“So, Nifrel is for the greedy?” Gifford asked.
“Still too simple. Greed is but a symptom, like conceit and vanity. They are the result—fruit born of the same tree: the tree of ambition. People sent to Nifrel are the ones who thrive on challenge, on competition, on conflict. In life, we were leaders—bad and good—because we couldn’t stop striving for greatness. It’s part of who we are. So, here in Nifrel we have—I suppose you could say—an overabundance of determination to succeed. That translates to a sort of magic. The effect is similar to lucid dreaming.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Gifford said.
“Have you ever realized you were dreaming while still in a dream? It’s when you figure out that you are sleeping and everything you’re experiencing is just in your mind.”
Gifford shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, some people who do are able to take control. They can affect the events, do magic. But it’s not real—not the Art—not lasting. It’s merely a dream.”
Gifford still looked confused.
“Think of it this way. If you are strong enough while in Phyre, you can alter the illusion we all share. That’s because the world around us is subject to the will of others.”
“So, does that mean we can perform magic here?” Brin asked.
“You already are. You’re wearing some sort of drape with a brooch. You have long hair and are quite pretty. Some of you have weapons, but they, like your bodies and clothes, were left on the surface of Elan. All you have, all you appear to be is manifested by your will, your sense of self. But I know it’s not easy thinking of that as magic. After all, you only see what you’ve always seen. What most of you have yet to comprehend is that your abilities go beyond your own appearances and what you carry. You perceive what I did to Orin as something mystical, but that woman over there”—she pointed at Roan—“said she created a fire.”
Gifford glanced at his wife. “But that wasn’t magic.”
Fenelyus chuckled.
“What am I missing?”
“This isn’t Elan,” the Fhrey said. “Well, it is, but not the living part. Do you think those were real trees you walked through? Did you believe they are made of wood? What you see is a vision created by Ferrol. This is her creation. We exist inside her dream, if you will.”
“More of a twisted nightmare, if you ask me,” Moya said.
“She does have a peculiar decorating sensibility. But I can assure you that making a fire here is as impossible as doing so in someone else’s dream.”
“But . . .” Roan started. Her expression turned fearful, as if she were guilty of a crime. “I didn’t mean to mess with her trees. I didn’t even know they belonged to her. I just did what I always do.”
Fenelyus nodded. “That’s mostly how it works. That’s how everything does. We could fly, I suppose, if we could believe strongly enough in that idea. Our wills are tied to our confidence. We can do what we know we can. You knew you could build a fire, and so you did. I am confident in my ability to alter the world because I did it so often when I was alive that it comes naturally. It’s not the Art, not really, but the results are the same.”
Fenelyus focused on Brin with a curious stare. “And you . . .” Fenelyus let out a little laugh that grated on Tesh. “I can hardly imagine what you could accomplish here. It’s obvious you’re not like the rest of us. Somehow you muscled your way in, which is odd since everyone else wants out.”
Brin looked hurt, though Tesh didn’t know why.
The land continued to slope downhill, and Tesh realized that they still hadn’t reached the valley’s floor, but they were close. He could see the fiery light of the false dawn once more.
“What you have to realize is that there are two parts to every person,” the Fhrey explained. “The living body born of Elan, and the spirit that comes from Eton. The body needs Elan to exist, and she reclaims it after a time, freeing the spirit. Our bodiless souls are forced to dwell here, deep beneath Elan in Eton’s prison. No light seeps in. No life is allowed. We are all that exist here, but we are not without power. We are, after all, children of Eton. Our will, our determination, our very force of personality and sense of self lend us strength.”
They walked down a gully where it appeared as if rainwater had washed the hillside away. If Tesh could believe the Fhrey, none of it was real. The hillside and the valley were the manifestation of someone else’s imagination, someone’s nightmare. He studied the ground and rocks. It all looked real to him.
“What about Alysin?” Tesh asked. “Who goes there?”
“The best of both worlds, I suppose,” Fenelyus said. “Those with great ability but no ambition. The ones who never sought fame, or glory, but when they saw others in need, they took action. You’d know them as heroes. I suspect Arion could go there if she wished.”
“And the Sacred Grove? What do you have to do to get there?” Brin asked.
“The Grove isn’t part of Phyre. It’s in the world of the living, so you can’t get there.” Fenelyus fixed Brin with a look that caused the Keeper to shrink back. “Why do you ask?”
“I just—I ah . . .”
“Brin is our Keeper of Ways,” Moya interjected. “She’s curious about everything.”
Fenelyus studied the two for a moment longer, and Tesh was too far away to tell if it was curiosity or suspicion on her face. “I’ve had but a glimpse of the Grove, but I can tell you it truly is sacred. It’s the birthplace of all life, yet only two reside there: Alurya and her guardian, the only one who earned the right—the greatest of all heroes.” She turned away from them, walking faster than before.
Snow was falling by the time they left the forest and entered the open valley, what Fenelyus called the Plain of Kilcorth. It was a mean snow. Small, icy pellets the size of sand fell at an angle as if driven by wind, even though there was none. In that skyless place, Tesh didn’t know where the snow came from. He suspected the others didn’t have a clue, either.
Fenelyus kept looking up, perplexed.
“Is this not normal?” Moya asked as she marched through the gathering drifts of granulated white. She had her shoulders up, trying to protect the back of her neck.
Tesh was doing the same thing. He could feel it, the harsh prick of snow, the burning pain when a grain caught against his skin, but he wasn’t cold. This wasn’t really winter when the cold cut to his bones. This was merely cruel and bitter.
“I’ve never seen weather in Nifrel,” Fenelyus said.
“The queen is making it, right?” Moya asked.
Fenelyus pulled her hood up and tucked in an errant lock of golden hair. “She’s trying to slow us down. Needs time to get her forces into position. You arrived at a bad time—for her. You’re quite lucky.”
“Not luck,” Tressa said, though Tesh didn’t think anyone heard. Tressa walked just behind him. Stooped over, her mouth pulled into a frown, she seemed to be in considerable pain, and her voice was no more than a muttered breath, but Tesh didn’t think she was speaking to any of them.