1
Now . . .
She was at her desk again. It was more cluttered than before. There were large open binders before her packed tight with grids of letters and numbers. She was transliterating from Greek into Arabic numerals, she remembered, and had been writing a guide for herself in English. There was a sheet of paper in front of her that was filled with her handwriting. She started reading it:
Jesnubim, once separate from her passions, from joy became pregnant with the contemplation of the lights that accompanied him, i.e. the angels with him; and—they teach—craving (?) them she produced fruits after their (?) image, a spiritual offspring generated after the likeness of the savior’s bodyguards. Now, of these three (essences) that—they say—were extant, one derived from her passion, and this was the matter; another derived from her turning back, and this was the animate; another was what she brought forth, and this was the spiritual . . .
And so on. There were more sheets beneath it, all still in her handwriting and all seemingly gibberish. There’s no reason she would have written all that.
She heard a small cry that sent a shock through her—it was an infant’s cry—her child’s. She stood up and rushed to the next room where the cot was. Stooping over the cot, she gazed at the tiny red face that howled up at her.
Abruptly she straightened, alarmed.
This wasn’t her child.
But, if not hers, whose? And where was hers?
No, that was ridiculous; she didn’t have a child. She was too young.
But it was hers. And it was still screaming. Freya reached into the cot and pulled it out. Shouldering the infant, she started bouncing it up and down to calm it, but she held it awkwardly, unnaturally. Was it a boy or a girl? Its name was Daniel, she was sure of that much.
“Oh no! Daniel!” she exclaimed, her body tensing. She nearly lost her grip on the child as her mind flashed to a terrible image— someone she once knew running towards her, falling, and then disappearing into thin air.
“Daniel—I have to help Daniel!”
The infant at her shoulder began wailing again. She put it back in the cot and then went back to her desk. How could she have forgotten something as important as this? There was a large black marker in a pencil cup and she uncapped it and wrote on the first sheet of paper that she could find—the page with her meaningless drivel on it—in large block letters:
MUST SAVE DANIEL
Then she stood back and looked at the words. Who was Daniel? The baby was crying. Why was it so hard to remember things all of a sudden? Her head was so . . . foggy these days.
The sky grew darker. She was tired—still tired. How long had she been asleep? A headache was growing at the base of her skull.
She was hungry. When was the last time she had eaten something?
The fog was growing, but she had to push through. Everything felt . . . dissociated. All that she was truly aware of were the words on the page and the growing dread that she couldn’t remember more.
“Freya? Darling?” she heard a voice call from the doorway.
She sprang around to see Felix in the doorway. One hand went to her papers and gathered them together.
“Darling, Sophia was crying . . .” He held the infant, who was quiet, though still red-faced and teary. “What have you been doing?”
She didn’t know how to reply. “I was just . . . writing . . .”
Felix looked into her eyes. “Are you feeling okay? Did you take your pills?”
Freya opened a drawer and pulled out a small plastic bottle.
“These aren’t my pills. I don’t take these.”
“What are you writing, dearest?”
Freya brushed her papers closer together. “Don’t touch me, please.”
“Sweetheart, please take your pills. You always feel much better after them. I’ll start dinner. Why don’t you review what you’ve written?”
Felix left the room with the baby—Sophia? Not Daniel?—and she sat a moment in thought. She stared down at the pages in front of her. None of it made any sense—these weren’t words in front of her.
What was happening to her?
And why was she so . . . sleepy . . . ?
2
Daniel pointed out the familiar shape on the coloured banner. “Kæyle, that’s Great Britain,” he said.
“Then I have taken you to the right place. This is our destination.”
They made their way through the crowds and into a tent that was covered, apparently not wanting to display its goods. They pushed through a series of veils and curtains that hung under an awning into a room that was dark, lit by oil lamps. There were plush carpets underfoot and a dozen cabinets displaying mostly ornamental objects. In the centre of this tableaux sat the proprietor, adrift in the middle of a pool of cushions, rotund, and upholstered rather like a cushion himself.
“Welcome!” He greeted them brightly, thrusting squat little arms at them. He had a fat, jolly face with extravagantly curled whiskers that supported a large, bulbous, purple hat on his head that looked something like a turban. “I am Reizger Lokkich. What can I offer you fine gentlemen this afternoon? I have all manner of objects from distant lands and ages gone by. From coins and keepsakes to sculptures and machines whose use and operation are unknown, even to me! How do I fix a price on such items, you may ask? I have no way of knowing! A potential bargain lurks on every table!” He laughed heartily at this, amused, it seemed, by his own ignorance and generosity.
The collier gave the tables only the most cursory of glances. “We are here for another purpose than trinket gathering,” he said. “This one”—indicating Daniel—“is from another land. The land of . . .”
“England,” Daniel supplied.
“The land of England, and he needs to return. You were once known as a traveler, upon a time. Know you of any way to return him to where he needs to be?”
While Kæyle was speaking, the merchant’s bushy eyebrows were traveling up his forehead, and his mouth was contracting more and more until it was just a small circle below a long moustache. When the collier paused, his features snapped back into place; he stood up and approached Daniel. His salesman’s mannerisms evaporated and he ran his eyes up and down in a professional manner, touching him on the arm and turning his palms outwards in order to study them. “It has been a long time since those paths were used by our people. They may be difficult to travel now.”
The merchant tilted Daniel’s head and peered into his ears.
Daniel felt like he was being appraised and that a price would be offered for him shortly.
“Yes, he looks in fair condition to travel. Allow me to consult my chart book.”
He rose and adjusted one of the lamps so that it gave off a brighter gleam. Pulling a large, square book from a chest behind the bank of cushions, he settled himself and started thumbing the pages, which seemed to be filled with dozens of interlocking circles of varying size, annotated with small scribbles. Within these circles were landmarks like mountains, cairns, trees, caves, standing stones, churches, and so on. Bordering these were pictures of the sun and moon in different phases. The merchant settled on one page and ran his fingers along it, reading the scrawls under his breath.
A young elf, dressed in suede leathers, pushed his way through the gauze veils of the tent. “Excuse me, Kæyle, but you’re needed back at your stall.”
“I will be done here shortly,” the collier replied.
“But it is Agrid Fiall—he demands your presence. He refuses to have dealings with your wife.”
Kæyle growled, annoyed. “Very well.” He sighed. “I leave him in your hands, Reizger Lokkich.” The merchant’s eye flicked up.
“See that you do right by him. He is not to pay you. Since he is currently my property, all payment will come from me, after he has returned home. See that he does nothing to jeopardise his return. Daniel, can you remember the way back to the tent?”
He replied that he could.
“Make sure you take nothing away with you, and that nothing is placed on your person.” And with that final warning, he left with the messenger.
The merchant Lokkich returned to his book and traced a path along the page with a fingertip. Then he looked up at Daniel, beaming.
“You’re in luck!” he exclaimed, tapping the page. “We are just at the start of a cycle and in the ideal place to cross over—up at the meeting rock. We could try tomorrow night, in fact. It will be a weak pull, but one in the right direction. If that doesn’t work, the one five days later almost certainly will. Tell me, how urgently do you want to get back?”
“Fairly urgently—I think my friend is in danger.”
“Ah, then it’s important that you leave as soon as possible. There are things that I can do to help you . . . but . . .” Lokkich looked sad.
“What is it?” asked Daniel, sensing a hustle.
“I’m afraid that the cost would be far beyond the means of a poor wood-burner.”
“You obviously have something in mind. Let’s hear what it is without the whole drama.”
The merchant smiled. “Ah, you see through me. I see I have misjudged your cleverness. Forgive me, I meant no insult, it is just that sometimes a softer touch is needed with clients. No matter. We will talk as equals and lay everything on the table before us. Yes, there are things I can do to help, but they are expensive. In short, it means loading you up with some of my wares, which I have appropriated from your own world. These will act as forces to draw you closer your destination—all things wish to return to their place of origin. However, you cannot buy them, as you have no money. Nor can I just give them to you, as that would make you beholden to me and increase your ties here. No, you will need to earn them.”
“How?”
“By doing a job for me—working for me, in short, like you work for the collier. I do not wish to trap or ensnare you—remember, it’s in my interest to see you safely home. But the type of work will be determined by the value of the objects you need.”
“Alright, let’s see these objects, then,” Daniel said, not too happy to be dealing like this, but if it meant he could get home faster, it would be worth it.
“Of course. Please, take a seat,” he said, rising and arranging a few cushions opposite his own pile. Daniel settled on these as the merchant waddled over to a display cabinet. “Think of yourself as a magnet—and the more things you possess from your own world, the greater your pull back to that world will be.” He fiddled around behind the cabinet and took out a drawer, carrying it carefully—almost reverently—and laying it on the floor between them. “The objects that are most recent will have the strongest pull and will be more worth carrying. The oldest ones will be almost useless to you.”
Daniel laughed when he saw what the drawer from the cabinet contained—it was just full of junk. There was a bundle of pencils of varying lengths and sharpness—some even bore teeth marks— all tied up in a silk ribbon. There was a gardening fork lying inside a glass case. A jar containing coins, bottle caps, ring pulls, paper clips, and brass tacks. There was a pair of binoculars, something that looked like an oven knob, a bottle of ink, and more besides.
“It is up to you to choose the most recent or valuable to you.
Tell me, do you recognise any of these items?” the merchant asked.
“I recognise all of them. How did you find them?”
“I have my sources,” the merchant said guardedly. “Tell me, this manuscript, what is its nature?” The merchant reverently handed him a bundle of decaying papers.
“This is a comic book.”
“I have studied it closely but do not understand the writing. Is it a history of one of your heroes?”
“It’s a story—none of this really happened.” He handed it back. “It’s not so old. It was printed about twenty years ago.”
“What about this?”
“That’s more recent—it’s a video cassette tape.”
“What is it used for?”
“Amusement. You stick it in a machine and it plays a story for you. We have lots of them where I come from. This one is Doctor Who.”
The merchant looked at him blankly.
“It’s a science fiction TV show. That would probably help me out, if I had it. As would this, I suppose.” He picked up liner notes from a CD and flicked through it. “And that, definitely.” He pointed to a cell phone charger.
“So, these three items, the . . . vidosette tape, the small booklet, the wire with the weight on it . . . and the manuscript as well?”
Daniel shrugged. “Sure, the comic book as well. Why not?”
“What about these? Can you tell what they are?” He handed Daniel a rectangular red box made out of thin cardboard. It had “.38 SPECIAL 130 GRAIN FULL METAL JACKET” printed on its side.
“These are bullets,” he said, turning the box around in his hands so that they were the right way up. He opened the box—it was full. “They can be quite dangerous.”
“Would you take those?”
“I’d rather not.”
“So,” the merchant said, businesslike again. “Four items from your world, and valuable ones at that.”
“And if I have these, I can go back tomorrow night?”
“Very likely.”
“Can you guarantee it?”
“Not absolutely, but with my experience as a traveler between worlds, I can offer you near certainty. As certain as anyone can be in these matters.”
“Okay, what do I have to do?”
“That moneylender,” the merchant said, nodding at the tent flap, “Agrid Fiall, is a vile and detestable creature who has the throat of this nation in his grasp. He is a disgusting leech who holds entire cities to debt and squeezes them as dry as if they were in a vice. Families starve because of him, and yet he blithely carries on, squeezing and squeezing every debtor as dry as a bone. Due to his power, he has risen to a high position in court and as a shameless flatterer to the princely brothers. He is here in attendance with Prince Lhiam-Lhiat at this Fayre.”
“I’ve heard of him already. What do you want me to do?”
Daniel asked, already having an inkling.
“Kill him.”
Daniel considered. “Would that be hard?”
“I have already devised a plan that will put you at minimum risk—one blow, and an easy escape. I must protect my investment, after all.”
Daniel thought a little longer and then said, “Very well, I’ll do it. But I’ll need those bullets after all. And also,” he said, pointing to a black, metallic object in the centre of the tray, “I’ll need that to put them in.”
“Are you sure you are up to this?” Lokkich asked. “Can I really count on you to complete this task?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve assassinated an evildoer.”
3
She lay in bed, tired, weak, and confused. Her body felt . . . wrong. It was almost too much of an effort to move. So many things felt . . . wrong. It was hard to think. There was something important she had to do. She had to rescue someone? Who? Herself?
Professor Stowe—Felix—was sleeping next to her. She could see his back and arm—pale, flabby, and it disgusted her. Repulsed, but still with a tremendous effort of will, she pushed herself up and swung her feet out of bed—dizzy, and she wasn’t even standing up yet.
She pulled the covers off and hoisted herself to her feet. Gripping the side of the bed to steady herself, she made her way to the door. Catching sight of her reflection in a full-length mirror, she halted. She looked old. Much older than she used to look. Her face was gaunt and eyes sunken. Her lips were thinner—even her hair looked tired. It no longer displayed the black sheen that she was secretly proud of. She shut her eyes. This wasn’t her. She was someone else.
A soft squeal from the corner of the room made her jump. The baby. She needed to escape. Should she take that with her? It didn’t seem right to leave the child, and anyway, the crying might wake the professor.
Gathering strength from she didn’t know where, she crossed the room and took the baby from a small white cot. Holding it against herself, she rocked it gently and staggered out of the room.
She was in the hallway. The air was cold and through the window, she could see it was snowing. Should she make her escape now? In this weather?
She was so hungry. Instead of going out of the flat front door, she went into the kitchen.
The place was spotlessly clean. Still shouldering the child, she opened the refrigerator and recoiled. It was stocked with food, but everything was rotten or overgrown with mold. A head of lettuce had partially turned to sludge. Milk had separated in its plastic container that showed only a whitish-blue fuzz through its transparent lid. She swung the door closed. There must be something in the cupboards. She opened the one nearest to her—empty. The next was full of drinking glasses. Finally, in the third cupboard, she found some tinned food. She grabbed some baked beans down and put them on the counter. She put the baby on the centre of the kitchen table. Amused, bewildered, it gazed beatifically up at the ceiling.
She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a can opener. Working frantically, she managed to get the lid off of the tin.
It was empty. Or at least, not completely empty, for there were dried streaks of bean juice clinging to the sides of the tin, as if it had once contained beans, but a long time ago.
She reached for a can of pineapple slices and opened that. It was empty as well, except for the sickly sweet smell of old fruit.
This was too weird. She picked up the baby, turned to leave, and immediately halted. There was a small girl in the doorway.
“Mum? Is breakfast ready?”
“S-Sophia?” she stammered.
“Mum, I’m hungry,” the girl—she must be about seven years old—said primly.
“No time, come on, we’re leaving.”
“Where?”
Grabbing Sophia’s hand, she dragged the girl down the hallway and out of the door of the flat.
“Mummy,” the little girl said as they started down the stairs.
“I don’t want to go outside. It’s cold and snowy.”
“It’ll be fine,” Freya said, not at all convinced of this herself.
She felt the girl’s hand pull away from hers as they reached the bottom of the steps. “I have to put my wellies on.”
Freya tried the door handle, but it was locked. She pulled it harder and frantically looked around for the key. “Where is it? Where is it?” she muttered under her breath.
“It’s on the windowsill,” Sophia said, pointing.
Snatching up the key, she thrust it into the lock. It turned and in another moment, she had the door open. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and she was barefoot, but she couldn’t stay any longer. She pulled the key out of the keyhole.
The baby started crying. “Come on,” Freya called over her shoulder.
“I need my coat.”
“No time!” she snapped.
“Freya, darling?” came a voice from above her. “What are you doing?”
“Come on,” she whispered, holding out her hand to Sophia.
“I don’t want to go!”
The baby howled.
“Freya, where are you going? Come up and have some breakfast.”
There was a rush of wind that slammed the door shut. Frantically, she flung it open again. Then with her foot outstretched to prevent the door from closing, she reached in and grabbed Sophia’s arm. She heaved herself through the doorway and into the snow-filled front yard.
Only there wasn’t any snow. And, suddenly, there wasn’t a Sophia anymore. She stumbled and fell. She found herself lying on . . . grass. In the whole garden, there wasn’t a flake of snow to be seen.
Freya looked down at herself and let out a long, strange cry of surprise and relief—she was dressed in the same pink blouse and jeans that she had been wearing when she first visited the Old Observatory.
Her head was clear now.
It hadn’t been years after all, it had been . . . what? Days? She started laughing—it was all a dream, or an illusion. There were no children—she was now just clutching a dirty tea towel against her shoulder. There was no important work she was doing, translating that strange gobbledegook. All of it, since she met that weird little group—the militant Gerrard Cross, the odd Leigh Sinton, the rotund Brent Wood. She paused. She had an aunt who used to live in a town called Brent Wood. And the Reverend Peter Borough?
Peterborough? And Felix. Felixstowe—that was a harbor town on the west coast. She’d caught a ferry there once. Those were names of towns, not people. But why? Were they illusions too? And her tutor . . . what did it mean?
Daniel. It had something to do with Daniel’s disappearance.
Freya heard her name being called from inside. Stowe’s legs could be seen at the top of the stairs. Scrambling to her feet, she flew to the door and pulled it closed. She still had the key, which she used to lock it.
Stowe’s shape appeared dark in the frosted glass and he gave it a bang with his fist. Then, swift as a thought, he turned and dashed back up the stairs.
Freya needed no further prompting. She spun around and, as fast as her weak and malnourished body could move, she pushed open the front gate and ran out into the street.
4
Feeling uncomfortable in the fine Elfin clothes that the merchant Lokkich gave him, Daniel nonetheless tried to look natural. His sword was at his side, and a leather pouch, which seemed heavier than the weight it contained, bounced against his thigh.
He had become lost in his thoughts and had fallen behind Awin Kaayn, the musician he had met on the road. That was a stroke of luck. The merchant’s plan had been a good one, but Daniel was able to refine it. To enter the feast hall as the minstrel’s assistant was his idea and would remove much risk and attention from the operation.
By chance—or providence, or fate, for everything so far had gone unbelievably smoothly—Daniel had actually been introduced to Agrid Fiall. Returning to Kæyle and Pettyl’s stall, he had encountered a small crowd of people clustered around it. He slipped in around them and edged to the back of the booth.
Kæyle was standing in the middle of the room, his powerful body at ease, and all the more threatening for his casual strength—he was taller than anyone else there. Before him was an elf, who was dressed in an outfit that was splendid, even by elfish standards. Thin black robes enfolded him, trimmed with grey and white lace—the one serving as an accent for the other. Pearls of varying sizes and brilliance were set into the black cloth, creating swirling patterns, as if depicting the sky on a hailstorm night. His face wore a thick, bushy beard that was jet-black and streaked with bright white hairs, which seemed to be a piece of the costume as well.
On either side of him stood what were obviously Elfin soldiers. They wore silver helmets and chest plates that were etched with woodland scenes. Everything else was covered with thick embossed leather. Short swords hung at their sides and long, thin spears rose over their heads. Behind these three were nobles and what appeared to be merchants of a higher class than those who owned stalls.
The eyes of all of these men turned towards Daniel as he entered, immediately pegging him as someone who didn’t belong. “Who is this young—man?” the black figure asked.
“He is an unfortunate boy who fell into our world and came into my care. I have already made arrangements for him to return to his own world.”
“It has been some time since I have seen a human. You used to see more of them about—when we used to steal them. Are you sure it is not a changeling? It’s so hard to tell with those animals.
My name is Agrid Fiall, young human. What is yours?”
“Daniel Tully, your lordship.”
Fiall laughed. “Daniel Tully, your lordship,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “I’d forgotten how they sound when they speak.
Marvelous, simply marvelous. One might almost believe that they were able to think as we do. There was that bard who managed it once, but I never saw him and believe reports of him to be exaggerated. Will you sell him to me?”
“No,” Kæyle said once, with finality.
“Anyhow, where were we with the negotiations?” Fiall continued.
“The price is the price,” Kæyle said firmly. “There is no changing it.”
“Come now, it is your patriotic duty to supply us with charcoal for the fires needed to draw silver and gold from rock. It’s what keeps many families fed and clothed.”
“If ever I saw a grain of this gold or silver, then my consideration may be different. As I don’t share in the fortunes of those who use what I make, I must set the price that seems fair to me.”
“Do you want to own a part of a smelter’s works? There is one I’m looking for a partner in,” the moneylender asked with a raised eyebrow. Daniel had seen this expression many times before and had no doubt that even though the offer was in earnest, he’d find some way to cheat and ruin whoever took him up on it. Kæyle simply continued to gaze stoically at the minister.
“No matter, then,” Agrid Fiall replied. He took a deep breath, as if regretting what he was about to say and wanting to put it off as long as possible. “I was trying to spare you some amount of shame, you see; the royal budget only extends to two barrels of your stock.”
“That is no shame of mine.”
“It means that we will have to requisition another nine.”
Kæyle’s face was impassive. “That is far less than fair,” he said eventually.
“There is no need to tell me that,” Fiall said in a plaintive tone. “It is how things are, and I feel as badly put upon as you do, no doubt. That is all I can offer, unless . . . unless you want to sell me the human. Go on, please . . .”
Kæyle did not respond, so the moneylender gave instruction over his shoulder. “Pay him.”
“Are you taking the charcoal now?” Daniel asked Fiall.
Fiall had been about to turn away but paused for a final quizzical look at Daniel. Then, with a humorous chuckle, Agrid Fiall left, completely ignoring the question. However, an elf, apparently a clerk of some sort, stepped forward with a bag of money and while counting out silver coins said to Kæyle, “Delivery will be taken tomorrow morning. We want these five, and those five over there; no others. I shall mark them for you.”
That was the whole of the interaction with the man that Daniel was supposed to kill, and he reflected on it as he stayed close to Awin Kaayn, drawing his new sky-blue cloak tighter around his shoulders—another piece of equipment from Reizger Lokkich— and struggling to keep Kaayn’s enormous guitar on his back. He had offered to carry it, to make it look like he had a purpose there, but now he wished he hadn’t. It was more strain in a stressful situation. Still, he supposed it helped to hide his nervousness. He was now suspecting that elves were far more perceptive and observant than most humans were—they seemed able to actually see emotions. Not just what was on your face, but perhaps what was in your heart as well. And fast—above all else, in Daniel’s experience, elves were fast.
Things hadn’t gone so well with Kæyle and Pettyl. He told them that he’d made another deal with Lokkich, which he wasn’t able to tell them about, but it meant that they wouldn’t have to pay anything and that he’d most likely be leaving tonight.
Pettyl had started to ask questions, which Daniel wasn’t about to answer.
Kæyle, who must have had some idea, said to him, “Daniel, don’t do this new deal. Stay with us for the next few days and take the surer, more natural route home.”
“No, I have to get back soon. I’ve heard my friend’s voice calling me—twice now. I just feel—I need to get back as soon as possible, I know it. She needs me.”
“It may not be in the plan that you reach her so soon.”
“Plan? What plan?”
“The plan of the universe. The natural order that instructs all things, that guides the hearts of all living things.”
“I shouldn’t even be here, though,” Daniel said resentfully. “If the universe had a plan to protect every living thing, then I’d have stayed where I belonged in order to protect Freya!”
“We aren’t to know the plan,” Pettyl broke in. “It is not for you to judge where you most belong.”
“What does it matter what I do, anyway, if it’s such a great plan?”
“Don’t think of it as a plan—think of it as all of the created worlds working in an ideal state. Nothing is set, but things have a best course. Within this we may stay on our course, or travel a different one. If we go this other way, then we have made things disordered, and it may be difficult to correct after that. More, it may knock others out of alignment.”
“But as far as I can tell,” Daniel argued, “that sort of thing is happening all the time—at least, it is where I come from. And hearing here about the death of the true king and the exiling of the elves who followed him, as well as Agrid Fiall taking advantage of you and everyone else like he does—it seems to me like the universe needs a little helping hand to correct things. And if I can, then why shouldn’t I? Is it the ‘ideal state’ that good people suffer?”
Daniel felt his blood warm and skin tingle. Things were falling into place now; it was getting clearer. “I was brought to this point by the universe—by God. This has happened to me before. Here I am, further away from my ‘ideal state’ than I’ve ever been. I’ve been put in an almost impossible situation, once again, and I know that I have the ability to win through and set things right. If there is a universal plan, then there’s no way I’m not a part of it. I’m probably the only one in this world who can fix things and the universe knows it—that’s why it brought me here. First I’ll fix this problem and then I’ll go back and fix my own.”
“Sometimes a correction can swing out of control and cause as many problems as the problem it was meant to fix.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Seeing as I’m the only one fixing things, I’m the only one who has to worry about that.”
Kæyle left at that point, walking out of the tent with a sad face. Pettyl seemed as if she wanted to say more but didn’t. Instead, she asked if Daniel was leaving now and he said he probably would. She gave him some food and he thanked her for everything—for looking after him, helping with his Elfish, feeding him, and more besides. He didn’t want the last thing between them to be an argument. Then he left and said goodbye to Kæyle, who was standing at the entrance to the tent. He didn’t say anything at first, he just shook Daniel’s hand. Even after all this time, Daniel still found him hard to read. The collier didn’t seem angry, though. He smiled as he gave Daniel a parting gift—a large, golden leaf.
“This is a leaf,” he explained, “from the oldest tree that I know of in the forest. It has stood in the centre of the forest since before anyone started to count the years. It is very old, and yet every spring it produces new leaves. This is something of this place that you can take with you. It shouldn’t weigh you down much at all, and it will point you in the right direction if ever you return.”
Daniel had thanked him and put the leaf in an old schoolbook that he still carried around in his backpack.
The feast hall was an enormous building with wide, semicircular arches bowing overhead. From the rafters hung more of the brightly coloured banners and pendants with entrancing designs. There were two rows of benches running nearly the full length of the hall, which stopped before a long table that was raised on a platform overlooking the enormous room. This was the high table where the Elf Prince, his consort, and the most important members of his court were to sit. It is where Agrid Fiall would sit.
Daniel surreptitiously made his way to the back of the hall, behind the high table, and pushed past one of the tapestries. There were two large wooden doors that were standing wide open. Directly in front of them was the kitchen tent where cooks and servers were busily preparing the feast. The smell was unlike anything he’d ever smelt before—it was the rich, sweet smell of caramelizing glazes on top of roasting meat, of spiced breads and pastries, of freshly tapped casks of ale and wine, and a dozen more familiar and unfamiliar.
They all mingled into a single overpowering aroma that made Daniel’s mouth water and sent a sharp pain to his stomach, which had only had fruit and nuts for the last, to him, weeks, and now demanded something weightier.
With a regretful swallow, Daniel pressed on. He had to step to one side as a bevy of Elfin servers pushed past him, carrying wide platters of fresh fruit smothered in a dark syrupy sauce. Sighing inwardly Daniel turned to the right and entered a narrow corridor made up of the wooden wall of the feast hall and the canvas tent of the kitchens. This led to the flimsy wooden shack that served as a toilet for the revelers. It was nothing more than two long trough-like pits with a short, narrow, but sturdy bench-like railing before them. At full capacity, it could probably accommodate five on each side—ten altogether.
Daniel walked the length of this building where a disgusting stink that completely eradicated the pleasant odors of just a few moments ago hung like a mist and pushed against the far wall, which as Lokkich had assured him came apart at one end, just enough for him to squeeze through. He did this and found himself between the wooden wall of the latrine and the cloth of the tent around it. It was dark, damp, and smelled completely foul. Crouching, he tried as hard as he could to separate his mind from his circumstances and waited.
It was torture. The longer he stayed, the hotter and stuffier the tiny sliver of space became. He heard the feast start, as if from a great distance. The faint notes of a trumpet announcing the arrival of the prince and other nobles reached him, trickling like birdsong. There was a pause, a cheer, and then music, lovely and haunting, but which came to him in scraps and pieces. His mind tried to fill in images to match what he was hearing, but Daniel knew it was inadequate to whatever spectacles were being performed by the Elfin feasters.
Daniel pulled the gun from the leather pouch and held it before him, checking its mechanism every once in a while. It was at least an hour before anyone came into the privy to relieve themselves. Daniel had arranged himself to lie near a convenient crack, which allowed him to see the whole stretch of the room by moving his head with a very minute motion.
His hands had become sweaty holding the gun, so he placed it before him, constantly rejecting the almost constant impulse to check and reload it. He had no idea how old it was, though it seemed in good shape. Either it would work, or it wouldn’t.
It had grown dark outside and a chill was creeping in. Daniel pulled his cloak even tighter around himself. It was quite dark, and Daniel wasn’t sure if he would recognise Agrid Fiall when he appeared. He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t at least try to fulfill his mission.
A shadow appeared in the doorway and uttered a disgusted oath. It raised its voice and demanded that a light be brought. A servant appeared with a lit lantern, illuminating the face of the self-important moneylender and treasurer. Daniel felt his pulse quicken as he lifted the gun—was it heavier than it used to be?
It was certainly warmer—and rose silently. He shifted along the wall with stiff and aching limbs so that he was near the crack in the walls that he had entered by. He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the wooden edge and gently pulled it wider. He stuck his right arm through and brought it up until he had dead aim on his target over a distance of about a meter. Practically point blank.
Daniel waited until Fiall had finished and turned his back, presenting a wider target. Daniel took a deep breath, paused for a heartbeat’s time to make sure of his aim, and squeezed the trigger.
The gun exploded and kicked in his hand. Fiall twitched slightly and stood stunned. Daniel pulled the trigger three more times and the form slumped to the ground. He didn’t know what it took to kill an elf, but he was pretty sure that the steel in the bullets would be toxic, if the wounds didn’t kill him outright.
Daniel drew his sword and stuck it in the fabric of the tent.
He jerked it down to rip a hole from head to knee and started to climb through it.
There was a shout from behind him and he saw another figure in the doorway, slightly hunched over the body of Agrid Fiall. Daniel raised his gun once more, sent the remaining bullets towards the silhouette, and escaped into the night.
5
Freya used the smaller side roads to move her way farther up into North Oxford. It was a winding, snaking path, but one that she thought would be hard to follow. She was banking on the hope that Felix hadn’t been able to get out of the house fast enough to see which direction she’d gone. And so, tired and exhausted, she staggered past houses and parked cars—as well as people who duly ignored her—towards the place she had last seen Daniel, at St. Michael and All Angels Church. But she couldn’t go there yet.
She limped into Summertown—little more than a busy hotspot of shops and restaurants along Banbury Road and a complex maze of terraced housing. She found herself wearing her jacket when she left Stowe’s apartment, and in her pockets she found her cell phone and small purse that she kept her money and bank cards in—they must have been on her all along. She couldn’t turn on her phone; its battery was probably dead. She thought to go to her apartment, but was afraid that Stowe would find her there—or worse, on the way there. She knew that she should go to the police, but she didn’t know what would become of Daniel then. She had to at least make an attempt to rescue him. Then she would go to the authorities. If it really had been days that she’d been trapped, then there’d be another panic. She may have already made the media again—missing for the second time would certainly have a headline appeal.
Her clothes were dirty and smelly and her hair was an absolute disaster. She hoped that she didn’t look so alarming that she would get thrown out of anyplace. She dug around in her purse for a ten-pound note and held it clearly visible before her as she walked into a small café. She put the money on the counter in front of her and ordered a baguette, some fruit, a packet of crisps, a coffee, and a bottle of juice. She took this food to a small table from which she could see the street without being seen.
She devoured her food as calmly and as slowly as possible under the circumstances, and waited. She got up to use the toilet a couple times, cleaning herself up as much as she was able to in the small sink and mirror, always returning to her table and keeping an eye on the street and the sky. She spent enough money to stop the staff from moving her on, gradually nourishing herself. She may not have eaten anything in days. It was vitally important that she didn’t collapse. She needed to keep it together just a little longer.
At six o’clock a cautious waitress came over and told her the café was closing. Freya left and wandered the back ways and parking lots of Summertown until the sun was just about to set. Then, with her heart rising in her chest, she went to the church.
She stood outside the lych-gate. This is where Daniel had disappeared—she could still see him taking that first step into oblivion. She stared at the wooden frame and doorway and wondered what she had to do next. She wanted to bring Daniel back, not follow after him—but could she do that? And how?
There was a new feeling growing in her chest. It wasn’t anticipation or nervousness—it was more like a charge that she was getting from the air. Something was happening. There was some sort of a . . . presence was the only way to describe it. Was it danger? She looked up and down the street. She was completely alone.
But, turning back to the lych-gate, she noticed something odd—it was darker inside of it than outside. She tilted her head so that the sky was visible through it and saw that not only was it darker, but whereas her sky was cloudy and overcast, she could see stars through the lych-gate.
“Daniel!” she called into the archway.
There was no answer. The darkness seemed to thicken. She tried again.
“Daniel!”
It now looked like full night through the lych-gate. She could see the churchyard through it, but it was like looking through a veil. She saw a light—at first she thought it was a trick of her eyes, but the flickering glow bobbed and grew in front of her.
“Daniel?”
6
Racing behind Reizger Lokkich, Daniel struggled to keep up just behind the merchant’s swinging lantern. How could such a short, rotund figure move so quickly? It was a concept that scared him—however fast it was, a full rank of elfish guards would undoubtedly be able to move quicker, especially if they were on horseback. Behind him he could hear shouts and calls of alarm. Would they be able to track him in the dark? He should probably assume so.
Lokkich climbed a hill that stood outside the edge of the Fayre. He rose effortlessly up its side like a windblown beach ball, while Daniel staggered and gasped beside him.
“Ho there, whisht!” Lokkich called in a harsh whisper, closing the shutter on his lamp.
A light appeared from behind a clump of trees—a torch that was held by a thin, gaunt-faced being that looked less than human or elfish. It didn’t seem to have any striking features apart from its plainness. It was bald, with a rounded, formless brow and long, sagging jowls. It reminded Daniel more of the face of a dog.
“There you are, you wretched thing. Give me that,” Lokkich said, snatching the torch from its grasp. “Daniel,” he said, “give him the cloak.”
Daniel undid the clasp of the cloak that Lokkich had given him earlier and handed it over. When he looked up into its face again, he was so startled he let out a cry, quickly raising his own hand to muffle it.
“Shh!” Lokkich commanded, handing Daniel his own cloak and backpack back. “What’s the matter? Do you want to make it so easy for them to find us?”
“I’m sorry, I just . . .” Daniel kept looking at the person in front of him. Its skin was no longer sagging; it was tightening, twitch by twitch, into features. It was making itself look like Daniel. A tuft of brown hair was even appearing on its head, and it seemed to be shrinking.
“That’s enough, you,” Lokkich said, angrily striking the thing on its head. “You don’t want to give the game away completely.
Take this again.” He thrust the torch back to the thing. “Go that way.” He pointed along the tree line. “Run. Your life depends on it. Now!”
It took off at a run, the blue cape and orange torch flames flapping behind it.
“What is it?” Daniel asked.
“It’s a changeling. Vile member of a reprobate race. It has its purposes, though.”
“What happens if they catch it?”
Just at that moment, there was a shout from below. “A light!” they heard someone call.
“If they kill it, they’ll do us a favor. Quickly, this way.” Lokkich hurried off again, with Daniel trying to keep pace behind him, deciding along the way that it would be a good idea to reload his handgun. After a while, Lokkich opened the shutter on his lantern again and slowed his pace.
“Are we going to get there in time? Is it too late?” Daniel asked, struggling for breath.
“We’re here already,” the other answered. “Now, take these.”
A small bag was thrust into Daniel’s hands. It contained the items from his own world that he had killed Fiall for—the videotape, phone charger, comic book, and some odds and ends like the newer coins and mechanical pencils that Daniel had picked out. Daniel made sure to check that they were all there.
“Watch your step,” Lokkich cautioned.
Daniel looked up and saw that they were standing on the top of a cliff. There was a large standing stone, about ten feet high, and then empty air—darkness.
The squat merchant put his hand out and moved it around, as if feeling the air. He muttered some words and the space in front of them started to . . . brighten. It was as if shadows of light were growing just above the cliff face.
“Daniel?” He heard Freya’s voice call again, uncertain this time.
“This is it, just step through,” Lokkich said. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”
“Wait, you want me to just walk off the cliff?”
“Yes, you must if you are to return.”
“This is the way back home that you weren’t sure was going to work the first time?” he asked, looking over the edge of the cliff and estimating a forty-foot drop.
“Conditions are ideal right now. What is more, you are being called. Summoned, if you like. You can’t ask for better than that. Please, do it quickly. I cannot do it for you.”
Daniel crept close to the cliff’s edge. He was just about to take a deep breath to prepare himself for stepping out into certain death when a hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed him.
7
When the ghostly form of Daniel appeared within the lych-gate, Freya didn’t hesitate. She leapt forward and grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled back with all of her strength. It was as if he solidified inside of her fingers. Suddenly she was falling backwards with him on top of her. They hit the ground together.
She lay, winded, looking up at the sky. Turning her head she saw Daniel, rolling gently onto his side. He saw her and smiled.
“You saved me,” he said.
Freya looked down. “What is it with you and clothes? You pick up something wherever you go. Where were you?”
“Elfland.”
“What, are you serious?”
“It’s a long story. I came back as fast as I could. I thought you were in danger. I thought I needed to save you.”
“No, I managed pretty well on my own,” Freya said.
“Really? I’m sorry. How long was I gone? It was weeks to me.
More than a month.”
“Not too sure on that point. It may have been just a couple days.”
Daniel closed his eyes. Days. Only days. He rolled over and sat up. “Well, I’m not doing that again.”
“No, me neither.”
“Were you in trouble, really?”
Freya was just about to answer when a dark shape flew down from the sky and struck Daniel square in the chest. He went down, the black shadow—a human figure—on top of him. The attacking shape’s face was bone-white and bald, its mouth full of sharp teeth. Luckily, Daniel had his arm up and under his attacker’s jaw, or he would’ve had his throat already torn out. Slaver from those terrifying jaws was already dripping onto his collar. The thing’s left hand was pinning Daniel’s right, and its right was clutching at the side of Daniel’s head.
Freya looked around for something heavy to hit the attacker with—a brick or a stick—but there was nothing in view.
“Fr’ya,” Daniel uttered, half-choked. “Sw’rd . . . l’ft side . . .”
Freya rushed over and saw Daniel’s sword glimmering at his side. She reached for its hilt to draw it out, but the creature saw her. She felt its hand clutch her wrist as its face—disfigured and yet still perfectly recognisable—turned to her and snarled.
Freya didn’t hesitate a second. She heaved with all her strength and pulled her arm away, still clutching the sword. She took a moment to find her balance once more, during which she saw the animal shift its weight towards her.
Then she heard five very sharp, tinny bangs. Something seemed to explode out of the thing’s back, and she took another startled step backwards. It let out a death cry of “Gah-ah-ahd!” before keeling forward and falling on its face. It made no more movement under its own power.
Daniel shifted himself from underneath the corpse and together they rolled it over.
“So,” said Daniel. “It’s him. I was wondering if I’d see him again.”
“You know him? It?” Freya said.
“I think so,” Daniel said, looking closer. “He had hair and not so many teeth when I last saw him, but that’s the guy I was talking to in the church just before I disappeared. He gave me some sort of enchanted leaf, then sent me out after you. It was obviously a trap.”
“You carry a gun now?” Freya asked disdainfully. “I’m not sure I like that.”
“Weren’t you glad that I had it now?”
Freya handed Daniel’s unused sword back to him.
“Do you know him?” Daniel asked.
“Yes. That was the . . . person that captured me. He was my tutor, Professor Felix Stowe. He tricked me into thinking I was married to him, that I had children with him. I think he meant to starve me.”
“Huh.” Daniel gave the body a kick. “You’ll have to tell me more about that.”
They stood over the body for a moment and then, without a word between them, turned and walked away.
“Freya,” Daniel said, “about what we were talking about before all this . . . We need answers for this.”
“Yes,” answered Freya, although it wasn’t an easy word to say.
“I think you’re right. We need to go back.”