Dream of a Vast Blue Cavern

Chapter 15: Into The Ice: Dynat

 Dynat was surrounded by the misty forms of ghosts. Hundreds of transparent faces hovered over his body. Some he recognized, some he did not. Bretle was there with his ever-accusing eyes. Nameless Warriors killed in raids he’d ordered. Children. So many children. Had so many children truly died during his reign? And Icers. Thousands of Icers, crowding the cavern and the surrounding tunnels, chilling the air. He shivered.

 “Too cold,” he murmured. Where was the Fire Spirit to warm him, to keep the ghosts at bay? To Dynat's relief, flames sprang forth in his mind as they always had. But the Fire Spirit’s words were cold.

 “You have failed me,” it roared. Its flames lapped angrily at Dynat's mind, threatening to burn him away. “A simple task. Find the princess and steal her Dreams. But you could not do it, could you? Worthless piece of meat. You do not know what you could have had. I would have given you an honored place. You would have ruled by my side.” The Fire Spirit had never spoken to him so clearly.

 It burned in his mind a moment longer, then left, taking all heat with it, leaving Dynat cold and alone. The ghosts crowded in again. “No,” Dynat said. “I will take her Dreams. I can still kill her. Just give me heat. I will kill her! I swear it!”

 A cold breath of air wafted toward him. A ghost's face hovered near, framed in blue icelight. It was the little Ice Queen, her crown high on her head. The rest of the ghosts faded away. “You, a ghost?” Dynat said. “But I didn't kill you.” He had tried to, he remembered that. He recalled grappling with her, pouring heat from the lava river into her, ordering Medoc out of her mind so he could plunder it, and then—

 “No, you didn't.” The Icer’s face wavered and then receded, but the soft blue glow and the cold presence remained. “But I will kill you if you don't get to your feet right now, fishslime.”

 Dynat closed his eyes against her light and tried to imagine the Fire Spirit. Always before, he had given Dynat a source of heat and T'Jas when there was none. A memory rose, of a frightened, lonely time, Father taken away by his own Warriors, Dynat alone in his quarters, locked in, all the Semija gone, the food running out. Warriors coming for him, ignoring his questions. Seeing Mother’s face again, her beautiful, soothing face, but it was wreathed in flames, and then she was just ashes on the floor, and he tried to run to her but they wouldn’t let him. The Orphan Tunnels loomed ahead, dark, close, no one to trust, food fought for in bloody little battles, and his winnings never quite enough. His skin growing pale and pasty in the cool dark, his mind slowly slipping away, as the pain of losing his parents, his home, his life faded. A face of flames bursting in his mind, testing him with fire, bringing the Lava River to him, since Dynat could not go to the Lava River.

 “I said, get up!” Dynat found himself wrenched into a sitting position by a hard blast of cold air. He struggled against it for a moment, but he was weaker than a newborn hippole. His lava was hardened and cracking, sloughing away in bloody chunks. The cold made him sick to his stomach, and his head ached as if from a blow. The Icer grasped his shoulders with her hands, and suddenly he came awake. She was no ghost. Her hands were real, cold and smooth.

 Unless they were both ghosts. His body grew colder and colder. Why had he stopped killing her in the Throne Room? Medoc was there. Medoc should have protected him from her. What happened? “Are you taking me to the Lava River?”

 “You will never see lava again.” Her tone was harsh, full of hatred. In spite of the cold, which hurt so much that Dynat ground his teeth, his body began to feel stronger. The last of his hardened lava fell to the ground, leaving a ghost mesh behind on his skin. His nausea eased slightly, and the pain in his head receded. She was healing him. When she withdrew her hands and the cold faded away, he began to notice his surroundings. He sat on the floor of a large chamber. The ceiling was burial ice, with its ghastly purple glow. The floor was littered with bodies, weapons, and here and there a scorched head. He was in the burial chamber where he had sent the heads of the princesses of Iskalon. His memory of that seemed hazy, as if he was looking down on it through murky bathwater. Why had he sent the heads down through the burial ice?