The figure, its arms thrown wide, like a black abyss, was closer to him, filling his vision, though he had not seen it move.
Antyr's eyes flicked from side to side, but he could see nothing except the tormented darkness and the shadows closing around him. And, try as he might to prevent it, his eyes were drawn inexorably forward until he could do no other than stare into the widening embrace of the figure.
'Even unto death.’ The words of the Treatise came to him again.
'No,’ he managed, first as a thought, then as a word, then as a denial with his whole being. The figure halted. But still it dominated his sight.
'You will be my Guide,’ said the chilling voice again.
'No!'
'No!'
Another voice coincided with Antyr's and he was aware of the flash of the sword blade.
'Tarrian, Grayle!'
Then he was plunging into the darkness, nostrils full of the familiar, homing scent, powerful limbs pushing him forward, towards the call, towards the desperate need, towards …
Himself! Standing alone, and menaced.
Antyr felt the wolf spirit of his two Companions rise up from within him and take possession of him. His limbs were free, his eyes widened and his mouth gaped, and, predator now, he leapt with a roaring snarl at the abomination that was his prey.
He had a fleeting impression of a hand in front of him, wrenching something away. Rescuing it? Then, in a time less than the blink of an eye, the menacing will and its desire vanished, and with them the storm and all its whirling horrors. It dwindled to a tiny black clamorous vortex, until, with a last frenzied, high squealing shriek like finger nails drawn down glass there was … nothing, just warm sun, blue sky, white clouds …
'Don't move! Don't move!'
The voice was Estaan's, powerful and commanding, yet frightened. The place, Nyriall's cramped room in the Moras.
Antyr put his hands to his head and blinked several times, his eyes momentarily dazzled by the brief brightness of the summer meadow.
As he focused again, he saw the dead body of Nyriall on the bed in front of him, and the memory of the old man scurrying across the sunlit grass returned to him. He touched the pained face tenderly.
Then he became aware of Tarrian and Grayle snarling and, looking up, he saw Estaan, holding two knives now, watching him wide-eyed and fearful.
'No, no, no,’ Antyr said hastily to the two wolves, at the same time lifting a reassuring hand towards the Mantynnai.
Estaan, however, did not relinquish his defensive stance. Further, Antyr noted, he was standing with his back to the door, holding it shut in addition to the chair that was wedged there. He could have fled from whatever had frightened him, but he had chosen to remain, and, presumably, to face and kill it if necessary.
'What's the matter?’ Antyr stammered, alarmed at the man's demeanour.
'Who are you?’ Estaan said, his voice strained. Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘What have you been doing?'
Tarrian, no longer snarling, but with his upper lip drawn back angrily, and his hackles lifted, wriggled forward a little towards Estaan's left. Grayle, standing, moved one very slow step in the other direction. Antyr felt a subtle hunting communication between the two, somewhere below his normal awareness. Estaan's eyes flicked between the two.
'No!’ Antyr shouted again both into his Companion's mind and out loud, for Estaan's benefit. ‘He means no harm. He's frightened. The evil we've been through must have reached him in some way. He'll hurt no one if we don't move. Come back to me.’ Neither of the wolves moved. ‘Come back, damn you!’ he thundered.
With an oath, Tarrian slithered back to Antyr's feet, and Grayle sat down, though neither took their unflinching gaze from the Mantynnai.
'He's on the edge of killing all three of us,’ Tarrian said, unequivocally, his voice resonant so that Antyr knew he was speaking also to Estaan. ‘Something's bubbling out of his past. A dreadful guilt…'
'Shut up,’ Estaan shouted. ‘And get out of my mind.'
Tarrian growled menacingly.
'We're not going to harm you, or anyone,’ Antyr said, hastily, still struggling to quieten his own inner turmoil. ‘We're going to sit very quiet and still until you can explain what's … distressed … you so.'
Antyr's words seemed to calm Estaan to some extent but, like the wolves, his dangerous posture remained. ‘Distress,’ he echoed, bitterly. ‘A poor word for…’ He stopped and looked around the room as if searching for some unseen foe. ‘But it's gone.’ He nodded to himself in confirmation. ‘The evil's gone. I'd never thought to feel its like again. I thought it had died with…'
He left the sentence unfinished and, like a great shield, the impenetrable composure that above all typified the Mantynnai, closed about him. He sheathed the knives.
'I'm sorry,’ he said simply. ‘But you must tell me what happened. You're dealing with forces of great power and great evil that I … we've encountered before. You must not … face it alone or unwary.'
'I'll tell the Duke,’ Antyr said quietly. ‘Then I'll tell you what I can if it'll ease your pain. But you must tell me what it was you saw or heard.'
'Saw? Nothing. Heard?’ Estaan shrugged. ‘Mutterings, whimperings, yelps, the occasional bark. But
Antyr grimaced at the pain in his voice, but even as he did so, Estaan was calm again.
'We must attend to the old man,’ he said. ‘Then I'll take you to the Duke straight away.'
Antyr stood up slowly. He felt weak and, for a moment, the room spun around him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We must find Pandra first…'
He was interrupted by a sudden pounding on the door. ‘Open up,’ came a commanding voice. ‘Open in the Duke's name.'
Chapter 21
Arwain looked up into the grey sky, then down at the damp grey stones of the palace courtyard, then he yawned monstrously and with complete disregard for any propriety.
In answer to his father's question, could he get a platoon of his guards ready to ride to Whendrak first thing the following day, he had answered, ‘Probably.'
It had proved optimistic.
'Is it an emergency, sir?’ Ryllans had asked, when Arwain had entered his private quarters a little more unceremoniously than he had intended, and blurted out his instructions, rather than calmly issued his orders.
'No,’ Arwain conceded. ‘But it's urgent, and it is my father's express command.'
Ryllans nodded sagely, his expression gently nudging Arwain into a fuller explanation of the Duke's decision.
'First thing?’ he asked, when Arwain had finished.
'First thing,’ Arwain confirmed.
Ryllans blew out his cheeks.
'What's the problem?’ Arwain asked, his brow furrowing at this familiar display.
Ryllans stood up and looked around. ‘Where are my boots?’ he asked. He spoke the question largely to himself, but involuntarily Arwain found himself gazing round the room in search of them.
'There,’ he said irritably, pointing to the offending items, lying askew by the door, where they had obviously been kicked off. Ryllans’ gracious gesture of thanks reproached him for his impatience more than any words could have.
