Dreamwielder

by Garrett Calcaterra

  “That’s because we both take after you,” Taera pointed out. “Now quit your fussing over me. We have a city to secure.”

  Casstian couldn’t help but laugh, he was so surprised by her demeanor. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

  Makarria came to a stop at the top of the hill and sat down on a rock alongside the road to wait for Talitha to catch up. The morning sky was dull and gray with clouds, but after being trapped in the cavern of ice for so long, it seemed almost bright and cheery. It was liberating to be in the open air, to be surrounded by trees and grass again. The only thing missing was the ocean. Still, the land around them was beautiful, and Makarria felt guilty for not enjoying it more. Knowing where the road before them led took the joy out of everything for her.

  They had been walking more than a week now since Siegbjorn dropped them off outside Arnsfeld. Their days consisted of breaking camp at first light and walking as far as they could before the sun set again, sometimes covering as many as thirty miles or more. When the mornings were fresh and they were not yet weary, they talked. On their first day, Talitha had made Makarria describe every instance she could remember where she had dreamed or used her power. Makarria’s stories were frequently interrupted by questions from Talitha, and on more than one occasion, Talitha had demanded that Makarria elaborate and provide specific details. She was particularly interested in how Makarria had transformed Parmo into a young man—she asked much about the dead fish—and also how Makarria had managed to trap Kadar inside the cave. The subsequent days had been filled with discussions about the cycles of Tel Mathir and practicing various small exercises. Makarria’s part in the discussions was limited mostly to asking questions, but she was content to listen to what Talitha had to say about how plants grew, reproduced, and died, how water evaporated from the ocean only to fall from the sky again in the form of rain and snow to cycle through the ground to feed the rivers and lakes, and how animals created a great hierarchy of prey and predators. Makarria had no idea how any of it was meant to help her face the Emperor, but she dutifully listened and learned from Talitha. If nothing else, it was a welcome distraction from what faced the both of them in Col Sargoth. As for the exercises, they were limited to achieving a meditative state where Makarria was half asleep yet half awake and still able to walk and function at a rudimentary level. Talitha absolutely forbid Makarria from trying to use her power in any way, for fear the Emperor and his scent-hounds might detect it.

  “You’re a fast walker,” Talitha said when she reached Makarria at the top of the hill.

  Makarria shrugged. “In the morning, I suppose. Probably it’s only because you’re the one carrying the pack.”

  “Let’s remedy that then, shall we,” Talitha said and hoisted her shoulder sack into Makarria’s arms. “That’ll slow you down for a while so we can talk.”

  “What are we talking about today?”

  “Do you remember how you described to me the feeling of resistance you experienced when you were trying to trap Kadar?” Talitha asked, leading the way down the opposite side of the hill.

  “Yes, it was like climbing a steep mountain,” Makarria replied, recalling the sensation. “A mountain I could barely get to the top of.”

  “Indeed. The apex of that mountain, the wall you must break through—however it is you perceive it—that is the border between your dream state and reality. If you do not push through that boundary, your vision becomes nothing. There were probably many times when you were growing up where you dreamt things, and they started to become real only to disappear the moment you awoke. This, partly, was because you did not yet have the strength or ability to push through that border, but mostly because you were not purposely trying to dream things.”

  “My grandfather said I used to have lots of dreams that would show themselves then disappear,” Makarria said. “Every once in a while the dreams would stay. The dress stayed and then my grandfather himself, of course.”

  Talitha nodded. “Yes, those were the times you pushed through the boundary and solidified your dreams. The danger comes when you commit yourself to dreaming something too big, when you create a hill too tall to climb over. If you try make that dream reality and do not have the strength to make it happen, you will die. You see, Makarria, you cannot make something from nothing. When you utilize your ability, you are drawing upon the life force within you and the energy around you to literally change the fabric of matter. In the case of the wooden knife, you rearranged the particles of wood from a spoon shape to a knife shape. In the case of the door, you did something much more difficult: you changed wood to stone. But if you do not have the strength in you and the energy around you to draw upon, you will fail and you will die.”

  “That’s why I was so cold and so tired after changing the spoon,” Makarria said, remembering the sensation.

  “And why you fainted after trapping Kadar. What you did in that cave with so little heat or energy around you was very dangerous. It is fortunate you are a strong young lady.”

  Makarria couldn’t help but take the statement as a compliment and smile. “So that means if I get stronger I can create anything I want?”

  Talitha shook her head ruefully. “No. There are always limits. Much of it depends on your imagination and your spatial cognition—you cannot create what you cannot visualize. It also depends much upon your understanding of Tel Mathir though.”

  “But how did I make my grampy young again when I didn’t know anything about Tel Mathir? You said that was the most difficult thing you’ve ever heard a dreamwielder do before.”

  “It is,” Talitha conceded. “I can’t fully explain it myself, but in simple terms, you needn’t be taught the ways of Tel Mathir to understand Tel Mathir. Some people simply have a connection with the natural world and have an innate sense of how it works. Do you remember what I told you about the limitations of prophecy when we were in Issborg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Well, the limitations of being a powerful seer and being a powerful dreamwielder are much the same. Do you see that tree there?”

  Makarria looked at the large birch Talitha was pointing toward. “Yes.”

  “And that one?” Talitha asked, this time pointing at a cedar tree.

  “Of course.”

  “They are quite different, aren’t they? And yet you know that they are both trees. How?”

  Makarria grimaced. “I don’t know. Because they both look like trees.”

  “Your answer is a dodge, but nonetheless correct,” Talitha said, smiling. “The essence of Tel Mathir is that she creates templates—perfect images—of all things in existence. We see trees around us, and each of these trees is a copy of the image of the perfect tree. Each squirrel is a copy of the perfect squirrel image. Each rock is a copy of the perfect rock image. Those of us with the power to wield magic have a connection with Tel Mathir and access to these images whether we are cognizant of it or not. Seers see an image of the future because they see in their mind the end result of a perfect equation with many variables. They see people of specific persuasions in unique circumstances and are able to see the outcome if everyone acts according to their innate persuasion. One variable is a greedy husband, another variable is a jealous wife, and the outcome would be easily predicted if the variables stayed true to their perfect images—if the husband remained greedy and the wife remained jealous—but as people, we rarely stay true to our perfect forms, and hence the unreliability of prophecy. The randomness of people can never fully be accounted for.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” Makarria said, shifting the pack on her back.

  “I have a hard time understanding it and putting it into words myself,” Talitha admitted. “Let me put it this way. Most dreamwielders are limited to combining things they can see with their eyes. The horrors of the Dreamwielder War were creations of this sort: dogs melded with sorcerers, sorcerers melded with coal furnaces to become fire-wielding machines of destruction, warriors melded with steel weapon
s to create inhuman assassins, and so forth. But a truly powerful dreamwielder understands the perfect forms and images of Tel Mathir. She can see past the boulder and envision the perfect form of a tree and literally break the matter apart to reform rock into tree. In the case of your grandfather, you saw him in his perfect form—a young man in his prime—and were able to make him so, despite knowing nothing of how the body ages or works. This is a rare ability, Makarria. In my years traveling the Old World, I saw this only on two occasions, and neither were as significant or profound as what you did.”

  Makarria walked on in silence for a long time as she pondered Talitha’s words. The road stretched out before them, a brown ribbon through sparsely wooded rolling hills. “I understand, I think,” Makarria said at last, “but how does this help me against the Emperor? He’s immune to magic, right?”

  “I don’t know how it helps you, Makarria. All I can say is that you should follow your instincts. You have an unusual knack for visualizing the true nature of things. Do what seems right to you, but just be aware of your surroundings. Don’t push yourself beyond your limitations.”

  “But what if you were me?” Makarria pressed. “How would you try to kill the Emperor?”

  Talitha shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. To me the only thing that makes sense is to try to attack him from afar. If he can’t see you, if he can’t detect your presence, he would have no way of stopping you. But at the same time, if you can’t seem him, I don’t see how you could kill him either.”

  Again, Makarria nodded and contemplated Talitha’s words. They walked the rest of the morning in silence. At noon they halted briefly to take a quick meal of dried meat and cheese, then continued on. As was the case every afternoon, the walk turned into a mind-numbing blur where Makarria merely focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Each curve in the road, each hill and valley was gone from Makarria’s mind the moment it was behind her. She didn’t notice Forrest Weorcan come into view far to the south, and she didn’t notice the little town in the distance late that afternoon as they crested yet another hill. Talitha had to point it out to her.

  “I think it best if we pass straight through town and make camp when it gets dark,” Talitha said. “We’re getting close now. It’s not wise to chance exposing ourselves by letting something slip in a random conversation at an inn.”

  Makarria just nodded. As nice as sleeping in a bed sounded, she had bigger concerns on her mind. They were getting close, Talitha had said. They were getting close to Col Sargoth and the Emperor.

  Natarios Rhodas sat at a bench in the common room of The Mountain Jewel, the most luxuriant inn the small town of Pizer had to offer. Ostensibly, he had chosen the inn because it stood along the main thoroughfare through the center of town and gave him an ideal vantage point, but in reality he had chosen it because it was the only inn that had proper down mattresses. And also because of the mulled cider. I love mulled cider, he thought fancifully and tipped his flagon back to take a hearty swig of the sweet substance. His four days in Pizer had been a welcome relief to his time in Col Sargoth. With the gold the Emperor had given him, it had been an easy matter to bribe the other innkeepers in town and also the farmers on the outskirts of town to stay watchful and bring him news of any travelers. He’d accomplished all that on his first day, and since then had just sat tight in The Mountain Jewel and enjoyed himself.

  “Another cider,” he yelled at the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper grunted and waved in Natarios’s direction noncommittally. Natarios grumbled at the man’s insolence but said nothing. He knew the cider would come eventually if the innkeeper wanted his coin. Natarios laughed inwardly at the path on which fate had set him. From Kal Pyrthin to Col Sargoth to Pizer. He had lost his riches Roanna paid him but now found himself with more gold than he could spend in this small town. He smiled, more than a little satisfied with himself. His self-satisfaction was cut short, however, when a stout woman suddenly burst through the doors into the common room from outside. She saw Natarios sitting there and rushed to his side.

  “You said you were looking for a girl coming from the east, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Natarios replied, setting his flagon aside.

  “Well, I’ve seen her. She just walked into town with an older woman. Now give me my gold.”

  “Hold tight a moment. Where is she? Where did they stop for the night?”

  “They did not stop, idiot. They kept on walking right through town to the west. You best hurry if you want to catch them. But give me my gold first, I tell you.”

  32

  The Tide Turns

  From his ship Makarria in the Sol Sea, Parmo looked upon Sol Valaróz, the city he once thought he would never see again. It was nearly as he remembered it, stretching up and away from the harbor in a series of tiers to the Royal Palace, its white marble buildings glimmering in the setting sunlight. Parmo did not feel as triumphant as he felt he should though. Here he was, returning as the Prince of Valaróz, on the cusp of leading an entire kingdom of subjects to war with Sargoth, and yet all he could think about was two specific people: Prisca and Galen. It had been a week and a half since he’d taken charge of the eastern Valarion fleet and gone to Prisca and Galen’s farm near Spearpoint Rock, hoping to take his daughter and son-in-law away with him.

  He had found the farm abandoned.

  While there had been no signs of fighting or attack, he nonetheless knew something horrible had happened there. He told himself that Prisca and Galen had in all likelihood gone to Pyrvino looking for him and Makarria, but he did not believe it, and the haunting fear and guilt ate away at him. His only solace was the thought that Makarria was safe in Issborg. You’re the crown prince of Valaróz now, he reminded himself as his ship approached the piers. You need to think beyond your own personal concerns.

  Word of his arrival had already reached the city and by the time his ship was docked, a massive crowd of people swarmed over the docks. The cacophony was deafening, and it took Parmo a few seconds to realize they were chanting his family name.

  Pallma! Pallma! Pallma!

  “We will escort you to the palace the best we can,” Socorro said as the crew secured the ship and lowered the gang plank. “There are a lot of cursed people out there though. If you get separated, just push your way through.”

  “I know the way,” Parmo assured him and led the way down the gangplank and up the pier to face the crowds.

  Before they reached the crowds, however, a regiment of soldiers pushed their way forward to bar the way. Parmo felt the prickling sensation of danger. So far the transition of power from Don Bricio to himself had gone smoother than he ever would have imagined, but sailors had always been loyal to the Pallma line of kings and queens. Dealing with the city soldiers and aristocrats could prove to be an entirely different matter, he knew. Parmo put his hand to his sword hilt, ready for trouble.

  It proved to be unnecessary, for the captain of the soldiers bowed as soon as his men were in ranks and at attention. “Welcome, my prince,” the captain said. “My name is Antonio Haviero. I am Captain of the Royal Guard. Your coach awaits you and the palace has been prepared for your arrival. The houndkeeper and the rest of Don Bricio’s men have been taken to the dungeon, except those who resisted—them we have flayed and fed to the desert cats. Also, the Assembly of Chancellors is gathering in the palace as we speak. They await your arrival to begin your hearing. If you can validate your claim to the throne, they mean to anoint you this very day.”

  Parmo could hardly believe the words he was hearing. He’d expected resistance of some sort, but it seemed the people of Valaróz were more than ready for him.

  “Thank you, Captain Haviero,” Parmo said with a smile. “I am much relieved and pleased by the warm welcome. Socorro, the rest of the men can stay on the ship now that we have an escort, but you best come with me. The chancellors will want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Aye,” Socorro agreed, and with a few curt
commands he dismissed the rest of crew to return to Makarria.

  “Captain Haviero,” Parmo said, “Please lead the way.”

  Captain Haviero gave a harsh whistle, and his men immediately sprung into action to clear a path through the crowd from the docks to the harborside streets where an armored coach awaited. The crowd seemed unperturbed by the soldiers pushing them aside, and they continued to chant: Pallma! Pallma!

  Parmo felt himself become flush with excitement. It had been decades since he’d heard that name. A woman in the nearby crowd pushed her way onto the shoulders of the soldiers blocking her way and threw a bouquet of flowers at Parmo. “May Vala bless your soul,” she shouted over the din. “We love you!”

  Parmo bent down to pick up the flowers and blew the woman a kiss in thanks.

  Pallma! Pallma! the crowd chanted.

  They reached the coach and Captain Haviero offered his arm to help Parmo up. “Your ride, Your Majesty.”

  Parmo stood there for a moment, basking in the adoration of the crowd. “No, I think we’ll walk, Captain.”

  “You’re sure?” Captain Haviero asked with a nervous glance at the people flooding the streets around them. “We are but a small regiment. We cannot keep the crowd at bay if they decide to mob you.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Parmo assured him. “The people of this city have been waiting a long time for their king to return. They deserve to see my face.”

  King Casstian yelled out at his troops to reform behind him as he yanked his horse to a halt in the outskirts of Forrest Weorcan. They had come upon Guderian’s war machines on the road just south of Weordan two days before, and nothing they could do slowed the iron-shelled wagons. The machines cut down the Pyrthinian troops just as Taera warned him they would. Casstian had ordered Taera and the rest of his constables and field marshals to sound the retreat back to Lepig, and then led his own small contingent of troops onward into the forest to harry the Sargothian infantry marching behind the war machines. Three times now the small Pyrthinian brigade had successfully darted from the trees to charge through the Sargothian lines and quickly retreat back into the safety of the forest. It was nearly dusk and Casstian desperately hoped they were nearing the Sargothian supply train. He knew the Emperor’s war machines needed fuel; if they could succeed in destroying the supply wagons, they would effectively stop the war machines in their tracks.