He picked up another and read the title. ‘Marastrumel, the Evil Weaver and the Making of the Dark Mynedarion.’ But even as he read out the name, his voice faltered and he cast a hasty glance into the shadows beyond the lamplight, muttering, ‘May the Blessed protect us.'
No sooner had he uttered the words, than his hand started towards his mouth and his face began to redden. He prepared himself for a mocking onslaught from Tarrian.
There was a long silence, then Tarrian said, ‘Well, well,’ very softly, as if he had just seen something profoundly surprising.
Antyr braced himself, but Tarrian simply said, ‘If that's the way things are then I think we'd better start with that one.'
Antyr could not restrain himself. ‘All right. All right. Spare me the sarcasm. It's not my fault. It's just a foolish leftover from my childhood.’ He glowered at Tarrian defensively, still expecting to receive the full benefit of his acid humour.
But it was not forthcoming. Instead, Tarrian just repeated his previous comment. ‘We'll start with that one, definitely.'
Antyr's expression turned to one of uncertainly, but Tarrian simply stood on his hind legs and, with his front legs on the table, flicked opened the book awkwardly with his nose.
'You turn the pages, I'll read,’ he said. ‘You're too slow.'
'What are you up to?’ Antyr said, still embarrassed at his brief display of superstition and still suspecting that Tarrian was laying an ambush for him.
'Nothing,’ Tarrian said, his manner serious. ‘Truly.'
Antyr shuffled self-consciously. ‘It's just a childhood thing,’ he repeated, still attempting to defend himself against a non-existent attack. ‘My father used to read me…'
'It's a pack thing,’ Tarrian said before he could finish, then he turned and looked at Antyr. ‘We perceive with more than our eyes and our ears and our noses, and our deeper selves guide us in ways we can't begin to appreciate. Good as you are, you don't even know how you can take me to a dream nexus and I don't know how I guide you to the dreams. But we do it and we do it well because we trust these strange resources of ours. Now you've led me to some strange nexus and I'm hunting. Trust yourself, Antyr. Trust me.'
Antyr looked pained and a hint of impatience began to creep into Tarrian's voice.
'Just reflect a moment, Antyr,’ he said. ‘It's fair to say that nothing-nothing-would have possessed you to speak the invocation in my hearing, would it?'
He returned to his study of the book while Antyr sought for a reply to this harsh question.
'Indeed, you do your best to not even think it whenever the word Mynedarion is mentioned, don't you?’ Tarrian went on. ‘Turn over.'
'Well, you can be quite caustic,’ Antyr managed after a moment. ‘Not to say downright unpleasant if you're in the mood.'
'Quite true,’ Tarrian conceded. ‘And rightly so, I would have said up to a moment ago. And yet you said it-turn over-said it out loud-walked into my den at feeding time, as it were. In the very same breath as a plea for reason and logic, you invoke the Blessed Mynedarion at the mention of the Dark like some frightened apprentice or some demented priest.'
Antyr stared at him in silence.
'Whatever guided you to that indiscretion, Dream Finder, I intend to follow it-turn over.'
'But…’ Still unsettled by his slip, Antyr was unbalanced further by Tarrian's uncharacteristic response.
'Turn over,’ Tarrian repeated.
'I don't understand you,’ Antyr said, shaking his head.
'Of course you do,’ Tarrian retorted. ‘I told you. Your wiser self made you point the way. Pushed aside our petty foolishness and pointed. Now I'm following. Turn over!'
Antyr sat down and put his hand on Tarrian's powerful shoulders affectionately. Reason and logic he had asked for, and now his Companion had pinned him to unreason with it. Part of him still wanted to bluster away from his childish utterance. But why? he asked himself abruptly. Tarrian's analysis had been right. Their faith in one another was total yet neither understood the true mystery of Dream Finding.
Perhaps the inner self that guided him to the nexus had indeed prompted him thus. He relaxed. If Tarrian thought it worthy of attention then so should he. In any event, what harm could come of it? When you don't know where to start: start.
'Turn over.’ Tarrian's voice interrupted his reverie. Idly fingering the page, Antyr glanced down at the book. The paper was thin and, in common with the first book he had opened, the print was small and dense, making reading difficult in the poor light. Gently he raised the page vertically and then let it fall with a light tap of his fingers. The page floated down to reveal an illustration.
Antyr felt, rather than heard, a choking breath being drawn in noisily through his throat as he looked down at the picture, and from somewhere deep inside him came a black spiral of terror. He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair.
The lamplight wavered, making the figure in the picture seem to move. It was the silhouette of a tall, hooded figure set against a background of ominous, live shadows. The figure held a lamp and was leaning forward.
Chapter 9
Antyr reeled under the unreasoning terror that, with the suddenness of a night ambush, had suddenly surged up within him. He felt panic beginning to overwhelm him.
Tarrian dropped down on to the floor and backed away slightly, his lip curling into an uncertain snarl. His powerful voice, however, smashed through the swirling confusion in Antyr's mind like a battle cry.
'Antyr! Nothing's happening! It's in your head! There's nothing here! Look at me! Look at me, damn you!'
Antyr clutched at the sound in desperation, then, briefly, as he turned towards Tarrian, he was the wolf, looking up to see himself swaying unsteadily in the lamplight, eyes wide in horror, mouth gaping. Yet almost before he could feel the wolf's purposeful, confident body about him, he was himself again, but now he was trembling less and breathing a little more easily. Tarrian, free of the inner terror that was unmanning Antyr, had used his brief tenancy to calm at least the body's frenzy, leaving Antyr the task of stilling his mind.
Antyr gasped wordless thanks to his Companion and reached out to steady himself against the table. He leaned forward heavily on his hands for some time until his breathing eased still further.
The open book with its menacing picture lay undisturbed by his violent reaction. With an effort, he forced himself to look at it again.
The figure in the foreground was beyond doubt that to which he had woken in the palace. His pulse started to race again as he looked at it, but this time he mastered it without Tarrian's aid.
He ran a hand over his face and found it damp, then, almost angrily, he reached up to the lamp above the table and brightened it. It hissed with the effort, but the library became a little smaller and the book became more obviously a book.
'What was all that about?’ Tarrian asked, his voice alarmed. ‘I've never seen you in such a state.'
Antyr, still breathing unsteadily, nodded towards the book. ‘The figure,’ he said. ‘The shadows, the lamp, everything.’ He jabbed at the book with his finger. ‘There. Just like last night. And before you ask, I've never seen this picture before, or even the book.'
Tarrian jumped up and put his front legs on the table again.