The Last Guardian of Everness (War of the Dreaming 1) (2 page)

Galen drew himself up, and, young though he was, now he spoke with the snap of authority in his voice, not unlike that in his Grandfather’s. Their expressions were the same. “Grandfather! I know the difference between petty dreaming and true. I know them as well or better than you. The dream-colt comes every time I’ve called her, every time! And I’ve called her more than three. And I know the true sound of the sea-bell. I’ve heard it this night on the sea.”

Grandfather Lemuel did not look displeased, but neither did he smile. Perhaps he welcomed a show of spine from this young man. Nonetheless, his voice was cold. “That may be. But the reins have not yet slipped from my hands. You are not the Guardian of Everness yet, no matter what your talents.”

“Grandfather, I heard the sea-bell. The time is come. The time to blow the Last Horn-Call is at hand.”

Now Grandfather Lemuel did smile, but it was a sad, weary smile. “Patience and faithfulness are the virtues mortal men must practice when they
stand watch against immortal foes. Galen, every single one of us, all the way back to the Founder, we have all thought, or hoped, or feared, that the Time of the Horn was at hand. But it never was. A lifetime of waiting seems too much to bear when you’re so young, doesn’t it?”

Galen started to speak again, but Lemuel held up his hand: “Patience! We will do everything in due order, but only if (and I said ‘
if
’!) this latest alarm turns out to be the Sign for which we have all been waiting, all these long and weary years. There have been so very many false alarms before.”

Galen’s demeanor shrank, and boyish uncertainty showed in his face. “Okay. So now what? What do we do now? The old warrant papers say we’re supposed to warn the king or the royal governor at New Amsterdam. So where the heck does that leave us? Am I supposed to call the president? We don’t even have a damned phone in this moldy old museum!” In frustration, Galen struck the wall beside the door with the side of his fist.

“First,” said Grandfather Lemuel calmly, “you will sit down. Here, opposite me. Then you will recount all the particulars of the dream in detail. Don’t slouch.”

“I heard the bell from beneath the sea. Something’s coming. It’s going to try to rise up through the Mist.”

“In what part of the house were you?”

Galen turned and stared into the fire. A haunted, deep look came into his eyes. “Outside, along the wall overlooking the sea, where we always stand. The dream version is bigger, of course, and the huge blocks of stone glisten in the moonlight.”

“How were you dressed? In modern garb?”

“I don’t recall. . .”

“It may be important. You know the dream-things know no modern forms. If you have trouble remembering, recite the first exercise in your mind. Picture the circle of time. Say the key to yourself. Raise the Tower and build the mansion . . .”

Galen closed his eyes. . . .

II

He dreamt he stood upon a wall of thick, black rock, wet with spray, and he wore a coat of silver mail and carried a tall spear tipped with a glint of starlight. In the black, wide sea below him, he dreamt he saw a cavalcade of sunken horsemen, armed and armored in mother-of-pearl. These dimly lit shapes passed silently from the deep sea toward the shore, and the hair of their steeds floated green in the water as they came. The mouths of the drowned knights were open as if they were singing, though no sound rose above the waves, and from their mouths floated clouds of blood.

To the left and right of the cavalcade, slippery black forms, sleek and playful, darted through the gloomy deep and smiled with white teeth as starlight shined from their black eyes.

Far, far to the rear, enormous shadows in the moonlight loomed. With black ocean-froth churning at their knees, and tumbled storm-cloud parting at their shoulders, taller than any creature of the world, strode giants.

The night sky above was torn with flying banners of silver-edged black clouds, rushing in the storm winds. The whole sky seemed to ring and tremble with the echoes of the great bell, tolling, tolling . . .

Black as a scrap of midnight storm cloud, a seagull black as pitch whirled down from dark heaven. In his claws he carried a lantern of the elfs, burning like a small star.

A voice like a man’s voice came from the black seagull: “By token of this light I bear, know ye, Lemuel, Guardian of Everness, Last Guardian to be, I am come from He whose name we speak no more, who founded your order, whose blood and title and oath you bear. I summon you beyond the world’s edge, to Tirion, to Wailing Blood, for there are secrets touching the Emperor of Night, our ancient and undying foe, which you must know before the Towers of Acheron rise from the sea. Do not go to Vindyamar, nor elsewhere, but come at once at mine command.”

And it dropped the light from its claws to Galen. The light plunged like
a falling star, and the flame was silver, and did not move, or breathe, or flicker, even as the lantern spun and fell. Galen tried to catch the lantern but it burnt his palm and fell from his fingers, so that the light was lost.

Below, with a roar of several voices, shining knights drenched in filth, and dark, smiling shapes rose from the sea. Giant forms with eyes like lamps came behind them, with arms as tall as towers, sea water flooding from them, reached for the stones at the base of the wall. . .

And the warning bell tolled on and on. . .

III

There was a small, old book, sent to him as a present from his Grandfather Lemuel’s library, which Galen had begun to read as a child. It was made of hand-tooled leather, with a symbol of winged horses dancing on crossed keys on the cover. Galen remembered a poem was inscribed on a page illustrated with interlocking figures of fairies and mermaids, one-eyed giants, and winged horses. The old letters had faded with time, and the first letter of the poem was so decorated with curlicues that young Galen could hardly decide which letter it was supposed to be.

Ware the toll of a single ring,

Night-mare her single rider will bring;

Woe if twice the great bell tolls,

For fire-giants and fell frost trolls;

Storm-princes rise at the sound of three,

The fourth ring brings the plague Kelpie;

Five for Selkie, Six for Hate,

Seven for Doom, Death for Eight.

And if the toll sounds nine withal,

Wake the Sleepers; Nine worlds fall.

If there were more to the old poem, Galen never found out.

When his father came upon Galen reading the book in secret, under the covers with his Boy Scout flashlight, Galen’s father ripped the book out of his hands, beat him till tears quieted his loud protests, and took the book away—presumably to the trashcan.

IV

“How many times did the sea-bell toll?” asked Grandfather Lemuel gently.

Galen’s eyes snapped open. “Many times.”

“More than nine?”

“Grampa, it was all night long. The bell was ringing continuously.” Galen’s eyes were troubled. He looked around the parlor, as if for support. High roof beams; thick walls of oak; a floor of fitted stones, covered with oriental carpets, handwoven, faded. To one side stood tall French doors, open, admitting the smell of sea brine. The murmur of the waves against the cliff below hung like a backdrop behind the other noises of the night.

Outside, beyond the weeds of the overgrown gardens, Galen could see the tumbled stones and cracks of the little wall overlooking the bay. It was, of course, much smaller in real life, and overgrown with moss. Galen suddenly felt the urge to do the repair work Grampa was always on him about.

“Gramps,” said Galen. “I think I might be scared. What do we do?”

Grandfather Lemuel took out an old pipe, and stood up, reaching for his tobacco pouch atop the mantelpiece. “Think, eh? I know I am. But a little fear is like wind in the flowers, you know? The flowers bow for a time. The wind passes. The flowers straighten up again.”

“This is no time for your little sayings. Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Galen knew the old man wanted him to leave. Gramps knew he couldn’t stand the smell of tobacco. Galen rose reluctantly to his feet.

Grandfather Lemuel smiled calmly. “First thing; you go back to bed. I will go to the Chamber of Dreaming to sleep. Tonight I will dream of Vindyamar.
I will dream of the Three Fair Queens whose charge is to guard the Great Bell, even as we are charged to guard the Horn, and so discover if it rang for a true cause. There was something strange about the sign you saw.”

Galen said in a sullen voice, “You don’t believe me. But look at this . . .”

And held up his left hand. There was a tiny blister in the palm, a burn. “We were summoned to Tirion. Here is the mark of the star-lantern I touched. The Founder is in Tirion.”

Lemuel looked carefully at the mark in the young man’s palm. He took a candle from the mantelpiece and held it closely, peering. Even though the air was still in the room, the candle flame flickered.

Lemuel nodded slowly. “It’s magic. Only the Blood of Everness can reach across the barriers like that and allow a dream-flame to create a waking burn. Whatever else was in that dream, the Raven came from the Founder, sure enough.” He straightened up and shook his head. “But that doesn’t change a thing, boy. We do not answer each and any summons which comes to us out from the night-world.”

“But Grandfather. . .!”

Grandfather Lemuel’s look of amusement died. “We don’t follow voices out of the night-world. That black sea-bird could have been a selkie wearing a gull skin. And yes, that lantern you touched was the Founder’s handicraft, no doubt. So what?”

“So! The Founder called me to Tirion.”

“No. He called me. And I’m not going. And the Founder does not live in Tirion; he is beyond the rim of the world, hanging in the darkness, in a cage. He betrayed his oath.” Lemuel pointed with his pipestem at the motto inscribed in stone above the mantel. “Maybe he was unfaithful. But maybe he was only impatient.”

Galen understood the hint; reluctantly he turned to go.

But then at the door he turned again, a young and rebellious spirit in hiseyes:

“Where is the Horn, Grandfather Lemuel? Don’t you think it is time I knew?”

“Patience. It’s not time for you to know.”

“What if you don’t come back? Who will be left to blow the Horn?”

“You are not the Guardian yet. Now, you go back to sleep. But do not answer the summons of the black sea-bird. Do not dream about Tirion. Recite the lesser key and go through the gate of lesser dreaming to some nice visions. Cockaygne, perhaps? Luilekkerland? Schlarraffenland?”

Galen straightened. Wounded pride was clear on his face. “Schlarraffenland? That place is for kids! Grandfather Lemuel, I’ve have been places no other Guardian has ever dreamed. I have seen the trees of Arcadia and the groves that grow in the shadow of the Darkest Tower, I have tread the peaks of Zimiamvia and tasted from the ever-falling waters of Utterbol whose fountains are by the sea! I am the greatest dreamer this family has ever produced, and you know it! I am not afraid of the shadows of the dead. I can go to Tirion and return safely. The summons came to me!”

Not without kindness, Grandfather Lemuel said, “You are talented. But, all boasting aside, you are still very young, Galen. And you know that fairy tales depict the rules in the dreaming the same way science describes our rules here. And no hero in any fairy tale ever ignored his Grandfather’s warning and escaped unpunished. Do not go to Tirion. Do not go to speak to the Founder. Is that clear?”

And he lit his pipe with candle he held.

Galen retreated to the door, defiantly snapped on the flashlight, and clomped away upstairs, muttering.

Grandfather Lemuel’s smile faded as soon as Galen was out of the room. “A long flight tomorrow night. . .,” he whispered. He stared up at the carved image of the winged horse. “And a dangerous one. Will the dream-colt come for me, this time, now that the bell has tolled? Vindyamar tonight. But where tomorrow . . . ?”

His gaze crossed the room to look at the painting of the stern-eyed man who held the skull. “Will you talk to me this time, old friend? And let me go again? It’s so cold beyond the world’s edge, and I am so old. . .”

He tamped out his pipe against the mantelpiece. He was not in the
mood for a smoke after all. His thoughts were somber. “Suppose you do not let me back through the mist to the sunlight this time? If I don’t wake up, who is left? One frightened boy?”

V

Galen, who had made a deal of noise clattering up the stairs, knew his Grandfather Lemuel’s habit of talking to himself and had crept quickly and quietly downstairs again, flashlight extinguished. He was crouched in the hall beside the parlor door and was in time to hear his Grandfather Lemuel’s last comment.

Later, lying awake in bed and watching the play of the shadows of branches in the moonlight above his bed, Galen came to a stern resolution.

“The first of the watchers is still being punished for his dereliction of duty,” Galen thought to himself. “But Gramps still goes to talk to him. He risks it. It put him in a coma when I was in sixth grade. I remember that’s what the doctors called it. A ‘coma.’ “ He grunted to himself. Contempt was all he felt for modern doctors.

“The First Watcher’s summons came to me. Me. The dream-colts come every time I call, but they have only come three times for Grampa. He might not even be able to get to Tirion.

“And if I go tonight and brave the danger myself, he won’t need to go tomorrow.”

In his mind’s eye, he drew the circle to build the Tower of Time his Grandfather Lemuel had taught him how to keep in his mind. He inscribed the four wings, placing a different phase of the moon in each, a different element, and a different season. About it he erected statues and symbols, gardens and arbors, walkways and walls, each with its own name and hidden meaning. In a few moments the imaginary mansion was as real around him as the mansion he slept in. He whispered the Second Secret Name of Morpheus and stepped into that mansion, rose from the body on the bed on
which he slept there, and walked out the doorway that represented today’s phase and season.