The wanderer settled back as comfortably as he could and told the sage about his journeys. After the sea of mist, he reached the shores of the Underworld, where he supposed he must have been all along. Where else would the spirits of a dead city and its destroyers live?

  But he recognized the Vale of Pnath from his extensive research on the Dreamlands, and soon traversed the Sea of Bones. “It’s aptly named,” he said. “A truly vast plain of skeletal remains, some so ancient they crumbled to powder when touched, and some so fresh there was still meat clinging to their knobs.” Anyone else would have died of thirst during his trek, but there was life even in that desolate place to sustain him – the ghouls who dumped their bones there, and the monstrous dholes who swam under the bones. “I lost my beautiful dagger in the side of some immense, wormlike beast, but they gave me a wide berth after I slew that one. And you know, I never had any bother from the ghouls at all, just saw them watching me from a distance.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Smoke emerged from the sage’s mouth when he spoke now.

  “Who can say?” Sanford shrugged. Privately, he thought the corpse-eaters might have heard stories about Sanford from their cousins under French Hill, and decided it was wisest to leave him be.

  “From there I climbed the Peaks of Throk, and avoided the nightgaunts, and found the house of Shuggob.”

  “I have heard of this,” the sage said. “A house of secrets and mysteries. Tell me what you learned there.”

  “Precious little,” Sanford said. The house was a half-decayed manse nestled into a hollow near the summit of those foul mountains. Shuggob was said to be the oldest ghoul in existence, far more intelligent than others of his kind, and receptive to guests… so long as they were respectful. He was rumored to possess a library of arcane lore unsurpassed in any world, and the chance to visit that library was one of the reasons Sanford had wanted to come to the Dreamlands in the first place. But such a prospect was much more appealing in an astral body, when he could return to the waking world at will. If he went there in person, he might become a victim of the elder ghoul’s notorious biological experiments. On the other hand, Shuggob also might know the way home. In the end, that was too great a temptation to resist.

  “The problem was, Shuggob wasn’t home,” Sanford told the sage. “I sought entry into his house, and called out for him, but the commotion drew the attention of a passing nightgaunt, and I had to flee. I wasn’t well equipped to fend off death from the sky at that point.”

  “That’s disappointing,” the sage murmured. “Tales of Shuggob always make good tinder.”

  “Imagine my disappointment. I’m sure the fellow could have pointed me toward the nearest portal back to Earth. But instead, I wandered farther.” Sanford explained how he made it out of the Underworld, and continued to search for a way home, coming entirely too close to death at times. He’d been forced to unleash the great eel-thing from his tiepin when he was attacked by a massive shambling nightmare thing in the jungles of Kied. The eel devoured the beast, of course, and now the pin – in his pocket, since he’d been forced to use his tie as a bandage long ago – was in the shape of a thing made of teeth and tusks and tongues. “In Hlanath, I found a portal to the Abyss, which was not at all the direction I wished to go. In Hatheg and Mir, someone offered me a berth on a ship bound for the moon, assuring me that the moon of the Dreamlands and the moon of Earth were one and the same, and surely I could get home from there?”

  “Couldn’t you?” the sage said. “Are they a great distance apart? I have never been to Earth and have heard few tales about it.”

  “Suffice to say Earth and the moon are separated by a greater distance than I was capable of comfortably traveling,” Sanford said. “I had other leads to follow, though. Some ghouls promised to show me a tunnel to a graveyard on Earth, but when I queried for details, it became clear it was a ruse to trap me, kill me, and devour me, so I had no choice but to dispatch them.” That lot must not have been close with their cousins under French Hill, or they would have known better.

  He went on: “I traded my pocket watch for passage to Illarnek, the great desert city, following a rumor of an explorer from Earth who was said to be living there, but by the time I arrived, the fool had gotten himself stabbed to death in a disagreement over the price of some relics.” Those relics proved to be mundane Earth things: a dented teapot, a yo-yo, a ceramic dog. Everything was wondrous somewhere. “In time, I made my way to the city of Ilek-Vad, where I had an audience with the king, a most remarkable fellow who used to live on Earth. I had high hopes, and he was quite friendly, but had no interest in returning to our mutual home world, and he no longer possessed the key that had allowed him to travel easily from one realm to the other.” That hadn’t been a surprise. Sanford had heard rumors for decades that the Silver Key was on Earth somewhere and had wasted a fortune trying to track it down.

  “I have heard of this man,” the sage said. “I did not know he still lived. He must be very old.”

  “He had a snow-white beard down to his belt, so I’d concur,” Sanford said. “Being a king in the Dreamlands either leads to a nice long life, or a brutally short one, I suspect. From there, I made my way to Dylath-Leen, and the wise women there told me about a sage who guarded a passage to my world, and so, here I am.” He spread his hands.

  “Here you are,” the sage said. “But you are misinformed. I do not guard a passage to your world. I guard a passage to the Cold Wastes.”

  Sanford frowned. “The Cold Wastes? On the Plateau of Leng?” The Plateau was known to him, but he’d never realized that dreadful place was connected to the Dreamlands. Perhaps they came into conjunction only rarely? Or the borders shifted? Or maybe it was just a hole in his knowledge. At any rate, he could make his way to Earth from that frozen wasteland… albeit with a whole new set of challenges standing in his way. Still, progress was progress.

  “I’m afraid there is no easy passage to your home from here, man. The wise women were mistaken, but from their point of view, one alien world seems much like another.” The sage rose and let the red robe drop, revealing a sexless body of black stone veined by pulsing red lines. His eyes were burning bright now, white like the sparks from a fire brought to forging heat. “But it matters not. You have told me many things, Carl Sanford of Arkham of Earth. I have sampled the contents of your mind and memory and found them to be delicious. I will enjoy consuming the rest of you.”

  Ah. So the sage acquired knowledge by consuming the one who possessed the knowledge, then? Burning them and, what, inhaling their memories in the smoke? If only Sanford could have learned things so easily. The wise women might have mentioned this deadly detail, but then, the sage probably had some reciprocal arrangement with them. He must have a network of people spread throughout the Dreamlands to send him the desperate and credulous to sup upon.

  Certain death, then. Again.

  But Sanford hadn’t spent these months searching, striving and surviving just to die here. He leapt to his feet and ran for the door he’d entered the temple through, grabbing for the knob – and hissed, drawing back his hand. The knob glowed red hot, and the door was too stout for Sanford to kick down.

  There were no windows, and he couldn’t make it through the door to the Cold Wastes without going past the sage, and that seemed a dangerous proposition. Flames were now leaping from the being’s eye sockets, and his outstretched fingers glowed like branding irons.

  Sanford considered his options. He had a new knife with a blade that glowed and burned, but its heat would hardly trouble this fellow. He could unleash the jungle beast trapped in his pin, and then the sage would be devoured and trapped in its stead. Having a wise one made of flames bound to his will could be useful in the future… but this domed room was small, and the jungle beast was so large it would fill the available space, almost certainly crushing Sanford against the wall and killing him. That was acceptable as a last resort – Sanford would never die without taking his assailant with him – but hardly the best choice.

  He had another item, tucked away in an inner pocket, though he wasn’t sure what good it could be here. There was very little written about that object, and what was written suggested it helped one to “move freely,” which wasn’t of obvious use in a fight like this. He wasn’t sure that item did anything, honestly, though perhaps it had some passive effect, offering magical protection in subtle ways. He had made it through all these months traveling in the Dreamlands without being lost or trapped, which he would normally ascribe to his own superior capabilities… but he was a bit humbler these days, so yes, it could be down to the rock in his pocket instead.

  He had only two other weapons left, then, and those would be consumed upon use. His hoarder’s heart was loath to use either one, but since the alternative was being burned alive, needs must. “Nothing else for it, then,” Sanford muttered. After a moment’s thought, he plucked the ebony cube of a cufflink from his ragged left sleeve and rolled it across the floor toward the sage.

  The cufflinks were in the shape of small dice. The pips on the ebony one were simply black, and thus nearly impossible to see, though you could feel the indentations with your fingertips. The ivory die had white pips of similar subtlety. “Looks like it’s bad luck for you, old chap.”

  The sage looked down at the die, clearly expecting it to explode, but instead, it simply crumbled into fine grains of black dust. “Was that supposed to do something?” Flames burst from the sage’s mouth when he spoke, hot enough to make Sanford turn his face away, even six feet apart. “I’m genuinely curious. I’m always curious.”

  “I suppose only time will tell.” Sanford reached for the other cufflink. If necessary, it might make a tiny, life-saving difference–

  The sage took another step toward him… and then a look of comical surprise appeared on his face, his eyes and mouth forming perfect Os as the floor of the temple collapsed beneath him. He vanished as neatly as if he’d been dropped through a trapdoor.

  “Bad luck,” Sanford said again, approaching the hole in the floor. You could never be quite sure what the dice would do, as they were, by their nature, random, but he knew the black one would lead to misfortune for his enemies, and the ivory one would grant him a temporary boon, from the minor to the major, depending on which number came up. At least he still had the good luck charm left. He might yet need it.

  The temple was cantilevered out over the mountainside, and the sage had fallen straight through to drop about sixty feet to the frozen slopes below. All Sanford could see down there were gouts of steam rising from a hole in the snow. Assuming the sage couldn’t fly – which was just an assumption, in this place – it would take him a while to trudge back up to the temple, his flames cooling all the while.

  Sanford would be well on his way before then. He quickly checked the temple for anything worth taking, but the sage was an ascetic, and there wasn’t so much as a silver candlestick or salt cellar, let alone survival gear or objects of a mystical nature. Knowledge was the sage’s sole power – that, and the ability to spray flame from his eye sockets, of course.

  The arched stone door at the back of the temple was barred, but not otherwise locked. Sanford wrapped his white fur cloak around his body, then flung open the door and stepped out into the freezing wind. He felt a tingle at the base of his neck that told him he’d left one world for another… though this was a world of nothing but featureless white and stinging snow.

  The door slammed shut behind him, and when he looked back, it was no longer visible, either hidden, or actually vanished – which was sensible enough. Various deadly and terrible entities were said to dwell in the Cold Wastes, and you wouldn’t want things like those wandering into your warm and cozy temple.

  Sanford knew a bit about the Plateau of Leng. It was one of the other worlds he had visited, during his years mastering the mystical arts. He’d even glimpsed the fabled Monastery of Leng once, though a blizzard had prevented his expedition from reaching it, and he’d been forced to turn back when two of his fellow explorers died of hypothermia. They were only Seekers, though, so it was no great loss. He’d always intended to return, better provisioned, but he hadn’t yet had time.

  But he could return, because there was a portal to the Plateau, and indeed to the Cold Wastes, on the deepest level of his subbasement. He even used that portal, occasionally, to exile Lodge members who’d failed him, or put their own interests above his own. Their bodies were doubtless preserved under the snow even now. To think, all along, it held a connection to the Dreamlands! No matter how much he discovered, there were new mysteries to uncover.

  He was in a horrible frozen wasteland, yes, but he could get home from here. The Lodge’s portals to other realms were warded, of course, and couldn’t be traversed by just anyone. He could hardly let curious Seekers wander to other worlds at will, and he didn’t want monsters strolling into his world uninvited, either. But Sanford still wore the bracelet of little keys on his wrist, and those allowed him to access every part of his Lodge, and to open (or close) every passageway from the basements to other worlds.

  Salvation was near! But not necessarily very near. The Cold Wastes were vast, and largely bereft of landmarks, so it would be difficult to find the particular bit of empty space that held the doorway home. Still, Sanford was tireless, thanks to his Annelid ring… but in the Cold Wastes, the most desolate part of the Plateau, would there be anything alive to draw sustenance from? The monks, perhaps, if the monastery wasn’t too far away, and if it didn’t magically travel… man-eating spiders, if he walked near some, assuming such things could be robbed of their energies…

  “Tut, tut, Sanford,” he muttered, hunching against the relentless wind. “Don’t be defeatist now.” He had to focus. Tillinghast was in Arkham, taking what belonged to Sanford – assuming the shopkeeper hadn’t died trying to reach the basements. Also assuming Sanford was returning to a home he would recognize at all. Time ran differently in the Dreamlands, and it could run differently in either direction. Sanford might return ten minutes after he’d left… or ten centuries.

  But he would return. If he must die, he would die on his native soil. Sanford set off across the snow, and he walked, and he walked, and he walked. There seemed to be no sun in this place, or else, its presence or absence made little difference to visibility or the light level, which was a constant gloom. The far north on Earth had long periods of sun, and long periods of dark, but this place seemed an eternal twilight. The ring tried to keep Sanford’s body temperature in the appropriate range for human health, but since there were few sources of heat to steal from here, his teeth were soon chattering.

  Then he glimpsed something in the distance. A gleam of light, visible through the snow. He redoubled his efforts, hurrying toward the light, glad he’d traded the handful of coins in his pockets (impossibly exotic here) for sturdy fur-lined boots, and his cloak, back in Dylath-Leen.

  Soon he reached the source of the light, and he stared, first in bafflement, and then in understanding. He began to laugh, so hard he had to bend at the waist and brace his hands on his knees, so hard it brought tears to his eyes, only for those tears to freeze on his own face.

  The wanderer was standing before a great glass wall, and on the other side, distorted but identifiable, he could see the shelves of a country store for giants – cans of beans the size of houses, lanterns as tall as lighthouses, bags of potatoes as big as boulders. A human figure, but immense, passed across the glass, like a whale in an aquarium, and then moved out of sight.

  Sanford was looking through the glass of the enchanted snow globe that Tillinghast had given that objectionable little man at the store. The globe wasn’t full of magical snow at all. It simply provided a window onto a fragment of the Cold Wastes. Or… did it somehow contain that fragment? Surely not. Tillinghast couldn’t be that powerful.

  Sanford remembered glimpsing a figure moving in the snow globe, trudging through its perpetually blowing snow. A monk? A lost wanderer? Or even… Sanford himself, glimpsed through a distortion in time?

  “I must give that wretched Tillinghast his due,” Sanford said. He’d gotten into the habit of talking to himself, in recent months, because good conversation was important. “His baubles are certainly of exceptional quality.”

  He briefly considered trying to smash the glass, mostly out of spite, and partly out of curiosity. Would breaking the glass shatter the connection? Would it open a tiny portal between the howling wastes and that man’s store? Would Sanford be able to pass through it? If he did, would he remain tiny on the other side, or return to his proper relative size?

  In any case, he had nothing to plausibly break the glass with anyway, so such speculations were pointless. He turned his back on the view of the general store and trudged into the blowing white wind.

  Home was near, and he would find it soon, and when he did, he would bring this cold back with him, in his heart, and Tillinghast would be frozen before him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Those Who Fight Monsters

  Ruby had no idea how long they descended into that darkness. The staircase was wide, easily ten feet across, but it felt terribly narrow in that vastness. There were no railings, so they went single file down the center, stepping carefully. No one speculated aloud on what might happen if you fell over the side and went tumbling into all that stolen space. Ruby’s personal theory was “just keep falling until you die of thirst,” but the back of her mind whispered that such a death would be too merciful – that there must be things down there in the dark, with hungry mouths and grasping claws.

  There were landings every few hundred yards, and when they got within a few steps of one, a gas lamp on a pole there would illuminate, spreading a pool of light. Those lamps stayed lit behind them, at least, so Ruby could glance back and see a series of glows rising, rising, rising through the blackness. Breadcrumbs to follow home, if it came to that.