'I do, sir,’ Antyr replied with as much dignity as he could muster in the face of Menedrion's powerful presence. ‘And I've told you the truth. I don't know what happened just now. I've never known anything like it before, nor have I heard or read of such a thing. Nor has Tarrian, who worked with my father for many years before he came to me.'
Menedrion looked at him narrowly.
'You came highly recommended, Antyr,’ he said darkly. ‘You're a Guildsman. Dreams and all to do with dreams are your province. “I don't know” won't do. What use is a farrier who doesn't know how to shoe a horse? Or a fletcher who doesn't know how to make an arrow?’ He pointed at Antyr threateningly, and spoke very slowly. ‘Now, stop this nonsense and tell me what happened?'
Antyr swallowed. ‘You were attacked, Lord Menedrion. I … we don't know how, or why, or by whom. But you were attacked here today just as surely as we were at Herion.’ Released, Antyr's words became almost a babble. ‘It was not a dream we found ourselves in, nor any dream you've ever had. Had that been so, I'd have been you within it. A Dream Finder can't be separate from the dreamer. That's…’ He waved his hands in search of a word. ‘Basic … Fundamental … Just not possible-any more than I could occupy your place in that chair while you're in it when we're awake. We were in another place…'
'In another place,’ Menedrion echoed in exasperation. ‘How could we be in another place when we never left this one, man? Did we saddle up and ride there? Grow wings and fly? I warn you, Dream Finder…'
Antyr flinched at the growing menace in Menedrion's voice and his throat went dry. ‘Sir, if I could say anything that would remove me from your anger, I would say it. But it would be a betrayal on my part to speak anything other than the truth…'
'Truth! What truth?’ Menedrion burst out. ‘If you know the truth then tell me.'
’ … The truth as I see it,’ Antyr finished. ‘And the truth is, that I don't know what the truth is.’ Menedrion stood up. Antyr raised a hand. ‘Sir, I beg of you, listen to me…'
'Listen to a babbler, who doesn't even know his own trade?'
Some part of Antyr's infantry training fastened his feet to the floor in spite of his overwhelming desire to flee. An unexpected twist of anger curled inside him. ‘Sir,’ he almost shouted. ‘I didn't tout for your business like some lick-spittle court tailor. You chose me. You had me sought out and brought here. You asked me to search for your dream. Sir, I do know my trade. Better than many. But you must let me think…'
Menedrion clenched his massive fists.
'I can't stop you doubting me, sir,’ Antyr went on, still just managing to hold his ground. ‘But…’ Inspiration came, from his own remark earlier. ‘Go to the Guild. Ask anyone there-
The room fell very silent as he stopped speaking.
'If he attacks me, do nothing,’ Antyr said privately to Tarrian, even though he knew the request was pointless.
'That's not in my choice, you know that,’ Tarrian confirmed. ‘But I don't think he's going to. I think you've held his charge, pikeman.’ There was relief in the remark, not flippancy, but Tarrian's manner was distracted, as if he were listening to something very carefully. ‘He's so confused I can barely snatch a coherent thought,’ he said. Then he paused, and Antyr caught a whiff of his irritated concentration. ‘But he's thinking as well as he's able under the circumstances.’ Another pause. ‘He's frightened and he wants help. But he's lucid enough to see that whether he doubts or believes you, there are problems he'd rather not face…'
The silence grew. ‘He wants simplicity, Antyr. Battlefield simplicity…'
Antyr seized the moment even before Tarrian could finish. ‘We find ourselves side by side in the same rank, sir,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Trust is something that perhaps we have no choice about.'
Menedrion's expression changed slightly, and his manner became quieter, less menacing.
'He thinks he's going mad,’ Tarrian said quickly, as if just glimpsing some fleeting prey.
Antyr had been avoiding Menedrion's gaze so far, mindful of the Lord's first reaction. Now he straightened up and looked at him directly. Menedrion flinched, but this time it was he who held his ground.
'There's a danger here, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘To you and, I suspect, to others. A danger that's none of our creating. A danger from … somewhere outside. From
There was another long silence. ‘From outside?’ Menedrion said, eventually.
'Yes, sir,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion's brow furrowed and he shook his head as if to dispel too many conflicting ideas. ‘How can you know that this … dream … wasn't from somewhere inside, some strange disturbance of the mind?'
Antyr in his turn shook his head, but with the confidence of a man certain in his resolution. ‘How do you know when to commit your forces in battle, sir?’ Antyr replied. ‘You do it when your head and your stomach tell you, and they know through years of study and experience. So I know. But where a battle decision is subtle and difficult, and fraught with hazard, this is as clear to me as knowing that I'm here now and not out in the fog. And…’ He stopped.
'And?’ Menedrion demanded.
Antyr took a deep breath. ‘And I've felt a similar assault … a presence … in the dream of another before…'
'Who? When?’ Menedrion leaned forward, his eyes wide. ‘What happened?'
'I can't tell you who, sir, or what happened,’ Antyr replied nervously. ‘Not without the dreamer's permission. Their secrets are as sound with me as are yours. But it was very recent.’ Then, anxious to deflect Menedrion's curiosity, ‘And I too have been … sought out by some strange … power. I was about to seek the help of another Dream Finder when your men found me at the Guild House.'
Menedrion put his hand to his head. Trust and angry doubt distorted his features. ‘I don't know,’ he said after a while. ‘You seem honest enough. And I'm no bad judge of men usually. But all this is beyond me…’ He clenched his fist and looked at it as if wishing to see a sword there and a problem that it could solve.
'You mentioned farriers and fletchers, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘You can judge their work by your own needs for what they make, but isn't the finding and casting of iron a mystery quite beyond you? And the choosing of woods and feathers?'
Menedrion looked at him suspiciously. His ownership of many of the city's workshops and forges was an object of some cautious superciliousness by certain factions of the court. However, he sensed no subtle insult. ‘That's not the same,’ he said, flatly.
'It's exactly the same,’ Antyr risked. ‘Judge me by my deeds so far. You can inquire of others afterwards, and I'm powerless before you.'
Menedrion did not answer.
'Tell me about the dream you had that sent you looking for me, sir,’ Antyr said, picking up the chair he had been using, and forcing himself to relax. ‘You said it was the same place, and the same enemy … and that someone possessed you.'
Still Menedrion did not speak.
'Sir?’ Antyr prompted. ‘Do you want me to leave?'
Menedrion scowled. ‘What will happen when I sleep again?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Despite himself, Antyr grimaced. Menedrion had voiced the concern that had been hovering on the edges of his own thoughts.
'I don't know, sir,’ he answered immediately and straightforwardly. Then, more insistently, ‘But tell me about the dream that's disturbed you and why you sent for me instead of one of the more … popular … Dream Finders who tend courtiers, Senedwrs and the like.'
'Your name was given to me by my mother,’ Menedrion said irritably, annoyed at being distracted from his main anxiety. ‘What relevance is that?’ he added, though in a tone that suggested he wanted no answer.
Nefron!
It was not, as Menedrion had said, of any relevance to their present problem, but to Antyr it was a matter for some alarm, and he recoiled inwardly from the revelation, as he felt himself take an inadvertent step into the
