Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  “Fuck.” I hadn’t even thought of that—my focus was on getting my mother back. I’d managed to forget I still had a time bomb ticking at the edge of things. “Do you have any idea how long?”

  “No clue. But if I did, I would guess you wouldn’t like our odds.”

  I run faster.

  It’s not my imagination: I know that it’s taking longer to get to the forest’s edge than usual. No matter how fast I run, the dark blur doesn’t get closer. After about ten minutes, I slow to a jog.

  “What the hell?” I ask.

  “It knows,” he responds.

  “Knows what?”

  “That you wish to harm someone within.”

  “I don’t—”

  “No matter what, that is your intent, even if not malicious.”

  “So, what? Am I supposed to think happy thoughts or something?”

  “Or something.” He nods to the forest. “You can’t trick a magic this old. But perhaps there is a part of you, somewhere deep down, that longs to see your mother as something other than a hit.”

  “You just told me to view her as one!” I yell. “Make up your damn mind.”

  “No,” he says. “I told you to operate as a weapon. And a good weapon knows how to aim.”

  I stop running.

  For once in my life, I want my emotions to make sense. I mean, I’m used to not having emotions, to shoving them down or bottling them up or killing them on the spot. It just makes this much more confusing.

  I close my eyes and think of my mother. I push back, back through the images of Mab in her cold castle, past the lies and the blood and the emptiness. And there, in the far reaches of memory, is a spark. The slightest image of blonde hair and a warm smile, of my mother saying my name. It’s a memory I’ve frosted over more times than I can count, but the heat of it still lingers, an ember in the snow. I hold on to it. Breathe against it, try to let the heat build.

  Mom. Mother. More than anything, I want this to have been real. I want to know what it felt like to be loved without obligations. What it meant to be more than a tool to someone I cared for. I want you to tell me everything will be okay, and I want to believe it. More than anything else, I want to believe it can be okay. I can be okay. Somehow, once this is over, it can all be okay.

  And I know it should feel like a lie: I’ve spent my entire life telling myself I didn’t need or want this. Yet it’s there, burning inside, and the moment I let myself remember it, the heat of longing is almost overpowering.

  “Well done,” Eli whispers at my side.

  I open my eyes to darkness.

  The Wildness stretches before me, an arch of trees beckoning with black branches and whispered breezes. Lights drift and glimmer farther in, and I swear I can hear a strain of music.

  I wrap my hand over the ring, continue focusing on my mother, on the path I wish more than anything else I could walk.

  “Let’s be off,” Eli says, stepping out of Winter and into the world between.

  Eighteen

  The moment we step into the Wildness, all sense of time and space vanishes. Winter falls from sight with the shuffling of trees, and when I glance around, I realize there are no paths here, not anymore. Just endless black trunks and a sky that seems to fluctuate between grey and green. Eli stands at my side, and for the first time since I’ve started working with him, he looks uncertain.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. He actually twitches when I speak, then looks back to the woods. His sunglasses are gone, and his eyes cast a pallid light over the trunks.

  “I don’t like this place,” he whispers.

  “Oh come on, you’re a scary astral creature from a scary astral plane. You’re afraid of the woods?”

  He reaches out and touches a tree. “These aren’t woods,” he says. “Just as these aren’t trees. This is chaos manifest.”

  “I thought you enjoyed chaos.”

  He looks at me as he withdraws his hand.

  “My world was built on chaos, yes. And the rules of my plane are much different from yours. But there are still rules. The chaos itself is simply a state of being. This place . . . this place has an intent. A sentience.”

  I look around for some sort of trail, my fingers brushing over the ring.

  “So you think the woods are alive and out to get you?” I ask.

  “No, Claire. I know the woods are alive. And they’ve already gotten us.” He gestures to the path that was, technically, behind us, but I’m not so sure anymore. “Or do you feel you could easily return to Winter now?”

  I shrug. “That’s what magic is for.”

  “A force, I fear, that holds even less sway or logic here. I’d be wary of spellwork. You channel magic through rules and runes. Here, without such framework, even the magic is wild and untamable.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me any of this before we came in?”

  Now it’s his turn to shrug, but he doesn’t look at ease. It looks as if he’s trying to slough off his fear.

  “You are the Winter assassin,” he says. “I assumed you already knew.”

  “Surprisingly, Mab doesn’t tell me everything.” I mean, yes, I knew that the rules of physics and nature didn’t really apply in the Wildness. But I also knew it was a magical place, a part of Faerie, so I’d just assumed magic would work like always.

  He grins, but he still looks uncertain. I wrap my fingers around the ring and try to visualize my mother. The image is there, and my gut tells me to go toward the right. No path appears at the thought, and the woods to the right are thick and covered in thorns. My gut clenches. What if the ring doesn’t actually work? What if William messed up?

  “Uncertainty will kill us in here,” Eli says. “And that’s not a metaphor.”

  “This way.” I try to sound as if I know what I’m doing, but as I push my way through the underbrush and thorns, it’s hard to keep the illusion alive.

  He doesn’t question, however, and I do my best to keep my thoughts focused on my mother and the ring and that nagging sensation in my chest that tells me I’m going the right way. The trees seem to thicken around us as we walk, and the brambles grow higher, vines twisting around trees like thorned serpents, thick and black and glinting with poison in the half light of the sky. A part of me wants to use magic to summon a ball of light or something, but if Eli’s right, I don’t want to risk it—no use creating a spark that ends up exploding in my face and taking out half the forest. Instead, I rely on the power in the runes on my back and the years of training in the dark of Winter. It’s not night vision, but it’s close enough. If nothing else, I can always just have Eli lead and use his eyes as a flashlight.

  “And you’re sure she’s in here?” Eli asks.

  I nod.

  I’d thought for an instant that perhaps the changeling would take Vivienne home, but that’s a rookie mistake. And that faerie is far from a rookie—the Construct proved as much. No, the Wildness is where you go when you want to hide. Maybe she’s taking Viv to the Pale Queen; maybe she’s just trying to find sanctuary in here. I have no clue. Once I find the changeling bitch, I’ll torture the answer out of her.

  I try not to think about that, lest the Wildness redirect me. Instead, I focus on happy things, like reuniting with my mother, and saving the world, and having a happy ending. Somehow.

  That’s when I hear it. The still air shifts, becomes a warm breeze. One entwined with threads of music and laughter. It’s impossible to really tell, but it sounds as if it’s right in front of us. I can’t see anything through the trees, however, and besides the music, nothing has changed.

  “Please tell me you hear that,” I whisper, turning to look at Eli.

  “The screams for help?” He smiles at me. “Just kidding. Yes, I hear the music. Which, in the world of Faerie, isn’t usually a good sign.”

  He’s right. So many faerie tales involve mortals getting lured to their deaths by song. Despite this, we keep walking forward, toward the strain of violin and fl
ute and drum. It sounds so cheery, so at odds with our dreary surroundings. And right now, I don’t want dreary surroundings. I want to feel happy again, to taste sunlight and drink in joy . . .

  “Claire,” Eli mutters at my side. “Keep your head in the game.”

  “What?” I shake my head—what had I been thinking about?

  “You were smiling. It was highly unlike you. Remember where we are.”

  “I wasn’t smiling,” I say. But then I realize, as I take another step, that I hadn’t been focusing for a few moments. I bring my attention back to the ring, to thoughts of my mother. The pull is there, yes. At least, I think it is. It’s hard to hear it over the music, over the urge to follow it to something better. Surely that’s where my mom went—she likes music. And being happy. Yes, that’s definitely where I should be going.

  I keep my smile to myself as I head toward the melody. This is going to be the reunion we were hoping for. I know it.

  Eli’s saying something at my side, but I can’t hear it over the song. I can’t feel the cold of the woods or the crunch of dead white branches beneath my boots. Just the song, intoxicating me, lifting me up. Until it’s not dark trees around me anymore, but boughs of verdant leaves and filtered sunlight, everything smelling of cedar and willow and lavender. The trees themselves spread out, until we are in a glade of small purple flowers and streams of light, tiny motes of brilliance dancing through the air like dust.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I ask, spreading my arms.

  There’s no response.

  “Eli?” I ask. I look behind me, to where I know Eli was following closely. He’s not there. I stand alone in the glade, warmth dripping from the branches, my lungs filled with sweetness. And I feel good. Really, really good. Like a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, a responsibility . . . Why would I feel responsibility here? Why in the world would I feel anything but joy?

  I laugh and dance around to the music that drifts through the branches. I could stay here forever. In fact, I should stay here forever. I have everything I need: music and sunlight and happiness.

  “You could stay here,” comes a twinkling voice. I stop mid-pirouette and look up into the trees. There, sitting in the branch of an alder, is a tiny faerie the size of my hand. She glows a faint pink in her dress made of rose petals, and her butterfly wings flap lazily.

  “Hello there,” I say. “Who are you?”

  “I am Princess Meadowsweet,” she responds.

  “Pleased to meet you.” And for some reason I feel strange saying that, as though the words aren’t right on my tongue. But why would I say anything else? That would be impolite. “My name is Claire.”

  The faerie hops off the branch and drifts down toward me, small motes of light scattering about her as she flies.

  “I know your name, Claire Warfield. I know very much about you.”

  For some reason, that makes me feel a little uncertain. I glance around. Wasn’t I here with someone? Someone else who wanted to dance with me?

  “I also know why you’re here.”

  Her words bring me back to the moment and away from the music inundating my thoughts.

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Here. In the Land of Milk and Honey.”

  I look around again, but I see no milk or honey. Just emerald trees and rich sunlight.

  She giggles, and it sounds like wind chimes. “No, silly. It is just a name. Though we do have both milk and honey if you so desire it. Whatever you wish, here you will find it. This is Tír na nÓg. And I am the ruler of this land.”

  I open my mouth to ask why she is a princess, then, and not a queen, but decide it would be rude and say nothing.

  “What am I looking for?” I ask instead.

  “For home.”

  Home . . . I shake my head as images swirl around in thick molasses-like currents: sitting in a living room reading a book by the fire, watching Roxie cook me breakfast, saying good night to my mother when she tucks me in . . .

  “No,” I say, and it sounds like a question. “I was looking for someone. I think.”

  “No, my child. I know what your heart desires. You seek a home.” She waves her hand, and with that movement the glade ripples with golden light; when it settles, it’s no longer a scene of lush trees and grass but a living room with overstuffed sofas and thick quilts and the rustle of someone making breakfast in the kitchen. The scent and sound of percolating coffee. The faerie is there, hovering by my shoulder.

  “See?” she whispers like a breeze. “This is what you yearn for. A place to call your own. A haven from the world.”

  I look from her to the kitchen door. I can’t see who’s in there, but my heart feels it, that tug. Just a few feet farther and I can fall into that familiar embrace, be loved and held.

  She’s right. This is what I wanted. To be home. To relax. To be loved. I take a few steps forward, but there’s a knock at the door.

  “Could you get that, sweetie?” comes the voice from the kitchen. So achingly familiar, yet I can’t find the name.

  I nod and turn, and the princess is gone—wait, princess? Why would there be a princess here? I must be more tired than I thought. Good thing coffee is brewing.

  I go to the door and open it to see Mom standing there, arm in arm with Dad. They’re both in thick winter coats and hand-knit hats, both smiling the moment they see me.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, giving Mom a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before Dad wraps me up. “How was the trip?”

  “It was amazing,” Mom says as she steps inside. “You’ll have to come with us next time. You’d love it.”

  Dad takes off his coat and helps Mom unzip hers.

  “Brunch is almost ready,” I say as I take their coats. “You’ll have to tell us all about Dublin. I want pictures.”

  “Of course,” Mom replies. “Just as soon as I’m caffeinated.”

  I chuckle as I hang up their coats in the closet. Some things will never change. As if anyone ever needed proof that we were related.

  “I think we might get snowed in,” Dad says, and I look back to see him staring out the window. “This has been a really weird winter . . .”

  I nod. Something about his words sends chills through me.

  Winter. Winter. Something about winter.

  “Everything okay, hon?” Mom asks. She puts a hand on my shoulder, and it at once feels comforting and wrong, and I can’t figure out why.

  “Yeah, Mom, fine.”

  But you’re not my mother. Not really.

  I shake my head. What in the world am I thinking about? I close the door and look back to ask them about the castle they stayed in, but it’s not my parents and my living room I see. It’s a forest, the leaves bright green and the sun buttery yellow.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask the faerie fluttering at my side.

  “What could be,” she replies. “Or, what could have been.”

  “Who are you?” I respond as the previous conversation unrolls in my memory. “And how the fuck did you brainwash me into being polite?”

  She laughs, but it’s not the light twinkle it was before. This one is tinged in bitterness.

  “You truly are Mab’s child, even if you bear different blood. I told you, this is Tír na nÓg—we are the land of dreams and potential. I thought you should see how good it feels to be civilized, especially when speaking to royalty.”

  I bite my tongue. Civilized my ass.

  I’ve heard of this place. By that I mean Mab’s mentioned that there was a collection of pixies in the Wildness that considered themselves her equal—and by her tone, I knew just how little she thought that to be true. But, pissed as I am for this princess bitch brainwashing me, I know better than to make her angry. I’m in her territory. The last thing I need is for her to think she has to teach me a lesson.

  “My apologies, Princess,” I say instead. “But I’m looking for my mother. And my companion. Asian guy, white suit, demonic blue eyes—seen him?”

/>   She shivers and makes an audible sigh of disgust. “We do not allow his sort here.”

  “Jackasses?”

  She clearly doesn’t get the joke.

  “We have sent him back.”

  “Back? Back where?”

  “To the beginning,” she says. “He is not important, Claire. What is important is why you are here.”

  “To find my mother.”

  “No. To find yourself.”

  I pat myself down. “All here, thanks. Though many have tried to change that.”

  “You try so hard to hide yourself in steel and wit,” the faerie says. “And yet, at your core, you are vulnerable as a child.”

  Immediately, I’m reminded of the couple Eli had me kill. Love makes you weak. And we prey on the weak.

  “It doesn’t matter what I am deep down,” I say, staring into her cold blue eyes. “What matters is what I’ve made myself to be. I’m not here to walk down memory lane. I’m here to find my mother.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, she examines me just as intently as Mab ever did. It makes my skin crawl.

  “Your motivations are unclear,” she muses. “Your heart is torn. One part of you wishes to save your mother, and another wishes to use her for another’s ends. How interesting.”

  I glance away, toward the trees that stretch out into oblivion. I don’t know what it means when even a faerie—usually so good at discerning emotions—can’t figure out what’s going on in my head.

  “I wonder . . . ,” she says.

  Before I can ask her what she’s wondering about, there’s a ripple of light, the feeling of falling into gelatin, and then I hear a familiar voice.

  “You’ve done well,” Mab says.

  She sits atop her towering throne of ebony and ice, her long dress of black silk and fox fur trailing the two stories from peak to floor.

  I kneel before her. Snow drifts lazily from the rafters, but I no longer feel the chill. As a true Princess of Winter, I’m no longer affected by such trivial things as cold. Or fear. Or even, I think, glancing at the woman bound and kneeling at the base of my mother’s throne, of love.

  “What will become of her?” I ask, nodding to the captive.