In Dreaming Bound

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Just as he stepped back to kick the door in, it opened slightly, and a stocky Larossan man in a plain tan tunic and darker trousers blocked the opening. He actually had to look up to meet Mikael’s eyes, a rarity. “Do you have a patient?” he asked in a puzzled tone.

  “No,” the colonel said, “we’ve come to take one.”

  The man blinked. Obviously, he didn’t hear that request very often. “I . . . You can’t just take one.”

  The colonel produced the letter. “This says I can.”

  The man read it, cast a surprised glance at Cerradine, and then reread it. “I’ll have to fetch a warden.”

  He slammed the door before Mikael could get a foot in it, leaving them standing out on the cold steps.

  “I can feel her, sir,” Mikael said. “She’s awake, almost.”

  Cerradine glanced at him in the entryway’s dim light. “Is she well?”

  “Scared,” Mikael admitted.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  Mikael met Cerradine’s eyes, not knowing how to respond. He’d be much better once they had her away from here. He’d feel better if she were safe, away from these people, and away from whatever her captors intended for her.

  The door opened again, revealing a tallish Larossan man in a burgundy velvet overrobe. His hair appeared rumpled, as if he’d been fetched from his bed. He drew himself up and attempted to appear dignified, the letter from the king in his hand. “Who exactly are you?”

  A couple of inches taller than the man, Cerradine managed a far more impressive appearance. “Colonel Jon Cerradine, of the Army’s Intelligence and Investigation Office. The patient in question is in my employ, so the king felt I would be a fitting choice to retrieve her.”

  “The patient was committed by her father. There could be no question of her mental state. We were not to release her until he came for her.” The man glanced at the writ. “What assurance can we have that this isn’t a forgery?”

  “None at the moment,” Cerradine allowed. “But the young woman’s father has been dead for three months now. The king has requested her return directly into his custody.”

  Fury and frustration flooded through Mikael’s senses, replacing the fear. An odd taste stung his mouth, foul and bitter. “They’re drugging her again, sir,” Mikael said. “I’m going to lose touch with her.”

  The warden’s eye widened at Mikael’s announcement. “What is he talking about?”

  Cerradine ignored the man’s question. Instead he asked Mikael, “Can you find her right now?”

  “Yes, sir.” He was sure he could hold on to his sense of her for a few more minutes.

  Cerradine drew a pistol out of his jacket and leveled it at the warden’s face. He shoved his way through the door, forcing the man to stumble back. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but we prefer not to wait.”

  Mikael slipped in through the now-open doorway. In the midst of a grand foyer, an elegant staircase led away into the upper reaches of the manor. Doors shut off access in both directions, hiding the chambers of the first floor. He heard voices, calling through those shut doors, an odd unnerving murmur. Even in the dead of night, the denizens of the place were awake and restless.

  Confusion dragged at his mind, as if dozens of people tried to speak to him at once. Mikael closed his eyes, trying hard to pick Shironne’s voice out of the tumult.

  “Mikael,” the colonel’s voice cut through his concentration. He handed Mikael a ring of keys he’d evidently removed from the warden’s custody. “I’ll stay with our host and explain the situation. Find her.”

  There, in an eastern ell of the house. Mikael could barely hear her failing whisper among the voices calling to him, but he fixed the direction in his mind. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  MIKAEL STRODE DOWN a dim hallway lit only by a kerosene lamp placed on a very high shelf. He sensed no emotions in the nearest rooms and guessed they must be for visitors, if such a place as this had them. The halls were as chilly as he feared and lacked rugs or runners to dampen the cold of the stone floor. The arched windows held shutters rather than draperies, which did little to warm the rooms.

  There had to be a turn somewhere. He finally reached a locked door, which opened after he’d tried the sixth key. It revealed a vast hall, perhaps once a ballroom, lit by kerosene lamps placed on shelves high up on the walls.

  This was the source of the voices he’d heard.

  Even in the dead of night, more than a dozen Larossan women occupied the room. They wore plain gray tunics over dark trousers, some soiled, others clean. No petticoats. Thin, heavy, dark-skinned, fair—all the women seemed alike in their neglect.

  Deborah had called this asylum one of the “moderately reputable” facilities, but this section, at least, seemed a madhouse. Patients sat unattended in chairs or on the floor. One woman perched on the stairwell leading up to the second floor. Others wandered aimlessly, one gazing at her hands as if uncertain of their reality. A wardress in khaki stood out among the gray figures, her wide eyes fixing on Mikael’s black overcoat. She alone appeared to notice him pausing at the door.

  Talking, moaning, and crying rung in Mikael’s ears, making it difficult to assign sounds to their makers. The confusion and loneliness in the room tore at him, the back of his throat aching in response. The noise and clatter hammered on his senses.

  Mikael willed calm and quiet. He forced his emotion outward, a slow blanketing of the space about him. There was some value to being loud. He could affect the ambient in a room merely by willing others to share his emotions, even those who weren’t sensitives, to some extent.

  Voices stilled among the din, a sure sign that he’d been heard. Since they weren’t trained to control their talents, many Larossan sensitives drifted into insanity. Perhaps those who’d quieted hadn’t yet reached that edge.

  Mikael focused his attention then, trying to pinpoint his sense of Shironne. Upstairs, he decided, and headed to the stairwell. He mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time. A woman sat sobbing, her arms around a post, until he tried to pass.

  She grabbed his leg with weak fingers. “Where are you going, Angel?”

  Mikael stared at her, chilled by her naming him so. That was the nickname Shironne had laid on him—the Angel of Death. He shook himself free, ignoring her renewed wailing.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, Mikael felt his contact with Shironne fading. He ran down the hall, grasping at that last thread of connection. There were fewer patients here, and those sat immobile, seemingly unaware of his presence. Drugged. Mikael reached the end of the wing, turning into an unlit passage. One lone woman sat by the window at the end of the hall, barely visible as she stared out into the darkness.

  Mikael pivoted, trying to decide which door was the right one. His sense of Shironne had faded to the barest whisper. He chose the next to last on the right, where a light shone under the door. He turned the handle, but it didn’t give, so he fumbled with the keys, attempting one after another until, finally, the latch turned.

  Lit by a pair of hand-held lanterns, the chilly room inside had several beds in a neat row. A female patient lay on each bed, apparently asleep. They were all restrained, Mikael saw. His blood ran cold.

  Two women in khaki started toward him—more wardresses. One protested, babbling about restrictions and permission. Mikael ignored them and crossed to the bed they’d just left.

  Shironne lay unmoving there, her bare hands and feet secured to the sides of the bed with leather cuffs. Her struggles had rumpled the plain patient’s gown she wore, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. Mikael began unfastening the cuff holding her right arm, fumbling in his agitation. He could sense her mind, but only like a distant stranger, and even that contact was fading.

  “You can’t do that,” a wardress protested. “She’s violent. These women are all violent.”

  Mikael glanced at the woman. “We have a writ giving us custody of this girl, signe
d by the king.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “The king?”

  They had decided not to reveal that Shironne was the king’s niece. Rumors of this would follow her for years if the connection was made obvious. So as much as he wanted to throw that in the woman’s face, Mikael bit his tongue and ignored her disbelief.

  He freed Shironne’s right hand, then firmly nudged the wardress out of his way so he could unbuckle the cuff at Shironne’s ankle. Shironne lay still, not responding to his presence. The other patients in the room were either sound sleepers or too drugged to wake. Mikael suspected the latter.

  “Where are her clothes?” he demanded. When Shironne came back to herself, the foreign clothing would distress her oversensitive skin.

  The wardress made a flustered sound. Mikael repeated the question more loudly, and the woman hurried away.

  He freed Shironne’s other foot and wrist. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held her hand, hunting for some response. Her body remained inert like a cloth doll. Her brown hair fanned about her head, her thick braid cut away. In the dim light, she looked pale and fragile. Hoping his hand was clean, Mikael laid one palm against her cheek and turned her face in his direction.

  The wardress returned. “Her clothing has already been sent to the poorhouse. All new arrivals . . .”

  Not in the time that had passed, surely. But Mikael didn’t have time to fight that fight. “What did you give her?” he demanded.

  The wardress shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. The doctor brought it.”

  Mikael picked up a glass from the small stand next to the bed. A brownish residue remained in the bottom, mixed with water. The acrid smell made his nose tingle, but the name of the scent eluded him. He set the glass back on the stand.

  He touched his fingers to Shironne’s cheek again and called her name into the quiet of her darkened mind.

  From one of the other beds, a sedated patient repeated Shironne’s name.

  The wardress shrieked and ran from the room.

  Shironne’s fingers curled into his trouser leg. Somewhere deep inside, she knew he was there. Mikael tugged her hand loose and lifted her into his arms. Her hand curled around his neck, grasping the edge of his coat. She felt even lighter than the last time he’d carried her this way. He balanced her weight awkwardly on a raised leg, jerked the blanket off the bed with a partially freed hand, and wrapped it around her as best he could.

  Heading back the way he came, Mikael maneuvered his way down the stairs and to the receiving area, ignoring the protest from the wardress and cries from the inhabitants. He wanted Shironne out of this place.

  The warden and the colonel still argued in the entryway. “You can’t take her,” The warden insisted. “We have legal custody of the girl. Her father—”

  Cerradine told the warden what he thought of Shironne’s late father. Mikael stood throughout, his light burden in his arms, his ears burning. Cerradine certainly had learned to curse well in the Army. “Take her to the carriage, Mr. Lee. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Mikael edged past the intimidated warden, managing to turn the door handle with one hand. It swung open, and he walked out into the chilly night air, breathing a sigh of relief. He heard raised voices in his wake but didn’t care.

  He made for the slowly moving carriage, and the driver stopped when he saw Mikael with his burden. He set the brake and jumped down from the box to help with the door. Mikael pulled himself into the carriage and sat down, Shironne unmoving in his arms.

  “Where’s the colonel?” the driver asked.

  Cerradine emerged from the front door just then and walked calmly to the carriage. “Can you get us back to the main road?” he asked the driver.

  He pointed to where the half-moon now shone. “Shouldn’t be a problem, sir, long as you don’t want me to go fast.”

  Cerradine climbed inside, taking the seat across from Mikael and his helpless burden. He pulled the door shut behind him. The carriage swayed as the driver mounted the box again.

  “What happened, sir?” Mikael asked when the colonel had settled.

  “Did I shoot him? No. But given the choice between following a several months old commitment order from her dead father or a writ releasing her into our custody with the royal seal barely cooled, he opted to obey the king.” The colonel looked out the window, gazing back at the old palace. “We wouldn’t have gotten away with that if more staff had been here, Mikael.”

  The carriage began its lumbering turn to escape the drive, and Cerradine lit the inside lamps, lessening the gloom. Mikael looked at Shironne’s face, but when he tried to pull away, her hand tightened in his collar. “She recognizes me,” he offered in explanation. “I think she’s desperate to have anything familiar about.”

  Cerradine cast him a sardonic glance. “She’s known me longer than she’s known you, Mikael.”

  “I wish I knew what they gave her,” Mikael said, changing the topic.

  “Should have brought Deborah with us.”

  In retrospect, Mikael couldn’t help but agree. Then again, Deborah would have wanted to stay and inspect every inch of that asylum. The clean uniforms of the attendants might give the illusion of sanitary conditions, but she would want that proven to her satisfaction. The place hadn’t smelled quite right. “Best to get her back to the capital and see what Deborah says then.”

  For some time, they continued in silence as the carriage rolled on. Mikael tried to shift Shironne off his lap onto the seat next to him. When he did, her arm tightened around his neck as if she had no intention of letting go. Mikael thought he felt her presence then—a faint glimmer in the darkness of her mind, quickly hidden. “They last drugged her while we were there, sir. If the cycle stays the same, she should wake in a little less than four hours.”

  Cerradine nodded, then propped his feet up against the opposite bench. “Wake me when she comes around.”

  Mikael sat in the silence, the colonel having already fallen asleep. How does he do that?

  Shironne shifted slightly in his arms, insinuating the other arm around his shoulder, turning her face into his chest as if she’d merely fallen asleep. Mikael opened his overcoat as best he could and wrapped it around her, blanket and all. He gave in finally, settling his arms around her and resting his chin atop her head.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  SHIRONNE WOKE INTO a wooly darkness, swaying and suffocated. She cried out and struggled to get loose from the clutching arms that held her prisoner. They released her unexpectedly, and she tumbled down, her bottom coming into contact with a hard floor and her bare foot striking someone’s knee.

  Pale lights fluttered through her vision, making her want to retch. Voices spoke at her, jumbled and distorted. “I’m going to be sick,” she moaned, pressing a hand to her mouth.

  The world seemed flat and dead around her again. Unknown hands set her aright, lifting her off the floor of the carriage and onto a seat.

  She was cold now. The pale lights danced, swaying and lurching in a dizzying manner. She pressed the back of her hand harder against her mouth, trying to quell the tide of nausea the flooded through her.

  The sickening movement stopped, and the door of the carriage swung open. Shironne clamped her eyes shut. Hands pulled at her, a man lifting her into his arms. He swung out of the carriage and set her on the ground, her bare feet coming in contact with chilly grass and feeling nothing but that.

  “Are you all right?” The voice cut through her confusion, oddly familiar, but with no intonations of emotion behind it.

  Something heavy enveloped her. His overcoat, she realized, still warm from his body. She recognized the smell of it—wool and perspiration and the scent of lemon that told her he was still trying to lighten his hair. “Mikael? Is that you?”

  His hand settled on her shoulder. “I’m right here.”

  She opened her eyes, and a vague blue world swam before them. She started to turn to face him, but everything spun
with that movement. She saw the blurred outline of trees and her feet, pale amid the blue grass. She shut her eyes again, the nausea returning, making her overwarm when she should be cold.

  The hand on her shoulder tightened. She couldn’t sense him at all—Mikael, whom she should hear better than anyone else in the world. Her voice rasped when she spoke, and she recalled that she’d screamed her throat raw. “I can’t feel you.”

  “I can’t sense you either.” His voice sounded calm, as if he wanted her not to fear the stripping away of all her powers. “The doctors drugged you. It should wear off soon.”

  “I can’t feel the ground. I can’t feel anything.” Shironne heaved a shuddering breath. “I hate this.”

  “We’re here. We’re taking you back to the Fortress.”

  “It’s so dark,” she said.

  “It’s almost dawn,” he told her sensibly, his voice trailing off on the last word.

  If she had been like before, she would have known what ran through his mind. If she had been like before, she would have sensed the warmth of his presence, a welcome sense of belonging with him. Now her mind had gone blank, leaving her alone. Carefully, Shironne turned around and placed a hand on his arm for balance. She opened her eyes.

  If having her sight back came at the cost of losing her sense of Mikael, her acute sense of everything else, she didn’t want it. She wanted to be the way she was supposed to be.

  Oh, God, what if it doesn’t go away?

  She would have to learn to live all over again, and the very idea shook her to her core.

  Shuddering, she forced herself to open her eyes. She could see the pale blur of her hand on a dark sleeve. Mikael put his other hand under her elbow, steadying her. His sleeve must be black, but in the nighttime, color leached away so she couldn’t be sure. Her hand looked strange, her mother’s slender fingers having replaced her own rounder ones. She hadn’t seen her own hand since she was twelve.