Where was their guardian of Dream, their god of wonder and secrets?
"Windwhisper!" Cade called, not caring if he disturbed the dead. The trees moaned and shook with his voice, and cold wind blew. "Windwhisper, where are you?"
He walked down gravel paths, past fresh graves, past tombstones that had stood for two hundred years, and with every step, with every heartbeat, he knew that his sister spiraled deeper into places where he could not follow. Statues of melancholy angels gazed from columns coated with ivy, moss upon their swan wings. A breeze blew, and pollen fell from the trees, sweeping across the path.
Finally he found the place he sought, the mausoleum where they had first met their hawk. Ivy climbed its marble columns, and two bronze lions stood guard outside, life sized, one on each side. The word Eaton was written in gold above the mausoleum's columns. The first time Tasha saw the place, she laughed, Cade remembered. Eaton by the lions, she had said. It's not his name, it's the cause of death! Cade sighed and shook his head. At twenty-two, his twin could still be a little girl. Well, her childhood was cut short, like all childhoods where we lived. Let her enjoy being a girl when she still can.
Cade sat on the steps that led to the mausoleum. He placed his chin in his hands, feeling the shrapnel inside his palms, watching the leaves glide between the trees and over the tombstones. Hills rolled ahead, crested with more tombstones and statues. Cade sighed again. Sometimes it was hard to believe he lived here now, in this new country, a place where the dead lay beneath soil and grass, not on sidewalks and rubble. Refugees. A strange word. Who'd have thought it would ever describe him and his twin? They had been so happy years ago, as children before the wars. Look at us now.
"Windwhisper, where are you?" he asked softly.
With a flutter of wings, a shade shot past Cade, and he looked to his left, and saw the hawk upon a column of stone. The bird stood fifteen feet above, looking down, regarding Cade. Mocha patches dappled his white feathers.
Cade stood up. "We need to talk."
The hawk fluttered down and landed on one of the bronze lions. "Hello, Talon."
Cade pursed his lips, and was surprised to find tears close to filling his eyes. Only my sister calls me that. He began to pace, eyes stinging. He clenched his fists inside his pockets.
"Windwhisper, what's wrong with Dream?"
The hawk gazed upon him with yellow eyes that sparkled like the gliding pollen in the sun. The light glistened on his white head and breast, and he ruffled his mocha wings. "It is... difficult to explain."
"Well, start talking. Something almost killed us there last night. That place was supposed to be safe. A perfect place, you had told us." The only place that's good. The only place he, his sister--these tattered remains of their family, scarred and haunted--could still find some peace. Our place of endless beauty.
The hawk lowered his head, as if overcome by sadness. Fallen leaves glided around him. "I'm sorry, Cade. I did not think that he would move so fast, so brazenly. To strike so far east...."
Cade stepped up to the hawk, not caring that he stepped over graves or trampled flowers. "Who is he? What is the Crunge?"
Windwhisper looked up, and Cade lost his breath, for in the hawk's eyes, he saw rolling plains and forests, soaring mountains and valleys, and beyond them... a place of dark fire and terror. It was only a glimpse, a fleeting image soon gone, but it filled Cade with fear. The hawk regarded him.
"Do you know why we chose you to visit Dream, Cade?" Windwhisper asked. "Do you know why you and Tasha are the only humans to have seen it?"
"Because... it is our place," Cade whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the hawk, from the afterglow of that vision he had glimpsed. "A place where we can rest. That's what Tasha says."
"And what do you say?"
Cade lowered his head. He stared at the leaves and grass beneath his feet. "I don't know, Windwhisper."
"It is because we wanted to train you."
Cade kicked a tombstone. The trees rustled and moaned. "Train me for what, Windwhisper? Damn it! This isn't a game. My sister tried to kill herself for the fourth time last month, so you better stop talking riddles, and tell me what you know. Why that presence that haunts us?"
The hawk fluttered off the tombstone and landed on Cade's arm. "Come, Cade. Let us not talk here, not in this place where spirits listen and trees watch. Let us go home."
* * * * *
Tasha lay on her stomach in bed, face shoved into the pillow. Her arms lay sprawled to her sides, and she wished the pillow would just suffocate her. God, please, just let me die. She shoved her face into the softness, but the pillow was too airy, and breath still found its way into her mouth. Please, God. To drift away, as into sleep... to feel nothing... to sleep forever without pain or fear. That would be heaven for her. She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, at the stars she had glued there, as if she were still a girl. Please, God, just let me die.
And yet where would she go now in death, if not to Dream? Dream was haunted, destroyed. Ruined forever, foul and disgusting. The Crunge. She hated it, and she bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood. So many scars she already had on her lip, but so what? Let it bleed again. She looked at the scars on her wrists, eyes dry, and thought of the scars that covered her brother's hands. You are no longer scarred alone.
She shut her eyes. Again she was back here, alive and bandaged; she couldn't even kill herself properly. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered anymore. No matter how many times she cut herself, the old days were gone. Her parents would never be back. Her old country would never be back. What was the point of returning to life? Nobody held her, nobody changed anything for her. Who cares? Who cares anyway? She stared at those stars on her ceiling. Nothing would help until she finally drifted away into nothingness.
I'm so alone, she thought, gazing up at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes. I'm so alone now.
Even Dream was dead to her. And Cade? She loved her brother, but... even Cade caused her pain. Whenever she looked at him, the scars on his hands and legs, she remembered that day, that one day she relived every day. Even her twin, the only person she loved, brought pain into her life, and she knew she was a burden to him. I know.
As if summoned by her thoughts, she heard the apartment door open and Cade walk in. He was talking to somebody. A visitor? Cade never brought people over. He's probably ashamed of me.
She heard him in the living room. Tasha crept out of bed, her black hair tousled and knotted, her pajamas wrinkled. On bare feet, she tiptoed toward her door, opened it silently, and crept down the hallway, past the Miro paintings Cade had hung there, as if they knew anything about art, as if any art could bring joy to their home. She held her breath, peeked into the living room, and gasped.
Windwhisper! Windwhisper was there, standing atop the globe on the coffee table. Cade found our guardian. Sudden anger flared in Tasha. The bird had given them Dream, had betrayed them, had sent them into a world that hid rottenness. Standing in the shadowed hallway, Tasha listened.
"Cade," the hawk said, talons clutching the North Pole. "Dream is not just a place of beauty, which you and your sister can visit in dreams. It is Dream itself, the place whence all good dreams come."
Cade, hands shoved into the pockets of his corduroy jacket, lowered his head. "I know. I think I always knew."
The hawk nodded. "Whenever one dreams of a flower, that flower comes from the meadows of Dream. When a person dreams of love and beauty, those emotions flow from the forests of Dream."
Tasha knew all this already. It had been obvious to her all her life. Back in the old days, before the wars, before the bombing that left her brother broken and her parents dead, she used to dream of flowers and unicorns and teddy bears. She had always known, even as a little girl in those days of joy, that when she dreamed, she was glimpsing fragments of a far off land. Other people said that dreams came from her head, but Tasha had always known they were wrong. Dream had always been real to h
er, years before Windwhisper had shown her the portal to its shores and forests.
"And you, Cade," the hawk continued, "you and your sister are the only humans who've ever visited Dream. You are the only people who received more than just fragments, but a portal into our very world." The hawk's voice seemed ancient and endlessly wise, powerful as the voice of a god.
"So why the monster?" Cade said, pacing across the living room, hands still in his pockets. He always keeps his hands in there. Tasha wanted to weep, she suddenly loved him so much.
"Because our world, the world of Dream, is dying, Cade," Windwhisper said.
Tasha lowered her head, feeling the anguish grow in her chest, that old anguish that flowed through her limbs, making her weak, overcoming her. Dream. Where everything is good. Their place. Dying.
"Dying?" Cade whispered. "How?"
The hawk flew to the windowsill and gazed outside to the city. The lights of passing cars danced in his eyes. "Nightmare is a land as well, a kingdom at war with our own." The hawk turned back from the window and gazed with burning eyes, and his voice flowed intense and desperate. "Phobetor, the God of Nightmare, is invading Dream. If he conquers Dream, all good dreams will die, and only nightmares will fill the sleep of sleepers."
Tasha felt a chill run down her back, from her head to the tip of her tailbone. Yes. Nightmare. This too was a real land Tasha had witnessed in her sleep--a land of pure terror where horror itself formed the air and earth, where red snakes crawled and hairless cats hissed.
Nightmare. My eternal companion.
She shut her eyes. For so long, Dream had been her place, the place where she escaped, with Talon, with the mountains and valleys of her most secret solace. The wilderness beyond the world. She opened her eyes and looked to the ceiling, tears on her lashes, for she loved their special haven and should it perish, she knew her soul would follow.
"This Phobetor," Cade whispered, pale. "Is there no way to stop him?"
Windwhisper again gazed out the window, and suddenly he seemed so sad that Tasha wanted to weep, for she saw the sadness of her heart echoed in the hawk's eyes. "There is but one way."
Tasha caught her breath. She crept to the edge of the hallway, listening.
Chapter Three
Moonmist
An impish hag, squat and warty, sat on her chest. Princess Moonmist could not breathe. Choking, she leapt up in bed and tossed off her blankets. The weight lifted from her chest, and she took deep, ragged breaths.
Her candles had died while she slept, and clouds veiled the moon. Fingers trembling, Moonmist fumbled for her tinderbox. A dull, hideous cackle came from the shadows of her room. Moonmist started, hit the tinderbox, and it crashed to the floor.
"Onana!" she called.
Fumbling came from the chamber next to hers, and Moonmist lay, clutching her embroidered blankets to her chin. Soon her handmaiden rushed into the room, holding a lit candelabrum. Shadows danced and swayed like demons, red and black.
"My lady!" the handmaiden said. The feathers that grew from her head were tousled. "Does something trouble your sleep?"
Moonmist looked around the room, but could see no sign of an impish hag, that weight she had felt on her chest as she slept. Had she imagined it?
The princess sighed. "I... had a bad dream, Onana. That is all."
For safe measure, she took the candelabrum from Onana and explored the dark corners, under her canopy bed, behind her divan. No imps, no witches, nothing. A bad dream, no more. Moonmist sighed. Lately she had been seeing shadows, ghosts, evil whispers in every corner. Dream is not as it was. Something foul casts a shadow upon Yor's kingdom.
Onana, young and pink and plump, stepped toward her. The handmaiden brushed back the long, golden feathers that grew from Moonmist's head. "It's best to be safe, Princess," the handmaiden said, "what with the Banished One's beings crawling across the land."
Moonmist nodded. The Banished One. Why dare we not speak his name, though we all whisper it in our hearts in darkest nights? Yes, Phobetor's beings crawled across the land. His snakes, wolves, and demons had been scouring the fields outside her city, leaving smoking tracks, devouring livestock, kidnapping farmer babies. Moonmist walked toward the window, the thick woolen rug caressing her bare feet. Finally the moon broke through the clouds, glinting on her silvery gown and pendant.
Moonmist looked down to that pendant, which lay glistening upon her white breast. She caressed the talisman with fingers that still trembled. Two pegacats, cats with butterfly wings, circled each other against her skin. One pegacat was black, carved of jet, her wings woven of silver. The other pegacat was white, carved of marble, and her wings were woven of gold. Starlight and Harmony, the pegacats of Dream. May they protect me on these dark nights, for I fear a forthcoming night of endless darkness.
As if to echo her thoughts, she glimpsed a shadow in the gardens outside, scurrying across the bushes, squat and heavy. Moonmist shivered, remembering that image of the hag, but when she looked again, the shadow was gone.
"Did you see something outside, Princess?" her handmaiden asked. "I thought I saw a shade, like a wolf in the night."
Moonmist shook her head. "It was only the stirring of leaves in the breeze." Let not Onana fear the darkness, for if her happiness and hope left her, who would comfort me when nightmares creep? Tomorrow she would ask for guards outside their chambers.
"Very well, my princess," Onana said, her pink hands on the windowsill, still gazing into the night with worried eyes. "If that is all, I'll retire to my chambers, unless you would like a cup of warm milk to soothe you."
Moonmist shook her head, clutching her pegacat pendant. "Don't trouble yourself, Onana. But... if that shadow worried you, and if you are afraid... you can stay here. Just for tonight." She swallowed, remembering that weight on her chest, and shivered again. "I wouldn't want you to be alone if you're frightened."
Onana turned to look at her and smiled, the moonlight in her eyes. "Of course, Your Highness," the handmaiden said and bowed her head.
Soon the princess and her handmaiden lay in the canopy bed, its posts carved of cherry wood in the form of frolicking pegacats. The embroidered blankets were soft around them, and the downy pillows fluffy, yet they could not sleep, not until dawn rose and light filled the world. Then, finally, could Moonmist forget her fears and sleep, if only for an hour or two.
In the morning light, she rose to find Onana gone, the window open, and fresh jasmines blooming in a porcelain vase upon her table. Moonmist considered calling Lynk, her second handmaiden, but decided to wash and dress herself this morning. She felt like being alone today. She tossed her feathers back and stepped toward her dresser, to choose a gown. I feel like my dark green gown today, of soft wool and silver bells sewn into the hem. Their chime will take my mind off night's sound of grunts and cackling.
When she swung open the chestnut dresser's doors, the blood left her face.
Bloody prints, squat and clawed, covered the inside of her dresser. Her clothes hung in muddy shreds.
The hag.
"Lynk! Onana!"
The next few moments passed in a blur. When Moonmist could finally think again, she lay upon her divan, her head in Onana's lap. A dozen guards filled her room, dressed in plate armor, helmets on heads. Outside her window, more soldiers ran through the marble streets of the Begemmed City, but Moonmist knew they would not find the hag. She knew that if Phobetor did not want his scout found, his scout would not be found.
As Onana caressed the feathers on her head, Moonmist shut her eyes. Why do you torment me, Phobetor, lord of nightmares?
"Torment?" came a soft voice. "My sweetness, you do me an injustice."
Moonmist's eyes snapped open. "Who said that?" she demanded in a shaky voice. She looked around wildly, but the guards were still busy searching her room, and Onana looked down upon her in concern.
"My Lady? I've said nothing," the handmaiden said, concern veiling her eyes.
Moonmist shut her
eyes again, and sure enough, the voice spoke inside her mind. "Sweetness, you know who I am."
Moonmist winced. Phobetor.... Could the voice of Nightmare itself be speaking to me?
The voice in her mind seemed to answer. "Clever girl. I can't wait until we meet, sweetness. It will be soon. Soon enough, I will come get you."
Moonmist rose to her feet. "I must leave this place," she said. As Onana gazed in worry, Moonmist marched out of her bedroom. Her guards rushed to follow. I will never dare return to this room. She marched down corridors of white marble, the walls studded with gems, jeweled steeples glistening outside the windows. But no beauty could solace Moonmist today, a day when Nightmare crawled inside the palace. What has happened to my home?
"I need to ride," she said to Onana and Lynk, her two dear handmaidens, who trailed behind. "Lynk, can you find me a riding dress?"
"Yes, My Lady," the girl with the black feathers on her head said. She hurried off into a chamber, her azure skirts rustling behind her.
"Onana, can you please pack us a lunch? I wish not to return for some hours."
Onana nodded and rushed off, but Sir Grendel, chief of her guards, stepped toward her. White feathers grew from his chin in a long beard, and red feathers bloomed upon his head. "My Lady, the fields outside the city are dangerous these days. There have been reports of foul creatures crawling there. I suggest you stay indoors."
Moonmist turned to gaze at him, never slowing her stride. "A creature of the Nightmare Lord found its way into my chamber tonight, as I slept, as a hundred guards roamed the palace hallways. If a monster could penetrate the chambers of the princess, no place is safe."
Sir Grendel lowered his head. "I will accompany you outside the city." When Moonmist opened her mouth to object, he silenced her with a fiery gaze. "I will hear no refusal! I ride with you, myself and thirty men bedecked in full armor."
Moonmist wanted to rail against him. Eighteen years old she was, and never in her life had she needed guards to follow as she rode outside the city. But then, nothing was the same anymore. She sighed, paused, and took Sir Grendel's great calloused hands in her own small white ones.
The Gods of Dream: An Epic Fantasy Page 2
