The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  The heavy crystal manacles caught the light as if they were made of glass.

  The king shuddered, his head in his hands. The thin black shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, and Claire sucked in a breath as she surveyed the damage. Perhaps it was not entirely due to magic that she had not been killed as the tower fell; the nightmare king appeared to have been battered by every stone. His blood looked nearly black where it had dried and crusted into the fabric of his shirt, but bright red showed through a tear near one shoulder where a wound she could not see had recently bled. She had the impression that he’d been beaten thoroughly even before the tower had fallen.

  “Does your back hurt?” she asked. She didn’t expect much of an answer; mostly she hoped to keep him talking.

  He pressed his hands to his temples. “Probably.”

  “Did you shield me from the rocks?” Claire found her throat unexpectedly tight at the thought of it.

  He made a strange, inarticulate noise that might have meant anything or nothing.

  Claire stood helplessly for a moment. The manacles looked so very wrong against his thin wrists. They were beautiful, almost like the jade stone bracelets like she’d seen in a magazine, but thicker and heavier, with sharp edges apparently intended to cause pain.

  “Do you know how to get those off?” she said.

  He looked at her blankly. “Get what off?”

  “The manacles.”

  He looked down at his wrists and grimaced, as if pulling his thoughts together were particularly difficult. “It’s oighear. It’s…” he gestured gracefully. “It’s magical. It’s made of water, shaped by magic and locked into the shape as if crystalized like ice. But it is denser than water in any natural form, and much harder and stronger than diamond. Someone expended a great deal of magic to form these for me.” He frowned faintly, his expression distant.

  Claire wondered whether he’d forgotten what he was talking about. “And…” she prompted.

  He blinked. “It’s immensely useful for things such as blades. It holds an edge well. But one cannot make pieces with moving parts out of oighear, so it is rarely used for anything complex like a lock. Did you notice that even the chain was bronze? A chain is far too complicated to be made of oighear.” His voice trailed away, as if he were thinking of something else, or perhaps of nothing at all.

  “So how do we get them off?” Claire asked.

  His eyes flicked to her, and he looked confused for a moment. “Get what off?”

  “The manacles!”

  “I don’t have the key. I am captured.” His eyes were vacant, as if he stared through her to something else that took all his attention. “It’s… Symbolism is important in magic. The one with authority to release the manacles would simply pull them open. To one without authority, they might outlast the sun.” He shook his head as if to focus his thoughts, and then looked down at his wrists. “I expect my bones will have very pretty bracelets.”

  Claire reached out a tentative hand to touch the manacle. It felt like glass, cool and smooth against the pads of her fingers. She gripped it with both hands and pulled, not able to discern where it was meant to divide into two pieces.

  Nothing happened.

  The king appeared gently bemused by her attempt, his strange eyes flicking over her face as she strained against the oighear.

  His words were so quiet she wondered whether she imagined them. “Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose, from out night's gray and cloudy sheath; softly and still it grows and grows, petal by petal, leaf by leaf…”

  “What was that?” she panted, glaring at the clear manacle. It was smeared with blood, his and hers together.

  He ran his right thumb through the red on the left manacle, frowning at it. “You’re bleeding,” he murmured. His gaze snapped to her hands, and he caught both her hands in his, studying the slight cuts across her fingers from the sharp edge of the oighear. “I’m sorry.” His mouth twisted in grief, and he folded her hands carefully within his. He caught his breath in what sounded like a sob, and bowed his head.

  “It’s all right.” Claire’s voice shook. How had he even seen her blood among his? The cuts stung, certainly, but they weren’t particularly deep. She wasn’t upset by them. Why was he? His grief, raw and mostly hidden, seemed to press upon her uncomfortably, like a weight she did not know how to bear.

  She pulled away gently, and he opened his hands, letting her slip her fingers from his.

  Some strange emotion seemed to slide through her veins at his touch, at the strength of his hands and the odd, warm light in his vacant eyes, as if seeing her made him almost remember who he was. She pushed the emotion down and focused on the manacles.

  The king’s terrible strength had had no effect on the oighear when he tried to shatter the manacles earlier. She would probably have no success that way either.

  “Maybe I can pry it open,” she muttered. She pulled the butter knife from its sheath and tried to wedge it between the top of the king’s wrist and the oighear.

  When the metal touched his skin, he sucked in his breath and jerked away, his eyes wide and wild.

  “I’m sorry!” Claire cried. “I didn’t know it would hurt.”

  His gaze snapped toward her face. “Did you not?” His voice shook, raw and rough with pain. “Yourself the sun, and I the melting frost, Myself the flax and you the kindly fire.” He caught his breath and shuddered, his eyes closed tight in a rictus of pain or anger. “Bright star that you are, remember that not all of us are made of flame.”

  His wrist had a black burn half-hidden by the oighear manacle; the skin looked charred. The size and shape matched the back of the blade of her knife.

  “Why did it burn you?” she muttered. “It’s not iron.” But she remembered the kelpie and frowned. Stainless steel. I guess stainless steel has iron in it.

  She looked back at the oighear and was surprised to see that the surface seemed roughened. The interior and top surface were slightly bubbled, like plastic that had gotten too hot.

  Hm. She glanced at the king, who stared back at her blankly.

  The butter knife appeared unaffected by touching the oighear. She frowned thoughtfully, and then pressed the flat of the blade to the top of the manacle, careful not to touch the king’s skin.

  Nothing happened immediately, and she tilted her head, trying to decide if she smelled something unusual. She pressed the knife harder into the oighear, which seemed to soften for an instant, and then in the blink of an eye, it flashed into water and steam.

  “Ha!” Claire crowed. She reached for the king’s other wrist. “Let me help you with that.”

  The king held out his arm without a word, and she melted the oighear in a few seconds.

  The water washed much of the old blood from his wrists, leaving the gashes open and oozing blood.

  “That actually doesn’t look much better,” Claire said softly.

  The king glanced at her. “It was a kind thing to do, especially since you believed it pointless.”

  Irritation made her voice sharp. “You’re welcome, then.”

  He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed as if he were trying, and failing, to solve a difficult puzzle. “You are angry. Why?”

  “You just told me I wasted my time getting those things off you. A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be out of line, you know.”

  His pale eyebrows drew down in puzzlement. “I said it was a kind thing to do, and more important than you realized. Is more thanks necessary for something you did believing it only to be kind rather than of vital import, and more for your comfort than for mine?” He looked away, his lips twisting in an expression of dismay. “I am discourteous. My apologies. I have forgotten my manners as well as myself.” He pressed his face into his hands, unaware or uncaring that his fingers smeared blood and water over his face and into his hair. “Everything is unraveling and I cannot find the thread,” he breathed.

  “What is unraveling?” Claire pushed her irritation aside. He’s insa
ne. I shouldn’t expect his manners to be perfect.

  “Me!” he snapped, though he didn’t look at her. “Me. I am hidden and the longer I am lost, the more tenuous the recollection becomes. Myth and mist and smoke and reflection and memory evaporating like dew under the sun. I thought I could hide myself long enough to make a difference, hold out long enough, hide myself inside myself and give myself away, and…” He rocked back and forth, his hands clenched against the sides of his head.

  “It’s all right,” Claire said. “You’re going to be all right.” Stupid platitudes! But what else can I say?

  He glanced up at her, eyes blank and startled. “Do you think so?” he asked. “How?”

  A lump rose in her throat, and she licked her lips. “I don’t know.”

  He smiled, a reckless, sharp-toothed smile that made her blood suddenly turn to fire within her. “I believe you,” he murmured. He raised one hand to brush the back of his fingers against her cheek, the touch light as a butterfly’s wings.

  She wasn’t sure whether he meant that he believed her that he would be all right, or believed her that she didn’t know how. But his sudden smile had made the words irrelevant.

  I don’t want to like you, you arrogant, impossible man. I don’t want to like you. Don’t you even dare make my heart race like that.

  Chapter 22

  The chalkboard room was familiar now. The nightmare king stood in the center of the room, his hair a moonlight fluff around his face. He watched her without moving, blue-gold-silver eyes following her as she walked slowly around him.

  “I don’t believe you’re dangerous at all,” Claire murmured. Despite her words, she stayed a safe distance from him.

  He raised his eyebrows at her in amused disbelief. “Oh?” His narrow lips smiled, showing his sharp teeth. “Why would you think that?”

  “You haven’t actually hurt me.”

  His eyes sparkled a little. “And you believe that’s by choice? How charmingly innocent you are.”

  “I don’t believe you’re mad as a hatter, either.” She took a careful step forward. “I think you’re playing a game.”

  “An interesting hypothesis. Do you think I let myself be captured and tortured beyond sanity for the sake of a game?” His gaze flicked toward her lips, then back to her eyes. “I must be quite mad.”

  Claire frowned. His eyes laughed at her, but he said nothing, merely waiting as she tried to put the pieces together.

  She stepped closer.

  He was so thin she could see his pulse at the base of his throat and the hollow just behind the point of his jaw. It quickened, though she couldn’t guess why.

  She stood just in front of him, barely within arms reach.

  “Are you going to attack me?”

  His pale eyebrows drew downward. “I’m rather trapped at the moment, if you haven’t noticed.”

  It was true. He still wore the straightjacket, the buckles of which looked rusted shut. The questions swirled in her mind. Words came to mind, but none of the questions were the real question.

  “Are you going to hurt me, then?” The question was filler while she gathered her thoughts. His eyes made it difficult to keep her mind focused; when he looked at her, heat flooded her veins, electric gold promises woven with silk and moonlight.

  “Undoubtedly.” He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

  The set of his shoulders intrigued her; it seemed to say more of grief than danger. The sharp line of his bones through the thick canvas caught at her pity.

  “When did you last eat?”

  He glanced up, startled, then his gaze grew distant. “Don’t forget the charcoal.”

  The edges of the room seemed to waver like reflections on water.

  “What’s happening?”

  The king turned away from her with a strangled sound. She darted in front of him. “What’s happening?” she asked again, more urgently.

  His lips twisted in an expression that might have been pain or dread or any number of unpleasant emotions, then the expression was gone so quickly Claire wondered whether she had imagined it.

  “Time’s running out,” he murmured.

  “What happens when the room falls apart?”

  “Tick tock.”

  “I wish you’d tell me what was happening!” she cried. “You always speak in riddles.”

  “He bartered all his soul for her, with tender pleading eyes.” He gave her a narrow-eyed glare.

  The words cut her more deeply than she could have imagined, and she sucked in a breath.

  “You don’t love me,” she whispered. “You can’t.”

  “Who are you to tell me whom I love?” he snapped, his voice all snide condescension. “Human child, you speak of what you do not know.”

  “You hate me!” she cried. “You’re horrid to me. I’ve tramped all over Faerie for you and you can’t be bothered to say my name, much less ‘thank you’!”

  “Claire.” The name hung in the air between them. “Claire Maeve Delaney.” Something in his eyes gave her pause; his voice was nonchalant, but his eyes were anything but dismissive. He said nothing else, only watched her as one corner of the room dissolved into mist.

  “It’s floating away,” Claire whispered. “Are you dying? Or waking up?”

  “Are they different?” He pressed his lips together into a bloodless line, only stared at her with those burning eyes, blue and gold and silver like sunlight on water.

  Without thinking, she darted to him. With fumbling fingers she tugged at the rusted buckles on his straightjacket. She freed the first arm, and let the canvas fall away as she fought with the second buckle. He was shaking; he’d hidden it before, but now, with the back of her hand pressed against his too-thin side, she could feel him the tremors that racked him.

  He brushed past her. Long, white fingers picked up a piece of chalk (had it been there before?) and began to write on the chalkboard.

  Don’t forget your charcoal.

  Everything spiraled apart.

  Chapter 23

  He sat across from her at a small table by a window. A luxurious repast was spread out before her, blackberries and raspberries, peaches and plums, stuffed chicken breasts and angel hair pasta, nut cakes and cheese, bread and olive oil, and a dozen other small dishes.

  He leaned back in his chair, his strange, brilliant eyes sweeping over her face. “You’d be wise to eat. It will be a while before you have the chance again.”

  She reached for a handful of berries and then hesitated. “Isn’t it dangerous to eat anything in Faerie? Won’t it trap me here or something?”

  “This is human food, procured especially for you.” A smile danced around his lips. “Your caution is both insulting and reassuring.”

  Claire studied him. “Are you from the future?”

  Something in his eyes flickered. “Not exactly.”

  “If you’re… you… him… whatever… in the present, you should be eating too.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” He looked out the window. The light seemed strangely harsh for a dream, highlighting the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, the slightly sunken temples. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m the villain, remember?” As he spoke, his lips curved in a bitter smile. With one finger, he drew intricate patterns on the arm of his chair.

  “What are you doing?” She indicated the patterns.

  “Nothing.” He clenched his hand into a fist, the knuckles going white. “Eat quickly. Something wicked this way comes.” He looked out the window again, his nostrils flaring.

  Claire stuffed a cube of cheese in her mouth, then a scone.

  “You’re dehydrated. You should drink some water.” He gestured toward a sweating tumbler filled with ice cubes and water.

  She filled her mouth with water even as she swallowed the bite of scone. “That’s good,” she said, taking another bite.

  “I’m glad you like it,” the king murmured. He appeared to almost forget she was there, intent on wa
tching something out the window.

  “What are you looking at?” Claire felt the tension in her shoulders first. It was odd, actually; in the dreams, he focused on her with disconcerting intensity. To see him distracted was worrying, to say the least.

  “You have one more minute. Eat quickly.” His gaze swept over the table again. “It’s not enough,” he breathed. “Quickly, please!” His concern set her heart racing. She stuffed the rest of the scone in her pocket, along with a handful of relatively sturdy fruits and a generous chunk of cheese. She filled her mouth with berries and chewed as quickly as she could, feeling both panicked and unforgivably rude. More water. She drank so hurriedly she spilled a little on her shirt.

  “Time’s up.” He reached across the table and touched her wrist with his long, elegant fingers.

  He’s so thin. The touch was gentle, and his strange, electric eyes held an air of regret, of apology, that caught her heart.

  The nightmare king shook her awake, one hand on her wrist. “Get up. Now.”

  He pulled her to her feet before she realized what he was doing. He pressed a finger to his lips, holding her gaze with his own until she nodded.

  “Why?” she mouthed.

  His gaze flicked over her shoulder. He tugged her forward, his grip on her wrist strong as steel, into a jog and then a headlong flight through the forest. Leaves and twigs slapped her face. She tripped on a root and would have fallen flat but for his vise-like grip.

  “Faster.” His voice barely reached her ears.

  “I can’t!”

  He jerked her forward and caught her up in his arms somehow, so that he was sprinting through the woods carrying her. The speed was disorienting. She bounced uncomfortably in his arms, feeling heavy, ungraceful, and terrified. “What is it?”

  Then she was flying upward through the air. The king had apparently thrown her into the lowest branches of the nearest tree; a branch caught her in the stomach with bruising force, leaving her gasping and flailing frantically for any handhold.

  Teeth snapped at her foot, and she cried out as she clawed her way up onto the branch.