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I hold my breath as the telltale prickle of magic crawls over my skin, then he hands them back to me with a warning. “Record their arrival during registration once you reach the Nexus. Yourweapons will be rendered useless within the city gates if you fail to do so.”
I give a curt nod and slot my sword into the sheath between my shoulder blades. The uneasy feeling in my stomach grows as I return my dagger to my belt. There’s definitely something off with the whole metal thing. I’d assumed two realms on the same planet would live by the same rules set by the Well. This magic source is cosmic.
“What brought your misfortune?”
My eyes meet Briar’s. He speaks softly enough that the captain and grump making a mess of my belongings don’t notice. It’s an odd question, considering people are born with all sorts of appearances. Does he somehow know I’ve been cursed? I open my mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. I try again, but all I manage is a squeak.
You can’t speak to anyone about your curse.
A scoff of derision behind me draws my attention. The grumpy soldier found the portraits. Shaking his head with another mocking snort, he drops them and whispers something to the captain I can’t catch. They both study me, but the captain shrugs and says, “Leave it.”
The guard taps me mockingly. “It appears your earthly possessions are lying about with disregard. Perhaps you should gather them.”
No shit. Because you tossed them everywhere.
Biting my tongue, I get on my hands and knees and repack my bag.
If I can’t hide my unfortunate face, I’ll have to deal with worse than this inside the gates. I may as well start steeling my spine now. It’s not like I can run away and portal home without manabeeze. When I’m standing, the captain announces, “You’re cleared for entry. Welcome to the Radiant City of Avorlorna, and remember to heed my warnings. Have a joyous Interlude.”
He gestures at the gates, and the threads of webbed roots crawl away from the center, opening the passage.
“Come along,” Briar says, waltzing inside. “I’ll escort you to the platform.”
It’s hard not to look like a fool when I enter the city. A wild magic lives in the air. Branches, vines, creepers, and thorns have claimed the structures as their playthings. Instead of fighting it, the faerie architects have worked with it.
As we head toward the platform, I feel the weight of judgmental gazes on my face. My hands tremble on the flyer. I desperately want to touch the pendant, but force myself to relax with a slow exhale.
A woman cries out in pain. Rhythmic slaps and grunts echo in the street. My senses go on high alert as I scan the people around us. Every time the slap sounds, her cry jolts as though she’s hit. A group of well-dressed people gather around a street corner, whispering and watching something beyond my view.
“Someone is being hurt.” I frown in horror. “And no one is helping her.”
Briar tries to stop me, but I hurry toward the commotion.
The crowd sees us coming, jolts in surprise, and then scatters to reveal a woman tossed over a low-hanging branch, her dress upturned, her buttocks raw. A male is behind her, wearing a pig’s mask and nothing else. There’s no doubt this is what’s happening from the look on her face. I rest my hand on my dagger and step forward, but Briar stops me with a low warning: “Do not be foolish, Willow.”
The use of my name stops me.
“She’s being hurt!”
“’Tis a dream. No one is hurt in the waking world.”
“What?”
“Look again.” He gestures at the couple, but I don’t know what he means until I see a flicker in their visage. They’re not quite solid.
My heart still pounds. “Are you sure?”
“Avorlorna is the home of the Court of Dreams,” he drawls as if it’s obvious.
“But it looks so real.”
“Admittedly, reveries are rare this time of day. But people sleep at all hours.” He softens his tone upon seeing my distress. “As a mortal, you might not discern it, but a distinct magical barrier exists around them. It is admirable that you wish to help, a quality not present in many subterraneans. Hold onto this during the exhibition, for it will serve well to remind your peers you are not truly one of them if not for your appearance. But if you intrude on another’s dreamscape, the same wound will be reflected upon waking if you are injured there. Do you understand?”
I wince as the masked male renews his attention on the woman despite her tears. “Looks more like a nightmare to me.”
“Dream or nightmare is a matter of perspective.” He points to the man, whose grin is just visible beneath the pig mask. Briar ushers me back in the direction we originally headed. “You’ll witness many wild dreams here. We attempt to capture or tame what we can, but the Interlude has not yet begun, and catcher reparations have stalled.”
“Catchers?”
