Key of Knowledge
Page 47
Wasn’t it, after all, a kind of life?
And there were houses, he knew it, that breathed. They carried in their wood and stone, their brick and mortar a kind of ego that was nearly, very nearly, human.
But there was something, something he needed to remember about this house, about this place. This night. Something he knew but couldn’t quite bring clear in his mind. It drifted in and out, like a half-remembered song, teasing and nagging at him.
It was important, even vital, that he turned whatever was in his mind, like a camera lens, until the image came into sharp focus.
In the dream he closed his eyes, breathed slow and deep as he tried to empty his mind so what needed to come would come.
When he opened them, he saw her. She walked along the parapet under the white ball of moon. Alone as he was alone. Dreaming, perhaps, as he was dreaming.
Her cloak billowed up, though there was no wind to lift it. It seemed to him the air held its breath, and all the sounds of the night—the rustles and peeps and hoots—fell like a crash into terrible silence.
In his chest his heart began to pound. On the parapet, the woman began to turn. In a moment, he thought, in just a moment, they would see each other.
Finally . . .
The sun was a violent flash that shocked his brain, blinded him. He staggered a bit from the displacement of being shot from inky night to brilliant day.
Birds sang with a kind of desperate joy in music that sounded of flutes and harps and pipes. And he heard the rushing sound that water makes when it falls from a great height, then thunders into itself.
He struggled to orient himself. There were woods here, but not any he recognized. Leaves were verdant, shimmering green or soft and glowing blue, and limbs were heavy with fruit the color of rubies and topaz. The air had a ripe, plummy scent, as if it too could be plucked and tasted.
He walked through the trees, on ground springy and richly brown, past a waterfall of wild blue where golden fish danced in the rippling pool at its base.
Curious, he dipped his hand into it. He felt the wet, the fresh coolness. And as he let it pour from his cupped hand, he saw that the water falling from his palm wasn’t clear, but that same deep blue.
It was, he thought, almost more than the senses could bear. The sheer beauty was too intense, too vivid for the mind to translate. And once seen, once experienced, how did anyone survive without it, in the pale, dim reality?
Fascination had him reaching toward the water again when he caught sight of the deer drinking on the opposite side of the pool.
The buck was enormous, its coat sleek and golden, its rack a shining silver. When it lifted its great head, it stared at Jordan with eyes as green and deep as the forest around them.
Around its neck it wore a jeweled collar with the stones catching the streams of sunlight and tossing them back in colored prisms.
He thought it spoke, though there was no movement, and no sound other than the words that formed in his head.
Will you stand for them?
“Who?”
Go, and see.
The deer turned, and walked, silver hooves silent on the ground, into the woods.
This is no dream, Jordan thought. He straightened, started to circle the pond and follow the deer.
But no, it hadn’t said come and see, but go. Trusting instinct, Jordan took the opposite path.
He stepped out of the trees to a sea of flowers so saturated with color they shocked the senses. Scarlet, sapphire, amethyst, amber glinted in that streaming sun as if every petal were an individual facet cut perfectly from each gem. And in the center of that sea, like the most precious of blooms, were the Daughters of Glass, trapped in their crystal coffins.
“No, I’m not dreaming.” He spoke aloud, to prove that he could, to hear the sound of his voice. To center himself before he walked across the sea of flowers to stare down at the faces he already knew.
They seemed to be sleeping. Their beauty was undiminished, but it was cold. He saw that, the cold beauty that could never change but was forever trapped in one instant of time.
He felt pity and outrage, and as he stared into the face so like Dana’s, a tearing grief he hadn’t experienced since his mother’s death.
“This is hell,” he said aloud. “To be trapped between life and death, to be unable to take either.”
“Yes. You have it precisely.” Kane stood on the other side of the glass coffin. Elegant in black robes with a jeweled crown atop his dark mane of hair, he smiled at Jordan. “You have a keenness of mind sadly lacking in much of your kind. Hell, as you call it, is merely the absence of all without an end.”
“Hell should be earned.”
“Ah. Philosophy.” His voice held a touch of amusement, and a canny calculation. “Occasionally, you will agree, hell is merely inherited. Their sire and his mortal bitch damned them.” He swept a hand toward the coffins. “I was merely an instrument, so to speak, who . . .” He lifted the hand, twisted his wrist. “Turned the key.”
“For glory?”
“For that. For power. For all of this.” He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass his world. “All of this, which can never, will never, be theirs. Soft hearts and mortal frailties have no place in the realm of gods.”
“Yet gods love, hate, covet, scheme, war, laugh, weep. Mortal frailties?”
Kane cocked his head. “You interest me. You would debate, knowing who and what I am? Knowing I brought you here, behind the Curtain of Power, where you are no more than an ant to be flicked off a crumb? I could kill you with a thought.”
“Could you?” Deliberately, Jordan walked around the crystal coffin. He wouldn’t have even the reflection of Dana between them. “Why haven’t you? Maybe it’s because you prefer bullying and abusing women. It’s a different matter, isn’t it, when you face a man?”
The blow knocked him back ten feet. He tasted blood in his mouth, and spat it out onto the crushed flowers before he got to his feet. There was more than power on Kane’s face, he noted. There was fury. And where there was anger, there was weakness.
“Smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t got the guts to fight like a man. With fists. One round, you son of a bitch. One round, my way.”
“Your way? You have no terms here. And you will know pain.”
It gripped his chest, icy claws with razor tips. The unspeakable agony dropped him to his knees and ripped a cry from his throat that he couldn’t suppress.
And there were houses, he knew it, that breathed. They carried in their wood and stone, their brick and mortar a kind of ego that was nearly, very nearly, human.
But there was something, something he needed to remember about this house, about this place. This night. Something he knew but couldn’t quite bring clear in his mind. It drifted in and out, like a half-remembered song, teasing and nagging at him.
It was important, even vital, that he turned whatever was in his mind, like a camera lens, until the image came into sharp focus.
In the dream he closed his eyes, breathed slow and deep as he tried to empty his mind so what needed to come would come.
When he opened them, he saw her. She walked along the parapet under the white ball of moon. Alone as he was alone. Dreaming, perhaps, as he was dreaming.
Her cloak billowed up, though there was no wind to lift it. It seemed to him the air held its breath, and all the sounds of the night—the rustles and peeps and hoots—fell like a crash into terrible silence.
In his chest his heart began to pound. On the parapet, the woman began to turn. In a moment, he thought, in just a moment, they would see each other.
Finally . . .
The sun was a violent flash that shocked his brain, blinded him. He staggered a bit from the displacement of being shot from inky night to brilliant day.
Birds sang with a kind of desperate joy in music that sounded of flutes and harps and pipes. And he heard the rushing sound that water makes when it falls from a great height, then thunders into itself.
He struggled to orient himself. There were woods here, but not any he recognized. Leaves were verdant, shimmering green or soft and glowing blue, and limbs were heavy with fruit the color of rubies and topaz. The air had a ripe, plummy scent, as if it too could be plucked and tasted.
He walked through the trees, on ground springy and richly brown, past a waterfall of wild blue where golden fish danced in the rippling pool at its base.
Curious, he dipped his hand into it. He felt the wet, the fresh coolness. And as he let it pour from his cupped hand, he saw that the water falling from his palm wasn’t clear, but that same deep blue.
It was, he thought, almost more than the senses could bear. The sheer beauty was too intense, too vivid for the mind to translate. And once seen, once experienced, how did anyone survive without it, in the pale, dim reality?
Fascination had him reaching toward the water again when he caught sight of the deer drinking on the opposite side of the pool.
The buck was enormous, its coat sleek and golden, its rack a shining silver. When it lifted its great head, it stared at Jordan with eyes as green and deep as the forest around them.
Around its neck it wore a jeweled collar with the stones catching the streams of sunlight and tossing them back in colored prisms.
He thought it spoke, though there was no movement, and no sound other than the words that formed in his head.
Will you stand for them?
“Who?”
Go, and see.
The deer turned, and walked, silver hooves silent on the ground, into the woods.
This is no dream, Jordan thought. He straightened, started to circle the pond and follow the deer.
But no, it hadn’t said come and see, but go. Trusting instinct, Jordan took the opposite path.
He stepped out of the trees to a sea of flowers so saturated with color they shocked the senses. Scarlet, sapphire, amethyst, amber glinted in that streaming sun as if every petal were an individual facet cut perfectly from each gem. And in the center of that sea, like the most precious of blooms, were the Daughters of Glass, trapped in their crystal coffins.
“No, I’m not dreaming.” He spoke aloud, to prove that he could, to hear the sound of his voice. To center himself before he walked across the sea of flowers to stare down at the faces he already knew.
They seemed to be sleeping. Their beauty was undiminished, but it was cold. He saw that, the cold beauty that could never change but was forever trapped in one instant of time.
He felt pity and outrage, and as he stared into the face so like Dana’s, a tearing grief he hadn’t experienced since his mother’s death.
“This is hell,” he said aloud. “To be trapped between life and death, to be unable to take either.”
“Yes. You have it precisely.” Kane stood on the other side of the glass coffin. Elegant in black robes with a jeweled crown atop his dark mane of hair, he smiled at Jordan. “You have a keenness of mind sadly lacking in much of your kind. Hell, as you call it, is merely the absence of all without an end.”
“Hell should be earned.”
“Ah. Philosophy.” His voice held a touch of amusement, and a canny calculation. “Occasionally, you will agree, hell is merely inherited. Their sire and his mortal bitch damned them.” He swept a hand toward the coffins. “I was merely an instrument, so to speak, who . . .” He lifted the hand, twisted his wrist. “Turned the key.”
“For glory?”
“For that. For power. For all of this.” He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass his world. “All of this, which can never, will never, be theirs. Soft hearts and mortal frailties have no place in the realm of gods.”
“Yet gods love, hate, covet, scheme, war, laugh, weep. Mortal frailties?”
Kane cocked his head. “You interest me. You would debate, knowing who and what I am? Knowing I brought you here, behind the Curtain of Power, where you are no more than an ant to be flicked off a crumb? I could kill you with a thought.”
“Could you?” Deliberately, Jordan walked around the crystal coffin. He wouldn’t have even the reflection of Dana between them. “Why haven’t you? Maybe it’s because you prefer bullying and abusing women. It’s a different matter, isn’t it, when you face a man?”
The blow knocked him back ten feet. He tasted blood in his mouth, and spat it out onto the crushed flowers before he got to his feet. There was more than power on Kane’s face, he noted. There was fury. And where there was anger, there was weakness.
“Smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t got the guts to fight like a man. With fists. One round, you son of a bitch. One round, my way.”
“Your way? You have no terms here. And you will know pain.”
It gripped his chest, icy claws with razor tips. The unspeakable agony dropped him to his knees and ripped a cry from his throat that he couldn’t suppress.
