doing this at the instigation of his mother because of a strange dream he's had. It disturbed him greatly but he's also concerned that by consulting you he'll look ridiculous.'
Doubt.
To retreat now would be to face the wrath of the Duke's son, drawn into what he saw as this ludicrous, even humiliating, performance-a business for merchants’ wives-and then being casually told by this charlatan that he wasn't quite up to the job today!
But, fearful though the consequences of that might be, Antyr wavered. He had been beaten and humiliated before now and survived; in the sometimes too realistic war games that had been part of his army training; at the hands of thieves and gangs of youths as he had staggered home too late at night; in drunken brawls at various inns. Fear of that must not stop him withdrawing if he felt that some greater danger for all three of them lay ahead.
But what danger could lie in a dream? None, surely-you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient power-the time-honoured pledge. But the eerie presence in the Duke's dream returned to him, and then the hooded figure with the lamp.
Yet there was pain here, too. Pain that Menedrion's undoubted courage could not contend with. Antyr did not need Tarrian to tell him that. Menedrion's embarrassment was proof enough of the man's distress.
Suddenly his motivation became important to him. The feeling rose within him that whatever decision he made, it would be the reason he made it that would be important and not the decision itself.
And scarcely had this conclusion appeared than he realized he must go forward. Not because he was afraid of Menedrion's anger, though it was no pleasant prospect, or even because somehow he sensed that such a reverse in his life now might redirect it into bitterness and wretchedness for ever. But because of Menedrion's pain. This was what the strange gift of Dream Finding was for. Retreat would not only be failure, it would be a betrayal.
Despite the clarity of this vision, however, he knew that he was not wholly master of events and that, in some way, circumstances were shaping his deeds for him, bearing him along. Certainly he knew he could not justify his decision rationally; betrayal of what? for example. And indeed, in the wake of his commitment, other, more selfish reasons bobbed to the surface, mocking its altruism. Curiosity: what was happening to him? what could the Duke of Serenstad's son possibly have dreamt that so disturbed him? And fear: whatever the vision of the hooded figure with the lamp was that had taken him from the protection of his Earth Holder, he knew that he must hold his ground at no matter what cost, and that to break and flee was to invite both pursuit and capture … destruction …?
A weight lifted from him suddenly, and he gazed into the Nexus, shimmering and swirling, cloud-streaked with black and red like a battlefield sunset, resonating with the jangling clatter of screaming men and horses, laughing women, clashing arms and clinking goblets.
Here, he, the Dream Finder, was master. None could gainsay that. None could oppose him with impunity.
'Adept.'
The word formed somewhere, soft and transient; a chance pattern in the clamour.
He reached down and felt the unseen powerful presence of Tarrian.
There was a timeless pause, then, softly, but with the urgency of a hissing arrow, he said, ‘Go, hunter. Find what has to be found. Go!'
Chapter 14
Tarrian leapt forward like the bolt from a great siege catapult. A massive and unstoppable momentum. The colours and sounds of the Nexus flew past and through them, layering and dividing, blurring with the speed of their travel yet still motionless and clear, as is the nature of things that dwell at the edges of dreams.
The colours intensified, the sounds grew. Antyr, drawn with his Companion, drew in a great breath as their tumbling charge increased.
'What's happening?’ he said, though in excitement, not fear.
'We're searching the Nexus,’ Tarrian said, his voice made unsteady by the pounding ferocity of his pace.
'No. Never like this,’ Antyr shouted.
'No. Never like this,’ Tarrian confirmed. ‘I see more clearly, I hear more clearly. The scents … The scents…’ His voice faded and Antyr was overwhelmed by the perfumes of countless grasses and trees, flowers and birds, insects and animals, all mingling yet distinct, rich and subtle; and each with its own coherent tale as clear as the sights and sounds around him, though spoken in some strange, alien tongue.
But it was gone almost before he could register what it was, though the memory of it pervaded his entire body like the lingering image of the sun behind suddenly closed eyes.
Tarrian had taken him deep into his wolf nature, something he had never even attempted, or perhaps wished to do, before; least of all when he was searching the Nexus.
The journey continued, timeless and eternal, the two travellers silent. Antyr, awestruck; Tarrian, hunting; hunting for that which only his wolf nature could know.
Colour and sounds.
'What's happening?’ Antyr asked again, though it was a different question this time.
'I don't know,’ Tarrian replied. ‘But it's of your creating, no one else's. Just be, and trust.'
Colours and sounds.
'You are more than you seem,’ Tarrian said. ‘And you are guided by a great and ancient strength.'
'Guarded,’ Antyr corrected.
'Guided,’ Tarrian repeated.
'I don't…'
Abruptly they were still again, though the Nexus still swirled and sang around them. Colours and sounds.
'Hush,’ Tarrian said. ‘We're here. We're here. Yes. This is the place. The portal we seek. Menedrion's choice.’ Antyr could feel the wolf testing his many senses. Then came a doubt.
Antyr gazed around. He was himself still, and still in the Nexus, though now it was dimmer and quieter, as if a great curtain had fallen across it.
'What's the matter?’ he asked. ‘This hasn't happened before. Why am I not in the dream?'
A low rumbling growl formed in Tarrian's throat. ‘The portal is strange,’ he said.
Antyr felt the word shimmer and echo about him. ‘What do you mean, strange?’ he asked, anxiously.
'False … strained … distorted…’ Tarrian gave up. ‘I don't have the words,’ he admitted. Then, almost immediately. ‘It's not his, not Menedrion's … not wholly anyway … it leads beyond…'
Antyr felt a cold wind blowing about him. A wind that had travelled over a great plain and drawn an ancient frozen chill from it.
Then he was alone, peering into the bitter darkness. He could make out a bulky form in front of him. Vague though it was, however, it was unmistakably Menedrion …
Even as he formed the question in his mind, he was with Tarrian again in the strange, subdued part of the Nexus that the wolf was holding them in.
'You are guarded by a great and ancient power.’ The words came to mind unbidden and unexpectedly, and he muttered them to himself almost desperately, like a prayer for deliverance.
Then, to Tarrian, his voice cracking with sudden hysteria, ‘What happened? What in the devil's name happened? That was Menedrion. How could I be in the dream and not be the dreamer?'
The Nexus whirled and crackled, and Tarrian's reply was distant and frightened. ‘You slipped from me,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘No. You were drawn from me. Or you left. Through the portal … the portals.'
Antyr reached out and felt the powerful presence of his Companion. The wolf was trembling. From somewhere he found a semblance of calmness. ‘What do you see, Tarrian?’ he asked. ‘What do you … sense? Describe it to me, however inadequate the words.'
Tarrian whimpered. Antyr held his unseen form close.
'What do you see?’ he pressed gently.
'Portals within portals,’ Tarrian replied, as if staring at something intently. ‘Ways within ways. A rent in the
