Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “You’re obstructing my right of way. Disperse.” Lawrence was trembling, too angry to admit he was powerless. Glancing around, he saw scarlet-haired Peta Lyon and her sisters, the Tullivers with their sea-serpent masks . . . but no sign of Auberon Fox. He wouldn’t associate himself with this undignified display.

  Comyn raised his hands. “Long before mankind appeared, Aetherials held dominion over all the realms. There were no Gates, no barriers.”

  The bastard was making a speech. Jaw tight, Lawrence had no choice but to let him finish. “We call those times to return. The Gates have severed us from the flow of life and power! Our young have missed their initiations. They have lost their festivals and their connection to the Spiral, lost their right to taste their true nature. This is a crisis that will turn to utter disaster unless the Great Gates are reopened. We assert our right to pass freely among all the realms without hindrance!”

  All the Vaethyr breathed in soft agreement, a sound far eerier than applause. A cool female voice added, “Some Aelyr despise the Vaethyr and might want to keep us from the Spiral out of sheer spite. Is that the way you feel, Lawrence?” It was Peta Lyon who spoke, a slender chalk-faced artist who wore blood red, a shade darker than her hair.

  Lawrence could barely find his voice. “Have I not explained a dozen times that I am protecting you all from danger?”

  “And we say to hell with the danger!” growled Comyn. “We’ll arm ourselves and march in and deal with it. What danger is a match for us?”

  “Idiots,” said Lawrence, but the word was drowned by the cheers of Comyn’s followers.

  “Our point is made,” said Comyn. “Take a valium, Wilder. We’re leaving.”

  He grinned as he shouldered past, his sheepdog trotting with him. The protestors streamed away towards the village, bowing to Lawrence—respectfully, with no hint of mockery—as they passed.

  Moments after they’d gone, Lawrence was speeding up the long drive. He abandoned the car in front of the house, and ran the rest of the way through woodland and undergrowth until he reached Freya’s Crown. Breathing hard he circled the rocks, one hand hovering inches from the surface as he clambered around the rear of the mound, then came down into the hollow at the front. The grass was spongy under the soles of his shoes.

  Someone had been here. A cigarette paper; a bottle top; a little wreath of twigs that hadn’t woven itself by accident. He pocketed the litter and shook the twigs apart. Not Comyn; the dysir would ward off outsiders. Someone from his own family, then, which meant Jon or Lucas. He felt a trace of annoyance, a blip in the flat line of his emotions. Boys, playing. No one would dare to interfere with his Gates.

  He remembered his earliest awareness of the entity that had always haunted him; a face or a cloud shadow, always there in the corner of his eye. No bigger than a cat at the beginning. Then—after Albin had taken his heart and soul hostage—it had begun its monstrous expansion. The gun kicked in his hand . . . the shadow giant broke its bonds . . . and he knew then that what he had summoned was Brawth, the ice giant that would consume his race.

  Locking the Great Gates was all that had stopped it. It kept the Otherworld safe as well as Earth because, like a dam, it stopped the dark current in its tracks. But even those who claimed to believe him did not understand, because only he could truly feel it . . .

  Lawrence shut his eyes. He felt his chest constricting, breath rapid. His hand hovered closer to the stone but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He braced himself for the onslaught; the face from the Abyss, the rushing darkness, the Gates slamming and shattering and all the realms crashing one into another . . .

  His palm met rock.

  He felt the surface, chill and gritty under his fingertips. He held his breath—

  Nothing.

  No visions, no terror. No silvery runes, no rumbling in the earth as the Gates strained to slide open. All he felt under his hand was cold, impenetrable stone.

  Dead.

  The Great Gates were dead.

  Even the lych-light inside him, the flame of the Gatekeeper, no longer yearned towards the stone. He’d repressed it for too long. It had burned away to ash. All the Gates to the inner realms stood like dead shells one inside the other. Fossils.

  Lawrence recoiled.

  Sudden, complete terror overwhelmed him. What had happened? Was it his fault, his failing that had killed the Gates? Was it permanent? Had the lych-light been confiscated, or had his fear destroyed it?

  In the next breath he felt wild relief. It was so strong he almost fell. If he simply could not open the Gates, then it all went away, the guilt, the responsibility, the danger to his sons—

  No, that was delusion. Black panic surged over him again, bringing him to his knees. Looking up he saw a young Aetherial woman standing in front of him. Slim as a willow with long rippling hair, she was a ghost, a churchyard angel, pointing a crumbling stone finger straight at him. Her eyes were blank orbs without pupils. When she spoke the whisper pierced his brain, “We warned you it would be taken away from you.”

  He cried out. He opened his eyes but she was gone, leaving him alone with his desolate knowledge.

  The loss of his lych-power was the loss of everything. While he had the authority to keep the Gates closed, he was in control. But without the power to open or close, he had nothing. No mandate from the Spiral Court. No status. Nothing.

  His panic, having reached its peak, began to subside. Lawrence climbed shakily to his feet and made a pact with himself; no one must know he’d lost his power. It would be the end of everything. He must behave as if nothing had changed. No one must ever know.

  Three years.

  That was how long Sam had served when his parole was granted. Even without the warped time and illusions of Dumannios, it had felt like the full five.

  He stepped out of the prison gates and breathed fresh September air. This was strange. Almost a letdown. He’d always had release to look forward to; now there was nothing. His possessions were few, and the only one that mattered was the photograph that Rosie had given him. He began to walk towards a bus stop.

  A blue Volkswagen Golf was parked a few yards away. He thought nothing of it, until Rosie suddenly leaned out and waved.

  “Are you getting in, or what?”

  As Rosie drove she was powerfully aware of Sam in the seat next to her. His physical presence, his strength, the faint spicy warmth of his body that seemed to bypass her higher reasoning entirely. However, she could also smell the prison on him. She sat tense, deeply uncomfortable and not knowing what to say. She’d never told him about the Jon-and-Sapphire incident in April . . . all she’d seen was a kiss, but who knew what storm would be unleashed if she mentioned it? At the same time, she felt hideously guilty for keeping it from Sam, and that set her even more on edge.

  “You’re not scared of me, are you?” he asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So what’s with the shiny white knuckles?”

  She tried to relax her hands on the wheel, annoyed that she couldn’t seem to hide anything from him. “This feels weird, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, having a convicted killer fresh out of prison all alone with you in the middle of nowhere—I’d be nervous, too. Sorry. I was going to catch a bus, didn’t expect you to be there. Don’t be uncomfortable. It’s only me, Rosie. All I’m interested in is getting home.”

  “I know,” she said through her teeth. “I am not nervous. Will you please shut up?”

  She heard him exhale. For a time he stared through the windshield. It wasn’t fear she felt but unease—for all the reasons he’d named—and there was a well of other emotions that she couldn’t begin to untangle. It was impossible even to tell him a perfectly simple piece of news.

  He said, “Don’t know whether going to Stonegate is a good idea. My father won’t want me. The stepmother definitely won’t. In fact, if you could drop me in the nearest city . . .”

  “Then where would you go?”

/>   “I dunno. I’d find something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Isn’t it a condition of parole to tell them where you’re living?”

  “Aren’t you the expert?” he retorted.

  “Well, I’m not abandoning you in a strange city. Of course Lawrence will want to see you.”

  “It’s a shame you and I don’t get on better,” he said in a low voice. “You might have let me sleep on your sofa.”

  She gave him a sideways frown.

  “ ’Sall right, I know that’s never going to happen,” he sighed. “I’ll have to face the music. If it goes badly, I know where the door is.”

  “It will be all right, Sam. And there’ll be people to help you, won’t there? Counselors, parole officers?”

  “Fuck that,” he said flatly. She glanced sideways and saw his eyes gleaming narrowly with anger. “I’m Aetherial. Things happened to me in that place that they couldn’t conceive of. What the hell do they think they can do for me? I don’t need rehabilitating! Sod their help!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rosie. “That sounded really patronizing. I didn’t mean to. I’m just worried about you.”

  “Wow,” Sam said quietly. “Are you?”

  “Yes, of course. Why d’you think I kept coming to see you? I hated leaving you in that place. Every time I left, I wished I could take you home with me.” She felt herself turning hot with the intimacy of the confession. “I don’t mean—I just meant—”

  “I know.” There was a rueful smile in his voice. “That’s sweet of you, Foxy, but I don’t need you to worry about me. Last thing I ever wanted from you was sympathy. I’m a grown-up. Hey, I’ll miss our assignations. You got a last secret report for me? Anything I need to know before I get home?”

  She swallowed, caught on the impossible edge of what she should and shouldn’t say. “Your father seems worried about his business . . .”

  “Don’t tell me anything else,” he said, letting her off the hook. “I know it’s not fair on you. I can find out for myself now.”

  “Fine,” she said, breathing out.

  The landscape around them was dark and warped. She had never known it to take so long to pass out of Dumannios before. It was as if Sam brought the second realm with him, like a cloak. Sulfur-yellow fires rolled across the landscape around them, and she saw burning cars and armies of apelike demons.

  “Just keep going,” said Sam. “They’re illusions. We’ll be out soon.”

  “Feels like we’re going deeper in,” she said. Red fires glowered in her rearview mirror. On the road ahead a gargoyle crouched, pointed wingtips curving high above its head.

  “Keep going. It’s not real.”

  “You pay for the damage if it’s as solid as it looks!”

  The creature stayed put. An instant before she hit it, Rosie closed her eyes. The car passed through thin air.

  Then with a horrific thump, the thing landed on her hood and sprawled there.

  “Jesus!” she shouted, narrowly keeping control of the car.

  It was real. She saw every detail of its face leering through the windshield, every scale and tendril. Its breath clouded the glass. Rosie braked. She started as it brought a fist down hard on the glass. Its claws scrabbled and squeaked, trying to reach her. Surely the glass would shatter. The car jerked to a halt and the creature rested there, panting.

  Sam started to open the passenger door.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “No, you’re right,” he said, slamming and locking it. “I get out and kill it, it turns into a human, the police come and this time they take me and throw away the key. Just drive!”

  Holding her breath, Rosie slammed into gear and put her foot down. The car skidded, showering gravel as it pulled away. There was a clear slot below the fog of its breath and she focused on that, saw the bend in the road—

  She flung the steering wheel hard over. The car slewed. The beast lost its grip and went tumbling off into a ditch.

  Rosie steadied her speed, clenched her teeth and drove on. Her heart was racing but she willed it to slow down, willed herself calm.

  “Brilliant,” exclaimed Sam, glancing behind. “That was a great bit of driving, Rosie.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “Dumannios, realm of illusions? That was one realistic illusion.”

  “You have to give it that,” he said. “Great special effects.”

  Ten long minutes later, the world returned to normal. The change felt nonchalant, as if nothing had happened. Tarmac, hedges, grass, road signs. Late-summer sunlight fell beautifully over the landscape. “Told you,” said Sam.

  A couple of hours later they reached Cloudcroft unscathed. He hadn’t tried to pounce on her; he’d been as good as gold; she’d survived. As she turned into the drive of Stonegate Manor, Sam said, “You can drop me here, okay?”

  She stopped the car. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’ll walk up. It’ll give me a few minutes to collect my thoughts.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He turned to look at her. “Thanks for everything, Rosie,” he said gently.

  “That’s all right.” He always embarrassed her when he was sincere. The sniping and sarcasm were much easier to parry.

  Hesitantly he reached out and took her hand where it lay curved on her thigh. His forefinger pressed into her palm and the feeling sent a tentacle of warmth through her core. “I’m crap at sounding like I mean it, but I do. You kept me alive in that place. You saved my life. It meant everything to me.”

  Rosie couldn’t look at him. She looked at his hand in hers. She couldn’t clasp it in return, but she didn’t try to pull away, either. “Thanks.”

  “Er, Rosie, when I’ve got my life into some semblance of order, d’you think we could maybe see each other sometime?”

  Her breath came out somewhere between a gulp and a sob. “No, no I don’t think we can.”

  His touch slackened. His face and body turned dull with resignation. “Thought we were getting on quite well. I knew in my heart you were just being kind, but I hoped—no, you wouldn’t touch soiled goods like me with a ten-foot pole and why would you?”

  “It’s not that,” she said hurriedly. “I’m getting married.”

  “You’re what?” He released her hand and stared at her. “Who to?”

  “Alastair, of course. The one I’ve been seeing for three years, as you know perfectly well.”

  “What? You can’t marry a fat ginger geek!”

  “He’s not fat, and he’s not ginger!” Rosie cried.

  “He’s not Aetherial, either.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding vigorously. “That’s the idea. I’ve had enough of Aetherial men.”

  Sam caught her gaze and she couldn’t look away. His eyes, shining with pain, pinned her down and searched her. “After Jon and me?” he said.

  She mentally kicked herself for saying it. “It’s nothing to do with him, or you.”

  “Oh, god, Rosie, please don’t do it.” The shine of his eyes grew brighter. He looked away from her, blinking.

  “It’s all arranged,” she said. “It’s happening next week. I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know how to tell you. But life went on while you were away.”

  “I knew you were keeping something quiet,” he said hoarsely. He opened his door, hesitated. “Do you love him?”

  “He’s right for me.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “I thought I loved Jon. I was wrong. I don’t know what love is. Once I’ve worked out what the question means, I might be able to answer.”

  He shook his head and said bitterly, “Then what the hell are you doing this for?”

  “Because I want a normal happy life,” she said, staring ahead through the windshield.

  “And I want to be Pope! Bloody hell, Rosie, please.”

  She couldn’t speak. After a brief, horrible pause he said, “I thought the
re was more to you than this, sweetheart. Now I look at you and see someone who’s dead inside. Matthew’s put you up to it, hasn’t he?”

  “No. I can decide how to run my life without—”

  “I know my father’s a bastard, but he’s nowhere near as poisonous as your brother with his phoney Sir Galahad act.”

  Rosie bit her lip until she tasted metal. “Cheap insults not helping, Sam. I thought you’d take it better than this.”

  “There’s nothing to take, because it’s not about me. I know you can’t stand me, let alone love me. I live with that every sodding day. It’s about watching you make a horrible mistake.”

  Sam swung out of the car, hauled his bag off the backseat. He looked at her, tried to say something, gave up and turned away from her in a kind of disgust. Tasting blood, she watched him walk away.

  There were smears of reddish slime from the Dumannios creature dried onto the windshield. She pressed the wipers to clear it. The soapy rush of fluid turned Sam’s retreating figure into a slim, wavering shadow.

  11

  Sleepwalking

  Sam dropped his bag and stood looking around the great hall; first time he’d seen it for three years. The scent of flowers and incense couldn’t mask its underlying mustiness. No one came to meet him, except the creeping shadow forms of the dysir.

  He’d been dreading this moment. Every sound and sensation came back. There was the spot where the man had died . . . he half-expected to see bloodstains and crime-scene tape. Sapphire had bought new rugs. Their jewel-fresh glimmer was an accusation, worse than the sight of an old blood-rusty carpet would have been.

  He hadn’t expected to feel anything but he did. Cold inside and slightly sick. “Hello? Anyone home?”

  The study door opened. His father stood there, dark and angular.

  Then there came light footsteps on the gallery, and Sapphire appeared at the top of the stairs in a kingfisher-blue kimono. Lawrence-and-Sapphire formed a quite different entity to Lawrence on his own. They both halted and stared as if they’d turned to wax.

  “You knew I was coming home today, right?”

  He sensed their unease as they watched him, wondering what it meant to have this stranger in their home, a released prisoner, as alien as a soldier home from war. Sam felt drained, empty, a grey rag.