A Place Beyond The Map

by Samuel Thews

  Upon completing their circuit of the room, the Sirens made their way back to the entrance, where they hovered, swaying with their song.

  A sudden movement to his right caught Phinnegan’s attention. Jumping from his seat with a spryness that did not match his shriveled appearance, one of the Aged now ran towards the Sirens. When he reached them, they each patted and caressed his arms and back, drawing him away from the dining hall and into a growing darkness.

  When they vanished from his sight, Phinnegan felt a slight release of pressure and suddenly he could hear again. There was a mumbling occurring in the room around him but all was silenced when Vermillion spoke.

  “Apparently dear Aulus has grown weak in his age.” A thin smile haunted his lips and his eyes bore into one Aged and then another. “I am glad to see that the rest of you were able to maintain yourselves.” The smile vanished and the hint of a snarl curled the right side of his mouth.

  “If there is anything I loathe more than all else, it is weakness.”

  A sharp clap brought the servants once again, this time setting multiple dishes of various sizes in the middle of the table in one long line from end to end. The domes hiding the contents were again all silver, as were the plates being placed in front of each patron. Vermillion’s plate was, of course, golden, edged in a dusting of crushed garnet.

  When the domes were lifted, the Patrons were assailed by a variety of sensuous smells. There were two different kinds of fish, roasted rabbit, and a leg of lamb, one of each dish for every four or five guests. More food than anyone could hope to eat.

  The smells drew Phinnegan to the edge of his seat. He had been just about to ask Vermillion a question, but the thought was now gone from his mind as he took in the dishes before him. Besides, Vermillion’s mood seemed to have soured since the departure of the sirens, whether because they were able to lure away one Aged or because they were only able to lure one Aged.

  Phinnegan looked from the food to the other patrons, but no one made a move. They all seemed to be looking at him, as did Vermillion. When his eyes found Emerald’s, she smiled softly and gestured to the table’s bounty.

  “They are waiting for you. It is our custom. The host eats the first bite of the first service, while an esteemed guest is given the honor for the second.”

  Phinnegan regarded the four options before him, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. He glanced to Vermillion, who nodded, a bored, distant look upon his face. Wasting no more time, Phinnegan removed a thick slice of the lamb and placed it on his plate. When he took his knife to cut his first bite, it passed with ease through the tender meat.

  The juices flowed freely over his tongue when he bit into this first morsel. He had never tasted anything so delicious. As he chewed, he became aware of the clinking of knives and forks on plates and a renewed chatter as the other patrons chose their own second service. Murmured satisfaction could be heard all around as the others sampled the four offered fares.

  Even Vermillion’s mood seemed to return to his sly contentment of earlier, and as Phinnegan ate, his courage to ask his host the questions that burned in his mind grew, until he cleared his throat and ventured to speak.

  “Excuse me, sir, I mean, Your Highness. May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, of course. You are our honored guest, after all. Go on.” His tone was receptive, even kind, and he went so far as to place his own fork and knife on the table to devote his full attention to Phinnegan.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Vermillion said, a broad smile spreading across his face, which was surely meant to comfort Phinnegan, yet it had the opposite effect.

  “Well, what I mean is- I mean, Your Highness,” Phinnegan said, correcting his slip. “What I mean is, well, when I was here before, I was put into a dungeon and then put on trial. Well, truthfully Periwinkle was put on-“

  “Do NOT,” Vermillion thundered, interrupting Phinnegan and causing him to cower in his seat, “speak that name in my presence. Ever! Am I clear?” Vermillion’s reddish-brown eyes shifted more toward the red and they bored into Phinnegan, who managed to nod quickly.

  “Y-yes, Your Highness.” Phinnegan was so frightened by this outburst that he put aside all thought of asking his question. But Vermillion, relaxing a bit in his seat, seemed to recognize where Phinnegan had been headed.

  “As for you, it is unfortunate that you were caught up with that…criminal. We had no choice but to assume that you were with him. But, my daughter,” he paused nodding in Emerald’s direction, who sat with her back straight, calmly chewing her food while her gray-green eyes stared at Phinnegan, “she could…sense…something about you. When Periwinkle…escaped…she trailed you both. And it turns out she was right. You are very special.” The smile Vermillion bestowed upon Phinnegan at that moment was anything but warm, and Phinnegan could only think of one word: greed.

  He was also reminded of Periwinkle, and the story that the purple-haired Faë had told him during their time in the darkness of Féradoon. He had mentioned Vermillion’s daughter and the love he had borne her, and how Vermillion had taken her away from him. As he regarded the Faë across from him, her eyes flashed from green to gray and back again, and he was reminded that she was more than a Faë, if she was still a Faë at all. She was a gholem.

  Perhaps this explained why Periwinkle had not recognized her that day in Castle Heronhawk.

  He puzzled over these questions, but he could hardly ask them now. Instead he returned to the discussion at hand, for he still did not understand his own predicament.

  “But I still don’t understand. Why am I special? Why have you brought me here? What is this Mark?” He finished by thrusting his finger forward for all around him to see. A hush fell upon those closest and it spread until Vermillion needed to speak with a voice only just above a whisper.

  “You ask many questions,” he said, his eyes fixed on the Mark on Phinnegan’s finger. Those other Aged within earshot had set down their forks and listened intently. “I will say only this: It has been foretold that a human would come to our world, and that he would be able, with the proper guidance, of course, to open the First Gate. This gate has been closed and locked for millennia. We believe that you, Phinnegan Qwyk, are that human.”

  “But…why me?” Phinnegan asked after a short pause.

  “The Warber was a test. When we learned that it had marked you, we knew that there was a very good possibility that it was you. And now we have brought you here for the final test.”

  “What is the final test?”

  “Why, to open the Gate, of course,” Vermillion said with a slight shrug.

  “But…what if I cannot open this Gate? What if I fail?”

  Vermillion smiled coldly, his reddish-brown eyes sparkling slightly.

  “The Gate does not tolerate failure. If you fail, you will die.”

  Phinnegan swallowed the lump in his throat. He met Vermillion’s gaze for a moment before letting his eyes fall to the table.

  “And if I refuse to help you?”

  “Refuse?” Vermillion questioned with a raised eyebrow. “If you refused, then you would be of no further use to us.” The threat was veiled but only slightly. Phinnegan had little doubt what this type of person would do with him if he was of no further use.

  “But,” Vermillion continued, wiping his hands on a golden napkin trimmed in dark red ribbing. “Once you have helped me to open the Gate, I will of course be in your debt. I would be more than willing to grant you whatever you wish. To send you home, perhaps? That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  Phinnegan raised his head, his eyes widened with hope.

  “You can send me home?”

  “Of course. And I will, if you agree to help.”

  Phinnegan looked around and noticed that all of the Aged within earshot had their eyes upon him. Across the table, Emerald’s now green eyes burrowed into him. Vermillion was the only one who appeared relaxed, lea
ning back in his chair.

  Phinnegan thought of everything he had experienced during these several days of adventure. He remembered Periwinkle’s hatred of this powerful Aged who sat only an arm’s reach away. There was no denying that Vermillion left Phinnegan ill at ease. However, one thought more than any other loomed large in his mind.

  Home.

  “All right,” Phinnegan said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

  Emerald’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he thought perhaps she would speak. But she held her tongue, and regained her composure.

  Vermillion only smiled.

  “I knew you were a smart boy.”

  CHAPTER 26

  A Book of Secrets

  Phinnegan sat alone in the large chambers that had been given to him for his time in Féradoon, his stomach full from the seven-service dinner he had endured. After he had agreed to help Vermillion open the First Gate, the services continued as did the in-between service entertainments. Thankfully, no one else seemingly had met their end, as the latter entertainment had been much more benign and even enjoyable at times.

  Now, with the sights and sounds behind him, it was refreshing to be alone. These Aged made him feel uncomfortable, none more so than their leader, Vermillion, who Phinnegan still was not sure whether he was actually an Aged, a Young, or something in between.

  Save for the crackling fire, the room was quiet and dark. Though, as the fire was large, it cast a bright glow over half the room. Phinnegan sat now in one of the two heavily carved chairs arranged before the fire. On the other chair lay the sleeping clothes that a servant had left for him.

  With a yawn, he stood and stretched. He had not slept in what he guessed was at least twenty-four hours, for it was well into the night when the dinner party had ended, and the previous night he had spent in the clutches of the gholem, being brought to Féradoon from the forests outside Asher’s cottage. The large bed beckoned behind him and he removed his clothes and tossed them on the floor, throwing his travelling clothes on top of them.

  When his shirt fell, the unexpected thump caught his attention. He stared confusedly at the small black object which had fallen from his pocket before he recognized it as the book that Asher had given him.

  He donned the sleeping clothes and neatly folded the fine garments he had been provided for dinner before sitting on the floor in front of the roaring fire, the small black leather book at his feet. When he grasped it, he found the supple leather to already be quite warm from the fire’s heat. Phinnegan sat several feet from the fire himself but felt the warmth keenly upon his face. The crackling logs were calming and he fingered the gold-etched design on the front of the book absently as he was soothed by this sound.

  Flipping the book over, he scrutinized the back cover for any other discernable symbols, but the intricate scrollwork meant nothing to him. The spine of the book, which was only perhaps half an inch thick, revealed nothing further, save a smaller version of the symbol on the front cover.

  When he opened the book, Phinnegan found it just as he had before, blank and empty. The book held no more than a hundred pages, and each was completely devoid of any writing. He traced over their surfaces with his Marked finger, hoping to coax the pages to reveal their secrets, but to no avail. The pages remained as blank as ever.

  Somewhere in the castle, a bell intoned the hour. Twelve long notes signaled the advent of a new day. Phinnegan sighed heavily and moved to close the book, as he was anxious for sleep. But just as the last peal of the bell vanished into the night’s embrace, a flicker of something caught his eye.

  And then it was gone.

  But he had seen something. A word? A letter? He flipped quickly through the pages of the book, searching for the flash he had seen. He was nearly to the end of the book before he found it. There, on the third to the last page, at the very top in the center, a small symbol in rich black ink. A symbol that matched the one on the cover, and the Mark on his finger.

  His spine tingled and he dared not to breathe lest the symbol disappear as quickly and mysteriously as it had come. He wondered why it would appear now, but suddenly remembered a remark made by Vermillion near the end of the dinner. He had said that Phinnegan’s arrival was just in time; that tomorrow was a special day. A coincidence perhaps, but Phinnegan thought it more likely that all of these things were linked. The book, the Gate, the Mark on his finger. And now, when the bell had tolled the new day, this special day, the book had spoken its first word to him.

  It could not be coincidence.

  He sat quietly before the fire, pensive, with the book open in his hands. With a shaky hand, he touched the Mark on his finger to the symbol on the page. Though nothing else appeared on the page at first, a tingle in his finger told him that something had happened, that somehow his touch had made an impact.

  Then the words began to appear. Finally he would have some answers.

  But his heart sank just as quickly as it had risen. Though several lines had appeared on the page, they were all gibberish to him, written in a language he could neither read nor recognize. The letters were familiar, though many had been written in a manner he had never before seen. Yet even with this familiarity, he could make out not one word in the entire piece.

  ABE AR EROFT HEMA RKM AY

  ATT HEAPP OINT EDIT MEAN DATTH EA PPO INTE DPL ACE

  CO MEUPO NANEN TRAN CETOT HEP ATH

  EMBA RKIN GUPO NTHI SPAT HMUS TNO TBET AKE NLIG HTL Y

  FO RTHEG UAR DIA NWITH INW ILLPUR GETH OSED EE MEDU NOW RTH Y

  THEB EAR ERMUS TEN TERW ILLIN GLY

  TH EBE ARERM USTEN TERA LON E

  “I can’t read it,” he whispered.

  He stared at these words for several minutes, vainly trying to sound out phrases that resembled no tongue he had ever heard. In the end he slammed the book closed squeezing it tightly in his fingers.

  “What good is a book if you can’t even read it?” he grumbled to himself, frustrated that once again he would need to find his own way when it just appeared he had found help. In anger, he raised his arm, preparing to hurl the book into the fire.

  “Would you make a second foolish mistake in one evening,” a voice said quietly from behind, causing Phinnegan to nearly fall over backwards in alarm.

  He turned to see Emerald appearing from the shadows on the other side of the room.

  “How-how did you get in here? The door was locked.”

  “Do you think that the keepers of this castle would allow you to lock a door to which they do not have a key?” she said, a small smile on her lips as she made her way across the room to where Phinnegan sat in front of the fire.

  “Besides, I have little need of keys. I have my own,” she paused, a sardonic smile upon her lips, “talents.”

  “You mean because you are a gholem,” Phinnegan said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “But yet, you are his daughter? How can you be a Faë and a gholem?”

  Emerald looked away, staring into the fire for several moments, her eyes flashing from green to gray and back again. Phinnegan thought that perhaps her eyes stayed gray for a bit longer this time.

  “It is a long story,” she said at length, a resigned tone in her voice. “Perhaps I will have a chance to tell you it some time.”

  “Why not now?” Phinnegan questioned.

  “Because there are more important things to discuss. For one, why you are about to make a fool of yourself twice? Is it not enough to agree to help my father? Now you are about to throw a book more valuable than you could ever imagine, into the fire?”

  “He promised to send me home,” Phinnegan said sheepishly, his eyes falling to the floor.

  “We shall come to that in a moment,” Emerald said dryly. “What of the book?”

  Phinnegan eyed the supple-bound book in his hand.

  Valuable? How could it be valuable to me? Perhaps if I could read it.

  “It’s useless, I can’t read it.”

  Emerald appeared disturbed.

>   “You mean no writing appeared in the book at midnight?”

  “How could you-“ Phinnegan began to question, but the Faë-gholem gave him a dangerous look.

  “No, I mean, writing did appear, just at the last strike of the bell.” Phinnegan saw her visibly relax, but he felt no such relief. “But it’s of no use. The writing is all gibberish. I can’t read it.”

  “Let me see,” she commanded, and Phinnegan obeyed immediately, tossing her the book. She flipped through its pages, searching for the writing.

  “Third page from the last,” he offered, but she shook her head and closed the book.

  “I am afraid you can do more than I, for I cannot see it at all.” She tossed the book back to him and he flipped feverishly to the page where he had previously seen the writing. It was still there. Even as he had been about to throw the book into the fire, the sight of the words, words he could not even read, brought him comfort. But the frustration soon returned.

  “I can see it, but what good is seeing it if I don’t know what it means. It’s in another language.”

  Emerald raised an eyebrow.

  “Another language? I doubt that.” Returning her gaze, Phinnegan was reminded how much her demeanor had changed from the first time he had met her in the courtyard of Castle Heronhawk. Only a few days it seemed had passed since then, yet what had been a sweet-smiling, laughing Faë now seemed a shadow of herself. As her eyes passed again from green to gray and back again, Phinnegan wondered if whatever had happened to her, whatever made her the gholem, was progressing. Would she one day be only a gholem? He pushed the thought from his mind.

  “Why do you doubt that it could be in another language?”

  “It’s possible, of course, but being that it was written for a human, as no Faë could bear such a Mark, I would guess it is in a tongue you would know. Although it is old. It could be Latin or Greek even.”

  “No,” Phinnegan said, shaking his head. “I would recognize both of those languages. I can’t read them, but I would recognize them. This is something different.”