He dreamt of a large ship filled with shackled slaves, their dark skin glinting faintly in the dim light. No sound of rowing or shouts from the oarsmen could be heard. The ship, with its black sails, entered the harbor in an eerie, deathly silence. Even the slaves didn't cry or wail; the only sound was the clinking of their chains, which spoke in place of their muted throats.
From the garden atop a high hill overlooking the port, Solomon gazed down at the black-sailed galley. Behind him, vibrant red and white roses bloomed beside an endlessly flowing silver fountain, their beauty clashing with the scene below. The ground was littered with dry leaves, and the faces of the white marble statues were indistinct, their cracked edges testament to decay.
The salty, putrid breeze carried from the sea and cliffs overwhelmed even the fragrant roses behind him. A grotesque stench emanated from the ship, so vile that no perfume could mask it. A merchant with an unnaturally large grin disembarked, his turban bulging strangely at two points. His face was loathsome, but his wares—stunningly beautiful, large rubies—were coveted. This merchant was the city's sole source of such treasures, and sailors, desperate for his gems, endured the stench, resorting to the strongest tobacco to suppress their nausea.
Descending the staircase in his dream, Solomon found himself adorned in a golden robe intricately patterned with dazzling designs. He walked across the cobblestone dock, weaving through sailors hauling crates of vegetables and fish, past drunken prostitutes and their clients. The turbaned merchant, upon spotting him, immediately lowered his gaze and bowed respectfully. Solomon didn't understand why he was met with such deference, but he accepted it with a smile, suppressing his discomfort at the stench as he greeted the merchant.
The merchant spoke in an unpleasant, guttural tone, words Solomon couldn't understand but felt he should. With a sly grin, the merchant retrieved a peculiar bottle made from a hollowed-out ruby, engraved with strange symbols, along with two matching ruby goblets. He gestured for Solomon to taste the wine he offered.
For reasons unknown, the sorcerer didn't resist the invitation. He poured the wine into one of the goblets. Just as he was about to drink, a loud cat's yowl interrupted him.
Then came a chorus of feline cries.
Startled, Solomon looked around to find an army of fat cats flooding the dock. Orange tabbies, black-and-whites, tortoiseshells, pure whites, jet blacks—cats of all kinds climbed up his robe, perched on his shoulders, and draped across his arms. Those unable to reach him turned their wrath on the merchant, clawing and biting until he fled in panic.
As Solomon let go of the ruby goblet, the cats' fury subsided, replaced by contented purring. They rubbed against his legs, their fur streaking his golden robe. The fattest cat, a gray one, expertly claimed a spot in Solomon's arms, purring the loudest as it settled in comfortably.
It was a terrible dream. Except for the cats, nothing about it was good.
Solomon jolted awake, sitting up in bed. The Cheshire Cat, which had been sleeping on his chest, tumbled onto the piled blankets with an indignant yowl. The cold silver key hanging from his neck brought him back to full awareness, his back drenched in cold sweat.
The cat, unhurt but annoyed, meowed loudly in protest. Solomon stroked its fluffy gray head before pulling his hand back quickly to avoid being grabbed. Reaching for his wand, he pressed it to his temple, extracting the remnants of his dream and storing them in a glass vial. He remembered enough of the dream to know this wasn't the first time he'd encountered that harbor and merchant. Each time, he was powerless in the dream, yet the cats always came to his rescue.
Since the Hellbreather incident and the subsequent warnings he received, the dream had been recurring, unbidden and sinister. Solomon didn't know who was planting these dreams in his mind, but one thing was clear: this was no benign phenomenon.
What would happen if he drank the wine offered by the merchant? He didn't know, but it would undoubtedly be as terrible as the dream itself.
The Ancient One, aware of his symptoms, had instructed him to record every dream. Until the matter was resolved, she insisted Solomon sleep at Kamar-Taj headquarters, where he would be safer. She herself had gone to Avalon in search of answers and had not yet returned.
Perhaps it was connected to the awakening of a one-eyed entity, or maybe a demon from the Dream Dimension was intruding on his dreams. It might even be Mephisto's trickery. Until more clues emerged, not even the Ancient One could pinpoint the cause. Protective spells cast by the Ancient One could shield his dreams for a time, but they were temporary. He needed to learn to harness the power of Hogoth or rely on the Panacea Elixir to induce lucid dreaming.
But once the spells or potions wore off, the dream always returned. Thankfully, the cats remained a constant.
Solomon understood his allies were not random. The King who sat on a throne of cat's-eye stones was guarding his dreams. Yet if Solomon couldn't solve the issue himself, the dream would persist. Abandoning the silver key on his chest and severing ties to the ultimate mysteries of the cosmos, leaving his fate to the whims of the gods, might bring him peace.
"Damn Nyarlathotep!" Solomon muttered, immediately assigning blame. When the true culprit was unknown, blaming Nyarlathotep was always a safe bet.
With a sigh, Solomon picked up the Cheshire Cat, tucking the warm, fluffy creature back into the blankets. He tried to fall asleep again, though the noise of the apprentices training outside clashed with his body's exhaustion.
Both physically and mentally drained, Solomon needed rest, even if it meant risking another dive into that disturbing dream. As a precaution, he loosened the seals on his stigmata. If the dream was as bizarre as it seemed, he might as well see how long it could last under the weight of his vast memories.
By the time Solomon rose for lunch, Kaecilius, freshly returned from Canada after ceding command, was waiting for him.
"You look terrible," Kaecilius remarked.
"Mm-hmm," Solomon mumbled listlessly, carrying two porcelain bowls—one large and one small. The large bowl held rice, meat, and vegetables; the smaller one was filled with fish for the Cheshire Cat. "I'm not hungry. Something light is all I can manage right now."
"Maybe you need a glass of whiskey," Kaecilius suggested, sitting beside him. "Trust me, no dreams after a stiff drink."
"Have you had dreams like mine?" Solomon asked.
"You mean awful dreams?" Kaecilius hesitated, then nodded. "Plenty. I dream of her every night."
"Her?"
"My wife," Kaecilius admitted, his voice and gaze sinking. "Every night, I see her alive. Then I lose her again. Over and over. The Ancient One says it's my inability to let go…"
"It's the work of extradimensional demons," Solomon interjected, cutting off Kaecilius's thoughts. He didn't want him dwelling on it further. "The Ancient One is right. These demons exploit every crack in our minds to influence us."
"No, I want to bring her back," Kaecilius countered. "I believe magic can do it."
"It's been too long, Kaecilius," Solomon replied firmly. "You know what happens to those resurrected by black magic—they become undead, not human. They lose their humanity, their feelings. They aren't the people we loved."
"What about your dreams? Has the Ancient One helped you?" Kaecilius asked, subtly shifting the topic.
"I suspect an extradimensional demon, but I'm not certain which one—perhaps Nightmare or something worse." Solomon yawned, pulling the Cheshire Cat out of his robes and setting it on the table. "Eat up—boiled fish, no salt," he said, addressing the cat. Then, turning back to Kaecilius, he added, "Once I figure out who's tampering with my dreams, I'll take countermeasures. If that fails, then I'll seek Vishanti's help. Whether it's a demon or Vishanti entering my mind, it's all the same to me."
"I envy you," Kaecilius said after a pause.
"Envy me? For what?"
"Your mindset, junior. You're always so brave."
"I'm terrified, Kaecilius. Really, don't doubt it. Every time I sleep, it's like walking a tightrope. Do you think I wouldn't love to collapse into a witch's arms?" Solomon muttered, grumbling, "But fear won't solve anything. Neither will self-pity. The only solution is to kill the one behind this."
"Fear and courage aren't mutually exclusive, kid. That's what I envy most about you—you always fight back."
"Call it petty, if you want."
"Hah! You're the type to pluck the wings off a fly."
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