Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“And you can think, react, in your dreams?”

“In the witch dreams, yes. In others, no.”

“Then it is a visitation. You are a dreamer, no? I would imagine you have always had vivid dreams.”

“Just ordinary dreams, I suppose. Nothing strange about them. Aside from the witch.”

“And what does she tell you?”

“I can’t always remember. I do know she gives me warnings, sometimes, like…don’t trust Wen…who Shorn’s son was…things like that. It’s as though she knows the future.”

“Does she ever harm you?”

Renir seemed to Drun to think of an answer overly long, but the priest did not interrupt.

“When it began, I was terrified. I think I know why, though.”

Drun was interested. “Why, do you think?”

“I fought it. I have come to accept it. It is like…having a friend. I don’t know as I trust her — I wouldn’t trust anyone who barged in on my dreams…but she has only given me knowledge, and this strange power to heal. Also, this may sound strange…”

“Very little sounds strange to me, Renir.”

“You’ve never heard my story of the bewildered goose before.”

“And probably have no need to. What is strange?”

“I think she likes me…I get the impression that when I don’t do what she wants, she is angry, but only because she is worried for me. I think she wants me to live, but also to do the right things…I don’t know, it’s almost like all women. Perhaps there is nothing strange about it. I suppose most women find a way to push men into doing what they think is best for them, even if the man doesn’t think so.”

“Women are often wiser than men,” Drun mused, largely to himself, but Renir heard him.

“Well, I think this one has the makings of me. It’s like she knows me better than I know myself, sometimes. She knows things about me I have never spoken out loud…all my embarrassments — and there have been a few — all my fears, my hopes, my dreams. Can a visitor read minds in the dream world?”

“No, you can converse, or remain silent. You can be truthful, or deceitful, and the visitor would never know.”

“And yet she seems to know.”

“Perhaps she is merely perceptive.”

“Yes,” said Renir, “But it seems to be more than just that.”

Drun picked at the hem of his cloak, which was bunched around his knees. The Seafarers had made it for him. It was a fine, thick cloak. They would need it when they went ashore.

Renir looked at his own. It was threadbare, and far too thin for the north.

He sighed. Forever the poor relation on this trip. Still, at least he was better clothed than Wen. The giant wore no shirt most of the time. But he did not seem bothered by the cold.

“I think I am happy with my witch for the time being. She does me no harm, and seems to want no harm to come to me. I am beginning to think of her as the sixth member of our little army.”

“I just hope she’s a friend, that is all I am worried about.”

“She seems to be, that is all I can say for now. In the witch dreams, it sounds strange, but I feel that if I could just see her face, I would know her. I feel I have known her throughout lifetimes…I cannot explain the feeling better than that.”

“A strange feeling, as you say. But I can say no more, because I do not understand it myself. It will have to do.”

Renir nodded. “I’m glad you made me talk about it. I feel better.”

“I’m not done yet, my friend. Tell me about the other dreams.”

“They are just that — plain dreams.”

“Do they feel wrong?”

“No, not at all. I think they are just dreams, not visitations.”

“Tell me anyway. Sometimes people close to the strands of fate can see it. I have vivid dreams too. It is good to tell of them. I would hear of yours.”

“You tell me about yours, I’ll tell you about mine.”

Drun smiled mildly, but Renir saw that his eyes were bright and hard. “No, Renir. I would burden no man with my dreams. We have a load enough to carry for an army. I hope your dreams are lighter than mine.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Renir with a hard laugh. “Two nights ago I dreamt of a woman, in danger, and a man with many faces chasing her. The man with many faces was not really a man, though, but it was the closest I could come in words to describing him. He had a long, narrow, face, with long hair that hung close to his cheeks, hiding his eyes. I do not think any man would have a face like that. He was wearing a strange, shifting robe that was uncomfortable on the eye…I was afraid, even though it was only a dream.”

“Two nights ago I heard you cry out in your sleep. I thought it was not a good dream.”

“No, he was evil. You know how some men are wrong in their hearts, full of bile and spite…this man does not have even enough passion to wish ill on others. He just ruins to feel…something. I think he is empty inside.”

“And not a man, I suspect, but a Protocrat. It is as good a description as any of their hearts. But I wouldn’t fear him, he is just one of many. He was not in your dreams — Protocrats and Hierarchs travel different roads in their dreams — I do not think they could visit yours. But it is portentous. And what of the woman being chased?”

“I heard her speak in my dream. The words were muffled, and I could not understand them, but on one side of her stood a rainbow, and on the other nine glowing suns, but small enough that I could see them. But I could not make out her face. She was in shadow, the shadow of the Protocrat. His shadow fell across her, even as she ran. Does that mean anything, do you think?”

Drun paled. “I think so, yes. I believe that was Tirielle, the third of whom we have spoken. She is in danger. The rainbow is a Seer that travels with her, the suns are my brethren…she also travels with a rahken, did you see it?”

“The beasts you have told me of?” Drun nodded. “No, I did not. What of the Protocrat?”

“I do not know him. But you would not be granted such a vision if it were not important.”

Renir found it was good to speak of his dreams.

“What else do you dream?”

“I dream about the war in Sturma. I see a large man presiding over it, similar in appearance to the other man I see — another Protocrat, I presume — but it is even stranger. In my dreams I do battle with him, but he fires magic against me, and I cannot fight it. But that is not the strange thing — in this dream I feel at peace. And most unusually, there is an army at my back. Each time his flames knock me down, men hold me up again, push me back to my feet…what do you think that means?”

“I must confess, I do not know,” said Drun, stroking his beard thoughtfully and looking out to sea. “Is there anything else?”

“One last dream. I have this on occasion. Of a girl. Her eyes are multi-hued — she is in the centre of the battle. It is all so confusing…In my dreams she dies in a city, surrounded by books…”

Drun looked up sharply. “This girl, she dies?”

“Is that important? It’s only in the dream.”

Drun’s expression darkened. His eyes glowed brighter, and he tugged at his beard. “I hope not. I must find out…Sit with me Renir, I must find out…” he tailed off, and went silent, a frightening, thoughtful expression on his tanned and lined face.

Renir had felt better than he had for days, even if Drun had not told him what his dreams meant, but now he was worried he had said something wrong. The Sard looked furious and thoughtful. It was no longer comfortable sitting next to him, not with that expression on his ancient face. But Renir could not refuse.

“I’ll sit a while. It’s a beautiful view.” It was true. The suns were rising high, and the storm was still a way off. The clouds reared in the sky, purple in places, dark grey in others. White clouds sat to the south, promising more welcome weather whenever he returned to Sturma. If he could…