The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  As he spoke, the Fae servants dressed Claire with skillful speed, wrapping her in a sleeveless dressing gown that was thick with embroidery and cinched comfortably around her waist.

  “I’d offer you a meal, but…” Faolan sighed heavily. “Only his Majesty can travel between worlds, and that not without considerable effort. And fairy food has consequences, you know.”

  “You gave me food before. I lost it.”

  “I gave you the illusion of food, spelled to give you comfort and strength. It would not prevent you from starving or dying of dehydration, but it would have allowed you to suffer less while you did so. You needed the encouragement, and illusion was all we could offer. Besides, we did not expect you to be in Faerie for long.”

  Claire swallowed, pondering the familiar emptiness of her stomach and the weakness that made her limbs feel heavy and her head feel light. “I’m all right,” she said finally. “I’m hungry but it’s not like I’ll die of it any time soon.”

  Faolan smiled, his eyes melancholy. “You have grown, you know. Years ago you would have whined and blamed me.”

  “I would, wouldn’t I?” Claire smiled back at him, seeing the nobility in his face that she’d missed in their first meeting. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  He snorted. “I didn’t. I believed in Tuathal. But he was right about you, even if it took longer than he’d hoped.” He nodded toward the door. “Come.”

  He led her down a long hallway with several other doors, all closed.

  Claire had to stop and lean against the wall once, when her vision seemed to dim and her head felt like it was floating away. She put her hands on her knees, her shoulder against the solid stone wall, and breathed slowly. Faolan offered her his shoulder to lean on, but she shook her head. He was, when she actually looked at him, rather pale himself, and the easy pace he set may not have been entirely for her benefit.

  At last they reached Tuathal’s door.

  “Tuathal is… he’s…” He cleared his throat, “Well, you’ll see.”

  Faolan put his hand on the handle and glanced at her. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something more, but then just shook his head.

  He opened the door.

  Tuathal lay in the center of a large bed with the covers pulled down to his waist. He wore a white shirt that buttoned up the front; it was of a fine, light fabric that might have been silk, or something like it, that draped over him loosely. The shirt was open at the neck, showing the faint pulse in his throat and the edge of a bandage that covered the wound on his shoulder.

  “Is he alive?” whispered Claire. He was breathing so shallowly and slowly that she could not tell, at first, whether his chest was moving at all. His arms were laid carefully at his sides atop the blanket. The position looked slightly unnatural; she couldn’t imagine anyone would really sleep that way. He was, now that she saw him in repose, even thinner than she’d realized. The dull hunger in her belly felt heavy and leaden, as if she did not have the right to feel hunger pangs because he had not eaten in far longer.

  Dizziness rose, and the world seemed to spin around her. Faolan cried something that she could not understand and clutched at her arm, but she stumbled to her knees beside the bed, darkness encroaching on her vision.

  She bowed her head to the mattress and let the darkness take her.

  Chapter 35

  Tuathal stood at a window in his study, his head resting against the stone window frame, his neck gracefully curved as if to show off his strange beauty. She thought suddenly that he seemed refined rather than sullied by suffering, and she resolutely squashed her sudden flash of jealousy.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to wake up?” Claire said. “Everyone is waiting for you to.”

  He blinked, as if he’d been lost in thought. “Good evening, Claire.” He turned to face her with a faint, melancholy smile. “Why are you here?”

  “To wake you up, of course.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Don’t you think I’d be awake if I could be? Whatever else you may think of me, I do hope you understand that I take my responsibilities seriously.”

  “Why can’t you wake up?” She stepped closer to him, the line of her body almost, but not quite, pressed against his, the space between them electric with tension.

  He gave a gentle, elegant cough of laughter. “Because I’m nearly dead. You gave me my mind and my power back, and for that I thank you. You did, at the end, become the hero I knew you could be. I imagine that for generations my people will enjoy magnificent tapestries of the Iron Queen shooting sparks from her fingertips, routing armies with the fire in her blood.” He smiled, a grim satisfaction in his eyes, and brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek. “And, whatever offenses you may hold against me, I did grant your wish.”

  Her eyes widened. “Which one?”

  “To be the hero.”

  She wondered wildly whether his eyes were always that bright, or whether they merely looked that way because of the tears filling her own eyes. “You did.” Her throat felt tight with emotion. “Why did you do it? Why me?”

  “Because you had magnificent dreams, Claire.” He cupped her cheek with his long fingers and let his thumb trace the line of her cheekbone, then down to her lips, the touch as gentle as the whisper of silk over the sensitive skin. “You dreamed of being more than you were. All I did was give you the opportunity to become yourself. We needed you as much… no, more than you needed us.” His smile shone with pride.

  She closed her eyes.

  His hand was warm and strong, his fingers feather-light against her skin. Then he pulled away, and she imagined there was effort in the movement, though she couldn’t tell whether it was physical effort or merely the effort of controlling his emotion.

  “Are you not coming back?”

  “I can’t, Claire.” His voice had a faint edge of roughness, and she opened her eyes to try to read his expression. He looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze, and caught his breath in what might have been a sob. Then his jaw firmed, and he met her eyes, his lips curving upward in a smile. “I don’t fear death. But I thank you for making the last moments sweeter with your presence.”

  The grief that had been a cold stone in her chest became a hot, burning anger that would not let her accept his death.

  “I wish you’d wake up!” She caught his hand in hers, twining her fingers between his as if to keep him grounded. “I wish you’d live.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “You do?”

  “Yes!” She glared at him. “You arrogant, obstinate man! Of course I do.”

  He chuckled, the sound soft and sweet as a summer breeze. “Well, then. That changes everything.”

  Claire sucked in a breath, disoriented and cold. Her knees were bruised, and her face was pressed into something soft.

  A small, strong hand pulled at her shoulder, and she realized Faolan stood just beside her, trying, with little success, to maneuver her into a heavy velvet chair beside the bed.

  “Thank you,” she croaked. “Did I faint?”

  “Yes.” Faolan was frowning fiercely. “I should not have let you out of bed.” He looked again at the king. “Then again, maybe it was exactly the right thing to do. I have no idea what just happened, but he seems better somehow.”

  Claire stood only to collapse into the chair. “I still feel rather dizzy,” she breathed. The room seemed suffused with a soft golden glow, and she gazed dully at Tuathal’s body. He looked different than before, and she studied his face trying to find some sign of life. After a moment, she realized that his near hand was upturned, his fingers slightly curled as if in expectation.

  The lump in her throat nearly choked her, and she leaned forward to put her hand in his.

  Perhaps she fell asleep, or perhaps she only lost track of time. Afterwards she couldn’t be sure how long their fingers were entwined, motionless.

  Frost-kissed eyelashes opened, and his eyes met hers with a spark of electric desire.

  Yo
u woke up for me.

  Chapter 36

  A soft knock sounded on Claire’s door.

  “Come in,” she said. Her voice sounded weak and distant in her ears, and she cleared her throat. “Come in!”

  The door opened soundlessly, and a young Fae woman bowed deeply. “I am instructed to make you ready for the banquet this evening.”

  “A banquet?”

  “To celebrate the end of the war and His Majesty’s return to us.” The Fae smiled gently. “His Majesty sent you this.” She handed Claire a folded paper sealed with red wax.

  Claire opened the seal carefully, smiling at the formality of the paper and seal.

  Forgive me for imposing upon you with the expectation of your attendance at the banquet. I realize you must be anxious to return to your world, but I am not yet strong enough to open the passage for you. And, since you must be trapped here for some short time while I regain a little strength, it would do me great honor, and greatly please my subjects, if you would attend the celebration.

  With utmost respect,

  Tuathal

  “All right,” Claire murmured. She frowned at the thought of enduring a banquet while her limbs were weak with hunger, but then realized the thought didn’t disturb her as much as she had expected.

  What is a little more discomfort in order to finish well? I can endure this small thing without complaining.

  She smiled at the servant more warmly. “I’m ready. What should I do?”

  The girl bowed deeply again, then set to work with practiced efficiency. She brushed Claire’s skin with a soft, scented cloth before slipping a silk chemise over her head. Next came layers of silk skirts, an underdress that cinched her narrow waist and flared pleasingly over her hips, and a velvet overdress with an intricately laced bodice.

  When the servant pulled the laces tight, Claire had a moment of dizziness and clutched at the nearby chair.

  “The dizziness will pass, my lady.” The servant’s voice shook. “His Majesty was quite distraught that he could not yet travel to your world. He tried, you know, this morning.”

  “Did he?” breathed Claire. He probably shouldn’t have tried yet. He’s been mostly dead all week. She took a deep breath and waited while the spots cleared from her vision.

  The Fae girl nodded, her lips pressed together as if she were trying not to cry.

  “I’m all right,” Claire said. She forced a smile, and then found that it wasn’t as forced as she’d thought at first.

  Claire followed the girl through marble-tile corridors to the banquet hall. The door was grand, and two uniformed Fae servants bowed deeply when they opened it for her.

  Claire’s eyes widened. The room was enormous, and clearly meant for hosting magnificent feasts. Massive double doors at the far end stood open, and the cavernous space between was filled with long wooden tables filled with place settings and serving dishes. Crowds of exquisitely dressed Fae and fairy creatures of several species were filling the seats, while conversation filled the air with a dull roar.

  A servant guided Claire to a low dias at one end of the room. Tuathal stood to greet her with a deep, graceful bow over her hand, brushing a delicate kiss over her fingers. As he straightened, his face went a particularly alarming shade of gray, and he seemed to sway a little before his fingers tightened on hers.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Claire murmured.

  “An excellent idea.”

  Their chairs were large and covered in deep burgundy velvet with gilt accents on dark carved wood. They were not exactly thrones, but they were certainly the seats of honor. Despite the formality, Claire found the seat surprisingly comfortable.

  A servant bent to speak to Tuathal, and he nodded, murmuring an answer.

  Servants brought out food and drink for the guests, and the conversation continued. Musicians played softly in one corner.

  No servants brought food to Claire and Tuathal. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, surreptitiously studying the sharply drawn line of his jaw and the shadows under his eyes.

  Finally she turned to whisper to him, “I think you should eat something. Just because I can’t eat doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

  The thin skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled in surprise. “I ate a little earlier. It would be discourteous to indulge while you must abstain.” His lips pressed together in a white line, and he swallowed hard. “I offer my apologies for that. I had hoped to provide something for you, but I must recover a little more.”

  The raw grief in his voice made her frown and turn to face him more directly. Her eyes widened when she saw the darkness in his eyes, the pain in what should have been a happy moment.

  “I’m all right, Tuathal. I can wait a little longer. I’m just hungry, not starving. A few hours won’t hurt anything, and I wouldn’t miss this.” When she smiled, she meant it, and her heart rose at the relief that flickered in his eyes.

  She twined her fingers between his, intending merely to comfort him. He bent to kiss her hand, his lips warm and featherlight on the back of her knuckles.

  His fingers fit around hers so well that she did not immediately draw away. After being so long at odds, after such terrifying adventures, the comfort in his touch surprised her.

  She looked across the room, watching everyone enjoying the banquet. Fresh bread filled the air with its warm, yeasty scent, mixed with roasted meat of several types, the heavy scent of baked apples, and a dozen other dishes Claire couldn’t begin to identify. The guests were all noble, or at least wealthy; their clothes glittered with gold and silver, with fresh flowers and silk, with green leaves woven into flowing cloaks and crystal blooms glinting in the whorls of intricate hairstyles.

  Tuathal was similarly adorned, his gaunt frame suddenly elegant in leather, silk, and shadow. A golden crown hung carelessly on the back of his chair, as if he could not be bothered to wear it. It’s unnecessary. How could anyone doubt he’s a king? Her surreptitious glance apparently did not go unnoticed, because he met her gaze and smiled, light dancing in his eyes.

  A cry rang out, and the room fell into sudden silence.

  The kelpie stood a short distance in front of their dias, both arms raised. “Listen, guests of His Majesty, King of the Seelie, to the tale of the Lord of Dreams and the Iron Queen! You will remember this and repeat it, so that a thousand years from now not a single point will be forgotten!”

  A low murmur filled the air, and the kelpie lowered his arms and drew a deep breath.

  A fairy who sat just in front of where the kelpie stood turned around in his chair. “You are not a noble to command us! I doubt you are even a bard.” His lips curved in a smile that held a slightly contemptuous edge. “Why should we listen to tales you spin?”

  The kelpie turned and flung his tunic back from his shoulder. A bright red mark roughly the shape of the blade of a butter knife marred the smooth, pale skin just below his shoulder blade. “I bear the mark of the Iron Queen! I will speak and you will listen!”

  Silence filled the hall for a moment.

  A centaur a short distance away cleared his throat; the deep rumble echoed in the room. He said mildly, “Point of order: Technically she is not the queen. Or even a queen at all, to my knowledge.”

  The kelpie stared at him a moment, and then gestured wordlessly toward the dias where Claire and Tuathal sat quietly.

  Everyone turned toward them and scrutinized them briefly. The centaur said, with a soft chuckle, “I withdraw my comment. Please proceed.”

  Heat suffused Claire’s face, and she pulled her hand away. For a moment, she didn’t dare glance at Tuathal, but then she snuck a peek.

  His face was almost, but not quite, impassive; his lips tightened as if he were trying to hide a smile.

  “Here now the tale of the Lord of Dreams and the Iron Queen!” the kelpie cried.

  “When His Majesty the old king passed to dust and starlight, his beloved son wielded the full might of the foinse cumhachta. Unfortunately
, there was no one found in all of Faerie other than His Majesty the young king who was capable of accepting the foinse cumhachta, so it could not be fully employed.

  “Even under the old king and the young prince, now His Majesty, the Seelie were barely holding ground against the Unseelie. His Majesty is strong, but without a partner of his heart, he could not fully use the power he inherited, and it became clear that the Seelie kingdom would fall eventually.

  “His Majesty believed that someone, somewhere, could join with him and save the Seelie, so he… called out… for any such to come forth from wherever they might be.

  “Someone—only one—answered. She wished that she be the one who could help.

  “The king saw that she was not capable.

  “Nevertheless, she was the only one. The king, young in years but bearing the weight of the power, gave her his heart despite her shortcomings, and… she grew. Though it took years, she became more where she needed to be more and discarded that of herself which was a hindrance. It was a near thing in timing, but she became more than even the king had hoped for.

  “At the time of Great Confrontation, she was not yet ready.

  “She bore the Shining Knife, the knife that gleams like silver, burns like iron, yet neither tarnishes nor rusts; but she had not yet touched magic directly. The king was utterly spent and helpless, and all his forces had retired from the field at his command. Against her were arrayed the Unseelie king Taibhseach, and his elite guard, and close behind him his army… the army that had battered the combined forces of the Seelie kingdom for over ten years.

  “Yet, she faced down the Seelie king, challenging him to single combat bearing only the Shining Knife… and he was afraid.

  “He offered her a pact: Leave, taking the Shining Knife with her, and he would not pursue her or attack her people.

  “She laid aside the Shining Knife and challenged him again, having no weapon, only bare hands and her Will… and still he feared her!