Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  She gasps.

  “What . . . what is—”

  “Vivienne Warfield,” I say again, my tone going deeper. “It is time you remember who and what you are. You know magic is real. You know this, because you are the Oracle.”

  I don’t really know what I expect. Maybe for the words to trigger some latent knowledge, some spark of power. Instead, she just stares at me, dumbstruck. I continue.

  “Your husband says you’ve always felt nostalgic around the circus. Have you ever wondered why? Why all of this feels so familiar? It’s because you once lived here, Vivienne. You once worked and fought for this circus. And then your memories were burned away. But they’re still there. Hiding. And right now, we need those memories to come out.”

  It feels so, so lame when I say it, but I have no other clue how to begin piercing the walls that Kingston put up around her mind. Still, she says nothing. Just stares at me as if I’m insane. Which, really, were I in her shoes, I’d be thinking as well.

  I don’t think my usual tactics will work, but they’re all I have to fall back on. So I grab a butterfly knife from my pocket and flourish it open. This one isn’t designed to kill. The enchantments woven through the metal are meant to inflict pain, excruciating pain, but it’s relatively nonlethal. Plus, it has a happy little charm hidden in its midst—it will dispel magic. Maybe not the full extent of Kingston’s work, but it’s a start.

  “I didn’t want to have to do this,” I say. “But I need you to remember. I need whatever magic is holding your frail memory together to crack. I need you to know what you once were. And that means you’re going to have to hurt.”

  I lean forward, gently press the tip of the dagger to her thigh.

  “I’d say this will hurt me more than it hurts you, but I don’t like lying.”

  “You’re actually going to do this?” she asks. Way too calmly. I look at her eyes then and see that there isn’t the slightest note of fear. “You’re actually going to harm your own mother?”

  “I have to,” I begin. Then my voice catches.

  Your own mother?

  “I never said anything about you being my mother,” I whisper.

  Vivienne smiles.

  “Not as stupid as I thought,” the woman says. “But not as smart, either. Do you really think I’d let you do this to her? Let you harm the one woman who’s shown an ounce of tenderness in all of this?”

  “Who are you?” I ask. I don’t move the dagger away. My other hand is already going for the sword I’d shoved in my hip earlier.

  “You should have seen right through,” Vivienne says. Only it’s not her voice now. It sounds like the changeling’s. “Really, Claire. I thought Mab had trained you better. She’d be ashamed.”

  “I said, who are you?” I jab the blade down, through the woman’s thigh. It doesn’t slice into flesh, however—it goes right through, as if I’m stabbing cloth wrapped over air.

  “I will never let you hurt her,” the changeling’s voice says. I watch in horror as my mother’s flesh unravels, as the magic of the blade unknits the spell that bound her together. Threads fray from her clothing, flesh fades to twigs. And as her body crumples in on itself in a pile of dead leaves and spent magic, I hear the changeling’s final words: “I will never let her get used by the Fey again.”

  It’s over in seconds.

  I sit there, staring at the leaves and rope littered over Vivienne’s bed. A fucking Construct. The changeling made a Construct to take Vivienne’s place. Which means the both of them are . . . somewhere. I chuck the knife at the wall and wave off the enchantments sealing me in.

  Eli’s waiting for me right outside the door.

  “I take it things aren’t going well?” he muses.

  “It wasn’t her,” I say through gritted teeth. I fully expect him to say something sarcastic as I storm away from the trailer toward the outer rim of the show. The fact that he doesn’t make a witty comment speaks louder than words.

  We’ve lost our only lead. The changeling must have snuck her out in the middle of the night after overhearing my conversation with Kingston. After all, Kingston’s wards only kept people out. I don’t know how she dodged the Summer Fey and their runes, but I fully plan on asking her when I have an iron dagger to her chest.

  I know where they’re going. The one place where, if you don’t want to be found, you can’t.

  If they’re in the Wildness, though, I’m going to need a way to find them.

  Seventeen

  I don’t head into the Wildness right away. Time might be ticking, but I’m not going in there blindly. If I’m going to find my mother, I need help.

  I practically run through the streets of the Winter Kingdom. It’s only when I’m halfway to the castle that I realize something’s wrong. My footsteps are far too loud, and the night air far too dark. Despite the panic in my chest, I pause and look around. Sure, the streets of snow and black ice are empty, but that’s nothing new. But there’s something about the stillness. The cold. The dark. It’s no longer a winter chill. This is beyond frostbite and malice; this is emptiness. I glance up, and the sky—usually studded with stars—is black. Void. For years, I thought the Winter Kingdom was a miniature underground city, since at times I thought I could see a cavern arching overhead, studded with glowing jewels. But tonight, all I feel is a vastness, as though at any moment gravity could release and I would tumble end over end into that gaping oblivion. No one around to even hear me scream.

  Pull yourself together.

  I wrap my coat tighter around me and continue my jog. Eli’s waiting for me back at the gate—he’s not allowed where I’m going. Which just makes the sense of being alone more potent.

  I don’t head into the castle itself, but down one of the many side alleys that cobweb their way from the central hub. This one is usually desolate, but even now there’s a greater emptiness hanging in the corners; the shops I pass, once filled with mysterious potions and charms, are shuttered or dim, the only light coming from the rare flickering lamps strung over the street. And as I wend my way lower down, the emptiness grows. Has everyone gone? I wonder. My heart sinks. Has William?

  “What are you doing here?” Mab’s voice echoes.

  I nearly slip on a patch of black ice as I about-face to confront her.

  “The changeling. She took her.”

  Mab’s eyes narrow. She isn’t in a sleek black dress tonight. She isn’t wearing a crown or ruby lipstick. She is bedecked from neck to toe in black armor, overlapping panels of leather and silver that look like dragon scales. Her hair is twisted up into a high bun, held in place with a stiletto. The dagger, not the heel.

  “What do you mean, took her? Took her where?”

  “I don’t know,” I hiss back. “But I can only assume it was the Wildness. Which is why I’m here. To see if William can make me something to find her.”

  I reach into my jacket and pull out the pendant Mab gave me earlier. It feels like months ago. Was that really just a few days?

  “You said Mom had this last. It has a trace of her energy. I can’t sense it, but maybe William can amplify it. Use it to track her.”

  “You lost her. You are slipping up.”

  I laugh. I woke up thinking I was going to kill my mother. I am so over this shit.

  “Look around, Mab. I’m not the one slipping up here. Looks like you’ve already lost most of your kingdom. Is this what I’m fighting for now? Some empty real estate?”

  Her slap is swift, and the sting of it pierces with the cold night air. Rather than rub my jaw, I smile.

  “That’s what I thought. I know why you sent me after Viv. Not just because you needed my blood, but because you couldn’t face it. You failed her. Just as you’re failing your kingdom.”

  “When this is over,” Mab says slowly, “we are going to have a long talk about your employment.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. Throw me away when I’m useless. Just like you did to Viv.”

  I pull out a dagg
er and stick the point to my throat. “Don’t worry,” I continue. “I’ll do it myself. I’d rather die than live with your retirement package. At least if I fail, you won’t have to put so much energy into forgetting me.”

  “If you fail, there will be no one left to remember.”

  As if to accentuate her words, a tremor ripples under my feet. Icicles crash from nearby buildings, and my hand slips just enough that the blade grazes my skin, drawing blood. Thankfully this one was only enchanted against Fey.

  “Faerie is dying, Claire.” She looks around. “Not just my kingdom, but the realm. As my subjects leave, my power fades. Without Winter, the balance will be thrown off. And I know Oberon fares no better. If we fall, Faerie falls. And if that happens, the mortal world will be soon behind.” The gaze she gives me is withering.

  “I know the Pale Queen has approached you. I know she promises you freedom and glory. But that is a lie.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I know all that you do and see, my child,” she says. The runes along my spine warm in that moment, and not from any magic of mine. “Those markings bind you to me just as strongly as your contract.”

  “I have a job to do.” I know she thinks this will scare me into doing her bidding. But I’m beyond being scared.

  “Yes. And everything rides on your shoulders. Find her, Claire. And do not shy from what you must do. The Oracle will tell you the Pale Queen’s location, just as she should be able to tell you how to kill her.”

  “I know. I already figured that out. Now, get out of my way so I can do my job.”

  Her lips tighten, but she doesn’t slap me again. She turns and vanishes into shadow.

  “Bitch,” I mutter, and then continue on my way.

  My footsteps echo like gunshots as I race to the workshop door. I fully expect the place to be boarded up. But when I knock on the metal door—the paneling so dexterously made that it looks like aged wood—a small window slides open before I finish the third pound.

  “Heffy,” I sigh in relief.

  The golem’s burning eye stares out at me, unblinking and unwavering. Normally, he’d ask me a question, like why I was there or whom I wanted to see. This time, the window just slides shut and the door opens.

  “Come,” he says gruffly.

  I don’t know who made Hephaestus, but they were definitely playing God. The golem’s hulking shape barely fits in the hallway, his form entirely made of cogs and ticking gears of brass and copper and steel. Deep within his chest, a red flame burns, the heat of it pressing through the cold that seems to linger over my skin. The golem isn’t chatty by any stretch of the imagination, but I have no doubt that he could single-handedly defend the entire workshop, if it came down to it.

  He moves slowly, lumbering his way down the hall and past a few different rooms, the heat and scent of sparks and metal growing with every footstep. I want to brush past him; I know where I’m going, and I don’t have time for this pace. He’d crush me if I tried, though. Every slow step makes me wonder just how far my mother is getting from me. I can only hope the Wildness is interested in reuniting family.

  Is it my imagination, or is it quieter down here as well? I never saw much of Mab’s jewelers—they always kept to themselves—but today, especially, the workshop seems unusually still.

  “Where’d everyone go, Heffy?” I ask, not expecting an answer.

  “Mutiny,” he responds, and then goes silent.

  I honestly didn’t think that was possible. Mab’s ensured that none of us can go against her—it’s written into everyone’s contracts. Maybe Hephaestus doesn’t fully understand the word?

  We reach our destination before I can try to interrogate him. The golem gestures me toward the workroom and then turns, disappearing back into the shadows of the hall.

  I beeline toward William, who sits alone in the massive room at a table in the corner, hunched over something small and glinting. No one else hammers or solders or rivets in here. Just William, patiently working in the cavernous silence.

  “I need something,” I say when I near.

  He glances up with a start, his pallid skin looking thinner than ever, and his eyes shadowed with sleeplessness.

  “Claire?” he asks. His voice is shaky, as are his movements as he straightens. Not that that’s any different than usual. But something in his voice . . . He’s always viewed me as a daughter—I know that. And I’ve tried not to use it. Now, he actually sounds frightened of me. It’s not the most heartening.

  “Hi, sorry. Yes. I don’t have time to chat.”

  I pull out the necklace.

  “I need you to make me something. Something that can trace the last owner of this. And I need it five minutes ago.”

  He looks from my eyes to the pendant. When he catches sight of the heavy obsidian, his gaze goes from distracted to focused like a hawk.

  “Where did you get that?” he asks softly, yet forcefully.

  “Mab,” I say. “She said it used to belong to my mother.”

  He holds out his hand, and I drop it into his palm.

  “Your mother, yes. It has been handled by many powerful women, and she one of them.” He turns it over, and I swear it doesn’t glint in the light—the obsidian consumes it, like a hungry shadow. It suddenly looks less like a memento and more like a threat.

  “I don’t have time for rhetoric, William. I’m sorry, but I’m already in a bind. My mother’s been taken to the Wildness and I need to get her back. Can you help me find her or not?”

  I know I should ask who had the necklace before. I should definitely ask how he recognizes it. But there isn’t time.

  He nods slowly, transfixed by the stone that he turns over and over in his hands.

  “Yes,” he finally mutters. “Yes, I think I can.”

  He pushes off from the table and heads to one of the many shelves along the wall, rummaging through who knows what as I stand by the table and try not to tap my foot impatiently. He finally finds what he was looking for and returns, carrying an assortment of saws and files.

  Immediately, he sets to work, propping the amulet in a vise and taking a small pick to it. With delicate precision, he hammers a tiny chip off the obsidian before I can even think to stop him. A second later he produces a simple silver band ring and a torch. I watch with fascination as his nimble fingers manipulate prongs and pliers, unravel a spool of thin silver thread, and delicately solder a bezel on the ring, then set the obsidian flake within. The metal doesn’t tarnish under the flame, nor does it seem to retain heat—the moment the torch is removed and the stone set, he plucks it up with his bare hands and examines it in the light. It shines faintly, and it looks wholly unremarkable. Which is how I know it’s powerful.

  “How does it work?” I ask.

  “Intuition,” he replies. He hands it over and places it in my hand. Despite having just been under the flame, the ring is ice-cold to the touch. “The ring will amplify the energies of the stone. If you focus on your mother, it will resonate with her energy and guide you toward her. Like attracts like, in this case.”

  “And this will help me find her, even in the Wildness?”

  He shrugs. “It will help you find her, yes. But I cannot promise anything in the Wildness. That is a land without rules. If the bond between the two of you is strong enough, yes. You should be able to follow her to the ends of the Earth. But I can only promise potential.”

  “Good enough,” I respond, and slip the ring on my middle finger. “Thanks, Will. Gotta run.”

  “What about the necklace?” he asks as I jog from the room.

  “Keep it!” I shout back. And then I’m gone.

  “What did Santa Claus give you this time?” Eli asks when I rejoin him at the gate. I flip him the bird, effectively conveying my emotions and showcasing the ring in one convenient motion. “Pretty,” is all he says.

  I’m used to facing blizzards outside the walls of Mab’s kingdom. After all, that’s part of the reason the castle w
all was built—to keep out the elements and the threats of a bitter winter and the bitter creatures that lived on the fringe. Which is why, when we step through the great glass gate into a still landscape, I feel as if we’re entering alien territory.

  “Well, this is unusual,” Eli mutters. He almost blends in to the crystalline blanket of snow that stretches up the castle wall in great drifts and out to the shadowed forest of the Wildness on the horizon. Not a single flake of snow falls from the sky; no breeze filters over the swaths of white. It is silent and static as a photograph.

  From the front gate, laid out in the snow like a blueprint, is the trail of footsteps leading to the forest.

  “Come on,” I say. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  We follow the trail at a sprint, my boots occasionally slipping on the ice resting beneath. I focus on the ring as I run. Where is she? Where are you taking her? I feel it, like a tug in my chest—this knowing, this affirmation that I’m heading toward the right place. My mother is in there, somewhere, and I will bring her back.

  Bring her back so you can hurt her, whispers a voice, but I shove it down. This is for the greater good. If I don’t find the Pale Queen, everything will suffer—and that means my mother will suffer, too.

  “What I said earlier is still true,” Eli says at my side, his voice easy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the bastard pant or break a sweat.

  “What are you talking about?” Despite the magic and adrenaline coursing through me, my teeth chatter and the words are a near stutter.

  “Your mother. The magic holding her thoughts in place. It is still weakening. Even outside of the circus, away from the triggers, I don’t know how much longer she has.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that if we don’t find her soon, we may miss our opportunity to recover whatever knowledge the Oracle might possess.”