The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  The thought of making an “adult meal” seemed overwhelming. PB&J, then. At least it’s better than cereal. She poured herself a large glass of milk and drained it. She pulled pieces of bread from the bag, then spread one thickly with peanut butter. Knife still in hand, she opened the jar of strawberry jam and slapped a generous portion of pink sugary sweetness over the other bread.

  A flicker in the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she whirled to face the mirror in the hallway.

  She gasped.

  Feighlí stared out at her, dark eyebrows drawn down in worry. “There you are,” he growled. “We need you.”

  “What?” Claire couldn’t seem to find her voice. “I thought you were…”

  “Dead?” Feighlí gave a mirthless chuckle. “Not quite. I got over it.” A flash in his dark eyes made guilt twist inside her.

  “I… yes. Or maybe you were a dream.” Claire couldn’t take her eyes off him. His face was just as she remembered it, sharp and suspicious, eyes gleaming with irritation.

  “Don’t you think if you were dreaming, you’d dream someone prettier than me?” He smiled nastily at her.

  She made a soft, offended noise, and he waved a hand dismissively.

  “You’re human. You see what humans see. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we need you now. His Majesty is gone.”

  Claire blinked. “His Majesty?”

  “We’re at war. We need him. You are the only one who can find him. Ergo, we need you.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “It ain’t fair and it ain’t what anyone wants. I argued against you being brought into it. But the wish holds, and there you have it.” He extended his hand toward her.

  “I… I…” Her heart thudded irregularly in her chest. “This isn’t real, is it? I’m dreaming now.”

  Feighlí’s eyes bored into her. “Will you come?”

  Her mouth felt dry. “Shouldn’t I pack a bag or something?” I’m stalling. Surely this can’t be real.

  Feighlí’s expression grew bleak. “It took seven months to reach you through this portal. If I lose sight of you, it could take another seven to reach you again.” He stared at her, neither pleading nor relenting. “Will you not help us?”

  Claire swallowed. “All right,” she whispered. “What do I do?”

  He indicated his outstretched hand, and Claire, feeling as though she were dreaming, put her hand in his.

  She stepped through the mirror.

  She stumbled, and Feighlí’s strong hand caught her. “You look pale. I hadn’t noticed that through the magic.” He studied her, his sharp eyes taking in her shaved head and the long scar without additional comment.

  Her mouth felt even drier than before. “Are you going to go with me?”

  Feighlí frowned faintly. “I don’t think so.”

  Claire glanced over her shoulder to see a large, ornate mirror standing against one wall. It reflected only the room in which she stood. The floor was covered in a deep blue rug, and a massive fireplace covered most of one wall. A row of windows lit the room with warm golden light. A third wall was covered in book cases filled with thick, leather-bound volumes. The fourth wall was lined with layers of maps pinned atop each other; they appeared to have been made by an exquisitely skilled cartographer, colored in delicate watercolor washes and labeled in a precise, flowing hand. “Where are we?”

  “His Majesty’s study.”

  The space looked so intellectual, so cultured. Claire’s eyes roamed over the room, taking in the worn, elegant desk and the equally worn velvet-cushioned chair behind it. The top was empty but for a quill pen beside an inkwell.

  “Does he really write with that?” she wondered.

  “When he’s here.” Feighlí nodded her toward a door she had not noticed. “Come. The others will be glad to learn my efforts have at last succeeded. Perhaps there is hope after all.”

  The hallway was tiled in white marble; Feighlí’s small boots clicked authoritatively as he led her into a larger room a short distance away. At his entrance, the dull roar of conversation abruptly died, and Claire’s gasp of surprise sounded deafening in the resulting silence.

  Half a dozen Fae stood just to her left. They were tall and fair, their angular faces reminding Claire uncomfortably of the nightmare king. To her other side was a pair of smaller creatures that appeared to be made of dense smoke twisting sinuously in place. At her awed glance, one of the clouds formed a mouth and hissed at her. Other creatures of various types she could not name spread out before her, some appearing to have just stopped conversing with their neighbors. A flock of smaller fairies hovered in the air above, their wings buzzing almost inaudibly in the echoing silence.

  “Peoples of the Seelie court, our long search is at an end. Behold, I have brought Claire Delaney, who will rescue His Majesty the king.”

  The room erupted into agitated murmurs.

  Feighlí glowered. “I thought they would be more appreciative.” His grumble was nearly lost in the heated arguments that filled the air.

  One of the Fae stepped forward, and the murmuring abated a little. He addressed Feighlí with barely a glance at Claire. “You said you could bring a hero to find and rescue His Majesty. This is nothing but a thin, weak, wounded child.” His voice rang with scorn. “Your judgment has always been suspect, but even I did not expect this.”

  Feighlí glared up at him. “She will do it.”

  The crowd had begun growing louder, arguments beginning in earnest.

  “She is doomed!” a voice cried. “This is ridiculous, Lord Faolan! How can you send a pathetic child into the dark lands? She will die, and she will cost us everything.”

  Who is Lord Faolan? Claire wondered.

  Feighlí said more loudly, “I am not mistaken in this. She is the hero and she will do it.”

  “I object!” another voice rang out. “It is wrong to send a defenseless child into the very heart of the dark lands. No human and no child should bear such a burden!”

  “Is this not the human who freed Fintan?” The thin voice rang out from somewhere in the back. “I think it is. Perhaps there is a little hope.”

  “No! That was different! Fintan was…” The words were lost in the growing clamor.

  Someone close by grumbled, “Even if it is the same one, I see no reason to trust her.”

  “I don’t see a hero.”

  Claire closed her eyes and sighed. Everything had a sense of unreality to it. Her stomach growled, and she thought longingly of the peanut butter sandwich she’d left sitting on the counter. Then, with some surprise, she realized the butter knife was still in her hand. It still had quite a bit of jelly and a thin layer of peanut butter smeared over the metal. With a mental shrug, she raised the knife to her mouth and licked the peanut butter and jelly from the blade.

  Silence fell over the room just as Feighlí roared, “SHE IS CHOSEN!”

  His words echoed as everyone stared at Claire.

  “What are you doing?” one of the Fae asked in a strange voice.

  Heat rose in her cheeks. “Sorry. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten dinner yet.”

  The Fae’s eyes flicked over her once before going back to the knife.

  “By whom was she chosen?” another voice asked.

  “By His Majesty.” Feighlí did not blink.

  That can’t be possible. Are we even talking about the nightmare king, or is there another one? Surely I’ve gotten confused somehow. They can’t be talking about him, can they?

  “Then so it shall be.” The Fae bowed formally to Feighlí. “I was not aware that His Majesty had chosen her. I withdraw my objection. I see there is more to her than there first appeared.”

  “So it shall be.”

  Chapter 15

  Although it had been evening in Charlottesville, it was only mid-morning in Faerie. Or whatever this place is.

  Blue-gold light streamed through the windows. Claire stood on the balcony and gazed out at the alien landscape. Verdant green hills recede
d into the distance, the color broken occasionally by the gleam of white stone beneath the lush grass. Low stone walls snaked over the hills, penning in sheep and cattle.

  The room was spacious and beautifully decorated in shades of blue and gold. Rich blue and gold rugs layered the floor, giving the room an unexpectedly bohemian air. A luxuriously quilted bed stood in one corner of the room, canopied in heavy indigo velvet. The walls were covered in intricate drawings; Claire thought it looked as if someone with an obsession with swirls and whorls had been given free rein for a very long time with a fine point marker.

  A Fae girl knocked and curtsied in the doorway. “Time is short. You must depart.”

  “Where am I going?”

  The girl did not answer, only shook her head with a doubtful frown.

  “What’s on the walls?” Claire asked impulsively. I want to understand one thing before I leave. Just one thing! “The designs?”

  The Fae girl’s face brightened. “Oh! The patterns are an old magic. Although he was but a child when he formed them, His Majesty was already quite powerful. The designs were an assignment from his father for protection for travelers. This room is used for visiting dignitaries, such as the regional kings and provincial lords who owe allegiance to His Majesty.”

  Claire turned to look at the walls again, stepping closer to study the patterns. The patterns did not look like the work of a child; the strokes were too sure and precise, the design too intricate. The lines circled back upon themselves, entwined in endless twisting knots arranged in a symmetry that she could only begin to see with her eyes half-unfocused.

  “Is he a good king?” she asked curiously. She didn’t know what kind of answer she expected.

  The girl gave a soft cry. “What a horrible question!” Her wide, golden eyes swept over Claire’s face in sudden disapproval. “He is ours, and we are his.”

  Claire opened her mouth, then closed it again helplessly. “I didn’t mean…”

  The Fae girl frowned fiercely. “Without him we’ve lost thousands to the Unseelie in the past months. When he fought for us, we lost only three centaurs and a dryad in the previous five years. He shields us from them with his power.” Her brows drew downward. “Even he cannot stand alone against the Unseelie in these times. Not without… That is why…” She pressed her lips together. “I shouldn’t speculate.”

  Claire tilted her head, wondering at the godlike powers ascribed to the villain she pictured.

  The girl continued, “The only reason he is gone now is to prevent an even greater catastrophe.”

  “What would that catastrophe be?” Claire asked cautiously.

  “No one knows. But he told Lord Faolan before he left that this was the only way to prevent it. He knew his effort would go badly, or at least suspected it, and had made preparations.”

  Feighlí seemed to be in charge of preparing Claire for the task before her.

  “His Majesty is being held somewhere we cannot reach him. We believe he is likely held in one of the Unseelie king’s dungeons at a remote stronghold.”

  “Have you tried to rescue him?”

  “Well…” The imp frowned. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. He’s been captured, you see. Well and truly captured.”

  “Yes, I think you said that already.”

  Feighlí’s frown deepened, as if he knew she didn’t really understand. “Not all of the Unseelie are entirely loyal to Taibhseach, so we are not entirely ignorant of the situation. His Majesty is guarded with great force, and scouts and spies keep watch over all approaches. Small forces are to be let in to search for the king’s prison as long as they continue to move deeper into Unseelie territory, but only small forces; our stronger forces have been repelled at the border.” His voice was tight.

  “So I could be walking to my death?” Claire’s voice was flat.

  Feighlí hissed out a soft breath. “I think such an outcome is certainly likely but not inevitable.”

  “Why would they let in small rescue parties?”

  “I have a suspicion. It would explain why His Majesty did all this. If I am right, there is great risk, and not only to you. You endanger us all by going, but it may be our only chance. His Majesty seemed to think so.”

  “You’re going to have to explain better than that.”

  The imp gave her a sidelong look. “No, actually I think that would be a grievous idea. Might ruin everything, in fact. Also might not be possible, and dangerous to try. For me, at least. No, we’ll just have to chance that I’m right, and the king was not too mad.”

  She pondered that. Not too mad. I wonder what he means by that?

  “We believe he is held in a stronghold in this region.” He pointed on a map, and Claire studied it with interest. “This is only a small portion of His Majesty’s domain. Even His Majesty’s subjects can be dangerous to humans, though they are not evil and wish no ill toward your kind. The border is here.” He pointed to a long river which cut across the map diagonally. “Once you cross it, if you come to any road or path, follow it to the east or north and it will either lead to the stronghold or pass within sight of it.”

  Mountains spread across the far corner of the map, but that did not appear to be an area she would cross. Several smaller rivers snaked across the map. Much of the paper was covered in a faint, pine-green watercolor wash, which she understood to mean that the area was wooded, but there were areas of lighter green that might have indicated clearings or other features.

  “If somehow you succeed in freeing the king, the guards will not stay to fight; they will send word to Taibhseach. He will come to take you both before you escape. So your only hope is to flee as quickly as possible, before he overtakes you. It’s unlikely you can move fast enough, but that’s what you have to do.”

  Claire let out a breath. “So it’s a trap?”

  “Of course it’s a trap, but not for you in particular. It’s for…” he hesitated. “Taibhseach’s orders were for the scouts to let an individual or small party approach until they attempt to free the king. He hopes they succeed.”

  Claire narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Feighlí made a hm sort of noise that gave Claire the impression he was not impressed with her intelligence. “It won’t be possible without… never mind. If you can do it, you will be allowed to do it. And then you must flee. If you cannot, then no one can, and all is lost either way.”

  “Have you sent anyone else to even try?” Claire’s voice shook a little with anger and fear.

  “His Majesty was quite clear that you were the only one who had a chance of success.”

  “I’m not particularly confident in that chance, Feighlí.”

  He glanced at her with a mirthless smile. “Neither am I.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose it depends on the definition of ‘success.’ I think there is a good chance you will reach the king unmolested by the Unseelie. I think there is a chance, quite slim, that the king will somehow be freed, although I dare not imagine how. There is an even smaller chance you will escape Taibhseach’s pursuit for more than a few hours. Beyond that… I still see little hope.

  “Yet, if he is to die, he would rather die free and fighting for his people than in prison, receiving the news that all is lost and there is no more reason to keep him alive.”

  The air seemed too heavy upon Claire’s shoulders, the weight of responsibility she had never wanted and did not know how to carry. “I can see why you think it’s better for him. I don’t really understand why you think me trying is better for you, but I imagine you have a reason that makes some kind of sense. But I was safe in my world. I don’t understand why this is a good idea for me.”

  Faolan shrugged, his gaze suddenly colder. “Oh, that’s the easy part. If you don’t want to do this, then you are clearly not supposed to do it and have no hope of succeeding.” Then he frowned. “No, want is probably the wrong word. I don’t mean that you think it will be enjoyable, but in the sense that you feel you must do it.
If you are supposed to do this, you will go, even if I wanted to stop you.”

  “He’ll die if I don’t go?”

  “Oh, he’ll die either way. We all do, you know. It’s only a question of when and how. But yes, he is certain to die soon if you don’t go. He is almost as certain to die just as soon if you do go, but in a much preferable manner.” His voice was flat.

  “So this is really mostly about choosing the manner of his—of our deaths, and what we do before we die.”

  “Well, yes. That’s pretty much what all of life is, all the time, isn’t it?”

  Claire let out a tremulous breath. “I’ll go.”

  Claire was given a knapsack full of food, most of it relatively familiar: a few apples, a stack of soft flat breads, a generous chunk of cheese wrapped in a waxed cloth, a smaller sack of strips of dried meat, and something that looked like a bronze cookie tin full of fresh snap peas. Feighlí strapped a belt around her waist and then clipped a heavy leather scabbard to it.

  “Put your knife in there,” he said.

  “This?” Claire held out the butter knife. “Why? I didn’t even mean to bring it. It’s just a butter knife. I was making a sandwich.”

  Feighlí leaned away from her. “Careful with that. You know not what you carry.”

  Claire eyed him curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “Use it only at great need. Don’t touch His Majesty with it. And don’t eat anything but what has been provided for you. Nor drink the water.”

  “Why not?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “This is Faerie. Most things are dangerous and little is as it seems. You’re human. If you ever want to go home, don’t eat or drink anything.”

  “Where did this food come from, then?” The little fairy told me that before, too. Guilt pressed upon her as she remembered him, a weight she had not shed in the intervening years.

  He opened his mouth, and then seemed to think better of what he was about to say. “If I tell you, it won’t work.” His worried frown deepened. “You’d best get on your way.”