The room fell very silent as he stopped speaking.
'If he attacks me, do nothing,’ Antyr said privately to Tarrian, even though he knew the request was pointless.
'That's not in my choice, you know that,’ Tarrian confirmed. ‘But I don't think he's going to. I think you've held his charge, pikeman.’ There was relief in the remark, not flippancy, but Tarrian's manner was distracted, as if he were listening to something very carefully. ‘He's so confused I can barely snatch a coherent thought,’ he said. Then he paused, and Antyr caught a whiff of his irritated concentration. ‘But he's thinking as well as he's able under the circumstances.’ Another pause. ‘He's frightened and he wants help. But he's lucid enough to see that whether he doubts or believes you, there are problems he'd rather not face…'
The silence grew. ‘He wants simplicity, Antyr. Battlefield simplicity…'
Antyr seized the moment even before Tarrian could finish. ‘We find ourselves side by side in the same rank, sir,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Trust is something that perhaps we have no choice about.'
Menedrion's expression changed slightly, and his manner became quieter, less menacing.
'He thinks he's going mad,’ Tarrian said quickly, as if just glimpsing some fleeting prey.
Antyr had been avoiding Menedrion's gaze so far, mindful of the Lord's first reaction. Now he straightened up and looked at him directly. Menedrion flinched, but this time it was he who held his ground.
'There's a danger here, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘To you and, I suspect, to others. A danger that's none of our creating. A danger from … somewhere outside. From someone outside. And it's as real a threat as Bethlarii bigotry and malice. That I'm certain of, though I know no more, except that only a Dream Finder can help oppose it.’ He hurried on before Menedrion could accuse him of self-seeking again. ‘Whether me, or another, doesn't matter. And I waive any fee for this day's work. But ask the question of the Guild that I gave you before you decide my fate, or what you should do next. And if I can serve you again, I will.'
There was another long silence. ‘From outside?’ Menedrion said, eventually.
'Yes, sir,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion's brow furrowed and he shook his head as if to dispel too many conflicting ideas. ‘How can you know that this … dream … wasn't from somewhere inside, some strange disturbance of the mind?'
Antyr in his turn shook his head, but with the confidence of a man certain in his resolution. ‘How do you know when to commit your forces in battle, sir?’ Antyr replied. ‘You do it when your head and your stomach tell you, and they know through years of study and experience. So I know. But where a battle decision is subtle and difficult, and fraught with hazard, this is as clear to me as knowing that I'm here now and not out in the fog. And…’ He stopped.
'And?’ Menedrion demanded.
Antyr took a deep breath. ‘And I've felt a similar assault … a presence … in the dream of another before…'
'Who? When?’ Menedrion leaned forward, his eyes wide. ‘What happened?'
'I can't tell you who, sir, or what happened,’ Antyr replied nervously. ‘Not without the dreamer's permission. Their secrets are as sound with me as are yours. But it was very recent.’ Then, anxious to deflect Menedrion's curiosity, ‘And I too have been … sought out by some strange … power. I was about to seek the help of another Dream Finder when your men found me at the Guild House.'
Menedrion put his hand to his head. Trust and angry doubt distorted his features. ‘I don't know,’ he said after a while. ‘You seem honest enough. And I'm no bad judge of men usually. But all this is beyond me…’ He clenched his fist and looked at it as if wishing to see a sword there and a problem that it could solve.
'You mentioned farriers and fletchers, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘You can judge their work by your own needs for what they make, but isn't the finding and casting of iron a mystery quite beyond you? And the choosing of woods and feathers?'
Menedrion looked at him suspiciously. His ownership of many of the city's workshops and forges was an object of some cautious superciliousness by certain factions of the court. However, he sensed no subtle insult. ‘That's not the same,’ he said, flatly.
'It's exactly the same,’ Antyr risked. ‘Judge me by my deeds so far. You can inquire of others afterwards, and I'm powerless before you.'
Menedrion did not answer.
'Tell me about the dream you had that sent you looking for me, sir,’ Antyr said, picking up the chair he had been using, and forcing himself to relax. ‘You said it was the same place, and the same enemy … and that someone possessed you.'
Still Menedrion did not speak.
'Sir?’ Antyr prompted. ‘Do you want me to leave?'
Menedrion scowled. ‘What will happen when I sleep again?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Despite himself, Antyr grimaced. Menedrion had voiced the concern that had been hovering on the edges of his own thoughts.
'I don't know, sir,’ he answered immediately and straightforwardly. Then, more insistently, ‘But tell me about the dream that's disturbed you and why you sent for me instead of one of the more … popular … Dream Finders who tend courtiers, Senedwrs and the like.'
'Your name was given to me by my mother,’ Menedrion said irritably, annoyed at being distracted from his main anxiety. ‘What relevance is that?’ he added, though in a tone that suggested he wanted no answer.
Nefron!
It was not, as Menedrion had said, of any relevance to their present problem, but to Antyr it was a matter for some alarm, and he recoiled inwardly from the revelation, as he felt himself take an inadvertent step into the treacherous marshland of palace politics.
No one at the palace knew him-even the porter at the Guild House didn't know him! No one except those few who had been involved in his visit to the Duke. His name could only have come to her attention through one of these, who must be among the Duke's chosen. He felt chilled at the thought of his name being bandied about such politically charged circles. Another loose piece to be discarded when the play was over!
For a moment the fear of the very real dangers that faced casual players in Serenstad's political life set aside the darker mysteries that were waiting in the shadow lands of sleep.
'Forget it!’ Tarrian said, sharply, jolting him back to the present. ‘The danger there is only for those who threaten others. Concentrate on the matter in hand, that's far more serious.'
'The dream, sir,’ Antyr persisted, accepting Tarrian's advice. Another military analogy occurred to him. ‘I must have intelligence about our enemy if I'm to decide what to do.'
Menedrion grunted, then, a little self-consciously, he retold the tale he had told to his mother a few hours earlier, neglecting the assault on the girl. When he had finished, he looked at Antyr.
'And can I sleep tonight?’ he asked again.
Antyr pondered what Menedrion had told him, but it gave him no insight. Rather, it raised more questions and uncertainties. He felt his feet reach the end of the road and an abyss open up in front of him. ‘I still don't know, sir,’ he said. ‘I see two choices. Tarrian and I can stay and watch over you tonight, or I can seek out the other Dream Finder I mentioned.'
Menedrion frowned. ‘What prevents you doing both?’ he asked.
'Nyriall lives in the Moras district,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion's frown deepened and he looked Antyr up and down. ‘You're precious little advertisement for your trade, yourself, Antyr,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me that this person you need advice from isn't some senior Guildsman, but someone even more impoverished than you!'
Antyr's temper flared abruptly. ‘When you go into battle do you use a ceremonial sword, sir? Embossed, engraved, inlaid, beautified-useless? Or do you choose a simple well-balanced one that will hold its edge?'