SEVEN

A FUNERAL SCENT

With no sun to tell the time, Errol couldn’t be sure how long he’d been walking, but some time had passed. The armor was heavy, and his body still had a long way to go before it was recovered from months in a coma, so he had to stop frequently.

When last he had been in the Kingdoms, in the body Aster built for him, he had been tireless and strong. A hero. He had marched for days, carried heavy loads, battled monsters. Now he knew that if it came up he wouldn’t be able to fight his way out of a wet paper bag.

Now and again he wondered if he shouldn’t go back and get the wooden armor. Just from touching it, he knew it would make him stronger—maybe as powerful as he’d been before, maybe even more so. That would be great, if he was sure he would be able to take it off, which was anything but a given. The idea of being stuck in a wooden body again didn’t appeal to him.

So he didn’t turn back.

As long as he was following the wash, things weren’t too terribly bad. He could douse himself in the cool water and rest beneath the shade of the tall, reedy trees. Along with her armor, Dusk had packed some food—dried fruit, hard bread, nuts that resembled hickory nuts but were sweeter.

But eventually, the tracks left the wash and traveled off across the desert sands.

He stopped to rest, which turned into a short nap. Then he filled Dusk’s waterskin as best he could from the shallow stream and set off along the trail. Soon the hospitable canyon with its shade and water was far from sight.

In very short order, the unmoving sun became more of a nuisance than ever. He was still in the green shirt and pants of a Laurel Grove “inpatient,” which was fortunate in that they were light cotton—but it was very hot. He resisted the urge to take the shirt off. His dark skin didn’t burn easily, but he knew in this perpetual high noon he would blister like cheese toast under a broiler. His exposed arms were already starting to hurt.

He had to rest more often, but rather than restoring him, each time it was more difficult to get back up. He began to wonder if he could make it back to the wash if he wanted too, but he stubbornly pressed on. The horsemen had to be going somewhere, and wherever that was would have water, he reasoned, and hopefully shade.

His eyes began to hurt from the glare, and since there was nothing but sand, he kept them closed about half the time, opening them often enough to make sure he was still following the trail. When he felt a breath of wind on his face, he thought he was imagining it. But as he came over the next dune, a welcome sight greeted him. The horizon was grey, with darker streaks angling toward the ground, and blue-white flickers of light in the anvil-shaped thunderheads high above.

Rain was coming his way. Water. Coolness.

But as it drew nearer, his elation began to fade, because the wind was picking up, and he saw the approaching storm was driving a wall of yellow before it. A sandstorm.

The only thing he knew about sandstorms was what he had read, but he knew they were bad in lots of ways. People got buried in them, for instance.

At the very least, the tracks he was following would be blown away, or washed off by the rain. Then what would he do?

Running was obviously no use, so he continued forward, keeping an eye out for shelter, any shelter, as the wall of sand darkened more and more of the sky.

He came over the top of a dune and stumbled going down the other side, sliding and tumbling until he reached the little valley before the next mound of sand. He wondered if he should stay there; would the dunes shelter him from the storm, or help to bury him?

The latter seemed more likely, so he hitched his pack back up and was preparing to scale the dune when he heard someone shouting. It sounded like it came from off to his right.

He broke into a slow jog but wasn’t able to maintain it for long. The call came again, louder this time, and he was able to make out the word “help” rather clearly.

The wind was stronger now, and the smell of the coming rain intense.

A few hundred paces or so later, he turned a bend between the dunes and saw a little boy, maybe eight, crouched against some rocks. When the boy saw him, he shouted again.

“Help, please!”

“I’m coming,” Errol shouted.

The boy was even younger than he had first thought. He was dark skinned, swathed in yellow robes, and he looked both exhausted and terrified.

“What’s the matter?” Errol asked.

“Please,” the boy said. “I can’t walk. An asp bit my foot, and it hurts too much.”

Errol saw the boy’s foot was indeed swollen and a nasty purple color.

Errol dropped the armor bundle and quickly retied it so he could drag it by a line on his waist. Then he picked the boy up. He was light, very light, but still almost too heavy for Errol to manage in his current state.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked. “Is there some shelter? We’re about to be in for it.”

“Yes,” the boy said. “Not too far, that way. Thank you, thank you, sir.”

“Hang on,” Errol said.

The wind was moaning now, and the sky no longer visible. Dust devils kicked grit up along the valley floor, and thunder crashed in the distance.

He followed the boy’s pointing finger as the storm found them; the sand felt like tiny sparks, striking his exposed skin. It began to sting his eyes and cake around his nose and mouth. In minutes, he could hardly see.

“There!” The boy shouted.

Errol thought the boy was just pointing at a dune, but then he realized there was some sort of structure there, built of stone nearly the same color as the sand and mostly covered by it. The boy was gesturing at a dark hole that led into it.

A blast of wind knocked him from his feet. He struggled to get back up, but then the dune shifted and sand came pouring down over his legs, trapping him.

The kid was still free, though.

“I’m sorry!” Errol yelled. “I don’t think I can get you there. Can you crawl the rest of the way?”

“It’s okay,” the kid said. He stood up and grabbed Errol by the hand. His grip was so strong, Errol yelped in pain. Then the boy started pulling him. He yelled again as it felt like his arm was going to dislocate, but then he came free of the sand, still towing the armor. He couldn’t see anything at all anymore, or even open his eyes for more than a few seconds.

He felt himself drawn along, and after a bit the wind dropped away, and the air was still.

Very still, and very dark. The boy was still dragging him—no longer over sand, but across smooth stone.

“Hey,” Errol said, spitting dust out of his mouth.

He realized it was growing lighter. It wasn’t daylight, or firelight, a but a sort of blue-green radiance.

Eventually it was bright enough to see that the boy was taller than he had been.

“Let go!” Errol shouted, beginning to struggle. He tore at the fingers with his free hand, but they felt like wire.

They entered a room lit by what appeared to be glowing sapphires arranged on the ceiling in the form of constellations, and now the thing pulling him let him go and faced him.

His mouth was far too wide, and he grinned, so Errol could see it was full of triangular teeth, like those of a shark. His eyes were mostly white, with little black pinheads in the centers. His fingers were very long, with nasty, sharp nails.

Errol started to scramble to his feet, but the thing moved quickly, grabbing him by the neck with both hands, stopping his breath instantly. He fought, but it was useless. It was so strong, and he was so weak . . .

“Release him,” a soft of voice said.

The monster frowned. “But lady, I am hungry.”

“Release him, I said. This one is not for you.”

But it didn’t; if anything, it tightened its grip.

“Release!” The voice shouted.

And finally, it did. Errol collapsed to the stone floor, gasping for air.

“It isn’t fair,” the thing said. “He should be mine.”

“I sent you after him, remember?” the voice said. “He is not for you.”

Errol’s head was still spinning, but he was able to sit up.

“I tried to help you,” he told the thing.

“That is your failing,” the creature said. “If your weakness was jewels, I would have promised you treasure.”

“He cannot help what he is,” the other voice said. “No more than you can help what you are.”

Errol rose unsteadily to stand.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Back here. You may approach.”

By now, Errol had had a bit of time to absorb his surroundings. The bejeweled ceiling was vaulted, the rest of the chamber rather squared off. In the center of it was something that looked suspiciously like a person-shaped box without a lid. Beyond that, against the far wall, was a stylized statue of a woman with wings, painted in what would probably be bright colors if the light was better.

The voice came from the base of the statue, which he now saw was actually a chair or throne, of some sort.

Seated there, in shadow, was a woman. Her hair fell in dark ringlets, and her eyes were black mirrors, reflecting the blue light from the ceiling. She wore a sleeveless white gown with complicated figures stitched along the hem. Her features were delicate, even fine, but not childlike.

Something about her felt enormously familiar.

He approached a bit closer, near enough to smell cloves, attar, and lilies.

She smelled like a funeral.

“I’m Errol Greyson,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Are you—do you know anyone named Jezebel?”

She smiled, showing teeth like pearls.

“I don’t know that name,” she said. “But you have traveled far, have you not? Perhaps a distant cousin.”

“So the curse . . .” he trailed off.

“Of course,” she said. “The curse is everywhere. It has broken things. The Kingdoms are shattered. Do you think you can put them back together again?”

“I’m not even sure what you’re talking about,” he said. “What I know is that when I was here before, everywhere I went, something had happened to the adults. They had either become monsters or just kind of disappeared.”

“That is so,” the woman said. “We are mostly removed from the world, yes. Mostly. The nature of our recusal varies from place to place and by the quality of our birth.”

“So are you—dead?”

“Life. Death. Here the difference is less than where you are from, Errol.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He glanced nervously at the toothy monster. “Is he going to eat me?”

“He is not,” she said. “But he did reveal your nature to me. Your courage and your compassion are admirable. So I will help you, if you wish.”

“I . . . yeah, that would be great.”

On his first trip into the Kingdoms, he’d met a monster called the Snatchwitch, a kind of cannibal ogre. But she also had another nature, which she showed only one day a week, on Sunday—and then, she had been very helpful. So had her sister Jezebel, who also was a monster most of the time. If this woman was like them, how long did he have before she went full zombie on him or whatever? Or was she something else entirely? The whole place had sort of an ancient Egyptian vibe, which was not reassuring.

She lifted a hand from her lap, and he saw she was holding a feather.

“The storm will soon be over,” she said. “This will show you the way.”

“To Dusk? To the glass pyramid?”

She nodded. “But you must go further,” she said. “Five Kingdoms that once were one, must be one again. You must help bring them together, together at the Isle of the Othersun.”

Five Kingdoms? Othersun? Did she think he knew what she was talking about?

“I don’t understand all of this,” Errol said. “My friend, Aster, or maybe Dusk . . .”

“Yes,” the woman said. “You are not the key. You are the companion. But the companion is essential. You must help her bring our skies back together, restore the fundaments of the Earth. Else I might as well have let the ghul eat you.”

“Let me eat him anyway,” the toothy creature said. “Look how weak he is. He will accomplish nothing. Your gift will be lost, and all hope vanish.”

“Hope is very dim as it is,” the woman said. “We cannot wait for a more perfect companion.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and suddenly appeared larger, somehow, even though her dimensions were the same. He felt very cold, as if immersed in ice water, and strange, distant music began somewhere.

“Take it,” the woman said.

Errol walked over, getting colder with each step.

She thrust the feather toward him. He thought maybe it was a hawk’s feather.

“Take it,” she said. “Hurry. The storm is over. You must go.”

Up close, he could smell the decay. Her face, although beautiful, did not look natural, almost as if it was made of porcelain. Beneath her clothing, he saw something shift, like the body concealed there was not human at all.

“Go!” she barked.

Errol grabbed the feather and ran. The armor bundle, still tied to his waist, hampered him, but he kept going in the direction of the door, determined not to look behind him. Once outside, he didn’t stop. The sand was wet; steam rising from it, and the air was stifling. The sun was visible again, glaring down—if anything, with more heat and fury than before.

After a few hundred paces, his limbs failed him again, and he collapsed. Looking back the way he had come, he no longer saw anything but the desert.

But in his fingers, the feather quivered. It lifted up on a breeze that was not there and began to drift away from him.

“Okay,” he said, doggedly pushing himself back to his feet. “Let’s hope this isn’t me losing my mind.”