The Doorway and the Deep

by K. E. Ormsbee

  “I’ll wager there’s no florist here, either, Ada,” said Fife.

  “I’ve begun to think they don’t exist in the north,” she replied.

  They came to a stop outside the dirtiest building on the street: a tavern with a rotting front door and a sign that read REBEL’S SPRITES WELCOME. Even from outside, Lottie could hear shouts and slurred words.

  “It’s only noon,” said Oliver, judgment in his narrowed, brown eyes.

  “Best let me take care of this,” said Dorian. “Look around if you want, but don’t stray too far. We’ll meet here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Look!” said Eliot, once Dorian was gone. He pointed across the street at a shop sign, which had come loose from one of its pegs and hung lopsided. Still, the red paint was readable:

  QUIGLEY BOOKS

  “Suppose they have anything worth reading?” Eliot asked Oliver.

  “May as well look,” Oliver answered, his muddy brown eyes turning gold with interest.

  “I think I’ll join,” said Adelaide, and Lottie wondered if she was the only one to notice the shy way Adelaide looked at Eliot when she spoke.

  “The more the merrier,” said Eliot.

  Lottie watched the three of them cross the street.

  “What?” said Fife, who’d taken a seat on a wobbly bench outside the tavern. “You aren’t curious as to what literary treasures await?”

  Lottie sat beside him. “I’m just not much in the mood for reading. I think there are bigger problems to worry about.”

  Fife nodded. Then he breathed in sharply, his eyes closed.

  Lottie frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it your wound?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Lottie gave Fife a hard look. Then she yanked at his sweater. He gave a cry of consternation, but it was too late: Lottie had revealed his injured stomach and the blood soaking through linen bandages.

  Fife scrambled to push the sweater back down. “It’s none of your business! I just popped open a few stitches is all. I could sew them up myself if they weren’t in such an inconvenient location.”

  “Fife. You’ve got to get this taken care of! When did it even happen?”

  “I said, it’s nothing.”

  “Give me your hands,” said Lottie.

  Fife looked around, as though Lottie could possibly be talking to anyone other than him. “W-what?”

  Lottie rolled her eyes and grabbed Fife’s hands.

  “What are you—”

  “Shut up,” she said. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Fife grunted as Lottie closed her eyes. She had to focus on her emotions, just as she had done with Rebel Gem in the pine clearing. She had to focus on what made her angry, fearful, and sad. She had to think of a worn photograph of her parents’ freckled faces, and of the words “Two, maybe three weeks to live.”

  A full minute passed.

  “Erm. Lottie?”

  “Shhh,” she said. Then, opening her eyes, “I have to empathize with you. Tell me something about yourself.”

  “Um,” said Fife. “I hate parsnips?”

  “No,” said Lottie, growing desperate. “Something more important than that. About your fears, or your parents—something personal.”

  Fife’s face darkened. “My parents?”

  “I have to know something about you that you might not want me to know. That’s how it works. There has to be a connection between us.”

  Lottie wasn’t sure how it happened. One moment, Fife was looking at her with large, watering eyes. The next, she felt a gentle pressure against her lips.

  Fife was kissing her.

  Lottie’s mind went blank. She pulled away with a choked gasp and found Fife staring at her, bewildered, his face flooded with color.

  “I—I—” he stammered.

  “You kissed me,” Lottie said stupidly, touching her lips.

  “Um.” The color in Fife’s cheeks grew more vibrant. “You said something I might not want you to know. That’s . . . one of them.”

  “You like me?” Lottie whispered.

  “Uh.” Fife’s swallow was audible. “Well, yeah.”

  Lottie was silent, wide-eyed, uncomprehending.

  Fife’s expression transformed from embarrassment to something far worse: hurt.

  “But if you don’t like me back, that’s—I mean, it was stupid of me to—”

  “No!” Lottie said quickly. “No, I just—ow.” Her chest tightened, squeezed in on all sides by invisible hands.

  It was a bad spell. She doubled over in pain, gasping for breath.

  “Lottie?” Fife said, panicked. “Lottie, are you okay?”

  Lottie grabbed Fife’s hands again. She clung to them tightly as the bad spell grew stronger, straining at her muscles and skin as though it might tug her to pieces from the outside in.

  Move the pain, she told herself. Move.

  And the pain moved. It burned out of her chest and down her arms, into her hands and out to Fife’s. The bad spell surged from her, and though Fife jerked from the contact, he did not break away.

  Then it stopped.

  Lottie opened her eyes. Her hands went slack, and she removed them at last from Fife’s.

  “Are you—?” she started. “Are you all right?”

  But Fife was too busy tugging at his bandages. There was no more blood beneath them. The scar on his side was healed. All that remained was the faintest outline of pink, puckered skin.

  His gaze met hers.

  “Y-you kissed me,” Lottie repeated.

  “Yeah,” Fife said. “You healed me. How did you even do that?”

  “It’s . . . hard to explain.”

  “I bet.” Fife looked distressed about something.

  “What?” Lottie asked.

  Fife said nothing at first. Then, very softly, “You didn’t kiss me back.”

  A blush burned up Lottie’s face. “I—I got distracted. I wasn’t expecting it, and then I was busy—”

  “Healing me,” Fife finished. “I noticed. So . . .” He looked more uncomfortable than Lottie had ever seen him. “So, you didn’t hate it?”

  “There you are! Haven’t moved an inch since we left you.”

  The others were heading toward them, Adelaide in the lead. Lottie hurriedly scooted away from Fife. He tossed the bloodied bandages behind the bench, into a mud-caked stream running beneath the tavern’s doorstep. Adelaide didn’t seem to notice.

  “The sorriest excuse for a bookshop I’ve ever seen,” she said, tromping up and taking a seat between the two of them. “The shop clerk didn’t know where anything was. He thought Edna Hapshock was a playwright.”

  “It’s just as well,” said Oliver, though his eyes were gray with disappointment. “It’s not as though books are the priority. Or that we’d have anything to buy them with if they were.”

  “Books are always the priority!” said Eliot, the only cheerful one of the group. “At least there were some interesting covers. Like the one with the glittery lettering and all the locks?”

  “I don’t suppose you found anything on survival skills for the Wilders?” said Fife. He turned to Lottie with ease, as though nothing had passed between them only a minute earlier. “Not that I don’t trust Dorian, but . . . Hmm. I don’t trust Dorian. Seems a little preoccupied with his mission. Don’t think it’d bother him much if one of us took a tumble off a cliff on the way north.”

  The tavern door burst open, and with it came a wave of boisterous singing. Dorian called back to someone inside, then shut the door soundly behind him. He carried a large, soot-covered bag.

  “Right,” he said. “Supplies acquired. Some food and a flagon, too. We’ve wasted enough time here. Last chance for you to stay behind.”

  “As you say,” said Adelaide, “we’ve wasted enough time here.”

  “Yeah,” said Eliot. “Let’s find some addersfork.”

  They left the town of Sharp Bend behind, heading
northward on a narrow dirt path that wound through trees and over brooks. Ahead, mountains—not the hills that surrounded the Northerly Court, but real mountains—rose in the distance, peaked with snow.

  “Your boots better be sturdy,” Dorian told them. “We’ll be taking the pass. No climbing required, but it won’t be easy on your soles.”

  They hadn’t traveled long when Lottie began to hear rustling in the thickets bordering their path. Then she thought she saw a flash of black.

  She stopped in the middle of the path.

  “Did anyone else see that?” she asked.

  Adelaide, who had been busy talking to Eliot, now perked to attention.

  “You’re right. There’s something close by. I can hear it now.” She turned to Lottie. “I think it’s a Barghest.”

  Lottie stepped closer to the thicket.

  “Barghest?” she called. “Is that you?”

  There was a low growl. In the space just between tree and thicket, a hulking black creature appeared, its silver pinprick eyes alight. It was, indeed, a Barghest. And not just any Barghest—it was Lottie’s Barghest.

  Lottie wasn’t the only ecstatic one. Eliot clapped his hands excitedly, and Fife gave a cheer.

  “Where have you been?” Lottie asked, kneeling to throw her arms around the Barghest’s mane. “I thought we’d lost you for good!”

  The Barghest released a growl so deep it shook Lottie’s ribs.

  In its rough voice, it said, “There were complications.”

  “But you’re okay?” asked Lottie.

  She stood to get a better look at the creature, afraid now that she would find gashes or scrapes ripped through its beautiful coat of fur. But from what she could tell, the Barghest was unharmed.

  “You are the one who has been in grave danger,” said the Barghest. “I let harm come to you, Heir of Fiske. I did not fulfill my duty.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter anymore,” Lottie said. “I’m here, aren’t I? And all the rest of us. We’re just glad to have you back. And you know, even if you weren’t able to protect us, other Barghest did.”

  “Tell us, Barghest,” said Dorian, “have you heard anything about the state of the Northerly Court?”

  The Barghest nodded. “The Southerlies are defeated,” it said. “Fifty soldiers, all cut down by brave Northerly hands. Rebel Gem was wounded, but not mortally so.”

  “Then she’s alive,” whispered Dorian.

  The Barghest barked in the affirmative.

  Dorian nodded weakly and turned his back to the others.

  “What about Iolanthe?” Lottie asked the Barghest.

  The Barghest shook its head. “Hard to say. Her body was not found amongst the slain. It is believed that she escaped.”

  “Then she could still be on the hunt for us,” said Oliver.

  “Do you really think she’s after us?” said Eliot.

  “Who else?” said Fife. “She’s tried to kill Lottie twice now—once by assassin, and once in person. It’s not like she came up north to pick flowers and spread sunshine.”

  “I’m glad we have you with us now, Barghest,” Lottie said. “I feel a lot safer with you around.”

  “Where are you traveling to now?” it asked.

  “Dorian’s taking us through the mountain pass to the Wilders,” said Lottie.

  The Barghest growled, its back arching.

  “What?” said Oliver. “You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

  “By my counsel,” it said, “I would not travel that way.”

  Dorian turned around, pale-faced.

  “Why is that?” he asked. “It’s the best known route. I’ve taken it plenty of times before.”

  “That is precisely why it is not safe,” said the Barghest. “It is the most obvious choice. Iolanthe has stationed more Southerly soldiers in the pass, just out of sight, high up on the mountain ledges. They lie in wait for an ambush, knowing full well you intend to take that route. It is by no means the safest path. Nor is it the only one.”

  Dorian bristled. “If you’re suggesting the ferry, you’re out of your mind, Barghest.”

  The Barghest pawed a step toward Dorian, its body tensed with challenge.

  “You doubt my word?” it snarled.

  “I’ve heard tales of that passage. I’d rather take my chances fighting off Southerly poltroons than entrust my life to a nix.”

  “Do you know what they’re talking about?” Eliot asked Lottie. She shook her head.

  “Why would I lead the Heir of Fiske astray?” said the Barghest. “I speak the truth. Far better to follow the flatlands and take the ferry.”

  Lottie stepped forward. “If Barghest says there are Southerly guards in the pass, then shouldn’t we go the other way, Dorian?”

  “No,” he said, voice hard. “There is a curse on that coast and a strange magic at work in that part of the flatlands. I wouldn’t advise it, not for all my lifeblood. I say we stay true to our current path.”

  “And what do you think, Barghest?” Lottie asked the creature, who was still glowering at Dorian. “Which path do you think is less dangerous?”

  “This sprite fears riddles and old war stories,” the Barghest said, nodding toward Dorian. “I do not. If you have a sharp mind, there is nothing to fear from the flatlands, and no threat of Southerly attack, either. Moreover, my route will take two days less than journeying through the pass.”

  Lottie looked back to Dorian. “If that’s true, it seems like the flatlands really are the better way to go. And I trust the Barghest.”

  “You mean to say you don’t trust me?”

  “Sorry to bring up a sore spot,” said Fife, “but she did almost get assassinated on your watch, Ingle.”

  Dorian squared his jaw. “Rebel Gem sent me north for a reason.”

  “’Cause she’s your girlfriend?” Fife suggested.

  Dorian moved swiftly, as though to grab hold of Fife, but Fife was too quick for him. He floated out of reach with a calm smirk plastered on his face.

  “Just saying.”

  “I’m sorry, Dorian,” said Lottie. “I know it wasn’t your fault, but we have gotten into trouble before with you as our guide. Barghest was right the last time. It told us not to trust Nash, and it was right. And if Barghest thinks it’s safer to travel by ferry, then I think we should take its advice.”

  Dorian dragged his hand across his face, looking at Lottie in a tired way.

  “Shouldn’t Lottie be the one to choose?” said Adelaide. “She’s the one running for her life.”

  “It’s a bad plan,” said Dorian. “But I can’t stop the six of you if you’ve all got your wills set against me.”

  “It’s nothing personal, Dorian,” said Lottie.

  “Oh, certainly not. It’s only that you personally trust the Barghest more than me.”

  “Then it is settled,” growled the Barghest. “I will lead you to the ferry.”

  “Well go on, then, dog,” said Dorian, though it was more like a snort than a sentence. “Lead on.”

  The Barghest brushed past Dorian, pupils thin slits in a sea of silver. It bounded ahead of them, turned back once, and gave an encouraging growl. They set down the path in the opposite direction.

  Lottie hadn’t spoken to Fife, properly spoken, since she had healed his wound. There hadn’t been a chance. He floated alongside Eliot and Oliver, joining in their conversation about Vincent Van Gogh every so often with a laugh and, once, a joke about severed ears. Lottie was glad to see he was getting on better with Eliot, but she still felt a funny twist inside every time she looked at his bobbing mane of black hair.

  “Did you hear me, Lottie?”

  Lottie looked up, startled. Adelaide had fallen into step with her.

  “I was saying,” she said, “how well the boys seem to be getting on.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “I suppose they just needed a bit of adventure to bring them together, hm?”

  “I guess.”

 
; “I think you made the right decision, too, siding with the Barghest. Dorian’s very charming, but I do wonder sometimes if he’s the best sprite for the job.”

  Lottie looked ahead at Dorian. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Rebel Gem said he’s one of the only sprites to have gone to the Wilders, so I think he must be very brave.”

  “Well, there’s no doubting that. The stories one hears about the Wilders! Almost impassible, with pits and cliffs in every which direction. The soil there is poisoned, they say. Impossible to grow trees or vegetables or anything worth eating.”

  “But possible to grow addersfork?” asked Lottie.

  “So we’re told.”

  Their new route wound over hills, some steep and others gentle. Their walk became a rhythm—straining up and up, then skidding down and down, with the constant tip and turn of the earth. Lottie had seen many strange trees during her time on Albion Isle, but the ones that grew along this path were by far her favorite. Maybe, she reflected, they were her favorite because they reminded her of the human world. There was nothing unusual about them—no silver boughs or transparent leaves or white bark. They were perfectly ordinary oaks and aspens and ash, and their leaves were aglow with the fire of autumn.

  They stopped once, very briefly, to eat and rest their legs. Then Dorian tapped his boot impatiently and said they’d better get moving again. He and the Barghest had fallen into a grim but manageable partnership where, though neither spoke to the other, they walked together.

  They traveled hours more through the color-drenched wood, and when their path forked—as it did many times—they always veered right, right, and right again.

  “We’re nearing the coast,” Adelaide told Lottie. “If I try very hard, I can hear the gulls.”

  When they forked right yet another time, the trees rapidly began to thin, and moments later the company was walking through a vast, open field. In the distance, Lottie made out the outline of mountains to her right and a row of cottages to her left.