Mercedes Lackey - The Gates of Sleep

The light radiated from him, and it was as utterly unlike the black-green poison of the curse holding Marina as it was possible to be. Andrew wanted to drink in that light, eat it, pull it in through every pore. And as for that power, that force—

The man also radiated the palpable force of an Earth Master as far above Andrew in power as Andrew was above Thomas Buford. And more.

Details of the man’s appearance branded themselves on his brain. The square jaw underneath a beard neatly trimmed, but with one untidy swirl, as if there was a scar under the hair. The bushy eyebrows that overhung a pair of keen eyes that might have been blue. The doublet, dark and sober, contrasting wildly with the striped satin of the puffy breeches and an entirely immodest codpiece ornamented in sequins and bullion. The equally sober robe he wore over both—a robe of velvet that had been badly rubbed in places, as if it was an old and favored garment that the man could not bear to part with, despite it being a bit shabby.

“God’s Blood!” the man barked—audibly. And with a decided Scots brogue to his words.

Andrew started again; he hadn’t expected the apparition to speak!

The spirit stamped his foot—no sound. “Devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where gottest thou that goose-look? It’s half mad I’ve been, wondering if thee’d the wit to use the book! Damme, man, thee took thy leisure, deciding the menace here!”

A quick glance at Elizabeth showed she was fascinated, staring at what could only be a spirit, as if she could hardly restrain herself from leaping up to touch it. Sebastian Tarrant, however, was as white as a sheet. But it was Tarrant who spoke.

“You—you’re a ghost!” he bleated. There was no other word for the absurd sound that came out of his mouth. Formidable Fire Master Sebastian Tarrant sounded just like a frightened sheep.

The spirit favored him with a jaundiced eye. “That, and ha’pence will buy thee a wheaten loaf,” he said dismissively. He stepped down off the table, which at least put him at eye level with all of them. He was—rather short. But no one would ever dismiss him as insignificant. “Aye, I linked myself, dying, to yon book, in case one day there was need and no one to teach.”

“Teach about the—” he began, and the spirit made a hushing motion.

“Best not to talk about them,” he cautioned. “Not aloud. And my time is short—so I’ll be brief. Thee has caught it, laddie—’tis the selfsame enemy, mine and thine, If thee live through this, thee will have to reck out how they done this. If; that be for later. And the on’y way thee will beat them now is to divide them. Thou —” he pointed at Andrew “—thou’lt confront the man. But she —” he pointed at Marina “—the on’y way she’ll be free is to fight the mother, herself.”

“But—” Andrew began.

“But me no buts!” the spirit interrupted, scowling. “There be twa things thee’ll need to do, an’ I dinna get much time to explain them, so listen proper the first time.”

Sebastian had recovered, and nodded, moving closer, as did Elizabeth. Andrew noticed then that the light surrounding the spirit was dimmer than it had been. Perhaps the power stored in the book was all that held the spirit here. If that was the case—

Later, later. Live through this, first.

The spirit continued, resting his left hand on his book. “The first thing is for all of ye—all five—t’ takit hold of that cursed magic she’s put on the girl an’ give it a good hard pull. Ye shan’t hurt her, but ye’ll get the mother’s attention. Then…”

Holding their breaths lest they miss a word, the three of them leaned forward to take it all in.

Marina was in a garden. A very, very small garden. Not a paradise by any means; this was a tiny pocket of dead and dying growth, struggling to survive in dim and fitful light, and failing, but failing with agonizing slowness. It was walled twice, first in curving walls of brambles with thorns as long as her hand, and beyond them, a wall like a sphere or a bubble, curving gray surfaces, opaque and impermeable—but which flickered with that black-green energy that had engulfed her before she had blacked out. She was disinclined to touch either the walls of thorn or the walls of energy—assuming she could even reach the latter. She mistrusted the look of the thorns—she suspected that they might actually move to hurt her if she approached them. And she’d already had too much close acquaintance with that peculiar magical energy.

Madam was behind this; somehow she had attacked Marina through the medium of her old cradle, and sent her here. The only question in her mind was—was this “here” real, or a construction of her mind? And if it was real—was it solid, everyday real, was she, body and all, sitting in this blighted garden? Or was this her spirit only, confined in some limbo where Madam’s evil magic had thrown her?

She was inclined to think it was the second—not because of any single piece of objective evidence, but because she didn’t think that Madam was powerful enough to have created anything magical that could and would successfully hold up physically for any length of time. Why? Because if she had been able to do so, she would have done something to eliminate her niece on the journey to Oakhurst. And if Marina just vanished, there would be a great many questions asked now, questions which could be very uncomfortable for Madam.

Marina also didn’t think she was dead—not yet, anyway. Elizabeth had taught her all about the magical connection of spirit and body, the thing that looked to some like a silver cord. Although she had not yet made any attempt to leave her own body, Elizabeth’s descriptions had been clear enough. And now that she was calm enough to look for it, that tie of body to spirit was, so far as Marina could tell, still in existence; a dim silver cord came from her, and passed through the gray wall without apparent difficulty.

Well, there’s my objective evidence, assuming I’m not hallucinating the cord. “Here” isn’t “real”

So somehow Madam had separated spirit from body and imprisoned the former here.

Marina felt her heart sink. That would suit her very well. My body is going to live for a while—for as long as she can get doctors to keep it alive. And why shouldn’t she? That would neatly eliminate any suspicions that she had anything to do with what has happened to me. There probably won’t be a sign of what she did. It will all be a terrible tragedy, and of course, in a few weeks or months, when—well, she’ll inherit everything, with no questions asked. She moaned; after all, there was no one here to hear her. I suppose there’s no chance it would be Andrew Pike she calls. No, it will probably be some high-fee London physician, who’ll get to make all manner of experiments to see if he can “wake” me.

Marina was able to think about this with a certain amount of calmness, in no small part because she was already exhausted from what must have been hours of sheer panic, followed by more hours of rage, followed by more of weeping in despair. There was, of course, no way of telling time here. And although she was exhausted, when she lay down in the withered grass, she was unable to sleep, and in fact, didn’t feel sleepy. Another point in favor of the notion that she was only imprisoned in spirit. The evidence at this point was certainly overwhelming.

She had never been so utterly, so completely alone. She had thought that she felt alone when Madam had first taken her away from Blackbird Cottage—but at least there had been other people around, even if they were strangers.

If I am just a spirit—maybe I can call for help? The cord that bound her to her body was able to penetrate the shell around her—maybe magic could, too.