instead of just regaining it.
It wasn’t the eyes themselves that fascinated him, although they were large and kind, brown like the eyes of some creature watching with caution from the forest depths. Rather it was the way her eyes looked at him and saw him.
Even in this fit of madness (or whatever had swallowed him) the brown-eyed girl saw him, not what he said or what he seemed or what others imagined him to be. Perhaps it was only because they were in this place without names— perhaps she could have seen him here in no other way— but the way she looked at him felt like a welcoming campfire summoning a freezing, exhausted traveler. It felt like something that could save him.
Who are you? he asked again.
I told you, I don’t know. Then she smiled, a surprising flash of amusement that transformed her solemn little face into something astounding. I’m a dreamer, I suppose, or maybe I’m a dream. One of us is dreaming this, aren’t we?
But that was a jest, he knew. She was no idle wisp of either his fancy or her own—she was strong and practical. He could feel it. And who are you?
A prisoner, he told her, and knew it was true. An exile. A victim.
Now for the first time he felt something other than kindness from her, a sour taste in her reply. A victim? Who isn’t? That isn’t who you are, that’s just what’s happening to you.
He was torn between his desire to feel her sweetness again and the need to explain just how badly life and the gods had treated him. The gods? They were trying to kill him!
You don’t understand, he said. It’s different with me. But he found that here on this bridge over Unbeing, this span that led away in either direction to unseen and unknowable ends, he couldn’t explain why that was. I’m...wrong. Crippled. Mad in the head.
If you expect me to feel sorry for you because you dream of impossible places and people without names, she said, some of her sly humor creeping back, then you’ll have to try something else instead.
He wanted to let himself enjoy her, but he could not. If he did —if he belittled his own miseries—how could he even exist? The only thing that made his suffering bearable was the knowledge that it also made him different— that he had been elected somehow for this pain. But I didn’t ask to be like this! His despair rose up in a howl of fury. I didn’t want things to be this way! I don’t have the strength for any more!
What do you mean? Her amusement was gone—she was looking at him again, really looking. He would not recognize this blurry, occulted phantom even if he stood face-to-face with her, at least not by her features, but he would know the quality of attention she gave him anywhere, in any disguise.
I mean it’s too much. One horror after another. The gods themselves... The monstrousness of it all could not be explained. I’m cursed, that’s all. I’m not strong enough to live with it any longer. I thought I could—I’ve tried—but I can’t.
You don’t mean that. It’s a kind of...showing off.
I do mean it! I’d rather be dead. Dead, he might not see his beloved twin soul ever again—or this one either, this new friend in darkness—but at this moment he didn’t care. He was tired of the burden.
You can’t ever say that. Her thoughts were not plaintive but angry again. We all die. What if we only get one chance to be alive?
What if it’s all pain?
Push against it. Escape it. Change it.
Easy to say. He was disgusted and furious, but suddenly terrified she would leave him alone on this bone-white span over nothing—no, worse than nothing.
No, it’s not. And it’s even harder to do, I know. But it’s all you have.
What is?
This is. All of it. You have to fight. Will you...will you come back to me if I do?
I don’t know. A flash of sweetness in the nothing, a smile like a fluting of birdsong in the dark before sunrise. I don’t know how I found you, so I can’t say if I’ll ever find you again, dear friend. Who are you?
I can’t say—I’m not sure. But come back to me—please! I’ll try...but live!
And then the bridge, the pit, the girl, everything was gone, and Barrick Eddon was swimming slowly back up through the ordinary soundings of dream and sleep.
Ferras Vansen was relieved to see that the prince’s miseries seemed to have eased a bit. Barrick was no longer making that terrible wheezing noise, and although he still lay stretched on the stone floor of their cell he seemed to be resting now instead of suffering. Vansen, who had tried to comfort the prince once and had been hit in the face by a flailing hand for his trouble, let out a breath. Apparently he would live, although Vansen was still not entirely certain what had sickened him so badly. It seemed to be something to do with... So what was that thing? he demanded of Gyir. That...door. You haven’t told me anything since we came back into our own heads except “Grab the boy’s legs” when he was thrashing on the floor. Why do you keep silent?
Because I am trying to understand. Gyir’s thoughts traveled slowly as summer clouds. What we saw seemed to have only one explanation and I do not trust such seemings. But the more I think, the more I come back again and again to the same conclusion.
What conclusion? Vansen looked to the prince, who had sat up, but was hunched over like a small child with a bellyache. I am only a soldier—I know nothing of gods, fairies, magic. What is happening here?
You saw the pine tree and the owl, Gyir said. They are Black Earth’s symbols. What else could we have seen except the fearful gate of Immon, as you would name him —the way into the palace of Immon’s master, bleak Kernios himself?
It was not the familiar Trigonate god Vansen saw in his mind’s eye now, not a statue or a painting on a church wall, but a memory from his early life in the dales—whispers of the dark man with his mask and his heavy gloves, who would grab wicked children (or maybe even good ones if he caught them alone) and drag them down beneath the ground.
Kernios...the god of the dead? Are you telling me that we are standing on top of the entrance to his palace? It was one thing to meet even a terrifying giant like Jikuyin and be told he was a demigod, another thing to be told that one of the all-powerful Trigon made his home just beneath their feet in this very spot, the dark brother whose frowning eyes had been on Ferras Vansen since he had drawn breath, the shadow that had haunted his dreams as long as he could remember. But how could that be? Why would it be here?
It could be anywhere. It simply happens to be here. Or a doorway does, at least. Where other doorways are, who can say...?
But what does that mean? If the gate’s here, the whole palace has to be here, too, doesn’t it? Buried down there in the stone?
Gyir shook his head. There was a small furrow between his eyes that showed his worry, the only sign of recognizable feelings on that bleak expanse. The ways of the gods, their dwellings and habits, are not like ours. They walk different roads. They live in different fields, some of which we cannot even tread. One side of a doorway is not always in the same place or even time as what is on the other side.
The fairy lifted both hands, made a sign with them that spoke first of connection, then separation. It is confusing, he admitted.
Vansen thought about his own experiences trying to find his way around behind the Shadowline, then tried to imagine something that would confuse even creatures like Gyir who had been born and raised in these shifting, unfixed lands. But why are they digging it out? he asked. The giant and that gray man—why would they want to go near it? Ferras Vansen had a sudden, terrifying thought.
