The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  How did we survive that?

  It must have been magic. No human body could possibly have escaped uncrushed, and even if, by some miracle, she had survived the initial collapse, she should have remained trapped beneath a thousand tons of stone.

  A second crack rang out, and Claire began to circle the remains of the building. She rounded the edge of a wall, still half-standing though mostly buried by stones from the upper portions of the structure, and found the source of the noise.

  The nightmare king put his left wrist against the edge of a rectangular stone and pushed the manacle so that the crystal ring lay on its edge on the stone. He twisted his left hand out of the way as much as possible, raised a sharp stone, and then brought it down with stunning force upon the edge of the crystal. It appeared to be completely unmarked, though the bits of crushed stone testified that the king had been at this for some time.

  Claire stepped closer. “Is it working?”

  The king froze without looking at her. He stared at his hand, at the crusted blood on his bone-thin wrist and on the manacle. “Need the key. Don’t have it,” he muttered.

  Claire approached cautiously. He looked like a live wire spitting electric danger into the air. He glanced at her sideways, just for an instant, and Claire froze again. “Sorry. I’ll stay away if you want.”

  He straightened. His fingers let the stone drop, as if removing the bonds no longer interested him.

  She watched him warily. The soft light of morning was warm and forgiving, far kinder than the harsh mid-day glare. She half-expected violence again and balanced lightly on the balls of her feet, ready to flee if necessary.

  The king merely stood there, swaying slightly as if the breeze threatened his steadiness. He stared blankly down at the stone in front of him. The breeze pressed his shirt to him, outlining his too-thin torso, wiry strength burned away to bone and sinew. He trembled a little; Claire wondered if the wind chilled him. The silence drew out, minute after minute, until Claire imagined she would scream from the tension.

  “What do we do now?” she whispered.

  His magnificent eyes turned to her, and they were empty.

  Yes, they were still a shocking blue-gold-silver that defied description, but there was no spark, no magic, no life behind them. They were empty as the eyes of a mask, devoid of feeling or comprehension.

  “You don’t know either, do you?”

  He tilted his head as he looked at her, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher her words.

  “Do you even understand me at all?”

  He looked back at the stone.

  She took a step closer, then another step. “Can I help?”

  He didn’t react, didn’t appear to have heard her at all. Another step, and another, and then she was almost face to face with him.

  He was quite tall, as she remembered from her dreams. His shirt had once been black but was now thick with light grey stone dust atop the more disgusting stains, some of which might have been blood. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows; his arms were horridly thin and stark-white beneath a thick layer of grime. The manacles around his wrists gleamed bright in the sun, unmarred by any scratches. His trousers had probably once been close-fitting, like those he’s worn in that first dream (or nightmare, or whatever it was) but were now too loose, and his feet were bare and dirty beneath the tattered hems of his trousers.

  “How long has it been for you? How long were you captive?”

  “How long is a piece of string?” he muttered, lips twisting in a snide grimace that vaguely resembled a smile.

  “What do you need?” She studied him, the way his shoulders were somehow hunched slightly, as if hiding some pain, and yet more upright than most men ever stood, as if he couldn’t remember how to slouch. “Are you hungry?”

  He frowned faintly. His eyebrows were so pale she might have thought he didn’t have any, except that the dirt on his face made them visible. “I don’t remember.” He shot her a sharp glance, as if he wondered whether she were responsible for such a memory lapse. “You don’t have anything to eat, though.”

  “I lost my bag.”

  “Careless of you.” He turned to look over the grassy hills. “I don’t like this place.”

  “I imagine not,” Claire murmured, still watching him.

  “Smells like a trap.” He cast his gaze over the landscape again, then took off down the hill, long strides eating up the distance. Claire jogged after him, startled at his speed.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He looked toward her suddenly, eyes blank and uncomprehending. “How should I know?” he snarled.

  “Then why are we in such a hurry?” she puffed.

  He slowed a little, and she imagined it was only to let her keep pace with him. His face contorted for a moment in a rictus of pain and frustration, but he said nothing.

  They reached the edge of the immense forest some time later. The king plunged in without a pause, and Claire followed him more cautiously. He followed no path, and the branches he swept effortlessly out of his way flipped back into her face. After a particularly sharp thwack in the cheek, she snapped, “Could you possibly be any less considerate?”

  He stopped and turned on one bare heel to look down at her. “Probably not. I didn’t know you were there.” His voice had regained the supercilious air she remembered from the first dream. He tilted his head and studied her face without acknowledging her glare. “I know you,” he murmured at last.

  “Well, I should hope so!”

  He frowned faintly, his eyes flicking to the chain around her neck and back to her face. “Where did you get that necklace?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had it for years.” She tugged on the pendant self-consciously. She never really thought about the necklace; it was just hers, familiar and comforting. Why would he ask about it?

  His eyes narrowed. Claire took a step backward, half-expecting him to lunge after her, teeth snapping and fingers grasping. He’s insane.

  “Come on, then,” he growled, and turned to continue striding through the forest.

  Mist gathered in the shadows between the trees.

  The king slowed to a cautious walk. Claire realized, somewhat belatedly, that for the past few hours he had been holding the branches aside for her rather than letting them snap back into her face.

  “Thanks for not smacking me in the face with the branches,” she said, her voice sounding loud in the immense silence of the forest. He didn’t acknowledge her words, and she added, “I’m getting hungry. Can you magic us some dinner or something?”

  “No.”

  The word had a dull finality to it that gave her pause.

  She jogged a few steps to catch him by the arm. At her touch, he stopped as if electrified. She could feel him trembling beneath her fingers, and she pulled back. “I thought you were magic,” she said. “Feighlí said you could do practically anything.” Except rescue yourself and get those manacles off, she corrected herself.

  He raised a hand in a gesture that clearly meant quiet, and his empty eyes flicked to the left, then ahead of them. “Come,” he murmured.

  “What is it?”

  His steps quickened, and her jog turned into a sprint, and still she could not keep up.

  Branches slapped her face as they ran headlong, and his hand was on her arm, dragging her with impossible speed, faster and faster. Her legs flew and she stumbled, unable to keep pace. The king caught her in his arms, and for a moment she felt his wiry strength speeding her away.

  Then he made a strange, strangled sound and she was tumbling down a long slope. Stones and grass and sand, pine needles and oak leaves and beech bark flashed by in a tumult.

  Orange tongues of flame flickered in a vast stone fireplace. The nightmare king sat in a worn velvet chair just to Claire’s left, dirty boots beside his sock-covered feet. He shifted, put his head in one hand, and stretched his feet toward the fire.

  “Is this a dream too?” Claire asked. />
  “In a manner of speaking,” he murmured, his voice scarcely audible over the crackling of the fire.

  “Does that mean I’m unconscious?”

  He sighed softly. The shadow of his hand hid his eyes. “I can’t tell you much. It would… complicate things.”

  Claire studied the line of his jaw as the light played over him. The soft, dark fabric of his shirt looked refined and aristocratic rather than threatening. His wild hair looked… well, it seemed to fit him.

  “Why would it complicate things?” she asked finally.

  “Paradoxes are risky at the best of times.” He straightened and turned toward her. His eyes sparked, the blue-gold-silver flashing in the firelight. “This timeline is…” He hesitated, his lips twitching as if he were considering words and then discarding them. “It’s complicated,” he said at last, with a bitter little smile.

  “So you travel through time?” Claire felt more comfortable with this version of the king. He seemed less like a nightmare king and more like a fairy king, the air around him crackling with magic. “Time travel is impossible.”

  “Why?” He tilted his head and smiled at her.

  For a moment his smile took her breath away; it was moonlight on water, lightning in the clouds, the scent after a summer rain.

  “Because of, well, physics, I guess.” She felt herself mentally flailing, scrabbling for some handhold of rationality in which the conversation would make sense.

  “You understand physics?” His eyes sparkled a little, as if he wanted to laugh but knew it would be discourteous.

  “Well, no. Because of paradoxes, then. You know, accidentally killing your own grandfather or something.”

  “Ah. But a paradox is not impossible in a dream. Dreams can be crammed full of paradoxes.” His smile was sunlight. “And as for time, haven’t you ever dreamed of the future? Or the past? Certainly you’ve dreamed of things you could not know except in your dream. Or dreamed an epic journey but woken to find that only a few minutes had passed. Or perhaps you’ve dreamed of doing something differently in the past?” His gaze intensified, and Claire had the feeling that she was falling into the depths of eyes. “Time exists in dreams, but of course it’s much more pliable.”

  Claire shook her head, shook off the hypnotic beauty of his eyes and the seductive layers of his voice. “Still, that’s only in dreams. It’s not real!”

  “Do you believe dreams are not real? Why?” He tilted his head a little, his eyes sweeping over her face.

  “Well…”

  “As for paradox, how about ‘you must become who you have always been’?”

  She froze, staring at him. “Care you explain?”

  “Now that would be a paradox.” Affection lit his smile.

  Chapter 21

  Damp moss pressed into Claire’s cheek. She took stock of her injuries slowly, carefully moving each aching part and evaluating the pain before she pushed herself to her feet.

  Claire’s head ached, and she raised a hand to gently run her fingers over the scar. Her fingertips were cold against her scalp, and she shivered. Her hair was growing out, a soft dusting of dark brown hair that felt like velvet.

  The ravine stretched to her left and right, with a friendly little stream burbling at the bottom. Tall hills rose behind her and before her; worn rocks poked their heads through the thick layers of moss and fallen leaves in a few places.

  Thirst made her mouth dry. The water looked clear and devoid of any obviously hostile inhabitants, but she still studied it carefully before reaching out to cup some water in her hand.

  “Don’t!” the king barked from behind her. He snatched her wrist and jerked her roughly away from the water.

  “I’m thirsty,” Claire snapped. “There’s nothing here! It’s fine.” She pulled away from him.

  “Is there not?” The king gestured invitingly toward the water.

  A ghostly stain spread through the water, apparently unaffected by the ripples and eddies. A face appeared and grinned at the king. “So possessive.”

  “I should have known,” Claire muttered. “It probably bites, doesn’t it?”

  “Most things do in these lands,” he said in a low voice. “Come away from the water.”

  She stepped back carefully, noticing that he edged between her and the water even as she retreated. He can be chivalrous. The thought made her warm a little toward him.

  Then he turned and strode away without looking at her, following the creek upstream. Claire followed, frowning at his back.

  “There’s something on your shirt,” she said.

  He stopped and glanced back at her. “Blood, I presume.”

  She blinked. Yes, of course it was blood. It was rust-red. But for an instant, the smear had appeared blue, right at the edge of his worn collar, where it smeared into his white-blond hair.

  What an odd trick of the light.

  “It looked strange for a moment,” she muttered. “Actually, I should be asking if you’re all right.”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “Where are we going?” Her voice followed him as he turned to continue walking. “Because I’m going to need water eventually. Also I don’t see how asking if you’re all right is irrelevant.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, though his steps slowed. “South.”

  “Why south?” She caught up to him and glanced at his face. He stopped and put a hand to his head, his long, thin fingers covering his eyes. “Are you dizzy?”

  “The loss is disorienting,” he murmured. He staggered, and she caught at his arm. He flinched away and then stumbled to his knees, pressing both hands against his temples.

  Claire stretched her feet toward the fire. The room was cool, and the warmth was welcome.

  The nightmare king appeared to be half-asleep in the opposite chair.

  “Why am I here?” Claire asked. “When is this, anyway? Why would I be dreaming of something that hasn’t happened yet and won’t ever happen?”

  The king made a series of intricate gestures with his left hand, leaving a trail of faintly glowing sparks in the air.

  “You insist on speaking as if dreams are not real.” His voice was softly seductive, velvet promises and sunlit mornings.

  “They’re not. They’re just… dreams.”

  He glanced at her, his eyes sparkling with hidden mirth. “Just because in your experience dreams and what you call ‘the real world’ do not often interact does not mean that one is more real than the other. Nor does it mean they cannot interact. You know this.” His thin lips lifted in a faint smirk, as if her confusion were darkly amusing to him. “You dream of things that affected you in the other world, and sometimes what you dream affects how you think and act when you are not dreaming.”

  She studied him, how the light glittered in his dandelion-fluff hair, how his long, pale fingers rested on his knees. His hands were not as relaxed as his posture would imply, nor as his voice seemed to convey.

  “Yes, that’s true.” She watched his face. “But that’s because dreams are just thoughts. They only exist in my head. Just because they feel real doesn’t mean they are real.”

  “You have no reliable basis for that opinion. You formed it based on your experience, which I suppose is logical enough.” A sardonic smile flickered around his lips. “But your experience does not include magic, and you interpret everything as if time were a line, with you moving steadily along it with no way to change position other than by waiting, no way to skip ahead or jump back, or even to truly see any point other than where you are.” He gestured gracefully. “This is so far from reality that we might compare it to someone who believes in a flat earth because it agrees with what they see… or at least, they think it does.”

  Claire felt her heartbeat quicken in anger, and pushed the feeling down. This was a dream; besides, at least the nightmare king wasn’t threatening her.

  “Do you enjoy making yourself feel superior?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “Is
that what you think I’m doing?” The smile on his lips flickered and faded. “Oh, you do.” The spark in his eyes flashed oddly, and he looked toward the fire. “Very well.” One narrow hand tightened on his knee, and then he murmured, “The best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.”

  “Are you dying of a broken heart?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. “Forgive me if I don’t believe that.”

  “I forgive you everything.” His words were nearly inaudible. “Not that you’ll believe that either.”

  “What have I ever done to you?” She frowned, genuinely curious now. This version of him is delusional as well. Then guilt assailed her, and she muttered, “Other than burn the palm of your hand off, I mean.”

  A soft chuckle startled her. She hadn’t imagined that he could laugh, much less that it would sound like music.

  “I’d forgotten that,” he murmured. He seemed to be looking at the fire, but she caught a flash of blue as he glanced at her. “You were magnificent, you know. So brave and furious. You had no idea what you were doing.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He gave a full-throated laugh that made the very air tremble with mirth. “Oh yes, you did.” His smile held no trace of bitterness, and he glanced at her as though they were sharing an especially funny joke. “Of all the pains I have suffered, that is the most trivial of unpleasant memories. I console myself with the memory of your eyes blazing in righteous anger, your lips raspberry red. I almost kissed you, you know.”

  Claire stood abruptly, trembling with anger. “You are mocking me!” she cried. “You… you insufferable, arrogant, selfish, thoughtless, stupid man! I’m trying to figure out how to save your tail and you’re making fun of me.”

  He drew back, his eyebrows drawing downward in an apparently genuine expression of confusion. “I have no tail.”