Page 18 of Vale of Dreams

The portal slings me onto the cold, rocky earth. Snow whirls around me, and cold air stings my skin.

My thoughts swim with dizziness and an overwhelming sensation of wrongness, something that should never have happened. The winter wind shrieks in my ears, whipping snow into my face, as I pick myself off the frozen earth. The dress Mordred gave me is stunning, but I can’t say it’s keeping me warm.

Hugging myself, I survey the wintry landscape. The scene echoes the one in Mordred’s dolmen garden, almost as if one is a darker reflection of the other. I’m shivering in a barren, thorny garden where twisted briars grow over jagged rocks that jut from the earth. The towering walls to the fortress rise above me, and night bramble crawls over the icy stones, but I can hardly see the castle with the snow in my face.

A weeping willow stands nearby, and I scramble beneath the gnarled branches to get out of the lashing snow. I glance up though the boughs, and my breath hitches. The storm clouds are sliding away from the moons--two moons that shimmer in the sky, one round and silver, the other half-waxed and dark red. I knew that Brocéliande had two moons, but actually seeing them is different. Our briefings don’t do these celestial bodies justice. The silver and red moonlight cast a ghostly aura on my surroundings and on the looming tower walls that surround me.

I’ve read Fey poems of Brocéliande, and there are two kinds. In one set of poems, Brocéliande is described as lush meadows of wildflowers and honeyed sunlight. In the second, the realm is a harsh place, an inhospitable landscape lashed by wild tempests.

Judging by the current conditions, the second version is more accurate.

As the howling wind lets up a little, I peer around the willow trunk.

Just like Mordred promised, the portal took me within the walls. I’m in Corbinelle, the capital city of Brocéliande, a few hundred feet from Castle Perillos. It’s even bigger than Avalon Tower—practically an entire city of pale stone frosted with snow and ice. The fortress comprises seven towers altogether, looming over the landscape like a mountain.

The central tower stands at the forefront of the vanguard, its wooden doors barred to the world. Above the enormous doors, a moon and a raven, the symbols of Queen Morgan, my grandmother, are carved into stone that gleams with ice. Auberon has worked his fiction into the castle’s very stones.

High above the frozen earth, stone bridges connect the seven towers, and stairwells crisscross between buildings in complex patterns. My gaze flicks all the way up. The spires stretch to the red-tinged clouds. In some windows, golden lights twinkle, beckoning me closer with their warmth. Torches are affixed to the walls outside, washing the stone with warm light.

Shivering, I shove my hand into my pocket and brush my fingers over the metallic moth. Its ice-cold surface stings my fingers.

Now, to get inside the castle. As the snow dies down, I fold my arms over my chest and march toward the entrance. There’s not a ton of security here inside the fortress walls, but there is some. As I near the castle, I realize that guards flank either side of main doors.

The King’s Watch, probably. If they see me out here, I could be reported to Auberon’s spies and goons, the police force that he uses to maintain his rule in Brocéliande.

I dash across the courtyard toward one of the smaller towers instead, one with a stone bridge that spans two towers, doing my best to stay in the darkness. If I can find a way up to that bridge, I might be able to get in through a door.

The cold air nips at my fingers and cheeks as I hurry closer to a cluster of vines clinging to the wall. I glance over my shoulder, looking for signs of life. In the distance, shadows are moving by the surrounding walls—patrolling guards.

Shit. They’re marching my way, and I slink back behind a column to hide. As I wait for them to walk past me, I feel a familiar tug, then a faint voice, a low, velvety murmuring in my mind.

It takes me a few seconds to pinpoint what it is.

It’s the Dream Stalker’s haunting presence, dangerous as a blade at the throat, seductive as silk caressing the skin. Prince Talan’s thoughts brush against my mind, just as they’ve done so many times before. For the past several years, I fell asleep to the sound of them, the promise of exquisite ecstasy or pain, depending on his mood. And now that I’m close to him, his voice is back.

How strange that I’ve been hearing his innermost thoughts for years, like a dark lullaby in my thoughts, and he still has no idea who I am.

Already, I can feel our connection forming—the silky strands between us, delicate as a spider’s web.

In the frozen night, cold wrath climbs over my skin like hoarfrost, a rime that glazes my soul. Tonight, I find no solace in the dark. I wander silently among a garden of thorns. Let vengeance’s flame guide me through this desolate path…

My fingers curl into fists. I have to sever this connection right now. I close my eyes, imagining the hum of the veil, the crackling buzz of its intensity. I think of a misty magic, twisting and churning inside my skull. Shivers dance over my skin.

Instantly, the prince’s thoughts go silent, blanketed by the fog in my mind. I exhale with relief.

The patrolling guards have passed by, oblivious to my hiding spot. I watch them walk away. When they’re at a safe distance, I grab at the vine, tugging it a few times to make sure that it’s sturdy. I’d read about dragon-claw vines, but never seen them in person. They’re unique to Brocéliande and stronger than any plants in our world. It has giant thorns, but they’re sparse enough and large enough that I can use them almost like rungs. Admittedly, it’s much harder climbing in a damn dress than it would be in pants.

I hoist myself up the vine toward the bridge. Reaching it, I pull myself over the edge and land with a thud on the icy stone. My heart pounds as I hurry across the bridge to an oak door. When I pull it open, exhilaration fizzes in my chest. Narrow, candlelit stairs wind upward. I start up them, huffing from exertion.

I climb several flights of stairs and reach an archway, crossing into a vast gothic hall with a rib-vaulted ceiling and long, mullioned windows. Moss and delicate wildflowers grow over the floor and on some of the walls. From this vantage point, I can see the city of Corbinelle over the exterior walls. Lights twinkle in distant windows, and a river snakes through the landscape. It reminds me of Camelot, except the stone buildings are a pale white instead of gold, and towering oaks grow throughout the city, and along the river. Dark mountains rise in the distance, illuminated in shades of rose and silver by the double moons.

My heart tightens at the strangeness of this world. Somewhere nearby, Raphael is waiting for me. Time to find out where.

I take the silver moth from my pocket and place it on a wooden table—Mordred’s eyes and ears in the castle. “Go find Raphael,” I whisper to the moth. “Then take me to him.”

I wait for a long moment, then another. At last, one wing trembles and then goes still again. I inhale deeply, watching as both wings flap and the moth silently rises. It floats a few feet above me, then flutters down the hall.

Alone, I take in the eerie grandeur around me.

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