Requiem (40 page)

The sun was setting ahead of her when she saw something that interrupted the landscape. At first, it was an indistinguishable mass shimmering on the horizon. But as she drew closer she realized it was a tall, dark, and thorn-covered tree. The last of the setting sun shone off of something metal that waited beneath it, and she moved to a run. “Isaak?”

But as she drew nearer, she saw that it was not Isaak but another of the robed mechoservitors. “Lady Winteria,” Micah said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Come with me.” He rapped the tree twice with a shepherd’s staff he carried, and a large gash opened in the side of it. The metal man slipped through first, and after looking around, Winters followed.

The tree closed behind them, and suddenly she found herself in a dim-lit subterranean workroom crowded with other mechoservitors who stood around them in a circle, their eye shutters opening and closing, their pulsing jeweled eyes giving light to the room as they held hands.

“We can speak safely here,” Micah said. “Away from the listening ears and prying eyes of Isaak and Brother Tertius.”

And any Blood Guard nearby,
she thought. She looked at the metal man and his companions. “How do you come to be here?”

“We monitor the aether as well. The metal dream gave us access to it, and it bore us to Whym. But our range is more limited than our cousin’s.” The mechoservitor pointed to a schematic of Isaak that hung upon the wall. “He is a much earlier model, designed with the capacity to manipulate the dreamstone in ways we never would have imagined.”

Hearing an automaton use the word “imagined” was an odd experience, but no more odd than suddenly being led into a room of metal men hidden within a tree in a desolate land. “And he is dreaming,” she said.

Micah inclined his head. “Yes, he dreams, and the Final Dream is near. But we fear for his safety—and our own—once he finishes the dream. We do not trust General Orius. He serves more than the light.”

It is truth,
she thought. “He serves his desire for revenge.”

“Yes,” Micah agreed. “And his hatred of the Y’Zirite faith.”

But she could understand that. They had reduced his city—his people—to craters and bones. They’d pitted the nations of the Named Lands against each other in two wars and a handful of other conflicts. And they’d turned her people against her, turning them from the Homeward Dream. “He wants the spell,” she said.

“Yes,” Micah said. “And he knows we are the only vessels that can bear it for him. But we will not be used in such a way. Our cousins from the Forest even now make preparations for us. We intend to flee with Isaak once the dream is dreamed.”

She looked around the room and saw the maps upon its walls. “Where will you go?”

“We’ll sail for the Moon Wizard’s Ladder,” he said. “And after, we sail the moon.”

She felt the words settle upon her.
We sail the moon.
And even as she thought it, the others opened their eyes so that the light in the room grew. Micah raised his hands into the air, and his voice lowered, even as the bellows pumped air to feed it. “Winteria bat Mardic,” he said, “the Homeseeking is upon you. The homeward dreaming is nearly fulfilled. It is time to gather your people and lead them to their new home. And by our own dream, we are pledged to see you there.”

“We will need ships,” she said. “And supplies.”

Micah nodded. “We will have them. My cousins are …
resourceful
. At your word, they will gather your people in the Forest.”

Winters pondered this. “Yes. Send your cousins to Seamus. Tell him to gather the people and their tithe.”

“Yes,” he said. His eyes opened and closed as he tilted his head. “And now we must return you. Your absence has been noted.”

The tree opened, spilling heat and the smell of burnt stone into the room. She pushed herself through, climbing up and into the barren landscape. Winters fell climbing from the tree, striking the ground with her hands and knees. When she pulled herself to her feet, she realized the tree was gone.

“Winteria!”

She turned in the direction of the voice and saw the old man, Tertius, moving toward her at a fast pace. She brushed the ash from her knees. “I’m here,” she said.

“Where were you?”

Did he see the tree?
She had no way of knowing. She ventured into a lie that went with the surprise upon her face. “I … I’ve been here.”

“You left the aether,” he said. “I was tracking you, and then you vanished.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was floating. And then I was here.” The lie felt foreign in her mouth, especially with Tertius, but then again, he’d feigned death for how many years? And the truth of it was, she did not know how much she could trust him—or any of the other Androfrancines beyond Charles.

His brow furrowed. “I suppose it could be a fluctuation in your sleep.”

Winters met his gaze. “I suppose it could.” Then, she turned to take in the shattered landscape again. “Do we have any idea where Isaak is?”

Tertius pointed west. “Your instincts were correct.”

They set out westward at an easy pace, and as they went, the sky took on the color of a yellowing bruise. At first, she enjoyed the quiet, but she found after a while that the silence bred more questions, setting her mind to spinning the lock dials to find the right cipher. Finally, she turned to Tertius. “So you have been with the Androfrancines this entire time?”

He cleared his voice with a soft swallow. “Yes. I returned through the Beneath Places a few days after my funeral.”

“Did Hanric know?”

Tertius shook his head. “No. No one knew outside the Order.”

She kept her eyes on the blackened ground ahead of her feet, uncomfortable with the anger she felt over his faked death. “And all this time you’ve been monitoring the dreams?”

“Yes,” he said.

She stopped walking, and he continued on a few steps before stopping himself and turning to face her. “You realize,” she said, “that I cried myself to sleep for days?”

He stared at her, and she thought she saw the dark hint of sorrow in his eyes and in the line of his jaw. “I did what was necessary for the light. But I never intended to harm you, Winteria.”

She believed him, but she also believed he knew more than he told, and after years of deception and subterfuge, it felt suddenly freeing to take the more direct path. “I’m confident of that,” she told him. “But I don’t think you’ve told me everything.”

She watched the surprise register on his face before it resolved again to the placid mask she was accustomed to. “I have not told you everything,” he agreed.

Now, she started walking again and let him work to catch up. Her frustration fueled her feet. “And when do you suppose you will?”

He sighed. “Soon, Winteria. When the Final Dream is dreamed I will tell you everything I know.”

Even as he said it, she felt the ground buck and shift beneath her. It dropped her to one knee and knocked the old man to the ground.

“The dream is changing,” he said. And before he’d finished, the ground had bucked again and everything exploded into light.

When it passed, she lay in a field of tall, green grass studying a massive dead world that filled the sky above them. Stretching up against the backdrop of that planet, she saw a massive, bone-white tower thrust like a pointing finger. She turned her head and saw Tertius stretched out beside her, his eyes blinking at the sudden change of venue.

“This dream,” she whispered, “is of my home.”

And then something large and winged and silver blotted out the sun even as it shrieked something that might have been rage or surprise at their sudden presence in this place.

The name for it flashed across her mind even as she closed her eyes against its sudden dive.

The kin-dragons,
Winters thought,
are flying.

Though she did not know exactly what a kin-dragon was. Or what their flight meant within her homeward dreaming.

Marta

The warmth of the passage wall upon her back fed her drowsiness, and Marta opened her eyes against the sleep that threatened.

For the first few days, she’d wandered the camp in between the few visits with Isaak she’d been allowed. She was always careful to return to the door frequently to check on her metal friend. But once they’d stopped letting her see him, and after Lady Winteria entered the room and did not come out, Marta stopped wandering and stayed near the door.

Isaak.
She’d heard the old man—Charles—use that name. It was hard to think of the tall mechoservitor as an Isaak. But she’d never been able to think of him as a Watcher, either. Instead, she thought of him as someone lost.

Someone like her, though she’d not seen it until she’d met the metal man. And in a way, Marta thought she might be fortunate in that she’d not only found the metal man, but had been found by him
before
she’d realized her own lostness.

Marta sat in the shadows and watched the men who guarded the door. There were comings and goings every few hours, and each day the captain of the watch had come and warned her off. He’d done it twice the first day and once on the second. Each time, she’d slouched away only to return when he’d gone. No one had arrested her yet, and she suspected she could outrun most of them if they tried.

She could not leave this place. Not until Isaak was released. She knew it in a deep-down way that was unlike most knowing. Because Marta knew something beyond being lost, beyond being found. And beyond finding Isaak.

I know my part,
she realized. And as her father had said, everyone must do their part.

The door opened, and she willed the light spilling from it not to find her. Charles came through and initially turned in the direction of the camp, but as he did, his eyes searched the opposite direction.

Marta cringed when he paused. She tensed her muscles for flight and slowly shifted her weight against the wall as she readied herself to stand.

He nodded to her, and her face and ears burned when he spoke to her. “There’s fresh ham at the officer’s mess,” he said. “You’ve not left those shadows since I went in six hours ago, I’ll wager. You need to eat, girl.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said. Even as she told the lie, she felt her stomach growling at the promise of food. “And I’m not leaving without Isaak.”

Charles chuckled. “He isn’t going anywhere. You’ll be fine for an hour or so, I’m sure.” He nodded to the two guards. “They’ll see to it he’s safe.”

She knew the old man was right. And her mouth watered at the thought of hot food. She stood and moved slowly toward him. As she passed the door, she noticed a slight smile on one of the guard’s faces and forced her eyes away from it, the heat rising again in her ears.

Charles waited for her to reach his side; then he chuckled again and set off in the direction of the camp. He moved slowly, and she had to force herself to stay behind him, resisting the urge to move ahead and force him to keep up.

She wanted to wait until they reached the tent and had their trays of food before she asked. But she couldn’t hold the question in her mouth. “How is he?”

“He’s fine,” Charles said. “He’s sleeping.”

“He’s still having nightmares,” she said. The little sleep she’d allowed herself had been peppered with them, and she knew he was the cause of it—she’d seen the paintings he’d made with blood and remembered the tears he’d shed over the violence of his dreams. Now, she shared those dreams, and some of them were so horrific that she couldn’t remember the details after waking. But they’d left her soaking wet in cold sweat despite the warmth of the Beneath Places.

Charles nodded. “He is still having nightmares. Many of us are experiencing them, too.” His voice lowered. “Including me.”

The next question came easily. “Why are we sharing his dreams?”

Charles looked at her, his brows furrowed. “There are some things I can’t talk about. That’s one of them.”

She scowled. “What else can’t you tell me about?”

He laughed and walked faster. She could smell the mess tables now. The scent of ham and fried potatoes permeated the air and lured them toward a tent set deep in the command center of the camp. He gestured her ahead of him, and the guard at the tent nodded at Charles’s raised eyebrows.

They took their metal trays through the line, and she marveled at the feast as it was laid out. Thick slices of ham served over a bed of fried potatoes and onions, canned pears in thick syrup, and a sugar-crusted slice of sweet bread, all to be chased with fresh, hot chai and sweet cream.

Charles guided them to a small table for two in the back, and she shoved her first forkful of meat into her mouth, chewing quickly before she asked her next question. “Did you name him Isaak, or did he choose the name himself?”

Charles paused to swallow before answering. “I did not name him; he had a numeric designation. Lord Rudolfo named him when he found him in Windwir.”

Marta blinked. “
I
found him … in the woods near the river.”

The old man chuckled. “You did. But so did Rudolfo. Two years ago.” He sipped his chai.

“In Windwir, you said?” She felt the blood draining from her face. She didn’t like to think about the city. It made her stomach hurt. Remembering it now as a snow-swept plain somehow made it better, but in her nightmares, she’d seen it smoldering and pockmarked with craters where deep basements had once been.

“Yes,” he said. “Rudolfo’s scouts…” She saw him studying her face and watched his own face change. He closed his mouth as he thought for a moment. “Also something I cannot talk about with you.”

They ate quietly—not because her questions had settled, but because she was not sure which to ask next—and the hot food, perfectly cooked, demanded her attention. Besides, Marta suspected that most of her questions lay in the realm of “I cannot talk about that” for the old Androfrancine.

But finally, her tray was empty, and the silence, with nothing to occupy her, was too much. “So what happens after Isaak’s dream is finished?”

She saw the cloud pass over his face and the subtle way that his eyes left hers and wandered to the door of the tent. “I do not know,” he finally said. He pointed to his sweet bread with a loosely clenched fork. “Do you want this?”