“She has been alive all this time…with him,” I spat.
I sensed Fate’s sick joy.
The oracle looked down at her hands and rubbed them as if they were burnt. Her cheeks had returned to their usual youthful roundness. Her gaze remained weary.
“You must think long and hard of what path you choose, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said. “You must know if this is a price you are willing to pay. Your freedom, or hers.”
Fear ate at my insides at this realization, and in that moment I didn’t know if my rage would be enough to save her.
My stomach clenched and I thought I would retch. I was trembling and helpless like a field mouse caught in the claws of the farmer’s cat.
So many years I spent searching for Laila. Sacrificing and dealing. I thought her dead, now this? She broke back into my shattered soul and once more demanded of me what I didn’t know if I could give.
Sweat trickled down my temples. A cold and sickly sweat.
Fate knew this all along. He was testing if I would come and play.
I entered one of the extensive tunnels that led to my private chambers, rushing over the wet cobblestones. The tunnels allowed me to easily come and go as I pleased without Tristan ever knowing.
I slammed the door shut and kicked a chair across the wooden floorboards. Nothing could ever be simple. I gripped the legs of the chair, and smashed it against the fireplace. Splinters exploded over my hands and across the floor. I put all my anger, all my grief, into every swing crushing the wood into oblivion.
When nothing remained of the chair but kindling I stopped. I sat down and shoved my face in my hands.
Broken. A coward.
The rough patch of marled flesh on my palm scratched my cheek. I hated it. Hated Fate and hated myself. I didn’t know if I could make myself vulnerable to him again. Even for Laila.
That truth pained me most of all.
Lowering my hands I turned my right palm over and stared. The scar still looked as disgusting as always. Still as fresh as the day I let Fate tear his scissors into my skin. Into the bone and the sinew.
Shame sickened my gut that I had ever been so stupid. I played right into Fate’s whim. He promised me Edward’s life, an end to my bloodlust, but I was too blinded by my rage to understand the cost. Fate played a long game, and I became his pawn as Laila had become mine.
Now it was a new game. I promised myself I would never fall into Fate’s trap again, but here I was. Having to decide just that.
My eyes burned and I wiped wet away.
An idea struck me.
Perhaps I didn’t have to choose after all. Hope I hadn’t experienced in ages elated my blood.
The oracle said the future was many paths that continually changed. I would make my own destiny as I always had.
I saw another way. A third choice. I could rescue Laila from Fate without me becoming his plaything.
Damn that oracle telling me otherwise.
I bounded for a wardrobe at the far end of the room. Gripping the brass handles I pulled open the doors and rifled through jars of slugs and dried mushrooms.
I stilled once I saw a bottle of red glass. It was no bigger than the palm of my hand. Delicate filigrees of gold decorated the rounded base that curved into a thin neck. A stopper resembling a teardrop sealed it shut.
I couldn’t help my lips spreading into a devilish smile.
As much as I wanted to destroy Fate, I couldn’t. The cosmic order would be thrown out of balance. But this bottle I now held offered possibility.
If I could touch Fate while I opened the bottle, I could trap him inside. Forever.
I knew what I must do. I would end Fate’s game as I should have nineteen years before.
I savored the rush of energy and purpose rippling through me.
One problem still remained before I could imprison Fate and rescue Laila. I had to figure out where exactly he was keeping her.
The key is within you the oracle’s voice repeated. God, could there be a more frustrating clue?
After drumming my fingers for a moment I went to my bookshelves. The shelves leaned and bowed with books and glass jars. Moving two bottles of frog tongues out of the way, I pulled down several decaying books. Down the row I moved, tossing other magical objects out of the way, retrieving the books stacked and squeezed behind them.
My fingers burned from carrying their weight. I dropped them on a nearby table and waved away the rolls of dust. The spines cracked as I opened them one after the next, pouring over the molding texts. Grime flew everywhere and disintegrating ink stained my fingers.
“In a realm between life and death,” I kept whispering to myself with every turn of the page.
Entire worlds passed my eyes. Valhalla, Elysium, Niflheim. Some sounded incredibly beautiful, while others chilled my blood. As the night deepened the worlds merged into one another, and my thoughts no longer kept centered. My eyes burned and my head grew heavy.
“Between life and death,” my lips kept whispering, despite my mind being long gone. “The key is within you.”
My lids drooped until I was reading through my eyelashes. Then, I was reading no words at all. I could still hear the fire spitting and popping behind me. I could still feel the hardback of the chair. But sounds bled together. Sleep was claiming me.
Between life and death.
My head fell down, and I snapped back awake. Blood rushed through my heart and it pounded my entire body.
Could the answer be so simple?
Clarity descended upon me. Fate and Laila where in the realm of dream.
I searched through the piles of books on my desk, shoving the useless titles to the floor and out of my way. Paper fluttered and binding snapped as I searched for Dreams and Enchantments.
It was the only book that could tell me what spells I needed to get there. Nothing else would suffice. I picked up book after book, breaking spines as I tore through pages as if thinking it would magically turn into what I needed.
I stopped. I remembered where it was.
With Tristan.
Chapter Three
Warp:
verb: (in weaving) arrange (yarn) so as to form the warp of a piece of cloth
noun: an abnormality or perversion in a person's character
TRISTAN
Frau Latten slept in her rooms far away in the North wing. Far enough away to not hear me shoving an iron crow within the door hinges of Pater’s private chambers.
I had a vague understanding of the protective enchantments imprisoning me. Enough to know the only way to break the spells rested in the forbidden realm of Pater’s study.
I didn’t expect it to be an easy task. But, as night drew on, it began to look impossible. No matter how hard I rammed, jerked, or twisted, I only managed to chip the tip off the iron crow. The door remained stubbornly untarnished.
I gripped the iron tighter and lifted it high above my head. With a swift movement I brought it down hard and strong, striking the golden handle. The force flung the crow out of my hands and it clanged to the floor. The handle didn’t even show a scratch.
Pater was many things, but a fool he was not.
Defeated by whatever cursed magic barred my assault, I turned and leaned my back against the door and slid down. I refused to accept defeat. My mind raced considering other options, though none sounded particularly promising. One would most likely result in my losing a finger, and the other quite possibly incinerating the entire sitting room.
Scrubbing my face I lifted my gaze and caught sight of a battle ax above the fireplace. My confidence inflamed, I stood and approached the sharp blade. Struggling to keep a firm grip, I lifted it off its hook, careful not to drop it onto the floor.
Aiming it right at the door’s center I took a deep breath, tightened my grasp and swung it over my right shoulder. The weight pressed into my skin.
The hinges creaked. The door opened. I faced Pater, his left eyebrow raised as I stood poised ready to chop.
He waved his wrist and the ax lifted out of my fingers and flew back to its rightful place above the hearth. The hooks lengthened, wrapping around the handle securing it forever against the stone.
“I have no time to care about your ‘combat practice’ right now,” he said.
He rushed over to a desk in the far corner and rifled through papers and books. He cursed. His gaze jerked to the divan. He bounded towards it, tearing apart the cushions and searching every crevice. He craned his neck looking into corners and fell to his knees to peer beneath a wicker basket.
I believed he finally went mad.
“Where is Dreams and Enchantments?” He asked, still popping from point to point.
“I thought you were supposed to be gone?”
He stopped, though his hands splayed wide and then relaxed. His gaze remained darting to corners, floorboards, and paintings.
“I’ve suffered a slight detour in my plans,” he said.
He zeroed in on a stack of firewood, knocking the logs over as he searched through them.
I sighed and passed him, stopping in front of the side table pressed against the divan he had already demolished. On the table, in plain sight, laid the book he wanted. I lifted it off the polished wood and handed it to him.
A crazed smile cracked his porcelain skin.
He immediately peeled it open and flipped through with heavy determination. His eyes squinted as the pages almost tore from the force he turned them. He talked to himself, ranting about oracles and madness so quickly I could barely understand him.
I was used to his calm and reserved nature. I’d never seen him in such a state before.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Where’s what?”
He held the book out to me. A good half inch of pages were ripped out, only a jagged line of paper remaining.
“That’s been missing the past five years,” I replied. “Remember? Frau Latten used it for kindling before I could stop her. It’s a shame. It was quite an interesting theory.”
He snapped the book shut. His eyes widened.
“Do you recall what this theory was?” he asked.
I gave a heavy nod. I moved back to the desk and picked up a piece of parchment he had cast to the floor. Dipping a quill in some ink, I sketched a Y.
“Essentially, it purported the theory that dream is a realm unto itself,” I said. “Most believe it exists purely in their minds, but in fact, it is a place where the spirit goes. Can live. One passes through a gate, one of horn” I drew the word HORN on the left road. “And another of ivory,” I drew IVORY on the right. “Horn is true, while ivory is deceptive. These are frivolous dreams, where most go usually every night. However, those dreams that are vivid, meaningful, those…”
“Use the gate of horn,” he finished.
“Exactly. Dream is an odd place, consisting of many layers and meanings.”
“I remember, and beyond dream lays nightmare. I studied it a long time ago, when…” He paused, pressing his lips together. “Do you know anything at all about how to get into this realm?”
We were having a conversation. He was curious in what I had to say again. He needed my help, and even though anger still ate at me, I wanted to give it.
“It sounded dire if I recall, but you must enter a deep sleep almost to the point of death,” I said. “To return to Awake, Dream must be dissolved.”
“Yes, I gathered that much, but is there anything more specific? Certain spells or potions the theory mentioned?”
“None that I recall,” I replied. “Only if one wished to be physically present, the soul must pass through a gate of horn. How one achieves this, I have no idea.”
He lowered his chin and smiled.
“I might have an idea,” he said.
“Why are you so interested in dreams all of a sudden?” I asked.
He shifted in his leather boots.
“Thank you, Tristan. This has been most enlightening,” he replied, not answering my question. I don’t know why I thought he would.
He withdrew and started to walk away when he stopped. He faced me. He drew up his shoulders and rubbed his ear.
“I’m…sorry, for being so stern with you earlier.” His eyes darted from me to the floor. “I know I’ve been short tempered, but don’t doubt I care for you.”
Pain bit the back of my throat.
His eyes finally steadied on mine. He slowly held out his hand, and this time placed it on my shoulder. He squeezed. Through my resentment I loved him still.
“You have your mother’s cleverness,” he said. His voice was husky now.
Questions smoldered my tongue, but he didn’t even give me a chance to respond before he removed his hand and made for his chambers.
He might love me, but he still left me behind.
The door hinges creaked closed and I waited for its signature click.
It never came.
The latch failed to catch. My breath stuck as I approached the door. His footsteps faded into the distance.
In his haste he made a mistake. A wonderful mistake.
I reached for the handle, but as the cold brass tingled my fingertips, I pulled back. Pater’s words replayed over in my mind. I could still feel where he squeezed my shoulder. I wanted us to go back to how we once were.
If I disobeyed, there would be no going back.
I cleared my throat still thinking what to do. His footsteps fell into silence and I only heard my rushing heart.
I closed my eyes and gripped the handle and slipped behind the door.
RUMPELSTILTSKIN
I didn’t like the roughness in my throat. I cleared it away.
I had to keep focused and set my mind to what mattered most at hand: Reuniting Tristan with the mother he should have always known.
All I needed to fix the broken pieces of their lives was a spell.
Not wanting to waste a minute I bounded towards a worn, beaten cabinet. Cobwebs hung down from corners and covered the front in a blanket of white. I brushed them away, revealing a battered keyhole.
I took out a small knife from my pocket. The blade was of sharpened silver. I rested the edge against my thumb and pressed. My skin sliced easily. I winced.
Removing the blade and ignoring the sting, I pushed the blood to the surface. It swelled into a pretty bead of crimson, then tickled down my palm. Bringing up the point of the dagger, I caught the few precious drops on the tip. My hand steady, I tilted it into the keyhole.
The blood sank into the hollow brass. A satisfying click echoed throughout the room.
The hinges moaned as I opened the two doors revealing a book inside. The edges of the leather binding were worn and spots of mold clung to the outer pages. It was small and unassuming, but inside rested spells and potions to bring down entire kingdoms.
Paging through the ancient text I stopped once I reached the recipe I desired. Thanks to the information from Tristan, I could narrow down exactly what potion I needed. It was simple, yet intricate. The ingredients were not something one would find in a common apothecary shop.
Lucidum Somnium I read, trailing my finger down the description of this fascinating little potion.
This elixir will allow the drinker to cross into the realm of dream, through horn, and back again. Once the potion is brewed, slowly sip keeping your mind alert while your body enters a deep slumber. Upon finishing contents, lay down and cross arms like that of the dead. Do not desist keeping your mind alert as your body sleeps, or else you will never awake.
Lovely.
After placing the book open on my desk I shuttered all the windows and made sure the doors were sealed shut.
Rummaging through cabinets and drawers I retrieved an armful of discolored bottles and putrid oddities setting them on another, gnarled table. The collection resembled the horrors one would encounter at a freak show. Jugs and decanters filled with all manner of preserved flesh floating in
rancid liquids. Bundles of plants that could cause death, or make one wish for death.
I read the ingredients.
Toad skin
Nightshade
Chamomile
Mugwort
Hooves of an animal most pure
Tongue of a man
An object once loved
Breath of the dying
“Dammit.”
I didn’t even bother to look through my bottles for that last one. Such a rare ingredient must be harvested fresh to be considered “breath of the dying.” If a bottle existed in my collection, the person was already very much dead. It would be useless.
The only question was where to find someone on the brink of death.
My lips pulled into a smile.
Adelaide’s fevered face blossomed in my mind. The last few days allowed the infection within her to fester. There was no doubt death now awaited her.
Closing my eyes I centered my thoughts on their simple home. The thatched roof. The leaning walls and bending frame.
Her flame ignited within the black of my searchings. The light flickered, feeble, but determined for hope. I wanted to quell its desire.
A second flame burst within the darkness. It blazed and burned. Her husband’s, no doubt. Hunger bore within me for him. I could nearly taste his despair. The anguish. He needed a balm, and I was all but too happy to accommodate.
The winter wind tore through my cloak. I opened my eyes, finding myself outside their door.
She was upstairs. Drowning in her own lungs. Her husband, and what children remained, waited down below.
I knocked. Ready to do what was necessary.
The bolt unlatched and the door creaked open. Alarm etched every line of Hal’s face, while fatigue deepened his eyes. In a matter of days the man aged ten years.
“If you value your life I suggest you find alms elsewhere. This home is diseased with plague,” he said, moving to shut the door.
Putting out my hand I forced it to stay open. His brow furrowed, and annoyance tightened his features.
Twist: A Fairy Tale Awakening (Spindlewind Trilogy Book Two) Page 4
