Such a Daring Endeavor

by Cortney Pearson

  The murky thoughts spin in the ferris wheel of Jomeini’s mind, each one revolving, taking its turn at the top. Jomeini couldn’t let Craven rule over her any longer. He was dead, after all. But knowing that still didn’t help. She wasn’t able to best him the way she always dreamed of. But in that moment her senses heightened. She knew she could help the screaming siren.

  Flames awoke. She waltzed out with fire and fear in her hands, aiming it at the blonde woman who just cut off the siren’s wing.

  And Cadie was nearly killed because of it.

  “All I do is destroy things,” she tells the drooping lambsear plants in the box across from Cadie’s bed. Jomeini aches to feel the soil, to stroke the soft, fuzzy leaves. “I won’t hurt you,” she tells the plant, cradling a single leaf in her hand. It’s velvet smooth and cool to the touch.

  “How is she?” Ayso asks.

  Jomeini startles at the interruption. She digs her fingers into the soil in attempt to hide her skittishness. The cool grit soothes her skin. The porous smell of dirt hits her nose, letting her escape, just for a moment. To Xavienke, where gardens around the wizard palace were decadent and her only playground.

  Then Grandfather moved her to Valadir and everything began to die. He left. She was taken.

  Craven’s voice fades from her subconscious, the feel of his hands on her, the chill seeping into her bones and the skittering sound of rats in the crawlspace, the constant, crushing fear that one would gnaw at her in her sleep and then waking to one’s teeth attached to the hem of her skirt. As a wizard she thrived on her magic, used it to treat her plants, used it to learn how to rule Valadir, it was part of her. And he stole it.

  She thought she was rid of him. But the trauma of seeing someone else like him crushed her.

  Gwynn Hawkes was no better than Arthur Craven.

  The old shaking rushes forward anew, only where her bones were once empty, now they fill with flame, scorching hot and making her sweat all over.

  “She’s breathing,” Ayso says, stooping over the nymph. “That’s a good sign.”

  Jomeini opens her eyes. Rocks have taken place of the dirt in her hands, dehydrated and recrystallized from the heat of her magic. She wrenches each of her fingers free from the holes in the rock and lets it drop near the wilting lambsear.

  “Ayso?” Jomeini hates how much her voice shakes.

  Ayso’s glasses slip from her nose, and she nudges them back on with her middle finger. Her silvery hair tumbles around her shoulders, and she stops her inspection of the plants to look directly at Jo. No sense of frustration, just a kind, open curiosity.

  “I’m sorry about your plants,” Jomeini says, wringing her hands. She glances over at Cadie’s motionless, tiny body and presses her lids shut.

  “They’re resilient,” says Ayso with a shrug and a smile. She reaches out to stroke a nearby leaf. “It’s one thing I love about them.”

  “Me too,” Jomeini says without thinking.

  “You know plants?” Ayso asks.

  Jomeini hugs an arm across her torso, talking but not looking at Ayso. It’s easier that way, not to look. “I used to. Back in Xavienke. Before Craven—I would spend all the time I could with them. Something about the heat of a greenhouse, the stifled security of it and the smell of water and earth mixed together, the plants’ different aromas, their properties. I was sending things I discovered to a contact in Jienke. I was going to go to school there, once I was done studying with my grandfather.”

  The smile drips from Jomeini’s face, and a familiar bitterness settles in. She knows she shouldn’t blame her grandfather for so much. But she can’t seem to help it. “Then Baba took me away. He made me come to Valadir, where I couldn’t get anything to grow anymore. And like my plants, my life withered one day at a time.”

  Ayso swallows, and Jomeini feels it—the awkwardness. She always manages to bring conversations down. She lowers her head, wishing she knew what to say to fix it.

  “I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?” Jomeini forces a smile. “I don’t know how to talk to people anymore, I think.”

  “You’ve been shut away for three years,” says Ayso. “It’s only natural it will take some time.”

  “I can’t sort through my feelings anymore,” says Jomeini, venting without meaning to. “I’ve been uprooted and replanted in the wrong climate. And the sunlight is scorching me.”

  “Plant analogies,” says Ayso with a smile, stroking the lambsear plant Jomeini was admiring. “I like it.”

  Jomeini strokes a leaf as well. “You study them too, don’t you? And turn them into drugs?”

  Ayso purses her lips. “That I do. Although not all of them are narcotic or stimulants. I’m working on medicinal remedies. Since the Arcs have invaded, a lot of people can’t use their magic—but they still need cures for their ailments. I’d like to open an apothecary again someday. One that the Arcs won’t shut down.”

  “You had an apothecary?”

  “My father did,” says Ayso. “He’s who I learned all my skills from. But the Arcaians shut him down and killed him. They smashed our store and burned it to the ground right after stealing the medicines Father worked so hard to create. That’s when I found Dircey. She let me continue my father’s research.”

  “An apothecary,” Jomeini repeats. She crosses her arms over her chest, but it doesn’t do much to stop the quivering, that constant shaking in her nerves. “Maybe you have something for me that can take this away. I’d do anything not to feel, just for a little while.”

  Ayso’s eyes expand, and she blinks several times before pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “Most people want the opposite. I’ve seen more people than I care to admit take whatever they can get their hands on just to feel again. It’s dreams. Their dreams awaken emotion, just for a small time. But that’s long enough for them to want to feel that all the time, before it fades. Before they go back to being fenceposts.”

  The tremble starts beneath Jomeini’s skin, the tremble that takes over, that steals her senses—common and otherwise. Jomeini refuses to look at Cadie. “It just—I’m not myself, Ayso. I’m not sure Grandfather can even see it—or if he pays enough attention to care. Something in me has broken, and the pieces rattle constantly.” She hugs herself tighter.

  “That’s normal,” says Ayso. “Everyone gets angry sometimes.”

  Jomeini shakes her head, feeling it boil inside her. “You got upset that I upended your plants. But your anger didn’t take over and block out everything else. You didn’t lash out at me—you had enough sense to know that it was a mistake. With Craven, when I...” She shudders. She didn’t feel guilt in the moment, but looking back, that was a different person. Something in her snapped, someone else took over the controls, and she scorched the body of a man who was already dead just for the satisfaction of it.

  “And with Ambry, with the sirens, I don’t know, anger comes in and shuts off every other sensation. It takes over me. And with what I can do…” Jomeini holds up her hands, remembering the leaves she scorched just by touching plants when Baba first taught her to use bleakfire.

  “It’s not a safe combination. I remember things. I feel things—things I don’t want to feel, Ayso. Please.” Her voice breaks, and she clears her throat. “Do you have anything that will take it away? I just want to hide, just for a little while.”

  Zeke sits down beside her, and Jomeini jerks. She didn’t realize he was standing in the doorway, hearing every word she spoke. Heat flusters her cheeks, and she covers her face with her palms. He doesn’t drape an arm around her, just sits. A non-judging presence, accepting her. And that’s good—she’s not sure she can handle anything else.

  “My baby girl was taken from me almost sixteen years ago. And I didn’t care that they did it. A closeted part of me did—but I couldn’t feel to act. Them soldiers just waltzed right into my home and I couldn’t do nothin’. Then I met Dircey and drank her tonic, and since then I miss my baby every day.”

&nb
sp; His fists tighten, and he softly pats Jomeini’s arm. “Sometimes it would be easier to not feel that, Jo. But it would dishonor my Vaida’s memory if I allowed myself to forget her. If I had my emotions I could’ve acted—I could have stopped them Arcs from takin’ ‘er. But now that I can feel again, when I find her I’ll know how to act.”

  Jomeini’s throat closes. She stares at her knees. “You’re saying when the time comes to act I’ll want my senses.”

  Zeke grins, gaps between his teeth. This time he hugs an arm around her shoulder and squeezes. He smells of tobacco and sweat. “Sumfin’ like that.”

  Jomeini slides out of his embrace and pushes to her feet. “But that’s the problem—instead of helping against the soldiers, I attacked the sirens! Don’t you see? Fear and anger take over, and my brain gets muddled. I can’t think! I hurt people—I could hurt you. I’m not safe to be around. I don’t know how to sort it out.” She drops back down again, sinking her head into her hands.

  Ayso sits on her other side and rests a hand on her knee. “It’s only been a few days since you’ve been released from captivity,” she says gently. “Anyone would be fraying at the seams after what you went through. I know all you want is to escape what demands to be felt right now. But if you hide from it instead of confronting it, it will still be there, beneath whatever drugs I could give you. If you really want to conquer this, you’ve got to do it yourself, without sticking tape over its mouth just to mute it for a while. Drugs won’t make this go away, Jo.”

  Jomeini’s eyes burn. Frustration forms, but she inhales through her nose. Maybe Ayso has a point. Covering a window to hide the coming tsunami won’t make the wave go away. She has to learn how to get back to herself. But what could happen in the meantime?

  “We’re here for yeh,” says Zeke. “You ever need to talk, don’t you hesitate. I’m here.”

  “So am I,” says Ayso. “So put your efforts into something else instead.”

  “Like what?” Jomeini sniffs, hope reentering her heart. She can do this. She can beat this.

  “You said you like plants, right? I’m trying to sort through a series of antibiotics with saffron oil and olive leaf. But I can’t figure out the properties to get the right dosage. I keep researching, but there’s something I’m obviously overlooking, because the bothersome things don’t do what I want them to.”

  “Have you tried splicing them with basilnit seeds?”

  Zeke’s good eye slides to Jomeini. “I haven’t heard of that. What’s it do?”

  The feelings of acceptance and belonging scatter in an instant like leaves in a storm. She can’t help her quivering bottom lip. She stares at her hands. Hands that shrivel plants when she touches them, hands that scorch the body of a man who was already dead, hands that nearly killed Cadie.

  She destroys everything she touches.

  “I’d better not,” she says.

  Ayso’s face falls, and she shares a concerned look with Zeke. Jomeini doesn’t miss the silent exchange, so leaves the room. They probably already know the answer anyway.

  Solomus raises his eyebrows when the four of us approach. His hair is in two long segments dangling just behind his ears, and he rests on the couch, studying the book he took from Craven.

  “Unfortunate turn of events today,” he says. “But Cadie healed nicely. Did you—”

  “Sir, can we talk?”

  Solomus blinks, waiting for his brain train to derail and follow my line instead. I didn’t mean to cut him off. The words just spilled out.

  He closes the book in his lap.

  “Sir, why dreams?” I ask. “Why are they the key for tears to break through?”

  “Dreams contain a person’s innermost thoughts and feelings,” he recites. “Hopes, desires, fears.”

  “Is there something more to them?” I ask anxiously, remembering the few I’ve had recently that seemed so real. Talon in shackles, Talon nearly kissing Shasa, Nattie’s appearance. I take the empty cushion next to the wizard.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that dreams are the only thing that have managed to penetrate your spell, to unlock the true nature of a person?”

  “I suppose so,” he says after a few moments.

  “Do dreams have magic, sir?”

  “Dreams compel people to action,” Jomeini says from the open stairway to the right. She limps in, crossing the room to sit beside her grandfather. She smells of dirt, and I notice bits of it caking beneath her fingernails. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you get the tears back, Ambry. But they were meant for you—this isn’t the end of it.”

  I reach for her hand and squeeze it. To my surprise, she lets me. “It’s okay, Jo. I’m wondering what you know about dreams. People can have dreams while they’re awake. I daydreamed of having magic, but I never slept in order to feel that. I’m talking about deep-sleep dreaming.”

  “Dreams tap into the person’s subconscious,” says Jomeini pensively.

  “Exactly! What if we used that somehow? It’s clear Gwynn is a threat, with Tyrus so distracted by the Stations he’s building. She has the tears. I know her, you guys. She wouldn’t do these things if it wasn’t for Tyrus. We need to get through to her. And we can do it through her dreams.”

  The others turn to look at me. Talon’s eyes are wary. “You’re blaming this on Tyrus?”

  “She’s doing what he tells her to do. We’ve got to get through to her.”

  Jomeini huddles into a ball on the couch as if trying to tuck into herself. Trepidation folds over her brows, and she chews on her nails.

  “I’d like to help you, Miss Csille.” Solomus’s tone is reluctant. I hear the unspoken but trailing off.

  “Is it possible?” I ask. “Could we go into her dreams?” If Nattie did it with mine, couldn’t I find Gwynn’s?

  Talon’s guarded eyes watch me. I force myself not to look at him.

  “I suppose it’s plausible.”

  “Your magic. You cast the spell—you could help me do it, couldn’t you?”

  Solomus fidgets again. His eyes sweep across the group of us. “I think you should know I’ve lost much of my ability.”

  “How can that be?” I ask.

  “You must understand. I was young, barely trained and not the most skilled of my kind. It was why I asked Craven to help me to get revenge when Tyrus and the Arcaians attacked and nearly killed us all.”

  “I didn’t know,” I say. It suddenly makes sense. His comment about being unable to help heal Shasa, and why he stood by during the siren confrontation. “You don’t have magic anymore at all? What happened with the spell, sir?”

  Jomeini chews her lip, nervously watching her grandfather as he continues speaking. “Tyrus’s father, Ronan Blinnsdale, had Craven’s wife in his sleeping quarters. Craven agreed to help me regain my throne on the grounds that I rank him on my staff and give him and his wife their freedom.

  “We snuck into the palace. Craven managed to stab the guard outside Blinnsdale’s bedchamber. Too late, he realized the person guarding the chamber was his own wife.”

  Jomeini’s hands go to her mouth while she stares ahead, straightfaced and rigid. I can’t help my own gasp of shock.

  “He crumpled under the weight of realization and began blaming me. I demanded he help me finish the job, so I could go in and kill Ronan, but Craven just lay there, crying. In my impulsive anger I cursed him for crying instead of carrying out his part of the deal. His wife was dead by his own hand—of course he would have cried.”

  Solomus stares at his hands. “Cursing him backfired in the worst way. I didn’t know what I was doing. It sapped most of my ability, while cursing the rest of Itharia.”

  The curse that changed the course of my people’s destiny was nothing more than a backfired spell. Nattie mentioned that something went wrong with it. The totality of it all seems wrong somehow, that a mistake could lead to such catastrophic events now. Tyrus wouldn’t have as much power as he
has now if people could feel.

  But I can’t blame Solomus. The regret swimming in his eyes won’t let me.

  “That power is still in you, sir,” I say, trying to make the words as soothing as possible.

  “You and Talon have seen the extent of the little magic I’m still capable of. I can conjure small tricks and occasionally create transey doorways. That’s about it.”

  I place a hand on his arm. “We can’t give up, sir.”

  He hangs his head. “We can’t win. I can’t undo that spell—I couldn’t even get my Jomeini out from that axrat—”

  Jomeini fidgets, rubbing at her fingers as if brushing something away.

  I squeeze his arm. “We got her out, sir. She’s safe, and Craven is gone.”

  “But I’m not safe.” Jomeini voice is distant, but it catches me off-guard nonetheless. I frown. “No one is safe as long as she’s around.”

  “Who? You mean Gwynn?” I ask, stunned.

  “You saw what she did to that siren.”

  “That’s exactly why we have to do this!”

  “She’s evil,” Jomeini argues, clutching her arms to her chest.

  The only aspect that Jomeini has seen of Gwynn was there, at the mountain’s base. It makes sense she would think so little of her. Moving slowly, I kneel at Jomeini’s side.

  “I can see how you might think that. But she’s not evil. She’s confused. She needs our help.”

  Jomeini keeps her eyes on mine. “It’s a mistake, Ambry.”

  My mouth slackens, and my hands drop to my sides. The others don’t dispute with her, and that fact steals the argument from me for a moment. How can they not see how Gwynn is being manipulated?

  “You don’t know what it means to be a failure, Miss Csille,” Solomus says, drawing me back to our argument.

  “You’re not a failure, sir. It’s not how we make mistakes, but how we fix them. You can still repair the damage you caused. And Gwynn still has time to make things right too.”

  “If the people could feel, they would despise me for what I’ve done to them,” says Solomus. “I see it in the eyes of those who can emote enough to comprehend.”