by Greg Keyes
In the midst of all of that stood a tall man with red hair and green eyes. He had on pajama bottoms but no top, and Errol could see he was tattooed with what appeared to be stylized animals, stars, and moons.
The fellow’s head jerked toward the open door, and his eyes widened when he saw the three of them.
He shouted something Errol didn’t understand, but he felt a sort of crackle, like electricity.
“What’s he saying?”
“Here,” Aster said, touching him at the base of his head.
“Veidi.”
“. . . destroy you and your hellish golem, as well!” the man finished. It was weird—he could hear that the words weren’t English, but they made sense now.
“Don’t come into the room unless I tell you,” Aster said, stepping through. “He can hurt you there.”
“Come no closer, apparition!” the man shouted, hoarsely, brandishing a brown whisky bottle. Errol now noticed something else about him; he was staggering drunk. He also finally recognized him.
“Calm down,” Aster said. “You know me.”
His brows furrowed. “Nevese?” He muttered. “But no, you are very like, but too young—”
“I am your daughter, Aster,” she said.
He stopped pacing and stared at her.
“You lie,” he said. “Aster is but nine years of age.”
“The wall, Dad,” she said. “Look at your wall.”
Errol followed the line of her finger, just as the red-haired man did.
He would have noticed the wall first, if it hadn’t been for the crazy man. It had seven large pictures on it, all of Aster. The first had been taken probably about the time she had started at his school. She looked about nine. In the next she was about a year older, a year older in the next, and so on. Underneath the pictures were numbers, painted in big bold strokes; 4621, 4622, 4623, 4624, 4625, 4626, 4627 and 4628. And above all of this, painted in even larger characters, was written, “Kostye Dvesene: You can’t remember anything since 4621.”
Lots more was written there, too, whole paragraphs, mostly too small to read from where Errol stood.
The man dropped the brown bottle he was carrying.
“By all that is and can never be,” he murmured. “What has happened? Time, the years . . . This is all written in my own hand. I don’t remember . . .” He looked back at Aster. “How long? How long before I forget again?”
“If I stay here with you,” she said, “hours maybe. But if I leave for a quarter of an hour, you won’t know me when I get back.”
“How many times have we had this conversation?”
“Hundreds,” she said.
“Oh, my daughter, how did this happen to me?”
“I don’t know,” Aster said.
“A curse,” he muttered. “A curse, but from whom? Who found us?”
“We don’t know that either,” she said. “But Dad, listen—I need you to release the spirits that you summoned to attack the house. The birds.”
He took a rather large drink from the bottle. “Yes, I did that,” he said. “I’m trapped in this room—this and the next, anyway. Did you know that? I woke, and found myself imprisoned here. I summoned help—”
“Well, if you don’t send them away they will kill me,” Aster said.
Aster’s father’s look became suspicious, and he took another drink.
“How can I be sure?” he asked. “This could all be some elaborate enchantment. Who trapped me here? Who is powerful enough to have done that?”
“You did it yourself, Father, because you feared what would happen if you got out.”
“Myself?”
“It’s on the wall!” she snapped. “Read it!”
Aster’s father looked from her to the wall, and then something inside of him seemed to collapse. He waved his hand and muttered something. The house stopped shuddering.
“Thank you, Father,” Aster sighed.
“Do I make such summonings often?” he asked.
“You’ve called many things to this room,” she said. “Spirits you hoped could cure you, the imp that brings your liquor—”
“And things intended to kill you,” he finished.
“Because you don’t know who I am,” she said. “Because you find yourself trapped.”
His eyes moistened. “Aster, I’m so sorry. For everything, all of it . . .”
“Yes,” she said, softly. “You’ve said that before.” She shrugged. “None of the earlier spirits ever escaped this room,” she said. “And in time they returned to their proper places. But twice now you summoned something from outside of the room, outside of the house itself. You’ve never done that before. How did you do it?”
“I—I don’t remember.”
She nodded. “It’s getting worse. You’re getting stronger somehow. It may be too late.”
“Too late for what?” he asked.
Her face hardened. “I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ve got things to do.”
“No,” he said. “No, Streya, I don’t want to forget you again.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” she said. “You’ll remember me. You’ll just remember me as being nine.”
“But you’re not,” he said. “You’re a woman.” His gaze finally shot past her and fastened on Errol. “What is that?”
“A—he’s a helper.”
“A helper?” A look of fear came over his face, as he noticed Veronica. “Two of the three? The half-dead and the nov? Streya, what are you planning?”
“I’ll do what I must, Father,” she replied.
“Don’t.” Again he looked at Errol and thrust his index finger toward him. “You there. Don’t let her go through with this. She has no idea—”
“I have no choice,” Aster said. “I waited years for the first companion. Now I have the second.”
“You aren’t ready!” her father shouted.
“I’ll have to be,” Aster said. “And in a few minutes you’ll forget we had this conversation, and you won’t be worried. I’m going. I’ll be back. And I love you.”
He looked for a moment like he was going to continue the argument, but then he sighed. “You should hate me,” he said.
“I do hate you a little,” Aster said. “But the love is more.”
“Mr. Kostyena!”
It was Ms. Fincher, pushing her way into the room. Mr. Watkins was just behind her. She took everything in, the smell, the dozens of alcohol bottles.
“This is honestly worse than anything I imagined,” she said.
“Wow,” Mr. Watkins said. He gave Errol a startled glance, but his gaze quickly returned to Aster’s father.
“Streya?”
“Father, this is Ms. Fincher—the school counselor—and my teacher Mr. Watkins.”
“We’ve met before,” Ms. Fincher said. “Under better circumstances, I must say.”
“Have we?” he muttered. “What are you here for?”
“Listen,” Mr. Watkins said, pushing forward. “We’re worried about Aster’s welfare, that’s all.”
Her father’s brow lowered, and he somehow grew steadier. He set the bottle down.
“Are you?” he muttered. “Or have you come to take her from me?” He took a step forward. “Whole kingdoms have I fought and cursed to keep my Streya safe, to keep us together. Righteous and terrible wrong have I worked. I have given up all but her—and she, I promise you, I shall never give up.”
“Mr. Kostyena, you need help,” Ms. Fincher said. “Anyone can see that. We’re not here to hurt anyone, but Aster can’t live like this—and neither can you.”
Aster’s father nodded, and then snapped his finger. Ms. Fincher and Mr. Watkins went all wavery and then turned into black clouds of smoke. The smoke coiled and twirled into the empty whisky bottle. Then Aster’s dad shoved a cork in it.
“Well, that’s one solution,” Aster murmured. “You can restore them, I presume.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Fine. I guess for the ti
me being . . .” She chewed at her lip.
“Are you nuts?” Errol said. “What did he just do to them?”
“They’re fine,” Aster said.
“If you say so,” Errol said. “But you can’t just kidnap two teachers. Surely they told someone they were coming by here.”
“Yes,” Aster said. “I need a Charm to hide her car.”
“The big purple book in the library,” her father said. “Under ‘diverse obscurements’.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Aster said. “Errol, Veronica, let’s go.”
“I won’t tell you anything else you need to know!” he shouted after her. “I won’t help you do this thing!”
“Okay,” she said.
Well, that was pretty intense,” Errol said when Aster came back in from hiding the car.
They sat in the kitchen, a neat little room with windows above the sink. The table was enameled on top, a sort of burnt orange color. Aster had poured herself some water from a stoneware pitcher and made a peanut butter sandwich.
“I guess it was,” Aster said.
“How long has your dad been like that?” he asked.
“Since we got here,” Aster said. “But he used to be better. He could remember for longer. As long as I stayed with him, almost. So we could go to parent-teacher conferences, shopping, that sort of thing. But now—sometimes he forgets in seconds. And it’s getting worse.”
“Have you thought about maybe seeing a doctor?” Errol said.
She shook her head. “Not at all. It isn’t a medical problem. It’s a curse.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m not expert, but it looks like your dad drinks—uh,—kind of a lot. That can affect memory, can’t it?”
“I don’t suppose it helps,” Aster replied. “But that’s not his problem.”
“Then what is?”
“Do I eat?” Veronica asked, suddenly.
Aster tilted her head. “Veronica,” she said, “I’m not sure. Technically you’re still dead—”
“Whoa,” Errol interrupted. “I thought you said the water of life would bring her back to life.”
“It’s brought her one step back,” Aster said. “She has life—she has her soul—but not health.”
“Like me,” he said.
“Sort of. Like you, she also needs the water of health.”
Errol got it then. “So does your dad.”
Aster wagged a finger at Errol. “You’re very clever, Errol.”
The way she said it didn’t make him feel remotely clever, but he pushed on.
“So this quest we’re on—it’s about healing your dad.”
“We’re on a quest?” Veronica asked. She had pulled the knife out of the peanut butter and was sniffing at it.
“I used to like this,” she said. She licked at it experimentally, and made a face.
“I don’t think I eat,” she said.
“Probably not,” Aster agreed.
“What about Mr. Watkins and Ms. Fincher?” Errol said.
Aster spread her hands. “If I let them go now, we’re done. Dad goes to a hospital, you stay in a coma, and Veronica—well, I’m not sure what happens to Veronica.”
“I’m not breathing,” Veronica noticed.
“That will get you noticed, sooner or later,” Aster said.
“I usually get noticed sooner, don’t I Errol?” Veronica leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Okay, Veronica, you’re freaking me out,” Errol said. “Really bad.”
“You’re a big talking puppet,” Veronica said. “How do you think I feel? And you were all over me . . .”
“That wasn’t my fault,” he said. “That was magic or something. Like a spell.”
“That much is true,” Aster said. “Few men—or boys—can resist a nov.”
“Is that what I am?” Veronica asked.
“Where I’m from that’s what we call you, yes. The ghost of a girl who died a virgin—a nov.”
“Well,” Veronica said. “I told ya’ll I was a good girl.”
Errol found himself staring at her again and looked away. Veronica was different—different from what she had been back in the in-between-place. She even looked different. Now that her hair was dry it was a golden blonde, but it was much more than that. Now he could see her nose was a little crooked and her eyes were a bit too far apart. She wasn’t the most perfectly beautiful woman he had ever seen anymore. And she was starting to act and talk more and more like a semi-normal person. But when he looked at her, he still remembered how he felt, how he had loved her, wanted her, more than anyone or anything. He felt he had been robbed of something, just like when Lisa dumped him. He also felt sort of dirty about the whole thing.
And of course, he had seen her naked and she had tried to murder him.
All in all, he hadn’t thought he could be any more confused, and yet here he was.
“So,” Veronica said. “We’re on a quest. What next?”
“Now,” Aster replied, “we need a giant.”
“You mean like a circus giant?” Errol asked.
“No,” Aster replied. “I mean like a bona-fide giant.”
Errol digested that for a moment.
“We’re not going to find one of those around here, are we?”
FIVE
THE CREEK MAN AND THE SHERIFF
Dusk paused her horse Drake at the stream. He stamped once and then bent to drink. From the corner of her eye, she saw the water begin to collect, to bulge up.
“Do not dare,” she said. Her tone was more confident than she; she had never done battle with a vadras, not this near the Pale, where her power was diminished. The vadras fed on death and decay, and there was plenty of that in the dark world beyond the Kingdoms, or so she had heard. It was said to be a world made of death.
The vadras wondered, too. He didn’t move toward her, but he was still gathering himself.
“Who are you, who invades my demesne?” the vadras asked.
“I am one who goes where she will,” Dusk replied. “I am a seeker.”
“Indeed. In my experience that word often means thief.”
Dusk bent forward in her saddle. Her heart-shaped face looked back up at her from the water, framed beneath her conical helm. Her breastplate glimmed softly in the uneasy light.
“I am not lightly accused, grandson of the ancient deeps. I’ll tell you plainly why I’ve come to this wretched place.”
She reached into the haversack slung on her saddle and produced a small, golden orb.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked.
“I know it,” he said.
“They are few, and they call to one another. Mine was called, and I followed. And here I am.”
“You have come for the orb?” the vadras said. “Then you are a thief. It burnt me, did me harm. It is mine, now.”
“I have little interest in the orb,” Dusk said. “After all, I have my own, do I not? But I have a great deal of interest in who hurt you with it.”
The water boiled in agitation, and she put her hand to the hilt of her sword.
“Come now,” she snapped.
“A witch,” the vadras rumbled. “A witch and a man of wood. Thieves. They came and took my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” Dusk said. “A nov?”
“My very own,” he said.
“Tell me about this witch.”
“She came from beyond the Pale, but she had the stink of the Northeast Wind on her. Like you.”
“Take care whom you insult,” Dusk said, softly. “The wind blows everywhere.”
“Rarely here,” the vadras said.
“Let me see it,” she said. “The orb the witch brought.” “For what reason?”
“I may be able to tell a thing or two from it. Then I will go on my way.”
“I think instead I will have yours,” he said.
The pool exploded and rose up, a dark beast of mud, filth, and human corpses. Drake reared up and kicked at the mo
nster as it rushed from the water. It slapped the horse and sent him rolling. Dusk leapt free, drawing her blade. She danced forward, dodging the ill-formed hands that groped for her, and then leapt high, plunging Polestar deep into the mass the vadras had formed. An ordinary blade would have had little effect, but hers was no ordinary blade, any more than she was an ordinary traveler.
“Gelde,” she shouted, as she withdrew the weapon.
The effect was immediate; the muddy fist swinging for her slowed instantly to a stop, literally frozen. She watched as ice walked itself across the pool and upstream, and the air became bitter chill.
Lady, please. I did not know who you were.
“Now you do,” she, holding up her little globe. An answering glint came from within the frozen hulk. She carved at it for a time until it came free, ignoring the moans of the vadras.
Drake seemed to be mostly okay; blood flowed from one great, soft nostril, but that would heal soon enough. She stroked his neck and kissed him near his eye. Rather than mounting him, she walked him upstream, until she came to the Pale, beyond which she could not pass. But she could see dimly through it. She could mark it in her own geography. Now she knew where they were hiding.
“The sorcerer couldn’t have come through here,” she told Drake. “Not if I can’t. We’ll have to backtrack out of these faded, broken places. But now that I know where his path leads to, it will make it that much easier for us to find the right way through.”
She patted the horse. “Are you ready to bear me again?”
Drake whinnied, and she mounted up. The vadras was still whimpering for forgiveness when she rode past, but she looked at the blood on Drake’s muzzle and decided to kill the thing. When she was done, she put the Pale to her back and rode away. And for the first time in years, she felt some hope that her mission might be fulfilled.
The sheriff approached the stream, watching his hounds sniff about in agitation. He reined his mount to a stop.
“Vadras,” he said. “It’s the sheriff.”
He got no answer.
The sheriff swung down and examined the tracks in the mud.
He found the vadras dead. He didn’t care much about that, or the about the one that had killed him, for that matter. But the trail that led into and out of the marches was a different matter. Unnatural things were walking beyond the Pale, and that was very much his business. And something was familiar here, something a nagging in the back of his mind told him was important. Something to do with his exile.
