“These are the histories of the Shadowlords whose memories are contained in this particular fetter,” his father told him. “The elders try to match each candidate to an appropriate fetter. Compatible Shadows stand a much better chance of successful Communion.”
Isaac looked up at him. “So . . . you get to choose whose memories you absorb?” That certainly wasn’t something they’d taught him in school.
But his father shook his head. “The living don’t know enough to make an informed choice. So that decision must be made for them. But our family is ancient and highly respected, and rest assured, I would allow no outsider to dictate who my son was to bond with.”
There was pride in his words, but also admonishment; the combination brought a lump to Isaac’s throat. He looked back at the book, unwilling to meet his father’s gaze.
“So,” his father said softly. “Is this what you feared so desperately? Enough to compromise your family’s honor by fleeing the Guild like a frightened colt?”
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “Shouldn’t I be afraid?”
For a moment there was silence. Then: “Yes. This is a place worthy of fear.”
Isaac hesitated. Normally he would never ask his father a personal question, but this was hardly a normal moment. The Shadowlord clearly wanted Isaac to understand how Communion worked; wasn’t the man’s own experience part of that picture?
“Were you afraid?” he asked. “When they handed you your first fetter, when you had to open your mind to the memories of so many Shadowlords? Didn’t that frighten you?”
“I was terrified,” his father admitted. “And any Shadowlord who claims that he wasn’t, is lying. But I understood that my family’s honor was at stake, which was far more important to me than my own fleeting pleasure.”
Isaac said nothing.
“There is beauty in the change,” his father told him. The ghosts around him had grown strangely quiet; perhaps they, too, were listening. “The pleasures of the living world are but pale shadows of it. To step beyond the boundaries of one’s birth world and plunge into the chaos that lies between, to feel one’s soul resonate with the music of the spheres, to know with utter certainty that any world which can exist, does exist, and that we—and we alone—have the power of free passage between them . . . What earthly pursuit can rival that?”
Isaac had never heard his father talk that way before. He had never heard any Shadowlord talk that way before. For a moment he was at a loss for words. “Aren’t we supposed to not feel passion?” he stammered. “For anything? I mean, that’s what they keep telling me.”
His father chuckled; it was a disconcertingly human sound. “The passions of the living are forbidden to us, my son. As are the passions of the dead—though those are so bizarre that few men are tempted by them. To cling to either world too closely threatens the balance of spirit that we need to survive. But there are passions unique to our kind, more intense than anything you can imagine. There is a kind of beauty that only the umbrae majae can see, senses that a man gains access to only when he is willing to leave his life behind forever. And of course there are the memories—centuries of knowledge and experience that attend one’s every thought.” He paused. “Shadows may fear their First Communion, but none regret it afterward.”
Isaac looked back at the fetter. “Is there one of these that contains your memories? Or don’t they make one of those until after you die?”
“I have a soul fetter, though it’s not stored here. Right now it’s functioning as a recording device. Nothing more. Not until I die will my memories be available to someone else.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “It would be quite confusing otherwise.”
“But if all a soul fetter does is give you knowledge, how does it transform you?”
A faint smile ghosted across his father’s face; he seemed pleased by the question. “It doesn’t. Communion simply grants a man knowledge of how to join the ranks of the umbra majae. He must embrace the change on his own.”
“So . . . you could undergo First Communion without becoming a Shadowlord?”
For a moment, there was silence. “No man who has gained such knowledge has ever chosen that course.”
“But you could,” Isaac persisted. “In theory, at least. Right? You could absorb all those memories, all that knowledge, and remain a living man. Couldn’t you?”
His father’s gaze was solemn. “In theory. But the memories you absorb come from men who chose to walk the line between life and death. Your mind would contain all the reasons they did so, the force of their commitment, their satisfaction with the results. Resisting such influence would be like swimming against a rip tide. And what would the point be? Higher knowledge is wasted on the umbrae minae. Only by embracing the change can one map the currents of the universe.”
“What is it you want from me?” Isaac asked suddenly. “Why did you bring me here?”
If his bluntness displeased his father, the Shadowlord showed no sign of it. “I simply wish to advise you to keep your options open. If you resume your training to be an umbra maja, all paths will remain open to you. But if you surrender that honor, and commit to a more lowly rank instead, doors will be shut in your face. Your education will be restricted to the things that living men are allowed to learn. And your status in the Guild will be severely constrained. All for what purpose? So you can make a public show of rejecting an Antonin’s duty? What will it gain you?”
Isaac said nothing. No words were safe.
“You can undergo the training of an umbra maja without setting a date for your First Communion. Perhaps in twenty or thirty years you will feel differently than you do now. Perhaps you will hunger to join your father in exploring unknown worlds, to bring honor to your family. There is no need to close that door forever, Isaac.”
He said nothing.
“Do not shame the family name unless there is need for it,” his father said quietly. There was an edge of harshness to his tone now, but delicately sheathed, like a knife in a velvet scabbard.
So that’s it then, Isaac thought bitterly. I’m free to follow another path, so long as no one finds out about it. And what if I don’t play along? Will you cast me out of the family? Or is this just a test, to see how much I really want to come back?
But he couldn’t deny that his father’s suggestion had appeal. As a Shadowlord in training Isaac would have access to documents and artifacts that no umbra mina would ever be allowed to see. He would study the true history of the Guild, taught by men who had witnessed those events. Or rather, men who had absorbed the memories of others who had witnessed them.
But he would be living a lie. Pretending to be something he was not.
For his family’s sake.
Isaac observed how the edges of his father’s body faded out into the darkness. He felt the unearthly chill that enveloped the man like a shroud. He heard the whispering of the dead souls who never left his father’s side; invisible harpies who never fell silent. Maybe in twenty years Isaac might be willing to transform into a creature like that, but it didn’t seem likely. Still, all his father was asking was for him to keep his options open. To pretend there was a chance that someday he would change his mind. Couldn’t he manage that, if it was the price of acceptance?
Isaac looked back down at the book, now open to the first page. Twice-decorated Grand Crusader in the Final War between the Shadows and the Dreamwalkers, it said. Hell, Isaac hadn’t even known there was a war between Shadowlords and Dreamwalkers. All he’d been told was that the Guilds had banded together to hunt the dreamers down, to save the human worlds from destruction. This fleeting reference hinted at centuries of history he knew nothing about.
Jesse had asked about the dreaming Gift, he remembered suddenly. Had she done that because her brother was suspected of dreamwalking, or for some more personal reason? These records might hold answers for b
oth of them.
“I see no reason to choose my path now.” He formed his words carefully, trying to echo his father’s formal tone. “There’ll be time enough later, when I understand the situation better. I acted rashly when I fled, for which I humbly seek your forgiveness and the forgiveness of my family. I will resume my former course of study immediately, if the Guildmaster sanctions it.”
A cold hand fell upon his shoulder. He tried to ignore the icy burning sensation where it touched him, to focus on the warmth that the gesture was meant to communicate. Or maybe it was just meant to be cold approval. Who knew what a Shadowlord was feeling?
“I accept your apology,” his father said, “and I am sure His Grace will approve your petition.” For the first time since Isaac’s return there was pride in the man’s voice. “Welcome back, my son.”
3
BERKELEY SPRINGS
WEST VIRGINIA
JESSE
BY THE NEXT MORNING I was so brimming with nervous energy that I felt like I was about to explode. There was no way to give it safe outlet indoors, so I went outside and started pacing the length of the porch. Back and forth, back and forth . . . It helped a little, but it also left my mind free to worry. Tommy came out and sat down on one of the metal chairs to watch me. He had as much invested in this as I did, and I could tell he was equally nervous.
Devon had been disturbingly uncommunicative since Rita’s return. Normally he texted me as often and as casually as most people breathed, but after his first mind-blowing announcement of her arrival he’d sent only a few sparse messages, maddeningly uninformative.
Time dilation maybe, he’d texted. Will drive up 2morrow we can talk.
How did u find her? I asked.
Later. Will leave here after breakfast. Promise.
After that there was only silence.
“You think he’ll be here soon?” my brother asked.
“It’s a two-hour trip,” I pointed out. Suddenly I realized I didn’t know if Devon was a morning person or not. What time did he eat breakfast? We could be waiting for a while.
Tommy asked, “You think he showed his dad the fetter?”
“I don’t know,” I said. It was frustrating to have no answers for him. “We’ll find out when he gets here.”
Devon had wanted to tell his Dad the truth about what happened to us in the other world, so I’d given him the glow lamp. The alien tech with its thought-sensitive light would at least bear witness to the fact that he wasn’t making the whole story up, though what Dr. Tilford would deduce beyond that was anyone’s guess. What if he decided that Devon’s story was just too crazy to believe, tech or no tech? What if he became concerned about his son’s mental stability, and thought that maybe my influence had caused him to start raving about shapechangers and world gates and undead necromancers? If so, he might never let me see Devon again.
I couldn’t handle that. Devon and Tommy had become vital psychological anchors for me, my only two confidants in a world gone mad. Who else could I confide in, when I feared that my Gift was unhinging my mind? Mom had always served as my rock—and I hungered to tell her the truth about Terra Prime now—but I knew she wasn’t strong enough to handle this stuff. She was having a difficult enough time dealing with one world, without my throwing parallel universes at her.
I needed Devon.
He’s coming up here, I told myself as I paced. Which means his father gave him the car. So he’s okay with Devon seeing me. That’s a good sign, right?
I looked at my watch for the hundredth time. The small hand hadn’t moved significantly since my last check.
I’d dreamed about Rita the night before. I dreamed about her every night, guilt-drenched nightmares from which I woke up sweating and trembling. But this last dream wasn’t a regular nightmare. Nor was it a symbolic dream full of mystical doors and arcane symbols, and a sense that the universe was a puzzle I must solve immediately or terrible things would happen to me. This one was simply a memory, like a movie playing out in my brain.
I witnessed our flight from Shadowcrest and our descent to the crystal Gate that controlled passage between the worlds. I relived the moment when the Greys jumped us and all hell broke loose. I felt blood splattering my face as I stabbed a Grey in the neck with a ball point pen, to free my brother. I saw how we ran back to the Gate, grabbing hold of each other as we dove into the unknown darkness between the worlds. Rita had gripped my arm so tightly that her fingernails dug into my flesh; I still had the marks. So what had gone wrong? How did we get separated? Even in my dream I couldn’t identify the moment it happened. One minute she was hanging on to me for dear life, and the next minute I was immersed in the chaos between the worlds. Then Devon, Tommy and I arrived in Mystic Caverns without her. Had she lagged a split-second behind the rest of us, and been trapped in Terra Prime when the Gate collapsed? Or had she entered the archway with us, but lost her grip on me afterward, and gotten lost in that terrible place? Try as I might, I couldn’t remember.
At least I knew now that she wasn’t dead. That eased the burden of guilt a little. And time dilation could explain why she’d arrived here a week later than the rest of us, though it still didn’t answer the question of why that phenomenon had affected her, and not Devon or Tommy or me. But soon she would be here. Then I would learn what had happened to her.
Shortly before noon, Dr. Tilford’s Lexus drove up the gravel road leading to the house. The sight of the car stirred such powerful memories that for a moment I flashed back to the night we had abandoned it in the woods—that awful night which began in one universe and ended in another. By the time it pulled into the driveway and stopped, my heart was pounding.
The motor shut off. Three doors opened.
Three?
The first to get out was Devon’s dad. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he came along, all things considered. Devon must have told him something. But was he here to support his son, or to confront the bad influences that were misleading him? Then Devon disembarked from the passenger side. I wanted to run to him, to throw my arms around him and hug him until his ribs hurt . . . but with his father there, such a display was out of the question. So I just stood at the head of the stairs, waving and smiling, my heart pounding, waiting for him to come to me at his own pace.
Then Rita got out, and when I saw the condition she was in my stomach tightened and the joy I’d felt a moment before vanished in an instant. She moved with the stiffness of someone injured, her face was cut in several places, and there was an angry purple bruise covering most of one cheek. Tommy and I had looked pretty bad when we first came home, but a week’s time had muted our bruises to dull gold and our bodily aches to memory; her damage looked much more recent, and the bright purple hue of her wounds made my own fading bruises throb in sympathy. She was wearing long sleeves, I noted, and given how hot the day was, that suggested there were marks on her arms as well. I wondered if Dr. Tilford had seen them.
“Well, hello!” Aunt Rose’s sudden voice exploding behind my shoulder made me jump. “You must be Jesse’s friends!”
The greeting was so mundane under the circumstances that it seemed almost surreal, but Dr. Tilford just took it in stride, smiling and coming up the stairs to shake her hand as if this was a normal, everyday visit. And then my uncle came out and was introduced, and Rose asked Dr. Tilford how his trip was, and he said that it had been lovely, thank you, this part of the country was lovely, and by the way, so was her house. She beamed. The banal irrelevance of their chatter made my head spin, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I knew my aunt well enough by now to recognize that she wasn’t going to leave us alone to talk about anything substantial until basic social amenities had been taken care of.
She had lunch ready and waiting for the newcomers, of course. Mom joined us there, and she offered her hand to Dr. Tilford as he entered, as if greeting a stranger. “So nice
to meet you. I’m Jesse and Tommy’s mom.” I felt my heart sink, and I could see a shadow of concern in Dr. Tilford’s eyes, but he responded graciously and shook her hand like nothing was wrong. They’d met before, of course. He was the one who had brought us back to Manassas after we’d escaped from the Shadows’ prison, and driven Tommy and me home to meet my mother. So this moment was a painful reminder of how much memory she had lost.
Rose began to chatter as she set out chicken salad sandwiches and lemonade, filling what could otherwise have been an uncomfortable silence. The Fourth of July celebrations were this weekend, with a big cookout during the day and fireworks at night, so it was a pity our visitors wouldn’t be here for that. Of course if they wanted to stay for it, they were welcome to, though someone might have to sleep on a couch. And the local gallery was open on the weekend, so if they wanted to stay that long, she could show them her work there. Speaking of which, she was really hoping that I would display something at her booth. Maybe the newcomers would help talk me into it?
I caught Julian looking at Rita, and sometimes Rose’s eyes fixed on her a bit longer than they should have; clearly they were wondering about her bruises. But no one asked any questions about them, at least during lunch.
One small thing to be grateful for.
Not until all the food was eaten, and the social chit-chat had gone on for so long I was ready to scream, were we finally able to get away from the adults. Devon, Rita, Tommy and I headed up to Tommy’s room in the attic to talk. It was a narrow room that ran the length of the house, and we figured it would offer us decent privacy. A small cot and chest of drawers had been fitted into one tight corner, and there were boxes everywhere, many with a film of dust on them. Makeshift accommodations at best, but as soon as Tommy saw the space he declared this was where he wanted to sleep, and I totally understood why. With two dormer windows offering direct access to the roof, he had a quick and easy escape route should aliens come calling.