at him enigmatically.

  ‘I’d be a poor pupil if I asked less of you, wouldn’t I?’ Arwain said.

  Ryllans bowed.

  And I’ll find out about my father using a Dream Finder, too, Arwain resolved.

  They rode on in silence through the rest of the Moras district until they passed through the main western gate to the city and found themselves on the crowded and bustling waterfront of Serenstad’s harbour: a man-made extension to a natural lake, with rows of green-stained groynes and causeways jutting out into it to provide the moorage that the city’s trade needed.

  Ships and barges were being loaded and unloaded. Wagons, pack horses, people, were arriving, leaving, queuing, wandering lost, and the air was full of voices: crying orders, shouting abuse, making bargains, singing even, the whole shot through with the clatter of horses’ hooves and iron wheels on stones, rattling chains, creaking beams and pulleys, and occasional anonymous thuds and crashes.

  It was colder here than in the crowded streets, and Arwain felt the open aspect and the energy of the place washing away the lingering concern he had about Ryllans’ unusual behaviour.

  Vaster and finer armies, he thought with some amusement. What peoples, what power, could bring to the field anything finer than the army of Serenstad? Or for that matter, Bethlar? The discipline and skill of such forces could overcome any foe should need arise.

  The last darkness fell from him and he breathed in the cold river air and patted his horse encouragingly. Ryllans caught his eye and smiled slightly.

  At the north end of the harbour was the largest of the bridges that served the city. A dozen or so arching, elaborately carved, masonry spans came from each shore and culminated in a soaring latticework of iron and timber, to carry a wide road high over the river. It was a matter of considerable pride to Ibris that this bridge had been built in his time and at his behest to replace its crumbling and dangerous predecessor. It was a matter of considerable pride to Menedrion that his forges and workshops had formed much of the iron.

  With its building, yet more trade had come to the city and, like the harbour and the Moras, it was invariably crowded with all manner of traffic.

  Thus when the riders turned on to it they were still obliged to move at the same leisurely pace they had been maintaining through the latter part of their journey.

  When they were about halfway across, Arwain paused for a moment to look out over the busy harbour with its boats and ships plying to and fro through the cold grey water. From there, his eyes rose inevitably to the city, its rooftops and towers and spires rising above the wall and the ragged confusion of the Moras, and then disappearing up into the soft mist that clung to the sides of the valley.

  Thousands of people beyond his sight would be pursuing their untidy, everyday lives there, carrying their myriad, personal, grumbling burdens, be they real or imaginary. And while many would deny that they achieved a great deal with their day’s toil, the city slowly became more beautiful, lives slowly became more easy. Greater happiness and contentment were approached.

  And, Arwain mused, his actions now, his awareness, his touch on affairs, might help draw these souls out into bloody and fearful conflict. There would be progress there too. Into his mind came the picture of his wife, smiling to hide her concern as she kissed him at their parting scarcely an hour before. The memory hurt him.

  ‘It’s only for a couple of days . . .’

  ‘Take care, my love . . .’

  But the progress that grew from conflict was the progress of grim necessity, of men struggling to climb out of the mire that their darker nature and foolishness had led them into. There were better ways by far.

  Arwain realized that he was resting his hand on his sword hilt. A grim paradox. Without the sword, Serenstad, its peoples, its buildings, its questing knowledge, would fall, beyond a doubt, just as would any man unarmed among villains. Yet, having it, did it not draw forth the swords of others?

  He made no attempt to answer the question. He had tried before, walking over victorious battle fields, amid the bodies of friends and enemies alike. Seeing ghastly wounds, trampled faces, strewn entrails being squabbled over by carrion. Listening to terrible sounds; some, high, shrieking; others, soft, nauseating. And then there was the awful dispatching of the too grievously hurt . . .

  And in his exhilaration, he had wrought such horror himself with triumphant relish.

  There were better ways by far, indeed. And whatever the answer to the question, if answer there was, it was part of his lot to have both the knowledge of his sword and the knowledge of those ways. One could not be found without the other, nor could anything survive without both. That much he had learned.

  Gently he pulled his horse’s head about and clicked it forward. He was aware of the platoon moving after him, but as he looked into the throng ahead, two approaching figures caught his attention.

  Why they should have, he could not say. They were just two riders among many and they were making no special stir in their progress.

  As they drew nearer he watched them carefully, puzzled at what impulse might have drawn his eye to them. Certainly there was nothing immediately apparent. They were bare-headed and wearing simple, unostentatious riding cloaks, though, he noted, these seemed to be of a high quality and a slightly unusual cut. And they rode well; very relaxed and easy in their manner; even more so than the Mantynnai perhaps.

  And their horses were magnificent, he noted, as the animals too came more clearly into view. Then he became aware that the two men had also attracted the attention of Ryllans.

  ‘Fine horses,’ he said.

  Ryllans started, almost violently. ‘Y-yes,’ he stammered. Arwain stared at him. His face was even more alarmed than when he had spoken to Estaan.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Arwain asked urgently.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ryllans said quickly. ‘I thought it was someone I once knew, but . . . it wasn’t.’

  He was lying, Arwain knew, but he knew also that having taken the trouble to lie so readily, Ryllans would not part with the truth until he was ready, no matter what demands were made of him.

  The two men were alongside. Still for no reason that he could see, their fine horses notwithstanding, they made an impression on Arwain. One of them turned towards him and, catching his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgement at this seemingly inadvertent happening. Then his gaze turned to Ryllans, who was looking wilfully forward. There was inquiry in the stranger’s eyes, and a brief touch on his partner’s arm.

  Discreetly, Arwain watched the two men as they passed by the platoon. They seemed to be looking at the guards with open but casual interest.

  Foreigners, he surmised. Curious to look at our famous soldiers. But the conclusion was unsatisfactory. He turned in his saddle and peered after them. They were talking to one another and pointing towards the city. Foreigners, definitely, Arwain decided. But as he turned back, he caught a ripple of unease among the guards. No; among the Mantynnai. It was gone before he could truly register it.

  Something stirred within him. He had the feeling of events moving that he could not identify. Ryllans visibly shaken by a few brief words from one of his own, then deliberately lying about the two strangers; two strangers who also provoked some response from the other Mantynnai.

  It could only be something from the
past of these men, these still, watching, men.

  With an effort he set the ill-formed questions aside. Ryllans’ earlier remarks were still pertinent. They were on a delicate, perhaps dangerous mission to Whendrak. Whatever lay in the past lay in the past. The present was all that mattered now. And if that were fouled, then the future might be truly grim.

  Still . . .?

  He cast another quick glance backwards, but the two men were out of sight amid the swaying wagons and the bobbing heads of other travellers on the bridge.

  ‘Trot!’

  They had reached the end of the bridge and the congestion was easing as the traffic spread out like a river delta, each strand going its separate way out into the widespread dominions of Serenstad.

  Ryllans’ command brought Arwain to the present again and in line of column, the platoon set off along the road to Whendrak.

  Chapter 22

  ‘Oh god, he’s got two of the damn things with him now,’ was Kany’s greeting as Pandra opened the door to Antyr and Estaan.

  Tarrian’s ears went back, and his tail drooped, as did Grayle’s.

  ‘Now, now, Kany,’ Pandra said reproachfully, before Antyr could explain their errand. ‘They are what they are, just as you are what you are.’

  Kany gave a scornful growl and muttered something inaudible, concluding, gracelessly, ‘Still, I suppose you’d better let them in. You’ll freeze the place out leaving the door open.’

  Then he sniffed, and a faint hint of sympathy entered his voice. ‘And they seem a bit fraught about something.’

  Pandra gave an apologetic smile as he picked Kany up, put him in his pocket, and motioned his guests to enter.

  He pointed towards a half-open door as he lingered briefly to see the two hesitant wolves safely in. Antyr stepped through it to find himself in a warm, well-lit room. It was small and rather cluttered, but it was homely and pleasant, and, like the outside of the house, indicated that the old Dream Finder had had a modestly successful career.

  Pandra joined him and, for a few moments, scuttled about fussily, unnecessarily moving cushions and picking up an odd book and a few papers from the chairs and placing them on a table.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said finally to Estaan and Antyr. ‘And come in, you two,’ he added to the two wolves who were peering nervously around the door.

  ‘It’s all right for you, but this place is going to stink of wolf for weeks now. How I’m supposed to get any rest with my nerves permanently twitching at the scent, I don’t know.’ Antyr caught the loud whisper from Kany, but Pandra shushed him hastily.

  ‘I got your address from the Guild House,’ Antyr began, sitting down. ‘We . . . I’ve . . . a problem and I didn’t know where to turn, to be honest. I . . .’

  ‘Just tell me what’s happened,’ Pandra interrupted paternally. ‘I’m glad to see you again. I must admit, you’ve been constantly in my mind since we met in the library, and one doesn’t have to be a Companion to see that you’re disturbed about something.’

  The latter part of his remark was obviously spoken for Kany’s benefit, but it provoked no response, and Antyr could feel the three Companions talking urgently at some level below his awareness.

  Pandra leaned forward confidentially. ‘That miserable porter at the Guild House said you’d been arrested by the palace guards. Quite smug he was about it. I was most concerned . . .’ He tailed off absently, then, ‘And I’ve been thinking about your story . . . That separation from your Companion . . . One gets into such a rut, one forgets. It came to me last night, though I’m hesitant to mention it, it sounds so foolish . . .’

  ‘I’ve been into one of the worlds of the Threshold,’ Antyr blurted out starkly, before Pandra could continue.

  Pandra stared at him blankly at first, then his face became a mixture of excitement, disbelief, and alarm. He looked at Antyr intently. ‘You seem no madder than you did yesterday,’ he said with unexpected bluntness. ‘And I don’t think I am. We must talk . . .’ He flicked a significant glance towards Estaan.

  ‘Shall I wait outside?’ Estaan said, intercepting the look.

  Antyr shook his head. ‘This is Estaan,’ he said to Pandra. ‘He can stay, for the moment, at least. He’s been a witness to today’s events and he . . . felt . . . something himself. And he’s one of the Mantynnai. He was instructed to look after me after . . .’ He looked about the room self-consciously. ‘After I was appointed to be the Duke’s Dream Finder.’

  Pandra raised an eyebrow but scrutinized Estaan first. ‘Mantynnai, eh?’ he said. ‘Kany?’

  ‘He is,’ the rabbit replied after a brief pause. Pandra nodded sagely.

  Estaan shifted uncomfortably as this unseen judge announced his verdict.

  Pandra turned again to Antyr, eyebrow still raised. ‘Your fortunes seem to be rising, young Antyr,’ he said with some irony. ‘Arrested one minute, Dream Finder to the Duke next. And now escorted personally by the Mantynnai.’

  ‘I wasn’t arrested,’ Antyr said, shaking his head. ‘I was being sought out by another . . . important . . . client.’ He waved his hand irritably. ‘But that doesn’t matter at the moment.’

  His expression became anxious. ‘How well did you know Nyriall?’ he asked.

  ‘Hardly at all,’ Pandra replied. ‘I’ve met him once or twice at Guild meetings, but it was a long time ago. An unusual man. You could feel that, just by speaking to him. But a bit too much of an idealist from what I’ve heard. Seemed to think he could do something about everybody’s happiness.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘But you’ve got to accept reality sooner or later, haven’t you? There’s only so much you can do for anyone. And you’ll do no one any good by starving to death for them.’ He paused, then said, ‘I gather from the past tense in your question that he’s probably done just that.’

  Antyr shook his head. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid he is dead. Though far more strangely than by starvation.’

  Pandra waited.

  Plunging in, Antyr told of his visit to Nyriall and the strange events that had passed there.

  The old Dream Finder was silent for a long time when Antyr had finished.

  ‘Then they’re truly there.’ The voice was Kany’s, and it was subdued, awe-stricken almost. ‘The worlds of the Threshold. Truly there. Just like it says in the Treatise. I’d never given it two minutes’ serious credence; this is an age of reason, isn’t it? And now you’ve been there. And even drawn your Companions after you. All three of you there, for a brief moment . . . I didn’t believe you, Tarrian, Grayle. I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘But what does it all mean?’ Antyr asked. ‘And why’s it happening to me? I’m no . . . Master. I’ve had no special training. Nor done any special study. In fact, if the truth be told, I’ve neglected my craft as diligently as others have pursued theirs.’

  Pandra shook his head. ‘You ask unanswerable questions, Antyr,’ he said. ‘It seems you are a Master, regardless of your application to your craft. Your . . . great . . . talent is perhaps as chance a thing as any Dream Finder’s ordinary one. And there’s neither rhyme nor reason as to why that’s handed down to some and not to others. At least, no reason that we can see.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you went . . . astray . . . because of the extent of your ability. Great talents are not always a blessing. I’ve a client who’s a fine painter; brilliant even. His work is much praised and some of it is actually hung in the palace. But he sits far from easy in his life. He’s a peculiarly tormented individual.’

  Antyr grimaced. ‘Master,’ he muttered to himself in denial. ‘Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I certainly don’t feel like one.’ Wilfully, he moved away from the subject. ‘But, whatever I am, I’ve still to find out what’s happening, and why. I have to find out who those two figures were and what they were doing there, creating such havoc and . . .’

  His face became grim as the thought formed in his mind. ‘Murdering Nyriall!’

  The words hung in the air like acrid smoke a
nd for a while no one spoke.

  ‘You can walk away,’ Pandra offered tentatively. ‘It might have been something that Nyriall brought on himself and it may have died with him.’

  Antyr shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘The evil in it was something I’d felt before. And I’ve got the feeling that if I run, it’ll follow me. Predator after prey.’

  Silence returned to the room.

  ‘We must look in the Treatise first,’ Kany said eventually, his voice determinedly calm. ‘You’ve been thrashing about so frantically in your fatigue and fear, and Tarrian’s been so full of guilt at what he sees as his responsibility for failing to stop your seemingly relentless decline, that you’ve failed to consider the most obvious source of information.’ He paused. ‘As have we, if I’m honest. Too old. Too stupid. Go and get the book, Pandra.’

  Pandra hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ Kany snapped, his normal manner reasserting itself. ‘It’s on the top shelf in the back room.’

  ‘I know,’ Pandra replied testily. ‘But I don’t see what good the Treatise is going to be. I don’t remember anything in it about how to become a Master, how to reach the Threshold or . . .’ He paused as if suddenly recollecting something.

  ‘No, you never read it properly,’ Kany shouted into his reverie. ‘Dream Finders never do. Learn a few tricks then think they know it all. Now go and get it. You, Mantynnai, go and help him, it’s heavy and it’s on a high shelf. We can’t afford physician’s fees if he falls off something and injures himself.’

  Estaan stood up uncertainly, still unsettled by this strange conversation that was half spoken out loud and half echoing in his head. He looked at Antyr who, despite his own confusion, could not prevent himself from smiling.