In the dream, Ben waited at a desolate crossroads. The sky above him was a writhing mass of ink, pierced by unfamiliar stars that regarded his every move, his very soul. In front of him was a robed woman whose silver hair flowed as if underwater. Two fingers on her right hand pointed up and held an ornate scepter, while two fingers on her left hand pointed downward and held a crown made of pure obsidian. Her eyes were closed. Was she sleeping?
Ben found the path extending to his right to be somewhat familiar. The crashing waves, the mewing seagulls, and the bustling port sounds filled his senses. Occasionally, a distant bell tolled, echoing through the surroundings. That way, it led to Dunport-Salem. There was no doubt in Ben’s heart. Although tempted to walk in that direction, he felt compelled to take a peek at the opposite road, which wound its way to the left.
It was barren at first, similar to the landscape he found himself in. However, the longer he fixed his eyes on it, the more it revealed itself to Ben. Vision upon vision streamed through his mind’s eye. An ominous forest, an unusual city, a man in a red mask—the visions intensified: a pilfered graveyard, an island in a stormy sea, a knife at his back. The visions wouldn’t have stopped if he hadn’t wrested his gaze away.
The woman opened her eyes; they were a vibrant purple. The road to the right began to crumble. Ben tried to return whence he came, but there was no road anymore, only an edge overlooking into depthless oblivion. He spun back to her, and the sole remaining path.
“There is no armor against fate, Benjamin Umber. It lays its hands on kings and beggars indiscriminately. The road beckons, and you must answer the call. Pose thy questions and seek their answers forthwith.”
Her voice did not trouble Ben, but strangely filled him with valor. There was also the fact that before he was empty-handed, but now had Miss Wormwood’s dagger with him. The wyrdknife, Ben thought, remembering what the masked strangers had called it. The weight on his hand comforted him. In the end, much as he tried, he could not utter a single sound—the dream itself appeared to impede it.
“If you will not raise your voice, then cross.” A chill went down his spine. The word that the tramp he encountered told him before. Ben had no option but to comply. Taking a step forward, he embarked upon the road ahead of him, now a crossroads no longer.
He blinked his eyes open. Ben’s mind still clung to the dream. He found himself in an unfamiliar room, laying on a couch in front of a cozy hearth. Its warmth bathed the place with a soft glow. Shadows danced on the wallpaper. Someone had comfortably nestled him in blankets, and opposite him, he realized, was Sybil. She slept on another couch. Her tousled hair draped over her face as she snored softly.
The hearth had dwindled to embers, which meant that it had been lit for at least a couple of hours. Turning to the only window in the room, he gazed outside. Before him, a breathtaking sight unfolded; the once cloud-covered sky now revealed a tapestry of bright stars. A far cry from the sky in his dream, Ben thought. He shuddered. The contrast was stark.
As he absorbed the tranquility of the scene, a soft rustle came from the other side of the room. Sybil stirred awake. She rubbed her eyes and yawned noisily.
“You’ve come around,” she said huskily.
“So have you,” Ben replied. He looked at her as she sat upright. “Where are we anyway?”
“The Ivy Lodge. A hotel, if you could call it that.”
“Fancy, are we? This is my home turf; I know what the Ivy Lodge is.” Ben said as he poked his chest with his thumb.
Sybil raised an eyebrow. “You seemed pretty lost for a local when we met.”
“That was… That’s a long story.”
“We’ve got plenty of time.”
Ben fell into a contemplative silence. His gaze wandered back to the embers in front of him. Memories of the dream still lingered, the robed woman, the crossroads, the ethereal voice... He shook his head, trying to dispel the remnants of the surreal experience.
Sybil sensed his hesitation and patiently waited for him to speak. The room was enveloped in a quiet hush, broken only by the faint fizzle of the hearth. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned to Sybil, trying to make sense of the events of the day.
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“I used to live in an orphanage until yesterday. St. Dunsany’s, not far from here, as a matter of fact. The caretakers there were horrible, but I didn’t think... I saw them killing an orphan, throwing him into a cauldron.” He protruded the wyrdknife from his tattered jacket and showed it to her.
“They were witches.” Sybil stated. She instinctually lowered her voice. Something told Ben that she had seen her fair share of nightmares.
Ben nodded. “They were on to me. I don’t know what happened, really. It was all so fast. I ended up pushing one of them away without touching her. The force of the impact thrust this wyrdknife right into her neck. I took this souvenir and ran out of there as fast as I could.”
“So, it hasn’t even been a day since you crossed, and you tried defending me from those mad cultists after just fleeing from some witches?” Sybil let out a low whistle, a mixture of admiration and astonishment on her lips. “You are one crazy fopdoodle, Benjamin Umber.”
The way she pronounced his full name seemed somehow familiar. It was uncannily similar to the way the robed woman in his dreams had done it. And there it was again, that enigmatic term. To cross. He was about to ask Sybil about it when a rhythmical knock sounded at the door.
“Finally, I’m positively starving,” Sybil exclaimed. She jumped from the couch and ran to get it. Lightfoot, the man who had saved them before, slid into the room, a brown paper bag in each arm. One of them was stuffed to the top with baguettes and other varieties of bread, and the other with cheeses, jars of jam, and a slab of cured bacon.
Once he caught sight of Ben, his grin widened. “Ah, the knight in shining armor awakens!” He set the bags on the table and extended his arm to greet him. “Wilhelm Grayson, at your service,” he shook his hand vigorously. Upon closer examination, he looked more eccentric than haggard. He could even pass as handsome if he took better care of his appearance—a thick stubble covered his face from neck to cheekbones. His eyes were an icy gray that matched his last name, and he was taller than Ben had surmised. “Those devils are getting bolder and more desperate. I didn’t think they would resort to separating me from Sybil like that. Either way, she’s told me what you saw at the square. You bought enough time for me to find you, and for that, you have my gratitude.”
Sybil, who had closed the door behind Wilhelm, emerged from behind him and darted straight to the bags, rummaging through their contents. “Whaddya bring?”
“I couldn’t find much on the streets and thought it best not to tarry. It’s past midnight, after all. Our gracious hostess at the lobby procured enough from the kitchens, so dig in.”
The three of them gathered around the table. Their hands moved deftly as they sliced the bread and spread butter, jams, and other delectable treats over it. In between bites, Sybil recounted Ben’s recent escapades to Wilhelm, her voice filled with grudging admiration. “Ben just crossed yesterday and already took down a witch,” she said. Her eyes flicked toward him.
“We have a budding sorcerer in our midst,” Wilhelm said, curious and amused. He took a hearty bite of the plain-rye wheat sandwich he had just finished preparing. He continued to talk with his mouth semi-full as he chewed. “I bet you have all manner of questions,” he remarked, his expression inviting. He looked outside the window. “It wouldn’t be wise to leave the hotel for the remainder of the night, so we’ve got some time on us. Lad, you’re about to hear some incredible things. It is up to you what you make of them. Trust the evidence of memory or that of reason.”
Sybil rolled her eyes. “He said the same thing to me.”
“Ha! You didn’t have much choice. Whereas young Umber here can still make one.” He finished eating and shuffled comfortably in the chair. He then produced a smoking pipe, which he lit by simply mimicking a gun with his other hand. A sweet smell filled the room. Ben looked at him, expectant and amazed.
“It is just as you’ve been told. You’re a sorcerer, Ben. What this means is that you, unlike most people, possess the ability to wield magic. To cast as many spells as there are possibilities. That’s what happened when you sent Miss Wormwood flying away. That was the moment you began to cross. It is a normal occurrence for all the pent-up magic to manifest itself in a moment of crisis such as the one you just experienced,” he paused, taking a slow drag of his pipe, a pause to let the information sink in. Ben simply stared, his belief suspended until he heard everything Wilhelm had to tell him.
“Magic. It is the very life force of existence, the fabric from which reality is woven. It emanates from everyone and everything. To harness its ebb and flow and bend nature to one’s will—this is what it means to cast a spell. This is the crux of what sorcerers are and of what sorcerers do.”
He let out the smoke, which took the shape of a steamboat, trailing away as it puffed out small rings from its miniature smokestacks. Wilhelm grinned at Ben’s awe, but his smile quickly dissipated along with the steamboat. He continued his monologue in a somber fashion. “Already, a trio of witches and a pair of sorcerers have made attempts on your life. Although you have extenuating circumstances, this is the reality that sorcerers face throughout their lives. That the inhabitants of the World That Is Not subsist in.”
Ben’s mind reeled. “The World That Is Not?”
Wilhelm nodded. “Not only sorcerers and witches, but ghosts, fairies, monsters, and giants—myths and legends of every ilk and kith. For five hundred years, the magical realm has been torn apart from the mortal realm, what we call The World That Is. For five hundred years, we’ve abided by our own laws and customs, keeping our struggles separate from those of ordinary humans.” He rose from his chair, walked to the window, and turned his back to them, facing the outside view.
“Not by choice, though. That would be the Rive’s doing,” Sybil added. Ben turned his attention to her. She turned her hands sideways and put one on top of the other, mimicking a wall. “It’s like an invisible curtain that divides the World That Is Not from the World That Is, even though they’re really the same place.”
Wilhelm nodded. “It wasn’t long ago that Sybil crossed herself. And by that, lest I keep you in suspense, what I mean is when someone from the World That Is awakens to the World That Is Not. Which takes us back to what I just said about laws and customs.” He turned around dramatically to face them again, his index finger stretching to emphasize his words.
“Sorcerers aren’t exactly free to do whatever they want. After the occurrence of the Rive, our own systems of governance were established to manage the aftermath. Boundaries were drawn. Rules, rights, and regulations were written. In North America, the British Empire’s territories, and many English-speaking regions, the Circle holds the sole authority. And they notice whenever someone crosses. Like you. So, if you stay put here, it shouldn’t be long before they send someone to pick you up, and you should remain safe from those witches you mentioned, most likely.”
He leaned on the top rail of the sofa chair he had previously sat on. “Keeping up so far?”
Ben stared blankly at him, processing the parade of answers he had so fervently sought, finally being handed to him. Now that he had them within his grasp, he wasn’t sure he liked what he learned. Only one thing was for sure: it was going to be a long night.