The Doorway and the Deep

by K. E. Ormsbee

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll follow you. Just stop.”

  It was only when she rose from the table that she stirred the attention of her dining companions.

  “Lottie?” said Rebel Gem. She looked expectant, though Lottie couldn’t figure out about what.

  “It’s my genga,” Lottie said, motioning to Trouble, who was still tugging hard at her hair. “I’m afraid he’s upset about something. I just need to go calm him down.”

  Rebel Gem nodded. “Of course. Do what you must.”

  As Lottie turned away, she was sure she saw amusement dancing in Rebel Gem’s brown eyes. Perfect. Now the whole Northerly Court knew that the Heir of Fiske was not only a puny little girl, but also that she had absolutely no control over her genga. What a grand introduction to the Northerlies, indeed.

  “Stop!” Lottie said as Trouble tugged her away from the table, out of the winking candlelight and into the shadow of the supping lawn’s boulders. “Stop. I’m following you now, what more do you want?”

  It wasn’t until Trouble led Lottie to a narrow crack between boulders that Lottie dug in her heels.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not going through there. It’s dark out, and I don’t know what’s beyond this courtyard. Anyway, I’m sure Rebel Gem doesn’t want me to wander off at a supper that’s practically in my honor. It would be really rude. Not that you have any concept of what it means to be—ouch!”

  For Trouble had nipped at Lottie’s shoulder. It wasn’t hard enough to pinch through her coat and draw blood, but Lottie had felt it all the same.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m grateful for what you did back at the river, but I’ve had enough of your—your anarchy. You might be my genga, but I’m your human—I mean sprite—I mean, oh, whatever! You’re supposed to obey me, not the other way ’round.”

  Trouble warbled a vehement string of notes, flapping his wings in protest. Then he rushed past Lottie, into the darkness between the boulders. He did not reappear.

  “Trouble?” Lottie called.

  As frustrating as he could be, he’d never yet led Lottie astray. She didn’t always understand Trouble’s behavior, but the last time he’d flown away without her permission, hadn’t he fetched the pack of Barghest? Hadn’t he saved Fife’s life? And though Lottie was angry with him, she was curious, too. Where was Trouble trying to get her to go with such persistence?

  “Oh, wait up!” she called, making her decision. “I’m coming, Trouble, just wait for me!”

  She looked over her shoulder at the bobbing lights on the supping lawn. The crowd was louder than ever, full of ale and late-night spirits. The fiddles screeched with abandon, not nearly so accurate in their melodies as before. From what Lottie could tell, there was no one looking for her, no one chasing after. She reflected, rather self-pityingly, that she might very well be the least popular guest of honor there ever was. As excited as everyone had been to have an Heir of Fiske in their midst, they had quickly forgotten her existence.

  But what were you expecting? Lottie thought. They must have heard the stories by now, of how you’re nothing like Queen Mab and all the Fiskes after her. You can’t command people like she could. You’re only here as part of a deal between the Tailor and Rebel Gem. You’re here because Lyre Dulcet wanted some addersfork to kill the Southerly King. That’s all you’re good for: a trade.

  It was a terrible line of thinking, made worse still by the fact that Lottie was walking blindly through the dark. She waved her arms in front of her, treading the grass with caution, and as she did so her mind filled with more awful thoughts about what could be out here, beyond the light and safety of the supping lawn: giant cobwebs, perhaps, or deep ravines, or beasts far fiercer than even the Barghest.

  “Trouble?” she called. “This isn’t funny. If I fall into a hole in the ground, I’ll—”

  Lottie saw the light then. It had been hidden behind the trees that she was using her hands to feel around and avoid collision. She heard a flutter of wings in her left ear, and Trouble perched on her shoulder. He began singing a cheerful tune.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so pleased with yourself,” Lottie muttered.

  Lottie could see now that the light came from a torch, affixed to a stone wall. No. It wasn’t a wall, but the face of something much larger and rounded at its top, crested by crawling moss.

  It was another cave.

  Lottie stared into its dimly lit mouth. The stone floor had been laid over with paneled wood. Something glittered high across the wall, though Lottie couldn’t make out what in the current light. With some effort, she stood on tip-toe and managed to pull the torch free of its mounting. She held a cupped hand to the flame, something she’d seen done in movies, to shield it from any breeze, but after only a few moments of holding it, Lottie could tell this wasn’t an ordinary torch. Its flame held steady, no matter how badly Lottie’s hand shook.

  She stepped into the cave, the heels of her boots clacking loudly on the floor. She raised the torch to make out the glittering on the walls.

  It was writing. Golden letters spelled out five words, inscribed in such a flourished style that it took Lottie a good minute to make out their meaning. She deciphered the last word first: FISKE.

  Sudden heat filled Lottie, pouring down her throat and straight into her stomach. With a sense of urgency, she worked on the rest of the words until she’d sorted out the full meaning of the inscription:

  MOST REVERED HOUSE OF FISKE

  Trouble pinched his feet into Lottie’s shoulder.

  “What is this?” she said.

  Her words echoed and circled back to her in sibilant bursts. She moved the torch, casting light deeper into the cave. She could see more lights up ahead, lining a narrowed passageway. She walked on. As she did, Trouble resumed his song, though it had taken a turn from happy to bittersweet. Its notes gave Lottie the impression of dusk after a long summer day.

  A draft scuttled through the passageway, prickling the skin on Lottie’s knuckles. She was no longer spurred on by Trouble’s tweets but by her own burning curiosity.

  Most Revered House of Fiske, the gold lettering said. But what Lottie thought, with quickened breaths, was Most Revered House of My Mother? It could be that Eloise Fiske had once walked this same path, had seen these same walls, had breathed this same stale air.

  The passageway eventually opened wide again, this time onto a bright, white-walled room. Twenty torches, enchanted like Lottie’s, burned on the walls. There were tables here, made of dark wood and gilded with gold. On some of the tables sat stacks of books, thick and richly bound. On others sat artifacts, enclosed in glass cases.

  “Artifacts” was the best word Lottie could come up with to describe the contents of the cases, for “museum” was the best way she could think to describe the room as a whole.

  A row of statues stood along one of the walls, their subjects in varying degrees of glory and proclamation. At their center, a woman most regal held an outstretched scepter toward the room and all its contents. Her body was made of yellowed marble. Lottie knew who she was without looking at the inscription. This was Queen Mab, the first of the Fiskes. To her left and right stood other sprites, all crowned and majestic—two women and two men with first names Lottie didn’t recognize but a surname that was her own.

  She reached out her hand to one of the statues, a man with a buttoned shirt and a flowing cape. His mouth was fashioned in a jovial laugh, and though Lottie knew his eyes were dead marble, they looked alive in this light. His sculptor had carved the veins of his wrists so deftly that Lottie could’ve sworn she saw one pulse, ever so briefly, with marble lifeblood.

  FORD FISKE, KING OF SPRITES, read the inscription. Was he a distant grandfather? she wondered. Great-great-great-great-great-uncle? And though he was laughing now and would be for all eternity, had he been a happy sprite in life?

  Lottie couldn’t say how long she spent studying the faces of Fiskes long dead and here immortalized. She might have gone
on for hours more had Trouble not peeped loudly from the center of the room, where he’d settled atop one of the glass cases. He peeped again, signaling Lottie to join him.

  Reluctantly, Lottie left the company of the statues and crossed to the table. Inside the glass case on which Trouble had perched sat a black cushion, and resting on that cushion was a ring. It was small, fashioned for a very thin finger, and carved entirely of blue stone. Its crest was a thin, flat diamond shape, cut to severe points, and upon this diamond rose a carving that resembled a flowering bud.

  “Beautiful,” Lottie whispered. Then, “It’s so blue.”

  Trouble produced one of his annoyed tweets. He pecked his beak at the glass, drawing Lottie’s attention to a metal fixture at the case’s front: a keyhole.

  “What is it?” she asked. “I’m not going to break it open and steal the ring, if that’s what you’re after.”

  Trouble fluttered his wings, clearly exasperated. He hopped from the case to the edge of the table and pecked at Lottie’s coat, where her hand rested in her pocket.

  And Lottie realized.

  She dug her fingers deeper into the pocket and felt the cold, solid form of a key—the Northerly key Trouble had delivered to her days ago in Wisp Territory.

  A giddy suspicion overcame Lottie. She tugged out the key.

  Trouble was hopping about frantically now, his wings a blur.

  It can’t possibly be, thought Lottie. It’s too strange.

  But the suspicion dug in deeper, relentless.

  She lined the key’s grooves up with the keyhole. It was the right sort of key for this sort of slot, but that didn’t necessarily mean . . .

  The key slid into place without a hint of resistance. Lottie turned it, and there was a satisfying click. When Lottie tugged the key back, the case opened as easily as if she had turned a doorknob. Glassy-eyed, Lottie reached in and picked up the ring. It was deliciously cool to the touch and so small, yet so present in her palm.

  She held it up to the torchlight, her heart burning with delight.

  So beautiful, she thought again. And so very blue.

  She reached out to touch the carved flower bud, then gasped at a sharp prick of pain in her forefinger. A single bead of blood appeared on the surface of her skin. She’d been cut by one of the harsh points of the diamond setting.

  “Careful,” said a voice at her back. “That’s just as much weapon as ring.”

  Lottie whirled around.

  Rebel Gem stood at the entrance of Lottie’s newfound museum, eyes alight not with anger, but interest.

  “It becomes you,” she said, nodding to the ring.

  “I didn’t—” Lottie began. “I wasn’t going to steal it.”

  “Steal it?” Rebel Gem crossed her arms in a way that made her look very young. Then she drew closer to Lottie. “You couldn’t steal it if you tried. It’s yours by right.”

  Lottie frowned. “Just because I’m a Fiske can’t mean all this is mine. I mean, surely not. Doesn’t it belong to the Northerlies more than me? Aren’t you the ones who brought all this here? Who still look after it?”

  “No,” said Rebel Gem. “That was all the doing of Ford Fiske. That one there.” She pointed to the statue Lottie had been most fascinated by earlier. “He thought his family should have a pretty little shrine. They say he carved this place out with his bare hands, and he employed magic from off our shores to keep everything within the cave protected.”

  “He must not have done a good job,” said Lottie, “seeing how I practically broke in.”

  “Silly,” said Rebel Gem. “The enchantment doesn’t work on Fiskes. That’s what I mean: this place was made by Fiskes, so Fiskes have a right to it. I know we Northerlies make a big fuss over your name, but, honestly, I’m not sure there are many who particularly like this cave. They thought it a bit showy, even when it was first carved.”

  Lottie turned over the ring in her hand, this time careful of its sharp edges. Something new caught her eye. There was something etched inside the band. It took her a moment to find the beginning of the inscription, but when she did, her heart stuttered at the sight of names she knew as well as her own. To Eloise, it read. All my heart, Bertram.

  Lottie repeated the words in her mind, drawing them deep into her memory, never to let them go.

  “This was my mom’s?”

  “Didn’t you know?” asked Rebel Gem. “I thought someone must’ve already told you about it. And I see you have the key.”

  Lottie was still staring at the ring, afraid it might vanish should she take her eyes off it. “I’ve never touched anything that belonged to them. All I had growing up was a photograph.”

  “Then you should keep it,” said Rebel Gem, without hesitation. “No, don’t look at me that way, I mean it. What good will the ring do us, locked up in this stuffy old cave? Most sprites would be too frightened to touch it, otherworldly as it is. And, anyway, no one but a Fiske is supposed to touch it. That’s what Eloise said. She hid the key away after your father’s passing, and she only let one other pair of eyes see where. So the story goes.”

  “What pair of eyes?”

  Rebel Gem nodded to Trouble, who was happily perched on the edge of the table.

  “Oh.” Lottie blinked with sudden understanding. “All this time, I thought someone had given the key to Trouble. But it was just him all along.”

  “Clearly he thought it was time you had it,” said Rebel Gem.

  “You said other sprites would be afraid to touch it. Why?”

  “It’s made of—oh, what do you call it?” Rebel Gem pointed to the engraving bolted beneath the case. “There. Lapis . . . lazuli?”

  “What’s so special about lapis lazuli?” Unlike Rebel Gem, Lottie pronounced the words correctly.

  “It exists in your world, but not here in Limn. The ring is human-carved, too. A great rarity. Many sprites hold to the superstition that otherworldly items are cursed. Dear Lottie, someone really ought to sit you down and catch you up on things. It’s as if you know nothing at all about your parents.”

  “I don’t,” Lottie said softly.

  “Well, we’ll have to do something about that, starting with that ring. Take it. I insist. Take it as a sign of goodwill between the Northerly Court and the Heir of Fiske, hmmm?”

  Rebel Gem patted Lottie’s back just a little too forcefully and drew out her last words a little too long.

  “I’m a teeny bit tipsy,” Rebel Gem confided. “But I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry, I won’t change my mind and apprehend you for thievery come morning. Now, here.”

  Rebel Gem came closer, and as she did she produced a small, black silk handkerchief from the inner folds of her robe. With it, she plucked the ring from Lottie’s fingers, gave it a swift cleaning, and then wrapped it carefully inside the cloth, folding it over twice, then three times.

  “Best not to put that in your pocket unprotected. As I said, it’s quite sharp. Northerly silk is the strongest fabric on Albion Isle. It will keep that ring from cutting through your clothes.”

  “Why is it so sharp?” Lottie asked.

  She didn’t want to find fault with anything her father had given to her mother, but she had to admit the design seemed rather dangerous for a piece of jewelry.

  “Your father designed it that way,” said Rebel Gem. “A small weapon—a last resort, as it were, should your mother need it. She passed through many dangers in such a short life.”

  Lottie’s chest wrenched with sudden pain. She took the tiny silk bundle from Rebel Gem and placed the ring in her pocket. She didn’t know if Rebel Gem was telling the full truth, but now that Lottie had found the ring, she wouldn’t dare let it go, even if Rebel Gem showed up at her bedside the next day with a legion of Northerly soldiers, demanding its return.

  “What are all these other things?” Lottie said, motioning to the glass cases. One contained a bronze crown, another a rusting chalice, and yet another a book so fragile it looked liable to fall apart s
hould Lottie so much as blink in its direction.

  “All relics,” said Rebel Gem. “Tributes to the House of Fiske, stored here for safekeeping. Can’t say that any of them are all that interesting. After all, they’re just objects. They can’t bring back the Fiskes or their keen.”

  Lottie turned around slowly. “You know I don’t have the keen you’re after, don’t you?”

  “The keen I’m after?” Rebel Gem repeated.

  “Everyone else seems to be after it,” said Lottie. “But you should know, I can’t command people like the old Fiskes could. I can only heal them.”

  “You can only?”

  Lottie wondered if Rebel Gem’s tipsiness was affecting her hearing.

  “I’ve heard all about your keen, Lottie Fiske,” said Rebel Gem. “There’s nothing only about it. A healing keen is a very precious thing. It’s a big responsibility, too. I should know.”

  “You said you were the Healer of the Wolds,” Lottie recalled.

  “That’s one of my names, yes.”

  “Then you’re an actual healer? Like Mr. Wilfer? He told me there aren’t many of you left.”

  “He’s right. I’m one of only three Northerly healers, and the other two don’t much like to be disturbed, selfish duffers. They only come out to make silly pronouncements about addersfork.”

  “You don’t believe them?” said Lottie. “You don’t think the addersfork will work?”

  “It might. I sincerely hope it does. Personally, I think the wisps would make better use of their time by strengthening what remains of their guard rather than foraging for lethal plants. But Lyre is fueled by a panic that his people will soon be extinct, and panicked rulers don’t make good decisions.”

  “But you’ll do it now, won’t you?” said Lottie. “You’ll hold up your end of the deal and get the addersfork for them, now that I’m here?”

  “Of course. Though the sprite I’d entrusted with that duty was Dorian Ingle.”

  Lottie blinked. “What?”

  “He’s one of the few sprites brave enough to have ventured into the Wilders, and one of fewer still to know where the addersfork grows.”