The Doorway and the Deep

by K. E. Ormsbee

  “Are you listening to me, Lottie?”

  Lottie started. “Sorry, no. I was thinking.”

  “I asked,” said Rebel Gem, “what you’ve been taught already in the ways of sharpening.”

  “Not much,” Lottie admitted. “Mr. Wilfer was very busy, so we didn’t have a lot of time for lessons. And when we did . . . well, I wasn’t good at them. We never got past me trying to clear my mind.”

  “Clear your mind?”

  “Yes,” said Lottie, wondering if perhaps Rebel Gem was tipsy again, as she had been last night. “You know, the very first step to sharpening.”

  Rebel Gem made an incredulous sound. “Well. That may be Moritasgus Wilfer’s approach, but it certainly isn’t mine.”

  Hope bubbled within Lottie. “Really? Because I’m awful at it.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Rebel Gem. “Tell me, how many times have you used your keen?”

  “Twice now,” said Lottie. “The first time, when I healed Eliot, and the second was just a few days ago, on the river. But I don’t know exactly how I did that.”

  “Were you particularly clear-headed either of those times?”

  Lottie thought about this. She thought of the anger and fear she’d felt by Eliot’s bedside, when Mr. Wilfer had told her the truth about the Otherwise Incurable. She thought of the fear she’d felt on the boat, after Nash had attempted to kill her.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “I didn’t think so. Clearing your mind is an all right trick for Southerlies to teach their six-year-olds, but you’re no Southerly, and you’re well past the age a sprite ought to begin sharpening.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” Lottie said miserably.

  “Don’t wallow in self-pity,” said Rebel Gem. “To be honest, Lottie, I have no idea what you’re capable of at full potential. But I do think that Mr. Wilfer—however good his intentions—was training you the wrong way. No disrespect, of course. I’ve heard nothing but good things about his talents. But his keen is about receiving—receiving signals about a sprite’s well-being. That’s it. He can’t give healing like us. Calming one’s mind is very fine if you’re trying to listen, like he has to. But you and I aren’t so much listeners as talkers. And if you’re going to become any good, you’ve got to talk, and talk loud.”

  Rebel Gem crisscrossed her legs on the bench and dropped her chin into her hands. She squinted hard at Lottie.

  “If your mind wasn’t clear those times you used your keen, then what was it filled with?”

  “Well,” said Lottie, thinking back. “Anger, I guess. I was angry that Eliot was going to die. And I was angry that Nash had lied and tried to hurt me. I don’t know if anger is the right word for it, though.”

  “It’s enough to work with,” said Rebel Gem. “Lottie Fiske, you and I are going to get angry.”

  They spent hours in the pine clearing. The sun rose above the treetops, then fell back down again. All the while, Rebel Gem gave Lottie orders, and Lottie obeyed—or at least tried her hardest to obey.

  Together, she and Rebel Gem made a list in a blank-paged book Rebel Gem had brought along. They wrote down all the people and things that made Lottie angry. Pen Bloomfield was on the list, along with King Starkling and Iolanthe. So were smaller things, like people who spat on sidewalks or talked in movie theaters.

  Then Rebel Gem read off the items one at a time. She told Lottie to think of the angriest she’d ever been about each person or thing.

  “Then stop thinking about it,” she told Lottie, “and start feeling it. Feel it here”—she pointed to her gut—“deep down. And once you feel it, move it.”

  Lottie tried. She thought of the night Iolanthe had cut down the silver-boughed tree in Wisp Territory. She thought of the sadness in Eliot’s face and the anger in her own heart. Iolanthe hadn’t just cut off Eliot from home; she’d destroyed something very precious. The more Lottie thought about it, the more she felt it—a hot, coiled thing in her stomach. It was undoubtedly anger, and it felt similar to one of her bad spells. Similar, but not quite the same. And try as Lottie might to move the anger in her stomach through the rest of her body, she never could. She knew what Rebel Gem was after. She knew what it meant to move the anger, as strange as it sounded. She knew, because she’d moved her bad spells before, the two times she had healed.

  “Think. Feel. Move,” Rebel Gem instructed. “Think. Feel. Move.”

  Lottie strained herself until her hair stuck to her sweaty skin and her arms shook. She thought of the anger, she felt the anger, but she could not move it.

  “I’m doing something wrong!” she shouted after the tenth time she and Rebel Gem had worked through the exercise. “Why do we keep doing the same thing over and over again when it’s not working?”

  Rebel Gem looked untroubled.

  “Who says it isn’t working?” she said. “I told you to try moving. I didn’t say you had to succeed. In fact, you probably never will. You were right before: anger isn’t the best word for what you felt those times you used your keen. It’s close, yes, and it’s part of it, but it isn’t exactly it. You can’t properly move anger the way you can the other thing—the thing you can’t quite name. And that’s what’s at the heart of your keen.”

  Lottie gaped at Rebel Gem. All the anger she’d been thinking and feeling for the past few hours swelled inside her, and she realized that she was hungry and thirsty and had a terrible headache, and this was all Rebel Gem’s fault.

  “Then what have we been doing any of this for?” she yelled. “It’s just as worthless as trying to clear my head!”

  “Someone’s impatient,” said Rebel Gem, which was the worst thing to say to Lottie Fiske. If Lottie were to make an exhaustive list of things that made her angry, one of those items would be the horrid set of people who used the word “someone” when, in fact, they really meant “you.”

  “We’re just wasting time!” Lottie shouted louder, as though the loudness of her words would grant them more truth. “We’ve been at this for hours, and don’t you have anything better to do? Aren’t you supposed to be, I dunno, ruling?”

  Rebel Gem remained unmoved by Lottie’s shouting.

  “The best way to rule the Northerlies right now,” she said, “is to spend my time helping the Heir of Fiske with her sharpening. I don’t think I’m wasting time. It’s a pity you do.”

  “But I’m not sharpening,” said Lottie. “I can’t move anything inside of me, and I’m not healing anyone!”

  “Lottie,” said Rebel Gem in her infuriatingly calm way, “you seem to think that sharpening is the same as instantaneous progress.”

  “Well, I’d like to see a little progress. Right now, it just feels like I’m sharpening the wrong thing.”

  “Oh, you’re sharpening the right thing. Believe me, you wouldn’t be acting so anxious and tiresome if we weren’t onto something. You just can’t expect to be an expert healer after one lesson. That’s unfair to me, and it’s most unfair to yourself.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Lottie muttered, slumping into a sit on the ground. She didn’t even care that the seat of her dress was getting damp and muddy.

  “When you learned to read,” said Rebel Gem, “you didn’t start off by just picking up a copy of In a Time of Schisms by Ferdinand Ellard III, did you?”

  “No,” said Lottie grumpily, “because I’ve never heard of that book in my life.”

  “What I mean,” said Rebel Gem, “is that you began by learning parts of words and then full words and then words put together into sentences and then paragraphs and chapters and then books. And even then, you didn’t pick up any Ellard for some time, until you were ready.”

  Lottie studied her bootlaces with a pout. She knew what Rebel Gem was trying to say, but she didn’t want to admit it. Rebel Gem was treating her like a child. Even now, as Rebel Gem knelt beside Lottie, placing a hand on her back, Lottie felt so small.

  “I know it’s frustrating to start sharpening so late,” Rebel G
em said softly. “I know you feel you have a lot to make up for in a very short space of time. And it won’t get easier. Sharpening is always hard, often painful. But it’s worth it. I promise.”

  Lottie’s mood began to change. The bitter barb in her throat dislodged. She felt the anger of the past few hours fizzle out. Rebel Gem wasn’t trying to make her feel small, Lottie knew. She’d done that to herself. She looked up with wet eyes and a half scowl.

  “Are you using your keen on me?” she said.

  “It’s helping, isn’t it?”

  Lottie sniffed and nodded. Then she asked, “How long did it take you to get any good at your keen?”

  Rebel Gem’s hand slipped from Lottie’s back. She settled in the moss, opposite her. “My story’s unusual. The exception, not the rule.”

  “That’s all right,” said Lottie. “Mine’s unusual, too.”

  Rebel Gem nodded. “Well. I began sharpening very young, when I was three. I did it all on my own, for a long time without my parents’ knowledge. By the time I was ten, I’d reached my limit. I’d sharpened as far as I could. My parents brought me down from the Northerly Wolds to court and presented me to the first Rebel Gem. He was already very old then, and neither he nor his council had found any sprite they considered worthy to take his place.

  “Since I was a healer, my parents thought I would be an asset to the Northerly Court and its soldiers. But Rebel Gem saw something else in me. He thought I would make not just a good healer, but a good leader. He trained me to take on his position. In the meantime, I earned my reputation as the Healer of the Wolds. The people of court came to care for me, and I for them. When Rebel Gem lay on his deathbed, he nominated me as his successor, and the council unanimously voted for me to take his place.” She shrugged, and the solemnity went out of her voice as she said, “So here I am. The new Rebel Gem.”

  “But you’re not the real Rebel Gem?” Lottie asked. “Gem isn’t even your name?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I think it does. Everyone in the South still thinks you’re an old man.”

  “That’s just as I want it,” said Rebel Gem. “As far as Starkling and his people know, I’m still the frail, cautious sprite I replaced. Many of my own people still think so, in fact, and any diplomats that come to the court—Lyre Dulcet included—are sworn to secrecy about my true identity.”

  “But why?” said Lottie. “Why try to cover it up? Why not use your own name?”

  Rebel Gem tapped at something—a small locket clasped beneath her cloak.

  “Did you know, Lottie,” she said, “there hasn’t been a single woman on the Southerly throne? Not since before the Great Schism, when the two courts were still united.”

  Lottie shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

  “You see, Southerlies took it into their heads that women had no business sitting on thrones and giving orders.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Stupid, yes,” said Rebel Gem, “but a popular idea nonetheless. You may have caught wind of the fact that the Southerlies and Northerlies don’t hold each other in high esteem. The Southerlies would only respect us less if they knew a woman led our people—especially a woman as young as I am.”

  “How old are you, exactly?” Lottie asked.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes you don’t seem much older than me. But other times, you act older than even Mr. Wilfer. I can’t figure it out.”

  “I’m twenty-three,” said Rebel Gem. “Which isn’t a respectable age in any profession, and certainly not in the business of ruling.”

  “But that’s so—so stupid,” Lottie repeated, unable to come up with a better word. “You’re good at what you do. In fact, I think you’re the best ruler I’ve met in Limn. I don’t see why the Southerlies wouldn’t respect that.”

  “But you’re seeing it from your perspective, Lottie, and not from the perspective of old men—and the old men are still the ones who make the decrees and write the newspapers down in the South. Starkling choosing Iolanthe as his new right-hand sprite is a very big deal. She’s the first woman to hold that spot. The king’s detractors are more upset about that fact than the rumor that Starkling is building a world gorge. It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way of it.”

  Lottie was starting to have a headache.

  “How’re you feeling now?” asked Rebel Gem after a moment of silence. “Less angry?”

  “More, I think,” Lottie muttered.

  “It’ll be suppertime soon. I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite for it.”

  “Yes,” Lottie said, “but can I eat with Fife and Eliot tonight?”

  “Tired of my company?” Rebel Gem asked, smiling.

  “No. It’s just that I miss them. And it’s not like I have much to do on the supping lawn. Everyone cheered for me and all, but afterward it was like I didn’t exist.”

  Rebel Gem burst into laughter.

  “What?” Lottie demanded.

  “You have a bruised ego, Lottie Fiske, haven’t you?”

  “No, I don’t! I just meant—well, for all their talk of the Heir of Fiske, it’s like they don’t care I’m here. No one spoke to me all through supper but Roote and Crag. Nobody else even tried to ask me questions or—”

  “Ask for your autograph, you mean?” said Rebel Gem. “Lottie, I thought you were more solid than that. I told you we’re not like Southerlies. Much as the Northerlies respect the name of Fiske, it would be rude beyond belief to show any more interest toward you than toward our fellow sprites. That’s the first rule of Northerly conduct: we treat everyone as equals here.”

  An autograph was not what Lottie had meant. “People treat you differently.” But even as Lottie said it she recalled that she’d seen no crown upon Rebel Gem’s head, nor heard a fanfare announce her presence. Rebel Gem’s seat at the supping lawn was no different from anyone else’s. More than that, she’d spent the good part of her day in the middle of the wood, sharpening Lottie’s keen, and not one attendant had come trotting out to remind Rebel Gem of all the important appointments on her agenda.

  “Don’t take it personally,” said Rebel Gem, touching Lottie’s shoulder for the briefest moment. It was then that Lottie felt, really felt the full effect of Rebel Gem’s keen. Peace, cool and sure, flowed through Lottie. She felt instant reassurance. Why had she taken it personally?

  “There are some exceptions to that rule, of course,” Rebel Gem continued as she and Lottie walked back into the caves. “There are fanatics who live in the Wolds and the Wilders and believe a Fiske to be the answer to all their woes. They’d likely make a fuss over you. But as to the rest of us, we’re a skeptical bunch. No one doubts you’re a Fiske, but no one is under the impression that you’re our great savior, either. Your name carries power with it in the rest of Albion Isle, and that’s why I want you here. But you’re just the same as any one of us, Lottie. Our heroes aren’t determined based on blood but on merit.”

  “And I guess I haven’t got a lot of merit yet,” said Lottie.

  “Not yet. But you’re young. And despite what you think, you’re a fast learner. I’d say there’s hope for you yet.”

  “Rebel Gem?”

  “Hm?”

  “Does this mean we’re done with training for today?”

  Rebel Gem nodded.

  “Good,” said Lottie. “Because I’ve got a letter to send.”

  Rebel Gem led the way to the apple tree, and Lottie was grateful she did, because she was sure she would’ve gotten lost otherwise, even with the most detailed instructions. Unlike the wisps’ apple tree, which had grown in the wood where anyone might happen to pass it, the Northerlies’ tree was hidden away. Lottie followed Rebel Gem back into the caverns and down a winding series of stone hallways. Torchlight lit their path, but all else was wet, dark shadows and the sounds of distant scuttling.

  “Watch your head,” Rebel Gem instructed as the roof grew lower—or was it the floor
that had grown higher?—but the warning had not come in time; Lottie’s forehead smacked into a slime-covered stalactite.

  Rebel Gem made a sympathetic “ooh,” and came back a few steps to examine Lottie.

  “No damage done,” she said after a moment, patting Lottie’s head in a way that Lottie supposed should have offended her dignity but instead left her feeling much calmer than before.

  From there on out, Lottie continued to duck often, crouching and scrambling, and wondering just how low the ceiling would get. Just when she’d begun to walk in a perpetual stoop, Rebel Gem led them into an adjoining hallway—this one far roomier and taller than before. And from the end of the hallways came a faint light that looked like—

  “Sunlight?” Lottie shook her head. “But that can’t be right. We’ve been heading downward for ages.”

  “Come on then, Lottie,” said Rebel Gem. “Pick up the pace.”

  The light grew nearer and brighter until, in one moment, it burst all around Lottie. She blinked against the force of it, shielding her eyes and, on instinct, grabbing at Rebel Gem’s hand, for Lottie had a sudden petrifying thought that this sunlight was not natural at all but something terribly magical that could very well blind her.

  Rebel Gem gently shook off Lottie’s grip, pointing ahead.

  “Don’t be scared,” she said. “Look.”

  Lottie lowered her hand. Slowly, her vision adjusted, and she strained her eyes to see into the light. They were standing in a large, circular room, hewn from gray stone. The ceiling was unthinkably high. The walls rose above Lottie for foot after foot after foot and were covered in square, glittering mirrors, all tilted toward a wide circle in the far distant ceiling—the source of the light. Lottie got the distinct impression she was standing at the bottom of a glittering wishing well.

  And at the very center of this well stood an apple tree, its leaves a lush green and its apples deep yellow. Lottie let out a long breath.

  “My sentiments precisely,” said Rebel Gem. “It’s rather magnificent, isn’t it?”