Chapter 110
Fregósbor began to recover Pierre. Any longer in that state and the mage feared for the young man’s mental health. In one night, Pierre had been to more places than most people in a lifetime. He had been all those places. Fast, but gently, Fregósbor summoned back all the molecules of Pierre.
Pierre, dispersed, difuse, pieces of his mind still looking for something he didn’t understand. He knew where he was and with whom, but he wasn’t very sure who he was, or why. Tonight he incarnated reasons, wishes, promises — So many that me momentarily lost his own hopes in the crowd. Then he went back to being one person only. How weird, since when?
He touched his face, followed the lines of his hands, trying his own shape; it must mean something. He probably was a person after all, even though an instant ago he had been something else; many things else.
‘I will help you find yourself,’ Fregósbor guided Pierre back to integrity.
Usually, the mage stepped right back into reality. This time, for Pierre, he took time with all the nuances between dream and reality, giving Pierre the necessary time to assimilate the changes in color, temperature, texture, smell.
Pierre was accutely aware of every detail. Wind tickled weirdly, stretching the hair on his arms. How fascinating, this having hair and skin.
Fregósbor began to feel tired. Something like this, though careful, shouldn’t be tiring. So why was he exhausted? Where was that darkness coming from? And this fear: of nightmares, of the dark. The more he moved, the mor darkness wrapped him. He felt as old as he was, weak as dust, abandoned by magic.
A black stain blocked his way. It was shaped like a dragon, and it said:
‘That’s enough.’
The dragon shaped darkness opened its mouth as though it was going to spit fire. A dozen black tentacles crawled out of the huge throat and aimed at Pierre. Fregósbor clutched the tentacles, held them in his arms, they writhed around the mage, enveloped him and began to smash him.
Sáeril was impressed that his old pupil, who should have died centuries ago, was still capable of summoning that much power. He was also impressed at Pierre, spread all over Franária in tiny molecules. The man remained himself, though broken into a million pieces. Together with the awe, a tremor scratched Sáeril’s chest. He saw the darkness gathering in the periphery of dreams, forming a seige.
The War waited. It was useless to fight against hope and magic. The moment to attack was when the mage of dreams, tired of his own nightly adventures, focused his power in bringing back that poisonous creature called Pierre. Then, War glided slowly under Fregósbor’s feet nad raised its darkness around him, like fog, intoxicating his magic, making it dull. War captured the mage like a carnivore plant captures an insect.
‘Can you help?’
Sáeril took a fright. It was Pierre’s voice that reached him. Somehow, the young man was still in Sáeril’s dream, was the dream. He had felt what Sáeril had seen, noticed what Sáeril knew. Once again the mage was impressed with Pierre, vigilant in his state of dust.
‘I can’t get there in time,’ said Sáeril, even though he was already moving toward Freagósbor.
Sáeril was a master of many things, but not of dreams. He couldn’t move fast enough. He climbed Fregósbor’s ropes of magic, the ones his pupil had used to tie the dreams back together. The matter of dreams resisted Sáeril’s advance while Fregósbor disappeared under War’s tentacles.
Two of the tentacles moved away from Fregósbor toward Pierre, who was, quite literally, out of himself.
‘Pierre!’ From that distance, all Sáeril could do was shout.
His voice, real and urgent, woke Pierre up. Pierre sought his sword, which wasn’t there but appeared when he needed it, as is usual in dreams, and cut down both tentacles. He grabbed one of Fregósbor’s magic ropes, threw one end to Sáeril, and pulled the Wraith to him.
What happened after that had that peculiar taste of dreams, though Pierre didn’t have to wake up to find that absurd. The Wraith, in his magnificent black cloak, darker that darkness, landed beside Pierre and advanced toward the dragon brandishing na acorn.
Most astoundingly, the darkness retreated, the tentacles ran away like frightened eels. Fregósbor ressurfaced and fell unconscious in Pierre’s arms. The young man thanked Sáeril. Dreams sometimes make introductions obsolete. Pierre and Sáeril had never met, but they already knew each other.
‘Do you know the way back?’ asked the Wraith.
‘Yes.’
Each one left toward their own awakening.
Líran had a pleasant dream, with Pierre, Vivianne and hints of Fregósbor. She woke up and saw Sáeril, standing with his fist raisedthe edge of the black cloak disappearing in the undergrowth. What was he holding in his hand?
‘Are you all right?’ asked Líran.
‘I faced darkness last night. I revealed to it the power I wield. War knows what to expect from me.
Líran stood up and held the black fist in both her hands.
‘It doesn’t know what to expect from me.’