camp, his heavy form black in the torchlight. Pandra watched him go, then turned to head back to his wagon.
'You handled that very well,’ came a patronizing voice in his head.
'Thank you, Kany,’ he replied. ‘And thank you for the support you gave me by pretending to be asleep all the time.'
The rabbit ignored the jibe. ‘Spirit to quell a wolf, eh?’ he preened. ‘Very poetic. And very true.'
'No. Just very poetic,’ Pandra replied caustically. ‘I've a professional and patriotic obligation to keep up the morale of my client, and that allows me a little … licence … with the truth at such times.'
Kany gave a dismissive snort, then, abruptly serious, he said, ‘Do you think he understands?'
Pandra shrugged. ‘Why should he?’ he replied. ‘We don't. Nor, for that matter, does Antyr. I just hope I told him the truth when I spoke about Antyr as our unheralded defender. What he can do awes me, but I'd feel a lot easier if I could see a little more technique and a little less luck in the proceedings.'
'Technique? Luck?’ Kany burst out scornfully. ‘I despair of you creatures. You're so…’ He struggled for a word. ‘…so cluttered … disjointed … unaware…’ He gave up. ‘Of course you told Menedrion the truth. You just weren't listening! How you ever survived as a species, being so deaf, blind and stupid, defies me utterly. I suppose it's MaraVestriss's idea of a joke.’ His mood darkened. ‘In which case, with a sense of humour like that, he must be human himself. That's a grim thought I could well have done without.'
'Would you like a carrot?’ Pandra said into the inky silence that followed this revelation.
Later, Pandra lay down luxuriously on his hard bed and prepared to search out the sleeping Menedrion's mind. Had he chosen, he could have reached it instantly, but he preferred to allow his Dreamself to wander through the great cloud of whirling night thoughts that rose from the camp, rather as a general might survey the terrain he was in before moving his forces against a particular foe; though to Pandra this preliminary excursion was more like entering a great library or a beautiful garden than preparing for a battle.
Just as the smoke from the fires and torches rose into the sky and diffused and reflected their light to form a hazy, orange dome over the camp, so the thoughts and dreams of the company hovered like a shimmering golden cloud around Pandra as Kany carried him forward on the search. It was a skill that had grown immeasurably since they had met Antyr, and both revelled in it.
They drifted, timeless, weightless, unhindered.
Where they chose to listen, the noise was clamorous, and where they chose to look, the scenes were hectic and boisterous. But all was well; the company
Very tentatively, and despite Kany's stern disapproval, Pandra touched the Bethlarii's mind. It made him start: it was raw with swirling emotions, dominant among which was fear. But there was nothing untoward and Pandra abandoned it feeling slightly ashamed at his intrusion.
Then he did sense a presence. It was faint, like a star in the corner of his eye, appearing fitfully between slowly drifting clouds. It was, however, quite definite.
Without speaking, Kany brought Pandra instantly to the fringes of Menedrion's night thoughts.
Nothing was amiss.
Although Menedrion was not dreaming, Pandra knew that the tide of his sleep was carrying him into the dreamlight of the Nexus.
Then the presence was there also; still faint, but nevertheless sharp and hard. Pandra sensed Kany's cruel fighting instincts preparing to defend their charge, but feeling no immediate menace himself he gently breathed a soft word of patience.
Silently, but very alert, Dream Finder and Companion waited, as Menedrion drew nearer to his dream. The presence waited also.
Pandra began to feel a sense of loss about it. Helplessness.
Confusion.
Then, as he had always been, he was Menedrion. He was alone and desolate, and sitting on the Ducal throne amid a deserted and decaying palace. A group of crows were bickering noisily around a gaping hole in the ceiling; the floor was littered with debris and the remains of broken furniture; pictures were defaced and statues smashed, and beyond the lichen-stained walls, he knew, lay a country ravaged by plague, famine, and war.
Pandra did not speak, but let his reassuring presence be felt. The scene, though grim, was no more than might be expected from a leader facing unknown responsibilities.
And yet, there was more. The presence was there also, but now it was in the dream; of the dream; he, Menedrion, felt it. Yet still it had no menace.
Kany waited. On the instant, he would snatch Menedrion back to wide-eyed wakefulness.
Then he was outside the palace, walking through the wrecked streets of Serenstad. Some of the houses were burning and the air rang with the cries of the sick and the dying. Here and there, groups of people were running from building to building. Looters.
Pandra reeled. He was no longer Menedrion! He was … Arwain!
And yet he was Menedrion!
He was both! He was inside the palace, surrounded by decay, and he was outside, walking the ruined streets.
Sensitives. Kany formed the word in his mind. Ibris's bloodline. The dreams of the half-brothers had come together. Arwain it must have been who unwittingly rescued Menedrion from the Threshold three nights ago, Pandra realized.
What shall I do? Pandra thought softly to Kany.
Nothing, came the reply. Watch and wait. There's no danger … so far.
Menedrion rose from the throne and walked down the steps of the dais on which it stood. Dust and rubble crunched under his feet. Angrily he kicked away a silver goblet and it clattered noisily along the floor until it came to rest against an overturned table.
Arwain wandered, bemused and lost. Beggars held out their arms to him; mothers, their sick children. Smoke drifted into the street adding an acrid edge to the sweet smell of decay and death. He felt so weary, so sick. Somewhere was an answer to all this; but where? All the streets were familiar, but they were not where they had been-it was as if they had been shuffled and rejoined like the pieces of some child's game. He moved from place to place that should not have been together and yet were, and always had been.
Menedrion stepped up on to the fallen gates of the palace and looked across the palace square at the jagged, broken remains of the Ibrian monument. The square was surrounded by broken walls and charred ruins.
Rage boiled up within him. ‘No!’ he thundered. ‘I will not have this.'
He started to run.
Arwain also began to run. His head pounded.
Menedrion felt the city streets moving under his feet as though he were motionless on a great treadmill. It came to him that, run as he might, he would not be able to escape.
Arwain, however, ran faster and faster, his breath gasping, his heart racing. He had to escape the destruction around him, the pain in his head. He had to escape.
Then a strange feeling of hope seemed to be just ahead of him.
Pandra felt Kany stiffening then releasing himself for movement. Nyriall had run towards hope in the Threshold, and moved from world to world!
'We must waken them,’ Kany said urgently.
'No,’ Pandra replied. ‘Not yet. They need each other.'
'I don't understand…'
Arwain reached a small archway. It was a focus; the end of his chase. He reached out his arms to touch both sides then he leaned forward into it.
Beyond, brilliant against the begrimed horror of the destroyed city, was a beautiful land, with rolling countryside and forests through which great rivers flowed, shining silver and gold under the bright summer sun. He breathed in the heavy scents of grasses and trees that came to him softly on a warm summer breeze. Two paces more and he could lie down and rest his pulsing head among flowers and clovers.
Menedrion began to turn and turn, making the city whirl about him.
'No!’ he shouted again. Then, ‘Arwain! To me! To me! This must not be. To me!'
