The blade slipped and cut his hand, a deep livid line of red appearing over three fingers and his thumb. He swore loudly.
She set the vessel beside him, then knelt down and picked up the knife. "It's all right for you to be sick now."
"I am not ill." The words slurred.
"Incapacitated. Whatever you want to call it." She put her hand to his forehead, not surprised that fever raged through his veins. "You're going to get better, but for now, you have to sleep."
He glared at her, but his eyes slid shut nonetheless. "To quote you, 'no.'"
She picked up his hand and put it in the suphrite. "Fine." The waters bubbled.
Though he winced, he did not pull away until it finished. "I will rest soon. I just need to finish—" he gestured to the bracelet that had fallen to the ground.
"Naatos, listen to me." She slipped her hand over his, intertwining their fingers. "I know you don't want to leave your brothers unprotected."
"My family," he said raggedly. "You…" His voice trailed off.
"Your family," she said. The words warmed her. She held his hand a little tighter.
"It's hard to do it alone."
"That doesn't matter right now."
"I have to finish—" His voice broke off.
She stroked his hand with her thumb, her fingers working against his, feeling the rough callouses and muted strength. With her other hand, she pressed him back so that his head rested on the pillow. "You don't have to finish anything except healing. You are going to sleep, you are going to rest, and you are going to overcome. And when you wake up, I will be here."
His grip briefly tightened around her hand, then loosed as he slumped back. She remained beside him. A heaviness came over her as the reality of this next phase settled in. It was all on her now.
The day passed slowly, full of tasks and yet interminable. Naatos had been even more of a comfort than she realized. It was also helpful just to have someone to divide the tasks with.
A strange schedule of varied activities formed around Amelia. She used her tablet to set timers and notes to ensure she did not forget anything important. Too much was at stake. The one for the colrum serum's final fermentation was the longest, but it brought with it the promise of an ending. If all went well at least.
She set up additional noisemaking traps with ropes that led in to the heart of the camp so that if another sarsquech or something broke in or started closing in on the rels, she'd know. Food had to be prepared. Caring for her new family took the most time.
After that she continued to work her way through dreamweaving and dreamwalking.
When night came, it was not hard to stay awake at all. The dolmaths, in such great numbers, pressed the limits of her ability to keep them separate from the hook-fanged spiders and the casket weaver. But she held fast and pushed through.
The following day passed in much the same as the first except that at last she felt that she was ready to attempt both dreamweaving and dreamwalking
Following the various sets of instructions in the books, she had composed what seemed to be the most effective routine to allow her to walk into dreams and weave new ones. She planned out the new dream she intended to make. Since she was a beginner, she chose something simple, something she could use on all four without much transformation. Something that, if they chose to, they could translate simply into restful sleep with no images at all.
Certain things made sense. The books warned against trying to use telepathy while in the mind in the early stages. Since she couldn't communicate telepathically without aid or entering the deep mind, that wasn't a problem. For something like what she wanted to do, she would have to focus on transportation and connection. In time, as she increased in skill, she could do both. Just as one day she might be able to weave more complicated dreams or transport someone into another dream without touching them in the current dream.
Kneeling beside QueQoa, she pressed her middle fingers to his temples and used her thumbs to press up his eyelids. Unlike with the deep mindreading, she had to focus on the top of the pupil instead of the center.
Taking a deep breath, she focused on QueQoa's sea-blue eyes, narrowing in on the key point.
The dream snapped her in almost at once.
Deep bellows shook the air. She covered her ears, cringing down as she tried to orient herself to the chaos of this place. A child's voice reverberated above it all. "Hide here, QueQoa. Don't make a sound!" It came from everywhere at once, much like the roars.
The very walls vibrated, shattered in some places, whole in others. Wood or something like it. Daylight streamed through one wall that had been almost completely broken to pieces.
Great wolves, big as elephants, tore apart corpses—or what remained of them—roaring, barking, baying, fighting over the scraps that remained.
Blood covered the floor and streaked the walls that remained. Large areas had blurred, distorting and stretching in a smearing haze of browns, blacks, and reds. The furniture in the house had been flung against the walls, shattered and cracked into pieces.
Only a table remained, half its legs broken in front of a bench beside a pillar. On the now-cracked wooden pillar was a series of names.
She only recognized the last one: QueQoa.
This was what had happened to his first family? Before he became part of Naatos, AaQar, and WroOth's?
"Hide here, QueQoa. Don't make a sound!" The voice grew louder as did the wolves.
Crouching, Amelia peered under the table and the bench. There he was, but not the QueQoa she knew.
He was so tiny, a child. Five, maybe six years old? At least by a human comparison. His hands were clamped over his ears, his knees drawn up to his chest. His body shook, convulsing with terror.
She crawled under the table, pausing as she realized that there were thin bloody grooves in the floorboards. As if someone had been dragged out, clawing to stay hidden.
The horrific barking and raging of the great wolves thundered in ever-increasing volume as the voice grew higher, frantic. "Hide here, QueQoa. Don't make a sound!"
He pushed his face into his knees, rocking back and forth.
Upon reaching him, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. He reminded her of a golden retriever pup with a broken foot she'd nursed back to help. "It's okay, it's almost over."
The baying intensified as did the speed of the voice, but, holding him tight, she brought to her own mind the image that she'd prepared. A yellow-walled room with a single white-framed window. A bed with crisp sheets and a soft pillow. Nothing else.
Her arms strained to hold onto him as he returned to his true form. Breathing with relief, she dropped her head against his shoulder. Success. Thank Elonumato.
As he looked about, confusion apparent on his face, she stepped back and took in her handiwork.
It was just as she had hoped. The bed in particular was cozy enough that she wished she could curl up in it herself with a simple blue quilt, crisp white sheets, and a fluffy pillow. This wasn't her first time making such a thing, but it was the first she'd done it intentionally, and this seemed even better than the first.
Pushing himself to his feet, QueQoa mumbled something akin to surprise. His muscles remained tense, but he approached and circled the bed slowly. He cast a glance around.
If she had known how to make herself visible or to share a message, she would have done so. It took too much effort just to be present here, the overall sensation uncanny. Thankfully he seemed to be relaxing.
More importantly, she needed to secure this image. Creation occurred mostly through envisioning, and the technique of securing the peaceful dream involved implanting that intention. The books suggested anywhere from two to four of these in a small-scale dream like this one. Since this was in a room, she had chosen four nails. Not precisely peaceful but the easiest thing she could imagine fastening into the scene.
"Hello?" QueQoa called. He peered outside.
She drove the nails in, w
ishing she had enough skill and strength to give him some other comfort or to explain what this was. At least he didn't seem to hear her hammering.
The horror of his nightmarish memories faded from his face. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes shuttering as his body called for deeper and more restful sleep. Within seconds, he drifted off.
In time, this dream would fade. It would last anywhere from six to ten hours according to the book. With time and practice, she could make more complicated dreams, and simple ones like this one intended to foster deep and healing rest could be made to last for fifteen hours or more with extra benefits and healing woven into the fabric of the rest. For now, this was enough. Simple, basic, sufficient.
Stepping back, she released the connection and found herself kneeling once more at the side of the trench, her hands still pressed to his temples.
QueQoa's entire demeanor had changed. His once furrowed brow had smoothed, and his breaths had evened. They were deeper too, still not as unhindered as she wanted. But the terror no longer agitated and destroyed.
One down, three more to go.
A dull headache had started in the back of her skull. A long draught from the tea helped as did more water and space holding in her own mind.
No time to linger. The pungent green flavor of the tea still in her mouth, she went next to AaQar.
His breathing was heavy and uneven, more labored than the others. His dream resisted her at first, a soft thrum of horror that was more like smoke and fog than the snapping jaws of QueQoa's. But, after the fifth attempt, she caught it and followed it in, the darkness rising around her like a bleak sea.
Compared to QueQoa's, AaQar's nightmare was too quiet. The silence was oppressive, filling her ears, choking her like water. A dull ringing filled the back of her mind. If she focused on it, it grew stronger and stronger. It would drive her mad if she stayed too long.
This dream was in long hall, a hall she recognized from AaQar's memories. A pulse of sorrow and grieving memory struck her as she recalled the moment he'd shared.
Of course it was here. Of course it was now. His home with Rasha in the temple on Ecekom. The evening he discovered she had abandoned him and stolen their son.
Scraps of paper floated in the air. Most were in Rasha's handwriting. Scraps of her final letter. Others announced the destruction of the Unatos. Clippings with reports of the number dead. Other scraps simply with names. Names and names. More deaths.
AaQar waded through, bending and bowing as he forced his way through the sludge of a hall. His back was to her. The long grey-blue stone walls stretched on and on into darkness.
Her heart started, her chest clenching. Was that a face? Had she seen someone looking out through here? A long face. A woman's face perhaps. Sharp purple eyes that took everything in through a glance.
But the face had vanished before she could see for certain.
If it wasn't so hard to walk, she would have made her way to that room to see what was inside.
Each second counted.
The blues and blacks of this hall bled and rolled. Portions of it curled while others melted. The scraps of paper hung in the air, the ink shining like it was still wet. Mostly black. Sometimes dark red. Several names appeared over and over. Silar, Osine, KelChon, and others appeared over and over again.
He halted. "Rasha," he said, his voice muted though he yelled. The walls and floor devoured all sound, the ceiling extending forever upward in crushing darkness. "Rasha, why aren't you here? You promised you'd be here. Rasha!"
Forcing her way through the sludge of the carpeted floor, she made her way to him. Much as it broke her heart to hear and feel this pain of his, it made it easier to reach him. She waded closer, wrapped her arms tight around him, and buried her face in his back. "Come on."
It was much easier to pull the new scene into focus with AaQar. Perhaps because it was so similar to the one she had created for him previously. Unlike QueQoa, he did not seem as relieved. He paced the room. "Rasha, you promised you'd come."
She steadied the scene and hammered in the nails as she watched him. What was making him hold to the nightmare? Her mind hurt too much to press deeper. Was it the herbs perhaps?
By the time she finished the third nail though, he settled onto the bed. Peace spread over his face as he relaxed against the pillow.
It was easier to leave this time, and the dull ache in her mind had increased only a little. Following the same pattern as before, she prepared and then went to WroOth. She barely focused on the tops of his pupils before the darkness snapped up and around her.
She found herself blinking in a desert at night, the wind whipping up the red sand and spraying it against her face, sometimes so real, she felt the sting. Everything flashed. The sky burned with flashing scenes as lightning splintered the sky. Even closing her eyes provided no relief.
Ducking her head, she tried to focus.
The near-frantic energy burned within her own mind. No wonder he wasn't rested. The wind blew strong against her, slowing her and pushing her back if she stopped moving.
Where was WroOth in this? Something about this one more intense for her as well. With QueQoa's, the setting had been uneven in how she had interacted with it.
Here the sand burned, and the air tasted like sulfur, char, and rot. It filled her nostrils and mouth, unyielding.
"WroOth, where are you?" she called out. It was his dream. He had to be here.
The images moved faster and faster, becoming like strobe lights.
Then she saw him on the top of one of the sandy hills. One moment he was standing, the next he was running. Sometimes close, sometimes far. No matter how fast she moved, he was out of her reach. The sand piled up around her feet.
Erratic as he was, there was no way to predict where he was going to—
She stopped short. How was she going to get him when his nightmare included a whole desert wilderness and he was this fast! She flung her arms up in the air. Where was he even?
A great force bowled her over.
Sprawling into the sand, she choked, looking up just in time to see him trip over her. As he staggered to his feet, she seized his booted ankle. Her fingernails scraped over the leather. Already he was pushing up, trying to shake her off. No sound came from his mouth though. This nightmare had stolen his voice and left him alone.
She hung tight and fought to pull the revised dream in. For a moment, it seemed as if it wouldn't come at all. Then the scene snapped into place.
WroOth lifted his head, casting a suspicious glance around the room. He kicked the bed frame and peered out the window, then lifted the dust ruffle to look under the bed. With a light hiss through his teeth, he began pacing. Even after she had finished hammering in the nails though, he had not calmed. He hadn't drunk anything like AaQar. So—oh! Her eyes widened.
Alone.
He was alone.
She closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead. Of course. That had been the problem from the beginning. But she didn't possess the strength to diverge yet. The text had specifically warned against working outside of the skill or else it could lessen the effectiveness of the dream and the rest that it brought. Yet this dream was just as likely to turn into a prison for him if she didn't find some way to convince him. So something small. Something that wouldn't take much to add.
Yes! A memory fluttered into her own mind.
It took only a thought. A small one to make a bluebeard appear on the windowsill just across from him. Would he remember?
It caught his attention almost at once. Leaning forward, he frowned, arms clasped behind his back. Then he laughed. "So it is you, little sister. Why that obscure reference though? Why not a painting that says what you mean or a letter perhaps?"
She frowned, more annoyed at herself for not thinking of it. Focusing harder, she made the word "headache" appear on the wall. It took a little more effort this time, requiring that she imagine each letter.
He gave a sage nod. "As it should. You co
me traipsing into people's nightmares and pulling them into tiny rooms without a note?"
She put the words "you rest" on the wall next.
He lifted his hands. "Fine."
The answering throb in her temple warned her that she was running low. And she still had to reach Naatos. Reeling back to consciousness took a little more effort this time.
34
Brother’s Keeper
Amelia drank two full canteens of water and a full cup of the herbal tea before she went to Naatos. The mid-afternoon sun warmed her, but it did not reach her soul.
Whatever he held in his darkest moments frightened her the most, and not simply because he had been so confident she couldn't get that far into his mind. With all four having lived over nine hundred years, close to a thousand, they all had ample selections. But there was a particular viciousness to Naatos's that reached her. His teeth were gritted even now.
Still, she wasn't going to leave him in that place. Whatever it was.
Kneeling beside him, she placed her hands on his temples and pressed up his eyelids. He remained unresponsive, the tendrils of the dreams distant from her. She grimaced as she tried to catch hold. It slipped away, then strengthened, wavering only when she reached for it. Two more attempts likewise failed. Her frustration growing, she relaxed her grip and tried again. The deep mindreading had been much easier. This… he had shielded it. Leaning closer, she focused harder and caught it.
The dream snapped her in, all the sunlight winking into darkness. The passage through the utter blackness continued a breath or two longer than the others before at last unveiling a strange foul-smelling room with wooden walls and a dirt floor.
There was a man, late thirties to early forties by appearances. Though he was tall and muscular, he had a gaunt, hungry appearance and wild unblinking eyes that were so bloodshot they were almost red. Long silver and blue-red scars shredded his forearms. He had chin-length hazel hair that had surprisingly soft curls compared to the overall harshness of his demeanor.
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