by Olivie Blake
Mental chronometry. She was playing with his concept of time, collecting it for her use. She conjured, for purposes of allusion, a fashionable set of thin-plated armor, tucking the grains of excess time away.
The process of traversing the thorns was merely designed to waste her energy. Working her own magic inside his head was exponentially more effort than doing it in the physical universe; power worked like a traffic jam that way. One car slowing down meant a wave of amplified delay, and likewise, the use of magic outside Dalton’s mind compounded to a phantom degree of effort inside it. If she used the extra time she collected, she would exhaust herself. If she did not, she would run out. It was a clumsy set of rules, but clever enough, particularly for someone who was not primarily telepathic.
Not that any of this was primitive in the least; the kingdom Dalton had built in his head could not have been erected in a day, not when a lesser medeian would not have managed it in a lifetime. The labyrinth was unstable, constantly shifting, but grandiose and complex. Whatever the secret was that Dalton Ellery had locked away, it did not want to be found, and he must have had extraordinary capabilities to be so capable of keeping it from her.
She expected, given the sophistication of his mental defenses, something to force her out; flame was easy for the mind to conjure, and small brush fires leapt up through cracks, incandescent tongues to light her path. When she was attacked by spectral guards, she wasn’t surprised. They had been hastily cloned from one conception, and all fought mechanically—the same pattern of blows, over and over. Again, impressive for the work of an amateur, but this was only a test. Dalton had already made it clear he didn’t want her to die, so perhaps that was why his mind could not truly bring itself to threaten her. It was only designed to give her something to prove.
She took the tower steps two at a time, sprinkling sand as she went. The armor she’d made had begun to rust. She, corporeally, was fading. Time was running out.
The castle itself was well formed, uncreatively imagined. Based, most likely, on somewhere Dalton had once been, though there were details she hadn’t expected: each individual torch was lit upon the wall with a flame that responded uniquely to changes in the air, and the colors in the tapestries must have been selected, not recalled. She took the central staircase, following the path set for her, but could see that the rooms flanking it were furnished and filled; they were crafted, not copied.
The corridors narrowed, leading her upwards from landing to landing until she stepped onto a winding, circular staircase. At the top of the stairs were three tower rooms; these, unlike the others, were shut. She had time to open all three, but only long enough for a glimpse. If she wanted to fully search their contents, she would have to choose one.
Inside the first door was herself. That Parisa—Dalton’s Parisa—turned in Dalton’s arms to look at where the real Parisa stood in the corridor, expectant. Ah, so he had given her the opportunity to see what he truly felt about her, then. Uninteresting.
She opened the second door, finding a memory. A stranger, and Dalton with a knife in his hand. So that was what had happened. Tempting.
The third door contained only a locked chest. To break it might require more time than she currently had, though she paused when she realized the setting. It was a Roman plaza; a forum. The Forum.
She hesitated, stepping inside, but then stopped. This could wait. That, or it was an answer she could find on her own.
So she turned, darting back into the hallway to thrust open the second door.
Almost immediately, she was hurled into Dalton’s consciousness, living it from his memory, though it had not begun where she thought.
“—you sure?”
It was a whisper from a young man to a young Dalton, who was nearly unrecognizable. His hair was the same, his appearance as meticulous as always, but there was something about his face that was distinct. A decade younger, true, but filled with something.
No. Absent something.
“Once we do this, we can’t go back.” It was a tawny-skinned young man who spoke with an unfamiliar accent. “Can you live with it?”
Dalton was only half-listening. He was charming something idly; the air surrounding his open book flickered and twisted, a small storm forming above the page.
“I wouldn’t have to,” Dalton said. Eerily, he turned to Parisa. “People think it’s the meaning of life that matters,” he said, and she blinked. She wasn’t sure how he was manipulating his memory to speak with her, but there was no doubt that he was. “It’s not the meaning. Everyone wants a purpose, but there is no purpose. There is only alive and not alive. Do you like this?” he asked, abruptly shifting in tone. “I made it for you.”
He turned back to the other young man before Parisa could answer.
“I could bring you back,” he suggested.
Even Parisa could see that this younger Dalton did not sound genuine.
“I thought you said you couldn’t do that?” the young man asked.
“I said I don’t. But of course I can.” Dalton twisted again for another sidelong glance, giving Parisa an unnerving smile. “I’m an animator,” he told her, which the other young man did not appear to hear. “Death does not register for me with any sort of permanence. Except my own, which I suppose explains what I did next.”
He turned back to the young man. “There is nothing to say we can’t bring you back,” he said. “Maybe it’s an additional test? Maybe there’s always an animator, and therefore no one actually dies.”
There was a flash of something; a knife. It glinted in Parisa’s own hand.
Then she felt a lurch; the unmistakable entry of the blade into flesh.
Then, without warning, she was sitting alone.
“I shouldn’t be doing this, but you have to listen to me.” It was Atlas Blakely, pacing, and Parisa glanced down, recognizing Dalton’s clasped fingers as her own. “It’s you they want to kill, Dalton. The others have agreed on you.”
“How do you know?” came out of Parisa’s mouth, which was Dalton’s.
“They’re afraid of you. You unnerve them.”
“Rather small of them,” said Dalton irreverently, before conceding, “Fine. Let them try.”
“No.” Atlas spun. “You must change their minds. You must survive.”
“Why?”
“The Society needs you, whether they see it or not. What can they do with him? There have been others like him before. Men like him become wealthy, become rich, that’s all. They contribute to the global oligarchy and that’s it, that’s the end. You are necessary in other ways.”
There was a rip, a small tear, and then Dalton was sitting before her again like a sunspot Parisa tried fruitlessly to blink away, returning to her armored form within his mental tower’s small room. They were alone this time, and Dalton—this young version of him—was leaning forward, inches from her.
“They got used to me,” he said. “And I didn’t like killing. I’m an animator,” he added, as if that explained everything. She supposed it did, in part.
“You bring life,” she remarked.
“I bring life,” he agreed.
She could see the evidence that he had been tampered with, the jerks of his motions so unlike the fastidious Dalton she knew. It was unclear how honest he was being with her; his memories had clearly been altered, either by the corruption of his past experience or by the clever hand of his present self.
“Are you using me?” she asked him, wondering if she might have permitted herself to be lured somewhere unwise.
His younger self smiled brilliantly.
“I wish you’d seen the other room,” he told her. “We’d have both enjoyed it immensely. This one is dull.”
“You lied to him,” she observed. “You told him you would bring him back?”
“He never actually agreed to do it,” said Dalton. “I think he knew I wouldn’t.”
“Kill him, or bring him back?”
“Neither, I suspect.
”
“So he told the others to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“And you persuaded them otherwise?”
“Yes.”
“Was it difficult?”
“No. They were just happy it wasn’t them.”
“And why didn’t you bring him back?”
“Too much work,” said Dalton, shrugging. “And anyway, I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“About everything.” Another shrug. “Someone always dies. They have to.”
This version of him wasn’t at all what she imagined.
“What’s the Forum?” she asked him.
“Boring,” said Dalton. “Society rejects.”
“You don’t find that interesting?”
“Everyone has enemies.”
She couldn’t help feeling a mismatch; some glitch of something, details that didn’t follow.
“Why are you still here?” she asked him.
He stole forward, prowling towards her sleekly, and in that moment, she registered what he was. He flickered slightly, moving in bursts.
“Are you an animation?” she asked, forgetting her previous question.
Dalton’s mouth twisted wryly. His lips parted.
Then Parisa felt a hand on her collar, dragging her backwards.
“Get out,” said a deep voice. “Now.”
She jolted upright, or tried to, but found that the return to her own consciousness had left her lying paralyzed on her side. The real Dalton was holding her head, and gradually, as she resumed occupation in her body, she realized she had been seizing. She was choking, half-retching on what she registered belatedly was her tongue.
She had overexerted herself; the hourglass beside her had long since run out, and by the look on Dalton’s face, it had taken a significant amount of effort to wake her.
She scrambled away from him, blinking. “What was that?”
He frowned. “What was what?”
“That voice at the end, was that—?”
She stopped, blinking.
There was something about Dalton’s face now; not that it was older, which it was. He must have been in his early twenties in his memory, but this was more than that. The expression he wore was different now, more steeped in concern. She had not tried to read his younger self’s thoughts at the time, thinking she was speaking directly with them—they were, after all, both inside his head—but retroactively, she could see she’d been wrong.
Whatever he had been then, his current self did not contain any trace of it. It was a loose thread fraying; something that had come undone, and then been severed.
“You’re not whole,” she realized aloud, “are you?”
He stared at her. “What?”
“That thing, the animation, it was—”
“You never started the test,” he cut in slowly, and then it was her turn to stare at him.
“What?”
“Where were you?” he pressed her, concerned now. “I could feel you, but—”
She felt a shudder of uncertainty.
“What was it?” she asked. “Your test.”
“A bank vault,” he said. “With a combination lock. A puzzle, in essence.”
So what had she broken into inside his head, then? Strange. More than strange. The situation he described sounded straightforward, even elementary. In short, something she would expect from someone who was not a telepath, unlike the thing she’d found.
“What did your bank vault contain?” she asked warily.
“A bit of parchment, nothing important… It was only supposed to take a few minutes to find. Where were you?” Dalton said again, more urgently, but this time, Parisa didn’t answer.
Wherever she had been, she was growing increasingly certain that Atlas Blakely had been the one to pull her out.
REINA
They were given leave around the December holidays to return home if they wished, which Reina firmly did not.
“Shouldn’t someone stay behind to tend the wards?” she asked Dalton privately.
“Atlas and I will be here,” he said. “It’s only a weekend.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” she said, displeased with the inconvenience.
“Most medeians don’t,” he agreed, “but the Society hosts its annual events during the mortal holidays.”
Reina frowned. “We’re not invited to the Society events?”
“You’re potential initiates, not members.”
“But we’re the ones who live here.”
“Yes, and one of you,” Dalton said neutrally, “will not remain by the end of the year, so no. You’re not invited.”
The idea of going home (a meaningless concept by now) was unfathomable. Detestable, even. She was currently in the middle of a fascinating manuscript she had seen Parisa with; a medeian work on the mystical study of dreams by Ibn Sirin, which led Reina to a curiosity about the concept of realms within the subconscious. Nico had expressed some interest in it as well, which she considered a point of distinct significance. As with the runes he had asked her to translate, there was no telling what he wanted a book on dreams for; he had no interest in historical psychology, or in anything he couldn’t turn into a miracle of physics (Nico was very sulky when he was not permitted to be incomprehensibly astounding), but regardless, it was nice to have someone to discuss it with. The others were usually very private about their research, guarding their theories as secrets.
Nico was always the most open with her, going so far as to invite her to New York for their winter recess. “You’ll loathe Max,” he said happily while they were sparring, referring to someone Reina gathered to be one of his flat mates. “You’ll want to kill him and then five minutes after you’ve left you’ll realize you actually love him. Gideon is the opposite,” he added. “He’ll be the best person you’ve ever met, and then you’ll notice he’s nicked your favorite sweater.”
Reina faked a hard right, which Nico read like a book. He slid backwards, one hand on his cheek, the other falling with inconceivable arrogance to match the quirk of his smile, and gave her a little beckon of uh huh, try again.
The idea of staying in a place occupied by boys in their early twenties gave Reina an unpleasant itch. “No thanks,” she said.
Nico was not the type to be insulted by these things, and predictably, he wasn’t. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, ducking a wide hook as Reina caught Libby glancing over at them, a little half-frown on her lips. She was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend, or so she said, though Reina wasn’t convinced. Libby’s boyfriend (none of them could remember his name, or perhaps Libby had never actually told them what it was) seemed to exclusively call at unwelcome times, leading Libby to make a face of irritation when she glanced at her screen. She denied her annoyance, of course, most vehemently to Nico, but as far as Reina could tell, Libby’s Pavlovian response to any mention of her boyfriend was to quickly stifle a grimace.
In anticipation of their brief leave, the others mostly shared Reina’s reluctance. Tristan appeared to dread the prospect of leaving, probably because he had burned such a wide variety of bridges in order to come in the first place; Parisa was irritated about being temporarily deposed, prissy as always; Callum, true to form, didn’t seem to care much either way. Only Nico seemed to have any genuine interest in going home; then again, Nico was so adaptable in general that Reina suspected he could make anything comfortable enough to stand it for a time.
The past few months had been relatively peaceful ones. They had all fallen into a rhythm of sorts, and the disruption of their fragile peace felt especially inconvenient, even troubling. True, they hadn’t bonded, per se, but they had at least warmed enough to exist in each other’s physical space without persisting tension. Timing, Reina thought, was a sensitive thing, and the house plants made no secret of mourning her impending absence.
In the end, Reina decided to stay in London. She had never ventured beyond the grounds of the Society�
��s manor house, so now she was ostensibly a tourist in her own city. On her first day, she toured the Globe Theatre, then wandered the Tower. On the second day, she took a brisk morning walk through the Kyoto Garden (the trees shivered cheerfully, thrumming with frosted whispers as they recounted their origins), followed by a visit to the British Museum.
She had been looking at the Utamaro painting of the Japanese courtesan when someone cleared his throat behind her, causing her to bristle with impatience.
“Purchased,” said a South Asian gentleman with thinning hair, addressing her in English.
“What?” asked Reina.
“Purchased,” the gentleman repeated. “Not stolen.”
His accent didn’t sound entirely English; it had a mix of origins.
“Apologies,” he amended, “I believe the technical term is ‘acquired.’ The British do hate to be accused of theft.”
“As do most people, I assume,” Reina said, hoping that would be that.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
“There is some service to it, at least,” the gentleman continued. “Here the treasures of the world are on display, not hidden away.”
Reina nodded vacantly, turning to leave, but the gentleman turned after her, falling into step at her side.
“Every five years, six of the world’s most talented medeians disappear,” he remarked, and Reina’s mouth tightened. “A few of them emerge two years later in positions of power and privilege. I don’t suppose you have any theories?”
“What do you want?” Reina asked impatiently. If that was considered rude, so be it. She didn’t feel any particular need to be polite.
“We expected you to be in Tokyo,” said the man. A continuation of his earlier thought, as if she had not interjected at all. “We’d have been here sooner, in fact, but you’re not easy to track down. With a family like yours—”
“I am not in contact with my family,” Reina said. “Nor do I wish to be bothered.”
“Miss Mori, if you would indulge me for just a moment—”
“You clearly know who I am,” said Reina. “So shouldn’t you know, then, that I have turned down every offer I receive? Whatever you imagine I accepted, I did not. And whatever it is you plan to offer me, I decline it as well.”