He's no charlatan, we both feel that. He believes what he's seen and he's struggling with something, beyond a doubt.'
Ibris looked uncertain.
Feranc leaned forward, suddenly almost animated. ‘Consider the worst, however improbable,’ he said. ‘A strange, malign power loose among us. Attacking us through our dreams in some way. You can raise an army to face the Bethlarii and many of us can help you lead it. But who can fight a foe that can come through the darkness into our sleeping minds and perhaps kill us there?'
Ibris watched him.
'You can't charge cavalry against a city wall,’ Feranc went on. ‘And you can't tunnel under an infantry line. Tactics and troops change with circumstances. If we need someone to … fight … in dreams then we must have someone who understands dreams, who can enter them, and who's no coward. And heed his warning about Menedrion. I've already told him that you want to see him today. You must tell him about all this and ensure that he's … guarded … in his sleep, however these people do that kind of thing. And speak to the man again now. Question him. Listen to him. And give him immediate access to you at all times.'
Ibris's eyebrows went up.
'At all times,’ Feranc repeated. ‘I'll be honest, the man intrigues me. You yourself likened him to the kind of man who springs up from nowhere in a broken pike line and somehow pulls it together again. And it's only another mouth or so to feed at worse. If he becomes troublesome or foolish he's easily dealt with.'
'I recall,’ Ibris said, sitting up. ‘Find Menedrion and bring him here immediately, no matter what he's doing-or to whom-then bring them all back in. And you may as well stay yourself, I doubt there's any point trying to hide you from those wolves. They probably knew you were there all the time.'
Menedrion needed little persuasion to leave his duties as host to the Bethlarii envoy.
'Father, my face is aching with smiling at that black-hearted, intolerant bigot,’ he blustered as he entered the room. His clenched fist came up. ‘The sooner we…’ He stopped as he saw Antyr.
'What's he doing here?’ he demanded.
'He's here for the same reason you are,’ Ibris said, curtly. ‘Because I told him to be.'
Sensing his father's mood, Menedrion held his tongue, but he gave Antyr a look of such menacing suspicion that Ibris was obliged to speak again. ‘You can rest assured he's done you no ill-service, Irfan,’ he said. ‘And since he attended you he's been appointed as one of my senior advisers.’ He looked narrowly at his son.
Menedrion seemed to be considering commenting but in the end he just sniffed loudly, and sat down heavily on a nearby chair.
Ibris turned to Antyr. ‘Tell me everything again,’ he said simply.
Antyr was less than happy at being the object of dispute between Ibris and Menedrion, and far from certain about his status in such a gathering following the Duke's earlier outburst. He stepped forward however, and did as he was told: telling of his visits to both the Duke and Menedrion, and ending with his experience at Nyriall's, adding this time Pandra's conjectures about the Mynedarion.
There was a brief silence when he had finished, then Menedrion gave a blast of disgust. ‘What blithering nonsense,’ he burst out derisively. ‘Wondrous worlds in the great beyond. Magicians conjuring thunder and lightning out of nowhere. I didn't believe tales like that when I was three. What's it going to be next? The Winterfest Giver with his red cloak and white beard? What are we doing here, father? We've all got important matters to attend to.'
He leaned forward purposefully, but before he could continue, Ibris intervened. ‘Look in the mirror, Irfan,’ he said sharply. ‘When did you last have any sleep? And what drove you to your mother seeking a Dream Finder?'
Menedrion's jaw jutted out angrily and, for a moment, it seemed almost that he was going to leap up and strike his father. Then he turned away abruptly, and slumped back morosely in his chair. It creaked in protest.
'Have you ever known me to play foolish games, Irfan?’ Ibris said, his voice mildly conciliatory. ‘I can't pretend that I believe this business of the Threshold and strange worlds beyond where dead men can be alive again, but I'm satisfied that I was menaced in some way in my dream. And I've enough experience of Dream Finding to know that a Dream Finder can't be separated from the dreamer as you were. We don't need to know exactly what's happening to know that something's badly amiss. And I intend to take action to protect our flanks by using the only troops we have to hand for the job.'
Menedrion looked up and the two men gazed at one another silently for some time, the one fatigued and afraid beneath his air of angry bluster, the other determined and concerned. Eventually Menedrion lowered his eyes.
'Whatever you say, father,’ he said. ‘I'll own that I was frightened in that … dream. Wherever it was, it was as real as here.’ He slapped the arm of his chair. ‘And so was the threat that I felt. It was like no dream I've ever had. I don't know who protected me the first time, but he and the wolf saved me the second time.’ He indicated Antyr.
Ibris looked openly relieved; a danger accepted was a danger that could be met. He turned to Antyr. ‘You must advise,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘We can't go without sleep or our ordinary old-fashioned enemies in the here and now will defeat us.’ He was almost light-hearted.
Antyr, finding himself suddenly the focus of attention, froze. Under other circumstances he might have expected a spine-straightening rebuke from Tarrian for such dithering, but the wolf was silent.
The Duke nodded at him expectantly.
Desperately, Antyr took refuge in the truth. ‘I don't know what to do, sire,’ he said, eventually. ‘I've no experience in such matters. Nor do I know anyone who has. I don't know what powers this … Mynedarion … or his guide have. What their intentions are … who they are … where they are … anything…'
'Nonetheless,’ Ibris said, levelling a finger at him. ‘
Antyr stared at him vacantly.
Ibris leaned forward. ‘Firstly, you survived,’ he said simply. ‘You say this … creature … raised a great wind, darkened the sky with thunder and lightning. That's a power beyond anything that even our artillery machines, or Menedrion's great forges can achieve. But still you survived…'
'Because he wanted me,’ Antyr interrupted, without thinking.
Ibris nodded. ‘Further information,’ he said. ‘Which I'd forgotten myself. And also you thought that you noted a division in their ranks.'
Antyr shrugged. ‘It was only a thought, sire. An impression,’ he said.
Ibris cast a glance at Feranc, who smiled slightly. ‘Battles have been won and lost on far less than that, Antyr,’ he said. ‘That's one of the reasons why they should be avoided if at all possible. Too much rests on random chance.'
Antyr opened his arms in a gesture of inadequacy.
Ibris became more stern. ‘We cannot see a danger and do nothing,’ he said. ‘You are the only one who can help. Trust your judgement. Advise.'
Antyr looked at Pandra and then at Tarrian and Grayle. The two wolves looked at him unblinkingly, but neither spoke. A pack thing, he thought grimly.
There was a long silence.
Then he looked squarely at Ibris. ‘You've never had a dream such as you had the other night, sire?’ he asked.
'Never,’ Ibris replied.
Antyr turned to Menedrion. ‘Nor I,’ Menedrion replied, before the question was asked.
Antyr closed his eyes. He felt an abyss opening before him again.
'We are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength,’ he said resolutely and, releasing a long slow breath, he stepped into the darkness.
Walking over to Menedrion, he stood over him and stared at him intently. Menedrion met his gaze unflinchingly, but with some suspicion.
'You are Irfan Menedrion,’ Antyr said, his voice unexpectedly commanding. ‘Son of Serenstad's greatest Duke. A man who will be Duke himself, one day. A great leader of men in battle. Where you are, men rally, lines re-form, and enemies quail. A great warrior. No one opposes you willingly.’ He reached out and placed his extended
