I glanced at Blaise, who nodded. “Yes. I hear her, too.” Then, to our father, she added: “I know Freda is in pain. I feel it. But I'm not certain she's inside this room.”
“I am.”
“If you make a mistake…”
He nodded. “I know. But the only way to find out—is so!”
Before Blaise or I could stop him, Dad rapped sharply on the carved wooden face on the door, right in the center of its forehead.
The face twitched. Its eyelids flew open, and it glared at us with blood-red eyes.
“How dare you touch me!” it snarled.
I gulped. If this guardian was anything like the doors in Dad's home in the Beyond, it would take the magical equivalent of a battering ram to get through now that Dad had pissed it off.
“I am your master,” Dad said.
It blinked. “You are not Lord Thellops!”
“No,” Dad agreed.
“Who are you,” it said in haughty tones, “and what do you want? Speak fast, or I shall summon guards and have you executed for this outrage!”
Dad said, “You know who I am.”
“You…” The face stared blankly at him. “Are you the one? The maker?”
“Your name!” Dad commanded. “Obey me!”
“I am Oberon,” said the face.
I gaped. “Did you say Oberon?” Maybe I hadn't heard correctly. Chaos might still be playing tricks on my senses.
“Yes,” said the door, looking at me, “I did say Oberon. What of it?”
“Uh… I wasn't sure I heard you correctly.” I shot a puzzled glance at Dad. “That's my name, too. Funny coincidence.”
“You are Oberon?” Dad said to the door, ignoring me. “Yes, I thought so. Do you remember me?”
“I think… I think I know you,” it said, staring at his face.
I stared at Dad unbelievingly. How was he doing it? Hypnotism?
Calmly, Dad nodded. “I am Lord Dworkin. I made you for Thellops many years ago. I carved you with these two hands. I painted the light into your eyes and into your heart. Do you remember me now?”
“Yes… Lord… Dworkin… yes. You are the one. I will obey… master.”
Ah, so Dad had made Thellops's doors! Sometimes it paid to be an inventor. His confidence about getting through to Freda suddenly made sense.
Now, though, I had a question or two of my own. Had he named me after a door, or named the door after me? After we rescued Freda, I intended to find out.
Dad smiled kindly, like a proud father at his son. “I have returned, as promised. Now open for me.”
The face blinked several times. “None may enter, by Lord Thellops's command.”
“I may enter,” Dad said firmly. “I made you. Your first instructions came from me. Recall them.”
“You… you may pass through me at any time, day or night, without question. I must obey you in all things.”
Dad leaned forward. “What else?”
“Now and forever… you are my one true master.”
“Good. Now, let us pass.”
“Yes… master.”
The lock clicked several times. The door swung open.
Dad drew himself up, sword ready. I looked at him with new respect. He must have made these doors for Thellops many years ago… and made sure they would always open for him. The crafty devil. Had he planned a career as a burglar?
“Faster!” Dad commanded. “Be quick and be silent!”
The door swung completely open, revealing darkness. From inside came a strange snuffling, snorting sound, almost like a pig rooting for food in its trough. A monster? A guard of some kind? I raised my sword, prepared to defend myself, but nothing charged from the darkness. What was it waiting for?
Without hesitation, Dad strode forward. He disappeared into the room.
The snuffling noise grew louder.
“Come on!” I said to Blaise. Then I charged after him.
Chapter 12
I found myself in warm, humid darkness, unable to see anything. From somewhere ahead, I heard a faint tap-heart pounded. My every nerve jangled in alarm. I did not like feeling blind and helpless.
“Dad!” I called. “Can you see anything?”
“Light!” Dad commanded.
Brilliant white flared all around us. We were not in a room any more—and yet neither were we outside. A strange foglike grayness surrounded us. I could see Dad and Blaise, but nothing else. It reminded me of the fog through which I had fallen after Dad created the new Pattern. Could they be related, somehow?
The snuffling grew louder, but I saw nothing that could have made such a sound. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the door we had just entered. It made a hole in the grayness. Slowly, as I watched, it began to shut.
I leaped to hold it open—how else could we get out once we rescued Freda?—but didn't reach it in time. As the latch clicked, the inside of the door faded, leaving nothing but grayness where it had been.
Great. Now we were trapped in here.
Or were we?
Closing my eyes, I felt for the door. I already knew I couldn't trust my senses in the Courts of Chaos. Perhaps this gray fog was nothing but an illusion designed to befuddle our eyes.
My fingers encountered nothing but air. I walked right through the place the door had been. We were trapped here.
“Oberon!” Dad said.
“Me or the door?” I asked.
“Pay attention, my boy.” His voice echoed oddly. “Stop fooling around and get over here.”
I turned back to him. He walked swiftly to the right, with Blaise at his side. I jogged to catch up.
The snuffling grew louder.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Inside.”
“Inside what?”
“Freda.”
I stopped short. “What?”
“He is using her. I can feel it clearly now. He is searching the Shadows for us.”
“How?” I demanded. “Like Lord Zon did?”
Zon had drawn my brothers' blood from their bodies with magic, then used their blood to scry on the rest of us. One by one he had murdered my brothers and sisters.
“Zon is an amateur compared to Thellops.”
Still we walked for what seemed miles, though in the grayness I had no way of telling. Finally Dad halted. Slowly he inched to the left. Then he inched back to the right. Then he took a few steps forward, stopped, and went back.
Listening to the snuffling sounds, I tried to figure out what he was doing. Suddenly I realized we had reached a central place in the grayness, where the snuffling noises could be heard the loudest. Every time we moved away from this spot, the cries lessened.
Nodding to himself, Dad turned to me. “Give me a Trump. Quickly!”
“Whose? Freda's?”
“Yes.”
I pulled my Trumps out, found my sister's, and handed it to him. Holding it up, he gazed at it, concentrating.
Suddenly the card turned black. I had never seen anything like that before. As I leaned closer to see, it burst into flames. I had to leap back, slapping at my singed beard and eyebrows.
Dad dropped the Trump with a yelp. By the time it reached the ground—if ground existed beneath the grayness—nothing but ashes remained.
“Damn him!” Dad said, nursing blistered fingers. “I should have known!”
“So… you can't contact her from here?”
“No. The Logrus is preventing it.”
“Give me your charcoal,” I said suddenly. An idea had occurred to me—why not use the Pattern? No one in Chaos had a defense against it yet, so maybe a Pattern-based Trump would work here.
Dad fumbled out his pouch and passed it to me, leaving bloodstains all over it. I fished out his piece of charcoal. Then I summoned a mental image of the Pattern. It seemed to hang in the air before me—brighter than ever, lit with a bright blue glow.
Unfortunately, I had nothing to draw on. Frantically I looked around. What could I use?
“Blaise—” My gaze settled on her. “Would you mind showing your back? I need your skin for a minute.”