Then one day, she went back to Nate’s memory of his night with Anneka, and—it didn’t feel right. Was it like a piece of paper that had been folded? A pillow that smelled like somebody else’s head? Eventually she decided that it was like the patch of silk on the parlor wall that they’d scraped off accidentally. Elly had brought out her paints and tried her hardest to match the color, and they’d all agreed that she’d come very close, but Judah knew the spot was there, and her eye was always drawn to it. The inside of Nate’s head felt like that: patched. And as soon as she realized it, she suddenly saw patches everywhere inside Nate. Patches, and seams, and places where memories were just sort of...crammed together, awkwardly, in no particular order. All of the things that he’d said to her about how the Work could damage a person’s mind came back to her: somebody had been Working in Nate’s mind, and the somebody had been very powerful and very careless. She wondered if she could fix the tattered places, but she didn’t quite dare try.
Then one day, he brought her to a Slonimi campfire, a circle of wooden wagons on a great soft plain that smelled of lavender. Somebody played a pipe, someone else played a harp. All sorts of faces gathered around the fire, different skins and eyes and hair, more difference than Judah had ever seen in her life; and as strange as they were to her, they were also familiar, because this was the magus’s caravan. These were people he’d known all his life. He didn’t think of them as cousin or aunt or sister. They were simply his family.
Except for his mother, Caterina. Who was a beautiful woman, still, for all that she must easily have been Elban’s age, her long hair in its many braids shot through with gray. There were lines at the corners of her eyes, and more next to her mouth, but her smile was easy. Judah particularly liked the way she moved. She seemed entirely comfortable in herself. Her expressions were sometimes comical or odd because she felt comical or odd, and she had clearly never seen a reason for her face and feelings not to match.
You must love her very much, Judah said the first time he’d shown Caterina to her. She’s ten times brighter than everyone else.
Nate had laughed. I do love her, but that’s just the way she is.
And maybe it was. In Nate’s memory of the bonfire, she watched Caterina pulled to her feet by a brawny man with a beard. They danced for a scant three bars and all eyes were on her, not because she was beautiful, but because she was herself. They enjoyed seeing her dance, all the people around the fire. They laughed when she swatted playfully at the bearded man and sat back down. She seemed wise, unflappable. Watching her, Judah wished she could talk to the woman, to ask her about the tattered places. Then she thought, well, why not; found a soft place in Nate’s memory of Caterina, and slipped inside it.
Suddenly she stood inside one of the tiny wooden wagons. Both walls were lined with tiny drawers and bookshelves, with slabs of wood like desks set under sunlit windows of rippled glass. Dried twigs, candles and cloth sacks filled every available surface. A small door was set into one end of the wagon; on the other was a bunk topped with a thin mattress and a colorful scrap quilt. A tiny body slept there. The wagon swayed gently, pulled along by the horses hitched to the front.
Caterina sat on a stool at one of the desks, gazing bemusedly up at Judah. Her voice was low music as she said, Oh. Oh, my. You’re her. You’re Maia’s daughter. The woman’s eyes were filled with tears, her voice filled with wonder.
Is this real? Judah said. Are you actually talking to me?
Caterina laughed and wiped away her tears. Apparently. A minute ago I was picking wood oak, and now I’m back in my wagon and three decades in the past. Judah must have looked confused, because Caterina smiled and pointed to the small body on the bed. That’s Nathaniel, napping. And he quit napping when he was three.
Judah didn’t feel any less confused. I was in his memory. You were there. I wanted to talk to you. Defensively, she added, I didn’t know it would work.
I’ve never heard of anything like this. But then again, you’re not like anyone else, are you? Before Judah could ask what she meant, Caterina sighed. Something tells me I am going to be wicked sick after this.
I’m sorry, Judah said, instantly contrite. I always make the magus sick, too.
The magus, Caterina said, and a wide grin lit her face. My little boy, the magus. He’s all right?
Yes.
Caterina’s grin died. It’s very hard to lie while Working. For all your talent, you don’t seem to have the knack.
He doesn’t...look good.
Show me.
Judah thought of the magus. Nothing happened. Caterina watched, her eyes the same muddy blue as Nate’s. Try this, she said, and a muscle flexed in a limb Judah hadn’t known she had. Nate’s image appeared before them, as if he were standing in the room. He looked just as Judah had first seen him, with Arkady.
Oh, Judah said. I see. Let me try.
Flesh melted off his body, color drained from his cheeks. The queue of blond hair grew longer, coarser. Dark circles appeared under his eyes and lines drew themselves around his mouth.
My boy. His path isn’t easy. Now Caterina sounded soft and sad. She drew in a long breath and let it out again. Well—more cheerful now—since I’ll probably wake up in my own vomit anyway, watch this.
Nate’s image morphed again: his back unhunched, his chin lifted. His skin ripened to a sun-burnished gold. His clothes changed; the cut of his shirt was more flamboyant, and an indigo vest bloomed out of it like liquid seeping through the fabric. A riveted leather cuff appeared on one of his wrists, and his hair shortened and browned to copper. This, Judah knew, was Caterina’s Nate. He was not exactly handsome, but there was something appealing in him, something open and laughing. Judah could see why he had so many memories involving attractive young women. He bleaches his hair, Judah said. That’s why it looks so odd.
I think it looks ridiculous, Caterina said. But he had to blend in.
Why?
To get to you.
Why?
Caterina stood up. She took Judah’s hand—carefully, as if it might hurt. Let Nathaniel worry about that, dear. Why did you want to talk to me?
I think somebody is doing things to his mind, Judah said, and told Caterina about the tattered places. Caterina listened, and then shook her head.
Derie, she said. She’s never been kind. I tried to keep him away from her. With that pale skin of his, I knew she’d choose him, and I saw the way poor Charles was around her. Skittish as a kicked dog. She tried to smile, but Judah could see the strain in her. It was hard to lie in the Work. I’m glad you care enough about him to worry, but it will be okay. It’s like I said: Nate’s path isn’t easy. But from the looks of things, he’ll be done soon. And then he’ll come home, and I can fix him. An urgent note came into Caterina’s voice. He’s a good man, my son. Please, whatever happens, try to remember that.
Why? Judah said, instantly wary. Is something bad going to happen?
Bad, good. Nothing is black and white. That’s what that evil old Martin was doing: trying to erase the gray from the world, to make all the answers simple. And look at the damage he did. With a weary smile, she said, Has Nate told you about us? How all of this began?
No.
Tell him to show you John Slonim. And tell him I love him, and that I’m proud of him. I’ve asked Derie a thousand times, but she won’t do it. It’s not her way. Caterina gave Judah a long, thoughtful look. My, but you are amazing.
I’m not amazing.
My dear, Caterina said, you’re a miracle. Now let me go, please.
Like falling down a hole, the gentle sway of the wagon becoming the heat of the fire becoming the cold tower floor. The magus moaned next to her, clutching his stomach and head in turn, tongue bitten hard between his teeth. Judah’s arm hurt. She traced the source of the pain to a red welt on the inside of her wrist. For an instant, she could feel Gavin’s prese
nce. Then the importance drained out of him like water from a punctured bucket.
“Something is wrong,” she said. She didn’t think the magus could hear her.
* * *
Who’s John Slonim? she asked.
His eyes widened in surprise. How do you know about John Slonim?
You mentioned him, Judah said, although she didn’t know if he had or not. You said you’d show me sometime.
I did? Nate looked confused. I suppose I must have.
So show me now.
He seemed to think about it for a long moment. He looked better in the Work, too; more the way his mother had seen him. Yes. Yes, why not?
He brought her to a poor village in the woods. She saw hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, thin shirts piled on top of each other instead of warm coats, and sickly, too-serious children huddled against their mothers. But the torches stuck on the sides of the now-familiar Slonimi wagons around the clearing were cheerful and beckoning. The Slonimi were thin, too, but their clothes were a colorful hodgepodge of styles and fabrics that spoke of long journeys and distant origins. The air smelled of fire and roasting nuts and snow. This memory felt different than the others Nate had shown her, something in the way the torchlight picked out the hollow faces and the contrast of the saturated caravan colors with the drab clothes of the villagers. This wasn’t a scene Nate had seen; this was a scene that had been shown to him. She was seeing it not just through his eyes, but through all of the eyes it had passed through on its way to him. She knew things she couldn’t have known: the way the villagers had been drawn to the clearing like water drawn downhill, the bleakness of their lives stretching out beyond it. She knew the empty storerooms without having to see them, just as she knew the shed in the woods, full of tiny dead bodies and old thin ones, stacked like cordwood, waiting for the thaw.
A few planks stretched between the two grandest wagons for a stage, a piece of scarlet cloth tacked overhead for a canopy. The edge of the stage was lit with a dozen candles in reflecting lanterns so the man onstage seemed to glow. His skin was a warm brown, his cravat a brilliant red, and in the candlelight none of the people on the ground could see the stains that dotted it, or the worn places in his coat. His coppery eyes sparkled and his face was alive with excitement. You, that face said to every single person in the audience. I am talking to you. You are special. You are important.
I bring you magic! he cried. I bring you blossoms in the dead of winter! Judah heard him in all of herself, the music in his voice, the practiced warmth. With a showman’s flourish, he reached into the battered silk hat he held.
The performer’s grin lifted away, rising with the smoke. Confusion spilled across his face. Then: astonishment.
His hand emerged from the hat holding a fistful of flowers. Not the folded paper that Judah (somehow) knew he expected, but real flowers, vivid and luminous: irises, orchids, lilies, flowers nobody knew the names of, flowers nobody had ever seen. Out of the hat spilled more flowers, and more, and with them came leafy vines, growing at an alarming pace, reaching across the planking, down to the ground. The man dropped the hat and backed away from it. The faded black silk undulated as it gave birth to a torrent of plant life, more green and more color than this faded village had seen in the last ten summers. Somebody cried out, but there was no fear in the sound; only power, and life and magic.
A vine as thick as a human arm detached itself from the mass, reaching up toward the man. Its glossy leaves unfurled like fingers. The man reached out, tentatively; the vine twined around his arm, as gentle and friendly as a cat. The dazzled man wept. Then, all at once, he began to laugh. He lifted his arms, and the plants exploded out in a mighty wave.
* * *
That was John Slonim, Nate said, and that was the first Work. Everything we do is descended from him. Everything we know, he helped us learn. He figured out how to do the Work at will, how to find people with talent. His blood flows through you. Me, too, on my father’s side. There was pride in his voice. Now there are a dozen caravans, hundreds of people, from all over the continent. Hundreds of Workers.
They were standing on a white-sanded beach, next to an ocean the impossible color of one of Firo’s coats. I thought you said the Work didn’t affect the real world. That it wasn’t that kind of thing, Judah said. Who was Firo?
Not since John Slonim, the magus said. Although if it could happen anywhere, it would be in this tower.
Oh. Firo. Garish clothes, flamboyant hair, perfume, leering insinuations. His fish-belly pale body, exposed in the bathing room. How long had it been since she’d thought of him? And the rest of the world. The purplish gaslights. The ball. The Discreet Walk, the Wilmerian dinner, the life she’d lived before the coup. The coup.
Why had she forgotten her whole life?
In the Work she wore the same clothes she did in reality. They were cleaner here because she didn’t think of herself as dirty. Her left sleeve was pushed up. Her arm was smooth and unmarked. No cuts from the magus’s knife, no burn from Elban’s poker. A warmer sun than Judah had ever known seemed to make her skin glow from within. The arm was beautiful. It was also wrong.
Watch, Nate, in what passed for her present, said, and pointed out to sea.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then the water exploded upward and a great gray beast rose out of the water, leaping into the air with a stately exuberance. Like a fish but not a fish, its lines so graceful and sleek that by comparison the colts seemed clumsy, too leggy. Impossibly high it leapt, and then fell back into the water, the enormous flukes of its tail hitting the surface with a splash so loud that Judah blinked to protect her eyes from spray.
They breathe air, Nate said, satisfied. Like us.
She saw the colts in her memory, running across the pasture, nipping and playing with each other. Not clumsy. Perfect.
Is something wrong?
Yes, she wanted to say.
* * *
Back in the tower, the dullness persisted, but uneasiness ran through it like veins through marble. Those moments when she was in herself—those fleeting moments when she stood on her own feet and saw the world with her own eyes—were tangled and difficult. She felt caught. When she closed her eyes she saw vines pouring from the brown man’s hat. Some of them were green. Some of them were purple.
The something-that-was-wrong felt closer than ever. It was at the tips of her fingers. If she stretched, she could touch it.
You’ll need to trust me if you’re going to unbind yourself from Gavin.
She looked down at her arm. In the Work it was unmarked, perfect. Now, for the first time in weeks, she saw it as it really was. Scratches on scratches, like leaves fallen on top of each other: please come need you sorry worried are you okay answer please worried need you please sorry.
She felt nothing. Gavin’s face, in her memory, was a cold fire, a dry well. Something was wrong and the something that was wrong was that nothing was wrong. The places inside her that used to feel were dull and silent.
She thought of other faces: Theron. Elly. Elban. The Seneschal. Darid.
Nothing. They were all nothing.
Had the magus done that? She doubted it. She remembered when he’d drained Darid away from her, on that path in the Barriers. The act was not one he’d taken lightly; he was proud of himself, and a little surprised. He hadn’t been sure he’d been able to do it until it was done. And afterward, in the tower, when she’d reached out without thinking and soothed him like she’d always soothed Gavin—he’d been surprised, then, too. You can just...do that, he’d said, astonishment at war with envy in his voice.
If it could happen anywhere, it would be in this tower.
A memory came to her, as clear and sharp as Work: climbing the stairs. The stairs were broken, impassable—but the gaps between the stones had been smaller than she’d expected, the stones themselves bigger. Like she would in the Work, she held
the memory, unfolded it, watched as Memory-Judah lifted a foot.
The stone of the step stretched of its own accord to meet her.
The magus hadn’t been there, then. The tower had moved the steps, or the power bound inside it had. And if her mind was dull—if her memories were empty—maybe the tower was doing that, too.
The tower. She needed to leave the tower.
But the moment she stepped through the door, the stone steps spiraling down in front of her, a crushing sense of anxiety welled up in her chest and she couldn’t breathe. She would fall. The stairs would collapse beneath her. The staircase itself would come to life and swallow her like a snake. Stupid. So stupid. Descending stairs was not a complicated skill and staircases never ate people and all she had to do was keep moving, but the animal part of her was convinced that downstairs lay mortal peril. Even if she didn’t fall and wasn’t eaten by the tower, even if she made it all the way down, she would die. There was no air down there. There was fire down there and flood down there and the earth would open up and swallow her if she didn’t get back where she belonged, and that part made her angriest of all because alongside this irrational nonsense was the equally irrational certainty that the only safe place for Judah in the entire world was a tower with half its roof blown off. She could feel it behind her, waiting to hold her and protect her and never let anything hurt her, ever.
She fled backward, slamming the door closed and pressing her back against it, staring out at the wide expanse of sky. She couldn’t leave. She wasn’t brave enough. Her lungs were open again and every breath was delicious, but she could not physically leave the tower and as her pulse slowed, as her mind calmed, she felt herself sinking back down, into that dull place where she knew she would no longer want to leave.
All right. If she couldn’t leave physically, there were other ways. After all, hadn’t the magus been teaching her, for who knew how long, to do this very thing? All she had to do was close her eyes, fight tooth and claw against the tower’s dullness, and slip away into the Work.
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