Different Worlds

CHAPTER 2: THE CLAIM

Fay stepped forward.

Her wet shoe landed on ancient stone, and the sound echoed through the enormous room.

For a moment, she couldn't move.

The world beyond the door had been strange enough to make her question her own senses. She had expected darkness, perhaps a corridor, perhaps some impossible landscape hidden behind the concrete wall of the underpass.

She had not expected a hall.

A great, ancient hall.

Stone walls rose several stories above her, disappearing into shadows between massive wooden beams. Iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their candles flickering in the stale air. More candles burned in brackets along the walls, their flames casting restless light across tapestries, carved pillars, and weathered stone.

At the far end of the room, a fire burned in a wide hearth.

It was large enough to warm the entire hall.

Yet Fay could feel no heat from it.

The cold clung to her clothes. Water dripped from her hair onto the floor, making small, dark marks on the stone.

She looked around.

Twenty men sat around a long wooden table.

Some wore armor. Others wore heavy robes, finely cut coats, or simple garments that appeared expensive despite their age. There were soldiers with swords at their hips, counselors with documents before them, nobles wearing rings and embroidered collars, priests with solemn faces, and merchants whose eyes immediately began measuring her as though she were an unexpected expense.

Every conversation died.

Not all at once.

The men closest to Fay noticed her first. Their voices faded into uncertain murmurs. A few heads turned. Then the next group fell silent, followed by the men at the far end of the table.

The last words disappeared beneath the crackle of the fire.

The hall became completely still.

Fay stood in the middle of it, dripping rainwater onto a floor that looked older than anything she had ever seen.

Then a hound rose from beneath the table.

It was enormous, with dark fur and a broad head. Its muscles shifted beneath its coat as it stood. It stared at Fay, its ears angled forward.

A low growl rolled from its chest.

Fay stared back.

She was cold, exhausted, frightened, and entirely out of patience.

"Don't."

The hound continued to watch her.

Then, to Fay's surprise, it sat down.

The silence that followed somehow became worse.

Several men shifted in their seats.

One of them made the sign of a symbol Fay didn't recognize. Another leaned toward his neighbor and whispered something beneath his breath.

Fay glanced at the dog.

"Good."

At the head of the table, a man slowly set down his cup.

He was in his early forty’s, perhaps. His hair was grey at the temples, and his face was marked by years of weather, work, and decisions that had not always been easy to make. He had broad shoulders and a long jaw, with a short beard that had begun to silver.

He was not dressed like a king.

There was no crown.

No jeweled robe.

No throne raised above the others.

He wore a dark tunic beneath a heavy coat, and his hands looked like the hands of a man who had spent his life working rather than being carried through it. One rested against the table. The other had been wrapped around a plain metal cup.

He looked at Fay for a long moment.

Then he rose.

The men around the table watched him.

He walked toward her.

His boots struck the stone with measured, unhurried steps.

Fay didn't move.

She had no idea where she was, who these people were, or how she had crossed from a rain-soaked city into a place that seemed to have been torn from another century.

But she knew one thing.

She wasn't going to let the first man who approached her see how badly she wanted to run.

The man stopped several feet away.

His eyes traveled over her soaked coat, the water dripping from its hem, her muddy shoes, and finally her face.

"You've no business standing there," he said.

His voice was deep and rough, carrying easily through the hall.

Fay lifted her chin.

"Then move me."

A few of the men exchanged glances.

The stranger studied her.

There was no immediate anger in his expression. If anything, he seemed to be considering her answer with an interest she didn't understand.

At last, he said, "I find I'd rather not."

Fay narrowed her eyes.

She looked past him toward the table.

Maps covered its surface. Some were held down by metal weights; others had been marked with ink, colored lines, and symbols she couldn't decipher. A large parchment showed a coastline that made no sense to her. There were mountains in places where she knew there should have been cities, and bodies of water shaped unlike anything she had ever seen on a map.

She looked back at the man.

"Where am I?"

Nobody answered.

The men watched her as though she had asked a question in a language they had forgotten.

Fay turned her attention to the stranger.

"Where am I?"

He held her gaze.

"Not where you were."

Fay stared at him.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the safest one I have."

Before she could respond, an elderly man stepped away from the table.

He was in his late sixties, with silver hair combed neatly back and a posture so perfect it seemed almost unnatural. His clothes were plain compared with those of some of the nobles, but every fold was in place. A thick ledger rested beneath one arm.

He approached with the cautious authority of someone who had spent a lifetime learning precisely when he was permitted to speak.

"Sire."

The man who had approached Fay did not look at him.

The old steward continued.

"The woman carries no escort."

Fay turned toward him.

"I'm not a woman who needs an escort."

The steward's expression barely changed.

"She carries no house."

Fay frowned.

"I don't know what that means."

The steward looked toward the man beside her.

"She carries no house."

This time, the man turned his head.

"I heard you."

The steward lowered his gaze only slightly.

"Then the law is plain."

Fay glanced between them.

"What law?"

The steward opened the ledger.

The cover was thick and dark, its edges worn smooth by years of handling. The pages inside were yellowed and brittle. He turned them carefully, his fingers moving with the respect of someone handling something far more valuable than paper.

"Every person born under a house belongs to that house," he said.

Fay's eyes narrowed.

"Belongs?"

The steward looked up.

"The word is older than either of us."

"That doesn't make it better."

For the first time, the steward appeared to consider her rather than merely observe her.

"No," he admitted. "It does not."

The man beside Fay almost smiled.

It was brief, barely more than a movement at the corner of his mouth, but she saw it.

Fay turned toward him.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing."

"You smiled."

"I did."

"Why?"

He glanced at the steward.

"Because you spoke to him exactly the way I have wanted to speak to him for thirty years."

The steward cleared his throat.

"Sire."

The man gave him a look.

The steward straightened the ledger in his hands.

"If she cannot name a house, she has no house."

Fay crossed her arms.

"I have a name."

"A name is not a house."

"Where I come from, it is."

A nervous ripple passed through the room.

One of the merchants laughed under his breath, then quickly stopped when no one joined him.

The man beside Fay did not laugh.

Instead, he asked, "Where do you come from?"

"Atlanta."

The word fell into the hall and disappeared.

The man waited.

Fay stared at him.

"Georgia."

Still nothing.

She felt a growing sense of disbelief.

"America."

The silence stretched.

Fay looked around the room.

At the stone walls.

The candles.

The men in their strange clothes.

The hound sitting patiently beneath the table.

Then she looked back at the man.

"You're serious."

"I'm afraid so."

Fay let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

"What country is this?"

"This is the Kingdom of Avelor."

She waited for the punchline.

It never came.

"I've never heard of it."

"We've heard of America."

Fay blinked.

"You have?"

"No."

She stared at him.

"You're not funny."

"Neither are you."

For a second, the absurdity of the exchange nearly broke through her fear.

Nearly.

Then the steward spoke again.

"Sire, the law requires—"

"I know what the law requires."

The man's voice was still calm, but something in it made the steward fall silent.

The king.

Fay realized it then.

This was the king.

He had no crown, no throne, and no need to announce himself. The men in the room had already told her that by the way they watched him.

He turned his attention back to her.

"What were you doing when you came through?"

Fay hesitated.

"Walking home."

"From where?"

"Work."

"What work?"

She stared at him.

"Why does that matter?"

"Because I am trying to determine whether you're dangerous."

Fay glanced down at herself.

Her coat was dripping onto the floor. Her hair was plastered to her face. One of her shoes made a faint squelching sound whenever she shifted her weight.

"I'm wet."

"That much is established."

"I'm tired."

"Also established."

"I'm angry."

The king studied her.

For the first time, his expression changed.

"That one may be useful."

Fay almost laughed.

She caught herself.

The king's eyes remained on her face, as though he had noticed the almost-smile and was waiting to see whether it would return.

It didn't.

The steward closed the ledger with a soft, heavy thump.

"There remains the matter of claim."

Fay turned toward him.

"Claim?"

The steward looked at the king.

"By law, an unnamed woman who enters the king's keep without a house is placed under the protection of the crown."

Fay stared at him.

"Protection."

"Yes."

"And what happens if I refuse?"

The steward didn't answer.

The king did.

"Then we find out which part of the law you dislike most."

Fay looked at him.

There was something unsettling about the way he spoke. He didn't sound as though he were threatening her. He sounded as though he were explaining the weather.

She folded her arms more tightly.

"I don't belong here."

"No," he said.

"I didn't ask to come here."

"I know."

"I have a son."

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Something in the king's face shifted.

Only slightly.

But Fay noticed.

"My son is back home," she continued. "I need to get back to him."

The king said nothing.

She could still hear Desmond's voice.

Mom?

She could still feel the warmth of the iron ring beneath her hand.

She could still see the door closing behind her.

And somewhere beyond all of that, she had heard the sound of her son's voice.

She couldn't have imagined it.

She refused to believe she had.

The king looked at her for another moment.

Then he removed his coat.

The movement drew the attention of everyone in the hall.

He stepped toward her, holding the heavy garment in both hands.

Fay instinctively moved backward.

The king stopped.

He didn't attempt to close the distance.

Instead, he held the coat out.

"You're freezing."

"I can handle it."

"I know."

He kept his arm extended.

Fay looked at the coat.

Then at him.

It was dark, thick, and lined with something soft. A faint scent of smoke and cedar rose from the fabric.

"What happens if I take it?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"You get warm."

"And tomorrow?"

For the first time, the king's certainty faltered.

His gaze held hers.

"Tomorrow is tomorrow."

Fay searched his face.

She didn't like the answer.

But she liked the cold even less.

After a moment, she reached for the coat.

It was heavier than she expected.

She slipped it over her shoulders, and the warmth settled around her like a shield. The fabric smelled of woodsmoke, leather, and something clean that reminded her of a forest after rain.

The shivering eased.

Not entirely.

But enough.

The king watched her put it on.

The steward cleared his throat.

"The name."

Fay turned toward him.

"Fay."

The steward dipped his pen into a small inkpot.

"Full name."

Fay hesitated.

She had spent years learning that her name could open doors, close them, and sometimes make people decide what they thought of her before she ever spoke.

Here, it seemed to mean something else.

The king glanced at the steward.

"Just Fay."

The steward looked at him.

For a moment, neither man moved.

Then the king said, "Write it."

The pen touched the page.

The steward carefully formed the letters.

Fay.

One word.

The ink spread into the old paper.

The steward closed the ledger.

The king repeated her name.

"Fay."

He said it differently than the others had.

Not as though he were recording it.

Not as though he were testing it.

He said it carefully, with an odd familiarity that sent a strange sensation through her chest.

For one impossible second, Fay felt that she knew him.

Not from the hall.

Not from the door.

Not from any life she could remember.

The feeling seemed to come from somewhere deeper than memory, somewhere hidden beneath her thoughts.

Then it vanished.

She frowned.

"I'm not staying."

The king's gaze remained steady.

"No."

"I'm going home."

"Yes."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you want to."

Fay stared at him.

He continued, "I didn't say you wouldn't."

She looked toward the enormous doors behind her.

At least, she thought they had been doors.

Now she could see only a wall of dark stone.

No entrance.

No passage.

No trace of the doorway through which she had come.

Her face fell before she could hide it.

The king noticed.

He didn't comment.

Instead, he turned away from the hall.

"Come."

Fay didn't move.

"Where?"

"Somewhere warm."

"Why?"

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Because if the law has brought you here, I would like to see what it intends to do with you."

Then he walked away.

Fay remained where she was.

The men around the table watched her.

The hound watched her.

Even the old steward seemed to be waiting for a decision.

Fay looked once more at the wall where the door should have been.

There was nothing.

She took a breath, pulled the king's coat more tightly around herself, and followed.

The gallery beyond the great hall was narrower, but no less impressive.

Tall arched windows lined one wall. Beyond them, the night pressed against the glass, dark and impenetrable. On the opposite side hung faded tapestries depicting battles, crowned figures, and strange creatures Fay couldn't identify.

The stone floor was worn smooth in the center from generations of footsteps.

Fay walked beside the king.

For several moments, neither spoke.

Their footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Finally, Fay broke the silence.

"Are you the king?"

"Unfortunately."

She glanced at him.

"You don't look like one."

"Neither did my father."

"Was he a good king?"

The king continued walking.

For a moment, she thought he might ignore the question.

Then he answered.

"No. and call me Ethan”

Fay studied his profile.

"Was he a good father?"

This time, the silence lasted longer.

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

"Sometimes."

Fay looked ahead.

There was something about that answer she understood too well.

She let a few more steps pass.

"And you?"

Ethan stopped.

Fay stopped with him.

He turned to face her.

Candlelight moved across his features, catching the gray at his temples and the tired lines around his eyes.

"Ask me when you've known me longer."

Fay folded her arms.

"How long will that take?"

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then his mouth curved faintly.

"If you're unlucky?"

He paused.

"Years."

He continued down the gallery.

Fay watched him for a second before following.

She didn't know why she followed him.

Perhaps it was because there was nowhere else to go.

Perhaps it was because the coat around her shoulders was warm.

Or perhaps it was because, despite everything, the king was the first person in this impossible world who had spoken to her as though she were a person rather than a problem.

She walked beside him.

Behind them, the great hall slowly returned to life.

Conversations began in hushed voices.

Chairs scraped against stone.

The hound settled beneath the table.

But the strange woman who had appeared from nowhere remained the only subject anyone truly cared about.

At the far end of the gallery, a servant stood beside a narrow archway.

He was young, perhaps in his twenties, with a bundle of folded linens resting against one arm. He had been watching the king and Fay approach.

Beside him stood a man named Thomas.

Thomas was early thirty’s , immaculately dressed, and perfectly still.

Unlike the others in the great hall, he had not looked frightened when Fay appeared.

He had looked interested.

Now he watched her disappear down the corridor beside the king.

The servant leaned toward him.

"Who is she?"

Thomas kept his eyes on the empty passage.

"I don't know."

"Should I ask?"

Thomas turned his head slightly.

"No."

The servant frowned.

"But—"

"The king will tell us when the time comes."

Thomas turned away.

His polished boots made almost no sound as he walked down the corridor.

After a moment, the servant followed.

The gallery emptied.

The candles continued to burn.

Somewhere deep within the keep, a bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time.

The sound rolled through the ancient stone, traveling down corridors and through hidden chambers, waking something that had been waiting in the dark.

And far beyond the walls of the keep, in a world Fay had left behind, a door stood closed.

For now. :::