Winter’s Light

by M. J. Hearle

  Winter exhaled thoughtfully. ‘It can’t be that easy.’

  ‘It is. The Black Mirror is just another locked door. When you approach it you will place your hands like so.’ She demonstrated by pressing her palms against an imaginary obstruction. ‘Close your eyes and imagine the door opening. The surface will begin to feel hot, you will see fire, the heat will not burn you, unless . . .’

  Winter arched an eyebrow quizzically. ‘Unless what?’ She didn’t like the way Elena had trailed off.

  The Russian chewed her lip in deliberation. ‘Yuri will be displeased if I mention this, but you have a right to know.’ She lowered her voice. ‘If the fire starts to burn – let go! Do not hesitate.’

  Winter licked her lips nervously. ‘Why? What does it mean if it burns me?’

  ‘It means you are unworthy. You are not a Key.’

  Seeing Winter’s troubled expression, she added quickly, ‘There is no reason to be afraid. I am quite sure you’re the one we’ve been looking for.’

  ‘Quite sure? I thought you guys were positive? Now you tell me there’s a chance I’m gonna catch fire? Way to rock a girl’s confidence!’

  ‘Forget I said anything and please do not tell Yuri about this.’ She looked worriedly over her shoulder as if expecting to see Yuri standing there.

  Elena’s distress was both unexpected and baffling. Winter didn’t think the woman was capable of such emotion.

  ‘It’s okay, I won’t tell him.’

  Elena flashed a quick smile of gratitude and ran her gloved hand nervously through her hair.

  ‘Thank you. It is just . . . this is very important to him. You are important, I mean.’

  Winter nodded, fascinated by the change in Elena. There was something plaguing her. Something just below the surface.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know about this? The fire, the Black Mirror – everything? Why are you the expert?’

  A strange look came into Elena’s eyes. ‘Can I trust you, Winter?’

  It was the first time she had used her name, a fact that was not lost on Winter.

  ‘Sure. I mean, why not?’

  ‘You asked me how I knew about the fire.’ She sucked in a breath and began to remove her gloves. ‘I discovered it for myself. You see . . .’ Winter gasped – the hands beneath were ghostly white, the tortured flesh of her fingers looked like melted candle wax. ‘I was unworthy.’

  ‘Why . . . why didn’t you let go before the fire – before it burned you?’

  ‘I told you before that Yuri saved my life.’ She pulled her gloves back on. ‘I would have done anything for him. He believed so strongly that I was a Key . . . I couldn’t bring myself to share with him my doubts. So, I went through with the ritual and suffered the consequences.’

  Winter’s gaze drifted to the gloves and then to Elena’s tattoo beneath her eye. Life had scarred the woman, not once, but twice.

  ‘Didn’t Yuri warn you?’

  Elena’s expression darkened, Winter’s question hitting a nerve. ‘If he knew about the dangers he would have told me.’ She sighed deeply, looking away at the fountain. ‘I am supposed to instruct you. Not frighten you. I am sorry. It is just . . .’ Another sigh, and she turned back to face Winter, her lips twitching as though she wanted to say something further.

  ‘Nothing,’ she finished. She reached into her coat and pulled out a knotted piece of black cord the size of Winter’s fist. The knot was thick and bulbous, the cord looping in on itself, twisting and snaking into a complex mess. ‘This will help you practise your focus,’ Elena said, tossing the cord to Winter.

  ‘The knot is a puzzle designed to be solved only by one with abilities such as yours.’

  Winter frowned sceptically at the knotted cord. ‘I’m sure anyone with a pair of scissors could solve this puzzle.’

  ‘You miss the point. It is not the cord that is the puzzle but the complex shape it takes, the twists and turns. Hold it in your hands and feel it – not as a solid thing, but as a concept. The knot represents being bound, restricted, locked.’

  ‘Then what do I do?’

  ‘You unlock it. Close your eyes and call to mind the image of a door. It can be any door, but the clearer you can imagine it, the easier a time you’ll have opening it, so picture a door you know well. A door leading to a place that has meaning for you.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘This is not a science. We are dealing with an ancient power here and for it to work you must close off your logical mind. Magic does not obey logic. It does not obey reason. It reacts to feeling, to confidence, to faith. You must have faith in yourself, Winter. Now, do as I say and close your eyes.’

  She obeyed, listening to the water trickle from the fountain. In her mind, a locked door materialised. At first there was nothing special about the door, it was cream coloured with a brass doorknob, but as she concentrated on it something strange began to happen. The door shimmered, transforming into the entrance to Pilgrim’s Lament. Winter could see the knots and whorls in the grey wood, the handles bound with a rusted padlock. She felt the rope twitch in her hands and gasped.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ she murmured.

  The lock clattered to the ground, the image in her mind seemingly taking on its own life. Its own sense of action. Slowly, the doors opened outwards revealing a yawning darkness waiting inside. Suddenly, there was a green spark in the darkness. The spark grew brighter, becoming a monstrous fireball which roared towards her mind’s eye.

  Winter gasped, the rope falling from her hands.

  ‘What is it?’ Elena said, watching her with folded arms.

  ‘Just a little jittery,’ she said. ‘I’ll get it.’ She picked up the cord. It had loosened considerably but was still knotted.

  Elena unfolded her arms and looked at Winter in consternation. Her gaze jumped to the keep behind, as though checking again to make sure they were unobserved.

  ‘You are so very young, Winter,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You know why.’

  Elena waved her hand in frustration. ‘Yes, yes – Blake. You do it for love. I heard you. But these are just words. You know about the risk of fire. However, should the portal open beneath your touch there are things much worse than fire and pain. Worse than even death. I’m talking about the Malfaerie.’ She paused, allowing Winter to consider this threat. ‘I need to know you are doing this for the right reasons.’

  Still a little unnerved by the compassion Elena was showing her, Winter wasn’t immediately sure what to say. Eventually, she gestured for Elena to sit next to her on the bench. ‘Okay, let me tell you then. The Bane talk of the Demori as heartless monsters. I’ve heard it time and time again. All of you so convinced of your crusade. That you’re doing God’s work. But if just one Demori was good, kind and gentle, if one was capable of love, wouldn’t that call into question everything? Your beliefs? The war?’

  Elena’s face had once again resumed its icy countenance, but Winter saw a flicker of hesitancy. It was enough encouragement for her to continue.

  ‘Let me tell you about Blake,’ Winter said. ‘Let me tell you about the man who saved my life. And then my soul.’

  As she spoke, the fountain continued to gurgle and overhead the sky darkened; more clouds were moving in.

  Mother

  There were sounds in the darkness. Crackling, popping sounds. Sounds she hadn’t heard for a very long time but were achingly familiar. Lamara opened her eyes, wincing as the bright orange firelight pricked them. The light was orange. Not green. She felt a relief so deep that it was almost spiritual.

  Home.

  Lifting her head slightly, Lamara saw she was lying in the front half of the dwelling, close to the hearth. Somebody had wrapped her tightly in furs. She tried to sit up and a shooting pain stabbed her abdomen. Gasping, Lamara slumped back down.

  What had happened? What . . . ?

  There were footsteps coming from the bedroom.
Lamara didn’t have the strength to turn around, nor did she want to risk provoking the pain again. Teodore crept into view, clearly trying to be quiet for her benefit. He was dressed as she remembered him, in thick grey furs, his black beard spilling over the top. As always, there were flecks of white stone dust in his beard like snow.

  When he saw she was awake, his handsome kind face split into a warm grin.

  ‘You’ve come back to us, my farseer.’ He knelt so he was close to her, taking her hand in his.

  Lamara tried to answer but all she could do was croak his name.

  Face crinkling in concern, Teodore raised his hands, gesturing for her to be still. ‘Don’t strain yourself. Let me get you some milk. You must be thirsty.’ He returned a few seconds later with a skin of goat’s milk. Tenderly, he raised it to her lips.

  Lamara gulped the creamy liquid down greedily, and would have drunk the skin dry had not Teodore pulled it away.

  ‘Easy. A little at a time.’

  Her throat well lubricated, Lamara tried to speak again. Months of not using her voice made it difficult. She was only able to manage a hoarse whisper. ‘Thank you, Teodore. How I have missed you.’

  Teodore glowed with pleasure. ‘As I have you, my farseer. This past week has been difficult without you. The acolytes have fallen into chaos, the elders —’

  ‘Week?’ Lamara said, her eyes narrowing in confusion. Had she heard him correctly? By her approximation, Lamara had been Elumen Var’s prisoner for nearly a year.

  Seeing her confusion, Teodore nodded. ‘Yes. I understand this may be a shock. Especially with the state I found you in.’

  Lamara contemplated this troubling concept – one year in the Dead Lands was only a week here?

  Teodore cleared his throat awkwardly and continued, ‘Valloch is dead. I killed him. Once he fell, the others retreated, but I was afraid they might return and destroy the portal, so I stayed here. To keep the doorway safe. For your return.’ He paused, looking to the fire as though deliberating over how to phrase his next question.

  ‘Did you . . . speak with the gods? Did you see their faces?’

  Lamara’s mouth tightened into a grimace at the memory of the Malfaerie.

  ‘I did not,’ she whispered, the edge in her voice causing Teodore to frown in concern. ‘The portal took me elsewhere . . . A bad place. Do not ask me about it. Please.’

  ‘Of course, my farseer. Of course. As you wish. We will not speak, but there is —’

  ‘My mother? How is she?’ Lamara asked, frustrated with herself that she hadn’t asked the question sooner. If she’d been gone just a week, then maybe . . . ?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Teodore said, his eyes downcast. ‘The gods took her three days ago. She went quickly.’ he paused, before adding quietly, ‘Eagerly, I believe.’

  Tears welled in Lamara’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. A great sob escaped her lips. Gone. Her mother was gone. Her heart felt like it was bleeding, grief tearing at it like a mad wolf. All for nothing. Her trip to the Dead Lands, the nightmare of Elumen Var – all for nothing!

  An infant’s plaintive wail in the next room rose above the crackling fire. The sound shocked the tears from Lamara’s eyes.

  ‘What? Who is —?’ The questions died on her lips as she remembered the pain at the portal. The contractions. Beneath the furs Teodore had covered her with, Lamara’s hands found the swell of her belly. It was significantly smaller.

  A bashful expression on his face, Teodore got to his feet. ‘When I found you by the portal,’ he began, before stopping, deciding it would be better to show her the source of the sound rather than delay a moment longer. The room seemed to spin around Lamara as she struggled to grasp what had happened. She felt woozy, sick, and . . . excited.

  The wailing grew louder as Teodore returned with a bundle of swaddling in his arms. Carefully, he lowered the bundle down to her.

  ‘When I found you, the birthing had already begun. I admit I was greatly confused by your condition, but,’ he shrugged, ‘such things are not for me to understand.’

  Unable to speak, Lamara brushed aside the fabric folds from the wailing babe’s face. There was a sliver of fear in her heart. Fear at what she might see. Cold blue-white skin, dark lips. A Malfaerie child. She almost cried in gratitude when she saw the baby’s flushed pink complexion, eyes clamped shut, tears spilling down its swollen cheeks. Human tears.

  ‘A baby boy,’ Teodore said, looking down warmly at mother and son.

  ‘A boy,’ Lamara repeated in wonder, cooing to the child. After a minute’s gentle rocking, the child’s cries eased and he opened his eyes, blinking up at Lamara with bright curiosity. He had his father’s eyes, but this did not trouble Lamara as it might have. As it should have. The instant she gazed upon her son’s face she was in love. He was hers and she was his. Forever.

  A name surfaced in her thoughts. An old name. A powerful name. Almost as though the child had spoken it to her himself.

  ‘Ariman,’ Lamara said, staring into her child’s beautiful emerald eyes. ‘His name is Ariman.’

  Blake’s Diary, August 26th

  I finished building the Fatelus in the attic. While the design is much cruder than the device Van Muren showed me – the individual parts scavenged from whatever I could find in the house – it seems to be functioning well. Naturally, I had to adjust the frequency so it does not repel Demori energy, but other than this there were few difficulties with its construction. The warding stone glows brightly in the centre of the rings, and as long as this continues the house will be protected.

  My only concern is the rain. Val Muren’s studies proved that sufficient water could compromise the Fatelus, in some cases cause it to break, so I’ve spent the last hour going over every square inch of the attic’s ceiling searching for cracks and holes. Heavy storms are forecast for the next twenty-four hours so I can’t afford to miss anything. I suspect I shall need the Fatelus before the day is through.

  Winter’s situation grows more perilous. She has the Sight.

  Last night, when we kissed on the beach, I felt something awaken in her. A dormant ability. If only I’d been wise enough to leave her as soon as we returned from the Dead Lands then this wouldn’t have happened. How could I have left her though? After the Bane’s attack, the drop over the cliffs, the journey through the Dead Lands, I had cause to worry. Especially because of what she’d seen in the Dead Lands. There have been mortals who have been driven mad by a mere glimpse of Krypthia and Winter stared directly into one of the light wells. Who knows what visions the light showed her? She is a marvel, though. Her strength and resilience seemingly boundless. As we lay there on the sand there were no questions, no tears – Winter looked into my eyes and kissed me.

  Even now my body trembles at the memory of her lips pressing against mine. Such purity and innocence. Such beautiful pain. I could taste it all. There was the briefest of moments before the hunger took control when I could have recoiled, but I let it pass. I wanted to kiss her, not because of her light, but because of her.

  Thank God I had the strength to break away when I did. Moments longer and it might have been too late. Perhaps it already is too late. My kiss might not have killed her but if it has awakened the Sight as I fear, then death might have been a mercy.

  Nefertem reports that Winter made it home and is sleeping. For the moment she is safe. However, the sky already lightens in the east. The day is coming. It will only be a matter of time before she crosses paths with the Skivers. Once this happens, the rules forbidding them from making physical contact will be broken. They will take her. This is why the Fatelus must work. If I can reach Winter before the Skivers and bring her back to the house, then there’s a chance I can protect her. At least until I devise a solution to this dire predicament. There is a possibility forming in the back of my mind. A dangerous possibility but one I must consider for Winter’s sake.

  The Malfaerie.

  They certainly have the power to intervene but I am afr
aid to speak to them. Not because of what they might do to me, but because of what they might do to Winter should they discover her secret. They have been searching for one of Lamara’s sisters all these centuries. I will not be the one to deliver her into their hands.

  There must be another way!

  Chapter 50

  Winter turned the page and was distressed to find the next one blank. The rest of the notebook was empty as well. No more of Sam’s messy scrawl, no more of Blake’s thoughts to read. She felt cheated and upset – the journal couldn’t finish this way! Of course she knew how Blake’s story ended. She’d been there for it. However, for a moment, Winter had allowed herself to be swept up in the writing and forget she was part of the story. Blake and Winter were characters in a different narrative – one that she didn’t know the outcome of. A story that might have ended happily had the author been able to finish it. With a defeated sigh, she lowered the book to her chest. The beat of her heart reverberated through the binding, its rhythm quickening from the rush of emotion and memory.

  The light falling in through the window had taken on a silvery quality as the afternoon marched towards evening. Soon, it would be time. There was due to be a briefing just before sunset, when Magdalene and Yuri would introduce Winter to the team of Bonnaires that would be accompanying her through the portal. The plan to find Blake would be gone over in more detail – the risks they might face and how they would deal with any hostile Malfaerie encounters. Yuri had reassured her that she would be well protected, but Winter wasn’t an idiot.

  She knew the risks and accepted them. Still, the prospect seemed so unreal. She suspected it would remain so until she was standing before the Black Mirror with her palms against the glass. Then it would seem all too real. Elena’s rope lay in a coiled bundle on the dressing table. It had taken a few hours but she had eventually mastered the technique of unravelling it with her mind. The difficulty she’d had, however, was not encouraging. She didn’t want to end up like Elena with her scarred hands.