He didn’t even wait to sense if there was a glimmer of suspicion rising amid their unified mind. His memory conjured up that evening … no, just before then, a few hours earlier, the astronomer’s parlor—
Edeard stood outside the House of Blue Petals, waiting patiently. It was late afternoon, and away at the other end of the city, the Grand Council was called to session. In the Tosella district, Finitan railed against his infirmity and pain.
Eventually, a young Tathal walked confidently across the street to the House of Blue Petals. He stopped abruptly and turned to stare at Edeard.
“You’ve been watching me,” Edeard said.
Tathal’s adolescent face screwed up into a suspicious grimace. “So?”
“You’re afraid I can stop you.”
“Ladyfuckit,” Tathal spit. His third hand began to extend as his mind was veiled behind an inordinately powerful shield.
“You have an extraordinary talent,” Edeard said calmly. “Why don’t you join me? The people of this world need help. There’s so much good you can do.”
“Join you? Not even you can dominate me, Waterwalker. I’m nobody’s genistar.”
“I have no intention of attempting that trick.” His gaze flicked to the House of Blue Petals. “She tried it on me once, you know.”
“Yeah? Must be pretty stupid not to learn from that mistake. But I made her teach me a lot.” He sneered. “I like that. She still thinks she’s in control, but she bends over when I tell her to.”
“Honious! You’ve already started to bind the nest to you, haven’t you?”
Tathal narrowed his eyes. Misgivings leaked out from his shield. “What do you want?”
“Not you. You’re too late.” Edeard remembered a day from a couple of years previously. Reached for it—
Edeard tried. He even impressed himself with his tenacity, seeking that one moment when Tathal had an ounce of humanity in his soul. If it existed, he never found it. In the end he doubted its existence.
But he tried, waiting outside the city gates when a fifteen-year-old Tathal arrived with a caravan. That, too, was long after his personality had established itself. He’d already dominated the entire caravan, lording it over them in the master’s wagon. It wasn’t as subtle as the nest; men and women served him while their daughters became his stable of whores. The old and the recalcitrant had been discarded along the route.
Before that … Edeard found that Tathal came from Ustaven province. He missed Taralee’s seventeenth birthday to travel to the capital, Growan, nine months before Tathal left it with the caravan. Just in time to sense the fourteen-year-old finally kill Matrar, his abusive father with a display of telekinesis that was shocking to witness. Minutes later he threw his broken alcoholic mother out of their house.
Farther back … Five years previously, Edeard spent a month in Growan, drinking in Matrar’s tavern, trying to reason with the miserable man, to steer him away from using violence against his family. To no avail.
Two years beforehand, and Edeard bribed the owner of the carpentry lodge where Matrar worked, promoting him so his life might be a little easier. There would be more money, and Matrar might see a brighter future opening up if he strove to better himself. But the new money was spent on longer binges, and his obvious failings bred resentment among the men he was supposed to supervise.
Eventually Edeard found himself outside the tavern Matrar favored for the last time. It had taken some admirable detective work among the badly maintained civic records of Growan’s Guild of Clerks, but eventually he’d tracked down Tathal’s birth certificate. Not that he entirely trusted it. That was why he was outside the tavern ten days before the probable night. He was dressed in simple field worker clothes and a heavy coat, with his face disguised by a shallow concealment mirage. Not even Kristabel would recognize him.
As a waitress squirmed between battered old wooden tables, he surreptitiously tipped a phial of vinac juice into Matrar’s ale. It was an act he performed every night for a fortnight.
Tathal was never conceived. Never existed, so could never be remembered or even mourned.
Edeard arrived back in Makkathran in time for Taralee’s second birthday. Just as he recalled, she developed chicken pox two days later. Then in autumn that year a ridiculously happy Mirnatha announced her surprise engagement. Finitan was at the height of his powers and supporting the special Grand Council committee on organized crime, which was producing good results.
He recalled it all. The events. The conversations. Even the weather. There was little he wanted to change. At first. Then he grew weary of the sameness. Knowing became a burden as he became exasperated with people repeating the same mistakes once more.
The only thing that differed now was his dreams: still bizarre, impossible, but fresh, new.
Cheriton McOnna was tired, irritable, and unwashed to a degree where his clothes were starting to smell. What he needed was coffee, proper sunlight, and a decent blast of fresh air. The conditioning unit in the confluence nest supervisor’s office was struggling under constant use by too many people. But Dream Master Yenrol was insistent that they keep a full watch for any sign of the Second Dreamer. That meant a special module grafted onto the nest itself, one with a direct connection to the team. It boosted perception and sensitivity to an exceptionally high level. Cheriton didn’t like that at all; opening his mind to the gaiafield at such an intensity was equivalent to staring into the sun. Fortunately, he had some filter routines, which he quietly slipped in to protect himself. The other members of Yenrol’s team weren’t so well off. Slavishly obedient and devout, they scoured the emotional resonance routines for the slightest hint of their absconded messiah.
Around him, he could see their faces grimace from the strength of impressions pulsing down that singular linkage, yet still they loyally persevered. If they weren’t careful, they were going to suffer some pretty severe brainburns. Yenrol was adamant, though, convinced that whatever had happened over in Francola Wood had been caused by the Second Dreamer. It was Phelim’s strong belief, complacently acceded to by the Dream Masters, that she was trying to return from Chobamba.
The brief ultrasecure message Cheriton had received from Oscar was clear that she hadn’t emerged from the Silfen path. No one had the remotest idea what had actually set off all the agents into yet another deranged fracas. The path had registered somehow within the gaiafield as it changed, but no one had walked out. Now it had inevitably shrunk away again in the way Silfen paths always did when scrutinized by curious humans. Cheriton knew that meant the Second Dreamer wouldn’t be using it now—she was still out there walking between worlds—but try telling Yenrol that. The Dream Master was obsessed to the point of recklessness; he truly believed he was this close.
Cheriton snatched another quick look around the small stuffy office where his coworkers were crammed. Two flinched from some emotion twanging away on their raw neurons, shuddering from a nearly physical pain. Yenrol himself was twitching constantly.
This is ridiculous, Cheriton thought. She’s not an idiot. The whole invasion force has one goal: to find her. She’s not going to walk right back into the middle of them.
Most of the ordinary Living Dream followers shared his logic. He could sense their despondency dripping into the gaiafield as they made their way reluctantly to the wormhole at Colwyn City’s dock. Those of them who could. Surges of anger were also erupting into the gaiafield wherever Viotia’s citizens physically encountered any of their erstwhile oppressors. If he chose to examine those particular storm wells of emotion closely, there was also fear to be found, and pain. After the first instances, Cheriton kept his mind well clear of them. More and more were occurring, especially in Colwyn City.
Some were close by. Despite his reluctance, he felt a mind he knew flaring out of the norm, boosted by terror. It was Mareble, with whom he’d grown familiar for all the wrong reasons. Against his better judgment, he allowed the sensations to bubble in through his gaiamotes, seeing as
she did the slope of a broad street falling away ahead of her, a street now cut off by the tumultuous mob.
“Oh, crap,” he murmured under his breath. Nothing I can do.
Even as he observed the scene through a myriad of emotional outpourings, everything changed. A mind rose into the gaiafield close to Mareble and her fool of a husband, a mind of incredible strength, its presence flaring bright and loud. Cheriton’s filter routines were just enough to shield him from its astonishing magnitude. Yenrol and the others screamed with one voice, their cry of anguish deafening in the confined office.
Mareble wanted nothing else but to be off this dreadful world. She and Danal had come here with such soaring spirits, believing they would be close to the Second Dreamer. But instead, their lives had degenerated with increasing speed, culminating in Danal’s arrest by Living Dream. Those who had taken him away were not a part of the movement as she understood it. The Welcome Team moved with Cleric Phelim’s authority, but they certainly lacked any of the gentle humility of the devout. Men of violence and hauteur. What they’d done to poor Danal was an atrocity. Not that they cared.
Her husband had been released into her arms, a frightened trembling wreck, unrecognizable as the kindhearted man she’d married. They couldn’t even return to the pleasant apartment that they’d bought and that was the reason Danal had been arrested in the first place. It was ridiculous, but the Ellezelin forces suspected them of colluding with the Second Dreamer herself. And Araminta being the Second Dreamer was the one thing Mareble could never quite bring herself to understand. Araminta, that pretty young woman, slightly nervous and on edge, eager to sell the apartment she’d been laboring to renovate. Somehow, that just didn’t connect. Mareble was expecting something quite different, but there had been no hint, no inkling when they’d talked and haggled over the price. She’d shared a cup of tea with the Second Dreamer and never known. Such a thing was simply wrong.
Danal didn’t care about any of that when she tried to explain. When they were free of the Welcome Team, he sank into a bitter depression, jumping at shadows and shouting at her. The things he shouted, she tried to ignore. It wasn’t Danal saying such hurtful things; it was the confusion and hurt left behind by his interrogators.
They spent days in a hotel together, living off room service, with her offering what comfort she could. Cheriton had recommended some drugs that ought to help, which she’d tried to get Danal to take. Sometimes he did, but more often he’d fling the infuser away. So she waited patiently for her husband to recover while the insanity of the invasion raged on the streets outside. That was when the unreal news broke that the Second Dreamer was Araminta and, worse, that she’d escaped to some planet Mareble had never heard of on the other side of the Commonwealth. Bizarrely, the knowledge seemed to ease Danal’s state of mind; at least he started taking the antipsychosis drugs.
The calming effect was slow but constant; she began to see signs of the man she’d lost reemerging. That was when they realized they had to get away. It was a decision that seemed to be shared by most of the Living Dream supporters on Viotia. The hostility and violence directed at them from the rest of the population was never going to abate.
They decided to wait until midmorning before leaving the hotel. That way they figured there would be more people about, more Living Dream followers doing the same thing, more paramilitaries patrolling. It would be safest.
The hotel was only a couple of miles from Colwyn City’s docks, where the wormhole opened to the safety of Ellezelin. When they made their way cautiously down to the lobby, it was deserted. Mareble had tried to order some modern clothes from a local cyber-store and have them delivered by bot, but they’d never arrived. The store’s management system insisted they’d been dispatched. She wanted to use the clothes in an attempt to blend in with everyone else on the street. Instead, they made do with what they had. Danal wasn’t too bad; his sweater was a neutral gray, and he wore it above brown denim trousers. From a distance it would escape attention. Except for his shoes, which were lace-ups. Nobody else in the Commonwealth used lace-ups anymore. Mareble was more worried by her own green and white dress; a dress was less suspicious, but the style was recognizable as belonging to Makkathran. In fact, it was a copy of a dress Kanseen had worn one night in Olovan’s Eagle.
Standing in front of the door, she called a cab. There was a metro rail running along the street right outside the hotel. Her u-shadow reported that the cab companies weren’t responding to requests; their amalgamated management cores apologized and said that normal service would resume as soon as possible.
“It’s not far,” she said, more for her own benefit than his. “Come on, we can get there. We’ll be back on Ellezelin in an hour.”
Danal nodded, his lips drawn together in a thin bloodless line. “Okay.”
The hotel entrance was on Porral Street, which was almost deserted when they walked out into the warm midmorning sunlight. They could hear distant airborne sirens as well as a suppressed buzzing like some angry insect, which Mareble just knew was a crowd on the hunt. Porral Street opened out onto Daryad Avenue, which was the main thoroughfare in this part of town, sweeping down the hill to the river Cairns. And just off to one side at the end of that slope were the docks. Simply looking down the broad avenue with its tall buildings and silent traffic solidos changing color and shape for nonexistent ground vehicles produced a surge of hope. Along its whole length she could see barely a hundred people in total.
An equally optimistic Danal linked his arm through hers, and they set off at a fast pace. A lot of the stores on either side had suffered damage. Windows were broken and covered with big sheets of black carbon. Most of the adverts were cold and dark. Three smashed cab pods blocked the metro rails running down the middle of the road. The people they passed never met their gaze. Nobody was sharing anything in the gaiafield. Nobody wanted to be noticed. Mareble was acutely aware of other people heading down the slope—couples, groups—all of them moving with that same urgent intent as her own gait yet trying to appear casual.
They were halfway down toward the smooth fast-flowing water of the river and starting to relax, when they crossed a side road. The shouts of the mob reached them at the same time. Mareble saw a man running frantically toward them, chased by about fifty people.
“Run!” he screamed as he charged past. His black felt hat tumbled off as he turned down the slope. The mob was thundering up fast behind him, faces contorted with bloodlust and hatred. Mareble and Danal took off after him; it was pure instinct.
“Help,” Mareble yelled. Her u-shadow was sending an alert to the Ellezelin forces that wasn’t even being acknowledged. She cried into the gaiafield, only to receive the slightest ripple of sympathies from Living Dream followers. “Somebody help!”
Danal was holding her hand, tugging her along. The dress was hindering her legs. Her ankle boots weren’t designed to run in. It was at least a mile and a half to the docks. Fear began to burn along her nerves as the adrenaline kicked in. She thought of the Waterwalker on the mountain after Salrana’s betrayal, with Arminel and his thugs closing in on the pavilion. Even then he had maintained his dignity. I must be like him.
Her foot hit something, and she went flying, landing painfully on the stone block pavement, grazing her knees, tearing the skin on her wrists. The jolt thumped along her arms, and she wailed in dread, knowing it was all over. “Lady, please,” she whimpered as Danal hauled her to her feet.
The mob came up around them incredibly fast, surrounding them with a fence of savagely hostile faces. They carried lengths of wood and metal bars; a couple gripped small laser welders.
“No,” Mareble whimpered. Tears were already smearing her vision. She hated how weak she was, but they were going to hurt her. Then she would die before ever knowing the true wonder of the Void.
“I’ve called the paramilitaries,” Danal said defiantly.
A pole caught him on the side of his head, making a nasty crack. His mouth had barel
y opened to cry out in pain when another smacked across his shins. Danal dropped fast, his limp hand slipping from Mareble’s arm.
“No!” she yelled. Her wild face looked directly at the man in front of her, pleading. He seemed ordinary enough, middle-aged, dressed in a smart jacket. He won’t hit a woman, she thought. “We just want to go. Let us go.”
“Bitch.” His fist slammed into her nose. She heard the bone crunch. For the first second it didn’t hurt; she was numb with shock and terror. Then the frightening pulse of hot pain pierced her brain. Mareble screamed, crumpling to her knees. To one side she saw a boot kick Danal’s ribs. Blood was pouring down her mouth and chin.
“That’s enough,” a woman’s voice said calmly. A dark figure stepped into the middle of the mob.
Then finally the gaiafield was awash with sympathy and kindness. The amazing sensation grew and grew like nothing Mareble had ever known before. She gasped in astonishment, blinking up at the woman, who was now opening her coat as if emerging from a cocoon. Underneath she wore a long cream robe resembling those of the Clerics. It seemed to glow of its own accord. A pendant on a slim gold chain around her neck shone an intense blue light across Mareble’s face, which somehow siphoned out so much of her fear. For a moment she transcended her own body to look out across the stars from a viewpoint outside the galaxy. The sight was extraordinarily warming. Then she was back on Viotia and looking up in silent awe at the figure grinning down at her.
The front rank of the mob was hesitating, their first angry glances at the intruder fading to bewilderment. Even their hatred and rage couldn’t stand against the blaze of serenity and comfort she poured into the gaiafield.
Danal raised his head, a look of incredulity rising over his pain. “Dreamer!” he gasped in wonder.
“Hello, Danal.” Araminta smiled. She pushed some of the Skylord’s contentment into the greeting, feeling it wash over the poor abused man, feeling his relief. Mareble was watching her worshipfully as she tried to staunch the flow of blood from her broken nose, and right across the Commonwealth, Living Dream followers sent their welcome and thanks that she had finally come out of hiding to take up her destiny. The wave of goodwill was awesome in its extent, combining the emotion of billions, sending it sweeping across hundreds of worlds.
The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle Page 177