“I promise.”
“Very well,” she said, “let us enter.”
So we did.
The archway opened onto another dank, clammy tunnel. There were no torches on these walls, and I stumbled often. Fortunately, the passage was short, and I was happy to see the vague, hazy light of the Dreamers’ world as we exited. Almost as soon as we did, we began to see more Dreamers. They ambled sedately through the mist, appearing then summarily vanishing into its wispy fingers. Some lay beneath elegant stands of weeping willows, lost in the deepness of sleep. I gaped at a beautiful woman, dressed like Iilane, who thundered past in a silver chariot pulled by a team of grey horses. They weren’t just a smoky grey color but were created of the fog itself. The woman’s wild auburn hair and white veil streamed behind her, and she took no more notice of us than the cold-looking stream through which she drove her team.
I saw male Dreamers as well as female. They wore the same voluminous pants as the women but no shirts. Around their necks were fastened dark grey cloaks, which, like the women’s veils and overdresses, shifted constantly, sometimes obscuring their bodies from view. The men also had auburn hair—close-cropped—and lovely smoky eyes. None of these men wore any jewelry that I could see, although many of the women, like Iilane, wore rubies on the foreheads.
After a while, we came to a clearing, surrounded by head-high green hedges. The atmosphere was thinner here, and all vestiges of sleep attacks had disappeared for good, along with the thick mist and fog. Dozens of small stone archways, perhaps six feet by three, were scattered about in no particular order. Some huddled together in clumps of three or four, but mostly they stood alone and apart.
Once more Iilane stopped and turned to me. “These are the Doors of Dreams. Through these, any Dreamer may pass into a dream and hence into the Upperworld. To send dreams, to observe dreams, and to study the ones who dream, do they go. Our lives are eternally bound to dreams and the Mists of Sleep, but through these entranceways we may gain access to another’s visions.”
It clicked then. “All of those people in dreams,” I said, “people you don’t know and have never seen before… they’re Dreamers?”
She smiled her cat’s smile. “Perhaps. At times, yes. At times, they are naught but an invention of the dream itself.”
The smile vanished as she straightened, squaring her shoulders. “Very well, then. For the quest on which thou hast come, thou must be taken to an Interpreter. Come, Seeker.”
Iilane now led me to the lone tree in the center of the clearing, surrounded by stone archways. Dead now, its branches broken and its top naked, it was a lonely watcher soaring over the Vale of the Dreamers. Hanging from the lowest of its branches was a shiny golden trumpet that gleamed brightly through the gloominess encircling it. The Dreamer now lifted the instrument, brought it to her ruby lips, and with it blew a single, clear note that sliced the gloomy atmosphere and echoed across the valley.
As she replaced the trumpet, Iilane said, “Thy Interpreter will arrive soon, I think. I have done all that I must and all that I can. Now, I must leave thee.”
With no more than that she backed up as if to retreat into the fog, to blend into it and disappear.
“Iilane?”
She stopped when I called her name.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Thank you for all your help.”
At first she appeared wary then confused, as though this was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Then the confusion also left, and a beautiful smile brightened her face. Instantly, she became twice as stunning, as if an unexpected flash of sunlight had entered this gloomy valley.
“What I did, it was not so much,” she replied, almost with an air of humility. “But thou art most welcome.”
The smile faded. Before I could breathe, she was gone, fading into the fog that spiraled up from around her feet, taking her back to where she’d come. Once more, I was alone, this time waiting beside the lonely, dead tree for my Interpreter.
The Interpreter
Another silver chariot drawn by horses of fog quickly materialized before my astonished eyes. The driver, a man, was perfectly silent as he beckoned me to climb aboard with the crooking of a finger. Silent as well, I complied, clutching the sides of his chariot in a death grip as he cracked the whip over the animals’ heads, and we were off.
I cannot even begin to describe the sensations of riding in that chariot. The horses had a floating, rocking, smooth gallop—too smooth, almost motionless even though we were certainly in motion. Seasickness tied my stomach in knots as we sped along. Closing my eyes, I held on even tighter, hoping fervently this would be a short ride.
Just in time, it ended. I couldn’t help it. The second we stopped, my eyes sprang open, and I stumbled off the back of that chariot, emptying my stomach behind a scrubby bush that squatted nearby. Once the sickness had subsided, I straightened, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and gazing ruefully at what I’d done.
Well, this is certainly leaving something of myself behind, I thought. Surely nobody would be twisted enough to use it against me, though.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the expression of my chariot driver. Silly people, it seemed to say, regarding me and my kind, non-Dreamers, with smooth disdain. I refused to care. When he dismounted from his chariot and beckoned me to follow him, I obeyed without a word. Let him look down on me if he wanted to. I was beginning to get my fill of the Underworld, its strange people and strange ways. At this point, all I wanted was to obtain answers to my questions and get the heck out of there.
The Interpreter waited for me beneath a natural arbor formed of tree limbs and tangled vines. She was very tall, hardly shorter than Ilgard, with iron-colored hair coiled like a snake around her head. Her cheeks, slim skirt, and vest were all a dusky rose color, and I was a little surprised to see she wore nothing underneath the latter. Its laces were only loosely gathered, exposing a rather large amount of skin. It certainly appeared the Dreamers weren’t averse to more provocative clothing than would’ve been acceptable in the Upperworld above.
Her thin pink lips were set in a firm line, rendering an impression of sternness that her metallic-grey eyes did nothing to contradict. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even pretty. Still, as with her fellow Dreamers, she carried an air of sensuality that nearly belied the humorless set of her features. She made me nervous, although I would hardly admit it to myself and tried my best not to betray it to her.
After scouring me with a superior glance, she dismissed my charioteer with a curt snap of her fingers and a quick toss of her head. I kept my back stiff, refusing to lower my gaze or show any other signs of weakness.
“Follow me,” she said, leading the way beneath the entrance of the arbor and into the leafy tunnel of branches and vines beyond. This ended at a redbrick wall upon which hung a large oval mirror. This was no ordinary mirror, however. Its surface was coated with a silvery gel that shimmered, quivering like Jell-O as we approached. My Interpreter—Illsa, she had coolly informed me was her name—halted in front of it, holding up a hand to arrest me as well.
“Your name,” she said without looking at me. “Tell it to the mirror.”
Puzzled, I shot her a quizzical glance, debating whether she really meant for me to talk to the mirror or to her. She must have caught the movement from the corner of her vision, for she snapped gruffly, “Do as I say, child! If you wish answers to your questions, you must do as you are told and nothing else!”
Well, okay then, I shrugged.
Looking directly into the mirror, I began, “My name is—”
But there I faltered. Should I reveal myself as the Artan? Or give my Earth name? Either would be accurate, but only one protected a vital truth.
…“Hannah Winters,” I finished, deciding, No need to give up my identity if she doesn’t already know it.
Still not looking at me, Illsa spoke again. “You have dreamed. When?”
“Last night.”
“And you desire an interpretation of this vision. Why?”
“It seemed important, like its meaning begged a revelation.”
“There were none above to aid you?”
I shook my head. “None.”
“Go now to the mirror,” she instructed. “It is the Seventh Mirror of Eyes. There are many such mirrors in the Vale of the Dreamers; this of mine is the Seventh. They have the power to recapture spent visions, and I to read them. Place your hand upon its surface, and remove it not until I give command.”
I did so and regretted it.
A peculiar sensation struck my body with the force of a hammer. A loud rushing started at the tips of my toes, blasting upwards into my head. It struck the hardest behind my eyes, a horrid sucking pain that seared my brain as if the mirror’s silver gel meant to physically rip memories of the dream from my head. The intensity of this agony was matched only by the screams tearing from my throat. Every instinct, every nerve, cried out for me to free myself and run. Discipline I didn’t know I possessed gave me the strength to hang on.
Braisley didn’t warn me about this… I remember thinking.
“Remove yourself, now!”
The harsh command barely registered through the fog of pain and the din of my own screams. Feebly, I tried to obey, but the mirror wouldn’t let me go.
“Remove your hands!”
I couldn’t.
“Release her!” The commands had changed. She was no longer talking to me but the mirror itself. “Release!”
Strong arms encircled my torso. A sharp tug, and I fell backwards, away from sucking pain, away from draining, away from the Seventh Mirror of Eyes. My knees hit the ground, and I covered my face with trembling hands. Biting my lower lip, I fought for time and control: to catch my breath, to prevent tears, and to allow my body space to recover.
Remarkably, release from the pain came rather quickly as Illsa knelt beside me, placing strong fingers around the back of my neck. She gave it a light squeeze, murmuring a garbled collection of foreign words. Thanks to her ministrations, I was soon able to accept the hand she offered and rise to my feet. Her sharp eyes appraised me critically, yet I thought their stare wasn’t as glacial as before.
“You will survive,” she stated. “You are strong. Even with my aid, many fail to escape the mirror’s embrace. Despite my aid, many of those who are fortunate enough to escape never recover the strength lost.” She paused, that appraising look deepening to a contemplative gleam. “But you are strong.”
Her observations made me fear she’d go on to inquire as to where my strength had come from, or who I was that I could recover as I did. Happily, she didn’t, but instead turned back to the mirror.
Hateful thing, I thought bitterly. Even now, the remembrance of its “embrace” was enough to chill my blood.
The Interpreter now placed her palm over the mirror, careful not to bring her skin into contact with the quivering silver gel. She muttered more of those foreign-sounding words then smiled with self-satisfaction as the mirror suddenly flashed, a swarm of images springing up and zipping across its face at a dizzying rate of speed. It hurt my eyes to watch, and I turned away, wrapping my arms around myself, hoping this whole ordeal would soon be over and the interpretation of my dream worth everything I’d gone through to obtain it.
“I have seen your vision.” The no-nonsense tone interrupted my train of thought, and I glanced up. “The Seventh Mirror of Eyes has shown me your dream. Its interpretation I have seen, as well. Do you care to hear it?”
Unexpected Ally
My former male charioteer took me beyond the borders of the Vale of the Dreamers, leaving me at an overgrown path leading into a thick, dark forest. Without a word, I climbed down from the chariot, lunging for the nearest tree before I collapsed. Taking deep breaths, I struggled to calm my roiling stomach and hold back the weight of tears, not even noticing the horses of fog whisking their driver away.
“How could they?” I moaned, bitterness bruising my voice. “How could they?”Betrayed. They had betrayed me. All of them. Aureeyah, Elisia, Rittean, Risean, Braisley, Cole.
Ilgard…
A sob caught in my throat at that thought, that name. A tear wound its way down my cheek, leaving a shiny track in its wake. Quickly, it was followed by another and another and another. Still, I refused to give in to weeping and clutched the tree instead, as if comfort could be found in its scaly bark.
But there wasn’t. There was no comfort anywhere. I was completely, wretchedly, miserably alone. Despondent, I laid against that tree, uncaring for my exposed and vulnerable position, uncaring that some evil Underworld creature could happen upon me at any moment. Maybe it was selfish, but right then my personal grief far outweighed even the burden of Aerisia’s future.
Fingers encased in black leather gloves touched my shoulder gently.
“My lady?”
I gasped, whirling to see who’d disturbed me. “Who are you?”
Clear, ice-blue eyes reflected back my own frightened image.
“You are troubled?”
With shaky fingers, I swept the hot tears from my eyes.
“Really? What makes you say so?”
The ghost of a smile hovered about his mouth. “Perhaps it was the brightness of your eyes or the high color to your cheeks. Perhaps it was your immaculate appearance. You simply looked so joyful.”
I managed a choked laugh. “Yeah, I’m so sure. Somehow you managed to look past all that and see the troubled woman underneath.”
He tilted his head to the right, considering me. “What does trouble you, may I ask? A recalcitrant lover, or one untrue? A hidden wound? A sprained ankle?” He paused, giving his next words effect. “Or a startling tale from your Interpreter?”
I glanced up sharply. “How do you know about that?” Wary now, I pushed myself to my feet, the tree bark scraping against my back. “Who are you?”
He rose as well, placing his hands on the tree, one on either side of my head. Even leaning over, he still towered above me. “I am known as The Hunter,” he offered, dipping his chin in greeting. “You needn’t give me your name: I know it. Moreover, my lady, I know not only who you are but what you are.”
My jaw dropped a fraction of an inch at that carefully put, yet bold statement. “What do you mean?”
He smiled into my eyes—a smile, I thought, not of malice, but one meant to comfort. To reassure. All the same, he loomed over me way too far and much too close. I wanted to duck away but was fully aware that, if he wanted to stop me, short of using magic, I could do little to defend myself, since I carried no weapons. And using magic once I passed the Gate of Despair was not an option. Braisley had strictly forbidden it, warning me it might attract every fiend and felon in the Underworld within a matter of seconds.
Trapped, I didn’t move. The newcomer, speaking softly with his mouth close to my ear, said, “I am friend to one you have met already. Aye, and in a place you have already visited.”
“Where?” I asked, my volume dropping to match his.
“The Grotto of Crystal Life.”
“Heldwyn?”
“Heldwyn.”
I glanced down at my feet, perplexed. Why had Heldwyn told this man anything about me? Especially… that? To have told him I was the Artan, she must place great faith in him.
If she’s really what she seems and not a double-crosser too, I amended mentally.
Could I trust him? Could I trust her?
“Why would Heldwyn tell you… all this?” I faltered.
“I am The Hunter.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me. What do you hunt?”
A terrible gleam deepened his ice-blue gaze. “Game,” he replied dangerously. “I hunt game. Evil, wretched, forsaken game.
“Once, there were others like me. We came to the Underworld, swearing to do all in our might to free those like Heldwyn who wait, and to combat the evil flourishing in this place. I am the last of those who came. Alone, I have conti
nued the fight these many years.”
“How long have you been down here?”
Despite my caution, this strange man with his strange appearance and equally strange story aroused my curiosity. His face was neither young nor old but except for a few lines at the corners of his eyes bore an ageless quality, much like a Simathe’s. His hair, though, was tinted an ashen grey, and there were wings of white at the temples. His stare was penetrating, his build beneath all black clothing lean and athletic. While his facial features were finely, almost delicately formed, he carried himself in a way that screamed danger, making his very presence intimidating. I wasn’t surprised he’d managed to survive the Underworld alone. He looked as if he could survive anything.
“More years, little girl, than you could possibly dream,” he answered slowly.
“What happened to the others who came with you?”
He studied me as if wondering at the depths of my ignorance.
“Were they killed?” I persisted.
He shook his head. “Have you not heard? There is no real death in the Underworld. There is the living death for any immortals overtaken in these bowels of depravity, while mortals are dismembered, torn asunder. Their physical bodies die, but their life force is absorbed into the creature who slew them, sustaining and feeding it. If they are lucky, that is.”
I swallowed hard. “I thought death in the Underworld was just… death.”
“Nay, far from it. Many impressions concerning the Underworld are at best misleading, at worst entirely wrong.”
He looked away, his gaze fastening on a point somewhere far beyond the two of us. “Many things have I seen during my Underworld sojourn, things unspeakable and full of dread. Things I would declare to no one, not even to you.” When his eyes swung back to me, it seemed he’d returned from a private, torturous journey. “I have come to you for help, little one. I need your aid.”
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