The Bone Season

24 The Dream

I ran over the roofs, past the old church, and down the long road toward Magdalen. As I reached the residence an arm swung out from a window and snached me inside.

Warden. He’d waited for me. Without a word, he pulled me through a door. Back toward the east courtyard. Into the empty passages. Through the cloisters, up the steps. I didn’t dare speak. As soon as we were in the tower, I slid to the floor by the fireplace. My fingers left black pollen on the rug. It looked like soot.

Without stopping, Warden locked the door, turned off the gramophone, and drew the drapes on both sides of the chamber. He watched through a gap at the east window for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the street. I let the backpack drop to the floor. The straps had cut into my shoulders.

“I killed him.”

He glanced at me. “Who?”

“Kraz. I shot him.” I was shaking all over. “I’ve killed a Sargas—she’s going to kill me. You’re going to kill me—”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“A Sargas is no loss to me.” He looked back at the window. “You are quite sure he is dead.”

“Of course he’s dead. I shot him in the face.”

“Bullets cannot kill us. You must have used the pollen.”

“Yes.” I tried to slow my breathing. “Yes, I did.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. I sat there in the evidence, my lungs fit to burst. “If a Sargas has been killed by a human,” he finally said, “the last thing Nashira will want is for word of it to get out into the city. Our immortality must not be questioned.”

“You’re really not immortal?”

“We are not indestructible.” He crouched in front of me, looked me in the eye. “Did anyone see you?”

“No. Wait, yes—Terebell.”

“Terebell will keep your secret. If she was the only one, we have nothing to fear.”

“Thuban was there, too. There was an explosion.” I looked up at him. “Do you know anything about that?”

“I sensed you were in danger. I had someone standing by in the House. They caused a distraction. All Nashira will hear is that a candle was left too close to a gas leak.”

The news did little to comfort me. That was three lives I’d taken now, not counting the ones I’d failed to save.

“You are bleeding.”

I glanced into the bathroom mirror, visible through the open door. A long, shallow cut crossed my cheek. Just deep enough to bring blood welling to the surface. “Yes,” I said.

“He hurt you.”

“It was just some glass.” I touched the smarting cut. “Will you find out what happened?”

He nodded, still looking at my cheek. There was something in his eyes that struck me: a darkness, a tension. He was thinking of something else. He wouldn’t meet my gaze; the wound transfixed him.

“This will scar if it is not treated.” His gloved fingers held my jaw. “I will bring something to clean it.”

“And you’ll find out about Kraz.”

“Yes.”

Our gazes met for the briefest instant. My brow creased, and my lips formed a question.

In the end I didn’t ask it.

“I will return as soon as I can.” He stood. “I recommend you clean yourself. There are clothes in there.”

He indicated the armoire. I glanced down at my uniform. The gilet was covered in pollen: damning evidence of my transgressions. “Right,” I said.

“And keep that wound clean.”

He was gone before I could respond.

I got to my feet and approached the mirror. The laceration was a livid shock against my skin. Did it bother him to see me like this, even after what Jax had done? Did he see my face and think of his own scars—the ones on his back, the ones he kept hidden?

A cloying smell sifted from my hair. The pollen. I locked the bathroom door, kicked off my clothes, and ran a steaming bath. My legs shook. I’d skinned my knee while climbing. I sank into the hot water and washed my hair. Old bruises throbbed under my skin, while new ones formed on top of them. I took a few minutes to soak the warmth into my rigid muscles, then picked up a fresh cake of soap and scrubbed away the sweat and blood and pollen. My sallow, battered frame looked no better for the attention. Only once the water had drained did I start to feel calm.

Should I talk to him about the train? He might try and stop me. He’d brought me back when he could have let me go. On the other hand, I needed to know whether or not the train was guarded, and whereabouts on the meadow I would find the entrance. I didn’t remember anything from the training session—no hatch, no door. It must be hidden.

When I returned to the chamber I found the clean yellow uniform in the armoire. The pollen had been swept off the carpet. I sank onto the daybed. I’d dispatched Kraz Sargas, blood-heir of the Rephaim, with a single shot between the eyes. Until that moment I’d thought they were too strong to kill. It must have been the pollen—the bullet had just finished him off. By the time I’d left the tower, the corpse had been rotting before my eyes. A few grains of pollen had putrefied him.

When the door opened, I started. Warden was back. His face held all the shadows in the room.

He came to sit beside me. He took a swab, dipped it in a jar of amber liquid, and dabbed the blood from my cheek. I looked at him in silence, waiting for his judgment. “Kraz is dead,” he said, betraying no emotion. My cheek gave a hot twinge. “He was heir apparent to the blood-sovereignty. You would be publicly tortured if they found out. They know about the missing supplies, but you were not seen. The day porter has been whitewashed.”

“Does anyone suspect me?”

“Privately, perhaps, but they have no proof. Fortunately you did not use your spirit to kill him, or your identity would be obvious.”

My shivering intensified. Classic me, killing someone that important without even knowing who he was. I’d end up as a death mask if Nashira got wind of this. I looked up at him.

“What did the pollen do to Kraz? His eyes—his face—”

“We are not what we seem, Paige.” He held my gaze. “How long was there between the application of the pollen and the shooting?”

The shooting. Not the murder. He’d said the shooting, as if I’d been a bystander. “Maybe ten seconds.”

“What did you see in those ten seconds?”

I tried to think. The room had been thick with vapors, and I’d hit my head. “It was like—like his face was—rotting. And his eyes were white. Like they’d lost all their color. Dead eyes.”

“There you have it.”

I couldn’t think what he meant. Dead eyes.

The fire crackled, warming the room. Too warm. Warden lifted my chin, exposing my cut to the light. “Nashira will see this,” I said. “She’ll know.”

“That can be remedied.”

“How?”

No reply. Every time I asked how, or why, he would seem to get bored of the conversation. He went to his desk and took out a metal cylinder, small enough to fit into a pocket. The word SCIONAID was printed in red across the side. He unwrapped three adhesive Steri-Strips. I stayed still as he applied the—

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

He took his hand from my face. I touched the strips. “I saw a map in the House,” I said. “I know there’s a train on Port Meadow. I need to know where the entrance to the tunnel is.”

“And why would you need to know that?”

“Because I want to leave. Before Nashira kills me.”

“I see.” Warden returned to his armchair. “And you assume I will let you go.”

“Yes, I do assume.” I held up his snuff box. “Or you can safely assume that this will find its way to Nashira.”

The symbol caught the light. His fingers drummed on the chair. He didn’t try to bargain; he just looked at me, his eyes burning softly. “You cannot take the train,” he said.

“Watch me.”

“You misunderstand me. The train can only be activated by the Westminster Archon. It is programmed to come and go on particular dates, at particular times. Those times cannot be changed.”

“It must bring food.”

“The train is used only for human transportation. The food is delivered by couriers.”

“So it won’t come again until”—I closed my eyes—“the next Bone Season.” In 2069. My dream of an easy escape unraveled. I’d have to cross the minefield after all.

“I urge you not to attempt a crossing on foot,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts. “The Emim use the woods as a hunting ground. Even with your gift, you will not last long. Not against a pack of them.”

“I can’t wait.” I gripped the arm of the chair until my knuckles blanched. “I have to leave. You know she’s going to kill me.”

“Of course she is. Now your gift has matured, she hungers for it. It will not be long before she strikes.”

I tensed. “Matured?”

“You possessed 12 in the citadel. I saw you. She has been waiting for you to reach your full potential.”

“Did you tell her?”

“She will find out, but not from me. What is said in this room will not go beyond it.”

“Why?”

“An overture to mutual trust.”

“You went through my memories. Why should I trust you?”

“Did I not show you my dreamscape?”

“Yes,” I said. “Your cold, empty dreamscape. You’re nothing but a hollow shell, aren’t you?”

Abruptly, he got to his feet, went to the bookshelf, and took out an enormous old tome. My muscles drew into taut bars. Before I could say another word, he removed a thin booklet from inside and tossed it onto the table. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. On the Merits of Unnaturalness. My copy, plastered in evidence of the syndicate. He’d had it all along.

“My dreamscape may be starved of its old life, but I do not see people in ranks, as the author of that pamphlet does. There is no oneiromancer in there. No Rephaim. I do not see things in that light.” He looked straight at me. “I have lived with you for several months now. I know your history, even if I have learned it against your will. I did not intend to invade your privacy, but I wished to see what you were like. I wished to know you. I did not wish to treat you as a mere human—lower, unworthy.”

That was unexpected. “Why not?” I said, not taking my eyes off him. “Why do you care?”

“That is my concern.”

I picked up On the Merits and pressed it to my chest, like a child might hold a toy. It felt as if I’d saved Jaxon’s life. Warden watched me.

“You truly care about your mime-lord,” he said. “You want to return to that life. To the syndicate.”

“There’s more to Jaxon than this pamphlet.”

“I imagine there is.”

He came to sit beside me on the daybed. There was silence for a few minutes. A human and a Rephaite, as different as night and day—trapped in our own bell jar, like the withered flower. He picked up the snuff box and removed a small vial of amaranth. “You feel alone.” He emptied it into a chalice. “I feel it. Your solitude.”

“I am alone.”

“You miss Nick.”

“He’s my best friend. Of course I miss him.”

“He was more than that. Your memories of him are extraordinarily detailed—full of color, full of life. You adored him.”

“I was young.” My tone was clipped. He seemed determined to keep prodding my most sensitive spot.

“You are still young.” He wasn’t letting this go. “I have not seen all your memories. Something is missing.”

“There’s no point dwelling on things.”

“I disagree.”

“Everyone has bad memories. Why are you interested in mine?”

“Memory is my lifeline. My route to the æther, just as dreamscapes are yours.” He touched a gloved finger to my forehead. “You asked to know me through my dreamscape. In return, I ask for your memories.”

His touch chilled me. I drew back. Warden looked at me for a while, assessing my reaction, before he stood and tugged on the bellpull. “What are you doing?” I said.

“You need to eat.”

He turned on the gramophone and stared out into the street.

Michael was there before you could say dumbwaiter. He listened to the orders Warden gave him. Ten minutes later he was back with a tray, which he set across my lap. There was just enough to boost my strength: a milky cup of tea, a pot of sugar, tomato soup, and warm bread. “Thank you,” I said.

He gave me a quick smile before he made a complicated series of signs at Warden, who nodded. He bowed and left. Warden looked at me, watching to see if I would eat without coercion. I took a sip of tea. I remembered my grandmother giving me tea when I was very little, whenever I fell ill—she was a great believer in tea. I took a few bites of bread. Was he reading me now, reading my emotions? Could he feel the memory calming me down? I tried to focus on him, to use the golden cord, but there was nothing.

When I was finished, he took the tray and deposited it on the coffee table before he came to sit beside me again. I cleared my throat.

“What did Michael say?”

“That Nashira has summoned the remaining Sargas to her residence. He is quite the eavesdropper,” he added, his tone slightly amused. “He brings me a great deal of information from her halls. His supposed amaurosis keeps her blind to his comings and goings.”

So Michael was willing to sneak around. I would remember that. “She’s telling them about Kraz.” I framed my temples with my fingers. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just—”

“He would have killed you. Kraz harbored a terrible hatred for humans. He planned, when the day of our exposure came, to lure human children into our control cities. He had a penchant for their small, fine bones. For cleromancy.”

I felt sick to the deepest pit of my stomach. Cleromancy involved the use of lots, or sortes, which spirits arranged into pictures or pushed in a particular direction. All kinds of sortes were used: needles, dice, keys. A group called the osteomancers favored bones, but very old skeletons were usually handled out of respect for the dead. If Kraz had stolen the bones of children to practice cleromancy, I was glad I’d killed him.

“I am thankful that he is dead,” Warden said. “He was a terrible blight on this world.”

I didn’t answer.

“You feel guilty,” he stated.

“Afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“What I can do. I keep—” I shook my head, exhausted. “I keep killing. I don’t want to be a weapon.”

“Your gift is volatile, but it keeps you alive. It acts as your shield.”

“It’s not a shield. It’s like a gun. I live on a hair trigger.” I looked at the patterns on the carpet. “I hurt people. That’s my gift.”

“Not deliberately. You did not always know what you could do.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, I knew I could do it. I didn’t know how, but I knew who was making people bleed. I knew who was giving people headaches. Whenever people sneered at me—whenever they brought up the Molly Riots—they’d just hurt. All because I’d given them a mental push. I liked it, in a way,” I said. “Even when I was ten, I liked it. I liked getting my own back. It was my little secret.” He kept his eyes on me. “I’m not like sensors or mediums. I don’t just use spirits for companionship or self-defense. I am one of them. Get it? I can die when I want, become a spirit when I want. It makes people afraid of me. It makes me afraid of them.”

“You are different from them, yes. But that does not mean you should be afraid.”

“Yes, it does. My spirit is dangerous.”

“You are not afraid of danger, Paige. I think you thrive on it. You agreed to work for Jaxon Hall, knowing that it would significantly reduce your lifespan. Knowing the risk of detection.”

“I needed the money.”

“Your father works for Scion. You did not need money. I doubt you have ever touched it. Danger brings you closer to the æther,” he said. “That is why you take every opportunity to experience it.”

“It wasn’t that. I’m not some sort of adrenaline junkie. I wanted to be with other voyants.” Fresh anger seeped into my voice. “I didn’t want to live like a brainwashed Scion schoolgirl. I wanted to be part of something. I wanted to matter. Can’t you understand that?”

“Those were not the only reasons. You thought about one person in particular.”

“Don’t.” My lips shook.

“You thought about Nick.” His gaze held hard. “You loved him. You would have followed him anywhere.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine. It’s private. Do you oneiromancers have any concept of privacy?”

“You have kept it secret for far too long.” He didn’t touch me, but his look was almost as intimate. “I cannot take the memory from you while you are awake. But the minute you fall asleep, I will read the pictures from your mind, and you will dream them, as you have before. That is the gift of the oneiromancer. To create a shared dream.”

“Bet you never get bored.” My voice was laced with contempt. “Seeing people’s dirty laundry.”

He ignored the dig.

“You can learn to keep me out, of course, but you would have to know my spirit almost as well as you know your own. And a spirit as old as mine is difficult to know.” He paused. “Or you could save yourself the trouble and let me see inside you.”

“What good will come of it?”

“This memory is a barrier. I have sensed it inside you, buried deep in your dreamscape.” His eyes never left mine. “Overcome it, and you will be free of it. Your spirit will be free of it.”

I took a deep breath. The offer shouldn’t tempt me.

“Yes. I can help you with that.” He scooped a handful of crisp brown leaves from the snuff box. “This was what was in the pills. If I prepare an infusion, will you take it?”

I shrugged. “What’s one more dose?”

Warden regarded me for a few moments.

“Very well,” he said.

He left the chamber. I guessed there was a kitchen down below, where Michael worked.

I rested my head on the cushions. A slow, cold tremor sidled through my chest, filling the space behind my ribs. I had hated Warden with a violent intensity, hated him because of what he was, and because he seemed to understand me. I had thrived on hating him. Now I was about to show him my most private memory. I thought I knew what it was, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d have to dream it.

By the time Warden returned, a defiant certainty had surged up inside me. I took the glass cup from his hands. It was filled to the brim with clear ocher liquid, like diluted honey. Three leaves floated on the surface. “It tastes bitter,” he warned, “but it will allow me to see the memories more clearly.”

“What did you see before?”

“Fragments. Periods of silence. It depends how you felt at each individual moment, how strongly you felt it. How much that part of the memory still troubles you.”

I looked down at the tea. “I don’t think I’ll need this, then.”

“It will make it easier for you.”

He was probably right. The mere thought of confronting such a memory was already making my hands shake. Feeling as if I was about to sign my life away all over again, I lifted the cup to my lips.

“Wait.”

I paused.

“Paige, you do not have to show me this memory. For your sake, I hope you do. I hope you can. But you can say no. I will respect your privacy.”

“I wouldn’t be so cruel,” I said. “Nothing’s worse than a story without an end.” Before he could reply, I drank the tea.

Warden had lied: this stuff wasn’t just bitter. It was the foulest thing I’d ever tasted, like a mouthful of metal shards. I decided in a heartbeat that I would rather drink bleach than touch salvia tea ever again. I choked on it. Warden took my face in his hands. “Hold it down, Paige. Hold it!”

I tried. Some of it came back into the cup, but most of it went down. “What now?” I coughed.

“Wait.”

I didn’t have to wait for long. I hunched over, shuddering as waves of nausea rolled over me. The taste was so pervasive I thought it would never leave my mouth.

And then the lights went out. I fell back on the cushions, and I sank.