'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.
'Not with this,’ he replied, making to sheath it. ‘I might make a mistake. I might hurt you.'
