Daphne had often proclaimed that no nightmare could possibly be worse than her recurring bad dream about a human-sized praying mantis.
Apparently, her subconscious had taken all of those proclamations as a personal challenge.
The nightmare didn’t start out so bad. She was crouching behind some bushes in what looked like a garden, surrounded by a stone wall. It was a dark night, so she couldn’t see much about the actual plants and trees in the garden, but she got the sense that this was a dead place. Even the air smelled dead. The aroma wasn’t quite as gag-inducing as Mud Man’s smog-chain, but it certainly wasn’t the scent of life and health and growing things.
By dream logic, though, she was aware somehow that this was not a new place to her. She was used to the smell, and to the feeling of hard stone beneath her feet. She was used to the darkness. It didn’t quite feel like home, or even comfortable, but it was familiar. She was in control. She was safe… as safe as someone could ever be in this messed up world.
Then she heard a sound, and every muscle in her body tensed. It was the sound of someone coming. No, several someones. A large group of creatures, carefully picking their way between the trees.
The movement was so smooth and stealthy that most people would have missed it, but Dream-Daphne knew this sound. She had spent hours listening to it while wandering the tunnels and mountain paths in the company of these creatures. It was strangely comforting to hear it again as she huddled behind the bushes. For a few seconds, she held her breath and just listened, savoring the click of talons against stone, followed by the nearly inaudible padding of velvety lion paws.
The gait of a griffin was truly fascinating.
She shook her head, snapping herself out of it. There was no time for marveling, or for fond reminiscing. She had completed the first stage of her task, but the hardest part was still to come.
The movement stopped just a few feet from her hiding place, and a low voice whispered:
“Art thou sure of this, Hyddrun?”
Her heart leapt at the name, then plummeted sickeningly down to her stomach at the sound of another, deeper voice answering:
“Amelia said this was the way. She instructed me most carefully.”
“But where is Amelia?” The first voice was strained with nerves. “Was she not to meet us here?”
“Not here,” said the second, deeper voice. The voice of Hyddrun. “But a few steps more, and we shall arrive at the secret entrance to the dungeons. That is our rendezvous point.”
“How do we know it is secret?” the first voice asked. “What if the Wordmaster hath merely set us a trap?”
“Amelia risked much to discover this hidden way,” Hyddrun replied. “She explored the fortress alone, braving every danger. Have not her instructions proven good thus far? Did we not find the weak spot in the wall’s defenses, and pass over undetected?”
The first voice hesitated, then spoke even lower. “I like not the scent of this place, Hyddrun.”
“Nor do I, Eydis. But that is to be expected, so near the home of our foe.”
“It is not the reek of the Wordmages I detect,” Eydis protested. “It is another stench, even darker and fouler. ’Tis the scent of treachery.”
“Thou art too swift to smell danger and deceit, my friend, even under the open sky. Keep thy courage. We shall free the prisoners from the dungeon, and with their aid, we shall topple the Wordmaster and bring his fortress down. This shall be a day of gladness for our descendants, and for all of Euloban.”
Dream-Daphne heard the well-known smile in Hyddrun’s voice, and her heart sank even further. But she could not hesitate. This was the moment she had been preparing for. If she succeeded, all her labors would be rewarded, and the world would be a cleaner, safer place. If she failed…
No. Failure was unthinkable.
She stood and stepped out from behind the bushes. “Hail, Lorist.”
Hyddrun looked as he always had, with the distinguishing red streak in the golden plumage of his head and the rhythmic, measured swishing of his lion’s tail, as steady as a metronome. Even his face bore the same expression of delight he always had whenever he looked at her.
“Hail, Wordsmith.” Though it had only been a matter of hours since they had seen each other, he greeted her as warmly as though the separation had lasted for days. “Is all well? We are gathered, as you see.”
She looked past him at the crowd of griffins filling the Wordmaster’s gardens, keeping to the shadows as best they could. True to his word, Hyddrun had mustered nearly the entire army of the resistance for this final assault. She knew only a handful of older Lorists remained in their ancestral halls, guarding the few fledglings. They would be anxious, but confident, trusting Hyddrun and his allies to return victorious. No doubt some feast was being planned to celebrate the defeat of the Wordmaster and the ‘liberation of Euloban.’
If she succeeded, that celebration would never occur. If she succeeded, none of the resistance would return home. In fact, none of them would ever leave this fortress.
Her stomach was twisting strangely, but she swallowed, forcing down any misgivings. She had made her choices, and set her path.
Too late to turn back now.
“All is well,” she said smoothly. “It is a great day for Euloban.”
“A great day, indeed. Nearly as great as the day you came to us from afar, and I knew I had found the closest kin of my heart.” Hyddrun stepped forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “Lead on, Amelia,” he whispered.
Daphne woke up to the sound of screaming.
She sat up with a start, looking around wildly for the source of the noise. Realizing that she herself was the source was no comfort. Neither was the first glimpse of her surroundings, all of which were foreign and unrecognizable. Where was her quilt? Her wardrobe? The vintage bedside table, her prized thrift store purchase, piled high with books? The window seat, also piled high with books, curtains drawn to keep out the annoyingly bright streetlamp right outside her window?
There was a curtain here (wherever here was), but it was dark and rough and only about a foot away from her face. She appeared to be in a small chamber carved entirely out of rock. The bed she was lying in was comfortable, but definitely rustic. It took up most of the tiny room. What little space remained was occupied by a small wooden chest.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
No books. No bedside table. No wardrobe.
Nothing of ‘Daphne’s home’ whatsoever.
She clutched at the strange wool blanket she had apparently been sleeping under, her eyes continuing to bounce from one unfamiliar sight to another like a caffeinated ping-pong ball.
Where the hell am I?
Slowly, it came back to her, a relentless slideshow of impossible memories. Opening her apartment door to find herself in the Wander Wood. Journeying with Mark across the Silent Plains. The Rabid Daydream, Runar, and the Dalamelle of Triunity. The battle with the baby Devouring Wind. Her two absolutely pathetic level-ups. Kissing Mark in the tunnel while Runar explored the prose-shaft. Rescuing Runar from Mud Man. Mark running, alone, into a fight with a Wordmage and a fully grown Devouring Wind…
The mental slideshow froze, as if her brain refused to continue past that moment. This was just fine with Daphne. A few faint images tried to push through — something about clarity, and sobbing in the embrace of a griffin, and drinking from an angel-fountain — but she closed her eyes against them.
She was trapped in her own fantasy world and Mark was gone.
Anything after that didn’t really matter, so far as she was concerned.
The Prism buzzed in her right pocket, still as cold as ice. Her hand was practically frozen around it. Had she been gripping it all night?
She took the fountain pen out and stared at it, gasping in pain as feeling returned to her numb fingertips.
“What now?” she asked the pen. “How exactly are we going to write our way out of this one?”
“Daphne?” Runar’s voice was just a few feet away, right outside the curtain that covered her small alcove. She dropped the Prism, cursed, and swiftly shoved it back into her pocket.
“Yeah?” she answered, as lightly as she could.
“Art thou well? I heard thee cry out, as if in pain.”
Runar’s voice was full of tender concern. He sounded warm, and noble, and so much like his father.
His father.
Daphne winced as the nightmare came flooding back. The memory slideshow upon waking had briefly driven it from her mind, but now it was all there: the dead garden, and the quiet approach of the griffin army, and the warmth of Hyddrun’s brow pressed against hers…
No. Not hers.
Amelia’s.
“I’m fine!” she called, giving her head a shake to clear it. “Just a bad dream.”
But was it just a dream? Daphne was used to vivid dreams. She’d gotten more than one story idea from them. But this had been way more clear and detailed even than her best inspirational dreams. It had felt more like a vision, but not of the future. These were real events and they had already happened.
It was a memory, whispered a small, terrified part of her brain. You were in Amelia’s memory.
Amelia, her main character. Her self-insert into the fictional world of Euloban.
Amelia, who had betrayed her friends and single-handedly destroyed the heart of the resistance.
“Just a dream,” Daphne said again, as much to herself as to Runar. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Not at all,” Runar replied graciously through the curtain. “I was already awake. We have slept many hours. This was right and good, for our need was great, but it is time for us to continue our journey.”
“Really?” Daphne threw off the blanket and swung her legs over the side. To her surprise, she felt limber and refreshed. She stood, took the one step necessary to reach the curtain, and pulled it back.
“Good morning,” she said to the griffin. “I didn’t realize it had been that long.”
“Thy sleep was deep,” he replied, giving her a small bow of greeting. “As was mine. The waters of clarity were at work, no doubt. And, of course, the gift of the Phrase.”
“Right… the Phrase.” Somehow, the sight of her griffin friend was stabilizing for Daphne, giving her the strength to face the reality of a Mark-less world. She was even able to muster some interest in recent events. “What did that do? The gift, I mean. I didn’t feel anything last night. It didn’t even have a taste, really.”
“I, too, felt nothing,” Runar said. “But that is no surprise. We were both too weary to feel anything, especially the true weight of such a moment. Euloban is gentle in its wisdom. As with thy leveling, gifts are fully given only when they can be fully received. How dost thou feel now?”
Daphne stretched experimentally. “Physically, great. Like I had a really good night’s sleep.”
“That is part of the gift, but only part.” The griffin did his own brief stretching, spreading his wings to their full extent and scraping his lion claws against the stone floor. “What of thy mind? Thy heart?”
“What do you think?” she snapped, then instantly softened at his sorrowful expression. “I’m sorry, Runar. I guess I’m still…”
Sad? Furious? So beyond done with her whole screwed up fictional world and its decidedly nonfictional problems?
Words swirled around her brain like a mini Devouring Wind, but Runar just stood there quietly, watching her with grave compassion. Suddenly, Daphne realized he would wait as long as she needed. He would give her time to find the right words. And even if she never found them, he would still be there for her. With her. He would understand all that she didn’t have the strength to say.
“Still wrecked,” she said. “But… not so alone. That helps.”
“That is the gift of the Phrase.” Runar placed the tip of one wing on her shoulder, like a comforting hand. “We are bound now, thee and I. Even when apart, we shall be able to sense one another’s feelings. In time, with practice, we might learn to commune in thought.”
“Wow.” Once again, the offspring of Daphne’s imagination surpassed her expectations, surprising her into tears. “That’s beautiful.”
Runar bowed his head in agreement. “It is the ancient way. Of old, the three classes would always unite thus. When a Lorist, Wordsmith, and Reader wished to form a party, they would travel to a dalamelle and await the blessing of the Phrases to bind their hearts as one.”
A wave of grief washed over Daphne. She braced herself, then found she didn’t need to bear it alone. Runar was feeling it with her. With his support, she could stay upright.
She also didn’t need to explain the source of the wave to Runar. He enfolded her in his wings, drawing her close.
“I, too, wish thy Mark could have been here,” he said. “The joining of a full party would have brought great healing to all of Euloban. But thou and Mark are already bonded, Daphne. I knew that as soon as I met thee. Thou can sense him, yes? Even now?”
If she hadn’t been wrapped in a griffin-hug, Daphne probably couldn’t have made the attempt. It was too painfully scary, and scarily painful. But within that circle of golden feathers, breathing in the noble creature’s sweet wild scent, she felt strong enough to try.
Gripping the frozen Prism tightly for extra support, she opened her heart and reached out to Mark.
For a few long seconds, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a series of emotions began flashing across Daphne’s awareness. Each flared briefly, like a firework, then dissipated into a jumble of exhaustion. None of the emotions were pleasant. She got whiffs of fear, and confusion, and longing, and a deep, aching grief. Wherever Mark was, his heart was having a rough time.
But it was beating. However horrible their effects, the feelings-swirl proved one very important thing.
“He’s alive!” Daphne stepped backwards out of the golden circle, adrenaline suddenly coursing through her veins. “Mark’s alive. But he’s in pain, Runar. I don’t know about physically, probably that too, but his emotions are a mess. He needs me. We have to move now.”
Runar simply nodded. He was not connected to Mark like she was, but Daphne guessed the griffin could read enough from his link with her to get the gist. He understood her urgency without her having to say anything. In fact, he probably understood it way better than if she had tried to express it verbally.
The gift of the Phrases was coming in handy already.
Without a word, they began working as one to prepare for the journey. They packed plenty of letter-fruits in their satchels. They made sure their sleeping alcoves were left in good order. In silent agreement, they each took an extra bottle-pendant from the chest, in addition to the two they already had between them. They’d learned the hard way that extra water was a health and safety issue, not just a matter of comfort. Filling the bottles with the waters of clarity, they hung the pendants around their necks. The faint glow from the spheres could serve as dim torchlight in the darkness of the tunnel.
As one, they crossed the shallow, radiant stream. Daphne felt the water’s power even through her clothes, seeping into her legs and infusing her nerves with vigor. On the far side, they stopped, sharing one look back at the Dalamelle of Clarity.
The shining stream cast a rippling reflection around the cavern as it flowed. The leaping shadows made it look like the elaborate carvings on the walls and ceiling were dancing. The sound of the running water echoed off the stone, weaving into Daphne’s soul like a long-forgotten favorite song.
This cavern wasn’t as grand as the Dalamelle of Triunity, nor as awe-inspiring. But it was a place of rest — the first rest Daphne had found in Euloban. And it was the place where she had joined with Runar: Lorist and Wordsmith bound by divine gift.
Thank you, Phrases, she thought.
With that same unspoken gratitude flowing between them, the woman and the griffin set off side by side, continuing along the Lorist Way.