Lies and Prophecy

by Marie Brennan

  “Right—it only owns your gifts.”

  “Do you allow children to handle guns? Of course not. And gifts are just as dangerous as guns, but inborn. They have to find some way to keep us and other people safe. Kim, I know what you’re thinking,” Julian said, laying aside his nearly-untouched drink, as if he was afraid he would spill it. Or fling it across the room. “I feel the same way; I told you that. But consider the situation. Do you see another workable answer?”

  “No,” I muttered, not looking at him. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

  Julian glanced over to a clock, with the air of someone looking for a reason to change the subject. “We should go to dinner. Liesel and Robert will be waiting for us.” He started to rise, then hesitated. “There is one more thing.”

  After the things he’d already dropped on me, I was afraid to know what he’d left for last, but I nodded for him to continue.

  “I’m afraid the Unseelie might be planning something for wilders. They can’t make me one of them, but that doesn’t mean they won’t find a way to use me.”

  The cold lump was back, and stronger. I swallowed hard.

  “If that happens … I want you to trigger the shield.”

  I was on my feet before I realized it. “No.”

  “Kim, listen to me,” Julian said harshly. “I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to know I’m being used as their weapon. The shield is all but hard-wired into me; I don’t think even the Unseelie can take it apart. Not without time to study it. They can try to get the key to unlock it from someone, but nobody here has it, and the delay will buy enough time for someone to get to me.”

  “To do what?”

  “To kill me.”

  “Julian!”

  “If it’s necessary, so be it.” His words were colder than the snow outside, and chilled me a thousand times more. “I won’t be their tool. They tried it once, and I won’t go through that again.”

  I sagged back onto the futon, staring at him. He was serious. I had guessed at Julian’s ruthlessness before, made jokes about a martyr complex, but I never thought he’d say this. I couldn’t do it to him. I couldn’t.

  Even if he asked me to?

  “I can give you the key,” he said steadily. “They don’t give us the one to unlock it, but they do tell us how to trigger it. Just in case. I don’t know any wilder who’s ever had a reason to use it, but we all know what it is.”

  “Julian, I can’t do this. I can’t destroy you like that.”

  “Please,” he said, the word coming out thin and tight. “Please. You don’t know what it’s like, Kim. Being in their control … I’d rather die.”

  I stared at him, trying not to cry. This wasn’t supposed to happen to people like me. Soldiers in the field had to give the coup de grace to their wounded comrades; college students shouldn’t have to. Shouldn’t be asked to.

  But I knew what he meant—or at least, I could imagine it, however imperfectly. What the Unseelie wanted was enslavement of the soul. If I were in that position, and I couldn’t be freed … my mind rebelled against the thought, refusing to accept the possibility that Julian couldn’t be saved. That I couldn’t be saved, if I were their captive. Their slave. But if it were true….

  Then I would want the same.

  Slowly, trembling, I bent my head.

  Julian’s fingertips were cool against my temples. Agitation had heated me, but his body seemed unaffected. I had just enough time to register that before the knowledge slipped into my mind, quickly, painlessly, and then Julian took his hands away.

  I wiped my eyes with one sleeve. “You damn well better not let yourself get caught.”

  “I’m not planning on it,” he whispered, and that was all either of us could say.

  Chapter Twelve

  My fears for myself were all but forgotten. I would have been glad, if they hadn’t been replaced by fears for Julian.

  He hadn’t been able to pass the knowledge of the shield trigger to me without traces of the emotions it sparked in him; his control must have slipped. Mine certainly would have. Knowing what gutting did to him, knowing how deep his hatred of it ran … how could I bring myself to destroy him?

  My worries might be pointless. If the Unseelie were planning something involving the wilders, and if they successfully captured Julian, and if they found a way to use him, and if they didn’t kill me taking him—which I vowed they would have to do—then I might have to use it. Maybe. But it wasn’t an immediate issue, and so I should put it out of my mind.

  It wouldn’t go away, though.

  The existence of this control on wilders nauseated me. And despite Julian’s high-flown words about guns and protecting people, I couldn’t help but feel there was more to the situation than he’d been willing to say.

  I could guess some of it. Wilders were dangerous, not just individually but collectively. One uncontrolled wilder could cause a lot of damage; fifty wilders, well-trained and with a specific purpose in mind, could do far worse than that. If they ever decided they needed to turn against the governments that had raised them, the ensuing war could destroy whole cities.

  And that was what the governments were afraid of.

  They shielded wilders, not just to protect people, but to protect themselves. To prevent that kind of mutiny. If the wilders tried to slip free of their control, it would be simple to deprive them of their claws. To gut them. And that deeply ingrained fear kept the wilders in line.

  Had I learned this three months ago, I would have been calling up the ACLU to scream about it. Right now, all I could think was that the deep shield might be one of our few defenses.

  Because if the Unseelie ever did find a way to enslave wilders, we’d need a way to stop them.

  My own thoughts sickened me, but I couldn’t deny them. That was what it came down to. If the misery of a few could save billions, wasn’t the cost justified?

  Julian would say it was.

  The geis was the heart of it. The same impulse that drove wilders to be Guardians, to dedicate their lives and often their deaths to protecting people from dangerous magic, would inspire them to sacrifice themselves for this. Julian hadn’t hesitated in telling me to shield him, to gut him, even though it was the most horrifying thing I could do short of making him Unseelie. He would willingly ask for misery and madness if he thought it would help others.

  For someone often accused of being aloof and inhuman, that was inconceivably selfless.

  And I was the only person here who knew how Julian felt. Even Robert and Liesel didn’t understand, not completely; I was certain of that. As for the others, the ones who made those accusations—they had no idea.

  I tried to shake off these morbid thoughts, but failed. I could feel Julian’s eyes on me that day and the next, watching, probably guessing at the turmoil in my mind. Falcon was no help; when summoned, he said he had no clues as to what the Unseelie were planning. He had promised to find out, but so far had come up with nothing … or at least nothing he would share with us. And from the Guardian Ring, equal silence—at least as far as Grayson was authorized to tell us. She got very closemouthed, though, which made me think something was happening, where we couldn’t see.

  I prayed it was something useful.

  By Friday I’d completely forgotten my promise to Liesel. When I came home that afternoon and dropped my coat onto the couch, she glanced up from her desk and grinned in something like her usual manner. “I found something for you to wear.”

  Looking down at my worn but perfectly serviceable sweater and jeans, I blinked. “What’s wrong with this? It’s all I’ve got left that’s clean.”

  Her smile faded. “The ball, remember?”

  Shit. I’d told her I would go. “Liesel, I can’t.”

  Now the smile vanished entirely. “You promised you would.”

  “I know. But—I just can’t do it. I’ve got too much on my mind.” How could I dance, knowing what I did about Julian? “I found a book tha
t I think might say something useful about—” The sentence died abruptly when I saw my roommate.

  Liesel was trying for expressionless, but failing miserably. Tears glinted in the corners of her eyes, and just as I noticed them a surge of emotion hit me, then cut off with a jolt.

  Misery. A sensation of being at the bottom of a pit, looking up at a circle of light, so small, and so far away. A feeling of terrible weight, of being under fire, of desperately wanting everyone and everything to shut up and go away. A scream, building up inside, kept in only by a will whose strength was crumbling fast.

  It hit me like a hammer blow, then vanished, locked back inside as if it had never been. But it was still there, and now I knew it.

  I whispered an oath under my breath.

  Her mouth wavered. I crossed the room in three steps and reached her just as she broke.

  Liesel hugged me around the middle, so hard I almost couldn’t breathe. And she cried. Cried her eyes out, soaking my sweater, and I found myself patting her head awkwardly and feeling as though the world had just flipped upside down. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. I wasn’t the one who comforted Liesel. She always comforted me.

  Of course she did. She was an empath. And we knew that, all of us, and so we leaned on her, looked to her for calming words and rock-solid stability. We used Liesel to keep ourselves sane. It was what she wanted; helping others made her happy. But I hadn’t stopped to think what a burden that put on her. I just piled more and more stress on her head, telling her about my dreams, about my worries, about everything. And she took it, not complaining, not saying anything … but no one, not even Liesel, could take on that kind of strain and not collapse.

  “Gods,” I whispered, stroking her hair. “Lord and Lady—I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

  My empathic skills were nothing next to hers, but I tried anyway to wrap her in a feeling of comfort and support. I thought about my newfound determination, the confidence that we could do something to take care of ourselves, and tried to share that with her. It wasn’t easy. Liesel had given up any attempt to maintain shields, and her terror threatened to swamp me under. I closed my eyes and concentrated, and while it wasn’t perfect, it seemed to help. After a while Liesel’s crying came to and end, and then she let me go.

  I fetched her a glass of water and waited as she drank it down. When the last drop was gone, she said in a hoarse voice, “Please go to the ball.”

  My reaction to that was still incredulity, but I made myself think past it. She wouldn’t ask if it didn’t matter to her.

  Finally I figured it out. “You need me … to be normal. Or at least pretend.”

  “I need to be around other people,” she whispered. “People who don’t know what’s going on. People whose biggest worry is the astrology test they have next week.”

  “Can’t you go by yourself?”

  Her shields were still gone, and I felt her fear as though she’d tossed a bucket of cold water over my face. “If they show up there—” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Grayson never comes to the ball. Neither does Julian.”

  That left Robert and me. And Robert’s antics the other day ruled him out as an escort.

  I didn’t want to go, but Liesel needed me to. After all the stress I’d put her under, I owed her this.

  “Okay,” I said. “You, uh—said you found a costume?”

  My agreement worked wonders on her. Liesel opened her eyes and got to her feet, heading for the bedroom. I followed more slowly. She met me in the doorway with a bundle of fabric in her hands. “Here.”

  I took the bundle as she shoved it at me and shook it out. Cream-colored silk fell to the floor in luxurious folds, a shimmering curtain of elegantly tailored gown.

  Despite my resolution to cooperate, the words slipped out. “You have got to be kidding.”

  Liesel managed an unsteady grin. “Ceridwen just got this. And when she found out the costume was for you, nothing else would do.”

  “I am not going to wear it.”

  “Oh, but you are.” She was laughing at me! I was glad to see her regaining her composure, but not at my expense. Not like this. “You look too much like Christine Rendal not to.”

  I tried to hand the dress back, but Liesel wouldn’t take it. “We both have dark hair. Some resemblance.”

  “You want to try and convince Ceridwen to give you something else? Good luck.”

  “I don’t care how much I look like Christine Rendal; I don’t care how much money Descent ended up grossing. I am not going to the Department of Telepathic Sciences’ Annual Masked Ball dressed as Persephone. Especially not when Persephone’s dress covers less of my chest than your average bra.”

  “You’ll look good in it, Kim.” Liesel took the dress now, but only to measure it against me. “And it’ll fit you perfectly. Come on; where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “In the closet, cowering in shame.”

  “It’s not that revealing.”

  “Yes it is.” I backed away from the dress and fled to the dubious safety of the common room. “There’s to be something else I can wear. Don’t you have anything?” Liesel, grinning, blocked my attempt to dodge past her. She held out the dress invitingly. “I told you, I’m not wearing it!”

  Five minutes later, I tugged uncertainly at the bodice encasing me rather closer than a glove. “It’s not sitting right. The neckline’s riding lower than it ought to.”

  “No, it’s riding right where it ought to.” Liesel straightened my skirts and stepped back. She nodded approvingly. “If we do your hair right, we’ll barely need the glamour. You do look an awful lot like Rendal.”

  I reluctantly faced my reflection in the mirror. The apparition that looked back wasn’t me. I never wore things like this, deep-skirted dresses with bodices whose necklines wanted to migrate to my navel. And it was about as Greek as I was. Persephone ought to have worn a chiton or something—not this costume Lady Godiva would have blushed to wear.

  The silk was gorgeous, I had to grant. The seamstress knew what she was doing; the skirt hung in soft folds from the bodice, which fit rather better than I wanted it to. Either Ceridwen had gotten it tailored to herself—we were pretty much the same size—or I resembled her favorite actress from the neck down, too.

  Why couldn’t I have resembled someone who dressed decently?

  “Sit here.” Liesel led me to a chair. I had to pay attention to how I sat, lest the skirts foul me up. They actually weren’t as bad as I had feared; I could still move in them, and surprisingly well. They did require minding, though.

  Liesel’s hands were busy in my hair, twisting it up into the pseudo-Greek style Persephone wore in the movie. I still sensed the darkness inside her, but this was helping. She could pretend, if only for a little while, that the Unseelie didn’t exist. “What are you dressing as?” I asked her, still bitter over my own forced costume.

  “Cinderella. Pre-fairy godmother. The dress isn’t right, but it’s close enough to pass with a glamour.”

  “Why do you get to be virginal and modest?”

  “You’re virginal too—at least until Hades gets hold of you.” I sensed her smiling wickedly behind me.

  “I think you’re enjoying this far too much.”

  A quiet laugh. “My dear friend, I haven’t even begun to enjoy it. Just wait until we get to the ball.”

  ~

  The glamour was my one saving grace. Its weak telepathic suggestion kept people from properly seeing my face unless they tried to. And that wouldn’t be in the spirit of the ball. Instead, looking at me would give them an impression of who I was supposed to be.

  Until midnight. And I hoped I would find a way to slip out before then.

  The hall was a swirl of brilliant color. Although the ball was hosted by my department, some of the people in telekinetic sciences lent us a hand with the decorations each year. Globes of witchlight lit the room, and under their glow, everything took on a surreal, vibrant edge. I wondered if
this was what the Otherworld looked like.

  Stuart Hall was an amazing place even without the special lighting. Its architect had been on crack; the style resembled Gothic more than any other, but even that was a tenuous match. Its vaulting space, marked out by columns and arches, usually hosted activities fairs and such, but events like this were what it had been built for. Gods only knew why a university campus would need it. Some wealthy donor had paid for it, and the administration didn’t argue.

  Fantastical carvings ornamented the piers of the columns, standing out in strange patterns of bold light and angular shadow. Costumed people moved among these like ghosts of the imagination, dressed in fashions they would never consider in broad daylight. I wasn’t the only one there out of my usual habits. In theory the costumes could be drawn from any source, but in practice they came primarily from history and legend, or pop culture based on them. Stuart Hall seemed to command such behavior. The vulgar present was not permitted through its massive oaken doors.

  On the way there from Wolfstone I did my best to project an attitude of pleased excitement. Liesel’s calm was fragile, I could tell, and she needed me to pretend I was all right. Keeping an eye out for the Unseelie without seeming to do so nearly drove me out of my skull, though.

  But then we got to Stuart Hall, and suddenly I found myself cringing with very mundane dread.

  I fought the urge to slouch as Liesel and I wove our way into the crowd. Even hidden behind the glamour, I felt horribly exposed; I wasn’t used to breezes crossing those parts of my flesh. But cowering would mar the dress’s lines and weaken the effect of the glamour. So I steeled myself and straightened my spine, consciously trying to imitate the fluid grace with which Christine Rendal had moved in the movie.

  It seemed to work. People congratulated me on my costume without any hint of mirth. I was fairly certain they didn’t recognize me, which meant the glamour was holding. It was certainly more effective than the traditional mask would have been—especially given that Persephone hadn’t had a mask.