And he couldn’t go back.
All of which made it crystal clear that he was simply going to have to figure out how to be a Dreamshifter after all of these years of avoidance. Step One, make a door. Right. Easier said than done. So many years of forgetfulness lay between this moment and the far-distant childhood in which his father had tried to share the lore. It was hard to focus when he was descending into the numbness and confusion of hypothermia.
Grace would know about the doors. She was always listening, storing away knowledge. The thought of her was a knife to his heart. All those years ago he had done nothing to protect his family, to protect her. Had allowed her to do the thing he should have done. If she had turned to the dark arts as Vivian believed, then that was another sin resting on his own head.
He choked on a mouthful of water. He hadn’t even noticed he was sinking. The hiking boots felt like rocks on his feet; his soaked clothing was a weight he didn’t have the strength to fight. He should take them off, he thought, but it was a distant and vague idea. He was barely moving, his arms and legs circling in a slow paddle that barely kept his head above water. He tried to renew his efforts, but his body didn’t respond to the directions from his brain. A deer approached, swimming hard. Maybe he could catch a ride. A few kicks, grab it around the neck, hold on.
But his feet did not kick, his hands did not move, and he slipped below the surface.
Something pulled him back up, a black-and-white bird, swimming like a fish. But it was small and he was heavy and again he slid below the surface.
Drowning, his brain said. Interesting. His body had enough sense left to hold its breath and he drifted, eyes wide open, peering through the murky green light, letting everything go because there was nothing else to be done. In a moment he would fill his lungs with water. A momentary panic of the body seeking oxygen where there was none, and then his brain would turn off and it would all be over.
A vague regret drifted through him, that he would die before he made things right. All he needed was a door into a Dreamworld.
In the instant before he opened his mouth to accept the burden of water pressing against lips and nostrils, the door he’d been imagining appeared directly in front of him. A tiny pressure of his mind and it opened. Water poured through it, carrying him along on the flood. The penguin followed, easy as a fish. Once through, his head was out of the water and he gasped in a great gulp of oxygen and then another. His brain cleared enough to command one last wish. The door closed behind him.
Through vision hazed by cold and fatigue, his body shivering so violently it felt like muscle would wrench away from bone, he sat up and looked around. Barely conscious and far from rational thought, he pictured in his mind the things he needed. Warmth. Dry clothing. Something hot to drink.
And for the first time in his very long life, he knew the pleasure of a Dreamworld shifting to accommodate his need.
Twenty-nine
When Jared woke again, the fuzziness of the fever had retreated. His head felt clear, his body light and easy.
Maneuvering himself into a sitting position, he checked out the leg, which was still numb. He supposed he should be grateful for the absence of pain, but it worried him. The only evidence he had that it was still attached was the shapeless lump of bandages stretched out on the bed in front of him.
He was thirsty and drank another glass of water. His own skin drew his attention—dry, stretched tight over his bones. His scalp itched, hair tangled and slicked with oil. Beard growth stubbled his jaw. Healing ulcers pitted the skin of his arms. And when he breathed he could smell himself, the stink of sweat and the permeating sweet reek of putrefaction.
Disgust overrode his fear and he rang the bell.
When the door opened a moment later, he wished he hadn’t. He’d expected a serving woman or a page. Instead, a moving mountain lumbered into the room, literally shaking the floor with each step. Over ten feet tall, as wide as three men, but without an ounce of fat. The face looked like it had been carved from granite by an inexpert hand—a low, bulging brow, a slash of a mouth, cheeks and jaws that jutted in sharp and jarring angles. The eyes were deep-set and black enough to reflect the light in shards of blue and green fire. The voice matched, hard and uninflected.
“What do you need?”
Jared stared up at the thing looming over him and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m—it was an accident—”
“You have the bell in your hand.”
Dismayed, he looked down to see that this was true.
“I’d expected one of the healers . . .”
“I am Kraal, apprentice healer. What can I do for you?”
“More water, please,” Jared said. He would have felt safe maneuvering a serving woman into getting him a bath, a shave, and a peek at his wound, but he wasn’t about to make requests of a slab of granite that could crush him without even trying.
Gnarled hands, each as big as Jared’s head, picked up the pitcher and glass, pouring water with surprising delicacy. “It is good that you drink. The fever has burned the water from your body and it must be replaced. Could you eat?”
To his surprise, the question brought saliva flooding to his mouth; his stomach felt cavernous. “I could.”
“I will bring a light repast, as your body is not accustomed to food. And then I will carry you to the baths.”
The heavy footsteps thudded out of the room, making the water in the glass Jared was holding vibrate. “I’ve landed in fucking Jurassic Park,” he muttered under his breath.
But his gigantic nursemaid turned out to be efficient and gentle. He returned in short order with a tray of fresh bread, cheese, and fruit. Jared thought he was ravenous but was able to eat only a little before he pushed the plate away.
“That is well,” Kraal said, setting the plate aside and covering it with a white cloth. “It will take the body time to be used to eating. Now, we will go to the bath. Can you sit?”
It was a good question, the answer not at all certain. Jared pushed himself up with both hands and swung his good leg over the edge of the bed, noting with some surprise that the insensate lump of bandages beside it followed the commands from his brain and slid over with its mate. It felt wooden and heavy.
“I don’t think I can walk,” he said, hating his weakness.
“No need,” Kraal replied, scooping him up in his arms like a small child.
Jared felt himself flush with humiliation. Perfect. How could he ever hold his head up again after having been seen carried around the castle by this overgrown numbskull? On the other hand, the bath was sorely needed and struggling would be more undignified than quiescence, as well as futile. Kraal had arms like small tree trunks, if tree trunks could be corded with muscle. He could break a man’s back like a matchstick if he took the notion.
Outside the door was a wide courtyard. Jared had assumed he was in the castle, high up, a prisoner. Instead, this was ground level. Sunlight filtered down through the screening branches of shade trees. Beyond the stone courtyard lush green lawns swept outward, intersected by flower beds abloom with a riot of color. White-clad invalids sat in small groups, both on the covered plaza and on bright squares of blankets out on the grass, soaking up the sunlight.
Healers moved among them, carrying trays of water, medicine, and food. There were several giants among them, filling the purpose of carrying the patients from one place to another. Wind chimes in soothing tones hung from the trees, creating a pleasant undertone to the quiet hum of voices.
Kraal took a left, striding along the side of the plaza, and then another left, through a covered walkway that would keep the rain off during inclement weather but allowed the fresh air to blow in. They reached a wooden gate in a stone wall tall enough that even the giants could not look over it. Kraal knocked twice with a dragon-shaped knocker, paused, then knocked three times.