by F. C. Reed
Amalia shrugged her shoulders. “So what does this have to do with me?” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. She held her suspicions back with her doubt, a quiet voice in the back of her mind trying, and failing, to convince her it was all a dream.
“My dear Artemisia, you will be the one to keep that from happening.”
Amalia’s heart skipped, and her breath seized in her throat. Anxiety gripped her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A flash of white blasted into the darkness of her closed eyes and she lifted her head from her desk. A dribble of drool strung itself from the lower part of her chin to her notebook. She wiped away at it.
“What a dream,” she pushed out with a sigh. “Doc’s going to have a field day with that one.”
Next to her books, Amalia’s cell phone screen illuminated its blue light. She picked it up and glanced at the screen. There were two texts from her grandmother. The first read, “Time for us to have a serious talk, Amalia.” The second text just underneath read, “Or should I call you Artemisia?”
Chapter Twelve
Amalia lay in her bed. The most recent of her memories surfaced as a collection of stubborn biological anatomy that had a way of not sticking in her brain. She tried, unsuccessfully, to create a clever way of remembering the essentials for her midterm. She must have fallen asleep, but soon found a peculiar sensation to when and where she was at present.
Did she dream?
She struggled to remember much of anything beyond a white-haired gentleman with a warm and kind smile. There was more, but the details eluded her. She glanced at her cell phone again, the two messages from her grandmother still displayed on the screen. Her heartbeat quickened as she read it several more times.
“It couldn’t be,” she thought.
“Amalia come down here, please.”
She shot bolt upright in her bed and frowned at how the sun shone through her bedroom window and poured over her headboard. But her frown wasn’t one of annoyance. It was one of confusion.
Mom? But my parents are gone… or at least they should be. I watched them drive away. I think?
She waited for her mother’s footsteps to tap on the staircase, just as she remembered, while also trying to recall the events of earlier that day. And not a second later, the rhythmic tapping of shoes on that hardwood case of stairs echoed up to her. She hopped out of bed and dashed to the door, unlocking and opening it before her mother reached the top of the stairs.
“Honestly, Amalia, I really don’t know why you need to lock your door at night. What if something terrible happens? I’d have to go buy a sledgehammer to break down the door,” she sighed. “And your father, so inspired, would end up taping phone books to his back and chest like armor, and start swinging it around the house, calling himself the Iron General, or something equally silly. Don’t give him an excuse to wreck the house. You remember what happened after we bought skewers for shish kabobs. He stuck them in his belt and swashbuckled around the house like he was a pirate.”
Mmkay…
She searched her memory for all the times her logical, pragmatic stepfather came across as a colossal nerd. Never.
“Amalia?” Her mother stared in concern and brought a hand up to check her forehead. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
Amalia stared back, more confused than ever. “Yeah. I’m okay. Just had an awful dream.” She flopped back onto her bed and put a pillow over her head, hoping and wishing things would play out like she remembered them.
“Well, your father and I are getting ready to—
A sense of relief washed over her and the most convincing case of déjà vu she has ever had was about to pass.
“Honey, what’s this?”
Amalia sat up, a small grin playing at the corners of her mouth. She took the cleat from her mother’s hand as a chill shot up her spine. What in the world?
“Very nice color. The black and red are a better match overall,” her mother said. “Gives color to the ferocity of the girl’s lacrosse team this year because your team is taking no prisoners. Love it! The other cleats had much better support around the base though. Take that into consideration, honey. Wouldn’t want you rolling your ankle after making a winning shot in the lacrosse match next week. Penn State is begging for you right now. We certainly don’t want to ankle roll ourselves out of a full ride lacrosse scholarship.”
Okay, so mom’s being more supportive about lacrosse than, well, ever.
“Amalia?” her mother put a hand to her shoulder, which snapped her from the dream-like state. “Honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” She struggled with whether or not she believed herself.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to worry about you the entire time I am attending my business conference in Seattle.”
So far, everything she remembered in this snippet of her life seemed askew. A testing of facts was in order. Or in this case, a testing of memory - namely hers.
“Business conference? I thought you were going to spend the weekend at Nana’s?” Amalia said.
Amalia’s mother instantly burst into a fit of laughter. She laughed for so long she had to sit down on the end of the bed to catch her breath. “Sweetheart, you just made my day. Spend the weekend at my mother’s house?” She laughed again. “With my mother? I wouldn’t give that old bat a pair of sandals if she was standing barefoot on the surface of the sun.” She giggled as she thought of Amalia’s grandmother hopping around like a flea on a hot brick. “And your grandmother lives on the other side of town. It’s not like she’s tending a ranch across the state or something. You sure you’re okay? You’re acting awfully strange.”
“I’m fine. Just tired,” Amalia lied. At least her mom still hated her grandmother. Not quite the thing one hopes for, but she appreciated what little consistency there was in the situation. Aside from that, the answer her mother gave confirmed her suspicions. There were definitely alterations to her known reality. All the pieces were present, but fit together differently. Only she noticed, it seemed.
“Mom? What day is it?” They stared at one another. Amalia’s anxiety rose when her mother didn’t answer right away. “Please tell me it’s Saturday.”
Amalia’s mother shook her head slowly. “It’s Friday.”
“And where was I yesterday?”
Amalia’s mother drew in a breath and exhaled slowly, the concern in her voice clear. “You were at the psychiatric institute.”
The creases in Amalia’s face morphed into a frown. “I wasn’t at school yesterday?” Her chest tightened through her panic.
“Honey, are you okay? You’re starting to scare me. Did you skip your meds again?” Amalia’s mom hardened her gaze.
“Uh… no?” Amalia winced, not having ever remembered taking medicine for anything.
“Amalia, please don’t lie to me. You remember what happened the last time you skipped your meds. Maybe I should call Dr. Gadot.”
“No!” she said a little too forcefully. “Really it’s fine. I just… I’ve been tired lately and I’ve also been a bit grizzly and crampy, you know? My mood’s been all over the place.”
Following the subtle reference, Amalia’s mom grinned a knowing grin and her shoulders relaxed through her sigh of relief. “Is that it?”
“That’s it,” Amalia said around a chuckle. “It’s midterms next week. I’ve been studying pretty hard.”
“Well, come say goodbye to your father. You know how sappy and sentimental he gets.” Amalia’s mother groaned as she walked out and started down the stairs. “I hope his trip to Maine to see his brother toughens him up a little. That outdoorsy atmosphere will put the man back into him and I’ll once again have a husband instead of a slobbering, pathetic wimp.”
Amalia watched her mom leave, then rushed into the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror. Same curly black hair, same bronzy-brown skin, same eye color, and same features. Even her pajamas were recognizable. As she stood looking for s
omething - anything - that was different, her father called to her from downstairs. Composing herself, she did her best to act casual as she took the stairs down into the living room.
“Morning, sunshine.” Amalia’s father stood by the front door in jeans and an ugly Hawaiian print shirt with pinks and yellows so loud, her eyes almost went deaf.
“Phillip, say goodbye to the girl so we can leave,” Amalia’s mother snapped.
“And how’s my pun’kin?” He swooped Amalia up in a hug long before she had time to retaliate.
“Oh good grief. Put the girl down. When I said for you to say goodbye, I meant say it, not accost the girl.” Amalia’s mother’s eyes rolled in their sockets. “I’ll be in the car.”
Amalia’s dad ignored the comment. “You’ve got my cell if anything goes bonkers, kiddo. Mr. Durnst is next door if you need help with anything.” He tapped her on the nose, making a ‘boop’ noise.
“Phillip,” Amalia’s mother growled from outside. “If you make me miss my plane, you’re damn well going to drive me there yourself.”
“You better get going, dad. Otherwise mom will emasculate you by making you ride in the back seat or something.” She hugged her father one last time, grateful for not having to pretend everything was normal for too much longer.
“Take care, kiddo,” he said before shutting the door behind him.
Amalia sprinted back up to her room to check and see whatever else was different. The fact that her father’s name was Mark, not Phillip, didn’t pass her by. Her concert posters still covered key spots on her wall and had all the same artists she remembered. Binky’s gerbil cage sat on her desk near the windowsill.
Binky, her pet gerbil, emancipated himself a few months back by chewing a hole in the wall behind her dresser. She peeked inside his cage to make sure he wasn’t inside and breathed easier when she found it to be still empty.
Then she felt a sudden urge to check her closet. She dashed across the room and ripped open the wooden sliding doors and tore through her clothes. Frustration mounting, she yanked the clothes from their hangars and tossed them behind her. Pushing the rest of her clothes to the end of her closet, a metal door sat encased in the wall in plain view.
What is this? And why have I never noticed a huge, metal safe in my closet before?
The latch bristled with knobs, buttons and levers. To her own surprise, she knew how to open it, and had a faint idea of what was inside. She knelt in front of the strange lock and quickly realized she knew where to place her fingertips on the knobs and buttons, which ones to press or slide, and which ones to flip up or twist. The process was as familiar as having done it for the thousandth time.
The door hissed and edged its way open, disappearing into the wall on her left. Behind it stood the most astonishing suit of armor she had ever seen, which goes without saying because she hadn’t seen many sets of armor. It gleamed, suspended behind glass like a secret superhero’s costume in the movies.
The suit of gleaming white armor trimmed in silver seemed to stare back at her as if patiently waiting to be put on. The joints were bare and the armor for the extremities overlapped one another in a series of movable segments. Knee-length boots sat nearby. Their rugged soles and glassy polished shine were as impressive as the rest of it. Even the segmented fingers on the gauntlets allowed for freedom of movement. She wiggled the pinkie, and it slid easily from bent to straight. The head of a gold lion covered the breastplate, with its mane spanning from shoulder to shoulder. As she reached for it, a voice from behind caused her to startle.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Amalia’s grandmother stood in the doorway to her room, a broad smile across her face. “Yours, once you’re ready to wear it.”
“Of course. Another inexplicably weird, yet powerfully realistic dream.” Amalia studied the armor a moment longer, more interested in its design and aesthetics than how or where her grandmother came from suddenly. “It feels familiar, like so many other things,” Amalia said.
“That armor is what is known as an aethereal tag,” said Amalia’s grandmother. “Some people just call them anchors. They serve as reminders and insights in your awareness. Without the mental fixtures, you’d be disoriented when you’re on another plane. They tell you where you are in the aetherverse.”
Amalia shook her head, annoyed at the complexity of it all. “Why armor? Seems a silly thing. A set of armor in my closet?”
Amalia’s grandmother shrugged. “They’re your anchors. Every planeswalker’s anchors are different. Mine, for instance, is you.”
“The hell’s a planeswalker?” Amalia blurted.
“We can walk the nine planes, you and I. Anchors help to orient us in one plane or another. I’d like to say that we were the only ones able to do this, but that would not be true.”
That one statement explained a lot. “Okay so we can travel from one plane of existence to another. That is undoubtedly the largest pile of metaphysical B.S. I have ever encountered.” She nodded sarcastically as though she was pleased with the situation. “And these anchors can be people?”
Amalia’s eyes narrowed as her grandmother nodded.
“Then why aren’t you my anchor? I’d say you are pretty important. Or my parents? It would seem likely.”
“Who talks like that?” Amalia’s grandmother chuckled. “It would seem likely,” she snorted.
“You didn’t answer my question, Nana.”
“So I didn’t.” Amalia’s grandmother studied her for a long moment, contemplating on how to answer, then subtly shook her head. “They’re your anchors, like I said. Instead of wondering who and why not, you should be considering who and why.”
Amalia frowned and pursed her lips at that. “So this is all real. I’m not dreaming,” she said, more a statement than a question.
Amalia’s grandmother nodded. “Like it or not. It’s real.”
“I need something to drink,” Amalia sighed, heaving herself to her feet and taking the stairs down. Her grandmother followed close behind.
“Not a bad idea. You’ll need it for the next piece of our little conversation,” Amalia’s grandmother said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Chapter Thirteen
Amalia strode into the kitchen, her mind full with questions that still needed answering and answers that generated more questions. Her favorite mug, the black and white smiling cat whose eyes changed with the temperature of its contents, begged her to fill it with orange juice. After doing so, she joined her grandmother on the couch, staring into the cat mug’s eyes that faded from orange to blue.
A sigh escaped her lips as she settled down. It never occurred to her something so simple as a gimmicky mug might steady her frazzled nerves, but she knew the mug. It was familiar and predictable, unlike everything else in her life so far. Perhaps the mug was also an aethereal tag.
“The stone on the necklace I gave you. It’s called a keystone,” Amalia’s grandmother said as she took a seat next to Amalia on the couch. “You will need it.”
Amalia lifted the blue orb from out of her shirt and let it rest in her palm. The warmth of the stone crept into her hand, its faint power pulsating like a second heartbeat.
“It is what helps to transport you between different planes of existence,” Amalia’s grandmother said.
“So that place I was before was not a dream? What was it? Harkhemenes?”
“Harkhemenes is this plane of existence. Therios Kaval is an alternate plane of existence, one with a very specific purpose. That is where you were during that time.”
Amalia frowned as she sorted through the new information. “The king, or emperor guy, sapphire something. I don’t remember his name. He was real too?”
Amalia’s grandmother nodded. “Valister Argos. And he’s not a king, but his lineage exists for a specific purpose. He’s the primus. Kind of like a president, but without the lies and politics. Sapphire emperor is a title that throws back to the old days.”
“Yeah, that guy,�
� she remarked. “He mentioned something about saving the planes?”
“Harkhemenes thrives by the efforts of several other planes of existence. And in turn, Harkhemenes seeds the other eight planes of existence, much like the heart in the human body. You stumbled upon Therios Kaval. That is where I am from. The primus holds the task of keeping this plane, Harkhemenes, safe.” She trailed off before continuing. “I command the armies that carry out that task.”
Amalia gagged and spit a mouthful of orange juice across the table.
Amalia’s grandmother grinned. “Not the reaction I was expecting, but okay.”
“What. The. Hell.” She sputtered through several coughs and wiped her sleeve across her mouth. “You do what, now?”
Amalia’s grandmother opened her mouth to speak.
“Wait. Stop.” Amalia held both hands out. “I’m so freaking flabbergasted right now, I don’t even want to hear it again.” She glared at her grandmother, brows knit in utter confusion. “Well that explains the twenty inch biceps. And before I totally lose my entire mind, I would love to know what makes this plane so important?” Amalia asked.
“Like I said, Harkhemenes acts as a lynchpin in the great aethersphere. It is what anchors the other planes to their existence. If Harkhemenes ever falls, the others will become vulnerable. That can never come to pass. Which means—
“War,” Amalia said with a shudder. “Just like in my dreams. But who are you fighting?”
Amalia’s grandmother sighed heavily. “For centuries Therios Kaval and other planes like it spend their days and nights pushing back the dark armies that arise from the plane of existence known as Tarnava Mare. I am Commander General Ryna Nysnvor Strann, and I command the Crimson Bloodguard, a company of elite soldiers charged with fighting off the Legion at their every turn. From here on, you will be expected to address me as General Strann like everyone else.”
