The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  Claire let him walk her to a door. “You said you didn’t want His Majesty to catch us before. But now it sounds like you want him back.”

  He shook his head. “I was talking about Taibhseach, the Unseelie king, before. We were in his lands. Saying his name would’ve caught his attention, and… well, then we would’ve been skint, quartered, and hung up for decoration.” He glanced up at her, frowning in puzzlement. “Did you think I was afraid of my own king?”

  Claire opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying anything.

  Sunlight spilled across the gardens like molten gold.

  Several hundred Fae of many species gathered to see her off. The assembly was silent but for faint whispers that hushed whenever she looked over the group. Centaurs, like those in her dream—was it really a dream?—stood solemnly in the back of the crowd, their broad shoulders tanned bronze. Before them stood a contingent of pale Fae, all dressed in silk that draped lightly over their slim, elegant bodies. The one who had challenged her in a dream, the one she had imagined might be a doctor, stood in the front row, his green eyes solemn and his expression grim.

  “Who is he?” Claire whispered to Feighlí, nodding toward him as discreetly as she could.

  “Declan, the royal physician.” Feighlí nodded courteously to the taller Fae. “He’s been busy of late.”

  “Why?”

  The imp glanced up at her. “We’re at war, human child. But one way or t’other, it will end soon.” His voice lowered until she could barely hear his next words. “Long live the king.”

  Chapter 16

  Claire walked for hours. The land reminded her of what she imagined Ireland might look like, all lush green grass and craggy hills, ancient stacked stone walls and distant stone ruins. The sun warmed the air, and the grass beneath her feet gave off a sweet, spicy scent.

  The knapsack made her shoulders ache, but otherwise she felt better than she had since before the accident.

  She stopped and squinted at a spark in front of her. It glowed softly, glittering and spinning so fast her eyes struggled to follow it. It darted ahead, then back toward her, stopping to hover a short distance away. Then it flew on again.

  What are you? She wondered whether it was friendly and whether it had a consciousness at all.

  She’d read once of will-o-the-wisps and wondered whether this might be one of those mythical creatures. Was it even a creature, or was it a natural phenomenon like the northern lights or a shooting star?

  She followed it.

  The spark led her up a long hill and down the other side, up another hill, and down again where she found a small brook burbling cheerily. It was perhaps six feet across, with rocky banks covered in moss on both sides.

  The water was clear and fast-moving, though it couldn’t have been deep, given how narrow the creek was. Each little wave and eddy threw glittering drops and reflections into the air.

  Claire glanced at the spark, which seemed to be dancing in the air over the water, as if encouraging her to continue across. She looked at the craggy hill on the opposite side, and wondered where the spark was leading her.

  She took one long step back, gauged her distance, and then leapt across.

  Her foot hit the mossy stone and flew up in front of her, sending her flailing into the water.

  The knapsack dragged her deeper, the water pounding her with unbearable force. She fought upward, but the water pressed her down, beating upon her still-bruised bones, tumbling her deeper and deeper into the abyss. I need air!

  An icy hand caught her wrist and belt and dragged her to a stop. The water’s assault seemed to relent, though it sped darkly past her eyes just as quickly as before. A pale face rose before hers.

  Claire opened her mouth in surprise, letting out a few bubbles. Her lungs did not protest. Do I not need to breathe air at the moment? Am I breathing water? Maybe I’m already dead.

  The woman smiled, showing sharp, needle-like teeth. “What are you?” Her voice was low and melodious. Her round eyes glinted silver-blue in the water, bright as fish scales.

  Claire didn’t want to speak, but she didn’t seem to be drowning yet, so she ventured cautiously, “I’m a human.” The words bubbled in her ears, surprisingly clear despite the water pressing against her.

  “I see that. But why are you here? I haven’t met a human in a millennium.” Her smile widened. “And a young one, too. The last one was old and too stringy.”

  “I’m not for eating!” Claire pulled against the inexorable grip. “I’m… I’m… I have a thing I have to do.” She wasn’t sure whether it would be wise to tell this creature of her mission.

  “Oh?” The water woman raised her eyebrows mockingly. “And what would that be?”

  “I’m…” She hesitated. “What are you?”

  The creature laughed; the sound was like water burbling over pebbles. “What a question! No human has ever lived long enough to ask that.” She frowned slightly and studied Claire. “Is it only the old ones who cannot breathe under water? Or perhaps only the males?”

  Oh. So she isn’t letting me breathe. How am I breathing then?

  Claire licked her lips, feeling the water pressing upon her, marveling at how she could see clearly and continue breathing. “I don’t think I should tell you that,” she said finally. “Don’t you think trying to eat me would be a silly way for someone so old and powerful to die?”

  The water woman drew back a little. “You could be bluffing.” She showed her needle teeth again in a slow smile. “You probably are bluffing. You’re a young human girl with no power at all.”

  “I could be bluffing,” Claire agreed easily, hoping that the sound of her panicked heartbeat couldn’t be heard through the water. “But I could not be. Do you really want to risk it?” She smiled as carelessly as she could.

  The water woman hissed something unintelligible. A huge tail flashed green in Claire’s eyes and the creature disappeared.

  Claire found that she could move again. The water monster was nowhere to be seen, and Claire swam toward the surface.

  Despite the long swim upward, the pressure did not hurt her ears and she could still breathe comfortably. Her head burst through the surface and into the sunlight air, and she heaved a great breath of relief. She looked around and headed for the nearest shore.

  She had surfaced in what appeared to be a small lake in the middle of a forest clearing. The trees were set back a little from the sandy shore, leaving the sky clear for the sun to shine through, glittering golden on the water. Her shoes dragged at her feet, but she didn’t kick them off, knowing she was unlikely to obtain another pair.

  Her toes touched the sand, and a moment later she slogged her way up the sandy slope. She sat down a short distance from the water to catch her breath.

  Her backpack was gone, along with all the supplies it had contained. She still had the knife on her hip, though it wouldn’t be much use outside of a kitchen. The afternoon sun beat down on her with comforting warmth, slowly drying her sopping clothes.

  She closed her eyes.

  The nightmare king sat at the desk she had seen in the palace.

  He glanced up at her, appearing not to be surprised. “Good evening,” he murmured.

  She frowned at him, not daring to say a word. He wore an exquisitely ornate jacket of midnight blue embroidery that set off his moonlight-pale hair. The edges were trimmed in gold that glittered as if it were liquid rather than thread, outlining the high collar and the wide cuffs of the sleeves. He spread one elegant hand over a piece of paper on the desk.

  The king pulled the quill from its stand, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote quickly, still without looking at her. He put the pen aside, blew softly on the ink, and stood.

  He strode toward a doorway she had not noticed; she wondered whether it had really existed in the palace or whether it was a feature only of the dream.

  “Are you real?” she whispered.

  “This is Faerie,” he murmured, as if th
at explained anything to her. “There are layers upon layers upon layers. Don’t be deceived by appearances.”

  He stepped out the door, still without looking at her.

  Claire went to the desk. The writing was elegant, so beautiful it reminded her of the calligraphy on a wedding invitation rather than a warning.

  Always carry a piece of charcoal.

  Claire woke to a soft sound a short distance away, a gentle snuffling sort of noise that made her smile drowsily.

  She sat up to see a pony grazing in the turf between the sand and the trees. It was white and delicately boned, with ears that pricked up when she called softly, “Well, hello there.”

  The pony watched her with limpid eyes as she stood, then ambled toward her, bits of grass stuck to its dark lips.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have any sugar or apple or anything.”

  It tossed its head and whickered, as if dismissing the objection.

  The pony’s mane was wet, and long strands of something dark appeared to be stuck in the luxurious white hairs.

  “That’s odd,” murmured Claire. She reached out to pat the pony reassuringly before plucking the kelp from the its mane.

  Her hand stuck fast against the pony’s shoulder.

  She tried to pull away, but her hand would not come free.

  The pony snuffled contentedly and turned toward the water, his steps quickening.

  Suddenly she knew he intended to walk all the way in, dragging her beneath the surface.

  Claire cried out in frustration and rising fear, jerking frantically on her arm, but her hand would not come free. Then she remembered the knife; maybe she could pry her hand free. Even if she left some skin on the horse or some horsehair remained on her hand, it was better than being dragged back into the water.

  Stumbling, she twisted around, trying to reach the knife as the pony’s steps grew faster. Her fingers brushed the handle once before she got a grip on it. She raised the knife, unsure what to do.

  The blade flashed in the sunlight. Shiny as it was, she knew it was as dull as … well, a butterknife.

  She’d be lucky if she could work the blade between her hand and the pony’s hide, and she had no idea if the knife was even strong enough to pry effectively.

  She stumbled again, and her feet splashed in an inch of water.

  Panic rose in her throat, and she pressed the flat of the blade against the pony’s shoulder. Maybe she would saw at the creature’s hide if prying didn’t work.

  As soon as the blade touched the pony, there was a sizzling sound. The smell of burning hair filled her nostrils, and a scream split the air.

  Claire’s hand came free and she fell backward, scrambling away from the water.

  A handsome young man stood where the pony had been, his face contorted in pain. He reached toward his back with one hand, yet lunged toward her, reaching out with his other hand.

  She scrambled backward awkwardly, struggling to rise to her feet, but he was faster. His grasping fingers just grazed her ankle when she thrust the knife toward him threateningly.

  The young man snatched his hand back. He edged a little to the side, as if contemplating how to reach her while avoiding the knife.

  “Tarbh! Have a care. Leave her.” The words rippled through the air like water. The water woman waved a languid hand.

  The kelpie froze where he stood and glanced at the naiad. The naiad’s gaze locked onto Claire face. “It seems you were not bluffing after all. That is good to know.”

  Sunlight glittered on the water, the peaceful lapping of the wavelets against Claire’s feet belying the danger.

  The young man stepped back. He appeared to be trying, unsuccessfully, to look at his own back and simultaneously keep a wary on Claire.

  “Is he yours?” Claire asked. “Did you send him to test me?”

  “No. Just a neighbor. I’ve known him for centuries. We get along and sometimes… share. I was coming to warn him about you, but I see I was a little late. I arrived just in time to see you burn him.” She bared sharp, pointed teeth. “That was unexpected. You are merciful. You could easily have killed him with that weapon, but you only warned him.” The naiad’s gazed slid over Claire again. “There is more to you than meets the eye.”

  “Um, well… yes. I thought it unnecessary to kill him.” Claire glanced at the kelpie. He had, apparently, lost interest in his wounded back and focused his attention on Claire. His limpid brown eyes were fixed on her - no, on the knife - and he had somehow backed up another twenty feet or so without appearing to have moved.

  The naiad said softly, “We will both remember this. If you pass this way again, you may find us more friendly. Or at least more careful.” She smiled, either unaware that this was not reassuring, or perhaps knowing it full well. She disappeared into the lake with scarcely a ripple.

  When Claire looked back at the handsome young man, he gave her a slight, careful bow without taking his eyes off her, and slipped quietly into the water.

  Sand crusted Claire’s shoes as she made her way over the shore to the lush grass. She glanced over her shoulder at the water, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the glints of bright sunlight on tiny wavelets. There was no sign of the kelpie or the naiad, and she let out a tremulous breath.

  Everything is dangerous.

  The imp had seemed surprised that she saw the wall as a physical wall, and the hole in it as a hole through which she could not fit. Things are not as they seem.

  She walked across the grass into the edge of the forest. The shadows were not as deep as she’d feared; sunlight filtered down through the canopy of tall, stately trees and dappled the layers of fallen leaves and loam beneath her feet. Her shoes squelched as she walked, shedding sand over the leaves, and her sopping jeans and shirt stole the heat from her body. The air wasn’t exactly cold, but it was certainly “brisk,” as her father would say, and she shivered as she walked.

  An odd, unpleasant sensation of being watched crept over her.

  A fox, or something like a fox, peeked out at her from a thicket, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The creature, though vulpine, was quite small and not particularly frightening.

  Then it glanced up at a bird, who studied Claire with bright black eyes before taking flight.

  The fox disappeared into the underbrush.

  Claire had the sinking feeling that, improbable as it seemed, she was being spied upon by animals. That’s ridiculous! Well, everything else about this is ridiculous. I bet they really were spying on me.

  She hurried through the forest more quickly.

  At the tree line she paused, studying the landscape.

  A short distance away, a track of packed earth crossed from her right to her left, then snaked away from the forest and between two low hills, the first of what seemed to be miles of hills covered in grass and heather. The wind rustled the tallest reeds softly, carrying the scents of pine, unfamiliar grasses, a cold, wet scent of rotting plant matter that reminded her of a swamp, and a faint, unsettling whiff of acrid smoke.

  A few miles away, she could see a squat stone tower perhaps forty feet high atop one of the grassy hillocks.

  She took a deep, tremulous breath and stepped out of the forest.

  Chapter 17

  No Unseelie monsters accosted her as she approached.

  Smaller turreted towers stood some forty feet from the main tower, perhaps only twenty feet high. No guards were visible. The defenses seemed entirely unmanned.

  After studying the edifice for some time, Claire decided to simply approach confidently. There’s not much else I can do, she thought. It’s not like I have a weapon or would know how to use one even if I had it.

  Perhaps the guards were merely staying out of her way because they were looking for someone else more intimidating. They expected a great warrior or a powerful rescue party. Ha! No wonder they don’t bother stopping me.

  She wasn’t sure if the thought was reassuring or terrifying.

  The southern gu
ard tower loomed over her as she drew closer. The stones were cleanly hewn but not polished, set atop each other with well-planned precision in lieu of mortar.

  Her shoulders tingled with the sense of being watched as she passed by the nearest stone guard tower. There might have been movement behind her, or it might have been only a shadow as the clouds shifted, making the shadows dance across the grass.

  The door to the main structure was perhaps ten feet high, made of heavy wood and crossed by dark bronze straps. It stood open.

  Claire stood outside for a moment, glancing over her shoulder again at the guard towers, expecting some danger to present itself at any moment. The room was lit by the sunlight streaming in over the threshold. The floor was of thick-hewn slabs of stone and appeared empty but for a bit of rotting straw in one corner. An air of desolation hung over the place; the air in the room was somehow colder than that outside, with a faint, moist foulness to it that made Claire wrinkle her nose.

  A bronze key hung on a hook on the wall across from the door, just beside the entrance to a dark hallway.

  With a last, cautious glance behind her, Claire slipped inside, leaving the door open behind her. When her hands touched the key, the room darkened.

  She whirled to see the door closed firmly, the room lit by a single lantern on one wall that she had not noticed earlier.

  How can that be?

  The silence was like a living thing, a dark presence waiting and watching while she tried to suppress her fear. The door had made no sound as it closed, no grinding of wood against flagstones or squeaking of neglected bronze hinges.

  Perhaps the door was never open at all.

  It’s like the wall when Feighlí pulled me through the hole. It’s only the idea of a prison, and what I see is just as much in my mind as in reality. She squinted at the stone walls, trying to imagine what else a prison might look like, but could see nothing unexpected. For a moment she fervently wished it was possible for her to see things as they were rather than through some filter her mind constructed, and for an instant she saw overlaid upon the stone a complex set of diagrams, seemingly drawn in the air in chalk and charcoal, a few in what seemed to be fire, and others in some blue liquid. The stone was translucent, only a result or representation of the diagrams that were reality. She mentally recoiled from this and saw the stone again with a sense of relief.