The Door of Dreams

by Greg James

  “You said all, Thekreth.” Eren whispered.

  “I did.”

  “Yet you live and you walk while all others do not. How can this be?”

  Thekreth shrugged, “Perhaps I have been fortunate.”

  “I think not. I think you are not as you pretend to be.”

  “What then do you suspect?”

  “That you have another name and another body, which were once far from here while you used this child’s eyes to watch over me.”

  Thekreth laughed, “You have grown wise in the last few moments, Warden Eren.”

  “I think not. I have only finally come to see what I should have seen long ago.”

  “Not so long, I have known the path of your thoughts since well before I possessed this little thing.”

  “Then she was dead before all of my kin.”

  “Of course, I snuffed her light out like a waning candle. It was a small death and her soul was not touched by greatness, but it was a sweet thing to swallow all the same.”

  “But how are you still here, Lamia, if the others have been taken in payment for your death?

  At that, Thekreth laughed wildly, “Because thou cannot smite me with such cantrips, my Warden. Think on it, I am the Prime Evil. I am a part of this world. I am bound to it. You wished to bring about my death, which should not come to pass until the stars go out and the moon herself is dust. I was reborn at the same moment I was uncreated by the Uncanted Spell. You cannot undo me so easily and you should have known a truth so simple.”

  Eren’s eyes were wide and starting to tear as she looked around at the dead, “Then, their sacrifice was for nothing?”

  “There’s been no sacrifice. You slaughtered them with your ignorance and arrogance. The blood of Covenheart’s dead stains your hands.”

  Eren sank to her knees, “Then kill me. Take my life. I would not live a moment longer with this horror on my head.”

  “Oh, but you will live,” Thekreth smiled, “you will live and rise to the highest seat, not merely High Warden, no, but as Warden Eternal.”

  “You knew I would search even harder for the Spell after you spoke to me on that night.”

  “We cannot blame others for the errors of our own judgement.”

  Eren could feel every death around her as a cold, unyielding presence. This was no error of judgement. This was no mistake. This was mass murder – and it was on her head.

  “Thanks to you, my Warden, the spell of the Giants seems to have been broken as well. I am no longer bound to Barrowdwell and neither are my No-men. Do you not see what a great good you have done here? I would thank you from the depths of my heart, but I do not have one.”

  “Monster! Defiler! Murderer!”

  “Yes, I am all these things and see no ill in being so. The spider ensnares the fly and consumes it. This is the natural order. It is both mete and good. I am not so afflicted as you are with guilt. You will have a long time to think on such things, dear Eren. A very long time.”

  With those words, Eren felt her arms being taken by long fingers. She heard the thin, whispering speech of the No-men and knew she was done for. They took her to the throneroom of Covenheart and set her upon the High Warden’s ornate seat. From that moment on she could not move – but she could feel more than she had ever felt before. The Lamia was the spider and she was the fly, so finely caught.

  As the Lamia’s strength grew, Eren felt Tirlane’s pain as the No-men and other night-creatures raped and tormented the land. When the trees burned, she felt the fire on her skin. When the morgens and nymphs were slain, she wept tears that did not cease for days. When the Wealdsman of Mear Weald was crucified on his soul-tree, her own heart stopped and, briefly, she tasted death – but only briefly.

  And whenever she closed her eyes over the long years, she saw a place beyond Death, Space and Time; a void where many pale, drifting forms hung. Their eyes stared without seeing. Their mouths were open yet they made no sound. They were her fellow Wardens, their children, the Elders, and the Maidens. They were the dead of Covenheart and they were with her, always.

  *

  Willow gasped as the vision ended. Henu made no exclamation.

  “And now, my watch is over. The long wait of the years is done.”

  “Wh-who have you been waiting for?”

  “For you, my friends. The ones who will set me free.”

  “How do we do that? Is there a spell or something?”

  “By killing me. Taking my life. Allowing my pain to end.”

  Willow took a step away from the Warden.

  ... you will kneel before me with bloodstained hands ...

  Was this it, the hour of decision already, so soon?

  It couldn’t be, surely.

  “You can’t mean that.”

  Eren’s body did not move – it could not – but her eyes did move to look at Willow. She could see the Warden’s eyes were calm and sincere despite their despair. “I do not want this but it must be done. The pain has been too much for too long. You have seen what I have endured.

  “It is more than I could face living with if I were set free. I would know only the ugliness of flowers when they are in bloom. Hear only the heart-piercing shrillness in the birds’ voices as they sing each day’s dawn into being. The grass under my feet would be so many needles, and the wind in my face would be the lingering breath of the dead.

  “Everyone’s death is their own and no-one can take that away from them. I thank you for what you are about to do for me, truly. It is a kindness and blessing, I promise you. I bear a thule at my waist; a blade of sacrifice. It is already blooded as is the custom. Be swift, I beg you. Do not let me linger.”

  Willow’s fingers tentatively found their way to the fraying leather belt around Eren’s waist. A heavy knife hung there; its blade was decorated with an ornate flowing pattern resembling a tree. The roots of the pattern wove around the guard and hilt. A dark red gemstone was set into the base of the blade.

  “Take it as a gift and a token of my trust.” Eren said.

  Of all the things to give a person, Willow thought. Her hand was loose rather than tight around the hilt of the blade. She looked into the Warden’s eyes; felt her pain and felt her sorrow. She knew this is what the woman wanted more than anything in the world.

  Willow dropped the thule. “I can’t do it.” She listened to the sacred blade clang and clatter down the steps to the ground. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  Willow turned her back on the Warden and walked slowly down the steps, shaking her head as she did, trying not to let tears come. Henu rested a gentle hand on her shoulder as she passed him, “I will do what must be done, friend Willow.”

  There was a steel in his voice she’d not expected. Willow held his hand where it was, not letting it go, “I can’t let you do that, Henu. Can’t we just leave her as she is?”

  “No, we can’t. That would be too cruel. For so many years, I feared this place and her but now I have felt what she has felt, as have you, I pity her also. She has paid many times over for what she did, to leave her would be too cruel and cruelty is the practice of the Lamia.”

  Willow sighed, didn’t say anything, and let his hand go – grudgingly. She listened to him ascending the steps. There was the light scraping sound as he picked up the thule from where it had fallen. The footsteps stopped.Willow knew he was facing Eren; looking into those terrible, haunted eyes; so desperate to die. She didn’t look. She didn’t want to see what happened next.

  “Forgive me.” The words were spoken by Eren, not by Henu.

  Willow heard a great sigh from all around and a rough sound of collapse.

  She turned around and saw a mound of dust on the throne. She also saw the gemstone on the thule’s hilt, where it rested atop the remains, was glowing blood-red.

  “Let us leave this place,” Henu said, taking Willow by the hand, “some souls rest with greater ease than others.”

  From far below in the vaults of Covenheart, ther
e came a mighty crash followed by a calamitous hissing sound.

  “The No-men are in. They have found us. Hurry, friend Willow, hurry. With me.”

  Willow ran after Henu, through the gate, across the courtyard, and out of the barbican’s outer gate. The echo of that crash from below seemed to pursue them. Willow had an idea it was reaching out so as to draw them back and then pull them down into the darkness.

  Neither of them slowed their pace until they were well beyond the reach of Covenheart’s shadows, across the last of the open ground and had come to the border of another place – the forest of Ravensholt.

  Chapter Ten

  Ravensholt was far more imposing than Beam Weald; its gnarled oaks made the shadows of night seem pale compared to its depths. It was no more inviting than Covenheart had been.

  “Keep close by me, and do not leave the path.” Henu said, “This Holt is not so welcoming as Beam Weald.”

  “Is there a Wealdsman here too?”

  “No, a Holtsman and he is not to be trusted, especially with you.”

  “With me?”

  “He likes to take fair things and make them foul.”

  “Oh,” said Willow, “so how are we safer here than in Covenheart?”

  “Because the trees of Ravensholt are merciless to the Lamia’s children. We should be safe from No-men, and anything else of her design. The Summerdowns are home to the spirit and soul of Tirlane. Ravensholt has become the nest of its anger. Come, it is not safe for us to tarry long outside its borders. The No-men cannot be far behind.”

  Willow noticed how he was looking back in the direction of Covenheart. Was he looking for signs of pursuit, or was he dwelling upon what he’d had to do there? Was he thinking about Eren?

  Tree boughs creaked sharply overhead as she followed the Wealdsman into the forest. The interior was unnaturally silent as they made their way through its depths. She remembered catching glimpses of movement and life in the undergrowth of Beam Weald. There was none of that here. Roots crossed the path in weighty tangles and long beards of moss hung down from twisted branches overhead. Every step felt like an intrusion. Every breath of the close, musty air felt like a violation of the silence.

  Henu was right. There was nothing of Beam Weald about Ravensholt. She could smell its age and feel gooseflesh spreading over her skin. The deeper they went, the more overhung the path became by knotty boughs and branches. Some of them reaching so low Willow felt them brushing against her head like old, dry fingers.

  The two companions ducked and, at times, crawled to get past obstructions. So dense was the forest around them, the only light soon became that which was cast by Henu’s Kindling. The path itself steadily disappeared until they came to a place where the limbs of the trees crossed, wove together and completely barred their way.

  “Can’t you do something?” Willow asked, “burn our way through?”

  “Hush!” Henu whispered, “do not say such things when the trees are so close. Listen to them, friend Willow, heed their voices.”

  Willow listened. She heard a sound like the wind. It rustled at the edge of her hearing. It could have been voices but they were so quiet and so many.

  Trees couldn’t speak – that was ridiculous.

  Any more ridiculous than shadows that walked and ghost-fires that sang at dawn?

  No, not really.

  “Do not mention burning again, whatever you do,” Henu said as he plucked the Kindling out of the air, drew it close to his lips, whispered to it and let it go. “The Kindling will find a way through and return to us,” the Wealdsman said, “now let us rest for a while. It has been a long journey from the Summerdowns to here.”

  The Kindling went ahead into the dark of the forest, taking its light with it. Gloom descended over Willow and Henu, and so they waited. Willow sat down on the path. She was tired and her body was aching from exertion. When she asked for it, Henu passed her his flask of stardraught. She drank from it and felt the aches and pains begin to ebb away.

  Afterwards, they made a meal of the provisions in their bags; herb-bread, white cheese, and amethi.

  Willow waited for her stomach to rebel. Sometimes, it did. Sometimes, it didn’t. She could never be sure whether a meal would stay down or not these days. There was no pattern to it. She often thought of it as a side-effect of her condition. The cancer in her body rejecting the means to keep her alive. She wished she could think of the mass behind her eyes as a spiteful and selfish thing, but she knew it wasn’t. It was a piece of nature aberrant. Disease was not an evil thing, it simply was. That being said, for the moment, all was well, the stardraught and amethi appeared to be settling okay in her stomach.

  There was a flicker of light up ahead.

  It was the Kindling returning to them. Its light flared brightly, illuminating a figure who emerged from the trees. He was tall and dressed in a robe of darkly-woven moss. His face was more aged than Henu’s but craggily handsome and his thinning white hair was neatly combed back. His eyes were a fierce, luminous emerald green. Willow couldn’t help staring at them.

  “Greetings Henu,” the figure said, “Pray tell why are you so far from your Weald and crossing into my Holt?”

  “Greetings Scaethe. We sought shelter in your Holt from the Lamia’s No-men.”

  “Abroad again, are they? And who is this dainty with you?” Scaethe asked.

  “A child of another world. She is in my care.”

  “I see, and why does she look so ill at ease?”

  “Ravensholt is hardly the most abiding of places. And your wandering eye is hardly subtle.”

  “Perhaps, but that is no reason to fear. Come with me and I will show you the safe path.” When he extended his hand it was to Willow and not to Henu.

  “Indeed,” Henu said, not taking his eyes from Scaethe as he cupped the Kindling and placed it back in his pocket. There was something between Henu and Scaethe. She wished she knew what, but part of her didn’t care. Part of her just wanted to go on staring into Scaethe’s beautiful eyes.

  “You still do not trust me, Henu?” Scaethe asked, his voice was light and far away.

  “Give me reason and I shall.” Henu replied.

  The trees seemed to be darker than before. Everything was shifting out of focus.

  “Ah, you are dull and tiresome,” Scaethe’s eyes turned to Willow, “I hope he has not been telling you sorry tales about me.”

  Willow shook her head and spoke in a dreamy tone, “No, nothing.”

  “That is to your credit, Wealdsman. You have not prejudiced our fair guest against me.” Scaethe smiled at her. Willow couldn’t look away from his eyes. The dim light caught them and made them shine like green stars. She heard his voice and felt it also. It caressed her. It stroked her. It made her want to follow him anywhere and do anything for him.

  “She is in my care, Scaethe. Keep your eyes away from her.”

  Scaethe sighed, “I fear it is too late for that, Henu. She does not appear to be able to take hers away from mine.”

  “He means no harm,” Willow lilted, “no harm ... no ... ”

  Henu turned to Willow, “Friend Willow? What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing,” Scaethe said, “nothing but made her mine. Come, Willow,” Scaethe said softly, “away from this Wealdsman and his scolding tongue. Walk with me in the forest. Be mine awhile.”

  “I would love to,” she sighed.

  Henu’s hands were on her shoulders, “Willow, do not go with him. You are bewitched!”

  She shook him off with a shrug.

  “Let the lady do as she wills, Henu,” Scaethe chided, “and I will let you leave the forest unmolested.”

  “Oh, I should not have let you lead us from the path.” Henu moaned.

  “You may cross through my Holt, Wealdsman. My price is the girl. She will make a most comely companion.”

  “She is not yours to take. You know who she is to us, to all of us.”

  “This is my Holt. These are my tree
s. You are a trespasser hereabouts. I would run if I were you, Henu, before they find you.”

  Henu’s face became angry and Willow saw him lunge towards her – but he flickered out of existence as if he were a candle-flame, and she saw that she was somewhere else.

  Chapter Eleven

  Willow was in a grotto; the walls were covered in layers of moss and tree-mould. The air inside was scented with honeysuckle. A low light was cast by transparent bulbs which dangled down from overhanging roots.

  Willow turned and saw Scaethe was with her, “Now, come to me, youngling. Be mine.” His voice was velvet and his eyes were verdant. She felt herself smiling, moving towards him, surrendering herself. His lips were on her lips. She tasted his tongue in her mouth – and then she tasted him; as ripe and foul as compost left to rot on a summer’s day.

  Gross.

  The spell was broken.

  Revolted, she bit down on his tongue.

  Scaethe screamed, pulled away from her and Willow saw him for what he was; old, cruel, and cronish with scraggly white hair, mouldering teeth, and the limpid eyes of a corpse.

  Henu had been right; Ravensholt had become the nest of Tirlane’s anger but that anger had become bitter, hateful, and poisonous. The bile of it shone in Scaethe’s eyes. They were not emeralds and never had been.

  Willow looked past him to the walls of glistening earth where worms, beetles and ants made their way through the soil. The moss and tree-mould were gone. This was nothing more than a dirty hole in the ground where he slept.

  Scaethe came towards her with his hands outstretched. His voice was no longer velvet. It was the torn and ragged sound of the wind caught in winter trees. “Perhaps you will be more agreeable once I have given a gift of succour from my mistress, the Lamia.”

  “What gift?”

  “One which will take away the disease eating at your brain.”

  ... pray to me for succour ... it is within my power to grant mercy as much as pain ...

  Willow regarded him suspiciously, “Why would she do that for me?”