‘All of this has already happened.’ My voice splintered in a way I couldn’t stand. ‘We – I can’t let Vance do it again, I can’t—’
‘You are still here. So is the Mime Order.’
I found myself leaning into him heavily, seeking out his heartbeat. His embrace was tight enough to warm me, but not so tight that I couldn’t pull away, as I should. As I must.
‘Why did you show me all of that?’
His hand came to the back of my head.
‘Because you needed to remember. To remember why you must be Underqueen.’ His voice rumbled through both of us. ‘You have known what it is to be a citizen of the free world and a denizen of Scion. A Londoner and a daughter of Ireland. A prisoner of Sheol I. A mollisher of I-4. You understand all that is at stake in the war to come, and why it is necessary. You know what it is like to live beyond Scion as well as within it. You know what the world could become if they are allowed to expand their domain.’
‘Other people have—’
‘No one else in the syndicate has your history with Jaxon Hall, who could now be the Sargas’s right hand. Only you watched Nashira kill a child because you refused to be her weapon.’ His gaze was inescapable. ‘You burn to destroy Scion. To avenge all that has been done to you. To undo the world they fashioned and reshape it. The Ranthen chose you. I chose you. Most importantly, you chose yourself. On the night of the scrimmage, you decided that you, not Jaxon, were the one to lead the syndicate.’
I had no argument to offer. The dive into my darkest memories had taken all my strength.
Warden hitched his coat back over my shoulders. I pressed myself against him, letting him stroke my damp curls. Neither of us stopped the other. We stayed like that until the little flame in the tin went out, lashed by wind and shards of rain.
‘Whether or not I decided that,’ I said quietly, ‘it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve failed.’
‘You have risen from the ashes before. The only way to survive,’ he said, ‘is to believe you always will.’
The motion of his gloved hand on my hair steadied my breathing. I held him close to me, letting his warmth take away the pain of the past, just for one fragile moment. I wanted him all over again, wanted him with an intensity I had never known, but I couldn’t act on it. Nothing had changed. So I slid myself from his arms, feeling as if I was tearing a seam. I picked up the lighter and tried to ignite the alcohol a second time, but it stayed cold.
The silence between us was fraught with unspoken words. When I looked at him again, his eyes were afire.
‘Paige.’
‘Yes?’ I said softly.
A quake in the æther made me tense. I turned sharply to face Leith.
The disturbance was far away, too far for my spirit to fly, but stealing closer by the moment. The æther filled itself with the softest, fluttering tremors – like the ripples from a footstep near water, or birds unsettled by a gunshot.
Warden noticed my tension. ‘What is it?’
My heartbeat marched to a new drum. I could hear nothing but that call to arms behind my ribs.
Something was coming.
19
Offering
My burner phone rang in my pocket. I scrambled to pick it up, forcing my numb fingers into action.
‘They’re marching,’ Maria said. ‘The army. They’re marching on the citadel.’
‘What?’ I stood. ‘Did they see you?’
‘It had nothing to do with us – we never even made it to the depot—’ Her voice faded, then returned: ‘. . . get out of here.’
I clutched the phone tighter. ‘Where are you?’
‘We’ll meet you on Waverley Bridge.’
She hung up.
‘Shit.’ I shoved the phone into my pocket. ‘The army – it’s coming here, now. Marching on Edinburgh. What the hell is Vance doing? Why would she send soldiers to catch a few rebels?’
Warden touched my cheek, met my gaze. ‘Remember what Maria said. You must assume that whatever she is planning, however large the scale, however grand the aim – everything she does will be aimed at you.’
I stared back at him, swallowing my dread. For a decade I had buried ScionIDE and the Incursion beneath the flowers, locked them in a strongbox where I could never truly see. I had been a child, suffocated by fear. Every memory I thought I’d had was a mockery of the true violence I’d seen – violence that would never sleep if Senshield remained active.
We might yet stop it.
And I thought I might know how.
‘Warden,’ I said, ‘if I entered Vance’s dreamscape, and you used me as a conduit, would you be able to see her memories?’
‘You should not enter Vance’s dreamscape.’
I drew myself up. ‘If you want me to be a leader, I suggest you follow my orders, Arcturus.’
His face was still a mask, but a light came back into his eyes. I searched their burning depths.
‘We do not go any closer than we must,’ he said.
I should have known he would help me. I pressed his hand in mine, full of words I knew I wouldn’t say.
We made our way back down the hill and ran between the pine trees. Half a moon smiled down at us. As I sprinted beneath the branches, adrenalin crashed from crown to toe, erasing all the pain from my old wounds. I came to life in the arms of fear. Some would suffer. Some would stand. Either way, Hildred Vance would surrender information we could use against her, the information I had chased across the country. Hildred Vance, who had killed my father. Hildred Vance, who had overseen the fall of Ireland.
At the edge of the park, I skidded to a stop, unable to believe what I was seeing. A multitude of people had amassed before the gates of Haliruid House – hundreds of them, gathered around a fountain on the enormous driveway, all of them shouting at the Vigiles and brandishing signs: KEEP THE WAR MACHINES IN LONDON, NOT THE LOWLANDS. VICIOUS VANCE. DITCH THE DEPOT. NO MORE BOMBS IN BONNY SCOTLAND. Among them were black moths, splashed on to placards and held up high.
A protest.
Where the hell had this come from?
The roar of the crowd was extraordinary. Warden stayed close to me. I ducked my head, lifting my scarf over my features, and backed into the shadows beneath the pine trees. I had sensed Vance’s dreamscape at the depot; I could find it again. I dislocated and searched for her.
‘She’s close,’ I said.
‘Close enough?’
I opened my eyes. ‘Yes.’
NVD vehicles were screaming to a standstill outside Haliruid House. When a commandant got out, one of the protestors hurled a swollen balloon at him. It exploded like a blister, and the offal inside oozed down his riot shield.
‘Butchers,’ someone screamed.
A driver emerged. Without a word, she shot the offender in the abdomen. He doubled over like a jackknife, and the Vigiles raised their guns to fire – but now another throng was pouring around the side of the building. I had to focus, to tune out the noise. I leaned against Warden, pressed my oxygen mask to my face, and tore free of my body, vaulting first into the æther, then, like a stone skipping across water, into Vance’s dreamscape.
A chamber of white marble, with a high ceiling and a grand staircase. Clean, elegant lines. Monochrome.
Vance’s spirit stood at the very top of the stairs. She saw herself, it seemed, exactly as she appeared in the mirror, down to the last line on her face. No evidence of any self-hatred for her crimes, any hint of a conscience. Like any amaurotic, she had no way of seeing her own dreamscape, or consciously taking control of her dream-form. Her spirit was a grey, machine-like thing, programmed to respond to an invading threat as best it could without direction. I ran to meet it and wrestled it to the floor. Its hands gripped my arms.
‘You,’ it hissed.
Its jaw moved as if on a hinge. Horror almost made me let go. An amaurotic shouldn’t be able to make their dream-form speak.
‘Me,’ I whispered.
I was too far aw
ay from her physically to unseat her spirit from the centre of her dreamscape. All I could do was grasp it.
Vance’s dream-form trembled violently, setting off an earthquake in her dreamscape. Someone must have trained her to be able to defend herself, but I was used to overcoming voyant dream-forms. An amaurotic’s, even that of Hildred Vance, was easy to suppress. I took hold of its head, only to see that my dream-form’s hands were coated to the wrist in blood.
The golden cord drew tight, connecting Vance to Warden. I felt myself straining under the pressure as he used me to bridge the physical distance between himself and the Grand Commander. The ancient power of his gift surged through me, like electricity through a conductor, so strong that my dream-form began to shake. When it stopped, I shoved myself off her, sick to the depths of my spirit. I had touched the purest essence of the woman whose orders had slaughtered thousands.
My silver cord was lifting me away when Vance seized me. Black eyes gaped at me, glossy brooches in the dream-form’s head.
‘I will kill them all,’ it warned. ‘Give yourself up . . .’
I twisted away from her. As I fled, the threat resounded in my ears. She was capable of anything.
I darted into Warden’s dreamscape, just in time to see the memory for myself. And there it was, frozen in his mind: the power source, the core of Senshield, my own personal grail – the end of the road. Mechanical, yet beautiful. A light sealed beneath a pyramid of glass. A spirit, trammelled and harnessed. Ethereal technology in its most powerful form.
And I knew where it was being kept.
I tore off the oxygen mask. ‘Did you feel it?’
His eyes scorched. ‘Yes.’
A gasping laugh escaped me. ‘Warden, that was the core. It’s real.’
I had never quite believed that this hare-brained quest would be successful; that I would really discover where the core was. Now I had seen.
Now I knew.
The core was locked out of our reach in the most high-security building in the Republic of Scion. It was inside the Westminster Archon, the cradle of the empire and workplace to hundreds of its officials, back in the Scion Citadel of London. I had come all the way here, only to have to return to where we had started. I didn’t care. It had been worth it.
Because I knew something else, too. Something Vance’s memory had betrayed, like a fracture in her armour. It was a fear she couldn’t shake, and that no amount of money could repair.
Senshield was not indestructible. There was a vulnerability. I could feel that anxiety eating away at her, like rust through iron.
It was all I needed to know.
We had to meet the others. Pushing our way past bewildered denizens and protestors, we moved at speed through the streets of the Old Town. A few hours ago, the streets had been calm – now a protest had started in the middle of the night, seemingly at the drop of a hat. A creeping sense of déjà vu was coming over me. When we reached the bridge, I stopped.
‘What is this?’ I whispered.
The Edinburgh Guildhall was burning from inside. Tongues of flame whipped from its windows. Its clock face was red, indicating the highest level of civil unrest, and a vast banner had been draped over its façade. Letters taller than a Rephaite declared NO SAFE PLACE. NO SURRENDER. In front of it, Inquisitors Street was a bottleneck. Hundreds of people were caught between the Vigiles in front of the inferno and the weight of other human beings. They were being herded from all sides, like animals in a pen. Others were climbing on to the Gothic monument on the street to get out of the crush, or trying to reach the bridge so they could flee into the honeycomb of Old Town. The night was full of cries and shouts for help.
I stared at the tableau unfolding before my eyes.
The others were waiting for us on the bridge. Nick was supporting Eliza. Lucida, whose face was hidden by a hood, went straight to Warden and spoke to him in Gloss.
‘Eliza.’ I stopped beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s been shot,’ Maria said.
‘I’m okay.’ Sweat glazed her brow and throat. ‘It’s just a scratch.’
I knew from Nick’s face that it wasn’t. ‘One of the soldiers saw us. We ran straight into them on our way to the depot.’ His pupils were full stops. ‘I need to treat her.’
‘We did our best,’ Maria said, grim-faced, ‘but this is it, Paige. We can’t take on the soldiers.’
Eliza made a strangled noise and pressed a hand over her side. ‘We’re going,’ I said. ‘Are the stations open?’
‘They’re open, but . . .’ Maria motioned to the crowd. ‘We don’t have any choice. Let’s go.’
Nick grasped one of Eliza’s arms. I took hold of the other and checked that the Rephaim were with us before we slipped into the horde.
The Underqueen’s great descent, followed by her great retreat. Underqueen or not, in this throng I was as powerless as I had been in Dublin as a child.
‘Dreamer,’ Nick shouted against my ear, ‘can you—’
His lips kept moving, but the roar drowned him out. ‘What?’ I shouted back.
‘Are ScionIDE close?’
The æther was so disarrayed, it was almost impossible to concentrate on my sixth sense. I dislocated. With my hearing subdued, I drifted to the edge of my hadal zone. My spirit could sense activity in the æther for up to a mile, but I didn’t need to go half that far to feel the legion of dreamscapes converging from the other side of the buildings.
Soldiers.
I snapped back, gasping. My white breath mingled with Nick’s as he said, ‘What is it?’
‘They’re here. They’re already here.’
Rain drummed on the streets around us, plastering strands of hair to my face. Nick wrapped one arm around Eliza, tucking her close to his chest, and used his free hand to clasp mine. Maria shoehorned her way between two men and reached for Eliza. Behind us, the transmission screens changed from public safety announcements to images of the street, as if to show us the folly of our actions. The PA system activated with three chimes, and Scarlett Burnish’s voice boomed through the citadel.
‘Martial law is now in force in the Scion Citadel of Edinburgh. ScionIDE soldiers will neutralise any denizen deemed to be resisting the imposition of the Inquisitor’s justice. The powers of both the Sunlight and Night Vigilance Divisions are now vested in the commandants of ScionIDE. All denizens should cease seditious activity and return to their homes immediately.’
Panic. I remembered the taste of it, the smell of it, like it was yesterday. The crowd jostled and heaved. A wave of movement undulated from one end of the street to the other, passing from person to person, knocking them back like dominoes in a line. Someone bellowed, ‘Alba gu bràth!’ I was flattened against a stranger, and Nick’s weight pressed on me until my lungs ached. He braced his shoulder against the nearest protestor, growling with the effort of holding a breathing space open for both of us. I felt for Warden, reaching through the rain. I thought he was gone – that he had left me – until a gloved hand took mine.
Shouts rose up, calling for people to get out of the way, to go home, to do what Burnish ordered. Scarlet light jetted from a flare; projectiles cartwheeled overhead. Somewhere in the confusion, a child was crying.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps. Perfectly, regimentally synchronised. Over hundreds of heads, I beheld the vanguard. They were riding on horseback, like before. Birgitta Tjäder was at the front, leading the mounted soldiers.
‘Martial law is now in force in the Scion Citadel of Edinburgh. Defiance will be viewed as sympathy with the preternatural entity, the Mime Order. Substance SX will be deployed to disperse sympathisers.’
Substance SX. I knew exactly what that was. It had left a scar on everyone it had ever greeted, if it hadn’t choked them where they stood. ‘It’s the blue hand!’ Voices screamed its name. ‘Let us out!’
Ahead of me, I could just make out Maria climbing over the ticket barrier. Eliza looked over her shoulder at me as
she followed.
‘Paige, come on,’ she gasped. ‘Stay with us.’ Nick clung to my hand so tightly it hurt as the knot of warm bodies tightened around us. Shoulders closed together; heads banged; backs clapped against chests. More Vigiles were moving towards us – and black stallions, each bearing the weight of a military commandant. Their body armour, combat helmets and heavy weapons made the Vigiles seem like toys. Even their horses wore armour, as they had in Dublin.
In Dublin . . .
A thought pierced the panic.
All of this has already happened.
I saw the ruined Gothic monument. The bitter-sweet, chemical smell of the blue hand had already spiked the air, making my head spin – but it was already spinning, like a lathe, turning over the realisation, fashioning it into an idea. Above the street, two ScionIDE helicopters were circling us all like birds of prey. White light beamed down, blinding me for an instant. If they saw me, they would take me to Nashira – to the Archon . . .
Martial law will be effective in the Scion Citadel of London until Paige Mahoney is in Inquisitorial custody.
All of this has already happened.
An airless crush of bodies, pressing in on me from all sides.
Mouths that scream, hands that shove.
Mercy.
Everything she does will be aimed at you.
In that moment of not seeing, I saw it all as if from a great distance. I knew what I had to do. It was the only way to save us all. The only way I could rise from the ashes.
Nick still held my hand, but he wasn’t prepared for what I did next.
I broke his grip with one brutal tug, cut through a line of people, and ran. He roared my name, but I didn’t stop.
Sweat and rain dropped melting crystals on my skin. The people nearest to the conflagration would boil in their own body heat before the soldiers reached them. I was near the thickest part of the crowd when I sensed Warden in pursuit. He was too fast – the only one, apart from Nick, who could certainly outrun me. I dislocated my spirit with violent force, throwing pressure through the æther.
The golden cord sent harsh vibrations through my bones, my flesh, through the whole of my being. My nose leaked blood.
The Song Rising Page 28