The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  “That is ridiculous.” Her voice cracked. “How long has it been since you ate anything?”

  He rose gracefully to his feet. Then he staggered against the tree, catching himself with his wounded arm with an almost stifled grunt of pain. “It doesn’t matter.” His strange, blank eyes turned toward her. “Come. The border is miles away, and we are pursued.”

  Claire’s stomach dropped into her toes. “We’re pursued?”

  He swayed, his eyelids fluttering closed. He would have fallen but for his convulsive grip on the tree.

  “Please eat something. I don’t even know how you’re alive.”

  The king gave a tiny, secretive smile. “I think I do.” He leaned heavily against the tree, his eyes playing over her face, down her neck, lingering on the pendant. He turned away. “Eat as you walk. They are not far behind us.”

  Claire gathered the food hurriedly and jogged after him.

  “I thought you were dying,” she said. Way to repeat myself. He probably thinks I’m stupid.

  “I was.”

  “But now you’re better.” She frowned at his back.

  He stumbled and caught himself with a quick intake of breath that made her think he was barely keeping himself upright. “No, not really. But you are.”

  With a sigh, she took another bite of cheese.

  “Why are you back in the straightjacket? I thought I freed you.”

  “I thought it best. I’m still insane; it seemed a wise choice.”

  The harsh fluorescent lights gleamed on the tile floor. It had been clean last time, or so she had thought, but now there were dust bunnies in the corners and faint shadows of dust along the tops of the chalkboards.

  “You put yourself in the straightjacket?”

  “Of course not. You did.”

  She scowled at him. That doesn’t make any sense at all.

  Claire ran her thumb over the familiar pattern on her pendant, at first absently, then with a thoughtful frown. She walked to a chalkboard and looked for chalk.

  The ledge was empty. She frowned and glanced at the king, who stood in the middle of the room, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.

  “Why isn’t there any chalk here?”

  “Perhaps it’s a representation of something.” The king smiled, showing his teeth.

  “Of what? Your inability to communicate clearly?” Claire snapped.

  He turned away without saying anything, and guilt assailed her. “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”

  The king made a thoughtful sort of noise. “So it was,” he murmured. “No matter. I’d hoped…” He clicked his teeth shut, biting back words.

  “Hoped what?” She chewed her lip. “That I’d be kinder? I’m working on it.”

  “Are you?” He raised an eyebrow, and she couldn’t tell if the gesture was inquisitive or mocking.

  She kept her voice even. “I am. It’s hard. I’ve discovered that I’m a rather selfish person. I’m trying to change but it’s work.”

  “So it is.” His eyes were on her face, bright and wild, and she looked away.

  “I wish there was chalk!” she muttered.

  Then she saw chalk on a ledge she had not previously searched. She glanced at the king, wondering if he had made the chalk appear. He merely studied her with his lips pressed together.

  She examined the pendant, then drew the symbol on the chalkboard, with three straight lines converging at the top and splaying outward at the bottom, three dots at the top, all enclosed in a neat circle. “What does this symbol mean?” she asked as she turned to him.

  He stared at it, his face tight. “Where did you see that?” he asked, his elegant voice strangely rough.

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t remember. I should remember but I don’t. Power. Authority. A marriage proposal. A reservoir. A symbol of reality that isn’t.”

  Claire blinked. “Is that supposed to make sense?”

  The king strained against the straightjacket for a moment, then relaxed, breathing heavily. “Does anything make sense? Is it supposed to?” He rocked back on his heels and forward again, bare toes spreading against the floor as if to keep himself anchored. “It isn’t and it is. It wasn’t and might be. Power. A gift unaccepted.” His gaze fixed on her face. “Don’t forget, Claire. It’s important.”

  “All right.”

  He stiffened. “Wake up, Claire.” His eyes widened. “Wake up! Now, Claire. Wake up now. NOW!”

  Chapter 25

  The king’s warning came late.

  Claire blinked awake as the king grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet.

  They made it only a few steps through the darkness before something flew through the air and hit the king a skull-cracking blow on the head. He tumbled face-first into the leaves and did not move.

  Claire caught her breath in wordless fear as she was surrounded by things. Yes, they were things, not people, though they walked on two legs (mostly), wore rags of clothing, and generally looked like very small people. She knew they were something else, something bad, by their eyes. There were a dozen of them that she could see, and she had the feeling others lurked out of sight.

  One of them smiled—or at least showed its too-long teeth—and bent to lick the wound on the king’s shoulder. The king’s blood began flowing again, and the creature lapped at it eagerly, grunting.

  The king did not move.

  “You’re a pretty little thing!”

  Claire spun to see a beautiful woman standing behind her, giggling. “Such smooth skin! So young and fresh.” The woman grinned. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m so glad I found you before the fomoiri did. You’ll be safe with me.”

  Claire’s heart thudded raggedly. “Thank you. But we need to be going.” She stepped toward the king, intending to help him up.

  The creature, whatever it was, snarled at her, the king’s blood smeared around its mouth.

  “Oh, no, little darling. It’s getting dark. You don’t want to be out at night, especially not with this one.” She nudged the king’s limp form with one pointed boot. “He’s pretty, isn’t he? Appearances can be deceiving, you know.” She smiled warmly at Claire. “Let me offer you safety in my house for the night, and in the morning I’ll send you on your way.”

  “Um…” This is a bad idea. But what choice do I have? “I think we’ll be fine. Thank you for your offer, though.” Claire offered, her voice as bright and cheerful as she could make it. “We’re really in a bit of a…”

  “I must insist, dear.” The woman gestured, and the creature grabbed the king and began hauling him through the woods. Claire jogged after them, terror and anger jostling for priority.

  She ran into a clearing just in time to see the creature disappear, with the king, into a charming little cottage. It was surrounded by mounds of cheerfully blooming flowers of species she did not recognize. The door was bright yellow, the shutters were cobalt blue, and the wooden siding was white and fresh.

  The woman ushered her forward. “Come, little dear. A little bit of food and tea in you, and you’ll feel ever so much better. The woods are not a place to be alone at night, you know. Wolves hunt these woods, and shadow men, and many other dangerous creatures I will not even name. I would hate to frighten such an innocent.” She opened the door and urged Claire in. Claire opened her mouth to ask if the shadow men or other monsters were worse than the vampire-imps shadowing them, but thought better of it.

  The interior of the cottage was just as charming as the exterior. A burnished wooden table sat by one wall. Another wall had a small fireplace, above which a pot of water was boiling. “Tea!” the woman exclaimed. “It always cheers me up. Here.” She poured tea into two delicate porcelain cups and set one in front of Claire. “Now, darling, tell me what you were doing out in the woods so very late.”

  Claire stared at the cup. It smelled like chamomile tea, but with a slightly warmer scent, like vanilla and perhaps honey. “I shouldn’t…”

  “Oh, tosh!”
The woman waved a hand dismissively. “They’re so bossy, aren’t they?”

  “Who?” Claire asked cautiously.

  The woman blinked. “Whoever told you not to.” Her lips curved in a conspiratorial smile. “Always telling you what to do, as if you’re not your own master.”

  Claire inhaled the scent of the tea. It was home, and comfort, and relaxation. She had been worried about something, but couldn’t quite remember what. The tight knot between her shoulders relaxed a little. She raised the teacup to her face, just breathing in the warmth. She let it touch her lips, not sipping it, just letting the hot liquid tempt her.

  The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. Don’t you feel better now?”

  “Where is… um… my traveling companion?” Claire asked. Her mind felt hazy and warm, wrapped in a cocoon of steam and comfort.

  “He is being attended.” The lady smiled, her lips red and her teeth white.

  Claire blinked slowly, and, without meaning to, she let a tiny sip of tea through her lips.

  “Tomorrow, if you’re willing, you can help me with my garden.”

  The words were fuzzy, but Claire found herself nodding. “Of course. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  She slept deeply in a comfortable bed with soft white cotton sheets and a down comforter and woke to the sun shining golden across her face.

  She meandered out the tiny kitchen to see the woman cooking breakfast. “Ah! There are you are. Here, eggs and toast.”

  Claire frowned. There was something just at the edge of her mind. Something important. Something she should remember.

  “I’m not that hungry,” she said finally.

  “Oh, but you must eat something!” the woman cried cheerfully. “Gardening is hard work, you know. You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

  “Shouldn’t I be leaving?” Claire asked vaguely.

  “I don’t see why,” the woman said with a kind smile. “You’re welcome here.”

  The eggs were moist and perfectly peppered, just the way Claire liked them. The bacon was salty and the toast was buttery, with a thick layer of strawberry jam.

  Every bite was delicious.

  Claire spent the day in the garden, pulling weeds and planting rows of tomatoes, corn, peas, and squash. She and the woman sat in a companionable silence during lunch, a light and enjoyable repast of fresh tomatoes, homemade warm bread and butter, boiled eggs, and plums from the orchard beyond the garden. At the end of the day, her hands were dirty, and her back ached, but she had a pleasant sense of having accomplished something. She stood at the edge of the garden as the sun set, smiling at her work.

  She and the woman chatted about nothing over dinner, about how the sun shone on the flowers and when the tomatoes would be ready.

  When she went to bed in the comfortable little guest room, she did not remember the king at all.

  Claire blinked at the golden light streaming in the windows. Hadn’t it been evening before?

  Oh, it was another dream.

  She was in the king’s study again. At first, she thought she was alone.

  Then she saw him. He was slumped over the desk, head resting on his folded arms as if he had fallen asleep. Just beside his elbow stood a glass pitcher full of water, rivulets of condensation streaking the glass. A heavy glass tumbler sat next to it.

  A slip of paper was the only other item on the desk. It read: Please drink. The water is safe for you.

  Thirst clawed at her throat, and she eagerly poured herself a glass of water. Then she hesitated, wondering if she was about to fall for some trick. Perhaps the water was not from him. Perhaps it was not really safe after all.

  Besides the king’s terrifying leanness, there was a strange stillness to him, and for a moment she thought wildly that he wasn’t breathing. But he was; his ribs moved in a soft, steady rhythm, and she sighed in relief.

  She licked her lips and gathered her courage. Her hand hovered over his shoulder while she hesitated. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she touched him gently.

  He drew a deep breath, almost a groan, and blinked into a dazed awareness. He frowned at her; his eyes had an odd darkness to them that was perhaps more unsettling than the dangerous, unpredictable lightning she remembered.

  “Drink,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why did you write the note? Did you not think you’d be here?”

  He blinked slowly, and murmured, “I wasn’t sure I’d wake up.”

  The dullness in his voice gave her pause, and she studied him. In the dreams, he had generally been more alert, more aware, more coherent, than in wakefulness. Now he seemed distant, either distracted or merely dazed.

  “Drink,” he repeated.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  His eyes flicked to hers, and his lips rose in a faint, startled smile. “You’re welcome.” The smile vanished. He rubbed one hand over his face, hiding his eyes for a moment. “Let me tell you a story.”

  “Is it true?”

  He gave her a narrow look. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then what does it matter how I answer?” He rose and crossed the room to stare out the window, his jaw tight. After a moment, he began, “Once there was a great king of the Seelie. He was good and just, and his people loved him very much. He—”

  “You’re talking about yourself, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes.

  “No. Don’t interrupt. It’s discourteous. The king and queen had a son, who was beloved by all the king’s subjects and courtiers.”

  Claire rolled her eyes again. “You’re the prince, then?”

  The king was holding a bronze letter opener in one hand, flipping it absently between his fingers. The motion stilled. In a low voice, he said, “Do you want to hear the story or not? Keeping the words straight is rather a strain, so I’d appreciate your undivided attention.”

  “Fine then. I’m listening.” Claire studied the king’s profile. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to say something else, something she imagined would be cutting or profound, depending on how angry he was.

  But his words, when they came, were almost devoid of inflection or expression. He stared out the window again as he spoke. “The queen died when the boy was quite young, devastating not only the king and the prince with their personal grief, but also resulting in a difficult situation for the king in the long conflict with the Unseelie.

  “The power inherent in the rule of Seelie monarchs can be fully utilized only by two ruling with one heart. It’s a fact of being Seelie; the power is not divided into two smaller parts, but multiplied by their unity. Generally the two who hold power together with one heart are king and queen, but there have been two who were not lovers but rather parent and child, brother and sister, or once, in the distant past, two cousins who were close friends.

  “The king, bereft of his beloved wife, gave her portion of power to his son. But the prince was young, and the burden was heavy and weighed upon him. Worried for his father, longing for his deceased mother, and grieved by the war that threatened to spill over the border, the young prince wished, for one instant, for a friend.

  “A friend, or someone who might become a friend, appeared for a few moments. Without meaning to, the young prince gave her part of his heart.

  “Not long afterwards, the king died in battle, leaving the weight of the kingdom upon his son’s shoulders.”

  “How old were you?” Claire asked.

  The king hesitated, and then said softly, “Eight. I was eight.” He cleared his throat, and said, “Even while my father was alive, we were barely holding the borders against the Unseelie. My mother was strong and wise in magic of many disciplines, and I was but a child, hardly her equal and not yet a fit partner for my father’s rule. Also my father and I, despite our love, were not entirely of one heart, for part of my heart was given to the young friend I had wished for, and most of his heart had died with my mother.”

  Claire felt a strange, unc
omfortable pang in her chest, as if the king, by his words, had pricked something tender. “What happened next?”

  “I ruled for many years alone. The war escalated.” He frowned faintly. “And I grew quite desperate.” He did not look at her, had not looked at her for some minutes. His finger drew absently on the windowsill, the same swirling pattern she had seen before.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He blinked, as if coming back from distant thoughts. “Telling you a story,” he said, his lips curling in a grimace of bitter amusement.

  “I mean with your finger there,” she said softly.

  His eyes flicked downward, and the air seemed to still for a moment. “Reminding myself of myself,” he said at last. A shudder shook him for a moment, and he murmured, “The damp and the cold and the hunger and the Unseelie magic leeching through my skin, burrowing through my flesh, seeping into my bones like poison… I write my name over and over and over to remember who I am, and what I was, and why I…” His teeth clicked shut, and he trembled and turned away.

  “Why you what?” Claire whispered.

  “Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel.” He frowned at the window, studying his fingers spread wide upon the stone sill. “And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.”

  “What madman?” Claire whispered, for he seemed to her to be suddenly coming apart at the seams, his mind spiraling away in remembered torment.

  “The one in which I have hidden myself,” he murmured. “I gave you the key.” His hand clenched, white-knuckled, and he closed his eyes to lean his forehead against the glass. “You don’t remember either. I forgot because I had to, and you forgot because… because…” His voice trailed away, and he frowned faintly, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the magic. Perhaps it was only that you didn’t know or realize it was important. Perhaps I played my part too well, and you didn’t stop and think.”