“Is there a table?”
“Not always. There's the little one by the hearth, and the one we bring down for dinner...”
“Chairs or cushions?”
“Cushions.”
“Put it here,” said Mako, pointing at the space between them.
Izelina blinked at her, then curled a lip. “I can't, stupid, it's in the house.”
“And in your mind, your memory. Anything you can remember, you can create. Remember the table and put it here between us.”
Izelina stared at her, scoffed, then glared at the emptiness as if trying to burn holes in it with her eyes. Mako sighed. “Not with force, you'll pop a vein. Think of the details. Color, texture, weight. Did it sit on a rug?”
“Yes...an old one. Worn-out where the feet went. I think Nana brought it with her when she couldn't keep her own house anymore. I always liked the pattern, it was...”
Stitches of color moved across the white floor where Izelina's gaze was fixed. Red lines, brown ones, yellow, dark blue, violet, pink, they slowly wove themselves into abstract shapes, until they filled the space and then stretched it. Mako found herself abruptly an arm-span further away, the walls receding as the space flexed to accommodate the memory.
Above the rug, a low table built itself. Cutlery and dishes appeared, and cups, and books and thin charcoal sticks, and toys, until it was piled with evidence of life.
The girl reached forward tentatively to touch a cup. “It's real?”
“As real as we are.”
Fixing Mako with a look, Izelina said, “That's creepy.”
“I didn't mean we're not real,” she corrected, “only that everything here is as real as everything else—and as imaginary. Yours is the mind in power here.”
“Does that mean I can kick you out?”
“If you want. It would hurt me, though. Maybe permanently. There is no proper exit yet.”
“Why not?”
“You haven't made one.”
“I was trying,” she said, jabbing a finger at the wall.
“I know, but let's try again. You have the table and the rug. What else was in your house?”
The girl gave her a frustrated look, then eyed the table as if worried it might vanish. “I said the tiles. The hearth.”
Which hadn't manifested. Mako suspected they didn't have enough context yet; floors were difficult to envision until they had walls to limit them. “Anything closer?”
“The dividers?” The girl looked to her left, brows crinkled, and as Mako watched, another tangle of colored threads began spinning themselves through the air, becoming a curtain that blocked off the whiteness. Wooden beams shivered into existence on either side, both etched with height-markings: one side for the girls, one for the boys. The nostalgia in them was clear enough to need no words.
Another curtain extended from the far side, pushing the whiteness further back. A suggestion of plaster marked where a wall might be.
“How about the other side?” said Mako.
“Mother's loom,” the girl mused. “The churn. Spare cushions and rugs, hangings for when it gets cold...” An alcove formed there, the objects sketching themselves real. Another wall pushed away the whiteness, then extended aside to form the outline of a hearth with inset oven. Patches of tile swam over the fibrous floor, seeking their positions.
“What else?”
“Um… The high table. Nana's chair. The baskets and the bookshelf and the indoor ladder for the loft. Everything in the loft? That's more baskets and some old trunks with...I'm not sure what in them. The hanging herbs and peppers. The lantern and the bundles of candlegrass. Then there's the sleeping areas...”
“Any windows? Doors?”
“Window on the north wall, and on the west wall on both sides of the door, but one of them is on the other side of the curtains. There's a red line around each frame...”
“Why?”
“To keep out the monsters. Mother says the goddess protects from those who'd hurt us, but she didn't. They just walked right in.”
Mako frowned, aware that she'd been one of those intruders, but the house was taking shape around them. The floor-tiles were all in place, the hearth and high table now standing solid behind the girl, the loft overhead, the walls coated in the same thick stucco she remembered from her visit. Wooden shutters clad the windows, only thin slivers of whiteness visible beyond. And the dark man was gone.
“What's outside?” she asked.
“The farm. Or it used to be, when we had father and Paol. Now we just have mother's garden and the goats and such.”
“Is it sunny? Shady?”
“Shady on the north side, where the fruit trees are. Bright in the west. We need to be able to see the road.”
And the light changed as ordered, softening on one side and growing warmer on the other. Through the gaps, Mako no longer saw the white.
“Do you feel safe here?” she said.
Izelina blinked at her, then looked around slowly. She'd left off clutching the doll; now it rested in her lap, its stitch eyes staring at the ceiling. “I suppose. It doesn't feel scary, anyway. But it could be safer.”
“How?”
“Well, we could have walls and soldiers and stuff to protect us.”
“Perhaps you do.”
Izelina looked at her incredulously. Instead of answering, Mako rose and gestured, and the girl hesitated just a moment before gathering up all the dolls and following. “Concentrate on those defenses,” Mako said as she moved to the door. “Whatever you'd like to have out there, to make sure you're safe in here. Ready?”
The girl nodded.
“Now step outside.”
With trepidation, the girl set a hand on the door, then pushed. It opened smoothly into warm sunlight, a few brickwork steps going down, a green expanse of garden—
And a streaked sandstone wall beyond, higher than a horse's head, with a wooden platform running along the inside to support a half-dozen sentries. Though mixed in age and attire, they were all Illanic-dark like her, and Mako thought she recognized one of them: the boy Izelina had been found with when they'd caught her. Eston. They all had swords, and shiny helmets and breastplates over their varied gear, and snapped to sharp attention as the girl stepped out.
Mako hung back, letting Izelina look around in wonder. Pale sky had replaced the whiteness, endless in three directions and truncated by the Rift in the east; trees peeked sporadically above the edges of the wall, the sigh of wind in high grass reaching them now and then. A dwarf garto skittered by, red against the tan of the dirt; from somewhere behind the house, a goat made its annoyance clear.
“This is real?” said Izelina faintly.
“It's a construct of your mind, but it has power. You feel safe in this place, and therefore you are safe. The house is your sanctum, and this is your yard—and now we're going to deal in metaphors, so bear with me.
“All of this is visitors' space. Outside of that wall is the rest of the world and all the minds it contains. You set the road at a distance because you don't want to be right on it, in case of trouble-making travelers or random soldiers, yes?”
Head tilted, the girl regarded her, then said, “Yes.”
“That's the type of mentalist you are: not interested in reaching out or being disturbed. Essentially, your wall goes all the way to the road, and if something starts to intrude, your sentries—your senses—will detect it before it gets close. Some obstructive mentalists have a wilderness beyond their wall, full of thorns; other kinds of mentalists have less distance, or even let the road run right alongside them.”
“Why?”
“Because they like to listen. Through a thin wall, you can hear gossip, threats, scams and thieves… Things to avoid or to take advantage of. But thick or thin, it's the outer wall, and you never need to listen at it if you don't want to.
“Right now, we're in the yard. This is the first level you can invite people into, so you can hear their minds without them having
to 'shout' over the wall. Because I'm a receptive and a relay-anchor, I have a very active yard; it's where I put all the people I'm in contact with, so I can touch their minds at any time and yet can still go in my sanctum and close the door.
“The sanctum is where you invite visitors when you want to speak privately, or be more...intimate. A mentalist outside your far wall can sometimes hear what's happening in your yard, but they can't hear what goes on in your sanctum.”
“Intimate?” said Izelina suspiciously.
“Mentalism has its perks.”
“You mean...for sex?”
“Moving on...“
“No no, you mean I can have men in my mind for mind-sex?”
“Moving on...“
“I need a better house!”
“You can do that later. We're almost done. Now, the part of your mind—“ She paused as the girl pouted at her, fists on hips. The dolls had vanished, her shabby dress now a rather conservative teenager's idea of risque: scoop neckline, mid-shin hem, tied at the waist and beneath her minimal bust with gold cord that went well against its deep garnet red. Her hair had done itself up in plaits, and she might have been wearing makeup.
Light save me, Mako thought.
“That part of your mind,” she continued with emphasis, gesturing to the sanctum, “isn't the whole. None of this is. Think of everything you see here as being your pinky finger in a dress.”
Izelina pouted more.
“You never risk more than a finger of your mind. Not when you reach out, and not when you let others in. Enemies can batter down your walls and breach your sanctum, but they won't have you; they'll have to excavate and risk their own fingers while you recreate your defenses. Remember that. You are not just the walls and the guards and the trees and the house: you are the earth beneath your feet and the air in the sky, the water in the rivers. You are this world. And anything that enters your world is subject to your will.”
“So how do I kick you out?”
Mako gestured to the outer wall. “Make a gate and escort me through.”
Izelina fixed her gaze on the wall, brows beetling in concentration. Stone scraped away beneath an unseen hand, exposing a gate of blood-red wrought iron; in another moment, the redness had painted the framing-stones and the top edge of the wall, which sprouted spikes of ruddy metal.
“Go on, then,” said Izelina dismissively, and Mako smiled and inclined her head. As she approached the gates, they squealed open; the pattern in the iron looked like trees and arrows, which puzzled her until she remembered the Mist Forest that clung to the foothills near here. Clearly the girl was willing to co-opt those wraiths against her enemies.
She stepped out, seeing dry grass in all directions, then heard the gate slam behind her. Immediately the fields lifted into motes of light, and she fell upward into her own body.
Across from her, Izelina blinked slowly, then twitched when Mako snapped fingers under her nose. The leaks were gone, and the pressure with them. Now that the girl had her own walls and gates, her own sky and fields, she would vent her emotions more safely.
The nightmare-cyst wasn't gone, but she'd moved beyond it, and that was the important thing. That was the lesson. Struggle caused damage; erasure never lasted. Only creation could mend an injured mind.
“Well, I think you'll survive for now,” she said, rising from the bench to stretch a crick in her back. She couldn't tell how long this had lasted, but the guards all radiated boredom. “We should have another session soon. Don't go far.”
“Like I could,” the girl grouched.
“Thank you, Psycher,” said the old man nearby—Gwydren Greymark. She inclined her head to him slightly, not sure exactly what position he held here, only that he'd stood his ground against Messenger Cortine when the latter was raging with the Light's power. By reflex, she extended a thought toward his mind to sense its state—
And found a wall instead. Not a mentalist's wall, but something else.
His eyes narrowed as if he'd caught her peeking. “It's my duty,” she said quickly. “And I'm a Scryer primary, not a psycher. Else I'd be better at this, I'm sure.”
“You've done more than the rest of us could.”
“She has great potential. She'd have to go to the Citadel or the Inquisition for more in-depth training, but given a week I can have her in control of herself.”
“Well, you'll have that week. I can't take her where I'm headed. All I ask is that your lot and the Kheri come to some deal that won't put her in danger.”
“We'll see what we can do,” said Mako, then dimpled at him. just for practice. His stern mien flickered, a smile underlaying that white beard. “Until then, I suppose she stays with us?”
“Yes, I was told there would be space. I'll have her things brought in.”
“Stop talking over my head,” groused Izelina, no less sulky than when she'd been brought here. “Why do I have to get locked up with all the bad people? You should tell the Shadow Folk to give Mako to me instead, and we'll have your old rooms.”
Greymark's brows rose, and he traded an amused look to Mako, who shrugged in response. “It could work,” she said. “They know quite well that they can't contain me if I choose to leave. And if the captain sees that they're willing to extend us some trust, perhaps it will help him adapt. Light knows he needs to.”
“Well, let's see,” said Greymark, and beckoned at the crowd of Shadows. Mako followed his gaze to find Enforcer Ardent moving their way, an expression of polite interest on her face. At the fringe of her mind, she sensed the rest of her gestalt embroiled in an argument with the company officers and specialists; she supposed she should be involved in that, but...
More interesting to manage both sides.
*****
“It's just insane,” said Lieutenant Sengith. “We can't work for them. We—“
“I'm fine with it,” gruffed Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek. He was sitting up today, five cushions stuffed under his broad back and an unhealthy undertone to his ruddy skin but a certain fierceness in his grin—a revival of will. “Pike the armies. I won't miss 'em.”
“Where's your rapturous love of the Light?”
“It left us,” answered Specialist Ilia coldly. In a loose hand-me-down tunic and shawl and with her fair hair unbound, she looked far more comfortable than she ever had in uniform. “My sisters died from the shock. I can't forgive that.”
“But if they were taken away with it, doesn't that mean—“
“They weren't. They writhed and foamed in agony, lieutenant. They lingered.“
“If they—“
“Sengith,” Sarovy interrupted before things could get emotional, “I understand your concerns. By and large, I share them. It will not be easy to set aside our issues with the Shadow Cult. But it may be our best choice.”
The archer-lieutenant's broad jaw clenched. “Sir,” he said tightly, “I know it may be the only choice you and the specialists have, but you can't just bend to them. It's not right, and if you try to drag us all with you—“
“I will not force any of you to work with them. It must be a personal choice. I have been told that they wish to send soldiers back to their families, so any who cannot accept this alliance will have the opportunity to leave.”
At least, he hoped so. It was possible that he'd misinterpreted Enforcer Ardent's oblique offer. But as confusion and concern bloomed on the gathered faces, he fixed his mind on that outcome; if it wasn't what the Enforcer had intended, he would just have to make it so.
“You mean dissolve the company? We can't do that!” said Lieutenant Linciard. “Half of us would just be yanked back into the Gold Army, and for some it would be death! Like the Jernizen—they can't go home because they're traitors.”
“That doesn't mean we should fling ourselves into the arms of the enemy,” said Sengith.
Ilia snorted. “Why not? Our own side flung us. And if the Shadows just want to declaw the rest of the Crimson, I don't have a problem with that
.”
“We don't know anything about these people! How can we trust them?”
“We're not dead yet, are we?”
“So what? That doesn't mean—“
“We are not the only ones in danger,” Sarovy cut in curtly. “I have not been able to verify this, but according to several sources, we have all been abandoned by the Light. The sun has not risen since Darkness Day.”
They gaped at him. In their silence, he continued, “If true, then not only our army and the Empire but this city, these people and the whole of the world are under the same threat.”
“But what— How—“ sputtered Lieutenant Sengith.
“I thought it was some kind of judgment,” said Ilia, hugging herself. “For fighting each other, or disrupting the Midwinter rites, or...”
“But that can't be true,” said Linciard. “It's impossible.”
Sarovy shook his head. “While they could be lying, I see no reason for it. If they need us to bring the rest of the Crimson to our side, they cannot make up stories that can be so easily disproved. And if it is true...we may be witnessing a second Long Darkness.”
“But the Emperor! Surely he'll fix it,” Sengith blustered. “There's no reason to turncoat. And, and, if something dragged the Light away from us, it has to be a Dark thing. A Shadow thing. Who could do that but them?”
“The Enforcer tells me that Shadow and Darkness are not the same, and that her kind need light as much as we do. They do not want this to continue, and are trying to lessen the damage.”
“You can't trust her!” exclaimed Linciard. “She shot you!”
Sarovy considered his lancer-lieutenant, marking his distress. All his men had been shaken by the Midwinter events, but pragmatism had pulled most of them back together—and those who'd snapped were in the cells now, at the other end of the infirmary. According to Scryer Mako, Linciard had kept his head too, but Sarovy had to question that now. There was too much emotion in his face, and a twitch in his fingers like he couldn't quite control them. Sarovy wondered when he'd last slept.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 20
