Fear? No, Arwain decided. It was relief.
Chapter 16
Antyr walked behind the servant in a trance. Without further comment, Menedrion had led him briskly away from his private quarters, and, with a curt dismissal and an order to remain in the palace, had abandoned him to his present guide; a round-faced old man with hunched shoulders and a worried frown that seemed to be permanent.
He also seemed to be none too pleased with his new duty and kept muttering, half to himself, half to Antyr.
'This isn't my job, you know … I've enough to do as it is without running around trying to find rooms for his lordship's…’ He looked Antyr up and down critically. ‘…visitors … And telling the duty guards and the cooks. I'm in charge of the laying of tables for the whole of this wing, I shouldn't be having to do this … It's not right … He should've found one of the room servants … It's just typical…'
He rang several irritable changes around this theme as he wound an elaborate pathway through the palace, but Antyr heard hardy any of them. Nor did he notice any of the statues, pictures, furniture, tapestries and other artifacts that lined his progress and that had so impressed him the night before.
Uncharacteristically, Tarrian remained silent.
Eventually they reached their destination and Antyr was shown into a small suite of rooms. He heard himself thanking the servant absently and was vaguely aware of the old man lighting several lamps and then departing, still muttering.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Antyr leaned back on it. He felt numb all over. His body seemed scarcely his own, and his mind refused to think. Some reflex carried him towards a large couch and made him lie down on it. He was vaguely aware of Tarrian padding off somewhere.
As he lay back, his eyes focused on the ceiling, but they saw nothing, and the only movement in his mind was that of Tarrian's ancient curiosity and caution as he quickly toured the bounds of this new territory.
'We're coming up in the world,’ Tarrian said when he had finished, but the remark was empty of real meaning and the words hung lifeless and regretted in Antyr's head.
Then, from nowhere, a black wave overwhelmed him. His confrontation with Menedrion had been unnerving, but somehow it had kept him upright and sane. Now, alone, he felt the full shock of the events of the past day. The very articles of faith that suffused and supported his craft had been tossed aside, as if they had never existed, and he was adrift in an ocean of madness without star or landmark to steer by. All that was familiar and solid had become alien and menacing, like a solid shore turned suddenly quicksand.
He covered his hands with his face and squeezed as if trying to reduce himself to infinite smallness and insignificance, but the blackness sought him out and rolled over and through him irresistibly, shaking and tossing him like the least pebble on that shore.
Somewhere in the middle of it, after a timeless, buffeting agony, he heard a sound; a distant moaning, sobbing. It went on for a long time, gradually coming closer. Then slowly, he realized it was himself, pouring out a great grief for some terrible, unknown, unknowable, loss.
Yet with this realization came also a faint hint of relief, and he felt the tide of blackness falter. Slowly his convulsing sobs eased and he swung himself up into a sitting position, though still his hands were over his wet face as if the sight of the reality of the world around him would shatter what sanity he still had left.
He felt Tarrian nearby, waiting, watching, with that almost frightening animal fatalism that seemed to leave him largely immune to the emotional effects of matters which he could not control.
'I'm sorry,’ Antyr managed eventually.
Tarrian did not reply, but moved over to him and leaned heavily against his leg. A pack thing. One of Antyr's hands relinquished his face and reached down to stroke the soft fur. More sobs shook him.
'I'm sorry,’ he repeated.
Again Tarrian did not reply. He did not understand, at least not fully, so he could offer nothing. Yet in knowing that he did not understand, he offered everything he had. Antyr patted him, finding some solace in the purposeful presence of the wolf's powerful frame.
'I don't know what brought that on,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
'You don't need to,’ Tarrian said. ‘It was necessary and you allowed it. It was a wise act.'
This time it was Antyr who did not reply.
The two sat in silence for a long time, then, eventually, Antyr started hunting through his pockets for a kerchief.
'There are towels and water next door,’ Tarrian said.
Antyr heard himself chuckle weakly as he stood up and followed Tarrian's direction. ‘Thank you, Earth Holder,’ he said. ‘It's as well one of us keeps his feet on the ground.'
But the darkness had not left him completely and it welled up again as he worked the small, silvered pump handle and watched a stream of water splutter into a plain white bowl. The water glittered with the lamplight as it swirled and danced around the bowl, obeying hidden laws that were as immutable as those binding Antyr's craft were now capricious. The sight seemed to mock him and he felt his body begin to shake uncontrollably.
He reached out and steadied himself by leaning against the wall as he dipped his other hand into the water and splashed his face carelessly with it.
The effort seemed to take all his strength and slowly he slithered to the floor.
Again Tarrian came and sat by him, silent, but solid.
'I'm so frightened,’ Antyr said, after a long silence.
'Yes,’ Tarrian said. ‘You reek of it.'
Antyr gave a soft rueful laugh at his Companion's simple bluntness, but still his body was reluctant to move. Tarrian lay down patiently.
'What's the matter with me?’ Antyr asked after a further long silence.
Tarrian looked at him, but did not speak.
'Too much change, too fast?’ Antyr said, turning and resting his forehead against the cold, tiled wall. ‘Too much foolishness. Too much weakness.'
'You're too harsh on yourself,’ Tarrian said, standing up and walking out of the small washroom as if he were no longer needed. ‘What's happening to you is perhaps a little of all those things, but mainly it's an attack. An assault at your very soul.'
Antyr rolled his head from side to side against the tiles.
'That's what I've come to say to myself. That's what I told Menedrion. But what does it mean?'
He struggled to his feet awkwardly and followed Tarrian.
'What does it mean?’ he repeated.
'It means you're being attacked,’ Tarrian replied.
'Damn it, Tarrian,’ Antyr shouted. ‘Talk sense. My head … everything's … whirling.’ He clenched his fists savagely and then let his hands fall limply to his sides. ‘I need some clarity, not more riddles. I feel so lost. So helpless. I'm not even sure about my own sanity any more.’ Then, angrily. ‘And if I'm being attacked, then presumably so are you. Why aren't you frightened?'
It was a pointless question, he knew. Tarrian was an animal. He carried some human traits, just as Antyr carried some wolfish traits, but it was not in his true nature to be afraid of what he could not immediately sense. Tarrian responded to circumstances as a mirror reflects an image, even though his slight humanity made the mirror blur and shake a little at times.
'I am,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Your fear wakens fear in me like an echo. But that's all it is: an echo. Your fear is fear of many things. Fear of yourself, your weakness, the unknown depths inside you. Then there's fear of Menedrion, of the Duke, of your dead father's reproach, of my contempt…'
Antyr raised a hand to stop him. ‘And of the hooded figure with the lamp,’ he said.
'Yes,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Him certainly.'
'And what do I do with this grand chorus of fears?’ Antyr went on, his voice hardening.
