Visioness (13 page)

Behind the high sandstone
walls, and the iron-spiked gate that marked the entry lay the Halls of the
Oen’Aerei. All spires and domes, the building itself was relatively squat for
something so grand. Only two floors high, with an occasional spire, the walls
were made of travertine stone and glistened a cold white in the morning sun.
Surrounded by arches and pillars, the façade of the building itself was a grand
architectural masterwork, alcoves covering the walls, gargoyles on the corners
of the building, and the Patron of Dreams, Melréar, in the central alcove, a
statue of stone. As she was always depicted, the patron rode a haloed stag,
with seven tines on one antler, and nine on the other; a symbol for the
imbalance in dreams. The stag was traditionally nameless, though some argued
that his name was Ellomìn. The patron stared with an omniscient gaze over the
Dreamer’s gardens.

Adabelle arrived at the
gates, noting a call box in the wall. She pressed the button, which buzzed
loudly, and waited.

“Yes’m?” a voice crackled.

“My name is Adabelle
Blaise,” she said into the speaker, which was shaped like the opening of a
trumpet. “I’m here for an appointment.”

There was a pause. “Indeed
you are. We will send someone out momentarily. Please wait there.”

She waited as requested,
expecting the huge, heavy-looking front doors to swing slowly open. But they
didn’t. Instead, a small side door opened and a tall, thin gentleman emerged.
As he neared, more and more of his features came into focus. He wasn’t
particularly old—probably somewhere in his forties—but his scalp was balding
and what little hair he had was flecked with grey. He wore a strange-looking
robe, deep maroon in colour and billowing out behind him as he walked. He wore it
over a set of regular looking clothes, but even then, the robe looked slightly
odd. He was also bearded, his face framed with dark hair that he’d apparently
opted not to trim.

“Miss Blaise?” asked the
gentleman, the gates swinging open before him.

“Yes?”

“Follow me.”

She did so, taking her first
steps onto the path towards the Halls. As the gates closed behind her, locking
into place once more, she felt a sudden sense of being trapped. There was no
turning back now; she could only move on forward.

They emerged from a small
foyer into a huge atrium, which opened out like a mansion, rather than a school
of sorts. The walls were painted in rich reds, the floors tiled and carpeted in
places, the entire place festooned with portraits. And at the very back of the
room, on the wall that overlooked the entire atrium, sat one of the largest
murals Adabelle had ever seen. It was Melréar again, painted in all her
dark-haired beauty, standing beside the ivory stag, a hand resting gently on its
back, the uneven number of tines back-lit by the halo of gold and green light.

“Our Lady Morphier awaits
you at the staircase. Please go up to meet her.”

Adabelle, so distracted by
the portrait, had not noticed the lady standing at the very top of the stairs.
Surrounded by an air of beauty and propriety, Lady Morphier was a tall woman,
with a thin, sleek frame. Wrapped in a brilliant dress of crimson red, her skin
was pale, almost to a blinding white, while her lips were rich and pink in
colour. Despite her youthful appearance, her hair was silver. Not grey with
age, but silver with life, seeming to glow with in an inward, almost violet
light. Held up in a beehive, it came out at the sides in puffs of masterfully
styled hair. And yet there seemed an edge of danger about the woman. Around her
neck lay the skin of a fawn, its taxidermy head resting on her chest, its
sightless, glass marble eyes seeming to stare on for an eternity.

“Lady Morphier,” Adabelle
said, curtseying as required.

“Miss Blaise,” the lady
replied, her voice clipped and well-enunciated. “It is wonderful to have you in
our Halls. I do hope the journey over was nothing arduous.”

“Not at all,” Adabelle said.

“Now, do come up the stairs
and follow me to somewhere much more suitable for conversation. We have much to
discuss.” She turned away and began her way up the adjoining hall. Adabelle
sprung into action, hurrying up the stairs. She found the woman some way down
the hall, floating apparently given the silence of her steps.

“Come quickly now,” she
said, turning for only a moment before she continued down the hallway.

Adabelle soon caught up with
the woman. As she followed, she noticed a scent in her wake. It was a heavenly,
floral kind of scent. She walked with an angelic gait, lighter than air, her
steps unheard even in the silence of this place. She was in awe of this great
woman, despite the fact that she terrified her almost as much.

As they walked, Adabelle
noticed on the movement fringes of her mind. Movement within the Frequencies;
hundreds of minds layered one atop the other, exploring each other’s thoughts
and dreams. The Oen’Aerei at training.

The pair eventually arrived
at a doorway, which Lady Morphier was quick to unlock and invite Adabelle into.

“Please make yourself
comfortable in here,” she said, indicating to two chairs in the centre of the
room.

The room appeared to be a
library of sorts, with chairs laying all about the place. Some of them were
quite straight-backed, and tucked under round wooden tables, probably for
games, while others were like lounge chairs, cushy and comfy and soft.

“Just over in the corner
there, if you please,” Lady Morphier said, pointing to a pair of seats by the
window. “I will be back in one moment. I just have to inform the maid so she
may get us some tea. One moment.”

Adabelle was alone now. She
did as requested and made herself comfortable in one of the seats on the far
side of the room, and stared out the window, at the gardens that surrounded the
halls.

There was so much history to
this place. So much personal history, especially. Her mother had come here, her
father had trained here, her father had been the chancellor at one point. Here,
her parents had met and married and had her. Here, everything fell apart. In
these halls, Aunt Marie lost her mind. Here had once been a haven for those
with the ability to Dream, but now Adabelle felt nothing but fear. Lady
Morphier being so kind seemed to help, even just a little.

Lady Morphier returned with
empty hands, though a maid followed her with a tray, a teapot and some cups.

“Thank you, that will be
all,” Lady Morphier said, dismissing the maid. “Tea?” she offered.

“Yes please,” Adabelle
replied, taking up the cup and welcoming the apparently already steeped brew.
“Thank you.”

She stirred in some sugar to
sweeten, and then set it aside to cool.

“Miss Adabelle Nynette
Blaise,” Lady Morphier said, with only the slightest hint of excitement in her
voice. “I never thought I’d see the daughter of Count
Therron
himself in
my presence.”

“I did not expect it
myself,” Adabelle replied, deciding to dismiss that previous comment. “In all
honesty, I’d sworn off this place.”

“Yes, well, I suppose we can
never really be certain of our paths until we walk them.” She smiled, and
chuckled quietly. There was a sickly turn, all of a sudden, to her sweet
nature. Something wasn’t right about the woman. As Adabelle sat before her, she
stared at the woman’s youthful face, at her silvery hair, at the way here
eyes—dark as they were—seemed to swirl with the mists of time. This woman held
up a façade, of that she was sure.

“I have to ask,” Adabelle
said, “did you ever meet my father?”

“Why yes I did,” she
replied. “Very proud man; a strong man. Honest, too, very honest. All things
considered, I was really surprised when I heard your reasons for coming here. I
always held him in the highest esteem.”

“He’s a killer,” Adabelle
retorted. “He’s the reason my mother’s dead. My cousin, too. He’s the cause
behind it all. How can you hold anyone like that in high esteem?”

Lady Morphier’s smile faltered,
for only a moment. “Adabelle, you have to understand things from my
perspective. Yes, Count Therron was, in all manners of the word, a criminal. He
was a murderer, an arsonist. God knows he’s half the reason the Dreamless
exist! But he’s never hurt me personally, and he did put much into this place.
He’s the reason this academy can run so smoothly. He changed so much while he
was here, protected those that needed protection. When you weigh up those great
deeds, they really do begin to outweigh the bad, don’t you think?”

“No,” Adabelle replied. She
managed—she did not know how—to maintain calm and politeness. “He killed my
mother, he almost made it that my sister wasn’t born. I do not think for a
second that he’s a great man, at all. Not ever. Not once.” She took a deep
breath in, holding in tears of passion.

“Well I do apologise, and I
will pull away from that topic if it troubles you so.” She laughed quietly. “My
lord this conversation did heat up awfully quickly.”

Adabelle nodded in a silent
attempt of apology, before pulling up her teacup and sipping. She paused as the
tea touched her lips, recognising the scent.

“Is this Slugleaf tea?” she
asked.

“Oh that? Only a little bit,
mixed in with some other leaves. All of our tea has just enough in it to
repress any chance of exploration out of tutoring hours. We do not like the
students running about in each other’s heads, of course. We have a few
Sturdings here and there, and who knows what sort of damage they could cause if
left to run free.” She laughed again. This woman seemed awfully jovial, like a
person who’d had too much wine.

Adabelle shrugged, deciding
she was safer to drink the tea than to not. As she sipped it, she noticed that
it was indeed a mix of tealeaves.

“Now with that
unpleasantness out of the way,” Lady Morphier went on, “I was wondering if I
could talk to you about your Dreaming.”

“What would you like to
know?” she asked.

“Are they strong?” Morphier
asked. “When you’re in the dream, are you incredibly lucid and aware.”

“Usually,” she replied. “I
tend to find I have more control over the dreams, even when others are there.”
Her mind flashed back to her nightmare, and the scent of her father, and the
music box. It made her shiver. “But if I want to, I can usually move about them
pretty easily. The Dream Frequencies are like second nature to me now.”

She turned back from the
window to Lady Morphier, who’s smile frightened her. The fawn around her neck’s
sightless eyes seemed to look directly at her now. Adabelle put that up to her
own fear. As it lay there, though, Adabelle couldn’t help but marvel at how
real it looked, as though it would eventually rise to life upon her shoulders,
as though its eyes were more than marbles.

“The Dream Frequencies are
an odd place indeed, with the way they work,” Lady Morphier said, after a long
pause. “They’re odd in the way they accept some people’s minds and not others,
how they can draw in blood and flesh for some, yet reject so many. And the
ability seems so very hereditary indeed. I’m assuming you know what a Nhyx is,
after what happened with your cousin.”

“I knew what they were
before then,” Adabelle replied.

“Then I’m sure you
understand what a Sturding Nhyx is.”

“They’re the reverse of a
human,” Adabelle said, struggling to explain it. “Where as a Sturding human can
appear in the Dream in their flesh and blood form, and move about within
there.”

“Like your father.”

“Yes, like Therron. A
Sturding Nhyx has its reality within the dreams, and outside the dreams
is…well…its own dream. But it can still make itself known there. Fully. Is that
right?”

“Close,” Lady Morphier said.
“A Sturding Nhyx is something we’re still studying, but from what we’ve been
able to gather, a Sturding, whether Nhyx or human, has an understanding of
itself in both realities; the Dream Frequencies and the real world.”

“An understanding of
itself?” Adabelle asked.

“It is aware of itself…it
understands its presence in both realms is reasonable and sensible. It’s their
reality. It’s all very hard to explain, really, I am not doing it justice.
Basically it just means it appears in both worlds. Most dreams can’t hurt us,
because we don’t accept it as reality. Our very fabric that creates us doesn’t
accept dreams as reality, so no matter what happens, we can’t be hurt by it.
Sturdings have that one weakness. They can be killed in either world, and given
some of the things we face in the dream frequencies, I consider it a great
weakness indeed.”

“You’re a Sturding?” asked
Adabelle.

“Indeed I am,” she said. “I
can appear within Dreams as fully as I appear before you now. But it also means
I am mortal in both.”

“And my father was one of
these, too, wasn’t he.”

“Indeed he was.”

Which would explain how he
could do so much by simply being within the dream of another.

“He was able to move through
dreams as a person walks down the street, and emerge from other’s minds, like
they were his own. He could do things with dreams that none thought possible.
He was the one who created the Nhyxes.”