could not distinguish. Once or twice, Dirkel, a round-faced, earnest-looking youth, came out to retrieve a bottle or a jar, but he avoided the gaze of his erstwhile adversary.
Finally, partly out of curiosity and partly to assert his authority over his legs, Arwain stood up and walked over to the door of the room. As he did so, Drayner emerged, looking both pleased and angry. He started slightly when he saw Arwain.
'Go back to bed, Dirkel,’ he said back into the room hastily. ‘She'll be all right now, and I don't want you yawning all day, we'll be busy after this fog.’ Then, fatherly, he took Arwain's arm.
'There's nothing you can do, lord,’ he said understandingly, endeavouring to shepherd Arwain away from the door.
Arwain, however, did not move, leaving the physician heaving awkwardly on his arm for a moment.
'Some goblin saw fit to wake me at this ungodly hour and draw me to the window just as you were passing,’ Arwain said. ‘I'll see this matter through to its end.'
Drayner bridled briefly but he was unable to meet Arwain's gaze and, reluctantly, he stepped to one side to allow him past.
The room was small and simply decorated, and a soft lamplight gave it a restful quality. Along one wall was a bed in which lay the young woman.
'She's asleep,’ Drayner said. ‘And will be for several hours. I've given her a draught. There is nothing you can do.'
Arwain ignored this last effort to deflect him and walked over to the bed.
As he looked down at the sleeping figure his frown deepened. The young woman was probably very pretty, and really little more than a girl; Arwain doubted she was twenty years old. But it was difficult to judge, for though her features were relaxed in sleep, they were swollen and discoloured by bruising; her lip was badly split and there was a gash over one eye. He had seen similar injuries often enough-on men.
'This was no fall,’ he said quietly, turning to Drayner. ‘She's been beaten. And savagely at that. Who did this? And why does it warrant the attention of my father's personal physician in the middle of the night?'
This time Drayner held his gaze, but he did not reply. Arwain was about to pursue his questioning when the memory returned of teeth accidentally gouging his hand as he lashed out in his fury. Gently he reached down and parted the swollen lips; a bloody cavity squired a milk-white partner. Arwain frowned, then he looked at the side of the woman's face; four great weals scarred it such as would result from a powerful blow with an open palm. He knew that if he pulled back the sheet a little, he would see bruising on her throat.
His hand started to shake and he felt the blood draining from his face. For a moment the room began to spin, but he stilled it with a long, deep breath. He turned to Drayner. The old physician's face was quietly resolute. Arwain knew that he would not discuss what had happened and that there was little point in pressing him.
Arwain looked at him thoughtfully. He could walk away now with a shrug and the incident would be servants’ gossip for a while, then it would be forgotten. But the vividness of his first awakening was still with him, unsettling him for reasons he could not understand. He had had similar feelings walking into an ambush once.
He had to go forward.
'Tell me about the dream that made Menedrion do this,’ he said.
Chapter 4
Antyr stepped forward nervously, trying to bear in mind Feranc's instructions and supported by Tarrian's resolve.
'Sire,’ he managed, mustering what professional authority he could.
It quailed, however, in the face of the presence that rose from the couch to meet him. Antyr had seen many portraits of the Duke and had actually seen him several times in the flesh. But the portraits, he realized now, though accurate, missed the reality of the man, as did the previous glimpses he had had of him; a distant figure on horseback during a battle, or trotting past, surrounded by his entourage on some grand civic occasion. This man was unequivocally a ‘pack leader'.
Ibris was about the same height as his bodyguard, Feranc, but much heavier, although, despite his age, he gave the impression of muscular solidity rather than fat. But where Feranc had an eerie, disturbing aloofness about him, the Duke radiated power like a great rock-throwing siege machine. Antyr's confidence fled him utterly.
'Stand up straight,’ Tarrian's angry voice rang in his head. Antyr had too few wits left to make a reply, but somehow he managed to obey the injunction. As he did so he became vaguely aware of another presence in the room, then his attention was absorbed totally by the Duke again, now stood barely a pace in front of him.
And he was speaking!
'He's apologizing for disturbing us so late and in such weather,’ Tarrian rasped as Antyr nearly panicked again. ‘It's a routine courtesy to put you at your ease.
'You look a little jaded,’ came the Duke's voice through the terror. ‘Would you like some refreshment?'
'The truth!’ Tarrian demanded.
'Thank you, no, sire,’ Antyr said hesitantly. ‘To be honest, with the fog being so bad, I was not expecting to be called out tonight and I celebrated perhaps a little too well with some friends earlier in the evening. My stomach is a little … fragile.'
The Duke pursed his lips and frowned a little. ‘An unwise thing, Dream Finder,’ he said. ‘You above all should know the dangers of such behaviour.’ His voice became regretful. ‘I remember your father saying he thought you didn't know the true worth of your gift.'
Despite himself, Antyr gaped, taken aback not by the reproach, which was a familiar one, but by the unexpected reference to his father. The Duke, however, ignored the discourtesy and, taking his arm, led him across to the couch and sat him down.
'Still, forgive me,’ he continued, sitting down by him. ‘You're no child, and you can attend to your affairs without my advice, I'm sure. It's just that I value great talent, and waste distresses me. We seem to have such an endless capacity for it, and…'
He cut himself short with a gruff snort and tapped his hands thoughtfully on his knees. For a moment he looked at Tarrian, then he nodded his head appreciatively.
'To business then, Petran's son,’ he said. ‘You and your Companion have my trust. Seek through my dreams.'
The brusqueness of the command took Antyr aback. Most clients usually dithered for a while, explaining what it was they wanted before making the traditional request.
Antyr, still overawed, had been about to declare his unworthiness to help such a man as the Duke-there were, after all, more successful and prosperous Dream Finders in the city-but the Duke's manner swept the excuse away.
Ah well, a job's a job, he thought resignedly. And there should be a good fee in it at least.
'A chair, please,’ he said, glancing towards Feranc, standing in the shade by the door. The bodyguard did not move, but a chair appeared by Antyr's side. He looked up to see a lean-faced old man with a sparse grey beard and a pronounced stoop. Bright searching eyes however gave the lie to his body's age. This person Antyr did recognize.
Aaken Uhr Candessa. The Chancellor carrying a chair for me!
But, buoyed up by the Duke's confidence, and set upon the start of his search as he was, the presence of this third illustrious person had little effect on him and he simply took the chair and placed it by the couch with a nod of thanks.
As he looked up at the chancellor, however, the old man turned away sharply.
Antyr glanced down at Tarrian for final confirmation of the cause of this apparent rudeness. The wolf returned his gaze, opening his eyes wide. Antyr nodded, satisfied. Where the wolf's eyes had been grey they were now yellow, and bright, like sunlight, but penetrating and feral, the eyes of a Companion who would be his guide and defender in both worlds. Then, briefly, Antyr was Tarrian again, looking up at himself staring down with eyes whose black irises had spread to fill their entire sockets so that they were like deep, fearful caves of night.
