The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards)

by Roberta Trahan

  For a few moments, Machreth regarded Thorne with something akin to bemusement. Then his lips began to move as though he were whispering to himself. Thorne’s heart began to race and the nape of his neck stung like skin split open by the lash of a dungeon whip. He cupped the septacle in his palm and silently begged whatever Gods might hear him for grace.

  The air around them hummed. Thorne could feel the vibration and the quickening heat it created. Machreth raised his hands, his wand directed overhead, and the walls began to shake. It wouldn’t take much more for the stone ruins to crumble. Machreth meant to bury them.

  Thorne looked to Gavin to see if his friend had the same thought and noticed the angle of his gaze. Following Gavin’s line of sight, Thorne saw what Gavin had seen—the mage tether was still cinched around Machreth’s wrist. So long as he held his wand, the sorcerer could not remove it. And so long as it remained, Machreth’s power would be slightly weakened by the binding hex that was embedded in the tether. This was the best opportunity they would have to take him.

  On faith and instinct, Thorne lunged. By the time his thoughts caught up with his impulse, he had already made contact. The charge sent Machreth staggering backward, and then Thorne could have sworn he saw lightning strike just before he felt the floor falling away. He had taken them both over the threshold and tumbling down the steps to the crypt.

  Thorne careened into the stairwell wall halfway down and thudded to a stop on his knees, a few steps from the bottom. Machreth had landed in a sprawl on the antechamber floor below and was already on his feet by the time Thorne could haul himself to a stand. But Machreth was no longer concerned with Thorne. He had found the crypt.

  A half-dozen thoughts flashed through Thorne’s mind in the same instant. The lightning strike had been Machreth’s spell energy being dispersed, and the Brothers Steptoe had surely borne the brunt of it. It was likely they were trapped or injured, and in either case unlikely to come to his aid in time. The only thing standing between Machreth and the portal was Drydwen, and the only thing standing between Machreth and Drydwen was Rhys.

  Again Thorne reacted on impulse. He sprang from the steps and spun around Machreth, blocking his path to the chamber doors. Machreth smiled and with a swipe of his wand, tossed Thorne like a feather on the wind, slamming him against the solid oak planks hard enough to break the hinges and cave the doors in.

  Thorne was winded and his vision blurred. He was vaguely aware of a stabbing pain in his left shoulder and of Machreth stepping past him. He tried, but Thorne could not move. He was unable to keep the sorcerer from entering the chamber.

  “Well,” he heard Machreth say. “If it isn’t Alwen’s man-child.”

  Thorne sickened at Machreth’s satisfied tone. As fierce and determined as Rhys might be, he was nothing but a momentary irritation to the black mage. Thorne fought through the haze in his head and forced himself to his knees, only to discover a more formidable Rhys than he had expected, standing between the black mage and Drydwen.

  Rhys had drawn his sword and taken an offensive stance, which alarmed Thorne, but not as much as the hungry, covetous look he saw overtaking Machreth’s face. The black mage was looking past Rhys, even beyond Drydwen. He had seen the opening to the fifth realm.

  The portal resembled an unusually large wall mirror, a solid luminous oval framed in greenish marble tile. Yet the surface was not like glass or metal or ice. It was pearlescent, though not truly opaque. The aperture substance was ethereal and diffusive, like a crystal-dusted mist cloud, but it appeared to have the density of thick liquid. To Thorne’s eyes, it was a thing of immeasurable beauty and astonishment. Through this opening, souls passed into an unknown plane. There was a spiritual essence emanating from it that brought him to a state of reverence every time he was near it. Thorne believed the portal was the origin of all the mysteries in the world.

  The black mage took a single step forward, and Rhys leveled his sword in warning. It was a futile gesture that terrified Thorne, but one he would have made himself. Machreth hesitated, as though he were considering the risks, and then dismissed Rhys in favor of Drydwen.

  Machreth looked at her closely, a slow smile spreading over his face, a look of recognition. “They are searching for you in Ausoria, and all this time you have been here.”

  Thorne looked to Drydwen. “How does he know you?”

  “Tanwen,” Rhys muttered. “She is Tanwen.”

  “My given name is Drydwen,” she said almost defiantly. “Tanwen is a name that was bestowed upon me, one that I was not permitted to refuse. A lifetime ago now, and long forgotten.”

  Thorne was confused and frustrated. He staggered to his feet, trying to figure out what to do. Drydwen was not armed, not even with her wand. She was offering no resistance, but she had placed herself directly in harm’s way, and Thorne could not see a way to intervene without making things worse.

  “No matter,” Machreth said, reaching out with his wand hand.

  Rhys responded swiftly, swinging his sword sharp and hard on Machreth’s outstretched hand. The blade edge struck the wand, not the flesh, splitting the weapon in two. Thorne was awestruck by his young friend’s precision.

  Drydwen held out a hand to caution Rhys and intervened before Machreth could react. “I do not possess either the authority or the magic to stop you, Machreth, but even if I did, I would not. The portal will decide your fate. For your own good, I will caution you. No living being has ever crossed into the fifth realm through this portal and reemerged, and there is no way to know what you will find on the other side. This is power you do not understand.”

  “I have no intention of passing through the convergence,” Machreth said. “I intend to command it.”

  Drydwen’s eyes widened in surprise, and then she laughed. “Well, that I simply will not allow. You may leave through the doors to the temple, or you may leave through the portal, but either way, you will leave.”

  Only then did Drydwen draw her wand. Machreth swept Rhys aside with a wave of his hand, throwing the young swordsman hard against the far wall. He then raised his hands and Thorne envisioned a horrible hex battle that was sure to end in Drydwen’s death. He lunged for Machreth, but it was Maelgwn who saved her.

  From the dark recesses of the stairwell, Maelgwn sprang like a whip snap. He landed in front of Drydwen and spun on Machreth, snarling and gnashing his teeth. Thorne scrambled back, instinctively blocking the stairs. The warghound advanced on the sorcerer, maneuvering him away from Drydwen—and toward the portal.

  Whether stopping Maelgwn was beyond Machreth’s power or he was simply too startled to respond, the advantage belonged to the warghound. Maelgwn’s instinct to protect took hold, and the beast struck. Machreth recoiled and lost his footing. He teetered precariously close to the portal aperture, clawing at the marble framing to keep himself from falling. For a moment it looked as though Machreth would recover, but his momentum carried him into the fall. His fingers slipped, and Machreth was gone.

  The convergence swallowed him. Thorne had no other way to perceive what was happening. When Machreth’s form passed through the aperture, the portal shimmered like shifting sunlight on water, and then it went black.

  “Drydwen.” Thorne was stunned. The room felt cold. “What has happened?”

  “This is beyond my experience,” she said, turning to speak to him. A look of concern displaced her perplexity. “You are unnaturally pale.”

  Thorne scowled at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Thorne,” she said, clearly distressed, “you are bleeding.”

  He heard what she said, even noted his own surprise, and then all awareness of himself vanished.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thorne’s sensibilities returned some moments later as Rhys was helping him slide to a seat against the stone wall near the stairwell. Drydwen was peeling back the layers of torn clothing from his left
shoulder, which was more than a little uncomfortable. And now, he noticed, he could in fact see what had so disturbed Drydwen. The black leather chest plate and the tunic beneath were sopping wet from neck to waist and had turned the color of rusted iron. He was bleeding.

  “The portal?” He strained to see past Rhys.

  “The convergence has rebalanced,” Drydwen said. “Now keep still so I can look at this wound.”

  “Later,” Thorne argued, trying to pull his legs underneath him so he could stand. They would not comply. “I need to find Gavin first. And Eckhardt—he was hurt.”

  “You’ve lost too much blood, Thorne,” Drydwen explained calmly. “You might manage to get to your feet, but you won’t be able to hold yourself upright for long.”

  “I’ll go,” Rhys said. “Stay where you are.”

  Thorne was in no condition to argue. “Machreth unleashed some sort of spell in the temple, trying to cave in the walls and bury us. The stairwell might even be blocked at the top.”

  Rhys had already started up the steps. “Maelgwn came down and went up again. It must be clear.”

  Thorne had forgotten the warghound. “The Hellion scouts Machreth brought with him will still be nearby.”

  “Your dog can take care of himself.” Drydwen was examining his shoulder. “And if the Hellion soldiers return to the keep, I will deal with them. Your wound needs stitching.”

  Thorne winced at the thought. The shoulder was painful enough as it was. “But you have better ways for mending such things.”

  “Even I can only do so much.” As she spoke, he felt a numbing tingle in the flesh beneath her touch, and warmth flushed through him, not unlike the effects of an exceptionally fine wine. “This gash is very deep, and the sinew is peeled away from the bone. There will be stitching involved, but not until we get you somewhere more suited for it. Can you stand now?”

  Thorne was pleased to discover that he could, though not with ease. He needed the wall to steady him, but he was on his feet. “The pain is better.”

  “A temporary effect,” Drydwen warned. “Let me help you up the stairs.”

  “I can manage.” Thorne refused her attempt to take his good arm, on principle, though his common sense warned against it. Hauling himself up each step was more difficult than he had expected.

  He waved Drydwen ahead of him. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him struggle. “Go on.”

  She hesitated long enough to tilt a disapproving glare at him, then shook her head and went ahead of him up the stairs. “Have it your way then.”

  Gavin’s voice and the sound of more than one pair of boot heels echoed in the stairwell, and Thorne was dizzied anew with relief. Rhys met him at the top of the steps to offer his hand. This time, Thorne was eager to accept.

  The temple foyer was littered with freshly scorched rubble, but the ceiling had not fallen, and the three good walls were still intact. Eckhardt was on his feet, and with Drydwen’s help, propped himself on a stone bench in the garden courtyard beyond the old ruins. Several of her devotees appeared to offer aid. One of them stepped in to care for Eckhardt’s ugly side wound so that Drydwen could care for Thorne.

  “He needs tending more than me,” Thorne told her. Eckhardt was not as badly wounded as he had feared, but it was serious enough.

  This time she looked at him with thinly veiled aggravation. “We have many healers here. He’ll be well cared for. Unless you’d prefer I see to him rather than you.”

  Eckhardt grinned at Thorne. “That would suit me just fine.”

  “I know it would,” Thorne joked. “But now that you mention it, I think I’ll keep her to myself.”

  Gavin, however, had no stomach for grins or good humor. He was decidedly grim and was covered with stone dust and pebble. “Is it over?”

  Thorne was not sure how to answer. “Drydwen?”

  “In all my days as prioress of this keep, only once has anything ever emerged from that portal,” she said, “and only then in answer to a summoning.”

  “What does that mean?” Gavin stood rigid, tense with anticipation. He was spent, and frustrated, as they all were. He also wanted assurances more than he wanted explanations.

  Drydwen forgave his biting tone and answered him with more grace than he deserved. “If Machreth somehow survived the journey into the fifth realm, it may be possible for him to return, but only if the portal is opened to him. The only way that will happen is if I bring him back or am unable to prevent someone else from doing so.”

  “So it’s not over,” said Gavin. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed in distrust. “Not truly.”

  Thorne straightened as best he could to face Gavin’s skepticism. “It is over for now.”

  “That is not good enough,” Gavin said. “Not at all.”

  Thorne nodded. He agreed, but there was no point in belaboring a point for which there was no resolution that would satisfy any of them. “Any sign of Machreth’s Hellion soldiers?”

  “No, but we should keep watch.” Gavin dusted off his leggings. “What about the Cythraul you were hunting?”

  Drydwen looked surprised. “Cythraul?”

  “My young friend and I were in pursuit,” Thorne said. “The wraith scent led us to Banraven and then to Machreth.”

  She shrugged. “If Machreth summoned the wraiths, they are no longer a threat. They would not survive him.”

  Gavin perked. “Then you think him dead?”

  “No, but I cannot know for sure. If he does exist beyond the portal, in whatever form, his power no longer extends to this realm. He can work no magic here—not without a collaborator.”

  Rhys had been watching a sparrowhawk sitting on the bud-covered branch of a hazel sapling. Something about the bird seemed to fascinate him. “What exactly is the fifth realm?”

  “There are four earthly realms—the celestial, the spiritual, the natural, and the physical. The fifth realm is an unearthly realm. It is the otherworld,” Drydwen said. “An existence alongside our own, separate and yet connected. Many people believe it is both the beginning and the end of all things. I do not know the truth of that, but I do know it is the origin of all magic.”

  “Thin places,” Rhys spoke slowly. There was something in his tone that troubled Thorne. “Are they also portals to this fifth realm?”

  Drydwen studied him more closely before answering. “Yes, in some ways.”

  Rhys nodded, but he had taken to staring at Drydwen with what Thorne could only describe as suspicion. He might even have considered it contempt, but that seemed out of character. Still, it was odd. The tension eased when one of Drydwen’s devotees brought her a healer’s bag and she turned her attention again to Thorne.

  “The light out here is good,” she said. “Better to stitch that gash now than later.”

  Thorne sat on the end of the bench where Eckhardt had sprawled, to allow Drydwen to work on his shoulder. He watched Rhys for a few moments more, wondering why the young swordsman was so irritated. “What bothers you so?”

  Rhys ignored Thorne and spoke directly to Drydwen. “You know you will have to go back to Fane Gramarye, if for no other reason than to explain.”

  Drydwen didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. Thorne was curious. He had questions of his own, but he had planned to ask them later, in private.

  “Men of honor have been sent to find you, put themselves at risk searching for you in a place you have never been.” Rhys took a step closer. “Madoc is dead.”

  Thorne felt her hesitate. There could be only one reason this news would matter to her. Drydwen was Tanwen, one of the four sorceresses conscripted to the Stewards’ Council pledged to serve the king of the old prophecy.

  He did not find this hard to believe. When he had first encountered her in the White Woods all those years ago, she had been on her way to Elder Keep and in need of safe esc
ort. He had known she was running. From what or whom he had never asked, and she had never told. Everyone carried secrets, and it was Thorne’s way to let secrets rest—unless and until he needed to know.

  Rhys shot Thorne a dagger-eyed glare. “You do know who she is, don’t you?”

  “Thorne knows very little of my past,” Drydwen interjected. “And apparently you know more than you should.”

  She finished her stitching and wiped her hands with a linen cloth before turning to face Rhys. “Who sits on Madoc’s throne now?”

  “My mother,” Rhys said, taking a more respectful tone. Drydwen was intimidating when she wanted to be. “But only until his heir is found, and then she will take her place among the Guardians of the Realms.”

  “Yes, but who is your mother, boy?” Drydwen demanded.

  Rhys blanched, but he spoke up. “Alwen. My mother is Alwen.”

  Drydwen nodded as if she recognized the name. “Well then, son of Alwen. Tell your mother this. I have no intention of returning to Fane Gramarye, not now or ever. I left that life behind me long ago. I never wanted it. Elder Keep is my calling. It is where I was always meant to be. This is where I belong.”

  Drydwen hesitated, as though she were niggled by regret. “Tell Alwen that the bloodstone is hidden in one of the second-floor spell rooms. She will understand.”

  To Thorne’s surprise, she then turned on her heel, without a word or a glance in his direction, and left them there in the courtyard. If he had been sure of his legs, he would have followed her, out of concern. Then again, he had questions he was fairly sure she was not ready to answer.

  “That was…unexpected,” Eckhardt said to Thorne. “Did you know?”

  “No.” One of the devotees offered him a sling for his left arm, and another brought water to Eckhardt. “But then, I never asked.”

  “How could you be with her all these years and never have asked about her past?” Gavin wondered.