Infinity Key (Senyaza Series Book 2)

by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  A strong hand closed around her shoulder and yanked her out of the room. She fell back into Tarn’s arms as the magic holding her vanished abruptly.

  “I see you found your way here directly,” observed Tarn as he set her back on her feet.

  Branwyn brushed herself off as her racing heart slowed down again. “What did you drag me away for? I was finally making progress there.”

  A thin smile curved Tarn’s mouth. “That room is not a learning experience.”

  “You’re wrong. But what do you think it is?”

  “An unfinished project. I’ve waited a long time for an artist who could see the structure laid down by the original architect and master the power gathered to guide it to completion.”

  Branwyn looked at the archway behind her. “I saw the structure. Well, felt it, anyhow.” She looked back at Tarn, her eyebrows raised in challenge.

  He looked skeptical. “You? You’re just a beginner. That room is a combination of deep faerie architecture, Artificing, and other things you know nothing about. The power there is overwhelming. Maybe when you are far, far more experienced, you might be able to complete that project. If you live that long.”

  “Oh, give me a break,” she snapped. “Whoever started that room was mortal, right? One of your artists? It was a little confusing—and, okay, insistent—but the plan was easy enough to see. All I’d have to do is follow it. It wanted me to complete it.”

  “Is that what you were doing just a moment ago? It looked to me as if you were drowning. I’d rather you not run mad quite yet, Branwyn. That room is not there to teach you.”

  Branwyn stared at the tall faerie man. Then, brightly, she said, “Fine. How do I get out of this labyrinth of yours?”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, Branwyn. After all, you’re only human.” His teeth flashed as he grinned at her.

  Branwyn narrowed her eyes. Then, casually, she shook his hand off and strolled out of the room, back the way she came. In her pocket, she touched the courtkey Tarn had given her. How useful would it be if she was lost in a gallery without doors? It was another faerie trick. She looked around one of the rooms she passed through and barely remembered it. She’d been in a daze as she explored.

  She took an exit at random, and found herself in a room that she was pretty sure she hadn’t been in before. Behind her, she heard Tarn’s footsteps as he paced behind her. “What happened to the artists?” she asked without turning around. “Are they still here, in a special part of the gallery? Another exhibit for your faerie friends?”

  “What a twisted imagination you have. No, none of the artists are still here.”

  The ground trembled underfoot, just enough to throw Branwyn off her stride. She caught herself on a pillar and looked back at Tarn.

  He frowned, and said, “I must correct myself. One of them may be, but by his own choice. You will not see him.”

  Branwyn said, “Oh, great. Because that’s not ominous at all.”

  Tarn pointed. “Once you go through that arch, take the passage to the left three times. You will arrive at the front room. You may return home, or to your studio, as you wish. I have business to attend to.” He looked around the gallery once, then turned and stalked back the way he came.

  *

  Once again in the studio, Branwyn looked around. The pile of iron ore was overflowing the worktable, taking up space, so she found a bin and cleaned it up. Then she spent a while rearranging the tools so they were laid out the way she liked. It didn’t do much to make the otherworldly studio feel like hers, but she felt better changing what Tarn had planned out.

  She no longer wondered why he wanted a mirror. What he'd requested would fit right into his gallery. She even had some ideas in that direction. She’d have to make some sketches. Later. Right now she wanted to work on the Artificing. She had learned something from the encounter in the unfinished room, and she wanted to put it to work.

  So she closed her eyes and reached once again into the space beyond. This time, her fingers closed over a bar, just as they had in the gallery. It felt as if it was waiting for her, pulled halfway from its storage slot. That was interesting.

  She pulled it into existence. It was an aluminum ingot, bright and ready to use. Smiling, she put it on the stock shelf, then settled herself into her chair to explore the foundations of Faerie. She knew what success felt like now, the movements of her hand, the quickness of her breath, the burning of her thumb. The thumb was important in a way she couldn't explain, but beyond that it was texture and temperature and the dreamlike feel of passing beyond everything she knew.

  After a while, she was hungry. Something itched at her mind about food and the fae, but it didn’t matter. She went and found food, then came back. The wind lifted her hair and she wondered about pulling forth gases and liquids in Faerie. She was sleepy—did she doze at her bench? On something soft? It didn't matter. She reached into the Backworld and pulled out the elements.

  Her thumb hurt. She bandaged it. It made pulling out dreams hard, so she abandoned the bandage on the floor. Later, it was gone. Had she pulled the bandage out from Faerie? Interesting.

  Eventually, she stretched, cracking her spine and her shoulders. She had no idea how long she'd been in the workshop and she didn't much care. But she knew she needed to look at the Unfinished Room again. She had questions and it had answers.

  She stood up and opened the door. The short faerie she’d seen in Tarn’s company before stood to one side of her door, as if he’d been guarding it. She remembered that he hadn’t seemed to like her very much.

  Branwyn generously bestowed a smile on him. “And what are you doing here?”

  He scowled back at her. From his pale hair to his expression to his strange, ragged clothing, he seemed decidedly spiky. He certainly lacked Tarn’s lazy charm. “I’m here to make sure you don't get lost if you want to go somewhere.”

  “Delightful. I’d like to go back to the gallery, please. I’m Branwyn, by the way.” She raised her eyebrows at him encouragingly.

  He looked at her disdainfully. “I know. This way.” He strode ahead of her down the hall.

  Branwyn caught up. “And do you have a name? Or shall I just call you Fairy Peaseblossom?”

  “Oh God. Call me William, if you must.”

  “What an ordinary name.” She watched him stalk beside her down the hall. “So... you and Tarn are...?”

  “Eh?” He slid his gaze sideways to look at her, bewilderment briefly chasing the sullen expression off his face.

  “Are you an employee? A friend? A jealous lover? A slave?”

  “Oh.” For a moment, it didn’t seem like he’d answer, but then, grudgingly, he said, “I’m one of his changelings.”

  The term was distantly familiar and Branwyn cast her mind back to her great-grandmother’s stories. “You were human once?”

  “Yes.” The flat answer did not invite further discussion.

  Branwyn gave him another dazzling smile. “Fascinating. And why are we so cranky today, William?”

  “You smell bad,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Branwyn sniffed herself. “Oh, darn. Should I shower?”

  “Won’t help. Won’t change things.”

  “Oh well. I’ll try to stand upwind.”

  He actually looked at her this time, his pale blue eyes glinting. “Downwind.”

  “What?” He just shook his head, and she smiled to herself. “If there is anything I can accomplish to improve your mood, do let me know and I'll absolutely think about it.” She lowered her voice confidingly. “Not an offer I make to many, let me tell you. But I'm in a good mood and I've noticed your bad mood every time we've met. I keep wondering if you have a cramp.” She shook out her hands as if having sympathy pains.

  He didn’t answer her until they reached the door of the gallery, and then all he said was, “Why do you have green hair?”

  “Hair dye,” she answered. She opened the door and waved at William be
fore slipping inside.

  Navigating through the gallery to the Unfinished Room again was easy. Its incompleteness tugged on her like a draft from an open door. Once she came to its anteroom, she paused. She had every intention of being careful. She knew she couldn’t finish it yet. She had only the vaguest idea how to shape the materials she pulled out from nothingness, the way Tarn had turned a silver bar into a flower and then a statue. But it couldn’t hurt to look. From outside. Tarn hadn’t even warned her against looking, just against trying to shape the unformed room before she was experienced enough.

  Looking… Tarn had been so insistent that she not use her eyes that she’d never even considered the magic Sight that Corbin had given her. She activated it, keeping her gaze averted from the open archway just in case it was dangerous to look that way.

  The Geometry in Faerie was… different than it was outside. In what she couldn’t help thinking of as “the real world,” the lines and shapes of the Geometry were everywhere: a dizzying array of designs and clusters of light. In Tarn’s domain, there was very little of that. There was only a long, thick line underfoot, more like a road than a line, and several crossing lines overhead. Tiny tendrils from the floor and ceiling lines snaked down to the gallery exhibits, in some cases twisting quite thickly into open circles, but it was as if nothing else in that room existed.

  The Unfinished Room beyond was different. A rich, deep light, thick and sweet, spilled out of the chamber, radiating from something lost in the mists. The light shone through the substance of Underlight as if it were glass. The thick line underfoot frayed as it approached the Unfinished Room, like it was being unwound by that light.

  Branwyn found herself drawn to it, despite her best intentions. She put out her hand to catch herself on the door frame, and caught at something else instead.

  There was cool stone beneath her fingers, worked with a swirling pattern, and the stone emerged from another pattern of dazzling radials that formed a plan, and the plan spoke to the room, spoke to her; it was a container, a passage, leading to—

  She didn't know quite what. It eluded her. It vanished through another door, this one in her head. She had to catch it. She felt stone against her forehead, and then nothing.

  Branwyn fell into dreaming, running through a maze of lines and light, trying to find the exit. It was fun at first, but then the light changed, shining without illuminating, and she was ready to wake up.

  *

  She opened her eyes. A familiar painting of jungle growth reclaiming an abandoned factory hung on the wall opposite her. She was in her own bed, in her own room, in her own apartment. Her coverlet was tangled around her legs, like she'd been running in her sleep, and she felt sticky.

  Branwyn closed her eyes, opened them again, and then reactivated the Sight. It was the real world, as far as she could tell. Her real room.

  She sat up and realized she’d been undressed and redressed in her sleeping shirt. Her hair hung in a heavy braid on her shoulder, though she rarely braided it. Her clothes were folded neatly on top of her dresser, rather than tossed into the laundry heap near the door.

  A deep, convulsive shudder overcame her. Who had brought her home and put her to bed? One of the faeries? Severin? She didn’t think it was Marley. Marley wouldn’t have undressed her more than taking her shoes off. Marley would have woken her. Her brother? Or had she done it herself, under the influence of whatever she’d inadvertently come into contact with in the Unfinished Room?

  In the bathroom, she worked on unbraiding her hair. It was ridiculously complicated. Whoever had done this had a sadistic sense of fashion. Afterward, she took a shower. If it went on longer than usual, who could blame her? She'd only ever slept like that, fighting the sheets and trapped in incoherent dreams, after drinking too much while playing terrible video games. And she didn't remember drinking anything at all. She didn’t have a headache, either. And, okay, the dreams probably came from the Unfinished Room. Even accepting that, she still had to scrub to remove the prickles from her skin. More than anything, she wanted to know how she'd gotten home.

  When she emerged into the living room, she blinked at the bright sunlight and tried to remember what day it was. Marley sat on the couch reading, but looked up when Branwyn moved forward. She frowned in a way that made Branwyn feel an unusual pang of guilt for worrying her.

  “Good morning,” Branwyn said, striving for cheerful and reassuring, and passed her quickly to get to the kitchen.

  But Marley stood up and followed her.

  “Bran, you’re getting into trouble again.”

  Branwyn debated asking Marley if she knew who had brought her home, but decided if Marley didn’t know, it would probably worry her even more to ask. So she made herself a butter-and-brown-sugar taco, then said, “Maybe a little. Am I going to die from it?”

  That didn’t improve Marley’s mood at all. “I don’t know. Do you want me to find out?”

  Branwyn almost choked on a lump of sugar. “No. No, I don’t.” She looked at Marley and sighed. “I don’t want to be dependent on you and Corbin for the rest of my life. I don’t want to live life as… an ignorant human under Senyaza’s benevolent protection, you know? I'm just looking for my voice so I can make myself heard. This isn’t any different than protesting downtown.”

  “It seems more like breaking into a secured industrial building to me,” Marley grouched.

  “That was just the one time. Why do you always have to bring that up?”

  “Your boyfriends are a bad influence on you, that’s why.”

  “Well, that’s not relevant now. And it was my idea, anyhow.” Marley only looked at her, so Branwyn added, “And I got what I wanted that time, too.”

  “A criminal record?”

  “Nobody pressed charges,” Branwyn said calmly. “You worry too much, Marley. It interferes with getting things done.”

  Marley scowled and muttered something about Action Girl under her breath. Branwyn smiled; if Marley was using that nickname for her, she had to agree with Branwyn on some level. “Have you talked to Corbin yet? I need to check on some things with him.”

  Marley's eyes tightened. “I thought you said you didn't want to rely on him?”

  Branwyn waved a hand dismissively. “I said I didn't want to be dependent for the rest of my life. I've got to get my information from somewhere while I'm learning. And he's easy to reach.”

  Marley’s expression slid from grumpy back into the actively unhappy zone. She threw herself back on the couch. “Hah. He left me—us—a message. He’s leaving town. He may have already left town. He’s going on a mission to Japan or something.”

  “That seems… sudden. Did he say when he’d be back?”

  Marley gave her an odd look. “He said maybe not for a while.”

  Branwyn watched Marley adjust one of the couch pillows, then pick up her book. “Do you want him to come back?”

  Marley rifled the pages of her book. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  Feeling as if she owed Corbin something for his information earlier, Branwyn said, “I wish I’d been here for his call. I would have said, ‘Corbin, don’t give up! Don’t be a loser!’ But there’s still hope! Fly to Japan after him. Show up at his hotel room wearing nothing but a kimono.” She caught the pillow Marley threw as her mind wandered ahead of her words. “Actually, I do wish I’d been around when he called. What am I supposed to do if I want my charms adjusted?”

  Marley paused in the act of pulling another pillow off the couch. “Uh. Do you need your charms adjusted?”

  “I might,” hedged Branwyn. “You never know. But they're baby charms, after all. You’ve been learning magic from Corbin. Can you do it?”

  “I can do exactly what you’re holding now. We didn’t get very far before, uh... we didn’t get very far.” Marley studied the weave of the pillowcase intensely. “Zachariah and Simon are both wizardly sorts, too.”

  That pause was suspicious. It was the sort of pause that suggested w
hat Gran-gran had insisted on calling hanky-panky. When did this happen? Branwyn wondered. The last she knew, Marley hadn't gotten any farther than chaste kisses with either of her not-boyfriends. She’d get the details later. That kind of conversation was much better late at night, with wine. She refocused on what Marley had actually said. “Oh, Zachariah and Simon, how lovely. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Are you going to work today?” said Marley, a little too brightly. Well, that was nice. She’d forgotten all about Branwyn getting into trouble. Boys were useful that way.

  Branwyn once again tried and failed to remember what day it was, then shrugged. “If I am, I’d better get moving. See you later.”

  -six-

  “Welcome back,” said the guys at work, and, “How are you feeling?” but Branwyn didn’t really think about it. She didn’t think about the date on the invoices she processed, either, or the strange looks Marley had given her, until she opened the door to her family home and Howl immediately grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to his study.

  “You have to stop this, Bran. You’re upsetting Mom, and the kids are noticing. You didn’t even come out for dinner on Saturday, and you promised.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Branwyn irritably.

  “I know you get into these fugues when you’re working on a project. We all know that, but this one is really bad, Branwyn, and I’m worried about wherever you’re going. Are they doing something to you there?”

  “I’ve just been busy—” she began, and paused. She remembered working on one of her early twisted metal sculptures her junior year of college. It was her own interpretation of Winged Victory of Samothrace, made from belt buckles and twisted fan blades and toy airplane wings, embedded in soil planted with English ivy. It had consumed her for two weeks and Penny, Marley, and Rhianna had taken turns driving over and making sure she ate once a day. They teased her later about how she'd said, every day, “I'm just too busy to eat.”