Arref Mak
Bhangbadea's sleep was troubled again. Whispers. A man she did not know. Tears ran down his face, but he refused to accept defeat. He had lost almost everything. He never looked at her. Or perhaps he could not see her. Yes. His eyes held determination, but vainly sought her. Then she realized he could not stay.
She dreamed of Maggie. Alive and dancing on a stage. Nothing about it seemed right. In the dream she stepped closer. Gossamer strings ran from Maggie's wrists, head, and various parts of her body to the stage rafters. Bhangbadea's stomach tightened with an awareness of distant fear. On the stage, Maggie was half undressed and her motions were not her own. Seeing her old friend used like a marionette, she felt the need to cry out, but whatever held the other end of those strings and made the ghost grind across the stage was near enough to hear any word, no matter how soft. She realized it was a dream, when suddenly she resolved to cut the strings and her silver dirk was in her hand, just there at her thought.
An unknown young man came out of the shadows surrounded by a golden aura. Concern was in his sad eyes. He raised a hand, but the floor gave way before she could reach the stage or he could reach her. She fell blind into something warm, pliant, wet. It enfolded her.
The knife flashed in and out of the smothering surround. The surface began to leak warmer sludge upon her.
The menace behind it all tried to influence the thick fluid to crawl into her mouth and nose. Sensing the other intent somewhere behind the darkness, Bhangbadea bristled with psychic energies. . . .to no avail. The whispers would not be pinned down. She seized upon a racked spell, vanished from the entangling folds.
A silver room.
The faint glow of moon on the furniture, as if the walls had no power to keep out the celestial light. Many people were there, she knew one of them. Fiona of Amber, also known as the Pentagon Sorceress and the Scarlet Witch of Amber. Everyone present seemed to be following a recital of a very young red haired woman. Young. Most of the people were very young, barely ten years into their maturity.
She looked about the place, belatedly seeing it as a library. That was how she saw the figure behind the bookcase. A man, who seemed to repel the moonlight, who seemed to watch over the room, not a part of it. He took so much light out of the room that she could not identify him. She turned to watch what he had come to see.
She tried to follow the lips of the redhead.
". . . an ill kept ring of stones. . . the circle. . . a triple moonlit night sky. . . an altar stone and a figure. . . six figures. . . three from the north and one each in the other cardinal directions. . ."
The conversation shifted to others. Each seemed to have something to say, no. . .to add to what was said, she thought. She lost track of the words.
The man cloaked in darkness launched a spell at her. It smelled of dry mummified things and dust. She rolled away from it, the floor parted and she fell through. A glimpse of an angry sea, dark green, slowly dancing under a silver moon.
She recalled that first time she had seen the ocean, how she had realized that its power was greater than any king's. She was eight years old that summer.
She landed hard in a kennel. Pain starred and sparked behind her eyes, and she tried to use the moment to burst the dream-state and wake.
A sudden darkness pushed her back into the dream. Familiar smells. Dog. Straw. Old water. The cages were only large enough for her to crawl. She ignored the heavy chain collared to her neck, the stiff leather collar. She knew this nightmare, it was an old faded ghost from years gone dim. When she was a little girl, she hadn't let this pain affect her and its freshness now didn't threaten her either. The darkness had made an error, a slip of haste perhaps when she tried to break free.
Perhaps she might use her time now, to find out something of the darkness.
So she whimpered, she howled at the moon, letting her surface thoughts shiver with dread. . .content mined and pushed up from her memories of the real thing.
While she carefully peered into the darkness at the corners of this dreamworld.
Time has little meaning in dream. It can stretch before you in limitless landscape, or be brittle with desperate need. Perception is time in dream. As she worked to find out more about the darkness, her perception sharpened and the dream sped up. As her outer world became the kennels of Cochis forever and ever, her inner vision crept closer to the blackness that lingered behind the fear.
Then suddenly she saw a man in purple robes. Ancient. Startled to have the curtain of blackness thrust aside. His mouth slacked. His eyes glared.
He cast her into a whirlwind of battles fought long ago.
* * *
She fought on thru the dreaming night. She didn't win or lose. It was just like waking life.
She woke, as she always did, at an early hour. Years and years of habit would not be denied. This time she was dearly grateful to see the bleak scrub of the Ersian countryside. The sun had not made an appearance yet, and her breath blew like smoke into the air. She was tired.
When the morning of early sun finally came, she had finished her felinoid zen routines and almost ended her arcane preparations for the rest of the trip. Bishop had returned from his morning ablutions. The men were ready to move out after a simple trail breakfast.
She rubbed her brow, Talathgard was going to look cheery after this trip. The travel party moved on into the dry sharp morning.