The Gates of Sleep

by Mercedes Lackey

  It’s our protection, too, after all. When something becomes a fairy tale, the ordinary sort of fellow can look right at it and not believe in it.

  “So, you’re going to go look back in time to when this book was being written and try to see what lay behind those journal entries,” Elizabeth stated, summing up his intentions nicely. “Can you do the work here?”

  “It’s the best-shielded room in the place at this point,” he replied. “What I’ll need from you is guarding.” He frowned. “I hope that I don’t sound superstitious to you, but—” He was reluctant even to voice his suspicions, but if he didn’t and something happened—”Look, I know that the idea of demons is something less than fashionable among Masters at the moment, but, well, the only way I can think of for Madam to have done some of what she’s done is to have a servant or a slave that is sensitive to magic power. And as a Satanist—well—I suppose she could have attracted some of the nastier Elementals, but how would she have seen them? So what does that leave but the Satanist’s traditional servant?”

  Tarrant made a sour face. “I have to admit that a demon, a Mephistopheles to Arachne’s Faustus, is the most logical answer. I don’t like it. I might as well believe in vampires, next—”

  “Or brownies?” Elizabeth said suggestively, and Sebastian flushed. “I agree with you, Doctor. And that is yet another good reason for us to do as little as possible magically, and make most of that passive. I had a feeling I ought to use the telegraph rather than occult means of calling the other Masters, and now I’m glad I did. I wish I knew if holy symbols really worked against demons, though.” She bit her lip. “The wearing of my grandmother’s crucifix is very, very tempting right now.”

  “I suspect that depends entirely on the depth of belief of the one using them,” Tarrant replied, regaining his equilibrium. “And I will make no judgment on the state of your belief, Elizabeth. As for myself—” he hesitated. “I suspect for me, that any holy symbol would be as efficacious, or not, as any other. Doctor, if you are ready, so are we.”

  With the room already shielded, all he needed to do, really, was to set up the other object he had brought with him besides the book. This was an amber sphere about the size of a goose egg with no inclusions, amber being about the only material suitable for an Earth Master to use for scrying. Then he placed the book in front of it, and sat facing the sphere at the tiny table below the window, both hands atop the book, which was open to the relevant passage.

  Then, after invoking his own personal shields, he “touched” the book with a delicate finger of power.

  Show me—he whispered to it. Show me your author, and what was happening when he wrote these words.

  He was hoping for a scene in the sphere, or at least a few suggestive hints that he could concentrate on to bring things further into focus. At best, he hoped for a clear image of the old Master in the midst of his single combat with the Satanic magician he had tersely described in his entry.

  He did not expect what he got.

  He was jolted—exactly like being struck by lightning—as power slammed into him from the pages of the book themselves, knocking him back in his chair, and breaking his contact with the volume.

  “Bloody hell!” he yelped, shocked beyond measure. But before he—or either of the other two—could react, a column of light flung itself upwards from the open book, reaching floor—to—ceiling—a golden-yellow light, like sun on ripening corn.

  “Bloody hell!” Sebastian echoed, as Lady Elizabeth yelped.

  And in the very next moment, he found himself looking up into the eyes of a vigorous man of perhaps late middle-years, bearded, moustached, crowned with a flat cap and attired in a laced and slashed doublet, small starched ruff, sleeved gown identical to an academic gown, hose and those ridiculous balloonlike breeches that the Tudors wore. The fact that the fellow was entirely colorless and transparent had no bearing whatsoever on the sensation of force he radiated.

  The light radiated from him, and it was as utterly unlike the black-green poison of the curse holding Marina as it was possible to be. Andrew wanted to drink in that light, eat it, pull it in through every pore. And as for that power, that force—

  The man also radiated the palpable force of an Earth Master as far above Andrew in power as Andrew was above Thomas Buford. And more.

  Details of the man’s appearance branded themselves on his brain. The square jaw underneath a beard neatly trimmed, but with one untidy swirl, as if there was a scar under the hair. The bushy eyebrows that overhung a pair of keen eyes that might have been blue. The doublet, dark and sober, contrasting wildly with the striped satin of the puffy breeches and an entirely immodest codpiece ornamented in sequins and bullion. The equally sober robe he wore over both—a robe of velvet that had been badly rubbed in places, as if it was an old and favored garment that the man could not bear to part with, despite it being a bit shabby.

  “God’s Blood!” the man barked—audibly. And with a decided Scots brogue to his words.

  Andrew started again; he hadn’t expected the apparition to speak!

  The spirit stamped his foot—no sound. “Devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where gottest thou that goose-look? It’s half mad I’ve been, wondering if thee’d the wit to use the book! Damme, man, thee took thy leisure, deciding the menace here!”

  A quick glance at Elizabeth showed she was fascinated, staring at what could only be a spirit, as if she could hardly restrain herself from leaping up to touch it. Sebastian Tarrant, however, was as white as a sheet. But it was Tarrant who spoke.

  “You—you’re a ghost!” he bleated. There was no other word for the absurd sound that came out of his mouth. Formidable Fire Master Sebastian Tarrant sounded just like a frightened sheep.

  The spirit favored him with a jaundiced eye. “That, and ha’pence will buy thee a wheaten loaf,” he said dismissively. He stepped down off the table, which at least put him at eye level with all of them. He was—rather short. But no one would ever dismiss him as insignificant. “Aye, I linked myself, dying, to yon book, in case one day there was need and no one to teach.”

  “Teach about the—” he began, and the spirit made a hushing motion.

  “Best not to talk about them,” he cautioned. “Not aloud. And my time is short—so I’ll be brief. Thee has caught it, laddie—’tis the selfsame enemy, mine and thine, If thee live through this, thee will have to reck out how they done this. If; that be for later. And the on’y way thee will beat them now is to divide them. Thou—” he pointed at Andrew “—thou’lt confront the man. But she—” he pointed at Marina “—the on’y way she’ll be free is to fight the mother, herself.”

  “But—” Andrew began.

  “But me no buts!” the spirit interrupted, scowling. “There be twa things thee’ll need to do, an’ I dinna get much time to explain them, so listen proper the first time.”

  Sebastian had recovered, and nodded, moving closer, as did Elizabeth. Andrew noticed then that the light surrounding the spirit was dimmer than it had been. Perhaps the power stored in the book was all that held the spirit here. If that was the case—

  Later, later. Live through this, first.

  The spirit continued, resting his left hand on his book. “The first thing is for all of ye—all five—t’ takit hold of that cursed magic she’s put on the girl an’ give it a good hard pull. Ye shan’t hurt her, but ye’ll get the mother’s attention. Then…”

  Holding their breaths lest they miss a word, the three of them leaned forward to take it all in.

  Marina was in a garden. A very, very small garden. Not a paradise by any means; this was a tiny pocket of dead and dying growth, struggling to survive in dim and fitful light, and failing, but failing with agonizing slowness. It was walled twice, first in curving walls of brambles with thorns as long as her hand, and beyond them, a wall like a sphere or a bubble, curving gray surfaces, opaque and impermeable—but which flickered with that black-green energy that had engulfed her be
fore she had blacked out. She was disinclined to touch either the walls of thorn or the walls of energy—assuming she could even reach the latter. She mistrusted the look of the thorns—she suspected that they might actually move to hurt her if she approached them. And she’d already had too much close acquaintance with that peculiar magical energy.

  Madam was behind this; somehow she had attacked Marina through the medium of her old cradle, and sent her here. The only question in her mind was—was this “here” real, or a construction of her mind? And if it was real—was it solid, everyday real, was she, body and all, sitting in this blighted garden? Or was this her spirit only, confined in some limbo where Madam’s evil magic had thrown her?

  She was inclined to think it was the second—not because of any single piece of objective evidence, but because she didn’t think that Madam was powerful enough to have created anything magical that could and would successfully hold up physically for any length of time. Why? Because if she had been able to do so, she would have done something to eliminate her niece on the journey to Oakhurst. And if Marina just vanished, there would be a great many questions asked now, questions which could be very uncomfortable for Madam.

  Marina also didn’t think she was dead—not yet, anyway. Elizabeth had taught her all about the magical connection of spirit and body, the thing that looked to some like a silver cord. Although she had not yet made any attempt to leave her own body, Elizabeth’s descriptions had been clear enough. And now that she was calm enough to look for it, that tie of body to spirit was, so far as Marina could tell, still in existence; a dim silver cord came from her, and passed through the gray wall without apparent difficulty.

  Well, there’s my objective evidence, assuming I’m not hallucinating the cord. “Here” isn’t “real”

  So somehow Madam had separated spirit from body and imprisoned the former here.

  Marina felt her heart sink. That would suit her very well. My body is going to live for a while—for as long as she can get doctors to keep it alive. And why shouldn’t she? That would neatly eliminate any suspicions that she had anything to do with what has happened to me. There probably won’t be a sign of what she did. It will all be a terrible tragedy, and of course, in a few weeks or months, when—well, she’ll inherit everything, with no questions asked. She moaned; after all, there was no one here to hear her. I suppose there’s no chance it would be Andrew Pike she calls. No, it will probably be some high-fee London physician, who’ll get to make all manner of experiments to see if he can “wake” me.

  Marina was able to think about this with a certain amount of calmness, in no small part because she was already exhausted from what must have been hours of sheer panic, followed by more hours of rage, followed by more of weeping in despair. There was, of course, no way of telling time here. And although she was exhausted, when she lay down in the withered grass, she was unable to sleep, and in fact, didn’t feel sleepy. Another point in favor of the notion that she was only imprisoned in spirit. The evidence at this point was certainly overwhelming.

  She had never been so utterly, so completely alone. She had thought that she felt alone when Madam had first taken her away from Blackbird Cottage—but at least there had been other people around, even if they were strangers.

  If I am just a spirit—maybe I can call for help? The cord that bound her to her body was able to penetrate the shell around her—maybe magic could, too.

  The trouble was, there was no water here; not so much as a puddle. And search though she might, she could find no well-springs of Water energy, nor the slightest sign of the least and lowliest of Water Elementals. Small wonder the vegetation was dying or dead.

  So all that remained was—thought, and whatever magic she held in her own stores. Which was not much.

  And I was appallingly bad at sending my thoughts out without the help of magic. On the other hand, what choice did she have? Perhaps I can use the cord, somehow.

  She concentrated on a single, simple message, a plea for help, trying first to reach Margherita, then Sebastian, then Elizabeth, then, for lack of anyone else, Andrew Pike. Last of all, she sent out a general plea for help, from anyone, or anything. She tried until she felt faint with the effort, tried until there were little sparks in front of her eyes and she felt she had to lie down again. But if there was any result from all of her effort, there was no sign of it.

  There was no change in the walls holding her imprisoned, no sense of anyone answering her in her own mind. The only change might have been in the cord—was it a little more tenuous than before? A crushing weight of depression settled over her. She gave herself over to tears and despair again, curling up on her side in the grass and weeping—but not the torrent of sobs that had consumed her before. She hid her face in her hands and wept without sobbing, a trickle of weary tears that she couldn’t seem to stop, and didn’t really try. What was the use? There was nothing that she could do—nothing! There was no magical power here that she could use to try and break herself free, nothing of her own resources gave her strength enough, and she was as strong now as she was ever going to be. As her body weakened—and it would—the energy coming to her down that silver cord would also weaken. Until one day—

  She would die. And then what would happen? Was it possible that she would be trapped here forever? Would she continue to exist as a sad, mad ghost here, hemmed in by thorns, driven insane by the isolation?

  “Oh, my dearest—she cannot hold you then, at least—”

  The sound of the strange female voice shocked her as if she’d been struck with a bolt of lightning. Marina started up, shoving herself up into a sitting position with both hands, although the unreal grass had a peculiarly insubstantial feeling against her palms.

  A man and a woman—or rather, the transparent images of a man and a woman—stood at the edge of the thorns. When had they gotten there? How had they gotten there? Had they come in response to her desperate plea for help?

  She had no trouble recognizing them, not when she had looked at their portraits every day of her life for as long as she could remember.

  “Mother?” she faltered. “Father?”

  With no way to measure time, not even by getting tired and sleepy, Marina could not have told how long it took the—others—to convince her that they were not figments of her imagination, not something sent by Madam to torment her, and were, indeed, her mother and father. Well, their spirits. They were entirely certain that the “accident” that had drowned them was Madam’s doing; that made sense, considering everything that had followed. And if Madam had sent a couple of phantasms to torment her, would she have put those words in their mouths? Probably not.

  Perhaps what finally convinced her was when, after a long and intensely antagonistic session of cross-questioning on her part, Alanna Roeswood—or Alanna’s ghost, since that was what the spirit was—looked mournfully at her daughter and gave the impression of heaving an enormously rueful sigh.

  “After nearly fifteen years of rather formal letters, I really should not have expected you to fling yourself into my loving arms, should I the spirit said, wearing an expression of deep chagrin. “It’s not as if I wasn’t warned.”

  Marina held her peace, and her breath—well, she had lately discovered that she didn’t actually breathe so she couldn’t really hold her breath, but that was the general effect. Perhaps being dead gave one a broader perspective and made one more accepting of things.

  Especially things that one couldn’t change. Like one’s daughter, who had grown up with a mind and will of her own, and who considered her birth mother to be the next thing to a stranger.

  “You aren’t at all as I pictured you, are you?” the spirit continued, but now there was a bit of pride mingled with the chagrin. “Nothing like I imagined.”

  Marina couldn’t help but feel guilt at those sad words. Not that it was her fault that her parents had treasured an image of her that was nothing like the reality. “Oh, Mother—” she sighed. “I’m sorry.”
She couldn’t bring herself to say anything more, but Alanna unexpectedly smiled.

  “Don’t be.” Both of her parents studied her for a moment, as she throttled down a new emotion—

  Lightning emotional changes seemed to be coming thick and fast, here. Perhaps it was that there was no reason, here and now, for any pretense. And no room for it. Polite pretense was only getting in the way.

  This new emotion was resentment, and after another long moment of exchanged glances, it burst out.

  “Why did you just—throw me away?” she cried, seventeen years of pain distilled in that single sentence. “What was wrong with me? Didn’t you want me? Was I in the way?” That last was something that had only just occurred to her, as she saw the way the two spirits stood together. Never had she seen two people so nearly and literally one, and she felt horrible. Had she been an intrusion on this perfect one-ness? It was only too easy to picture how they would have resented her presence.

  But the bewilderment on both their faces gave the lie to that notion. “Throw you away?” Hugh said, aghast. “Dear child—don’t you know what we were trying to prevent—what we were trying to save you from? Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”

  It was short in the telling, the more so since the curse that Madam had so effectively placed on Marina as an infant was what had patently thrown her here now. She listened in appalled fascination—it would have been an amazing tale, if it had just happened to someone else.

  And why? Why did Arachne hate her brother and his wife so much that she declared war on a harmless infant? For that matter, what on earth could Hugh Roeswood have done to anger her—besides merely existing? Hugh had only been a child when Arachne left home to marry her unsuitable suitor.

  “So we sent you away, where we hoped Arachne would never find you, and left her only ourselves to aim at,” Hugh finished. “We hoped—well, we hoped all manner of things. We hoped that she wouldn’t find you, and that the curse would backfire on her when it reached its term without being called up again. We hoped that you would become a good enough Master to defend yourself. We hoped someone would find a way to take the damned thing off you!”