The Bone Season

  Ash drifted past my face. As I ventured into unfamiliar territory, my make-believe skin crawled. There was absolute silence in Warden’s mind. Usually the outer rings would be full of mirages, hallucinations of a person’s fears or regrets, but there was nothing. Just a hush.

  Warden was waiting for me in his sunlit zone, if you could call it sunlit—more like moonlit. He was covered in scars, and his skin was sapped of color. This was how he saw himself. I wondered what I looked like. I was in his dreamscape now, playing by his rules. I could see that my hands were the same, albeit with a soft glow. My new dream-form. But was he seeing my true face? I could look like anything: submissive, insane, naive, cruel . . . I had no idea what he thought of me, and I would never find out. There were no mirrors in a dreamscape. I would never see the Paige he had created.

  I stepped onto the barren patch of sand. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. Warden inclined his head. “Welcome to my dreamscape. Excuse the lack of decor,” he said, pacing without direction. “I don’t often have guests.”

  “There’s nothing.” My breath steamed in the cold. “Nothing at all.”

  It was no exaggeration.

  “Our dreamscapes are where we feel safest,” Warden said. “Perhaps I feel safest when I think of nothing.”

  “But there’s nothing in the dark parts, either.”

  He didn’t reply. I walked a little further into the fog.

  “There’s nothing for me to see. That suggests to me that there’s nothing inside you. No thoughts, no conscience. No fear.” I turned to face him. “Do all Rephaim have empty dreamscapes?”

  “I am not a dreamwalker, Paige. I can only guess at what other dreamscapes look like.”

  “What are you?”

  “I can make people dream their memories. I can weave them together, create a delusion. I see the æther through the lens of the dreamscape, and through the dreaming herb.”

  “Oneiromancer.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “You’re a sleep-dealer.”

  Jax had always said they must exist. Oneiromancers. He’d categorized them several years ago, long after On the Merits, but never found one to prove his theory: a type of voyant that could traverse the dreamscape, pick out memories, and lace them into what amaurotics called dreams. “You’ve been making me dream.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve been going through memories since I’ve come here. How I became a dreamwalker, how Jaxon found me. It was you. You made me dream them. That’s how you knew, isn’t it?”

  He met my gaze.

  “That was the third pill,” he said. “It contained an herb called salvia, which made you dream your memories. The herb that helps me touch the æther. My numen, flowing in your blood. After several pills, I was able to access your memories at will.”

  “You kept me drugged”—I could hardly get the words out—“to get into my mind.”

  “Yes. Just as you watched dreamscapes for Jaxon Hall.”

  “That’s different. I didn’t sit there by my fireplace and watch memories like—like some kind of film.” I stepped slowly away from him. “Those memories are mine. They’re private. You even looked at—you must have seen everything! Even the way I felt about—about—”

  “Nick. You loved him.”

  “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

  He did.

  My dream-form was falling apart. Before I could get out of there myself, I was tossed from his dreamscape like a leaf in a high wind. When I woke in my own body, I put my palms against his chest and shoved him.

  “Get away from me.”

  My head pounded. I couldn’t look at him, let alone be near him. When I tried to get up, the drip pulled at my hand.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  An angry blaze flayed at my cheeks. I’d given him an inch of trust, less than an inch, and he’d taken me for all I had. He’d taken seven years of memory. He’d taken Finn. He’d taken Nick.

  He stayed there for a minute. Perhaps he expected me to say more. I wanted to shout myself hoarse at him, but I couldn’t do it. I just wanted him gone. When I didn’t move, he closed the heavy drapes around the bed, sealing me off in a dark little cage.

  23

  Antiquary

  I didn’t sleep for hours. I could hear him at his desk, writing away, hidden from me only by the drapes.

  My eyes and nose were raw, my throat tight as a fist. For the first time in years, I wanted everything to vanish. I wanted everything to be back to normal, like it was when I was little, before I’d been ripped open by the æther.

  I looked up at the canopy. No matter how much I sometimes wanted it, there was no normal. There never had been. “Normal” and “natural” were the biggest lies we’d ever created. We humans with our little minds. And maybe being normal wouldn’t suit me.

  It was only when he turned on his gramophone that I started to get drowsy. I hadn’t been in his dreamscape long, but I’d done it without life support. I drifted into a doze. The crackling voices blurred together.

  I must have slept for a while. When I woke, the drip was gone. In its place was a small plaster.

  The day-bell tolled. Sheol I slept during the day, but it seemed I wasn’t going to sleep. There was nothing to do but get up and face him.

  I hated him so much it hurt. I wanted to smash the mirror, to feel the glass break under my knuckles. I should never have taken those pills.

  Maybe it was the same as what I did. I spied on people, too—but I didn’t look into their pasts. I only saw what they imagined themselves to be, not what they were. I saw flashes of people: the edges and the corners, the faint glow of a distant dreamscape. Not like him. Now he knew everything about me, every little bit of me I’d tried to keep concealed. He’d always known I was one of the Seven Seals. He’d known from the very first night.

  But he hadn’t told Nashira. Just as he’d kept the butterfly and the deer from her, so he’d kept my true identity. She might have guessed that I was part of the syndicate, but she hadn’t got it from him.

  I pulled the drapes apart. Golden sunlight poured into the tower, glinting on the instruments and books. Near the window, Michael—the amaurotic—was setting out a breakfast spread on a small table. He looked up and smiled.

  “Hi, Michael.”

  He nodded.

  “Where’s Warden?”

  Michael pointed at the door.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  He shrugged. I sat down. He pushed a stack of pancakes across the table. “I’m not hungry,” I said. “I don’t want his guilt breakfast.” Michael sighed, wrapped my hand around a fork, and stabbed it into the pancakes. “Fine, but I blame you if I throw it all back up.”

  Michael grimaced. Just to please him, I sprinkled the pancakes with brown sugar.

  Michael kept a sharp eye on me as he puttered around the room, tidying the bedclothes and the drapes. The pancakes awakened a punishing hunger. I ended up eating my way through the whole stack, along with two croissants with strawberry jam, a bowl of cornflakes, four slices of hot buttered toast, a plate of scrambled eggs, a red apple with crisp white innards, three cups of coffee, and an ice-cold pint of orange juice. It was only when I could eat no more that Michael handed me a sealed manila envelope.

  “Trust him.”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Do you trust him?”

  He nodded, cleared the breakfast table, and was gone. And even though it was daytime, he left the door unlocked. I split the wax seal on the envelope and unfolded the sheet of thick paper inside. It was bordered with swirling gold. Paige, it began:

  I apologize for upsetting you. But even if you resent me, know that I sought only to understand you. You can hardly blame me for your refusal to be understood.

  Some apology this was. Still, I continued to read:

  It is still day. Go to the House. You will find things there that I cannot supply.

  Be swi
ft. If you are stopped, tell the guards you are collecting a fresh batch of aster for me.

  Do not judge too quickly, little dreamer.

  I scrunched the letter into my hand and threw it into the hearth. Just by writing it, Warden was flaunting his newfound trust in me. I could easily take it straight to Nashira. She would recognize his handwriting, I was sure. But I didn’t want to help Nashira in any way whatsoever. I hated Warden for keeping me in this place, but I needed to get into the House.

  I went to the upper floor and dressed in my new uniform: yellow tunic, yellow anchor on the gilet. A bright, sunshine yellow, visible from a mile off. 40 the coward. 40 the quitter. In a way I liked it. It showed I’d gone against Nashira’s orders. I’d never wanted to be red.

  I went back to his chamber—slowly, thinking. I still didn’t know if I wanted to organize a prison break, but I did want to leave. I would need supplies for the journey home. Food, water. Weapons. Hadn’t he said the red flower could hurt them?

  The snuff box was on the table, the lid propped open. Inside were samples from several plants: sprigs of laurel, sycamore and oak leaves, mistletoe berries, blue and white aster, and a packet of dry leaves labeled SALVIA DIVINORUM. His numen. Below it, a sealed vial of soft, blue-black powder was tucked into the corner of the snuff box. The tag read ANEMONE CORONARIA. I pulled off the cork, releasing a pungent smell. Pollen of the red flower. These sweet little grains might just keep me safe. I closed the vial and tucked it into my gilet.

  There must be guards stationed outside during the day, but I could slip past them. I had my ways. And no matter how Nashira Sargas had classified me, I was no yellow-jacket. I was the Pale Dreamer.

  It was time to show her.

  I spun a line about collecting aster for my keeper, and to take it up with him if there were any problems. The new day porter wasn’t too hot on that idea: he almost threw me onto the street when he read in the ledger who my keeper was. He didn’t even mention the backpack on my shoulders. Nobody wanted to piss off Arcturus Mesarthim.

  It was strange to see the city in daylight. I sensed the Broad would be empty—there were none of the usual sounds and smells—but I needed to do something before I reached the house. I walked through the passages of the Rookery. Water drizzled through every crack and seam, the aftermath of a passing storm. I found the right shack and moved the tattered drape aside. Julian was asleep, his arm around Liss, keeping her warm. Her aura was burning down, like a candle at the end of its wick. I crouched beside them and emptied my backpack. I tucked a package of breakfast food into the crook of Julian’s free arm, where no passing guard could see it, and covered them both with clean white blankets. I left a box of matches in the chest.

  Seeing their squalor made me sure I was doing the right thing. They needed more than what I’d scoured from the Founder’s Tower. They needed what was in the House.

  Spirit shock was a slow process. You had to fight your way through it, fight with every inch of yourself. Only the strong survived it. Save for a few fleeting moments of lucidity, Liss hadn’t regained consciousness since her cards had been destroyed. If she didn’t recover soon, she’d lose her aura and succumb to amaurosis. Her only hope was to reunite with a pack of cards, and even then, there was no guarantee that she’d connect with them. I would scour the House until I found some for her.

  There were no guards visible on the street, but I knew they would have lookouts. Just to be safe, I climbed up one of the buildings and found a path across the rooftops, using ledges and pilasters to slink across the city. I watched my footing as best I could, but it was slow going: my right arm was mannequin-stiff, and most of my body still throbbed with bruises.

  The House was visible from a mile off. Its two spires rose through the mist. I dropped into an alley when I was close; the distance to the next wall was too great to jump. Over that wall was the one residence where only Rephaim were permitted.

  I looked at the wall for a long time. Warden was in too deep to betray me now. For some reason he was helping me—and for Liss’s sake, I had to accept it. Besides, if I got into trouble, I could always send him a message through the golden cord. If I could work out how. If I could bear it. I climbed the wall, swung my leg over the top, and dropped down onto overgrown grass.

  Like many of the residences, this facility had been built around a series of quadrangles. As I crossed into the first one, I compiled a mental list of things I needed to cross No Man’s Land. Weapons were crucial, given what lurked in the trees, but medical supplies would be an extra asset. If I put a foot wrong on the minefield, I would need a tourniquet. And antiseptic. It was a horrific thought, but I had to face it. Adrenaline was valuable: not only could I use it to get my energy up and dull pain, but it could also be used to revive me if I had to leave my body. More anemone pollen might be helpful, and any other substances I could find: flux, aster, salt—maybe even ectoplasm.

  I went past a few buildings, but none of them were suitable to search. Too many rooms. It was only when I wandered away from the central courtyards, to the very edge of the residence, that a better target caught my eye: a building with large windows and plenty of footholds. I walked through an archway and viewed it from the other side. Red ivy grew in swaths across its facade. I walked around the building, trying to find an open window. There were none. I’d have to break in. Wait—there was one—a small window, open just a crack, on the first floor. I hauled myself onto a low wall, and from there I took the drainpipe. The window was stuck fast, but I forced it open with one arm. I lowered myself into a tiny room, probably a broom cupboard, thick with dust. I cracked open the door.

  I found myself in a stone corridor. Empty. This excursion to the House couldn’t have gone any better. As I examined the doors, looking for some sign of what might be behind them, I tensed. My sixth sense shivered: two auras. They were behind a door directly to my right. I stopped dead. “. . . know anything! Please—”

  There was a muffled noise. I pressed my ear to the door.

  “The blood-sovereign will not hear your pleas.” The voice was male. “We know you saw them together.”

  “I saw them once, once in the meadow! They were just training. I didn’t see anything else, I swear!” This voice was high-pitched with terror. I recognized it: Ivy, the palmist. She was almost choking the words. “Please, not again, not again, I can’t stand it—”

  An awful scream.

  “There will be no more pain when you give us the truth.” Ivy was sobbing. “Come now, 24. You must have something for me. Just a little information. Did he touch her?”

  “He—he carried her out of the m-meadow. She was tired. But he was wearing gloves—”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her breathing quickened. “I—I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Please—no more—” Footsteps. “No, no!”

  Her pitiful cries twisted my stomach. I wanted to flush out the spirit of her torturer, but the risk of being caught was too great. If I didn’t get these supplies, I couldn’t save anyone. I clenched my jaw, listening, shaking with anger. What was he doing to her?

  Ivy’s screams went on and on. My stomach heaved when she stopped.

  “No more, please.” Ivy was choking on her sobs. “It’s the truth!” Her tormentor was silent. “But—but he feeds her. I know he feeds her, and she—she always looks clean. And—people say she can possess voyants, and he must be—must be keeping it from the b-blood-sovereign. Otherwise she would have been d-dead by now.”

  The silence was damning. After that was a soft, heavy thump, then footsteps and a closing door.

  For a long time I was paralyzed. After a minute I pushed the heavy door open. There was a single wooden chair inside. Its seat was stained with blood, as was the floor.

  My skin grew slick and cold. I ran my sleeve across my upper lip. For a while I crouched against the wall, my head in my hands. Ivy had been talking about me.

  I couldn’t think about it now. Her torturer might still be in this building. S
lowly, I stood and faced the nearest room. The key was in the door. I looked inside. Weapons lined the walls: swords, hunting knives, a crossbow, a slingshot with steel ammunition. This must be where they stored arms to distribute to the red-jackets. I grabbed a knife. An anchor gleamed near the hilt. Scion-made. Weaver was sending weapons here while he and his ministers sat in the Archon, far from the ethereal beacon.

  Julian was right. I couldn’t just leave. I wanted to make Frank Weaver afraid. I wanted him to know the fear of every voyant prisoner he’d ever transported.

  I closed the door and locked it. When I looked up, I found myself facing a large, yellowed map. THE PENAL COLONY OF SHEOL I, it read. OFFICIAL TERRITORY OF THE SUZERAIN. I scanned it. Sheol I was built around the large central residences, tapering off to the meadow and the trees. All the familiar landmarks were there: Magdalen, Amaurotic House, the Residence of the Suzerain, the Hawksmoor—and Port Meadow. I peeled the map from the wall and studied it. The printed letters next to it were mangled, but I made them out.

  Train.

  My fingers tightened on the edges of the map. The train. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. We’d all been brought here by a train—why couldn’t we leave on it?

  My brain was in overdrive. How, how had I not thought of it? I didn’t need to cross No Man’s Land. I didn’t need to walk for miles, or pass the Emim, to reach the citadel. All I had to do was find the train. I could take people with me—Liss, Julian, everyone. The average Scion train could hold nearly four hundred people, more if they were standing. I could get every single prisoner out of this city and still have room for more.

  We would still need weapons. Even if we all snuck to the meadow by daylight, moving in small groups, the Rephaim would come after us. Besides, the entrance might be guarded. I reached for a sheathed knife and stowed it away in my backpack. Next I found a few guns. The palm pistol, a similar model to mine, would come in handy: it was small, easy to conceal, and I knew how to use it. I shifted some illegible paperwork from the top of a metal case. Nick had tried to shoot Warden in the citadel, to no avail. Bullets would work on loyal red-jackets, but we’d need more than guns to take down Rephs. I was reaching for a box of bullets when the sound of footsteps drifted to my ears.