Requiem (45 page)

Rudolfo sat.

The door opened, and Drea Merrique came into the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she looked around for her guest. “Lord Rudolfo,” she muttered, “to what do I owe this nocturnal visit?”

The man who’d led Rudolfo to her retreated from the room as she sat in the chair opposite. She squinted across at him, but Rudolfo knew the magicks and the darkened room gave her nothing to see. “I require assistance,” Rudolfo said.

“What kind of assistance?”

Rudolfo wet his lips. The magicks made his mouth dry cotton; the subject matter did as well. “There have been developments,” he said. “Yazmeera has asked me to take the mark of Y’Zir at her Council of Kin-Clave. As a demonstration of my soon-arriving faith.”

Drea blinked at him. “That is unexpected.”

Rudolfo nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Yes,” he said. “It is.” That conversation with Yazmeera and the message from Jin Li Tam about Jakob’s betrothal ceremony had overfilled his waking moments with thoughts that raced too quickly for him to keep up. “And it seems there is a betrothal ceremony planned between my son and the Crimson Empress.”

Drea sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “Very unexpected,” she said again. She squinted again, trying to catch some sight of him.

She can’t read me,
he realized. “I believe it is time for a new path,” he said. “I intend to leave for Y’Zir, but there is a work I would finish before.”

Drea Merrique sat back. “You wish to leave? To what end?”

Rudolfo took a deep breath, then released it. “I’ve looked for the high road and the long fight to protect my son, but it is not his life that is in danger. I will not let him be used in this way. His is a river that need not be bent.”

The countess scowled. “And what brought you to this path?”

Rudolfo closed his eyes. “I realized that I would gladly take the mark for my son’s sake. But I could not bear the thought that he might take the mark himself one day.” He opened his eyes now, amazed at the clarity the powders gave his vision. “And there is no doubt he’ll take that mark if he’s raised up as a fixture in their faith.”

Now she leaned forward, searching for his eyes, and for a moment, she had them. Her voice lowered. “Don’t throw your life at a blade you cannot turn. The landscape will soon be changing, Rudolfo. I cannot tell you more. But we need you here now.”

Rudolfo shook his head. “I will not stay. But I can give you something on my way out.”

She sighed and sat back. “Continue.”

Rudolfo felt for the list in his pocket. “You were an apothecary before you became countess. I recall Rafe swearing by your magicks and powders. It was your magicks that ultimately saw us safely out of Merrique County the last time I was”—he cleared his throat—“a guest here.”

She nodded, but the slightest narrowing of her eyes betrayed something hidden there. “I’ve dabbled a bit. What I can’t make myself, I can acquire.”

He slid the list out of his pocket and into her hands. As it left contact with his skin and clothing, it became visible, and she unfolded it. “If I take their mark, I am afforded a feast as part of the ritual,” Rudolfo said. “I will be expected, like all of Yazmeera’s officers, to contribute something to this meal. And naturally I would want to. All of Yazmeera’s senior staff will be present as well as officers visiting for the council.”

She looked up from the list. “Renard and Orius will not be happy with this.”

“Their happiness is not my concern,” he said. “I will give them this gift as I go because it pleases me and because we share an enemy. But my son is the only light I serve.”

Drea looked back to the list. “I will pass word to them of your proposal.” Then, she looked up, and he saw firm lines upon her face. “I never became a mother,” she said, “but I suppose if I had I would not have wanted this for my child, either.” She reached out a hand, and something in him compelled him to take it and squeeze it. “If they sanction this, I can help you in ways you would not believe.”

He released her hand. “Thank you.”

“So you will take the mark?”

Rudolfo nodded, though he knew she couldn’t see. “I will.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Rudolfo chuckled. “I am not. They are only cutting my skin. What I get from it—and who I do it for—is worth another scar.”

She nodded. “I’ll contact you within the day,” she said. Then, she stood. “I’m back to bed. You should be, too.”

Rudolfo stood. “Aye.”

She’d already left when hands guided him back to the passageway. He moved silently along behind his guide, and when he was released he moved across the lawn at a low run. He did not take the roads but instead, he ran out into the fields and did not stop until he was far from any houses, alone beneath the blue-green moon.

Worth another scar.

Yes, Rudolfo realized, and one of his own choosing for a change.

Winters

Winters resisted the metal hands that lifted her, her eyes heavy and her brain sluggish from sleep. “I can walk,” she muttered.

But even as her feet touched the ground, she knew her legs would not carry her. She leaned against Isaak’s solid metal chassis and yawned. “Or maybe I can’t.”

She was vaguely aware of the guards around her. Charles and Hebda both stood by as well. The old arch-engineer looked worried, but there was excitement on the arch-behaviorist’s face.

“I will carry you,” Isaak said.

Winters relaxed and let the metal man lift her. It was an odd sensation, being carried, and she found herself remembering the last time she’d experienced it. It was Garyt, Seamus’s grandson, bearing her from the cutting table on the Mass of the Falling Moon.

They moved out from the room, leaving her bedding behind. Hebda took the lead with his guards, and Isaak followed. Charles walked beside him.

The steady motion of the metal legs rocked her toward more sleep, and she found it impossible to keep her eyes open. She felt a hand on her shoulder and squinted at Charles.

His voice was low—barely a whisper—and she knew it was meant for her and Isaak’s ears alone. “When this is finished,” he said, “we need to leave.”

Winters tried to focus, remembering a conversation from what seemed decades ago now. She tried to speak and found her tongue thick and heavy. “Micah?”

If Charles understood, he said nothing. Isaak continued moving forward, his flashing red eyes the only acknowledgment of the arch-engineer’s words.

They moved quickly through the passages, and she found herself drowsing as they moved, the images of her people’s long night of dreaming playing out behind her closed eyes. She’d read the Book of Dreaming Kings, certainly, as she grew into her role. But experiencing the dreams themselves, re-created through the mechoservitor’s complex memory system, was a different matter. She’d seen the rise and fall and rise and fall so many times, seen so many nightmare landscapes of war followed by the inevitable crawl up from violence into survival, that when the dreams came suddenly to a stop, she was jarred to a false wakefulness in a vast and quiet field of flowers.

Isaak had been there, and when their eyes met, they’d both known.
The Final Dream comes now.

And so he’d left the aether to tell the others, and now, they hurried through the Beneath Places to the dreamstone.

As they drew closer, she found herself disoriented as the dream began to reassert itself. The meadow of flowers was back now, and Isaak carried her through it even as they took the twists and turns along the way to the wide, high-ceilinged chamber that waited for them.

The rowboat was out at the stone already, but a larger vessel—a low, flat barge—waited now at the shore. Men stood by the barge and also out on the massive floating black stone, and though the light was too dim to see, Winters felt their fear through the dream. Her eyes fluttered open when she realized this. She looked to Charles and sensed fear as well, but something stronger—determination—rose off of him in waves that she could feel.

What is happening?

Isaak’s voice was low and lilting. “The stone is drawing us all together into the aether,” he said.

They climbed onto the barge, and she inhaled the pungent, ozone smell of the blood of the earth, the silver fluid they moved over. As they approached, she saw Tertius stretched out, both in the field of flowers and upon the stone, though in the field his eyes were open and watching them approach.

Gray Guard pulled at a creaking rope until the barge brushed up against the dreamstone. Then, Isaak carried her to Tertius and gently placed her on the stone beside him. The mechoservitor stretched out as well, and for a moment, Winters wasn’t certain she’d be able to fall back into sleep with the small group of onlookers that gathered.

But once Isaak’s head softly scraped against the black stone, she found the pull of the dream irresistible, and the meadow of flowers pushed out the stone and everyone gathered upon it. She smelled the sweetness of the blossoms—unfamiliar and purple—felt the wind moving over them, heard the rustle of the blades of grass, and realized that now, she and Isaak and a multitude of others stood upon a plain that stretched out for an impossible distance all about them.

At the center of the meadow stood an ancient white tree, its limbs heavy with seed similar to that of a dandelion. It towered in the sky but cast no shadow as it did despite a blazing summer sun.

Winters looked to her left and saw Isaak beside her. “What do we do?”

Isaak shrugged. “It is your dream, Lady Winteria. I merely gave you the ingredients for it.”

A movement caught her eye, and Winters turned. Others were appearing now, too. Tertius. Hebda. Charles. The soldiers who had accompanied them. They stood wide-eyed, open-mouthed, at what they saw. She turned back to Isaak. “What about your dream?”

Isaak shook his head. “Our dreams are separate, though interdependent.”

She saw more people appearing now. Most in Gray Guard uniform. But there were men and women and children also standing, all looking incredulously at the tree and one another.

Somewhere in the distance, Winters heard howling and squinted past the tree to the rolling meadow beyond. On the horizon, she saw a speck of silver moving quickly in her direction. Behind it, several dark and loping forms.

Neb.
She wasn’t sure how she knew, but the knowing made her breath catch. Winters reached for knives that leaped into her hands simply because she expected them to be at her hips, then launched into a run. “Neb!”

She heard a whispering beside her and looked to see Isaak running as well, his limp giving him a strange gait. She brought her eyes forward just in time to dodge an old man suddenly in her path, and she could see more and more figures occupying the field ahead.

Winters wove in and out of the people materializing around her. She noticed dark uniforms—worn by some who seemed surprised at their arrival in this place and others who did not seem surprised at all. These latter moved quietly, steadily among the others, studying everything. Three of them—women—broke from the gathering crowd to run with her.

Blood Guard.
But they did not advance upon her, merely ran beside her, matching her pace.

Winters turned her attention back to the silver figure ahead and the beasts that chased him. He was slowing, and the long, dark creatures gained on him. She gripped her knives tightly and begged her legs to carry her faster.

And they did.

She and Isaak pulled ahead of the Blood Guard, and then, as she clenched her teeth and forced more air into her lungs, Winters roared and pulled ahead of even the metal man. Her eyes widened at the speed she continued to build, and she adjusted her course.

It was a man, but it wasn’t Neb. This man was shorter, broader and dark of hair. He moved fast, silver mist lifting from him like steam as he ran, his face grim. He saw her, and when their eyes met, she heard his voice though his mouth did not move.

Lady Winteria, beware the hounds.
With the voice, she felt his fear and his resolve. And she saw why—the sheen of silver that covered his body was burning off of him, leaving large exposed patches of pale skin.

Behind the man, she saw better what pursued him. They were long and sleek, ebony-skinned with dark teeth lining dog-like snouts as cat-like legs carried them forward. There were five—no six of them.

What manner of hounds are these?
And more, she wondered: What were they doing in her dream? Were they something that the dreamstone had drawn here like the others? And like this man she’d mistaken for Neb?

One surged ahead, and its paw lashed out to catch the man’s foot and tumble him.

Winters leaped at the beast even as it gathered itself up to pounce. She crashed into its side, her knives and feet both striking it, and watched the force of her blow lift the animal up and drop it in the grass even as she landed on her back and rolled into a crouch.

Another surged past her, and she stretched out a blade even as she launched herself upward, feeling the satisfaction as it tore into the beast’s skin just behind its right foreleg and drew a long, white gash along its side and up into its groin. It yowled and fell kicking up flowers and dirt with its claws.

She spun in time to see the man tossing one of the hounds aside even as another leaped for him. She threw herself into the air and brought her knives down into the beast’s spine, dragging it down, but not before its claws ripped through the man’s arm and side, shredding more of the silver and drawing deep gashes as it knocked him over.

Winters kicked it aside and it slunk away. The others paused as well, sniffing the air. For the first time, they seemed to notice the others that were gathering on the plain.

She turned to the man. He looked nothing like Neb, though he had familiar features. “Stay behind me,” she said, and he nodded.

The hounds started moving now, slowly, walking in long circles around the two of them. Beyond, Winters saw more people, though they kept their distance. Isaak and the Blood Guard pulled up, and other mechoservitors ran toward them too.