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The Queen of Yesterday

Page 21

by Rob Kinsman


  “What brings you to this place?”

  “We are looking for the Night Rangers,” said Nicholas. “We seek knowledge of the sleep stories.”

  “You have experienced them?”

  “I have.” Amelia’s voice was weak, her body exhausted.

  “Legend says that you can grant us access to the story’s distant lands,” said Nicholas.

  “You wish to leave this world?”

  “We want to be together. That cannot happen here.”

  As if to emphasise the point, Nicholas took hold of Amelia’s hand. The woman calmly observed the lovers before turning her attention to the jester.

  “And he is to come with you?”

  “Yes,” said Nicholas.

  “A pet?”

  “A loyal companion,” said the queen in a tone that left no room for questions.

  The woman nodded, satisfied.

  “You want to leave because you fear the king?”

  “He is a bitter tyrant.” Amelia’s whole body seemed to grow in stature as she spoke. “The civilisation he claims to have created is held together by fear. He commits acts of cruelty for his amusement, and punishes those who are unlucky enough to be born with a mind of their own. I wish to have no part in it.”

  Nicholas looked sideways at her, full of admiration. It was the first time since they had left the castle he’d heard her speak like a true queen.

  “He is no friend to my people either,” said the ranger, with a wry smile. Amelia sensed she had passed the test.

  “Then can you help us?”

  “I am bound to. You spoke the words which have not been heard in many lifetimes.”

  “You can take us inside my sleep story?” Amelia spoke with the wonder of a young child.

  “The stories are always of a world apart from ours, one invented by the sleeper. Once it has been called into existence my powers can make it as real as the sand beneath your feet. In every generation there are only a few who have the gift. Your king kills most of them.”

  “He is not our king,” said Nicholas.

  This seemed to please the ranger.

  “Over the generations some of those who survived have come to us, the Night Rangers, and we have enabled them to cross over.”

  The rogue was, by his very nature, suspicious of everyone. And the more worthy their cause, the more suspicious he became.

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  He flashed the ranger his most charming smile. It amused her.

  “Our pleasure is to experience these worlds. Each person with the gift who comes to us creates a bridge to a new land. My people are explorers.”

  “And that’s all you get from it?”

  “The pleasure of punishing the king for all he has done to my people is also of interest, I must confess. He would rule these others lands too, but he cannot find the way in. Their very existence maddens him, which makes taunting him a most worthwhile pursuit.” The ranger approached the jester. “And you, fool, do you truly wish to travel with them?”

  Sidonius did a little dance on the spot, ending with a flourish and a low bow.

  “I think that means yes,” explained Amelia.

  “Very well. Then let us begin.”

  The orb of crackling power appeared between the woman’s hands as if from nowhere. It was a thing of unspeakable beauty, showing colours that reflected the true depth of the soul. Humbled, the three travellers gazed into the orb, lost in its spell. Tendrils of energy stretched from it, reaching towards them like arms. They touched Amelia first. She was overcome by a feeling of great calm. A moment of pure clarity and bliss.

  The other two travellers were about to sink into the spell when they saw the warrior strike, emerging from the edge of the storm where he had been hidden. His blade sliced neatly through the ranger’s neck. Her blood seemed to take a moment before it realised it was in free-fall, and then it oozed down her chest. Soon after, the rest of her body caught up and crumpled to the ground.

  But still her spell continued to draw the travellers in. The king’s warrior reached out his hand to the floating orb, polluting its magnificent colours with his own dark aura.

  And then there was nothing.

  Twenty

  This time Zoe held her tongue when Nick finished his story. Something about it troubled her. Or, more precisely, something about him troubled her.

  “I don’t remember any of this.”

  “The spell was corrupted. We were still blown across into your dream, but our memories were damaged. Mine started coming back when I slept. In fragments at first, but every night I remembered a little more.”

  “Why don’t I?”

  “Perhaps your memory was completely destroyed.”

  “What about Sid?”

  “He was barking mad to begin with. Who knows what was going on in his head.”

  Fair point.

  “This warrior,” began Zoe.

  “I suppose you’d call him a knight.”

  “Thomas Knight.” Nick nodded. “If he was in the desert, why didn’t he just kill us all then and there?”

  “He had to give you time to make sure the link between the two worlds was established. He wanted to control it, not destroy it.” Nick sank his head. “The king is now in charge of that bridge. That’s why people have been dreaming about him. Each night he grows stronger, more able to control what they see.”

  “But he can only appear to them in dreams?”

  “Dreams are the link between the two worlds.”

  “Ah. Right.” She hoped that she sounded natural. As she spoke she was scanning her memory, trying to recall if she’d ever been given any training on how to deal with deluded maniacs. For some reason the only course that sprang to mind was a seminar on using photocopiers more efficiently, and that hadn’t even helped her use a photocopier more efficiently. If she had ever been taught something more appropriate, it was long since forgotten. “That’s an interesting theory.”

  “It’s not a theory!” snapped Nick, his voice febrile. “Soon everyone here will bend their knee to the king and this world will be his.”

  Nick’s eyes clouded over, weighed down by the burden of terrible – and possibly completely fictional – knowledge.

  If he’s off balance, maybe he’ll let something slip.

  Zoe realised it was time to play her trump card.

  “Who were you were speaking to outside?”

  Nick snapped his head up sharply to look at her. Fuck, he’s rattled. For once she had rather hoped she was wrong.

  “What do you mean?” Nick’s tone was even and controlled again, but it was too little, too late.

  “I saw you talking to someone out there earlier. And I thought you hated the press.”

  The vigour seemed to drain from him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you the truth, so you’d understand.”

  He’d already edged close enough to the door to prevent her rushing out. Zoe sprang to her feet and backed towards the far wall. With her peripheral vision she scanned for something she could defend herself with. The only object nearby was the Snoopy telephone she’d had since she was a child, and that was unlikely to be very effective against anyone who wasn’t afraid of beagles.

  “There’s nowhere to hide in this world,” said Nick, stepping towards her. “I can’t spend my life running from him. He’s too powerful. So I made a deal.”

  It was his reassuring smile which Zoe was focussed on, so it took her a moment to register the knife in her stomach. She hadn’t even felt it go in.

  “I’m sorry,” said Nick softly.

  Zoe tried to speak, but no words came. Trying to escape she flailed around, sending some objects flying from the bedside table. But he was too strong, and her own strength was fading too fast. She slipped to the floor.

  His black deed committed, Nick crouched beside her like the lover he once was. He cradled her in his arms, gently stroking her hair from her eyes.

  “It will
be ok,” he said, kissing her forehead. “He’ll forgive you. Forgive both of us. That’s the agreement. We’re going home.”

  Zoe tried to speak, but nothing came. Eventually the darkness overwhelmed her.

  Twenty One

  It was her breath she was aware of first. It seemed to exist in a void, separate from her body. Zoe tried to open her eyes, but the light was overwhelming. She let her eyelids drift closed again.

  There was noise too. Possibly people moving around. She listened for the beep of hospital equipment. There didn’t seem to be one, although maybe that was good news. It might mean she wasn’t dying.

  Or already had.

  Zoe lay there for what might have been a moment or a week, slowly building her strength. If this was death then she was probably about to regret her staunch atheism. There was no rush to prove that she should have bet red all along.

  In her mind – or what she assumed was still her mind – she replayed that final moment of betrayal over and over. The blade sliding effortlessly into her. And worse, much worse, the look on Nick’s face. The blankness. The complete confidence that he was doing the right thing.

  An eternity passed in silence.

  The void. The space between moments.

  Nothing.

  Finally, a sense of waking from centuries of sleep. The realisation that her mind might be attached to a body after all. At first she could sense a hand, which gradually formed into something like an arm. A moment later its twin emerged through the mist and then finally came the legs.

  The breathing connected with a body. It felt like the first gasp sucked in after an eternity underwater. Joyous and life-giving.

  She waited, listening. The sounds were distant and vague, certainly nothing that sounded familiar. Not even any voices.

  Then a terrible realisation.

  My parents were in the house with me. Please don’t let him hurt them too.

  She put her hand over her eyes to block the light and tried peering out again. It was better this time. As her sight gradually returned she realised that the room was dark. Oppressively so.

  Slowly fanning her fingers to take in the view, she noticed that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Twenty Two

  Zoe didn’t recognise the man peering in through the rusty bars at her. The location was also a mystery, although it looked rather more like a stone cell than she was strictly happy with.

  A brief scan around the room revealed no new information that could be called comforting. Beyond the bars were various contraptions designed to stretch and manipulate the body. The place was positively, well, medieval.

  So here I am then. At last.

  She turned her attention to the man, who was perched on an insubstantial wooden bench. Dressed in leather armour, which made him look like something out of an Asterix cartoon, he gave every appearance of being bored out of his mind. He was a rather underwhelming presence, although the iron maidens and torture racks did tend to draw the eye.

  “Are you awake?” he said, seeing she was awake.

  Nice to see they put their best man on the job…

  “No.”

  Zoe was pleased to note that her own voice sounded familiar, at least. As brittle and sarcastic as the day she died.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “They’ve had me down here for days,” grumbled the guard. “I better go and tell them you woke up.”

  “Tell who?”

  He shrugged, as if he didn’t really know himself. As he slowly lumbered to his feet his face slipped into the meagre pool of light cast by the torches. It was only then that Zoe noticed the uncanny resemblance.

  “Alf?”

  He glowed like a bit-part actor being recognised and stopped on the street.

  “Aye, Alfred. You’ve heard of me?”

  “It’s Zoe.” His face remained blank. “I know you keep forgetting my name, but we work together. Or used to. Or will.”

  “Whatever you say, Your Highness,” he said diplomatically, before leaving by the stone staircase along the side wall.

  Zoe rubbed her eyes, wondering if that whole exchange had really just happened. She rested her hand on the rusty iron bars, trying to stay focussed. If she listened to the torrent of questions flooding her brain she was certain she’d drown in them. For now all she wanted to do was try and stay sane long enough to see what happened next.

  What did happen next was that the sturdy door on the far side of the room creaked open. A couple of feral-looking guards emerged, dragging an emaciated man by his armpits.

  “Sid!” cried Zoe.

  The pitiful wretch glanced over, dazed. He seemed to dimly recognise her, but made no attempt to speak. He probably wasn’t strong enough. His whole body had been painted with fresh scars, and his ribs looked as if they were about to burst through his parched skin. If it hadn’t been for the guards holding him up he surely would have crumpled.

  “No!” cried Zoe when she realised what they were planning. “Please.”

  The guards ignored her and continued securing Sid into the torture rack. Despite Zoe’s persistent pleas, they didn’t flinch as they subjected their prisoner to a series of degrading and brutal punishments.

  At first Zoe tried to hold Sid’s gaze, hoping she could offer him some warmth and humanity in this dark hour. But after a time she couldn’t stand it. Ashamed, she turned her face away, but even then nothing she did could block out the sounds.

  Eventually the guards lost interest and dragged Sid away, bleeding and broken. The bitter taste of vomit burned its way up Zoe’s throat. Ever since the dream began everyone had said that this place – for there could surely be no doubt about where she now found herself – was a land of magic and wonder. But right now she’d gladly trade it for her shitty flat in the arse-end of London.

  She wiped the trail of sick away from her mouth with the back of her hand. The overactive part of her mind, which was unable to walk through an underpass without imagining it flooding, told her that maybe the guards were just warming up. Perhaps they would return with her parents next. This was a strange new world, after all. There was no telling what horrors awaited her.

  For a long time Zoe did nothing. She feared relaxing, in case that was what they were waiting for. It was hard to judge the passing of time; the cell was lit by flaming torches resting in brackets on the wall, but however long they burned they never seemed to diminish in size. They dimly conjured up memories of Zoe’s grandmother’s electric heater and its ‘flame effect’ front, a garish plastic monstrosity which was 100% successful at looking nothing like a real fire.

  Eventually she managed to turn her thoughts away from the brutality she’d witnessed and focussed instead on the thorny question of how she’d got here. The most likely explanation was that this whole thing was a dying fantasy, a jumbled assortment of images and recent memories her brain was throwing up before it finally closed down. Some part of her even wished this was the case. At least that way it might all stop, sooner or later.

  After some time she heard the echo of footsteps on the stone stairs. Every muscle in her body tensed, anticipating the worst. She prayed it was Alfred coming back to keep an eye on her. Unlike the thugs who’d replaced him, he at least seemed to have some recognisable traces of humanity about him, even if they were mainly boredom and incompetence.

  “Your Highness,” said the solitary figure as he entered the room. All out of astonished exclamations, Zoe simply stared at her familiar visitor in disbelief. “I would have words with you, if now is convenient.”

  Even in the flickering torchlight, Zoe could see that the man’s skin was covered in pits and craters which spoke of a lifetime’s struggle with itself. He wore flowing robes, which gave him the appearance of some kind of clergy man.

  “I must be going mad.”

  “I can come back later if this isn’t a good time,” said the man timidly.

  Being as she was lock
ed in a cell with a front row seat of a torture chamber, Zoe didn’t imagine any time soon was likely to be ‘good’.

  “Nigel?”

  The man nodded politely. Of all the things that might have convinced Zoe she was losing her grip on reality the most disturbing turned out to be the idea that someone working in a mythical castle would be called Nigel.

  “Why am I locked up down here?”

  A flash of something – pain, almost – passed across Nigel’s face.

  “You ran,” he said, with a soft sigh.

  Zoe moved closer to the bars which separated them.

  “What’s my name?”

  Nigel’s brow creased. “I don’t understand.”

  “My name. The one I was given when I was born.”

  “Why, Amelia, of course.” Zoe barely reacted. It was more of a confirmation than a surprise. “Is there something wrong?”

  Everything.

  Zoe remained on her guard. Just because this man seemed like the docile Nigel she knew from work, that didn’t mean she could trust him.

  “Why did you hurt my friend? Was that just for my benefit?”

  “I, ah, I had nothing to do with that decision.”

  “Who did?”

  Nigel shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, like an anxious father praying his child will stop asking about the pretty lady who came round when mummy was at work. Realising she wasn’t going to get an answer, Zoe changed the subject.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “That is for the king to decide,” said Nigel. He exhaled through his nose, as if glad the hard part was over. “Now, come pray to the forty-seven Gods with me.”

  He bowed his head and began chanting. With no knowledge of how to join in, Zoe mutely listened to his lengthy ritual. From what she could understand, there seemed to be a deity for just about every occasion. There was a God of Rain, a Lord of the Sun, and even a Master of Drizzle.

  By the twenty forth God – Roolex, the Lord of Time – Zoe started to get the giggles. She smothered them as best she could, but a combination of emotional exhaustion and fear got the better of her. When Nigel reached Vagus, the Queen of Female Pleasure, Zoe could feel her sides literally hurting with the barely controlled laughter. Nigel repeatedly glared at Zoe, warning her to behave. She bit her lip and let him continue his muttered offerings to Gods who sounded like they’d been invented as a student prank.

 

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