Aeonian Dreams (Zyanya Cycle Book 2)

by Morgan J. Muir

  Determined to find something, she moved on to the statue closest to her. This will be a little more difficult, she thought to herself with a wry grin. Sophus will be bound to notice eventually, if I damage them. Gently she ran her hands over every inch of the stone concentrating on the texture and temperature, searching for seams. When she was certain she had not missed anything, she moved on.

  Long before she had searched all the statues in the first, vast chamber or attained much success with her training in the dream world, Sophus called her to him with a new request.

  “I have decided that you are ready to venture out on your own for a time,” Sophus said, savoring the smell of the blood in his goblet as he swished it gently around like a wine. They had been sitting in amicable silence in his great room, Mariah reading an old tome and Sophus lost in his own thoughts.

  “You’re sending me away?” Mariah asked, startled, and immediately set down her book.

  “Not permanently. I have a job I would like you to do. Then, when you are finished, you will return to me.” He finished off his drink and watched her over the cup.

  “And just what would this entail?” Mariah asked, suspicious.

  “Well, you just got so much out of our last outing and you seem to care a great deal about the natives. So, I thought you might enjoy helping them out with their little rebellion, now that it is imminent. We’ve gone through so much effort to stir it up, and it is to our advantage for them to maintain their independence from the Europeans.”

  “You’re asking me to fight for them?” Mariah was confused. “I could destroy both armies before they knew what had hit them. I don’t see how —” Sophus cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  “I wouldn’t dream of fighting their battle for them, or having you do so, either. This is their fight, and we must never reveal ourselves on a large scale.”

  “Why not?” Mariah had not ever been told this before.

  “It is the one rule you must always follow, the one rule that applies to each of us.”

  “Why?”

  “Mariah, mi corazón.” Sophus chuckled. “If you have a flock of sheep you don’t want to slaughter them all at once or do anything that would make them fear you. It would simply make life so much more difficult, and the chances are exceptionally good that it would destroy you.”

  Mariah thought on that for a moment. After all these years, she still did not know everything she needed, and she wondered if there was more to the comment about its destroying her. She often felt that Sophus refrained from telling her things until he felt they were pertinent. Speaking of pertinent, Mariah thought.

  “Just what is it, then, that you want me to do?” she asked, returning to the topic at hand.

  “I want only for you to assist them,” Sophus said innocently, spreading his hands.

  “In what way?”

  A cruel smile spread across Sophus’s face. “Assist them to die.”

  Mariah stood, horrified. “I can’t! You can’t ask me to go to the battlefield —”

  “I can and I am,” he cut her off. “They chose to fight the fight for home and country, and to die for those ideals. You are helping them to fulfill their wish.”

  “No.” Mariah shook her head, backing up as he stood. “I can’t ….”

  Sophus sighed and walked to one of the lanterns. “I had hoped to convince you to go on your own. I don’t hold with compelling my subjects, but sometimes one does what one must.” He poured some of the oil onto the stone floor and set it ablaze. Then he pulled something from his sleeve. “Do you recognize this?”

  Mariah peered at it, and her hand went to her head, to the small patch of hair behind her ear that he had cut from her so long ago. He nodded his approval.

  “This is but a single hair, not even all that I have, of yours. You can barely feel it when it is attached to your head; your connection with it is slight. One might think that the connection has been severed, but I can assure you it has not.” He held it over the flame and Mariah began to grow nervous. She could remember burning for days ….

  “It’s just a hair.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but why would he use this as a demonstration if it wasn’t to be effective? Perhaps he was bluffing? He crouched down and set it in the flame. Almost immediately it flared, lighting the chamber with an eerie glow. Just as suddenly, Mariah felt as though her scalp behind her ear was on fire, the pain of it dropping her to the floor. Panicked, she reached instinctively to her head, to try to smother the flame, but there was nothing there but her hair. She couldn’t smother it, she couldn’t stop it. A thought surfaced through the pain: it was only a single hair; how long could it burn? It’s only a little pain. I can endure it, she tried to reason with herself as she sank to the ground. But the burning pain lingered, and began to sink down through her skull. Her scalp burned, her skull burned, and tendrils of flame reached down into her brain. She screamed and writhed while Sophus watched, and eventually, after far too long, the burning began to recede.

  Mariah lay on the floor, shaking, as Sophus crouched down by her head. “And that was just one disconnected little hair. You will do as you’re told, Mariah.”

  He walked away as she lay there, curled in on herself, trembling.

  Chapter 16

  1751 – Guajira Peninsula

  There was death. And blood. Mariah was still miles away, waiting for the sun to set. The smell of gunpowder and smoke and the screams of the horses reached her across the landscape. But mostly she could smell the blood, and now, as the sounds of fighting died off, the smell of death filled her nostrils.

  Finally, the sun touched the horizon, relentless in its descent, and Mariah started toward the battlefield. She did not know which side had carried the day. She did not care. It took all her focus not to rush down and give herself to the bloodlust, killing every living thing in her path. She could see them now, most lying where they had fallen. The less wounded had been removed and the rest given up for dead, many with enough breath left in them to moan in pain, beg for water, or cry out to loved ones. There were many who might have survived had they not been left behind.

  Mariah went from soldier to fallen soldier, dispatching them quickly and painlessly. At least Sophus had given her instruction on how to manage that. A small kindness. Many smiled up at her, thanking the beautiful, dark angel of death for their release. Others cried, begged, or pleaded. She killed them all.

  The tales quickly began circulating that any man left on the battlefield at sundown was sure to be dead by morning. Some had even seen her, the Ángel de la Muerte, moving swiftly among the fallen, speeding them on their way. She had no regard for one side or the other, native or foreigner, young or old. All who were not gone by the time she reached them died before she moved on.

  If a man stayed up late into the dark night, and was brave enough, he could see her enter the camp and dispatch those nearest to death.

  In every man she killed, Mariah saw a father, a brother, a son. A wife or mother or sister who would not see her man alive again. An empty place at a table, a cold bed, a void in a heart, a child left alone. The fear of the fire, to her great shame, pushed her forward. Though she killed every man left on the field, she limited the killing to the worst off in the camps, in defiance of her orders. She would not take more lives than she absolutely had to, taking as much of a concession as she dared. Despite her reasoning, in every man who died Mariah saw the shadow of her father, of Miguel, of Álvaro, and thought she lost a piece of her heart. In every corpse she left behind she heard the smug laughter of Sophus.

  It was finished. For now. The Wayuu had held their own against the invaders once more. As each side retreated to their homes, Mariah prepared to return to her prison. Even if Sophus never burned another part of her again, there was nowhere else for her to go. She had no home. Her son was too fragile for her world, her husband was held by a force beyond her power to overcome, and she had become trapped. What hope she had once nurtured had been extinguished bit by b
it. Each life she had ended picked at her further until nothing remained but a void where her soul had once been.

  The day that dawned with no sounds of impending death had, at first, lifted Mariah’s spirits. She had finished her butcher’s work and sat, huddled against a scrawny tree some distance away. The sun had risen, but the noise that accompanied it had a different timbre — one of weariness, certainly, but also with hope. Curious, she had thrown her consciousness outward, searching. Were the contenders truly leaving, or just moving on? What she had found stunned her. There was an army on the move, whole, hale, and healthy. They were moving, some marching with pride, some just trudging along; some filled with joy and others bent in sorrow or agony. Many had just stood, looking forlornly about themselves. They were an army of the dead. As they began to pass her by, she realized that she recognized a face, and then another, and another. So many. They were marching north, toward the lands of the dead.

  One young Wayuu man met her eyes, and turned toward her. He was one she had killed, and she struggled not to look away in shame.

  What news, waré? she asked him shakily.

  I go to the land of my fathers, he said with a warm smile, and reached out to her. Will you come with us?

  I have no place there. She lowered her face, her disheveled hair falling forward into her face. There is so much blood on my hands.

  No, I suppose you could not find a place to rest under the roof of our father. He gave her a deeply pitying look. May you find redemption, waré.

  She glanced up as he rejoined the others. Another group of men approached him, and they embraced each other joyfully before continuing on toward the North. Mariah watched as others of the dead faded into the distance, feeling a mixture of joy and deep sorrow. How many of them might have remained for a time longer, were it not for her? Her knees went weak, and she clutched at the tree for support. How many might have returned to their wives and children rather than joining their fathers this day? Her heart cried out as the remaining restless shades drew nearer her, whispering inaudibly of love and loss and untimely death. Of lives unfinished. Which might have found a way to survive, if not for her?

  Mariah fell to the ground, their pain overwhelming her as others drew nearer. She could not speak to defend herself, for there was no real defense she could give. She raised her cold, death-filled hands to cover her face, but was shocked to see them wet with blood. Shocked, and yet not surprised. Mariah could feel the blood, running down her arms, in her hair and over her face. She could hear it, splattering on the stones beneath her. The blood of innocent men covered her. It was blood she had stolen, not for survival, not for a noble cause she believed in, but for greed. For Sophus’s greed, but in a way, also her own.

  Filled with despair, repulsion, and disgust at herself, Mariah retreated to her body, desperate to hide from the eyes and pain of the dead soldiers. She needed to hide from the blood that covered her and from the truth of what she had done. Safely back in her body, Mariah could no longer see the ghostly soldiers on the battlefield, though their corpses and the smell of their death remained. She could no longer feel the blood sticking to her clothes, but she could not hide from the memory. She could not keep the truth from her mind as she trekked back to her prison.

  It was as the young soldier had said. There was no place for her among the mortal or the dead. She was a monster, a wretched murderer, stuck forever between life and death. There was no happiness waiting for her, no place to rest when she was done. She thought of the statues, and of the women she’d killed, of her inability to stop her father’s death. Of sending her husband to his death. The guilt gnawed at her. All that she touched, she destroyed. Her son was among the living and she would destroy him, too, if she ever went back. She destroyed everything she touched, yet still had no power. She couldn’t help her husband, she couldn’t even help herself. All she had managed to do in her attempt to rescue her husband was to abandon her child, become a killer, and give Miguel to Elisa. What was the use of trying?

  Mariah reached the caves, too despondent to care how long it had taken. She reached her rooms and stood there. What was the use of moving? At one point she noticed the fire and wondered briefly how long she would burn. Would the wet feel of the blood burn off before she was consumed? She was aware of her concerned friends around her, stripping her of her soiled clothes, washing her, and dressing her again. They brushed her tangled hair and asked her questions, but she did not speak. Except once, to tell them that she’d destroy them, too. To that, though, they simply patted her hand and continued their ministrations.

  When Sophus came to her to have her report, she answered his questions tersely. She smiled when appropriate, though it never reached her eyes. She moved and did the tasks set before her, answered questions when asked, and stood beside Sophus’s throne as he welcomed the first wave of desolate women to his home. In her free time she even continued, vainly, to search for the broken pieces of Theron’s limbs. She did all this, but inside, she lay curled up in a corner of her mind still covered in blood, staring numbly at whatever was before her, and wishing for oblivion.

  ***

  Mikhael waited for her to appear again. He and Elisa had remained in Maracaibo until the first wave of soldiers had set out to march against the fourth Wayuu Rebellion, and then returned by boat to their home. Returned to Theron.

  It surprised Mikhael that Theron never mentioned the vision he’d had, never remarked on the dark-haired beauty. Never tried to make him think it was a delusion or simply hadn’t happened. It was as if Theron didn’t even know about it.

  Often, Mikhael would hold the necklace in his pocket, hoping to see her again, his dark angel. He was certain she was the one who hid in every memory he had of his life before. It was her face he saw when he thought of love, life, happiness, or freedom. But the years passed, and she did not return.

  Chapter 17

  1754 – Maracaibo

  Emelia wasn’t supposed to be in the study, or even indoors for that matter, but she simply had to finish this book. Besides, this was the best chair for curling up in; the light from the window was perfect, and no one ever bothered her here as long as they didn’t see her.

  “I just don’t know what to do about it anymore,” her father’s voice said from the hallway. Emelia hunched down a little lower, hoping he would keep walking and not notice her there.

  “I don’t know that there is all that much you can do,” her mother said as they both entered the room. Drat, Emelia thought. They’d find her here for sure. Maybe she could sneak out.

  Her father sighed. “I just never meant for this sort of thing. When Doña Mariah asked me to watch over things, I thought that with Dom’s help we’d manage until she came to her senses and returned. I never anticipated managing such an estate long-term.”

  Emelia heard her father sit down heavily and was glad that her wing-backed chair faced away from the door.

  “I don’t think that managing the estate is what’s bothering you,” her mother said softly.

  “You know it isn’t. Dom’s wonderful, as is your overseer, and I suppose I could manage both the Álvarez estate and your father’s plantation — heavens know that, with his constant state of inebriation, I practically do anyhow.”

  “It’s only for a few more years. Álvaro will be old enough soon to start shouldering the burden of his own estate, and then it will be just Casa de la Cuesta for us.” Emelia heard her mother sit down and could imagine her placing a calming hand on her father.

  “I’ve already begun taking the boy with me so that he can get a feel for his future business contacts. He’s got a good head for the politics and he may yet learn to negotiate, but I fear he’s too brash to manage the intrigue.”

  “And you’re too honest.”

  Emelia stared hard at her book, trying to read it, but found that her attention remained fixed on hearing more. Business was boring, but intrigue? Her mind filled with images of mysterious messengers and daring sword-fights.
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  “I don’t know how Cyrus and your father got involved in such things or with such disreputable people,” her father continued, “but I’ve done my best to distance us all from them. It seems, though, that each net I pull myself from leaves me ensnared in two more. There’s just no advantage to this sort of business, Bethany. Cyrus, Miguel, Mariah. They all got entangled in this and all it got them was dead.”

  Emelia stifled a gasp. She’d never heard her father sound so upset. And what was this about Álvaro’s parents?

  “Benito,” her mother admonished, “you don’t really believe that.”

  “The more this continues, the more I believe it. It’s this endless entanglement with Gonza that’s really at the heart of it all. Lately, every time we negotiate to suit us both, he undercuts me, and it’s not as though I can just avoid doing business with him. He’s stolen the Oritz contract, and despite my best efforts I can’t get him to reconsider. It would be one thing if it were honest business, but every last one of Cyrus’s long-time partners who has given in to Gonza’s duplicitous lies in the last five years has fallen into ruin. It makes it look like I’m going after them because Gonza’s other clients manage to get by.”

  “You should go to my father about this.”

  Emelia’s father made a bitter sound. “He was the one who pointed it out to me last year. I couldn’t believe him at the time, but now ….”

  “Surely you can approach some of your other partners and clients? Warn them about Gonza?”

  “Not without appearing desperate or slanderous. I can’t risk letting them know we have trouble of any sort; look at the way we hide your father away.” He sighed. “I’m not meant for such intrigue. Give me good, honest business any day.”