A Place Beyond The Map (40 page)

TH EYA RECO MING.

It took Phinnegan only a moment to decipher the thinly veiled message - just in enough time for his hackles to rise before the bell pealed loudly a third time an instant before an insistent knock struck the door.

Phinnegan was led on a winding path through the castle’s corridors. The journey was made darkly eerie by the complete absence of any signs of life, besides the guards that led Phinnegan, one just off each shoulder. At least he guessed they were guards. They wore snugly fitting dark-grey tunics and trousers. Their hair was an inky black, straight and falling to their shoulders. Their skin was pale and their eyes a flat grey, staring straight ahead the entire time that they led him through the castle. He wondered if perhaps they too were some type of gholem. It saddened him to think that Emerald could meet this same fate, pale and lifeless with an emotionless stare.

Just as he thought of her, the green-haired Faë appeared, leaning causally against a thick marble column on one side of two large wooden doors. Phinnegan saw through the large windows on either side that the doors led outside.

“Father is ready for him,” she said coolly. “I will take him the rest of the way.” The two black-haired guards nodded stiffly and spun on their heels, striding off in the direction they had come.

“Come,” she said softly. “It is nearly time and my father loathes tardiness. Almost as much as weakness.”

“The book spoke to me again,” Phinnegan whispered as he moved to stand beside her.

“What did it say?”

“
They are coming
.”

The Faë-gholem regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

“Truly,” she began, interrupting herself to ram the large knocker on the door twice, sending a low reverberation into the air around them. “That book holds many secrets. I’ve never known anything of magic to speak so directly, so presently.”

When the large doors in front of them began to open, she turned for a moment, locking her now bright green eyes on his.

“My father must not pass through the Gate.”

Phinnegan never had a chance to respond, for the doors swung outward on their great hinges, revealing a large stone terrace. Hundreds of Aged stopped and stared at the Faë-gholem and the human boy. In silence, they moved to the sides of the terrace, leaving a large opening through the center. Beyond, large steps led down from the terrace into the gardens. A path led from the stairs, splitting in two to go around a large fountain. Beyond the fountain, the path led to a second, perpendicular path, which ran off in each direction. To the far right and far left, the path split into numerous smaller paths, which weaved in and out amongst statues, flowering trees, fountains and other displays of wealth and luxury.

But in the center, where the path leading from the terrace met the perpendicular path, a massive hedge stood. The hedge was easily three or four times the height of a man, and its walls spread in each direction two-hundred feet or more. From his height at the top of the terrace, Phinnegan could not quite see over the top of the hedge to judge its depth.

On the wall of this hedge running parallel to the path, stood a large black gate. The gate spanned the entire distance from the ground to the very top of the hedge. It was constructed of thick iron bars running both vertically and horizontally, forming small squares like a great metal lattice. Even from this distance, the evidence of age was heavy. Rust marked the hinges and thick gnarled vines had long ago spread from the hedge to worm their way through the bars and cover the entire façade. No leaves grew on the vines, only their thick, gnarled and knobby limbs remained.

Standing just before it was Vermillion, bedecked in resplendent red robes, his grey-flecked red hair rippling in the morning breeze.

It was a foreboding sight and Phinnegan swallowed hard as he took the first steps across the terrace, following the Faë-gholem as she led him toward her father. As they descended the steps from the terrace, the Gate loomed larger and larger. From this reduced height, the true size of the Gate and the hedge was more readily apparent. It was truly enormous.

When the pair finally reached the bottom of the stairs and navigated around the large fountain, they approached Vermillion, who stood some twenty feet from the Gate, his hands clasped behind his back and a broad smile on his face.

“Thank you, daughter. You have brought him just in time.”

As if on command, the castle’s bells promptly tolled the hour. Eight long peals broke the still morning before fading into the breeze.

Vermillion, with an uncharacteristic lack of pomp and circumstance, turned to face the Gate. Emerald backed away, but not before sharing one final look with Phinnegan. Drawing a steady breath, Phinnegan approached the Gate to stand beside the red-garbed figure.

“Your Highness, what-“ Phinnegan, began but a raised hand silenced him.

“Patience. Even now the moment arrives.”

Phinnegan followed Vermillion’s gaze to the very top of the gate. A circle of light had just appeared there and he turned to see the sun peeking through a hole in one of the tallest parts of the castle. Turning back, he saw the circle move slowly down the front of the Gate as the sun rose in the sky, the changing angle causing the circular light to move downward.

Approximately a quarter of the way down the height of the Gate, the light reached a golden square set into one of the squares formed by the criss-crossing iron bars. It appeared to have writing or some structured design upon it but it was illegible from where they stood.

Like a muffled crack of thunder, a sharp thud of metal-on-metal came from the Gate, piercing the quiet. Phinnegan saw no change in the Gate at first, but then only four feet from the ground an intricate disc presented itself. Even at a distance of twenty-feet, Phinnegan’s stomach flipped as he discerned the pattern presented on the disc’s center. He recognized it immediately as the same pattern now etched into his fingertip.

“The Gate has shown us the Mark,” Vermillion thundered, causing Phinnegan to cringe. When the reddish-brown eyes turned toward him, Phinnegan shivered.

“Go on then,” Vermillion urged him in a low tone. “The Mark will remain visible for a short time only. We have an accord, do we not?” The eyes narrowed and the intended whisper came out in a snarl.

“Now!”

Phinnegan leapt forward at Vermillion’s command, but soon slowed to a walk as he approached the Gate. Its iron bars now loomed before him, high overhead. When he stood just before it, the disc only a few feet away, he turned back to see Vermillion’s heated gaze still upon him, willing him forward. Just behind him, Emerald stood. A slight nod was the only form of encouragement she dared.

Turning back, Phinnegan stepped forward until the disc was just in front of him. The pattern was an exact replica of the one on his finger, as well as the one on the cover of the leather-bound book resting in his pocket. The disc itself was perhaps as large as a dinner plate, a convex surface which was thicker in the center than along the edges. The design was worked from the same material, a bronzy metal, and was raised above the remaining surface of the disc. He had wondered whether he would have need to search the book for instructions, and how in doing so he would keep its existence secret from Vermillion and the other Aged.

But his next step could not have been more apparent.

There in the center of the disc, too small to see from where Vermillion and Phinnegan had stood, was a slight indention. Just the size of a finger-tip, it bore a smaller version of the Mark.

Looking up, he could see the circle of sunlight beginning to move off the bottom edge of the golden square. The creaking of metal in front of him signaled the disc’s reverse movement, sinking back into the waiting arms of the Gate’s iron bars.

Not a moment too late, Phinnegan pressed the indention with his finger, pushing firmly until the indention would give no more. The disc’s regressive movement halted and all was quiet for several moments while Phinnegan took a step back from the Gate.

Then, it began to move. Slightly at first, the doors just inching inward on their ancient, rusted hinges, each emitting a grating shriek. Phinnegan slammed his hands against his ears, as did many of the Aged. Vermillion, however, stood his ground, his lips parting as he beheld a sight he had so longed to see.

The Gate was opening.

After the doors had swung inward several feet, they stopped, clanging heavily against their hinges. The path between them was narrow, only several inches separating the two halves of the Gate; a space wide enough for the slim boy of twelve to slip through, but not for the Aged.

Without sparing another moment, Phinnegan pushed his way through the opening. Heavy footsteps on the ground behind told of Vermillion and the Aged hurrying down to the Gate.

Phinnegan found himself in a long, high-walled path into the hedge. Very little light penetrated the hedge at this hour, leaving the air damp and cool. But it was not the air that caused Phinnegan to shiver.

There, not thirty paces from him stood a white stag.

The stag’s eyes were large and a bright blue, and as he gazed into them, its antlered head tilted to the right to regard Phinnegan with a feigned disinterest.

The sudden grating of metal behind him reminded Phinnegan of the task at hand. He could not let Vermillion, or any others, enter. Turning back to the Gate, he could see the tyrant’s scarlet garments through the crack between the doors and could hear him ordering his followers to pry the doors further apart. He watched in horror as first one door and then the other inched inward slightly, widening the opening between the two doors. He guessed that they could not use magic for the same reason that they had never been able to open the Gate in the past: The Gate was impervious to their magic.  Having no magic of his own to call upon, Phinnegan did the only thing he could. He ran forward and pushed with all his might against one of the doors.

The effort was one in futility. Even as he struggled mightily, the Gate’s rusted hinges working in his favor, he felt the door move slightly towards him. He pushed harder, his feet sliding on the moss-covered ground. Again the door slid inward another half-inch.

He took a step back, aware that he could not hope to hold so many. One door creaked again. The crack was becoming wider, almost wide enough for Vermillion to attempt to squeeze himself through. He could see the tyrant’s reddish-brown eyes flashing as he yelled for his followers to push harder still.

Phinnegan turned in a panic, catching sight of the white stag once again. The creature had clearly not forgotten him. It still regarded him with a casual gaze, showing little interest. The stag had not moved at all since he had first seen it, and he wondered if it was truly a living stag or some kind of statute.

Close the Gate.

 The thought had come to him so quickly and abruptly that Phinnegan was not sure whether it was his own.

You must close the Gate
.

The thought came again, this time as a command.

Close the Gate
.

“How?” Phinnegan blurted aloud.

The tone of the thought was more urgent now and Phinnegan could hear the sound of the Gate’s two iron halves grating ever wider. He looked and saw that the Gate was only a few inches from being wide enough for Vermillion to squeeze through.

Close. Close.

The thoughts were his own now as he focused his mind on closing the door.

Close! Close!

His mind pounded the thoughts strongly toward the Gate.

“Close!” he yelled finally, thrusting a hand forcefully towards the Gate.

To his astonishment, it did just that.