An Accident of Stars (23 page)

“And so it did,” Gwen murmured.

A brief silence fell between them, broken only by the murmur of the surrounding camp and the sound of their own footsteps.

“I know your son,” Halaya said quietly.

Gwen stopped dead.

Halaya stopped with her. They were distant enough from the others not to be overheard, yet even so, Gwen's heart was hammering. Though the possibility had occurred to her in the battle's aftermath, she hadn't let herself hope that her Louis might be among their Shavaktiin rescuers; on top of everything else, such yearning might have undone her. Now, though, the buried hope flared anew. She tamped it down sternly: if Louis were here, he'd surely have sought her out himself, not sent Halaya as messenger. Even so, it was several long seconds before she trusted her voice enough to answer.

“Is he well?”

“He was, when last we spoke.”

“He's not here then?”

“No,” said Halaya.

Gwen suppressed a wince. “Of course.”

“He's a good man,” Halaya said softly. “He… Understand, there's only so much I can say about our politics to an outsider, but the path he's chosen – his guidance of the story – though some in our order oppose it, we do not. I do not.”

“Is…” oh, it was a bad question to ask, especially today, but she still couldn't stop herself, “…is he safe, do you think?”

Halaya was silent for just long enough that Gwen's heart sank. She'd last seen Louis just before her departure to Earth from Karavos; he'd hinted then that he was already involved in something she wouldn't approve of, and rather than argue, she'd declined to press the issue. She hated to think of Louis putting himself in danger, but given her current occupation, it would've been hypocritical to deny him his own adventures, which made for an uneasy truce between them at the best of times. And yet.
And yet.

Finally, Halaya said, “He is as safe as he can make himself. Safer than we are now, certainly.” And then, some wryness creeping into her tone, “It is, I'm told, safer to run beside a charging horse than to stand in its way.”

Gwen snorted. “I'll bet.” And then, because she judged herself to be happier without further details, “Come on, then – show me this fabled bedroll. If I stay on my feet much longer, they're like to mutiny.”

S
affron walked
through the field of burning flowers, her nostrils filled with the sickly-sharp smell of hot sap. White smoke was everywhere, and yet she remained as calm as if it were nothing but fog.
I don't fear this
, she thought, and as though her will had the power to shape the space around her – which, this being a dream, she supposed it did – the smoke began to thin, the fire blown out like birthday candles. As the air cleared, Saffron found she wasn't alone: a thin, short figure stood up ahead, staring in obvious mystification at their surroundings.“Zech?” she asked.

The girl turned, surprised. “Safi? Is this real?”

“I'm not sure. I think it all depends on what you mean by reality.”

“Oh. All right, then.” She blinked. “Have you been here before?”

“Once. I'm still not sure why, though, or what it means.”

“Hmm.” Zech bent down and picked a flower, twirling the stem between her fingers. “I don't know why, but I feel like there's something I'm meant to find here. Will you help me look?”

“Of course,” said Saffron. “But should you be walking already? You were so cold before. I don't want you to get worse again.”

“Maybe not,” said Zech, rubbing her injured leg. She peered over Saffron's shoulder and smiled. “We can ride, though.”

Turning, Saffron laughed to find a pair of roas, saddled and waiting, woolly ears flickering back and forth. A brightly striped cloak covered each saddle, and as Zech moved to choose a mount, Saffron said, “Did these come from you or me, do you think?”

“Maybe they came from themselves,” said Zech, shrugging into the cloak. It was blue and purple, red and gold – a flowing, gorgeous thing.
A technicolor dreamcoat
, Saffron thought, and fought the urge to giggle as she donned her own. “Who knows? Maybe roas dream too.”

“I've heard of stranger things,” said Saffron, and swung herself into the saddle.

Together, they began to ride, the roas snorting softly. Ahead of them, the field of flowers started sloping upwards, rising like the flank of some sleeping beast. The higher they climbed, the more it felt like riding up the spine of a towering wave, and when they reached the summit, the view rendered both of them speechless.

“Oh,” said Zech.

Before them stretched Karavos – the same vista Saffron had seen on arriving with Gwen and Pix. There were the towers, the broken walls; and there, perched high above everything else, was the palace. Zech's eyes were glued to it.

“There,” she whispered, “take us
there
,” and before Saffron could ask why, the whole scene warped about them like rippling water, swirling and reconfiguring. The roas vanished as silently as they'd come, though the cloaks remained, and with a jolt they found themselves inside a palatial chamber. White stone columns stretched overhead, while the floor was patterned with gold and crimson tiles. A metal canal filled with burning oil ran along the walls, illuminating the room. To the left, a pair of double doors stood shut, their polished handles gleaming in the firelight, and to the right was a square stone altar topped with a flat, gold bowl.

The doors swung open, and in came the Vex'Mara Kadeja.

Saffron froze. For a single heart-stopping moment, she forgot that this was a dream. Her missing fingers tingled unpleasantly, and beside her Zech's breathing was rapid and shallow, her pale gaze fixed on Kadeja.

Forcing herself to stay calm, Saffron watched as the Vex'Mara approached the altar. In contrast to the finery she'd worn in the Square of Gods, she was now both barefoot and unjewelleried, dressed in a strange, wraparound garment that only vaguely resembled a taal. Made of faded pink cloth, it looked at first like a loose, belted dress, except that the belt and dress were actually all of a piece, the knotted ends hanging neatly from the small of Kadeja's back. In one hand, she held a lit candle; the other bore a knife.

Reaching the altar, Kadeja set the candle down. Extending her free hand, she nicked the tip of her index finger with the blade, wincing only a little as her blood dripped into the bowl. When the bleeding slowed to a trickle, she reached up and unbound her marriage-braids, slicing off a small hank of hair and dropping that, too, into the bowl. Only then did she put down the knife and reclaim the candle, murmuring words in Vekshi as she dipped the flame over her offering.

The bowl contained more than blood and hair: the surface came alight with flames, and Kadeja knelt before them.

“Ashasa, guide me,” she whispered in Kenan, touching her head to the floor – and then she switched to Vekshi again, her prayer rendered unintelligible.

“What's she saying?” Saffron murmured.

For a moment, Zech said nothing. Her eyes were wide and distant, her features calm as a sleeping child's; which, Saffron supposed, was technically appropriate, but nonetheless disquieting. She was on the verge of repeating the question when Zech began to speak, her words delivered in a soft, dreamy monotone made all the eerier by their contrast with Kadeja's impassioned tone. Saffron's scalp prickled.

“Mother Sun, why won't you lift my guilt? I live only to serve you; I heed your truth. Your will has been put before my own. I work for the unity of your children; the unity of your word. With Leoden, I will remake this world in your image, the heathen gods revealed as sparks struck from your fire. And yet. And yet. This grieving guilt still eats at me. I know it was your will, your omen, your blessing; I know I acted only as you wished. But still you withhold your greatest gift from me. My penance continues. You will not give me a rightful child. Is this a test? Have I failed you somehow? Mother Sun, shine on me. Mother Sun, warm me. Mother Sun, light my path. Please, send me the child I'm meant to mother. Send me absolution. Send me peace.”

Kadeja fell silent first, so that Zech's final words were spoken into a vacuum. Saffron stared at the Vex'Mara, trembling with an emotion she couldn't name. She hadn't understood half of what Kadeja was talking about, and yet, somehow, she felt… not pity exactly, but perhaps a sort of empathy for a woman praying in private, battling some secret sense of loss. All too well, she understood uncertainty. But that fleeting connection frightened her too; she didn't want to sympathise with the woman who'd cut her fingers, whose actions ultimately threatened her life and the lives of those around her. Zech, too, looked perturbed: some of the dreaminess had left her face, replaced with confusion. The two girls looked at each other.

“I don't understand,” said Zech.

“Me neither,” said Saffron. “I–”

The double doors opened again.

All three of them – Kadeja included – jumped, watching as a handsome man in his thirties entered. He too was barefoot, dressed in loose trousers beneath a plain red tunic whose short sleeves served to emphasise the sun-darkened skin of his forearms and face. His black hair was short, tousled and threaded sparsely with silver; his lips were expressive and mobile, and his dark eyes were full of secrets. Kadeja rose to meet him, smiling as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

“I didn't mean to disturb you, my love,” said Leoden, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “But we've had a change of plan regarding Iviyat. I thought you'd want to know.”

“Of course,” said Kadeja, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “She's been recovered?”

“The opposite. We're letting her go.”

For a moment, Kadeja looked shocked, then a gleam of understanding crept into her eyes. “She's running to Veksh,” she said.

“As best we can tell, yes. Her only other option is the traitors' camp, but whether she's been kidnapped by Vekshi radicals or tricked into treason by rebels, dear Iviyat is the perfect excuse for moving our soldiers further north.”

“Wonderful,” said Kadeja, and then they were kissing, deep and slow in a way that made Saffron profoundly uncomfortable. Not wanting to watch, she turned to Zech and murmured, “We need to remember this. We need to tell Gwen and Yasha what they're planning, only last time I woke up from here, I'd forgotten everything. Have you done this before?”

“Remember,” Zech said dreamily. She was staring into space. “I think… I think…”

“I think,” said another voice, “you've trespassed long enough.”

Saffron yelped and whirled around. Instead of a wall, she found herself staring once more at Luy and his endless field of flowers, the palace, Kadeja and Leoden all gone. Luy rolled his eyes, as though he didn't know whether to be amused or exasperated at her obvious confusion.

“I didn't expect to find you here again so soon, let alone with a friend,” he said. “And who is this?”

Moving slowly, Zech turned to face him. “Zechalia,” she said. “I came to find something important. A lost thing.”

“Oh?” Luy quirked an eyebrow at her. “And did you succeed?”

“I'm not sure,” Zech said. “I'll have to think about it.”

“Why did you take us away from the palace?” Saffron asked. “I mean, I know they were kissing and everything, but we were learning something important.”

Luy raised a finger. “A better question is, how did the two of you get there in the first place? True-dreaming might not be magic in the conventional sense – not always, anyway – but that doesn't mean the palace isn't warded against it. And yet there you were, eavesdropping on the Vex and Vex'Mara as easily as falling from horseback. You, I can almost understand,” he said, pointing at Saffron. “You're not from this world, which lays parts of its dreaming open to you that might otherwise be closed. But as for your friend…”Abruptly, he fell silent, staring at Zech with a look on his face that somehow contrived to be horrified, elated and revelatory all at once. “No,” he said, disbelievingly.

Zech paled. Reaching out, she grabbed Saffron's arm, hard enough to hurt. “I'll remember,” she whispered fiercely – and then, with a strange, small smile, she vanished.

Saffron blinked at the empty space beside her. “What just happened?”

“She woke up,” said Luy. “And by design rather than accident, I suspect, despite appearing to be an unpractised dreamer. Interesting.”

“Why did she leave?”

“I'm not sure,” Luy said slowly. “Whatever I might've thought, I can't confirm it now, and without confirmation such words are worthless. You'll have to ask her yourself, if either of you remembers this on waking.”

Saffron hesitated. On the one hand, Luy's answer was deeply unsatisfactory – he was clearly hiding something, and she wanted to know what it was. But on the other, dreams were his domain: she had no power to compel him, and in any case, a more pressing question had wriggled its way to the forefront of her thoughts.

“This dream, whatever it is,” she said, weighing her words carefully, “is it magic? You said true-dreaming sometimes is, but not always, and I was wondering, if it
is
magic, is it yours or mine, or does it just exist on its own?”

Luy grinned. “Why can't it be all three at once?”

At Saffron's expression, he laughed. “Every sentient creature dreams, and whether they know it or not, every sentient race in the Many – that's the multiverse to you – has the power to walk the dreamscape. On your world, your Earth, that gift was sometimes called oneiromancy; here, the Kenans call it the
ilumet
, and say its usage is the province of the priests and priestesses of Hime, the sky-goddess. But dreaming is a sideways sort of talent, Saffron-girl. Some people have it strongly, and for them it really is magic, wielded consciously through will and thought with unmatched skill. Others who lack an inborn gift can learn it through hard practice, but even then it's a matter of luck; no matter how hard they try, not everyone can learn the trick of it.