Menedrion's reaction was more vigorous-he drew in a sharp breath and a spasm of outright fear passed briefly over his face.
'He's superstitious,’ Tarrian said urgently. ‘Say something quickly. He knows he's shown fear, and it'll be face-saving anger next if we're not careful.'
'I was going to ask if there was anyone you'd like present, sir,’ Antyr said calmly, turning away from Menedrion and rising to his feet. ‘In my experience, the presence of someone the dreamer trusts is invariably beneficial and your bodyguard would be ideal.’ Then, prosaically, ‘May I use this chair, sir? I'm afraid I find kneeling very uncomfortable these days.'
'Yes, yes,’ Menedrion said with another wave of his hand. ‘Sit wherever you want.’ He leaned further back into the chair, stiffly and awkwardly, and closed his eyes as Antyr brought the chair forward and placed it in front of him.
'Would you give me your hand, sir,’ Antyr said, pulling the chair closer and then showing his own empty hands to the bodyguard. Menedrion's massive hand jerked out suddenly, almost striking Antyr. The movement and Antyr's startled response made the bodyguard smile.
Taking Menedrion's hand in his right, Antyr again showed his empty left hand to the bodyguard and then passed it gently over Menedrion's closed eyes.
'Sleep easy,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever befalls, nothing can harm. Dreams are but shadows and you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength.'
Menedrion did not so much drift into sleep as tumble into it. His whole frame sagged suddenly into the chair, his rigid arm fell limp, and his head slumped forward. Alarmed by this sudden collapse, his bodyguard started forward but Antyr stopped him with a gently raised left hand.
'He's only asleep,’ he said. ‘Look at his breathing. Just ease his head back and put a cushion behind it to make him comfortable.'
Despite his soft speech there was a commanding quality in Antyr's manner that made the bodyguard accept the role of nursemaid without demur.
'Have you seen a Dream Search before?’ Antyr asked, his voice becoming fainter.
The man shook his head, still avoiding Antyr's gaze.
'Very well,’ Antyr said. ‘It's nothing very exciting, but don't be alarmed if either the Lord or I speak strangely or if Tarrian whines or growls. And don't interfere or let anyone else interfere except another Dream Finder. Above all, don't touch me. If you do, the wolf will attack you and it's unlikely I'll be able to get back quickly enough to save you. Do you understand?'
The man nodded and mumbled an uncertain, ‘Yes, sir.'
Satisfied, Antyr followed Menedrion into the darkness, although, somewhat to his alarm, he had the feeling of being drawn after him, falling uncontrollably, almost.
He seemed to touch the moment of dark silence for only the most fleeting instant, yet it was also a slow eternity, and his awareness was at once sharper and more insubstantial than he had ever known before.
And too, the shimmering lights and sounds that were suddenly there and yet which had always been there, were more vivid and intense than ever before, swirling and dipping around and about him; dancing wild formless dances, and singing wordless, broken, songs; now near, now far.
Then he was whole and at the Nexus of the dreams of Menedrion, at the heart of the myriad leaking images from the edges of his lifetime's dreams that formed the portals of entrance for those who could find them.
But only the Companion, the Earth Holder, had that skill. Here Tarrian must lead, and Antyr follow.
Then Antyr realized that Tarrian was not beside him. For an instant his hold on the Nexus wavered and his heart jolted as a choking spasm of panic began to seize him. But even before his heart could beat again, the wolf was there; unseen but whole and strong.
'So fast, so fast.’ Tarrian was breathless and, for a moment, almost incoherent. ‘What happened? … it doesn't matter … hold on to me … hold tight … I nearly lost you … you dwindled into the distance … alone … unbelievable…’ He became quieter. ‘Your talent wakens, Antyr, it sweeps all before it. Take care, I fear you can go where I can't. I hold the earth here, solid and true, but you must hold me now, for both our sakes. Hold me tight. Do you understand?'
'Yes,’ Antyr replied hesitantly, countless questions forming in his mind which he ignored only with difficulty. ‘And no, my control's uncertain. What shall we do? Go on or withdraw?'
Doubt hovered around them.
'Not my choice to make, Dream Finder,’ Tarrian said after a moment. ‘You know that. If it'll help, Menedrion's doing this at the instigation of his mother because of a strange dream he's had. It disturbed him greatly but he's also concerned that by consulting you he'll look ridiculous.'
Doubt.
To retreat now would be to face the wrath of the Duke's son, drawn into what he saw as this ludicrous, even humiliating, performance-a business for merchants’ wives-and then being casually told by this charlatan that he wasn't quite up to the job today!
But, fearful though the consequences of that might be, Antyr wavered. He had been beaten and humiliated before now and survived; in the sometimes too realistic war games that had been part of his army training; at the hands of thieves and gangs of youths as he had staggered home too late at night; in drunken brawls at various inns. Fear of that must not stop him withdrawing if he felt that some greater danger for all three of them lay ahead.
But what danger could lie in a dream? None, surely-you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient power-the time-honoured pledge. But the eerie presence in the Duke's dream returned to him, and then the hooded figure with the lamp.
Yet there was pain here, too. Pain that Menedrion's undoubted courage could not contend with. Antyr did not need Tarrian to tell him that. Menedrion's embarrassment was proof enough of the man's distress.
Suddenly his motivation became important to him. The feeling rose within him that whatever decision he made, it would be the reason he made it that would be important and not the decision itself.
And scarcely had this conclusion appeared than he realized he must go forward. Not because he was afraid of Menedrion's anger, though it was no pleasant prospect, or even because somehow he sensed that such a reverse in his life now might redirect it into bitterness and wretchedness for ever. But because of Menedrion's pain. This was what the strange gift of Dream Finding was for. Retreat would not only be failure, it would be a betrayal.
Despite the clarity of this vision, however, he knew that he was not wholly master of events and that, in some way, circumstances were shaping his deeds for him, bearing him along. Certainly he knew he could not justify his decision rationally; betrayal of what? for example. And indeed, in the wake of his commitment, other, more selfish reasons bobbed to the surface, mocking its altruism. Curiosity: what was happening to him? what could the Duke of Serenstad's son possibly have dreamt that so disturbed him? And fear: whatever the vision of the hooded figure with the lamp was that had taken him from the protection of his Earth Holder, he knew that he must hold his ground at no matter what cost, and that to break and flee was to invite both pursuit and capture … destruction …?
A weight lifted from him suddenly, and he gazed into the Nexus, shimmering and swirling, cloud-streaked with black and red like a battlefield sunset, resonating with the jangling clatter of screaming men and horses, laughing women, clashing arms and clinking goblets.
Here, he, the Dream Finder, was master. None could gainsay that. None could oppose him with impunity.