by Michael
“I weigh more than you. It’s a real risk.”
Gifford tried to suppress a laugh but failed. “I’ll take that chance.”
Tesh took a deep breath and felt the air shudder as it went in.
Why am I so scared? I’ve never been terrified of heights before.
He hadn’t been afraid of anything to the degree he was now—not fighting Sebek or stepping into that miserable pool; even saying goodbye to Brin hadn’t been this hard. Tesh tried to take a step forward but couldn’t. His feet refused.
“Tesh?” Brin called. She came back, and also walked around the others. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . . it’s too far. I don’t think . . . I don’t see how I can . . .”
She looked at the path, confusion filling her face. “Is that what’s causing the holdup? It’s just a crack.”
Brin walked past Gifford. She stepped right to the very edge of the other side. The toes of her shoes dangled off the precipice. She stared at him with a worried expression, then she reached out. “Take my hand.”
Her hand? She’s a mile away!
Even if he could touch her, he wouldn’t. “No, I’ll just pull you down, too.”
She looked at him as if he were the insane one. “You won’t.”
“I will.” He looked down at the darkness below, at depths that he knew went on forever.
“Tesh? Do you trust me?” Her voice drew his sight to her face. “Do you?”
He wanted to and always had in the past, but he still remembered the revulsion in her eyes when she had told him, “You aren’t freeing the world of a monster. You’re taking its place.” It had hurt a lot less at the time, but now the pain was back. The sting of that moment rekindled, not in his body but someplace deeper.
Brin’s eyes grew intense. She had a way of doing that, of being a frivolous, lovesick woman one minute, then transforming into another person: a wiser, stronger one. Her face softened, kindness and understanding bleeding in. “Tesh, you died—you killed yourself to follow me.” She glanced down at the yawning chasm that her toes dangled over. “Are you seriously going to stop now?”
He was shaking.
“Take my hand, Tesh. I promise it will be okay.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Just trust me.”
It took every ounce of will he had to lift his hand and to slide his feet closer to the edge. It was so far down and she such a long distance away. Then, as if by magic, he felt her hand take his and she pulled. He was off-balance, starting to fall, and cried out.
An instant later, he was in Brin’s arms. She was holding him, those tiny hands clutching tight, making him feel safe.
“See?” she whispered. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She gave him a moment to catch his breath—breath that didn’t exist but he felt he needed—then she pulled him forward with her. As she did, he dared a backward glance. He looked for the crevice but didn’t see one. There was only a small gap in the stone of a wide, worn trail.
The rest of the trip down was easier. The ledge, luxurious in its width on the far side of the crevice, lacked obstacles. Tesh continued to follow just behind Brin, who frequently looked back to make sure he was still with her. Something had made crossing that gap seem impossible. Some sort of enchantment, he guessed, and he didn’t need to look far for the source. Rain had called her the Dark Sorceress, and she was a Fhrey—an elf.
He hadn’t trusted Fenelyus when Moya consented to her help, and neither had Tressa.
Is it a coincidence that the two of us who voted against following her are the ones who’ve had so much trouble?
Joining with Fenelyus had been a mistake. He knew it then, and he was even more convinced the longer they were together. With every step he took, he felt heavier, and just walking was becoming difficult.
More magic?
They reached the valley floor, arriving in a darkened corner. They were once again in a forest, this one of dead pines. Gray needles lingered on limbs, creating the illusion of a hazy mist between the trees. Tesh thought he’d once had a dream about a place like this; as most dreams were, it was a foggy patch in his memory. In this forest, some needles had fallen to the ground, creating a soft carpet and an eerie silence. They were outside the influence of the firelight. Tesh could still see, but he was unsure how. Dim as on a cloudy night, the faces with him were ghostly, the trees shadows, and the path lost. No moon or stars provided guidance.
Also the way of dreams, isn’t it?
Now that they were free of the ledge, they all clustered behind Fenelyus, chasing after her like puppies hoping for treats. Tressa was the holdout, hanging out in the back of the line. Prior to the meeting in Gifford and Roan’s tent, Tesh hadn’t met Tressa. He’d only known of her. Bitch, murderer, and traitor were the words most often laid at her feet. He didn’t know why. Hadn’t much cared—he liked Tressa. They were both fighters. Even before their shared fear at the gap, he’d known they were a pair. Self-destructive perhaps, but they would both go down swinging.
“Can I ask a question about the crow?” Gifford asked the Fhrey. “You used the Art to get rid of Orin, but since dying, I’ve found no source to pull from, no way to reach the chords.”
“You are an Artist?” Fenelyus asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I have done a few things, and I know that you need power, and there isn’t any here.”
“I didn’t use the Art. It just looked like I did. You’re new to Nifrel and don’t yet understand how things work. I suspect you’re confused about many aspects of the afterlife. For example, what is the difference between the realms of Phyre?” Fenelyus asked.
“Ah . . .” Gifford faltered.
“Rel is where most people go,” Brin said. “Alysin is where heroes reside, and Nifrel is . . .” She stopped and looked at Fenelyus, embarrassed.
“Where the evil ones end up? It’s okay, that’s what all new arrivals think.” Fenelyus pursed her lips and tilted her head. “And what you said is correct—in a manner of speaking—but you have to understand that good and evil are relative terms. No one is truly good and, likewise, neither are they evil. The truth of the matter is that Rel is for those who, in life, found contentment in little things—or would have if life had been kinder. Arion—while powerful—cared little for employing that strength. She needed nothing and could find contentment in silence. That is why she remains in Rel. Those who are here are the ones who are never satisfied, no matter how much they attain. That’s why I love Arion so. She had aptitude and talent but none of the addictive need for more.”
“So, Nifrel is for the greedy?” Gifford asked.
“Still too simple. Greed is but a symptom, like conceit and vanity. They are the result—fruit born of the same tree: the tree of ambition. People sent to Nifrel are the ones who thrive on challenge, on competition, on conflict. In life, we were leaders—bad and good—because we couldn’t stop striving for greatness. It’s part of who we are. So, here in Nifrel we have—I suppose you could say—an overabundance of determination to succeed. That translates to a sort of magic. The effect is similar to lucid dreaming.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Gifford said.
“Have you ever realized you were dreaming while still in a dream? It’s when you figure out that you are sleeping and everything you’re experiencing is just in your mind.”
Gifford shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, some people who do are able to take control. They can affect the events, do magic. But it’s not real—not the Art—not lasting. It’s merely a dream.”
Gifford still looked confused.
“Think of it this way. If you are strong enough while in Phyre, you can alter the illusion we all share. That’s because the world around us is subject to the will of others.”
“So, does that mean we can perform magic here?” Brin asked.
“You already are. You’re wearing some sort of drape with a brooch. You have lon
g hair and are quite pretty. Some of you have weapons, but they, like your bodies and clothes, were left on the surface of Elan. All you have, all you appear to be is manifested by your will, your sense of self. But I know it’s not easy thinking of that as magic. After all, you only see what you’ve always seen. What most of you have yet to comprehend is that your abilities go beyond your own appearances and what you carry. You perceive what I did to Orin as something mystical, but that woman over there”—she pointed at Roan—“said she created a fire.”
Gifford glanced at his wife. “But that wasn’t magic.”
Fenelyus chuckled.
“What am I missing?”
“This isn’t Elan,” the Fhrey said. “Well, it is, but not the living part. Do you think those were real trees you walked through? Did you believe they are made of wood? What you see is a vision created by Ferrol. This is her creation. We exist inside her dream, if you will.”
“More of a twisted nightmare, if you ask me,” Moya said.
“She does have a peculiar decorating sensibility. But I can assure you that making a fire here is as impossible as doing so in someone else’s dream.”
“But . . .” Roan started. Her expression turned fearful, as if she were guilty of a crime. “I didn’t mean to mess with her trees. I didn’t even know they belonged to her. I just did what I always do.”
Fenelyus nodded. “That’s mostly how it works. That’s how everything does. We could fly, I suppose, if we could believe strongly enough in that idea. Our wills are tied to our confidence. We can do what we know we can. You knew you could build a fire, and so you did. I am confident in my ability to alter the world because I did it so often when I was alive that it comes naturally. It’s not the Art, not really, but the results are the same.”
Fenelyus focused on Brin with a curious stare. “And you . . .” Fenelyus let out a little laugh that grated on Tesh. “I can hardly imagine what you could accomplish here. It’s obvious you’re not like the rest of us. Somehow you muscled your way in, which is odd since everyone else wants out.”
Brin looked hurt, though Tesh didn’t know why.
The land continued to slope downhill, and Tesh realized that they still hadn’t reached the valley’s floor, but they were close. He could see the fiery light of the false dawn once more.
“What you have to realize is that there are two parts to every person,” the Fhrey explained. “The living body born of Elan, and the spirit that comes from Eton. The body needs Elan to exist, and she reclaims it after a time, freeing the spirit. Our bodiless souls are forced to dwell here, deep beneath Elan in Eton’s prison. No light seeps in. No life is allowed. We are all that exist here, but we are not without power. We are, after all, children of Eton. Our will, our determination, our very force of personality and sense of self lend us strength.”
They walked down a gully where it appeared as if rainwater had washed the hillside away. If Tesh could believe the Fhrey, none of it was real. The hillside and the valley were the manifestation of someone else’s imagination, someone’s nightmare. He studied the ground and rocks. It all looked real to him.
“What about Alysin?” Tesh asked. “Who goes there?”
“The best of both worlds, I suppose,” Fenelyus said. “Those with great ability but no ambition. The ones who never sought fame, or glory, but when they saw others in need, they took action. You’d know them as heroes. I suspect Arion could go there if she wished.”
“And the Sacred Grove? What do you have to do to get there?” Brin asked.
“The Grove isn’t part of Phyre. It’s in the world of the living, so you can’t get there.” Fenelyus fixed Brin with a look that caused the Keeper to shrink back. “Why do you ask?”
“I just—I ah . . .”
“Brin is our Keeper of Ways,” Moya interjected. “She’s curious about everything.”
Fenelyus studied the two for a moment longer, and Tesh was too far away to tell if it was curiosity or suspicion on her face. “I’ve had but a glimpse of the Grove, but I can tell you it truly is sacred. It’s the birthplace of all life, yet only two reside there: Alurya and her guardian, the only one who earned the right—the greatest of all heroes.” She turned away from them, walking faster than before.
Snow was falling by the time they left the forest and entered the open valley, what Fenelyus called the Plain of Kilcorth. It was a mean snow. Small, icy pellets the size of sand fell at an angle as if driven by wind, even though there was none. In that skyless place, Tesh didn’t know where the snow came from. He suspected the others didn’t have a clue, either.
Fenelyus kept looking up, perplexed.
“Is this not normal?” Moya asked as she marched through the gathering drifts of granulated white. She had her shoulders up, trying to protect the back of her neck.
Tesh was doing the same thing. He could feel it, the harsh prick of snow, the burning pain when a grain caught against his skin, but he wasn’t cold. This wasn’t really winter when the cold cut to his bones. This was merely cruel and bitter.
“I’ve never seen weather in Nifrel,” Fenelyus said.
“The queen is making it, right?” Moya asked.
Fenelyus pulled her hood up and tucked in an errant lock of golden hair. “She’s trying to slow us down. Needs time to get her forces into position. You arrived at a bad time—for her. You’re quite lucky.”
“Not luck,” Tressa said, though Tesh didn’t think anyone heard. Tressa walked just behind him. Stooped over, her mouth pulled into a frown, she seemed to be in considerable pain, and her voice was no more than a muttered breath, but Tesh didn’t think she was speaking to any of them.
“Ferrol is scrambling to head us off,” Fenelyus said. “We must be moving faster than she likes.”
The great warring hordes should have been somewhere in front of them, but in the heavy snowfall, Tesh couldn’t see them. He didn’t hear much, either. Even the sounds of their own feet were dampened by the fresh blanket of snow that was building on the ground. The black slate they walked over was filled with cracks—fissures scarring the terrain. These jagged mouths opened into bottomless expanses. The little ones they hopped. The larger ones they went around or used a makeshift series of bridges. The Plain of Kilcorth was littered with haphazard crossings. Some were fine causeways that were wide enough for an army to traverse. Other spans were nothing more than an oblong stone that teetered when stepped on.
“If the queen controls everything,” Moya asked, “why doesn’t she just—I don’t know—summon us to her tower, or trap us in stone—something like that?”
“She doesn’t control everything,” Fenelyus replied. “Yes, Ferrol is the strongest force in Nifrel, but no single being wields absolute power. Distance and opposing wills limit her. Down here, arrogance and greed are a reasonably reliable indicator of power, and in that arena, few can compete with King Mideon. When he was alive, that little bastard was the wealthiest, most powerful ruler in the world. He started a war between his people and mine because I wouldn’t give him access to a tree whose fruit granted everlasting life. Didn’t matter that such fruit didn’t exist. He sacrificed hundreds of thousands of his own people in its pursuit. And he wasn’t planning on sharing immortality. He just wanted it for himself. That kind of arrogance is powerful down here. Mideon has managed to wrench from Ferrol a sizable piece of land that has become his realm, but he’s still no match for the queen. All of us combined might not be enough to subdue her. After all, Ferrol is an Aesira, one of the five and third born of Eton’s teeth.”
The snow made everything slippery, and Tesh felt heavier than ever. Just as on the climb down, he found he had more trouble than most of the others. To his amazement, Brin practically hopped and skipped. Gifford wasn’t quite so nimble, but neither he nor Rain displayed any sign of effort. Roan walked slowly while holding on to Gifford’s hand. Tressa had it the worst. For her, each step appeared to be a struggle.
They came to a cairn, and Fenelyus called a halt. S
lapping the pile of stones, she brushed up a cloud of snow. “This is Eon Ver, which means things are about to get interesting.”
“How so?” Tesh asked. He was bent over, trying to catch an imaginary breath.
Fenelyus grinned, and in that guarded face, he saw the flicker of eager glee that must have won her entrance to the dark realm. “Between here and the Gray Gate of Mideon’s Castle is a choke point with three bridges. Ferrol is waiting until we step out. That’s when she’ll hit us.”
“Can we go another way?” Moya asked.
“Nifrel is one great battlefield. Fighting is what we do, and it’s been happening since the dawn of time in every way you can imagine. Common belief is that there are no new tactics, no strategies that haven’t been tried. It’s all been done over and over again. That’s one of the great disappointments of this place. Everything has been refined to the point that there are only a few sensible maneuvers, only a handful of moves and ways to counter. Everyone knows them, which takes all the fun out of leading with your gut. There’s no going around. This is the best crossing available to us, and the moment we step out there, we’ll be set upon.”
“And from your experience is it likely we’ll reach Mideon’s castle?” Tesh asked.
“No,” Fenelyus said. “To be honest, we don’t stand much of a chance. In this scenario, we should get close, but we’ll still fall short.”
“Way to encourage the troops,” Moya told her. “For a minute, I was starting to get my hopes up.”
Fenelyus smiled, but it wasn’t a warm thing, not a happy expression. Her look was a mix of amusement and irritation, as if to say, Cute. Now be quiet. Your elder is speaking. Like all of them, snow had settled on Fenelyus, frosting the Fhrey and making her appear all the more mystical and impressive. If nothing else, this place was all about mood and image.
“We have two advantages, one being that I hate to lose.” Fenelyus winked. That same eager glee shining out.
“But Ferrol is your god,” Brin said, mystified. “How can you openly defy her?”