Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  The only entry to the room was through a simple wooden trapdoor above them, held shut by a single steel bolt. Hawk was somewhat reluctant to approach it, given his experiences with the trapdoor that had brought them into the Inverted Cathedral, but in the end Fisher managed to bully him into opening it. Hawk pushed back the bolt with the head of his axe, just in case, and then used the axe to push the trapdoor up. He waited a moment to give anything nasty that might be waiting inside its chance to be cranky, and then he pulled himself up into the room beyond. Fisher quickly followed him, and the two of them stood close together, glaring suspiciously about them. For all their tired and aching limbs, they were almost disappointed that there were no obvious demons or guardians to face.

  The room in the Cathedral spire was simple and unadorned, empty and featureless except for the single window in the far wall, covered with wooden shutters. Not much bigger than an average attic, with a low ceiling and no furniture, its only interesting feature was that the entire room had been constructed from solid gold. The floor, walls, and ceiling gleamed with their own inner light, and the beaten metal walls contained dark, distorted reflections that looked balefully back at Hawk and Fisher as they turned in a slow circle. Even when they’d been Prince and Princess of their respective lands, they’d never seen so much gold in one place, or put to such ostentatious use. The walls were perfectly smooth, the golden metal showing no signs of workmanship, and when Hawk cautiously approached his reflection and placed one cautious hand on the metal, the gold seemed uncomfortably warm to the touch.

  The Seneschal called up plaintively to find out what the delay was. Rather than explain, Hawk and Fisher each reached down a hand and hauled him through the trapdoor. He took one look at the golden room and was immediately dumbstruck. Lament joined them soon after, muttered something about vanity and folly, and then strode angrily around the room, prodding the walls here and there with a stiff finger, as though searching for signs of fool’s gold or some other evidence of trickery. There then followed a somewhat awkward pause, as absolutely nobody was willing to put a hand down through the trapdoor to pull up the Burning Man. He finally floated up through the trapdoor all on his own.

  “You can fly?” asked Hawk. “I didn’t know you could fly.”

  “Lots of things you don’t know about me,” said the Burning Man.

  “Then why didn’t you just fly all the way up?” Fisher asked. “Why climb up with us?”

  “To watch you struggle and suffer, of course.”

  “This room must have cost a fortune all on its own,” said the Seneschal breathlessly.

  The Burning Man shrugged, and the flames on his shoulders danced for a moment. “Nothing was too good for my Cathedral. Alchemists say that all gold is formed in the hearts of suns. The purest of all metals. What better way to surmount my finest creation? Tons of gold went into the making of this room. All of it donated by the goodly and the righteous. I’m sure thoughts of buying their way into heaven never entered their minds at all.”

  Hawk and Fisher moved over to study the closed shutters covering the only window. Both of the great wooden panels were covered with a single, heavily stylized painting of heaven. There were green fields under a warm sun, where men and beasts walked side by side, and winged angels with harps and halos sailed across a perfect blue sky like graceful swans on an endless lake. The style was naïve, almost primitive, but the scene had an undeniable charm and power. The temperature rose sharply behind Hawk and Fisher as the Burning Man came over to join them, and they moved quickly aside as he leaned forward to study the painting. He sniffed loudly and turned away.

  “Very tasteful, I’m sure. Dated now, of course. And nothing like the real thing.”

  “How would you know, murderer?” the Walking Man asked him.

  “Part of Hell’s punishment is the knowledge of what you’ve lost,” said the Burning Man. “Hell knows all the forms of cruelty. Your just and merciful God didn’t miss a trick.”

  “Tell us about the Gateway,” Hawk said quickly, to stave off yet another doctrinal squabble. “Where is it, exactly?”

  “Right beyond those shutters,” responded the Burning Man. “Open the shutters, go through the window—lo and behold! Reverie awaits.”

  “It can’t be that simple,” said Lament, striding over to frown at the portrait of heaven. “We must be deep in the earth by now. What’s really beyond these shutters? Dirt that’s never known the light of day? Or perhaps a glimpse of Hell itself.”

  “You’re really far too literal-minded for a religious man,” chided the Burning Man. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You won’t be able to open the shutters.”

  To no one’s surprise, Hawk immediately took that as a challenge. He’d already noticed there were no locks or bolts or handles, so he took the next logical step and hit the shutters with his axe. He put a lot of effort into it, but the heavy steel blade rebounded from the wooden shutter without doing it the slightest harm, or even damaging the painting. Hawk dropped his axe to the floor and spent some time walking around in tight circles as he tried to rub some feeling back into his jarred fingers.

  “Interesting,” said Fisher. “Even the High Warlock’s enchantment on your axe wasn’t enough to make an impression.”

  “Interesting,” Hawk muttered through gritted teeth. “Yes, that’s the word I was just about to use.”

  Lament raised his long wooden staff and rapped imperiously on the shutters with the steel-tipped end. “Open! In the name of the Lord!”

  Nothing happened. The Burning Man sniggered. “You didn’t really think it was going to be that easy, did you? It wouldn’t be much of a secret Gateway if just anyone could open it. No mortal hand can open those shutters. Reverie isn’t meant for human eyes.”

  They all turned to look at him, and he laughed at them, flames leaping in his open mouth. Hawk picked up his axe again.

  “You knew this all along,” he said flatly. “That’s why you were willing to lead us here. To enjoy our anger and despair as we failed.”

  “Of course,” Burning Man stated simply. “The damned must find their pleasures where they can.”

  “There’s got to be a way,” said Fisher. “And you’re going to tell us what it is.”

  “Or what?” challenged the Burning Man, sneering openly. “You can’t hurt me and you can’t kill me. I have already been punished far beyond anything you could achieve.”

  “Don’t let him provoke you,” warned Lament. “We need to concentrate on the matter at hand. God would not have brought us all this way for nothing.”

  “I think,” the Seneschal said diffidently, “that this is where I justify my presence here.” He slowly approached the closed wooden shutters, holding out before him the Hand of Glory. “I can find my way to anywhere. That has always been my gift, my magic. And the Hand can open any locked door. With my magic focused through the Hand, I think I can open these shutters. That’s why I’m here. Stand back and give me some room to work in.”

  They all fell back, even the Burning Man, as the Seneschal held up the Hand of Glory before the shutters. And as the Hand drew near the painted wood, its fingertips burst into flames, but instead of the usual soft yellow candle-glow, the little fires this time were bright and blue-white, shining brighter and brighter until the glare was almost blinding. The Seneschal narrowed his eyes against the radiance, but didn’t turn his head aside. An inch away from the shutters, the mummified fingers began to twitch, then slowly move as though the long dead Hand was awakening.

  “What the hell is happening?” Fisher asked softly.

  “Beats me,” said the Seneschal hoarsely, not looking at her. “It shouldn’t be doing anything. I haven’t activated the Hand yet.”

  The Hand of Glory’s fingers were flexing strongly now, almost yearning to reach the shutters, and it was all the Seneschal could do to hang on to the Hand. There was a strong feeling of presence in the room now, as though someone else had joined them. And then the Hand closed sudd
enly into a fist, snuffing out its flames, and knocked twice on the painted wood. The sound seemed to carry impossibly far, echoing on and on as though crossing unimaginable distances, and then the view of heaven split slowly apart as the shutters swung silently open, fanning back into the golden room to reveal an endless darkness beyond. A blackness so deep, none of them could look at it, not even the Burning Man; a dark beyond anything seen in the Darkwood or the long night. A complete absence of light and everything else. The dark at the end of the universe, when all the stars have gone out, never to be relit.

  Everyone looked curiously at the Hand of Glory. It had uncurled now and looked like just another dead man’s preserved hand. The Seneschal shook it gingerly a few times, but its role was apparently over. The feeling of an extra presence in the room was gone, too.

  “Shutters that could not be opened by any mortal hand,” said Lament.

  “Just who’s hand was that originally?” Hawk asked.

  The Seneschal frowned thoughtfully. “According to legend it was cut from the body of the first Forest King. The man who gave the order for this Cathedral to be built. I found it in the Old Armory. I suppose he still has authority here.”

  “What made you bring that thing along?” asked Fisher.

  The Seneschal’s frown deepened. “The Hand told me to. And no, I don’t feel like discussing that. Could we talk about something else now, please?”

  “All right,” agreed Hawk. “We now have our Gateway, unsettling as it is. Isobel and I are going in. Lament, I assume you’re in, too?”

  “Of course,” Lament responded. “The situation hasn’t changed. The world must still be saved from chaos.”

  “I’m not going,” said the Burning Man. “I’ve gone as far as I can. I am bound to the site of my achievement and my crime.”

  “In which case the Seneschal will stay here with you till we return,” Lament said immediately.

  “I will?” asked the Seneschal. He looked uncertainly at the Burning Man, who smiled nastily back. “And just why would I want to do that?”

  “You have to stay here with the Hand of Glory to keep the Gateway open,” Lament said patiently. “Otherwise I wouldn’t put it past the Burning Man to shut the Gateway behind us and strand us in Reverie forever. You can keep an eye on him and make sure he behaves himself.”

  “Alone?” asked the Seneschal, just a little plaintively.

  “You can handle him,” Hawk said briskly. “You’re the High Warlock’s grandson, remember? He gives you any trouble, kick his smoldering arse around the room a few times.”

  The Seneschal gave the Burning Man a long, considering look. “Yes. I think I could do that.”

  Fisher grinned at him. “Keep a light in the window for us. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  “No one human has ever come back from Reverie,” said the Burning Man spitefully. “You go to your deaths, or worse.”

  Hawk, Fisher, and Lament ignored him. They took a few deep breaths to brace themselves, and then turned as one to stare determinedly into the darkness beyond the window. And as they made themselves watch, a line of shimmering light suddenly appeared, spreading horizontally before them. The line quickly broadened, growing wider, brighter; and then opened all the way to form a huge Eye, filling all the window, looking in at them. The Eye shone very brightly, more luminous than any star, an overpowering glare that should have been blinding, but they were unable to look away. The Eye was vast and inhuman, alive and aware, watching them. It grew and grew, coming closer, and inside its great dark pupil they could see a galaxy of stars and planets. The Seneschal and the Burning Man looked away, covering their eyes with their hands, unable to bear the Eye’s awful unblinking glare.

  Soon all Hawk and Fisher and Lament could see was the amazing contents of the Eye. The room, their journey, and even their mission were all forgotten, lost in the fascinating vistas within the Eye. There were galaxies in the dark pupil now, slowly swirling, impossibly vast, impossibly detailed. As one, answering some unheard but undeniable call, Hawk, Fisher, and Lament stepped forward and entered the Gateway.

  They were walking along an unsupported crystal bridge, eternally long, looking out over an endless abyss. Comets and shooting stars rained down through the endless night, above and below. There were suns and planets and constellations, all unfamiliar. A huge sun drifted by, borne along by some unguessable tide, close enough that they could almost have reached out and touched it, but its light didn’t dazzle them, and they could barely feel its heat. They stopped walking for a moment to watch the sun pass, and as it drew level with them, they could sense something hibernating or gestating deep in the heart of the sun. Something almost unimaginably powerful, waiting to be born, or born again. It stirred in its deep sleep as it sensed their presence, and they were touched by an awful fear they couldn’t put a name to, but the sun passed on, and whatever was within went back to sleep again.

  Hawk walked along the sparkling crystal bridge with Fisher on one side and Lament on the other, and didn’t know either of them. All of his exhaustion and muscle pains were gone. It was like walking through a dream, and he felt as though he could walk forever. Up ahead the three of them saw the Blue Moon shining in the dark, full and fat and potent, and in a moment they remembered who they were and why they had come to this place. Hawk and Fisher stood and looked out over the impossibly long drop, then grabbed each other by the hand. Lament murmured a prayer in an unsteady voice. And then they moved on again, heading toward the Blue Moon growing very slowly greater before them.

  And as they walked, their appearances changed. Subtly at first, and then more radically, they became other versions of people they might have been, or might yet be. Their clothes changed first, colors and styles coming and going as they strode on. Hair and eye colors changed next, and then the way they walked and held themselves as their ages altered. Sometimes they were young and sometimes they were old, but the differences seemed strangely natural at the time.

  Prince Rupert and Princess Julia walked together with the easy confidence of youth. Rupert had both his eyes, and Julia’s hair was a bright frizz of golden yellow. Then they were Captains Hawk and Fisher, striding along in the black-cloaked uniforms of the Haven city Guard. Hawk’s scarred face had only the one eye, and Fisher’s blond hair hung in a single thick braid. And then they were older, in strange, unfamiliar clothes. Hawk was in his early sixties, and his thinning hair was nearly all gray, but he had both eyes again. Fisher’s hair was as thick as always, but now it was a mane of pure white held back by a silver headband. With them walked their two adult children, Jack and Gillian Forester. Jack was a smiling, eager sort in a monk’s robe. Gillian had a shaved head, a mean look, and a positively disturbing grin. She wore leather armor studded with silver runes. The four of them walked easily together, their eyes fixed on some distant goal, and woe to any fool who got in their way.

  Time suddenly snapped back to the present, and Hawk and Fisher stopped abruptly, themselves again on the shimmering crystal bridge. Lament stopped with them, one hand rising slowly to his face, as though bothered by some unfinished thought. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.

  “What the hell was that?” Fisher asked finally.

  “A possible future, maybe,” said Hawk. “People we might become.”

  “And the children we might have,” said Fisher. “They looked like good kids.”

  “Yes. They did. Though how we ended up with a monk for a son …”

  “Probably the only way he could rebel against us. She looked like a one-woman army.” Fisher looked carefully at Hawk. “You had both your eyes again. How is that possible? We tried every shapechange spell we could find but never found anything strong enough to overcome the amount of Wild Magic you’d been exposed to.”

  “Maybe it’s from a life where I never lost my eye,” said Hawk. “I’ve never understood those multiple time-line theories.”

  They both suddenly realized that Lament was being very quiet, and
turned to look at him. He slowly lowered his hand from his face and straightened his shoulders through an effort of will.

  “What did you see, Lament?” asked Fisher. “Did you see who and what you’re going to become?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lament. “If that was my future, it’s not at all what I expected. I really don’t think I want to talk about it.”

  “Did you see us?” Hawk asked.

  “No. Just myself. As I was, am, and might someday be. You must remember, this is a place of chaos and Wild Magic. Nothing is certain here, and nothing can be trusted. Least of all any futures we might see in visions. There’s no guarantee any of us will survive this.”

  “You know, you’re a really cheerful sort for a man of God,” said Fisher. “Whatever happened to tidings of comfort and joy?”

  Lament smiled slightly. “Why do you think I ended up as a monk in an isolated community?”

  All three turned to look as a new Eye opened in the darkness beyond the crystal bridge. Within the Eye was another Eye, and another within that. The Eyes seemed to fall away forever, and all three people on the bridge had to turn and look away for fear they might fall in. When they looked back again, the Eyes were gone.

  “Just how many Gateways and hidden Realms are there?” asked Hawk.

  “God knows,” said Fisher.

  “Yes,” agreed Lament. “He probably does.”

  “I’m going to slap you in a minute,” warned Fisher.

  “Let’s get moving again,” Hawk said firmly. “I can only handle so many mysteries at one time. See if you can find something for me to hit. I always feel so much more secure when I’ve got something to hit.”

  “It’s true, he does,” said Fisher.

  “Head for the Blue Moon,” directed Lament. “That’s where all our answers lie, and perhaps our destinies, too.”