The Lord of Dreams

by C. J. Brightley

  Something roared beneath her.

  Claire looked down to see the nightmare king facing a huge black dog. From her vantage point, a regular dog would have looked small, but this one looked as large as a horse, with small ebony horns jutting from its skull and eyes that glowed like coals.

  “What is that?” she cried.

  The king didn’t answer. The animal lunged at him. Somehow he had managed to grab a fist-sized rock in one hand, and he dealt the creature a stunning blow as he slipped out of its reach.

  The beast snarled, and the ground shook, making the leaves tremble around Claire.

  It flew at the king again. He sidestepped, but it twisted with impossible speed and sank its teeth into his shoulder. It shook him and flung him aside.

  Claire screamed as it placed its front feet against the tree and leapt at her. Its teeth snapped closed millimeters from her ankle, and then something jerked her nearly off the branch.

  As soon as the beast’s feet touched the ground it prepared to leap again. She pulled herself back on the branch and reached for the next, but could not reach it. She looked down at the ground.

  The knife! The monster’s foot had caught the leather of the sheath, popped the rivet on the loop, and pulled it completely off her belt. It lay on the ground far out of reach.

  “Help!” Terror made her voice high and shrill.

  What right do I have to ask him for help?

  The king was crumpled in a boneless heap, bleeding from a gaping wound in one shoulder. His head turned weakly in her direction, his eyes glassy.

  She didn’t ask for help again. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, for him to even try to save her when he was clearly dying. But she wished, with all her heart, that he had the strength to rise and help her. “I wish he could help,” she breathed.

  She shrank away from the beast’s snapping teeth.

  And then the king rose, bloody and implacable. He wrapped a bit of cloth around his hand and darted over to pick up Claire’s knife. The fight raged across the clearing and back, inhuman speed against monstrous hunger.

  Once, twice, and a third time he struck at the creature, until it slowed for a moment and he plunged the knife into its throat, avoiding the still snapping teeth.

  The creature died in a gurgle of red-black blood, back feet thrashing. Its strange, glowing eyes fixed on the king, and its teeth clicked together in fading menace until it lay still.

  The king stood in the center of the tiny clearing covered in blood, swaying slightly. “It is safe to come down now,” he said in a low voice.

  I’m not so sure about that. The thought slithered through Claire’s mind.

  He glanced at her, his strange eyes blank but for a dark, momentary flash that Claire could not interpret.

  “Are you afraid of me?” The words were nearly inaudible.

  Claire chewed her lip. He had risen from a grievous wound to kill a monster to save her. But his eyes were empty and dark, and he held the knife as it was part of him, and he moved with speed and ferocity that were entirely inhuman. He was dangerous and feral, and he did not know himself, much less her.

  “You need not be.” He tossed the knife to the ground between them and turned away.

  The immense, terrible silence of the forest pressed upon her as she climbed down, her hands trembling as she tried, unsuccessfully, to grip the rough bark. She fell the last eight feet, landing with a clumsy roll and a twinge of pain in her shins.

  Claire studied him from what she imagined was a safe distance before she looked at the knife. It had been covered in dark blood, but as she watched, the last of the blood sizzled away, leaving the metal clean and bright. She picked it up and slid it back into the sheath, which she stuck in her pocket.

  The king said nothing, and she looked up at him. He stood in the same spot, hands hanging loose at his sides, staring vacantly off into the underbrush. His black shirt was streaked with gore.

  “Thank you,” she said finally. “I thought…” Didn’t I see him hurt? I thought he was dying, but maybe it happened so fast I imagined it.

  A drip of dark blood fell from the end of one long finger into the leaves. Then another.

  “Are you all right?” Claire ventured.

  The king said something that she couldn’t quite hear.

  She edged closer.

  Another drop.

  “Let me see it. You’re hurt, aren’t you?” Her voice shook.

  He twitched at the sound of her voice, as if she had woken him from a trance.

  “It was a barghest. They’re always lethal.” His voice was devoid of inflection.

  “Let me see the wound,” she said. Sudden, fierce fury rose in her. She would not let him die from some dog bite after all the trouble of rescuing him. Not now. Not like this.

  She touched his wrist, panic almost crowding out her fury as she saw the blood slicking his palm.

  He took a deep breath, as if fighting dizziness, then put out his other hand against a tree branch.

  “Sit down.”

  He turned to put his back against the trunk, his eyes wide and glazed. His pupils were dilated so that his brilliant irises nearly disappeared.

  Yet he remained on his feet.

  “Sit down,” she repeated.

  He slid down the tree trunk to sit propped against it. The bark pulled his shirt up unevenly.

  She murmured, “I’m going to help you lie down.”

  His thin lips rose in an odd grimace that might have been a smile. “For what purpose? There is little comfort to be had now. I’d rather die upright.”

  “You’re not going to die!” she snapped. “I won’t let you.”

  His vacant eyes slid over her face, and for an instant she thought she saw a flicker of something, some glimmer of him inside, a hint of the sardonic, mocking, brilliant king. Then all his muscles seemed to stiffen, and he gasped. When the tension left him, he still breathed, but shallowly and much too fast. His eyes were closed.

  Claire used the knife to cut the sleeve of his shirt off. For an instant the back edge of the blade touched his skin with a hiss like that of cooking meat, and she jerked it away, not noticing that tears slipped down her cheeks.

  The barghest had torn his shoulder to the bone. She didn’t know anything about anatomy, but she thought the bite must have severed an artery; blood seemed to be flooding the ugly mess of torn flesh with a discernible rhythm.

  She glanced at her jeans, at the dirt crusted on the sturdy fabric, and then, with considerable effort, cut a generous section off the bottom edge of her shirt. She folded it and pressed it to the wound, leaning on it with both hands.

  She closed her eyes, trying to believe that the warm liquid soaking the cloth, seeping between her fingers, was coming out more slowly than before.

  The king snorted softly. “That’s not going to work, you know.”

  Claire glanced up at him, then back down at his supine form. The king bleeding under her hands had a waxy cast to his pale features; his eyes were sunken and shadowed, and his lips were tight in an almost hidden grimace of pain. Blood continued to seep through the cloth, slicking her hands and soaking into the forest floor.

  She looked up at him again, leaning unconcerned against a nearby tree.

  “It’s not?” Her voice sounded raw in her own ears. “What would you suggest, then?”

  He chuckled, the sound like sunlight flickering on water. “Oh, if it were that easy, we wouldn’t be stuck in this dance, would we?”

  “Answer the question!” Claire cried. “Don’t you even want to live?”

  “Of course I do.” He gave her a soft, remonstrative look. “But this is for you to discover. I can’t tell you or it won’t work at all.”

  “Do you mean it really wouldn’t work or do you just want to make me dance like a puppet?” she growled in bitter frustration. She glared down at the king’s too-still features. “You’re manipulative! I hate being a pawn in some game I don’t understand.”

 
He knelt beside her. His white-blond hair tickled her neck, and she trembled, inhaling moonlight and magic, ozone and frost. “You were never a pawn, Claire Delaney.” He smiled, thin lips lifting in a dangerous smile that sent tremors down her spine that had nothing to do with blood or fear. “You have been the knight, moving crooked through the world. And you have been the castle, unbreached and unyielding. And, perhaps, someday, you shall be queen.” His gaze slipped away from her eyes to caress her cheek, the slim line of her neck, her shoulders, down the curve of her breasts, her hips, and over her legs folded beneath her as she knelt in the leaves.

  She flushed red, though she couldn’t tell whether it was outrage, embarrassment, or sheer annoyance that made her cheeks heat.

  Then his eyes met hers again, dancing like lightning across the sky. “Never, ever, call yourself a pawn, Claire.”

  “Argh!” Claire screamed in frustration. “I wish you’d wake up, you stupid arrogant git!”

  The king blinked at her from his position on the ground.

  They stared at each other a moment cautiously. The king’s eyes still had that odd vacant look, but at least his pupils had retracted to something approaching normal.

  After a long, uncomfortable minute, the king rasped, “I think the bleeding has nearly stopped.” He sucked in a pained breath, and added, “You really can’t bring yourself to respect any rule or precedent, can you?”

  Claire let up the pressure on the king’s wound, half-expecting more blood to suddenly well up between her fingers.

  “How much does it hurt?”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed look that almost convinced her that he had his mind back, at least for that moment. “Rather a lot, actually.” He closed his eyes again, as if the words had used all his strength.

  “You said barghests were always fatal. You looked like you were dying.” Was that accusation or merely shock in her voice? Even Claire herself couldn’t tell.

  “I was.” He didn’t open his eyes.

  “So what happened?”

  He was silent for so long that Claire put her hand near his mouth to feel his breath, wondering if he was still alive.

  The air moved almost imperceptibly, but that was all that could be said for him. He gave no indication of being conscious.

  Not knowing what else to do, Claire sat beside him, resting her head against the rough tree bark.

  As the adrenaline slowly faded, her body shook with trembling. Nausea rose, but she kept her head back and her eyes closed, willing herself to be brave.

  I’m not really brave. But I can pretend I am, at least for a while. For this moment, I can pretend that I am heroic and that this will all end well.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” The king leaned one narrow hip elegantly against the edge of his desk.

  “Isn’t what obvious?”

  Light streamed in through the windows of the study and made his wild hair glow like white gold.

  His eyebrows drew downward in an expression of hurt and disappointment. “You saw that I was dying.”

  “I thought I did.” Claire’s voice shook. “But then I thought I’d imagined it. I wondered if you’d been deceiving me.”

  The breath puffed out of him almost inaudibly, and she raised her eyes to his. The pain in his eyes made her heart give an unsteady little lurch.

  “I guess I misunderstood,” she breathed.

  “I guess so.” His voice was flat. He turned away and strode to the window, his shoulders straight and proud. Then he bowed his head bowed and buried his face in his hands.

  Claire stepped to his side, her footsteps soft and careful on the gleaming marble floor. “What did I misunderstand? That you’re brave? I don’t think I ever questioned that.”

  He rubbed his hands hard over his face and let them drop. A faint, melancholy smile flickered over his lips. “At least that’s something,” he murmured.

  When he met her gaze again, the blue and gold and silver seemed to spark like lightning, electric current running through her veins.

  He raised one hand as if he meant to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers, but hesitated, his fingers millimeters from her skin. “I remember you with more hair.”

  She scowled at him. “Yeah, well, I wrecked my car and had to have brain surgery. They shaved it all off.” Her lips trembled. “I’m not exactly happy about it, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather not dwell on the subject.”

  His eyes swept over her, slowly, as if he were drinking her in. “I didn’t…” He cleared his throat. “Your hair, or lack thereof, has no bearing on… events.”

  A strange light shone in his eyes.

  “You think I’m pretty even though I’m practically bald?” Claire’s voice was harsh. “I’m the farthest thing from pretty I ever remember being. I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

  He withdrew a little, his jaw tight and his eyes glittering with an emotion she could not identify. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t ‘think you’re pretty.’”

  Claire sucked in her breath. Even a stupid kid would know enough to answer that question correctly, to read the pain in her voice and know it wasn’t the time for flippant insults.

  His next words barely reached her ears through the haze of grief and anger.

  “Your hair is not you. It is like a shirt you wear. It changes, and it has no effect on who are.” The king’s long, pale fingers touched her cheek. His skin was warm, the touch so light it might have been a butterfly’s wing. He lifted her chin, and she knew he could feel her trembling, see the tears streaking her flushed cheeks. He bent toward her, and for an instant she thought he might kiss her. Then he leaned further and murmured into her ear, “You, Claire Maeve Delaney, are brilliantly, magnificently human.” As he withdrew, he pressed a kiss against the corner of her mouth, light as birdsong and bright as the morning sun.

  The sound of rustling leaves woke Claire from her doze. She blinked blearily at the king, who had managed to push himself into a sitting position just in front of her.

  “You look awful,” Claire breathed.

  It was true. He’d been pale before, but now his skin was the dead white of old bones, his pallor only highlighted by the dried blood streaking his neck and stiffening his shirt. His eyes were sunken and deeply shadowed.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  The hint of dry humor startled her, and she looked more closely at him, half-expecting some spark in his eyes. He stared blankly back at her.

  “Are you sane again? Do you know what we’re doing? Do you know where we’re going?” Her voice shook.

  He blinked slowly. Perhaps he was fighting pain or dizziness or exhaustion; some expression flashed over his face far too quickly for her to interpret. The silence drew out so long that Claire licked her lips, then gathered her courage to touch his wrist. “Do you understand at all?”

  He stared at her hand, at her dirty fingers resting lightly on the fresh scars on his wrist. Then he placed his other hand over hers, long, narrow fingers threading through hers with infinite tenderness.

  “I trust you,” he whispered.

  Chapter 24

  Claire wept.

  Sobs shook her, but she kept them silent. Who knew what other horrors lurked among the trees?

  The king slept beside her, gaunt and pale and uncomprehending.

  Eventually her tears died away. Hungry and exhausted, she sat by the king, not knowing what to do.

  Now I’m the one with the thousand-yard stare.

  The tree bark dug into her back, and she shifted her shoulders.

  Something knobby in her pocket pulled against the fabric, and she frowned. What could possibly be in her pocket? She dug her hand into the cloth and pulled out a slightly mashed scone.

  Her eyes widened. From her other pocket, she produced a chunk of cheese, several slices of apple, and a handful of dried cranberries.

  “I thought that was a dream,” she murmured.

  The king, unconscious on the leaves beside her, let out a sof
t, pained breath.

  Hunger clawed at her belly; besides in the dream, she had eaten nothing since she had entered Faerie. That meant… what? Three days? No, probably more like four.

  Claire frowned, looking at the king’s face again. Four days was longer than she’d ever gone without eating before. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, especially with the running and jumping and terror. But… well, she was alive, and though her stomach growled and she felt an odd, tingly emptiness at the ends of her fingers, she wasn’t exactly dying of hunger. Hungry, yes. Starving, not yet.

  The king, on the other hand, looked like he hadn’t eaten in months. He’d been wiry and lean; now he was emaciated.

  Her mouth watered, and she closed her eyes, imagining the tart sweetness of the cranberries against her tongue. She imagined the rich creaminess of the cheese and the cinnamon spice of the scone.

  She broke the scone into two pieces and then hesitated. One portion was noticeably larger than the other. She put the bigger piece on an enormous flat leaf, then divided the cheese into roughly equal pieces and put the larger one next to the larger piece of scone. She divided the apple slices and cranberries in a similar manner.

  Claire ate the scone first, taking tiny bites hoping it would be more satisfying to eat it slowly. It was dry, and though the flavor was exquisite, the texture reminded her of the thirst that had been lurking at the edge of her awareness for hours.

  The king studied her for some time before she noticed he was awake.

  “Here.” She gestured toward the leaf with the larger portion of food. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  His strange, blank eyes slid to the scone and his eyebrows drew down. “Where did you get that?”

  The lump in her throat seemed to choke her. “From you, I think. In a dream.”

  One corner of his mouth rose in a quick, bemused smile. “Interesting,” he murmured. His lips tightened in pain as he sat up.

  Claire motioned at the food, her mouth full.

  He glanced at her, and there was a flicker in his eyes, a glimmer of comprehension that gave her hope for an instant before it faded. He looked back at the food and swallowed. “You need it more than I do,” he muttered.