Dream Of Honey
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The moon was in her last quarter when they rode up to the house. The old barn had been replaced by a new one, and there were lights coming from the windows of the house itself. It was a handsome place, built with stone that matched the gray rock on either side of it, set well back into its own fields.
There had been no rain for days. Even now, the sky above seemed clear enough but overcast; there would be rain before long, and if it came at night as the weather forecast suggested, then this might well turn out to have been a wasted journey.
They dismounted and tied their horses to the fence. “You’re sure it’s him?” asked Dornan.
“Of course,” said Gern. He led the way to the house.
The man who opened the door looked like his father: tall, thin, and stern. They all knew that he could do without saying anything more than that and left them to draw whatever conclusions they chose from that, so he didn’t bother. “My mother is expecting you,” he said simply, gesturing to them inside.
The interior was comfortably appointed—there had obviously been money involved in setting up a farm—but still very much an old man’s home: comfortable, but showing signs of wear.
His mother was standing at the end of the room looking towards the open doorway as soon as the two men entered. She saw them first and came forward quickly, her hand reaching out almost imperceptibly. “You’re both wet, I’m afraid,” she said. Her voice was low, soothing. “I’ll find you some towels.”
“No need, Mother,” said Gern.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but her face remained calm. Then she turned and spoke sharply to someone behind her. “Don’t go away too far,” she told whoever was listening, “we have visitors.”
“We’re ready, my lady,” said the servant who’d been speaking to her earlier. A moment later he appeared with a tray laden with hot drinks. While Gern took tea and sat down beside him, Dornan went across to the other man and shook hands with him formally.
The fellow returned it awkwardly and said nothing. They hadn’t met before. “Your parents,” said Dornan. “This is Mr. Eberhard, the lawyer.”
“Lawyer?” said Eberhard, surprised.
Dornan smiled. “Yes,” he said. “It was something of a joke about lawyers—”
Eberhard laughed, but only briefly. “That sounds promising,” he said. “But we haven’t come here to make jokes—or, I suppose, to talk business, even though the business must be important. This young man tells me you can help us.”
He held out his hand again to Gern. He hesitated for a few seconds then took it, shaking firmly once. “Gern, I’m told, has seen this man. Can you identify him?”
Gern hesitated, looking past Eberhard and out the window into the night beyond. He turned back to the lawyer, his eyes hard and inscrutable. “He has a beard,” he said finally.
“A full-on beard?”
“As far as I remember.”
“Did you see him wearing any kind of mask?”
There was silence for a moment. “Not really,” said Gern after a while, “except that he wore it in his dreams.” He paused again. “When you look in this mirror…”
Eberhard stared at him for a few seconds and then looked over his shoulder toward his wife. She was watching them from another part of the room. “Do you know what he wants?” she asked gently.
Gern shook his head, his face expressionless.
She shrugged. “Well, it’s your choice.” She looked around to where Eberhard was sitting. “Would you care to sit? It’s not quite so cold on the sofa these days.” She went over and poured tea for the two of them. “How long have you known each other?” she asked quietly.
“Just since last night,” said Eberhard. He took it from her with a word of thanks and sipped at it gingerly.
“What were your circumstances, Dornan, when you left home?” asked Mrs. Gern.
He frowned, taking out his pipe and lighting it carefully, and then he sighed, shaking his head. “We weren’t rich, my mother and father. We lived in one of those houses near the town, but I always wanted better for myself—and my brothers.” His tone was bitter.
Mrs. Gern nodded and waited patiently. Eberhard put out his own hand for the cup which he accepted and drank without comment, his eyes fixed on Gern and his expression unreadable.
“My brother was good at things,” he said after a few moments. “He liked books—especially poetry—but he couldn’t get anywhere because he didn’t have any money or contacts.” He stopped speaking.
Mrs. Gern stirred uneasily. Eberhard noticed and raised his brows in a question. “I was good at mathematics,” he said, looking down into the steaming cup. “But my father would never understand how that fitted in with being a soldier.” He looked up at the woman. “And my mother… well, she was like this.” He reached out a hand and touched the side of her face with two fingers, very lightly. “If you knew her, you’d understand.”
The woman looked at him gravely. “I know what it means to lose someone who matters.”
They fell silent again. After a few minutes, Eberhard glanced round at the door behind him and murmured, “Is there anywhere else we might speak more privately?”
Mrs. Gern thought for a few seconds. “Let me see. There’s a little library upstairs that isn’t used much. Let me show you.” She led Eberhard and Gern up the stairs to a small landing with a flight of steps leading upwards ahead of them and a closed set of double doors behind them. She pushed open the nearest, saying casually, “Come along now, it won’t take a minute.”
They went inside and Mrs. Gern locked the door. They followed her into a large room whose walls were lined with shelves containing books on every conceivable subject.
In the center of the floor lay an old wooden table that seemed to be made entirely of curved glass; in the center of the table was a silver dish and a collection of glasses and plates that glinted under their own reflected lights. The air smelled sweet with incense.
Eberhard sat down, pulling his chair in beside the table and setting his cup of tea down on its surface. Gern followed suit.
“So, do you remember anything about his face, Dornan?” asked Mrs. Gern.
For a moment he was silent. Then he said slowly, “No. I only ever saw him once in person.” His voice sounded strange, detached. “He came to our house one day when my father had been sent off to war. He was just a little older than us, and he spoke to my father in that terrible language.
I’ve never understood how they managed to keep all those people alive.” He hesitated and then he continued. “I remember him looking sad—and frightened.”
Mrs. Gern nodded encouragingly. Eberhard turned his cup in the light. “It doesn’t seem likely that I’ll see him again. That’s why he needs this—”
“—mask.”
Eberhard nodded silently, still staring at his cup.
Mrs. Gern leaned back against a stack of books, resting her hands lightly on the edge of the table. “I can tell you what this is,” she said quietly. “When someone dies in such a way as to leave no family or property, then they are usually buried in one of the public cemeteries near here.
There must have been something special about this man. You said he was killed by a knife thrust through his heart?”
Eberhard nodded again.
“There aren’t many ways to kill someone that will stop them from dying immediately. Some wounds can cause slow deaths, but that’s very rare. A stabbing wound through the heart is almost always fatal if it goes in deep enough.” She paused and then she said, “You’re not sure whether you believe in ghosts or spirits?”
She watched him carefully, knowing that Eberhard hated having anyone read his thoughts. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but she forced herself to look away. “Well, I don’t know.” His voice was tight. “Some men believe in them…” he shrugged “…while others say they don’t really exist.”
“But you think there are?” Mrs. Gern took another sip of her tea and waited.
“Why shouldn’t there be? We make gods out of animals or birds, so why should there not be something like that?” Eberhard smiled briefly and shook his head. “We just haven’t found it yet.”
Mrs. Gern laughed softly. “I like that.” Her tone softened. “But I also need to ask you some questions.” She put the cup down and pulled up a chair opposite him. “What did your father want you to do with this mask?”
Eberhard hesitated. “He said he needed it to protect himself from harm while he worked.”
Mrs. Gern frowned slightly. “This isn’t the sort of thing we normally sell. It would probably fetch a good price in the markets of the cities around us.”
Eberhard gave her a sudden sharp look. “My father didn’t say exactly where he’d bought it, only that he hadn’t paid much for it. And it wasn’t for sale to anyone else.”
Mrs. Gern was silent. Then, after a while, she said, “Do you have any idea why he wanted to protect himself from harm, Eberhard?”
Eberhard hesitated, then said quickly, “That’s what my father was planning.” His eyes flickered briefly towards Mrs. Gern. “He had decided to leave us and travel alone through the country. He planned to find the man who killed him, then he’d come back home with him.”
He looked suddenly uneasy and Mrs. Gern noticed that the corners of his lips were drawn into a grimace of pain. He took a few quick sips of his tea and then set his cup down on the table and rose quickly to his feet.
He bowed to Mrs. Gern and hurried from the room, leaving the door open behind him.
For a moment Mrs. Gern stared after him; then she picked up the mask from its place on the table. Its cool smooth surface felt strangely alive under her fingers, and she shuddered involuntarily as she thought about Eberhard’s words.
The mask was so lifelike, yet she could not help wondering how she would ever persuade him to part with it. She glanced over her shoulder at the window, thinking of the darkness outside and the night-time shadows beyond the glass. Perhaps there would be no need to try too hard.
***
“I am tired, Mother,” he whispered. “Very, very tired.” But the firelight burned brightly across the floor, lighting up her face as though she sat at the centre of an eternal sun. “Please… let me sleep now.” He lay back and closed his eyes. It had been a long day and he was ready to give in to his weariness.
“But you are not safe here.” Something rustled and shifted above their heads, but she kept her voice calm and gentle. “Not until you’ve found someone to take care of you.”
The sound came again and this time he knew that it was the flapping of wings as a bird settled on the wall beside her head, but even as his hand twitched towards the dagger in his belt the winged figure vanished into thin air.
For a moment he heard only the wind sighing through the cracks between the boards and then there was silence. As soon as he was certain it was gone he opened his eyes and looked across at his mother, sitting still and serenely on her chair.
Her hair seemed to glow in the light from the hearth, and her expression was so peaceful and content that he could hardly believe that he had seen such a terrible change in her only moments before.
His stomach rumbled suddenly and he reached down instinctively for his knife, but it wasn’t there. Instead, there was the smell of cooked meat and the faintest scent of onions. There was something warm under his hands; he lifted them slowly and found the remains of a stew on the table before him.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured to himself. The bowl contained only half a cupful of soup, enough to satisfy his hunger. He ate mechanically, watching her all the while. Her face was turned towards him and he could see the lines of worry and strain on it, but there were no signs of fear or anger.
Only a slight frown creased her forehead. After she had eaten Eberhard leaned forward and asked gently, “What did he mean by needing protection?”
She stirred, then smiled at him as her lips curved slightly at the sides. “You’ll never know if you go off to sleep now.” The smile faded and she shook her head slightly. “No, you won’t.”
“Then tell me why Father left us.”
He saw the moment when she realized how upset he was and she frowned slightly, her lips pursed.
“He must have known it wasn’t going to be easy for him.” A faint hint of color tinged her cheeks and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She swallowed and tried to speak more firmly than before. “He made his decision because he wanted us to be safe.”
As he spoke the last few words the firelight lit up his mother’s face so that he saw the truth of what he said reflected back at him: the deep shadows beneath her eyes and the lines in her cheeks. For a moment he felt a sudden surge of anger, but he forced it down and concentrated instead on keeping his breathing slow and steady.
He waited a short time until he was sure she was asleep, then slipped out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and went quietly downstairs to the kitchen.
Mrs. Gern was washing the pots with quick efficient movements, but she stopped abruptly as Eberhard appeared on the other side of the table. For a moment her hand rested on the wooden handle of a ladle as she looked him up and down; then her shoulders sagged. She set aside the pot she had just taken from the basin and stood up.
“How is he?” Eberhard asked without preamble.
Mrs. Gern hesitated. Her mind seemed to be working furiously away behind her eyes, trying to make sense of things it was not yet prepared to acknowledge.
“It will take a little longer.” In one fluid motion, she swept up the bowl and carried it to the sink where she washed and dried it carefully. “We’ll get there sooner or later. I’m sorry.”
Eberhard nodded slowly, his mind racing. What was happening? Was Mrs. Gern really capable of killing Father? Had she used a knife and thrown his body outside somewhere? His fingers curled tight around the edge of the worktop.
If so, then they would never find him and the world might end up being ruled by some kind of monster. Perhaps even worse than Father. He had always believed that it couldn’t happen, but now he knew better.
It wasn’t just the threat from the Archdemon or the Archdemon’s followers; there were others too. They were hidden in every corner of the town and perhaps in the whole world. And they wanted to rule everyone else, even people who had done nothing wrong.
He didn’t want to think about what was coming next. The thought made his stomach twist painfully. “Is Mother sleeping?” he asked finally, unable to look at her any longer.
The End