Chapter 99: Pierre
Pierre never meant to be different, but how could he possibly be like any one of us?
— Gregoire Diaries.
Pierre is sitting on the Blood’s margin, at the Frontier. The sky and the river were golden from dusk and autumn; golden leaves on the ground and the trees wear red and ocre like jewels. On the other side of the Blood, the Land of the Banished breathe out blackness.
Steps unsettle the dry leaves behind Pierre.
‘It looks like I died,’ says Pierre.
‘Not quite,’ says a white, wrinkled voice.
‘Is this a dream?’
‘Not quite.’
Pierre turns to the mage with enthropic hair.
‘I have to find someone. I remember searching. There,’ he points to the blackness beyond the Blood. ‘I went to the Land of the Banished.’
Pierre stands up and goes down the slope until he almost steps into the river. The BLood’s water lick his boots with lazy waves that become colder and slower until the river freezes over. Ocre autumn is replaced by blue winter.
‘I crossed the Blood last winter and went to the Land of the Banished. It was a lot farther than I had expected.’
‘An illusion caused by the intensity of darkness,’ says Fregósbor.
‘It took me three days to cross the river,’ says Pierre. ‘What food I had was over before I reached the other side, but I couldn’t come back, some urgency pushed me forward.’
Fregósbor assumes one of Pierre’s parents must have come from the Land of the Banished because Fregósbor remembers very little, but he is sure that tone of red skin had never migrated north of Sátiron. He concentrates his chaotic mind in the texture of that memory-dream and looks for Pierre’s father.
A man sits at a desk, translating books. Without raising his pencil, he says:
‘I’m not the one Pierre went into the darkness to search for. I am here. At the same time, I am not here: I am in the books I translate. In a way, my son had to find a father elsewhere.’
Fregósbor folds Pierre’s coma and funnels it on Pierre’s brother, Gregoire. Was it the brother that Pierre searched?
‘Half-brother,’ says Pierre. ‘And he hates me.’
Pierre had to find a brother elsewhere.
The mother, things Fregósbor and the answer is a flake of snow. Pierre had to find a mother elsewhere.
‘How do you do it?’ asks Pierre. ‘Move my dream as though you were folding paper,’
‘Can you see what I am doing?’
‘No, but I perceive many things.’
‘Impressive,’ says Fregósbor. ‘You would be a good sorcerer.’
‘Magic. That is what I went looking for: red magic.’
‘The dragon,’ says Fregósbor. ‘He is red.’
‘His name is Chelag’Ren and he used to swim on the Blood every day at sunset,’ says Pierre.
The dream takes a turn. The sun touches the horizon, painting the Blood red. The sky and earth become a scarlet rainbow, except for the forest on the other side of the Blood. The Land of the Banished is always darkness.
‘He comes every afternoon like a fire lightning and his wings shine because they are so white, they look like clouds made of plumes.’ Pierre stands on his toes. ‘He should be here by now.’
‘The dragon isn’t coming,’ says Fregósbor.
‘No. He stopped coming a while ago. That was why I crossed the Blood.’
‘Because he stopped coming?’
‘I missed him. When I was small, Chelag’Ren sometimes sat at the margin and looked at us. He seemed lonely, just someone looking for someone to talk to, but everyone here is scared of him. All of Carlaje came to see him bathe in the river because who can resist magic, but no one dared approach. One day I talked to him and we became friends. Best friends. When he stopped coming, I wanted to know why.
‘As soon as I stepped on the Land of the Banished, the Blood disappeared, winter abandoned me, and the cold that gripped my skin was sharper than the cold that stayed behind in Franária.
‘Behind me there was only blackness. In front of me there was only blackness. A misleading darkness that took even the ground from under my feet. Everything crumbled and I fell.’
‘You need to know a way in the Land of the Banished,’ says Fregósbor. ‘You need to find a road. They can be treacherous, but they are solid.’
‘I fell,’ says Pierre. ‘Not a free fall, but a rolling down the hill. Sometimes it seemed like I had found something solid to grab on to, but then that thing also crumbled and rolled down with me in a cascade of ashes. I was sure I was going to fall until I died.’
‘But you didn’t die.’
Pierre fell and fell until he was covered in scratches and his whole body hurt but he could never hold onto something long enough to see if he had broken anything. Then, a singing pain bit on his nape and Pierre was hoisted up, thrown on solid, hard ground.
Pierre couldn’t move for a while because of the pain and the fear of falling down again. When he did move, he lifted his hand slowly to his nape and felt there was blood. He realized his eyes were closed (it made no difference in the dark of the Banished) and decided to keep them closed. It had been a mistake to come to the Land of the Banished. Only dragons could survive here.
But it was too late, he was already in the darkness and there was no use in regretting. Pierre oppened his eyes.
Little mortal, what are you doing here?
Fregósbor interrupts Pierre:
‘The voice was inside your head?’
‘Something like that,’ says Pierre. ‘I can’t explain: I didn’t hear words, I knew the message.’
‘There is no need to explain. A wolf spoke to you, that’s all.’
Pierre, like everybody else, had his own idea of what the Wolves of Sátiron ooked like. In his head, they were huge, bigger than bears, with claws sharper than Chelag’Ren’s, and teeth as brilliant as the moon.
The grey wolf was lean (not starved, but very lean), the size of a normal wolf, with silky, but otherwise normal hair, and his teeth were white but not filled with moonlight. In appearance, just another wolf, but the power was there. Around him, the Land of the Banished became solid and there was light, as though a shard of moonlight followed the grey wolf.
Little mortal, why are you here?
‘I’m looking for the dragon,’ said Pierre. ‘My friend Chelag’Ren. Do you know where he is?’
Chelag’Ren is dying.
‘Can you take me to him?’
What for?
‘I want to help.’ Pierre understood the incongruity of a human trying to help a dragon, but Chelag’Ren was all he had. For years they had talked at the margin of the Blood, sometimes until dawn, and Pierre was closer to the dragon than to any other human being.
It was because of Chelag’Ren that Pierre learned Nakamura’s techniques, it was Chelag’Ren who brought the Chinese sword and the books containing the science of the mystery-woman. It was the dragon who corrected Pierre-the-boy’s posture and taught him how to move with the winter storms.
To help Chelag’Ren, you will have to face many risks, all of death.
‘Fine.’
Mortals always say that until they look their own death in the eye. And, most of the time, there is nothing you can do anyway.
‘I don’t want to die,’ said Pierre, ‘but I am not going to abandon Chelag’Ren.’
You love him.
‘He is my father, brother and friend.’
I can now take you back to the Frontier or I can take you to Chelag’Ren’s lair. Once you turn either way, there is no return. If you give up, the trail will abandon you and you will die.
‘Take me to Chelag’Ren.’
This way.
The wolf began to walk. Pierre stood up, his whole body ached, but the bones seemed to be all in place. When the wolf walked away, the ground under Pierre’s feet began to crack. He hurried after the wolf and ealked three steps behind the grey tail.
In nature there is nothing like the blackness of darkness. A night without fire and stars, moulding cavern with bats and spiders, the bottom of the sea. Nothing compares to the lava of darkness that enveloped the Land of the Banished. Pierre walked but didn’t feel anything passing. He could be walking in circles or he could be forever in the same place. Nothing passed by him. The wolf didn’t seem to move forward, as though they were trapped in a nightmare in which the darkness rolls at the same speed as your steps and you never get anywhere.
Pierre interrupts the memory and tells Fregósbor:
‘You said I neede a road, but the wolf walked directly on darkness.’
‘The laws of nature, magic and darkness do not apply to misteries. The wolf himself is the way.’
At first Pierre felt pain because of his fall. Then the pains became numb, the bones became monotonous and Pierre’s hair grew longer. Beard sprouted on his face, went down to his hest as Pierre grew older on the way. Was that the risk of death? Growing old and passing before he found Chelag’Ren?
Do you wish to return? Asked the wolf.
‘No.’
Pierre’s knees failed and the wolf stood beside the old Frontierman. Pierre put na arm on the grey mystery’s shoulders and, leaning on him, moved on. Twice more did the wolf ask Pierre if he wanted to return.
‘No. I want to find Chelag’Ren.’
When Pierre’s sight began to blur with old age and Pierre’s bones began to crumble, he lay down on the ground to die. He reached out a hand, hoping to touch the dragon, then closed his eyes and took his last breath.
We are here, said the wolf.
Pierre opened his eyes. The day was clear and he was young. No bone was hurting, he could see every single grass blade, every vein on the red rock that formed a natural wall in front of him. He was at the bottom of an abyss. Where had the Land of the Banished gone? Pierre covered his neck with his hand, where the wolf’s bite still ached.
‘I thought I was dead,’ said Pierre.
The wolf moved clear to the bottom of the red and white cliff. Pierre followed him and found a cave hidden in the folds of the rock. It was a massive cave and Pierre was impressed at the natural illusion that kept it hidden. The grass thinned out as he entered the cave, but moss carpeted the ground and some rocks. The moss felt like wool to the touch and it seemed to pull the sunlight into the cave.
Beyonf the moss there were colors. After so much darkness, Pierre was even a bit scared of those colors. Thousands of coloured bricks covering the ground, piled so far up that he couldn’t see the end of them. No, not bricks: books.
There were more caves deeper into the earth, some larger than the first one, all of them filled with books. So many books that, when the wind blew, the sound of the pages ruffling was as loud as the sound of trees in a storm.
‘I didn’t know there were so many books in the world.’
There are more, said the wolf. But there are books here from worlds other than yours.
In one of the caves, Pierre found a gigantic book lying on a rock like an altar. The ceiling had holes in this cave and a piece of the sun fell right onto the gigantic book, making everything else seem bland in comparison. The book’s pages began to turn without any wind. Pierre glanced at the wolf, but there was no way to be certain if it was the wolf or another type of power that was turning the pages. When they stopped, Pierre read the date.
‘This was the day when Chelag’Ren first spoke to me,’ he said, walking backwards until he was far enough to read what was on the huge pages. ‘Actually, I’m the one who spoke to him. I was seven years old and had spent many days building up the courage to speak to him.’
I have met a possible excpetional human, said the giant book, but it is a child and I’m not sure a human in formation is any good for my studies. Today’s interaction did not supply enough data to decide whether this human could add something useful to my studies or not. So far, he fits the pattern I have been observing.
He is alone. Every extraordinary creature is. The question is whether he is alone, not because he is extraordinary, but because his mother has passed, his father is absent and because he is socially inept. If that is the case, he is useless to me.
He is not afraid. I do not mean he is brave; I mean he lacks fear. There exist exceptionally brave beings and there are those, my case studies, who are extraordinary to the point of overcoming instinct and be unafraid of anything that does not actually propose any danger. They are, for example, not afraid of me.
I will have to better evaluate this tiny human.
Pierre turned to the wolf, doubtful.
‘He is wrigint about me, but he doesn’t seem to refer to me as a person.’
The wolf did not move, but the pages turned and stopped a few weeks later.
It seems this human will be a good subject.
‘It took him this long to consider me acceptable?’ asked Pierre.
In any case, there is no one else. The child at the margin of the Blood shall become my object of study number 09, from here forth mentioned as OS09.
Pierre kept on reading parts of the dragon’s diary, his own life described from the point of view, not of a friend, but of a cientist dissecting the social behaviour of a human being.
The most interesting part of studying a child is that OS09 has developed for me a kind of affection that no other subject has demonstrated. He seems to love me, as I have seen dogs falling in love with their human companions. OS09 also learns faster than other extraordinary humans I have met. That may be on account of his youth. Other humans have told me that children learn faster than adults, but this is the first time I personally observe this. Tomorrow I shall begin a test. To teach OS09 about things he has no acces to. I will begin with the teachings of the mystery Nakamura.
Note: to include more children in my future studies.
Pierre didn’t want to read any further.
‘I am,’ he said, ‘I have always been… but he said I am extraordinary.’
Humans that are not extraordinary do not speak with dragons, said the wolf. Chelag’Ren can only have real contact with people like you. The others, he has to observe at a distance.
The book’s pages turned slowly and Pierre caught passages of the dragon’s notes. He thought he saw a bit of affection in a few scattered words, but it might only be his own wishful thinking while reading on OS09.
Pierre’s heart didn’t beat, it sobbed. Dead mother, non-existent father, hating brother. Chelag’Ren was everything to him, but he was nothing to the dragon.
While the discovery choked Pierre, the sun outside changed its position and the light landed on something red, lashing against Pierre’s eye. He went to the red object; anything so he didn’t have to keep on reading about how little he meant to Chelag’Ren.
Stuck on the rock, like a page marker marking the point in the story where the character realizes he had been deluded, was a red scale. A little bigger than Pierre’s hand, the scale looked like cristalized flame. Light, flexible, but unbreakable.
Dragon scales don’t fall like autumn leaves, said the wolf.
‘That is a Satironese proverb,’ said Pierre. ‘I never understood the meaning.’
Dragons only drop their scales when they are in danger of death. It is a warning. It is also a cry of help.
‘What could possibly kill a dragon?’
Darkness, if used effectivelly, can destroy a magic creature, even a dragon. Worse than that, darkness can infect a magic creature and turn it into a puppet for someone else to control.
‘Who would want to control Chelag’Ren? What for? Is there a cure for darkness?’
You need to stop asking questions, and make a decision.
‘Can’t you help Chelag’Ren? A wolf of Sátiron must have the power to cure any type of darkness.’
I am busy.
‘With what?’
You keep asking questions. Here are the facts: Chelag’Ren is in danger of death by darkness, I cannot help, but you are here. What will you do?
Pierre put the scale in his pocket.
‘Tell me what I have to do.’
To save the dragon, you nned to save Franária and vice-versa. They are connected by the same death.
The wolf took Pierre back to the Frontier. He went to fast that Pierre had to hold on to him or he would be lost. The wolf went faster and faster. Pierre held onto the wolf’s neck and shouted:
‘Why the hurry? If this is so urgent, why did we spend so much time in that cave? Why did we even go there?’
We must be swift in our actions, little mortal, but great decisions we must make with care, and aware with all the information we can amass.
Thus Pierre returned to the Frontier on the back of the grey wolf, and joined Rimbaud’s Caravan. He met the dragon on the road to Lune and called him by his name. Chelag’Ren opened his wings to break his own attack and his grey eyes recovered their green for a moment.
‘You,’ said the dragon. ‘I now you.’
‘Chelag’Ren,’ said Pierre. ‘It is I, your Object of Stucy number 09. I am here to help you. Tell me what to do.’
‘You know you are na object of study.’
‘Number nine,’ said Pierre.
‘You still wish to help me?’
Pierre smiled, half boyish, half soorrowful.
‘The Frontier is not the same without you. Even the Blood misses you.’
‘I cannot be saved,’ said the dragon. War controls me, poisons my fire, weighs down my wings wich black oil.’
‘The War controls you?’
‘It has made me kill. Even now she pushes me and I can barely resist. The more I kill, more War and less Chelag’Ren I become.’
The dragon’s eyes were blurred by ash again and he doubled over in pain, but he managed to fly away from the Caravan.
‘The dragon is stronger than War had foreseen,’ says the mage Fregósbor.
‘How long have you been in Chambert?’ asks Pierre.
‘I don’t know. I think ever since Sátiron… What happened to Sátiron?’
‘Four hundred years,’ says Pierre ‘You’ve been here all this time. It was you. The reason the War was hiding even before the mage of Lune found out about it: it was you.’
Fregósbor frowns.
‘It makes sense,’ he says. ‘If the War felt threatened, she must have prepared to face that threat. Me, a threat! I don’t even know who I am. It is difficult to beat magic with darkness, both powers are slick and impredictable, darkness even more than magic. That was why it went after magic. It must have been preparing to concquer that dragon for a very long time.’
‘But it couldn’t,’ says Pierre.
‘I have the feeling it wasn’t ready yet. The War has much power. If it had waited long enough, if it had finished spinning its web, it would have been able to steal the dragon for itself.’
‘But the mage of Lune forced it to hurry.’
‘It was a mistake,’ says Fregósbor. ‘It is now tied to the dragon and cannot escape the fight it began. It has to beat the dragon while at the same time keep on smothering Franária.’
‘It seems to me that Franária is reacting,’ says Pierre.
‘The eagle has tried something similar to what the War is doing, but the eagle was wiser. It knows it is crippled, so it didn’t try to control any power the way War is trying to control the dragon. Instead of taking the power to itself, the eagle unleashed it on its people. It is a risk because a story without direction is almost as dangerous as a starving War, but the fates have a way of hunting characters, of connecting with those capable of making them happen.’
Pierre puts his hand on the scar the wolf left on his neck. The bite has the shape of a halv moon.
‘Everything seems to fit,’ says Fregósbor, ‘though nothing has reached a solution yet. Only one thing I do not understand: you. It is very improbable, isn’t it? After reading what you really mean to the dragon, you still risk your life for him.’
‘You don’t stop loving someone only because they don’t love you back.’
Something goes soft inside Fregósbor, his hair almost smooths down into something normal. Suddenly, Pierre asks:
‘Can you beat the War?’ He takes the mage by the shoulders, but immediatelly let him go. Fregósbor’s body seems to be made of chalk. ‘You seem so frail.’
‘I’m a scholar,’ says diz Fregósbor, ‘a scientist. I am not the typo to go around challenging wars and darkness.’
‘And yet, all this time, it was hiding,’ says Pierre, ‘from you.’
‘I’m a researcher of dreams. I have never fought anything solid, only illusions. The answer is in the dreams.’
‘To what question?’
‘I wish I could remember.’
‘Meanwhile, can you think of a way to help Franária?’
‘The answer is in dreams.’ Fregósbor doesn’t seem to hear Pierre amymore.
Pierre feels like shaking the old man, shaking the grey wolf, who stayed in the Land of the Banished when a single howl from his throat might have ended the War. He wanted to shake Chelag’Ren for not beint a parent or a brother, not even a friend. Pierre sat down once again at the margin of the Blood in his dream.
‘It is so much harder than I had foreseen. Everything seems to be converging on me. Tuen, Chambert, Chelag’Ren, even Fulbert and Henrique.’
Fregósbor absentmindedly agrees.
‘You took the first step,’ says the mage. ‘The story has taken root on you. I know little about fate and stories, but I’ve heard that some of them bestow power on those who make them happen.’
Pierre had heard that from Líran.
‘In the beginning I thought I would be fine, that I would have an adventure and the story would end my way, and I everything would be the same again. But that is not the way it is. Nothing will ever be the way they were. Can’t you solve this mess?’
‘Magic is not a solution; it’s only magic.’
‘I am not a solution either; I am just Pierre.’
‘You inspire.’
‘I thought magic inspired.’
‘Magic is the unknown, the unexpected,’ says Fregósbor.
‘Shouldn’t that be estimulating?’
‘With hope, maybe, but the unknown without hope and wisdom is just fear.’
Pierre puts his hand in the water. His touch freates no waves, his arm simply vanishes under the water mirror.
‘Men have died because of me. One of them was my friend. I wasn’t there when he faced Jean and it feels like I was the one who killed him. They call me a hero, I have heard it, I can feel it whispered at my back. Heroes should save lives, not the opposite.’
‘They will die, with or without your help,’ says Fregósbor. ‘Why not die for you?’
Pierre smiles. ‘Your logic is a bit distorted. If I allow them to die for me, doesn’t that make me a monster?’
‘Sometimes being a hero means to have the courage to be a monster.’
Pierre stands up. ‘I don’t think hero and monster can be the same person.’
Fregósbor stands beside him.
‘Do you think Yukari Nakamura is a hero?’ He knows the answer is yes. ‘And Nastassja of Sátiron? Together they put an end to the Dark Age, built na empire. How many people do you think they sent away to die? How many did they kill with their own hands?’ Fregósbor points to the other side of the river. ‘The curse that caused the death ot every elf was Nastassja’s doing. She was ruthless, even cruel.’
‘How do you know?’ asks Pierre.
‘I loved her. I still do. She was one of the greatest heroes of this world. And one of its most marvelous monsters.’
Pierre stared thoughtful at the Blood. Nastassja of Sátiron and Yukari Nakamura faced the Dark Age. What Pierre was facing was something very different.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Franária doesn’t need another monster. How do I get back to Chambert?’
‘This is your dream,’ says Fregósbor. ‘Only you can get out of it. I’m afraid it might be a long way home.’
‘Then I’d better start walking.’
Chapter 101
Frederico discovered that the hours, when grey, took longer to pass. Grey gestures were slower and less meaningful. He travelled under a heavy, crippling curtain and had the impression, though he could not be certain, that he passed by haggard people running away, dying, dead. He might have seen na army. Frederico was a rock underwater, connected to the surface by a black twig. Every step he took, Faust’s medallion bit his chest. How could a rock learn how to swim?
It doesn’t matter, he had to. If the Old Woman’s book had come back from fire and ash, so too Frederico had to ressurface from the darkness, climb up water with hands of stone, fight shoulder to shoulder with the man who killed his brother. Neville said he didn’t kill Faust, but if not him, then who?
‘Hello, old friend,’ Frederico spread his hand on the metalic Eliana’s snout, trying to gather energy from the metal, so he could walk down the corridor of his nightmare.
He barely turned from the train, and there was Queen Margot, guiding him down the icy path to the door lit with ember. Frederico stepped across the door, leaving behind ice, finding pain. Inside it was darker, in spite of the torches. The air, drunk with carrion, was heavy on Frederico’s eyelashes. There he was, behind the table, the man with gorilla hands petting the little dog, her eyes black with terror.
‘Death is relief,’ said Queen Margot and Frederito tasted once more the rough dagger in his hand.
‘One day you will thank me,’ said Margot.
The little dog’s screams began to echo in the nightmare even before the gorilla hands began to work.
‘Stop,’ said Frederico. ‘Please stop.’
All his life he begged, night after night, please stop.
‘What is this?’ a voice thundered in the nightmare.
Everything stopped. Frederico looked for the owner of that alien voice. Queen Margot blinked, as though she had just woken up.
A red skinned man with eyes the colour of honey pushed away tha gorilla hands and took the dog in his arms. The little dog’s tongue attacked her saviour’s face, her tail was like the wings of a humming bird.
‘Pierre?’ Frederico asked. He looked at his mother, to the big man behind the table. Frederico expected a reaction, na attack. He tohught they would grab Pierre and put him on the table with the dog, but Pierre was not a part of their world. They were astonished.
‘Is this yours?’ Pierre pushed the dog against Frederico’s chest.
If the dog wagged her tail any faster, she’d take flight.
‘She likes you,’ said Pierre. ‘I have to go. I’m trying to wake up.’ He pushed aside a brick wall like it was a curtain, and disappeared behind it.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Frederico.
‘Indeed,’ said Fregósbor. Since when had he been there?
The walls of Frederico’s nightmare all became curtains after Pierre pushed them, and began to flap while Frederico tried to stop the dog from drowning him in licks. He turned his face and saw a valley that did not belong to his nightmare. It was covered in fog so thick that they smothered the sound of blades screaming and voices dying. Frederico knew the smell of nightmares and realized that this battle was someone else’s horror. The little dog stopped licking him, her tail hesitated.
The fog began to break and snow began to fall on corpses. Frederico saw a man trespassing another with his sword. He recognized the murderer and the voice of the murderer, who died with the last word:
‘Father?’
The little dog growled at QUeen Margot, who stood in the cold corridor, by the fog.
‘You lied to me,’ Frederico said to her. ‘Neville didn’t kill my brother.’
‘My son, you must understand,’ said the queen, ‘you have to understand. What is the use of you?’
‘I am not your son,’ said Frederico. ‘I never was.’
The fog faded away, as well as the corridor and the smell of pain. Pierre was nowhere to be seen, but Frederico grabbed the mage’s sleeve.
‘What? Who?’ asked Fregósbor.
‘King Fulbert,’ said Frederico. ‘Where is he?’
Fregósbor raised his nose like a hunting hound. The little dog did the same.
‘In Chambert,’ the mage said and went after Pierre.
Chapter 101
Frederico discovered that the hours, when grey, took longer to pass. Grey gestures were slower and less meaningful. He travelled under a heavy, crippling curtain and had the impression, though he could not be certain, that he passed by haggard people running away, dying, dead. He might have seen na army. Frederico was a rock underwater, connected to the surface by a black twig. Every step he took, Faust’s medallion bit his chest. How could a rock learn how to swim?
It doesn’t matter, he had to. If the Old Woman’s book had come back from fire and ash, so too Frederico had to ressurface from the darkness, climb up water with hands of stone, fight shoulder to shoulder with the man who killed his brother. Neville said he didn’t kill Faust, but if not him, then who?
‘Hello, old friend,’ Frederico spread his hand on the metalic Eliana’s snout, trying to gather energy from the metal, so he could walk down the corridor of his nightmare.
He barely turned from the train, and there was Queen Margot, guiding him down the icy path to the door lit with ember. Frederico stepped across the door, leaving behind ice, finding pain. Inside it was darker, in spite of the torches. The air, drunk with carrion, was heavy on Frederico’s eyelashes. There he was, behind the table, the man with gorilla hands petting the little dog, her eyes black with terror.
‘Death is relief,’ said Queen Margot and Frederito tasted once more the rough dagger in his hand.
‘One day you will thank me,’ said Margot.
The little dog’s screams began to echo in the nightmare even before the gorilla hands began to work.
‘Stop,’ said Frederico. ‘Please stop.’
All his life he begged, night after night, please stop.
‘What is this?’ a voice thundered in the nightmare.
Everything stopped. Frederico looked for the owner of that alien voice. Queen Margot blinked, as though she had just woken up.
A red skinned man with eyes the colour of honey pushed away tha gorilla hands and took the dog in his arms. The little dog’s tongue attacked her saviour’s face, her tail was like the wings of a humming bird.
‘Pierre?’ Frederico asked. He looked at his mother, to the big man behind the table. Frederico expected a reaction, na attack. He tohught they would grab Pierre and put him on the table with the dog, but Pierre was not a part of their world. They were astonished.
‘Is this yours?’ Pierre pushed the dog against Frederico’s chest.
If the dog wagged her tail any faster, she’d take flight.
‘She likes you,’ said Pierre. ‘I have to go. I’m trying to wake up.’ He pushed aside a brick wall like it was a curtain, and disappeared behind it.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Frederico.
‘Indeed,’ said Fregósbor. Since when had he been there?
The walls of Frederico’s nightmare all became curtains after Pierre pushed them, and began to flap while Frederico tried to stop the dog from drowning him in licks. He turned his face and saw a valley that did not belong to his nightmare. It was covered in fog so thick that they smothered the sound of blades screaming and voices dying. Frederico knew the smell of nightmares and realized that this battle was someone else’s horror. The little dog stopped licking him, her tail hesitated.
The fog began to break and snow began to fall on corpses. Frederico saw a man trespassing another with his sword. He recognized the murderer and the voice of the murderer, who died with the last word:
‘Father?’
The little dog growled at QUeen Margot, who stood in the cold corridor, by the fog.
‘You lied to me,’ Frederico said to her. ‘Neville didn’t kill my brother.’
‘My son, you must understand,’ said the queen, ‘you have to understand. What is the use of you?’
‘I am not your son,’ said Frederico. ‘I never was.’
The fog faded away, as well as the corridor and the smell of pain. Pierre was nowhere to be seen, but Frederico grabbed the mage’s sleeve.
‘What? Who?’ asked Fregósbor.
‘King Fulbert,’ said Frederico. ‘Where is he?’
Fregósbor raised his nose like a hunting hound. The little dog did the same.
‘In Chambert,’ the mage said and went after Pierre.