Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  Had he slept with any of those girls who hung around him? If with them, why not with her? She shuddered at her own tormenting thoughts. She tried not to feel ungraciously jealous of her own brother for being close to Jon, but it was hard. She couldn’t shake off the bittersweet longing to be in Luc’s place, cherished and chosen; the anguish that it wasn’t so.

  “And you think you can travel through in a trance?” she asked.

  “We can,” Jon said enigmatically. “We have. Want to try?”

  “Is it safe?”

  Jon pulled a face at her. “Of course it isn’t. So?”

  “What do I do?” she asked. He and Luc exchanged a glance.

  “Er,” said Luc, “oh, we meditate, like you would in yoga. Imagine the rocks opening, and what you might see on the other side. That sort of thing.”

  “Green Elysion,” said Jon. “Sibeyla, realm of air. Naamon’s fiery deserts, Melusiel of the lakes. And Asru, the mysterious heart.”

  She felt the dawn breeze winding around her, smelled the fragrance of bracken. Every sense warned her that this was a bad idea—but it was a chance to involve herself with Jon. Feeling self-conscious, she sat cross-legged before the rocks and closed her eyes. She visualized . . .

  The guy she’d slept with who looked the most like Jon, but wasn’t. A project she must complete on hybrids. What color to help Faith dye her hair. Her growling stomach, gods, she was so hungry how could she think about anything else?

  There was no sense of a deeper self or the latent powers an Aetherial should command. The rocks remained solid. She tried to blend into the Dusklands, but the rocks gave off a furry buzz like static that physically pushed her out. She felt as earthbound as any human.

  Someone laughed.

  A sharp feeling that they were laughing at her, humoring her naive desire to help, brought her up short. She opened her eyes; Jon and Luc had gone to sit with the others, and no one was mocking her, or paying her any attention at all. She sighed in relief.

  The morning light shone like thin honey. Through it, she saw Jon gilded by the sunrise, hands resting loosely on his knees, hair streaming around his perfect profile—she’d never seen him look more beautiful. He looked like a da Vinci angel, porcelain-pure and untouchable, long lashes veiling the liquid darkness of his eyes. That image burned itself into her memory, sublime and golden, and she almost wept at the sweet pain. She knew she daren’t hope for anything; yet she was powerless to stop herself yearning.

  Jon opened his eyes, saw her looking at him. “See anything?” he called.

  “No, sorry. Think I’m too tired.”

  “Not to worry. You tried,” he said, and rewarded her with a radiant, laughing smile that bathed her with heat like the sun.

  There was something about flying that Lawrence found soothing; the drone of the engines, and the clouds drifting beneath reminding him of his home realm, Sibeyla. On his flight home from New York, he sat half-remembering, half-dreaming, and he was there again, among the airy heights of Sibeyla’s mountains with its spired cities . . .

  He’d hardly known his mother, Maia. She had followed her own call deep into the Spiral when he was tiny; he recalled her dark red hair, nothing more. He’d been raised by his father, Albin, a tall man of marble-pale skin and swan-white hair. Albin, though, was a cold, complicated, withdrawn man who brooded about Maia and gave Lawrence only discipline and criticism—when he acknowledged him at all.

  Love came from his grandmother Liliana; but she was the Gatekeeper, and lived on Earth, so he rarely saw her. One day Liliana came to them and said that when her time was over, the mantle of Gatekeeper would pass not to her son Albin, but to Lawrence.

  Albin had greeted the news in steely silence. Lawrence, still a child, had argued with her; surely his father was her rightful heir?

  “It doesn’t work in that way,” she’d answered gently. “The lych-light is bestowed by the Spiral Court. It usually stays within our branch of the House of Sibeyla, yes, but not in direct line. It means that you must come with me to Vaeth, the surface world, so I can teach you.”

  Liliana was full of life and wisdom, Albin glacial and distant. Of course he wanted to go with her. He was torn by guilt; it seemed wrong to leave his father when Maia, too, had abandoned him. But he knew he must follow Liliana . . .

  The figure of his father stood luminous against shifting bluish gloom, as Lawrence made ready to leave. “You really mean to go?” Albin said thinly. “Turn your back upon Sibeyla for the easier pleasures of Vaeth? In becoming Vaethyr you become lesser. You degrade yourself. If I had my way there would be no Gates, and no contact with the human world at all.”

  Lawrence was in agony. Nothing he said or did had ever pleased his father. Whatever he chose he couldn’t win; but Liliana’s call on him was stronger. “I have to go with Grandmother,” he said.

  “Then know this.” Albin opened his hand and showed him a tablet of pale crystal with symbols carved in its surface. Lawrence recognized them. Dread pooled in his limbs. “I hold your heart, soul and core hostage within this Elfstone. Your soul-essence. If you leave, you leave without it. If you do not come back, you will live on Vaeth without your heart and soul for the rest of your existence.”

  Darkness rushed up around him.

  As small child . . . far back in the fog of Otherworld time . . . he’d been haunted by a ghost face that rose over his cot when he was alone. It was two-dimensional, the color of ice in shadow, and it never spoke. It simply appeared, telling him without words that it would always haunt him. A childhood fancy? No, it was too terrifying to be so dismissed. He couldn’t explain it. From infancy, he’d simply understood that he was confronting a lifelong enemy, a terrible, irrational, ravenous tormentor.

  His very existence meant he had an opponent hell-driven to challenge that existence—like Qesoth, the fire elemental who couldn’t exist without casting a shadow, Brawth. Lawrence knew that his only protection against it was his own essence—and Albin had stolen that away.

  He’d never told another soul what Albin had done to him that day. He’d simply lived with it in desolate silence, knowing that he could never be the Gatekeeper Liliana wanted; that he was doomed to fail both her and his father. But part of him thought, Damn you, Albin. If I displease you by leaving, by mining and selling sacred stones, by possessing the lych-light that you think should have been yours—good. May you choke upon your displeasure.

  The dream twisted towards nightmare and Lawrence was back in Ecuador again.

  From his chair on the verandah, he could see the head of the cleft valley where albinite oozed like petrified tears from the scarlet rock of Naamon. In twilight Valle Rojo twinkled with tiny lights like the eyes of dryads. All around, the rain forest writhed and chirruped with life. The heat was soporific, the chair beside him—empty.

  It was shortly after Ginny had stormed out on him. He’d fled back here, away from the chill of England, the shadows of Stonegate, the formless monster that menaced him. Without Ginny’s discontent, he could stay here forever; but without her, staying seemed pointless. Living in the enveloping cocoon of heat, or existing on the chilly edge of death—it was all the same now.

  He saw someone approaching; a heavyset man dressed in khaki like a big-game hunter. The shine of the bald head was unmistakable. As casual as a tourist, the man paused to admire the view before padding up the verandah steps.

  “You should really have a bodyguard, Lawrence,” he said, puffing. Sweat gleamed on the fleshy red face set on a bull neck. The eyebrows quirked up like demon horns. “I could be anyone. I might have had a gun.”

  “So might I,” Lawrence said thinly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Just passing.” Eugene Barada dropped into the chair beside him with the whumph of a small hippo. His accent was staccato South African. “On your own?”

  Lawrence showed no reaction. “Drink?” he said, pouring whiskey.

  “If you haven’t poisoned it.” Barada took the tumbl
er. “How is your lovely wife?”

  Lawrence gazed at the steamy shadows of the valley. “Virginia and I are no longer together.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, old man,” said Barada. “Amazing she stood you as long as she did.”

  Lawrence didn’t answer. The jungle seemed to expand and contract with his heartbeat. Slow rage roiled inside him. “What do you want?”

  “The same as I always want. How much more reasonable can I be? I could charge you rent or throw you off the land. Instead, I’m offering to buy you out. Name your price.”

  Eugene Barada was a land speculator who claimed ownership of this obscure strip of rain forest. Years ago, he’d stumbled upon the hidden valley and threatened Lawrence’s workers. Lawrence had seen him off, but Barada had come back with armed men and tried to take the mine by force. In contempt, Lawrence had called up the horrors of Dumannios to drive them mad and screaming into the jungle—but Barada simply would not give up.

  It had been the start of a long, bitter feud. Lawrence didn’t care about Barada’s legal title. Valle Rojo was of the Dusklands, the mine an interstice to Naamon, albinite an Otherworld gem; none of it the concern of any mortal. Barada, though, persisted; legal action, armed force, nothing would shift Lawrence, but the South African wouldn’t give up. They were like two bulldogs locked on each other’s throats.

  The more he feared failing as Gatekeeper, the more the shadow that haunted Lawrence had grown in power. Fear had made him obsessive. That obsession was, in part, what had driven Ginny away. She could no longer live with the darkness that possessed him. Since she’d left, though, the shadow had increased a thousandfold and he felt it haunting the Spiral beyond the Gates, waiting for him.

  Sweat began to trickle beneath his collar. “You can’t afford it,” he said.

  At that, Barada’s eyes lit up with orange fire reflected from the verandah lamps. He carefully put down his glass. “One day I’ll take it from you like that”—he snapped his fingers under Lawrence’s nose—“and you will never see it coming.”

  Lawrence laughed. “Learn your folktales. ‘The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs?’ The cleft is an interstice to the Otherworld and I have the power to close it. Claim the mine and you’d be looking at barren rock—if you could find it at all. How much more will you sacrifice on this pointless quest?”

  Red with anger, Barada hauled himself out of his seat and clumped down the verandah steps. “Leaving so soon, Eugene?” said Lawrence.

  Barada turned and looked back. “Speaking of folktales, there is a type of fairy who thieves and steals,” he said through heavy breaths. “But she only does it to those who deserve it, because they are so careless of their possessions.”

  Then Lawrence made his great mistake. It came from Ginny leaving, from fear, and from complete exhaustion. He simply wanted this to end. He clasped the heavy handgun that lay at his hip, raised and aimed it at Barada’s heart . . .

  To Lawrence, murder was utter weakness. It had become the Aetherial code, after the ancient conflicts, to use any means but physical violence against your enemies. Not that everyone abided by it, far from it, but that was the ideal. To pull the trigger was to slide into the absolute black pit of moral depravity, an invitation to the great shadow to break its chains and rampage across the universe . . .

  He aimed the gun at Barada’s chest and fired. The bullet exploded into his enemy’s flesh. Barada toppled, staring at Lawrence in blank amazement that he’d done something as prosaic and final as shoot him.

  Lawrence staggered to the place where the body had fallen and uttered a scream of anguish. Too late, he grasped a hideous possibility, that Barada was not merely human but an entity in mortal form sent to test him. Sent by Albin, by Brawth, by all the dark powers arrayed against him—and he’d failed the test. All he’d done was set Barada’s shade free to join his shadowy tormentors.

  That was his descent into darkness. With that act his doom was sealed, the shadow giant Brawth set free to rampage. There was only one thing he could do to stop it and that was to go into the Spiral and confront it . . .

  He realized the dropping sensation in his stomach was the plane descending through the clouds. He woke in panic, convinced he was still in the past, flying home from Ecuador to make that last expedition through the Gates—meaning to confront the Shadow, only to find himself fleeing in terror, panicking to seal and lock every last Gate behind him.

  Lawrence gasped in his first-class seat, waiting for his heartbeat to subside. Same memories, same torment haunting his sleep, slowly but inexorably driving him to the brink. He had to push the madness out, think of business instead.

  Sealing the portal had meant that the flow of albinite ceased. He still paid his miners, and they still searched; but they found only fragments in the streambed now. Once his stockpile ran out, that would be the end. He’d visited the New York store to prepare his staff. They still had diamond, sapphire, ruby and all the rest, but the one gem that had made Wilder Jewels unique would be no more.

  Albin must be smiling. Barada had taken the Elfstone mine from him, after all.

  “Sam’s coming home,” said Jon. Standing against the light from the leaded window of the dining room, he was wearing an Indian patchwork shirt too big for his slim body. He looked so young, Sapphire observed, as beautiful as any Pre-Raphaelite vision of a god.

  “Soon?” she asked, her mood clouding. Lawrence was due back that day, and she wasn’t looking forward to that, either.

  Jon flexed a postcard between his long fingers. It held a montage of bright coastlines and olive groves. “Mid-September, he says. I’ll be back at college then, so you and Dad can have him all to yourselves.”

  “Oh.” As Sapphire moved closer, she noticed the dark crescents under his eyes. Idly, she adjusted the table display of ikebana, pebbles and candles. “Your father will be pleased. It’s been rather peaceful without them.”

  “You don’t like Sam much, do you?” Jon said.

  “Quite the contrary,” Sapphire answered smoothly. “We can only hope that he’s overcome his dislike of me in—what is it? Four years?”

  “Must be.”

  “And never been back.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Jon said waspishly. “We always had to fend for ourselves. Once I was old enough to look after myself, I suppose he found life better elsewhere.”

  Sapphire tensed at the implication; clearly, since she was not their mother, her presence in their lives counted for nothing. Her suppressed rage at Lawrence banked a little higher. “I suppose he hasn’t been told about Lucas?”

  Jon gave a silent, pained laugh. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Then let Lawrence tell him. I’m not doing any more of his dirty work.” A dish slipped in her hand and hit the table, making her jump. She sighed, hair tumbling forward as she rested on the table edge for a moment.

  “Something wrong?” said Jon.

  Sapphire swept the silky river back over her shoulder, strolled over to him so they were face-to-face. “You’d better tidy yourself up for your father.” She pressed her thumb beneath his left eye.

  He jerked away. “What?”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking or sniffing with your student friends, but it needs to stop.” He stood glowering at her. He’s so easy to scare, she thought, bless him. “Just bear in mind that Lucas is a lot younger than you and that gives you a responsibility to keep him out of trouble.”

  Jon frowned, indignant. “He’s eighteen, not a kid.”

  “He’s as naive as they come,” she sighed. “Some of your friends are nice enough, but some, quite frankly, look as if they’ve stumbled out of a methadone clinic. I don’t know why you and Lucas hang around with such people. I don’t like it. Your father wouldn’t, either.”

  Jon shook his head, pupils dilating. “It’s none of your—why have you turned on me all of a sudden?”

  Sapphire exhaled, stroking his lovely hair. “I haven’t, dear. I’m trying to loo
k after you.”

  “Well, don’t. I’m twenty-one. And you’re not my mother.”

  “No. I’m not.” She was thrilled at how easy it was to rile him. The feeling of power gave her a warm rush. “You know, even Aetherial beauty may tarnish if you abuse it. I want you clean and healthy, Jon.”

  Jon looked more suspicious than ever, but didn’t try to move away; not that he could, pressed against the stone windowsill. “What’s it to you?”

  “Don’t you think a human spirit could feel what it is to be Aetherial?”

  He gave a low, contemptuous laugh. “Please. That’s sacrilege.”

  “You think you’re so special, don’t you? I think if I broke you open and looked inside, there’d be nothing there. Is there anything inside you, or inside the Gates?”

  He stared as Lawrence did, offended that she’d trespassed on their territory. “What are you saying?”

  “That it’s not fair, living in an Aetherial family but never being let into your secrets. I need to see and feel and taste and understand. Lawrence won’t help me, but you can. Or are you all afraid I’ll find out there’s nothing to discover?”

  His face revealed fear, anger, helplessness, but he couldn’t form an unattractive expression if he tried. “I don’t know what you want.”

  “Yes you do, dear. I want to understand.” She fondled the front of his patchwork shirt, felt the bony ribs and his heart beating fast, like a bird’s. “Lawrence has been no husband to me and no father to you for quite some time. I feel cheated. Who can blame us for seeking consolation?”

  “We weren’t going to do this anymore.” Jon’s voice was shaky.

  “Well, I say we still need it,” she answered huskily. “You wouldn’t want me to draw Lawrence’s attention to your friends, would you? There’s so much we wouldn’t want Sam or Lawrence to find out . . .”

  When she kissed him, her lips were warmly demanding, his dry and hesitant; but he didn’t try to stop her.