And when her daughter had been pronounced cured, those questions, the weight of that doubt, had vanished. It was almost like being happy. But the shadow of that illness had clouded her every evening, when Stacia was at last asleep.
Would she wake? Would she wake tomorrow?
“It’s not over yet.”
“Not yet, no.”
“What is happening?”
“When we sleep, we dream.”
“We? You and Stacia?”
“Stacia and I, yes. But there are others as well. When we dream, we occasionally dream the same dream. There, we interact—as we interacted once before, in dream—with each other. The surroundings are not the same, and the dreams are often nonsensical, as dreams are.
“Recently, that has been in the evenings, where such an event occurs naturally to all concerned. But in the past week Stacia has been dreaming far more constantly, far more consistently.”
“And you?”
“I have been dreaming with her.”
“She said you could wake yourself up.”
The hint of a dark smile touched his lips. “I was a soldier. We were often on watch; food was sparse at times, and the days and duties were not diminished for food’s lack. We learned to sleep standing up. We learned to sleep whenever we could. And we learned to wake instantly when the situation demanded it, no matter how exhausted, how sleep bound, we were. I can wake myself, yes. It’s my sleep that’s often broken. Or it was.”
“And Stacia could do this as well.”
“Dreams are real for her. And sometimes she considers waking an act of abandonment. She has not tried to wake.”
“You believe she could?”
He exhaled. “Yes. But I am also tasked with waking her if she won’t, and if I am not likewise asleep.”
“We couldn’t. We couldn’t wake her.”
“She will wake for me.”
“Why?”
“Because she will assume that she hears me while she dreams, and she will turn in the direction of a voice she can hear in both places. I can wake her.”
Muriel swallowed. “Do you live far from here?”
“I live in the twenty-fourth holding. It is not close, but it is certainly a shorter distance than many I’ve marched.”
“And if a room were prepared for you in the servants’ quarters, would you consent to remain here?” She spoke before she’d had time to think, but did not withdraw, or attempt to withdraw, the offer. If he could do what she could not do—what her husband and Barryl could not do—she wanted him here. At hand. Where he could wake Stacia.
Where he could wake Stacia, and Muriel could believe that she had some small control, some small cure, for her own fear.
He was silent for a long beat. “When I sleep,” he finally said, “I am not easily woken.”
“Except by yourself?”
He nodded. “If you want me here because I can wake Stacy—Stacia, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be useful to you.”
“And you can’t wake her while you’re sleeping.”
“Not Stacia, no. She’s—” he appeared to be searching for words.
“Headstrong? Willful? Stubborn?”
At that, his face cracked the hint of a smile. “I see you do know your daughter.”
And hers cracked a smile in response.
“You can wake the others when they’re dreaming?”
“Not always, no. But when we don’t dream the same dream, it doesn’t matter. Sleep is necessary for everyone; we’re no exception. But the dreamers have to be willing to wake, and as I said—”
“Stacia isn’t.”
He bowed his head, his gaze hitting his hands, which rested in his lap. “I’m not used to young girls. Or young boys, if it comes to that. I’m used to young men and women, and I’m used to giving orders that they have to obey. Stacia’s not a soldier. She’s not a green centrus.”
Muriel rose. She walked to the parlor windows; the curtains had been drawn, and sun filtered in through the glass. They were large windows. Expensive windows. Everything in the room was; how else could one impress important guests?
“Attitude like hers wouldn’t get her far in the army.”
“No. We hadn’t intended she be a soldier.”
“Because the army’s for poor grunts like me?”
Muriel exhaled. She did not turn to face him. “Partly for that reason, yes. But we’ve just had the army return from the war in the South—not the first war and, likely, not the last. What I want for my daughter is not the life of a soldier. The privation. The lack of sleep. The lack of food. All of those, I could accept, but not happily.
“No, it’s the killing. It’s the loss. It’s seeing your friends—your comrades, if you prefer—”
“Friends works.”
“Friends, then—it’s seeing them die. It’s the killing,” she continued. “Because you kill, or you are killed. It’s the taking of a life. And I’d want her to learn, and learn quickly, because I’d rather she kill than be killed. But I’m not sure she could come home from that unscarred. You’ve seen it. You’ve survived it. Would you want that for your own children?”
“I don’t want it for anyone’s children.”
She felt a twinge of guilt, but not nearly enough to swamp worry, fear. No, she didn’t want that for any child. “What is happening in the dreaming? What little Stacy is willing to tell me is confusing at best. I can’t tell if her words are the words of a dreaming child or a daydreaming child.” Her face was turned toward the window, as if she were a plant in need of sunlight.
It was a long while before he answered. This was a man she couldn’t force words from.
“You are aware of the events on the day of the victory parade?”
She froze. Sunlight lost warmth. She turned toward him, her back to the window, her shoulders curving inward as if to ward off physical blows. He was watching her. Waiting. She nodded. What does this have to do with my daughter? The words would not come.
“That was a skirmish. If we won, we won because of one woman and, even then, only because she chose to take the fight to her own turf.”
Muriel had not heard this.
“War will come. Not a skirmish, but a battle—and it will come here. To Averalaan. Even to the Isle. I don’t know if you were there. I don’t know if you saw the demon. I’ve seen the demon.” He exhaled. “So has Stacy.”
* * *
• • •
She didn’t even correct his use of the diminutive. She was frozen; the only things she could see in this room were Colm Sanders and the shroud of her own fear. She managed to keep control of her expression.
After a moment, he nodded. “That demon will come here again. But he won’t come alone. And in the end, it is not that demon that threatens us. He is almost irrelevant. You’ve perhaps heard the phrase: When the Sleepers wake?”
She nodded, almost confused.
“The Sleepers are waking. It’s why the sleeping sickness could exist in the first place. The Terafin intervened, and we woke. But she can’t prevent the Sleepers from waking. The gods can’t. The Kings can’t.”
“But they rode—they rode with Moorelas—”
“Yes. And they failed. They betrayed him. This was their punishment. They don’t like mortals, much. They certainly won’t like us. And we’ll be here, in great number, in lands they might consider in need of cleansing. These are the lands which their ancient enemies ruled.”
“How do you know this?”
“I sleep. I dream.”
“Stacia—”
“Sleeps. Dreams. Do you understand?”
She shook her head. What Colm Sanders might have said next was lost to the furious entrance of her child. Her Stacia. At any other time, she might have been horrified at what Stacia did next—she stormed toward Muri
el’s visitor and kicked his shin.
“You’re making my mother cry!”
“She is not crying,” the old man said, unperturbed by Stacia’s display.
Stacia wheeled toward her mother, who was not, as Colm Sanders had said, crying. Proved wrong, Stacia did not admit defeat. She did not, however, choose to kick him again. A movement caught Muriel’s attention; Barryl was in the doorway, almost frozen there by Stacia’s behavior. Ah, no, Muriel thought. Frozen by fear of his mistress’ reaction to that behavior.
“You’re scaring her.”
“Yes, because she’s no fool.” His tone implied that Stacia could learn something from her mother. “And it’s not me that’s scaring her, it’s you.”
She did turn toward her mother then.
Muriel had never encouraged public displays of affection; she had been taught just how unseemly they were. But she opened her arms, wordless, and when Stacia met her gaze, she ran across the room and wrapped her own arms around her mother’s waist.
“Don’t be scared,” she said, her voice muffled, the small vibrations of moving mouth against body a comfort. “Don’t be. She’ll save you.”
“It’s not myself that I worry for.”
Stacia said nothing, only tightened her hold on her mother. After a moment, her muffled voice could be heard—but just barely. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“I don’t care—”
“Your mother would die for you,” Colm Sanders said. “She would die to save you.”
Stacia pulled back and turned to look at the soldier. “I don’t want her to die. I don’t want her to die to save me.”
“And you think she’d want you to die to save her?”
“If she knows—if she knows that she’d die to save me, then she knows how I feel!”
“And you know how she feels, because you don’t want that.”
“But she can’t. She can’t do it anyway.”
Muriel put a hand on Stacia’s shoulder; her daughter wheeled. She was flushed, angry, defiant—and beneath that, beneath all of that, afraid. “I would like Mr. Sanders to stay with us.”
“What, here?”
“In the manor.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever it is you’re facing, he’s facing as well. And I would like—in some small way—to help.”
“He doesn’t need help. He gets really mad if you even try.”
“Would it be acceptable,” her mother continued, as if Stacia had not spoken, “to you? I won’t offer if you don’t want him here.” She had, of course, already offered.
Stacia frowned. “Can he bring his swords?”
“Pardon?”
“Well, he knows how to fight.”
“Stacia, we have guards.”
“They won’t be as good as him. Besides—he sleeps almost as much as I do.”
“Is that true, Mr. Sanders?”
“Yes.”
Muriel inhaled. Exhaled. Loosened the white-knuckled hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Do you sleep as much as Stacia because my daughter refuses to wake up?”
Silence. In it, she could hear Stacia’s displeasure, although her daughter was well-mannered enough—barely—not to put it into words.
The visitor watched her daughter. Whatever he saw in her face made him smile. “Yes. I’m a suspicious, cynical old man. Your daughter is none of those things.”
“But he doesn’t need to live here to do that! And I’m not a baby!”
No. No, she wasn’t. You will always be my baby.
“If you’re not, you might consider acting like the adult your mother clearly is,” the soldier snapped.
Stacia shrieked. So much for well-mannered. Or any manners, really. But the soldier was not a lady of the manor, worried for her daughter and aware of her station; he was, however, clearly familiar with Stacia. Stacia wrenched herself free from her mother and once again marched toward the visitor.
“Fine! You can stay—but it’s my house, and you have to listen to me!” Before Mr. Sanders could reply, her daughter stormed out of the parlor and into Barryl.
“She’s a handful,” Mr. Sanders said, when both Stacia and Barryl were out of earshot. “But she believes in heroes. In stories. She’s got a big heart. I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he added, as he pushed himself out of his chair.
“You do sleep because she’s sleeping.” This time, there was no question in the words.
“I find your daughter frustrating. Very frustrating,” he replied. “But for all that she’s a handful, she’s precious. She reminds bitter old men like me of the reason we fight. I have to go home to get my things.” He hesitated. “She’ll be upset if there are no swords.”
“Bring the swords, by all means. You can’t use them when you’re sleeping, and—given everything—it will be one less thing that upsets her.”
She wanted to ask him many things, then—but she was afraid of the answers. Later, she would. Later she might tell him just how much she was forced to trust him, against all reason, all experience.
And later, she would find that bitter trust her only comfort.
Chapter One
6th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
JEWEL MARKESS ATERAFIN WOKE to familiar walls in the morning. She did not appreciate the room in the West Wing her ascension had forced her to vacate because she could barely breathe. Shadow was lying across her chest. Finch was awake and glaring at the great cat, who appeared to be sleeping.
He wasn’t. Jewel attempted to push him off. In the halls beyond her closed door, she could hear movement, discussion, minor commotion; nothing in the tone—the words being too muffled to catch—implied disaster. Or at least not the disaster she had been facing recently. She glanced at Finch.
“Permits,” Finch said, grimacing. “It’s almost the start of the King’s Challenge.” Her hair, which had always been straight, wasn’t the mass of tangle and snarls that Jewel’s was. “Don’t you dare feel guilty.”
“I hate the paperwork of the festival season.”
“Of course you do; you’re reasonable. It’s better than an angry House Council session.”
Jewel grimaced again.
Finch held up one hand. “I’d take both for the rest of my natural life if we could dispense with evil gods, demons, and immortals who consider us vermin. I can’t do anything about them. You can.” Unspoken, but clear in her expression and her tone, was the wish that she could—because then she could help.
What Finch didn’t say out loud, Jewel couldn’t respond to, not in words. She rose.
“Do you want me to call—”
“No. I’m not technically here yet, and I don’t think I’m going to be interacting with people as The Terafin.” Jewel exhaled. “We need to go back to the castle.”
Finch nodded.
“. . . if, in fact, it still exists as a castle.”
* * *
• • •
Jewel dressed as a traveling merchant, in slightly cleaner variants of the clothing she’d arrived wearing. She woke Adam; although he was better rested, he was still tired. “You can stay with Ariel for the day,” she told him. “We’re just going to look at my new rooms.”
“He will go,” Shadow said, before Adam could reply. “We will all go.” Pausing, he glanced at Finch and Teller. “All the important people. You can stay here.”
“Shianne needs rest,” Adam told the cat. “And Lord Celleriant must teach his people the Matriarch’s laws.”
Shadow hissed. He then told Adam just how stupid he thought Adam was. Or, rather, described the new lows to which Adam had sunk.
* * *
• • •
Unimportant people were comprised of those who had remained in the Terafin manse while
Jewel had stepped onto the path created by the Oracle. Jewel, however, made it clear to Shadow that they were important to her. While she knew better than to be irritated by the cats, it was early morning, and she was still emotionally unbalanced. And as she had no intention of leaving immediately, they deserved—and would get—rest.
Shadow was not pleased. Loudly.
Finch and Teller, as regent and right-kin, had a functional need and right to know. Jester wanted, in his own words, to sleep through it and wake up after all the fuss had been dealt with, although he was up and dressed and restless. Jewel thought it likely that what he wanted to avoid was the current argument that Finch had started while dressing for the day and had continued as they spilled into the halls.
“I’m saying I’ll stay with her. I’m not asking you to risk anyone else—”
“And I’m saying it’s not safe for you to stay in whatever the hells my rooms might end up being if I sleep with indigestion.”
“You want her. She’s going to be our den-kin, same as Duster. But she can’t be den-kin if we’re not with her. I’m not telling you that we all have to move—but I’ll move. I can handle it.”
“Finch—it’s not safe in the wilderness. That’s why the House Mage is on permanent contract—he can survive it. The rest of us can’t.”
“It’ll be safe if I’m with Calliastra.”
And that’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? Would it be safe? The wilderness and the creatures it produced weren’t the only threats the den had faced. They weren’t the biggest threats, by far. Finch had always been safe with Duster. Finch and Lander. But Calliastra didn’t have Duster’s history with them.
“You wouldn’t have tried to keep her,” Finch continued, voice softening. It was a trick that she had learned from somewhere—but where, Jewel wasn’t quite certain. Everything about her tone implied that she was relenting, surrendering. The words themselves, however, showed that she hadn’t budged. “If you didn’t know it was safe for the rest of us. If something happens, she’ll be here, and I don’t think random demons are going to get past her.”
War Page 2