She turns away from him. After a moment she says, very softly, “I have an idea of why.”
He waits for her to say more, but she doesn’t. Finally he offers, “I wish I could be more helpful.”
A shadow of pain crosses her face. “You told me what I need to know. If I manage to survive this mess at all, it’ll be because of you.” She hesitates. “But now you’re in danger because of me—”
“No. No. That’s not true.” He takes her hands in his. How warm they are! How full of life! “No one forced this fate on me. I hungered for a destiny other than the one I was born to, and that hunger betrayed me. But because of it I got to experience life—real life—and I’ll never regret that.”
She is about to respond when the world suddenly begins to shake. Ice shivers on the mountaintops and then begins to crack, shards of it raining down into the valley. The birds overhead screech and then fall from the sky one by one, and as they strike the earth it swallows them. The landscape around them begins to dissolve like smoke.
“It’s time,” she said, squeezing his hands. “Good luck, Isaac.”
“Enough,” a voice commanded.
The ghosts who had prodded Isaac to wakefulness withdrew, leaving him half-asleep and disoriented. It took him a moment to focus on the person standing outside the bars of his cell: His father.
“It’s time we talked,” the Shadowlord said.
Quickly Isaac got up, ran a hand through his hair to bring order to it, and smoothed the worst sleep wrinkles from his robe. The actions were reflexive; even in these dire circumstances he couldn’t bear to look disheveled in front of his father.
The Shadowlord watched in silence as Isaac approached the bars. Normally his father’s expression was unreadable, but today there was anger in his eyes. The magnitude of emotion that he must be feeling for it to bleed to the surface that way was unnerving. “You have long disdained the sanctity of our customs,” he told Isaac. “For two years you denied this Guild and our family, indulging in common passion rather than accepting your duty. Now I’m told you were discovered in the Chamber of Souls, an offense against the authority of the umbrae majae and the customs of our Guild. By doing so you bring shame to our family and damage the reputation upon which other Antonin depend. And this time you did it in the heart of Shadowcrest, so that all know the details of your transgression.” He paused. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
Isaac considered apologizing, but he knew his father well enough to realize that they were well past the point when it would do any good. “No, Sir.”
“Why did you go to the Chamber of Souls?”
Keep it short, Isaac warned himself. Keep it simple. The more you say, the more likely it is he will come up with new questions to ask. “I wanted to learn more about our history, Sir.”
“You could have gone to your teachers for that.”
“There are things they don’t teach us.”
“Perhaps there are reasons for that.”
Isaac said nothing.
“At least you could have asked a Shadowlord to bring you there, so that your visit was properly sanctioned. You could have asked me to bring you there.” Now anger was evident in his voice, the fury of wounded pride. The man’s own son had been unwilling to come to him for assistance. That was his failing as well as Isaac’s.
Isaac felt as if he was standing on a rock surrounded by quicksand; no matter what direction he walked in, the end would be the same. At least I can keep from betraying Jesse’s trust, he thought. It would be miniscule victory in the face of disaster, but a victory nonetheless.
He said nothing.
The cold eyes fixed on him, taking the measure of his soul. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t cast you out from the family, excising you from our ranks to protect those who would embrace their responsibility with more enthusiasm?”
Isaac hesitated. He could launch into a speech about how strong his Gift was likely to become, about all the experience he’d gained in the outside world, and how it would make him a better Shadow in the long run, about the thousand and one things he might do for his family in the future if allowed to stay, that would cast honor upon their House . . . but that was all bullshit, and his father knew it. Isaac didn’t belong here. His actions had proven it. No simple words could change that fact.
He said it humbly: “None that I know of, Sir.”
“Very well, then.” His father’s expression was grim. “By the authority of the elders of House Antonin, I sentence you to be cast out of our House, and out of this Guild. All ties of blood and duty will be severed. You will be as one who was born in the outside world, who has no claim to loyalty, assistance, or affection within our ranks. You will no longer be family to us, or to me. Do you understand?”
He had to swallow back the lump in his throat in order to speak. “Yes, Father.”
“The possibility that you might share our secrets with the outside world must be addressed. While a Domitor could remove them from your mind, that process would enable him to learn things he shouldn’t, and your mind could end up so damaged that death would seem a mercy by comparison. Therefore it has been decided by the elders of the House that a Domitor will be brought in to alter your mind, so that any attempt to divulge Guild secrets, no matter how trivial, will cause you unspeakable agony. In this way your silence will be assured. Do you agree to this course?”
Isaac swallowed thickly. The question was not a rhetorical one; reworking the fabric of someone’s mind on that scale required the cooperation—or at least the assent—of the subject. But what choice did he have? Virilian wouldn’t allow the Antonin to exile him if there was even a chance Isaac might spill the Guild’s secrets to outsiders. It would be far easier just to kill him and secure those secrets forever. Isaac’s father was offering him a chance to leave this place alive, as something other than a walking vegetable. Only one answer was possible: “I agree.”
“They have decided you will also bear the mark of shame, so that all who see you will know that our Guild cast you out in disgrace. Do you understand what this means?”
Isaac flinched, then nodded.
“Do you have any objections to voice, about any of this? It’s your last chance.”
None that would matter to you, he thought bitterly. “I do not.”
“So be it, then. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
His father turned away and walked out without another word. Isaac stood there in silence, the full magnitude of the elders’ judgment slowly sinking in. He had little doubt that he could handle exile—he’d lived on his own for two years already—but the mark of shame that his father had proposed was a brutal punishment, meant to identify those who were unworthy of a Guild’s trust. Anyone connected with a Guild would consider it his duty to shun Isaac, while anyone not connected with a Guild would see the mark as the sign of a failed elitist, someone who’d been given opportunities they could only dream of, and pissed on them. Someone who deserved to be taken down a notch.
Or several notches.
At least he was going to live. He hadn’t even considered that his Guild might sentence him to death for such a minor offense, but his father was right—the secrets of the Guild mattered more to its masters than a mere apprentice’s life. Isaac could be replaced. The secrecy of the Guild could not be.
Shutting his eyes, he leaned back against the dank stone wall and sighed. You wanted a different destiny, he told himself. Now you have it.
24
SHADOWCREST
VIRGINIA PRIME
JESSE
THE BLACK PLAIN BENEATH MY FEET is unsteady tonight, its surface undulating like ocean waves, barely solid enough to walk on. The blackness laps over my toes, my feet disappearing from sight for a moment, as if blotted out of existence. Will I be able to keep walking, or will the plain give way like quicksand beneath my feet? What will ha
ppen to me if I am engulfed in it? The ancient Dreamwalkers were driven mad by their Gift, legends say. Was this what they saw in their final hours? Did the universe buckle and crack on all sides of them, until the primordial chaos broke through and swallowed them whole?
Easy, girl. Easy. I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my nerves. I’m only projecting my fears onto the landscape. Nothing more. If I can’t accept that mechanism and deal with it, I should just wake myself up now and not try to go any further.
Much as I’d like to turn back, it’s not a real option. Yes, I could give up on this insane quest and go crawling back to Morgana to beg for help, choking on humiliation as she fastened her puppet strings firmly to my limbs. Or I could forget about healing Mom, and just go back to Terra Colonna and try to live a normal teenager’s life. But then every day I would know that my mother was sick because of my cowardice. And Morgana would know me for easy prey, and it would only be a matter of time before she sent her minions to Terra Colonna to screw with me again.
Granted, she’ll probably screw with me even if I succeed tonight; I have no illusions about that. But obtaining a Fleshcrafter’s services on my own will at least demonstrate that I’m willing to defy her—that I’m capable of defying her—and maybe it will drive home the point that I deserve to be treated as something better than a mindless pawn.
One can only hope.
My efforts to pull myself together emotionally have visible effect; the black plain is merely rippling now, like lake water shimmying in the wind, and as long as I watch my footing I should be safe enough. A feeling of intense relief comes over me. If I can maintain my mental focus and not let my own fears consume me, surely I can manage this journey.
Now I just have to figure out where the hell I’m going.
The doors surrounding me are in the forms of caverns this time, their mouths narrow and ominous, barred like the cell doors in Shadowcrest. The heavy locks look like they’ve been rusted shut for centuries, and even if I had a key, I’m not sure I could get one open. But how would I even know which door to unlock? I look down at Virilian’s brooch in my hand and try to focus my attention on it, my eyes tracing the intricate knotwork pattern, praying it will unlock some secret Dreamwalker knowledge that will enable me to find my target. But though I feel a sharp sense of anticipation, as if something is about to happen, nothing actually does. Frustrated, I think back to Sebastian’s suggestion about establishing an emotional link through Tommy, and I close my eyes and picture him as he was when I found him, pale and hollow-eyed and terrified. Virilian is the man who did that to him. Virilian is the man who kidnapped him and starved him and assaulted him with ghosts. Virilian is his Abuser. I remember the anguish that I felt when I first realized my brother was missing, the helplessness I felt later when it seemed like we would never find him, the rage I felt when I learned what had been done to him. All of it Virilian’s fault. Everything that was done to Tommy, and to me, was done by this Shadowlord’s command.
Suddenly I’m standing in front of a barred door. There’s an image engraved on the lock, of a crescent moon with a knotwork design on it. I look at Virilian’s brooch in my hand, confirm that it matches, then take in a deep breath and push at the door. It swings open, but reveals only blackness. Whatever lies beyond this point, I won’t be able to explore it until I commit myself to the unknown shadows of Lord Virilian’s soul.
For a long time I stare into that darkness. Then, very carefully, I alter my dream body. The changes I make to my avatar aren’t big ones, but they’re enough to function as a disguise, so that if Virilian sees me in his dreamscape, that won’t give him the power to recognize me in the waking world.
I take a moment to steady myself, then step across the threshold—
A gust of frigid air blasts me in the face, sucking the heat out of my flesh. Reflexively I try to create a coat for myself, but though that would have been effortless a few seconds ago, it’s almost impossible now. A bad omen. Altering small elements wasn’t this difficult in anyone else’s dream; clearly there’s something in the Shadowlord’s psyche that inhibits my Gift.
Concentrating as hard as I can, I manage to create a formless wrap for myself, that keeps out some of the wind. It’s the best I can do.
The dreamscape I’ve entered is white: white snow underfoot, white ice coating the boulders near me, white frost encrusting the mountains in the distance, and a sky so pale one can hardly see where the land ends and the heavens begin. There are no people in sight, nor any kind of house or monument visible. Just snow. I look back to make sure the door is still there—it is—and then move forward cautiously, searching for whatever makes this place meaningful to Virilian.
Soon I come to a place where the ground drops away, giving me a bird’s eye view of a narrow valley with steep mountain walls and a ribbon of flowing water at the bottom. A fjord? There’s a village on the shore, whose long, windowless houses have holes in their roofs, through which smoke is rising. The people there are all wearing cloaks of fur or wool over primitive garments: tunics, leggings, shoes that look like simple pieces of hide wrapped around their feet. I see a few flashes of metal jewelry, including a pin like the one in my hand. Whatever this place is, it’s clearly connected to Virilian’s past.
Suddenly there’s a scream at the far end of the village, so terrified in pitch that it raises the hackles on my neck. Everyone starts rushing in that direction to see what’s happening, and I look around for a way to get closer without having to climb down into the village itself. There’s little cover on the snow-covered slopes, and for a moment I’m tempted to alter the color of my clothing to a matching white, but given how much effort it took to create the thing in the first place, I decide against it. God alone knows what challenges still await me, and I need to preserve my energy. Carefully I make my way around the C-shaped escarpment surrounding the village, and yes, if anyone looks in my direction I’ll probably be spotted, but I’m figuring I can get back to my door faster than anyone can climb the cliff to reach me. I need to see what kind of narrative Virilian’s mind has crafted, so I can figure out how to take control of it.
Two men appear, dragging a third between them. It’s the third one who’s doing the screaming, as he convulses so wildly they can barely control him. Specks of froth are frozen in his beard, and there is a madness in his eyes so terrible that it makes him seem more demonic than human. The two men, though broad-shouldered and strong in their own right, can barely restrain him.
Then someone yells out a name—or maybe it’s a title—in a language I don’t recognize. A moment later a tall blond man comes out of one of the buildings, and as soon as I see him I know he’s the creator of this dream, though he looks nothing like Sebastian’s description of Virilian. Despite his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes and skin as pale as the snow surrounding him, he’s clearly alive. One side of his face is scarred in a zigzag pattern, cutting through his left eye socket, and the eye is missing. The regularity of the wound suggests it was a deliberate disfigurement. People move out of his way as he approaches, and it’s hard to tell if they are doing it out of respect or fear.
The screaming man is convulsing on the ground now, and I can see blood splattered on the snow around him. Another two men have come forward to help, so now there are four burly guys trying to pin the man down, one on each limb. The screamer twists and bites one of them on the cheek, leaving a scarlet gash. I hear what sounds like cursing.
The blond Virilian looms over the group like a vulture, watching the ruckus. I get the sense that it pleases him. Then, raising his hands to the heavens, he begins to speak. The people nearest him back away quickly, and a few men and women at the back of the throng flee from the scene completely, seeking shelter inside one of the longhouses. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but it seems to be some kind of invocation, and at one point I hear the name of Odin. Suddenly the convulsing man freezes in mid-spasm, his body painfully a
rched back, and a cold wind rushes outward from him, freezing the blood on the snow to scarlet crystals. Even from this far away I can sense how unnatural that wind is, and for a moment it’s all I can do to stand my ground, and not turn and bolt for my dream door. I experienced this kind of cold once before, when the reaper pursued me outside the Weaver’s camp, and I have no desire to face such a creature again.
But no color is bleeding from the dreamscape this time, so I wait, breath held, to see what will happen next. An icy fog starts to seep from the screaming man’s mouth, nose, and ears, tendrils of white gathering over him. Slowly it takes on the shape of a man, his mouth open wide, frozen in the act of screaming. It’s a ghost, I realize suddenly, banished from the man’s body by the blond man’s ritual. I’ve been watching an exorcism.
The villagers have all backed far away now, and even the four men who were pinning down the possessed one let go and clear the area. The foggy form is taking on more detail, clarifying bit by bit like a slow-loading graphics file. Suddenly its identity becomes clear, and I take a step back in my surprise, nearly stumbling in the snow.
The spirit’s face is that of the necromancer.
Then the features collapse into themselves, the spirit becoming a simple cloud once more—which then explodes, glittering particles of frost rushing outward in every direction, as if blasted from a shotgun. Everyone the frost touches falls to the ground and begins to convulse like the first man did. They’re being possessed, I realize, by spirits that wear the face of their exorcist. Who is trying to banish each wraith as it manifests, but there are too many of them. As soon as he gets rid of one, two more appear. I can sense the fear in him as the situation worsens, and I realize that any minute now his mind might prompt him to awaken, to escape this nightmare. If that happens, I’m back to square one. But do I have the ability to change this entire dream, to cut short the gruesome narrative so that he feels less threatened?
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