Dreaming Death

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  And while her late father had a brother there whose presence would lend her mother respectability, the man wasn’t overly fond of Savelle Anjir. He hadn’t agreed to his brother’s taking in his wife’s bastard.

  The horses moved restlessly, a hoof striking the stone of the courtyard. One of them snorted, and the wheels of the old carriage creaked as it shifted.

  “If the colonel sends for you,” her mother went on, “try to keep . . .”

  Thoughts whirled in her mother’s mind, not quite formed into words, worry that Shironne would be hurt again, that she’d end up entangled in something too big for her to handle, as had happened a few times before.

  “I’m not going to forbid your going,” her mother said, rather than finishing her earlier effort. “Just try to exercise caution.”

  “I’ll be cautious,” Shironne promised rashly.

  Her mother recognized the chances of her keeping that promise and laughed softly. “I’m certain you will.”

  After a few final words to a restive Melanna and a sulking Perrin, her mother touched Shironne’s cheek one last time and then climbed into the carriage. Kirya Aldrine stepped up behind her, and a moment later, the carriage rolled away.

  Shironne resigned herself to a few very frustrating days. Verinne was a stickler for propriety and believed that Shironne truly should have entered the priesthood, although she never said so aloud any longer out of respect for Shironne’s mother. She had, however, commented a few times that it wasn’t too late to train Melanna for that life. What a disaster that would be.

  On the other hand, Verinne doted on Perrin and was doing an excellent job of preparing her for a life as a rich man’s wife. As Perrin seemed perfectly content with that path, Shironne didn’t try to dissuade her.

  Shironne sighed and grasped Melanna’s syrup-sticky hand. She cringed but let her little sister lead her back to the house.

  • • •

  Mikael spent an hour sparring with Eli that afternoon, a good way to work off some of the frustrations of the day. He’d spent several hours talking to various writers down in the city about the two deaths. He hadn’t turned up anything more than rumors. Given that two men were dead, it was concerning.

  Distracted as he half watched one of the fight masters instruct two sentries on a nearby square, Mikael ended up on the floor when Eli landed a particularly hard blow. Blunted swords, even rapiers, still left livid bruises. That spot would be tender for days, Mikael expected. He deserved as much for allowing his attention to wander.

  “I’ve got a headache,” he admitted, rubbing at his side. “I can hardly wait to shower.”

  “Lucky you,” Eli commented under his breath.

  “No shower?” Mikael asked.

  Eli stopped, one foot on the stairs. “There’s a run on tonight, sir.”

  Mikael’s headache flared. Orange flashed behind his eyes.

  A midnight run, where nearly a hundred children of the Family would chase through the dark streets of Noikinos. Originally intended to teach the children the layout of the city, the runs had evolved over decades into a public way to impress the citizens of Noikinos, much like the melee. Young Larossans would creep out of their homes in the darkness to watch the silent Family children run by.

  Eli came back to where Mikael stood. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Mikael closed his eyes, trying to banish the anxiety that flared through him. “I don’t know. Keep your yeargroup out of it.”

  Eli’s voice penetrated the fog in his head. “Why?”

  “I have a headache,” Mikael said. He wanted to get away by himself where he wouldn’t bother anyone. “What time is it?”

  Eli dug his pocket watch out of the brown jacket folded neatly over his arm. “Just after five.”

  Mikael turned and headed back up the stair, debating.

  “No, you don’t.” Eli grabbed his arm. “You made a promise to Elder Deborah, Mikael. Remember?”

  Mikael clenched his jaw. “What?”

  “She asked several of us to keep an eye on you,” Eli said. “She said you gave her your word.”

  Mikael could hear the disapproval in Eli’s voice. He could get away from Eli and get out of the fortress. Despite Eli’s larger size, Mikael could still easily outfight him. Eli would just call on the others on the sparring ground for help, though, and Mikael couldn’t escape from that many. He gave in—and Eli marched him up five flights of stairs to the infirmary.

  Jakob, the infirmarian on duty, left them there while he went off to hunt for Deborah. Mikael sank down on one of the beds that lined each side of the main infirmary room and continued around the corner to the private rooms. He stared at the neat beds, shelves, and screens, Deborah’s tidy and efficient domain. He was about to ruin her night again. “This is a terrible idea, Eli.”

  Eli folded his arms over his chest and watched Mikael as if daring him to bolt. “Why did you give your word, then?”

  “Have you ever tried to say no to Deborah?” Mikael asked.

  “If I chose to do so, I would.” Eli glowered down at him, supremely certain of himself.

  Did I have such self-assurance at sixteen? “It’s harder than it sounds.”

  “Stop trying to please everyone, Mikael.” Eli shook his head, glancing back across the infirmary as Jakob came in with Deborah, who’d evidently been rousted from her room. She wore loose black pants and an old gray sweater thrown over her shirt for warmth. She braided her hair as she approached.

  After surveying the two young men waiting for her, still dressed in their sparring clothes, she guessed the source of the problem. “Mikael, are you about to start dreaming on us?”

  “I believe so, ma’am,” he admitted, shifting on the edge of the bed. “I would truly like to leave now.”

  “Thank you, Eli.” She came and sat on a bed across from him, folding one leg underneath her. “You’re not leaving, Mikael. You gave your word. I’ll keep an eye on you, I promise.”

  “Ma’am?” Eli began.

  Deborah laid a cool hand against Mikael’s brow. “Yes, Eli?”

  “I’d like to go talk to my uncle about canceling the run for tonight. Mikael advised me not to take my yeargroup.” Eli’s uncle, Simeon, was one of several fight masters in charge of organizing the yeargroups for those rare activities that took children outside the fortress. If he listened to Eli’s story, he could cancel the run on his authority alone.

  Deborah’s blue eyes fixed on Mikael’s. “Is someone in the Family threatened?”

  They’re going to cancel a midnight run, just because I feel panicky, he thought sourly. “I don’t know.”

  Deborah cast a doubtful look at him and then rose. “Eli, go ahead and talk to your uncle. Tell him that I’m asking for them to keep everyone within the fortress tonight. Advise your yeargroup, and if you would come back afterward, I’d appreciate it. I’ll need a runner overnight and I don’t think your cousin will be fit for it.”

  Eli’s cousin Gabriel was in the same yeargroup but served runner duty in Below since he was a sensitive. Given that Mikael was going to dream at some point tonight, Gabriel would likely be among those affected if the sedatives didn’t mute Mikael’s dream in the same way as alcohol did.

  Eli left the infirmary, and Mikael drew a heavy breath. He was resigned to this now. He’d already defied Deborah once by escaping the fortress before his last dream, although he’d not intended to do so at first. He’d happened to be out of the fortress when he’d figured out he was going to dream. Deborah came and laid one cool hand across his forehead.

  “You’re warm, Mikael, but that may be that you came from the sparring floor.” She left for a moment to talk to Jakob and then returned. “We’re going to put you in one of the back rooms.”

  The back rooms afforded some measure of privacy, rooms used for births or for long stays in the i
nfirmary wing. They were rooms where people died.

  “I was supposed to meet Jannika tonight for dinner.”

  Deborah cast a dry look at him. “I’ll send her a note. You’re not getting out of my sight.”

  Mikael followed her to the back rooms, counting to smother the tension singing through his head. He had to remain calm.

  The room had a single bed, a small table, and a chair. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the gray wool blanket scratchy under his fingers.

  Deborah handed him a glass and said, “Drink this.”

  “This could be ugly, ma’am.” He drank the draft she’d given him, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  She took away the glass and brought her hand to his cheek. “I know, dear. But it also might work.”

  Mikael sighed. She’ll probably stay up all night herself.

  Deborah settled on the chair. “I’ll send for dinner here. Do you have any idea when you’ll start dreaming?”

  The last two dreams had come in the middle of the night. If he assumed that the dream matched the same pattern, he had several hours to sit here in the infirmary. Then again, he couldn’t assume that. If he didn’t fall asleep first, he would simply drop to the floor wherever he was, even if that was halfway down a stairwell. It was safer to find a bed. “I don’t have any way to be sure.”

  “Then we wait,” Deborah said, and added, “So . . . Jannika again?”

  Mikael cringed inwardly. It was going to be a long night.

  • • •

  Shironne woke late into the night with a familiar dread tickling down her spine. She sat up and dragged a pillow into her arms. She breathed slowly, four counts in and four counts out, trying to think of the fear as a thing rather than feeling it. She held it at a distance.

  He’s afraid. His mind screamed panic into the night, terrified death would drag him down along with the victim. He knew death waited just around the corner, its victim already chosen.

  It was him—her Angel of Death. She had no doubt of that. He seemed to call her by name, almost as if he knew her.

  His terror rattled on and on, a drone in the back of her mind. How long that continued she didn’t know. When he finally slipped into a dream, she let out a sigh of relief, thinking she’d finally reached something familiar, but it was unlike any they’d shared before.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The victim panicked when she realized she was bound, her heart straining. Her head ached fiercely. She’d been hit from behind.

  She sensed the others’ triumph, their worry, their fear and anger, a jumble of discordant emotions. Panic rushed through her. She tried to call for help but couldn’t. Hands rolled her over. A dark face came near, studying her—a man. He touched her cheek.

  The dark man rifled through her memories, reading the journal of her mind, an intensely personal survey. The man searched for something, only to be denied. He spoke words, but nothing reached her ears. A sense of frustration flooded through the contact, and the hand fell away.

  She stared up into starless blackness, the inside of a coach. Others moved around her, all indistinct in her mind save that one man who still watched her but no longer touched. Another leaned close, and something jabbed into the side of her neck. Her heart beat faster, the inside of the coach spinning. The men ignored her as if she were no threat.

  For a long time the coach swayed until her stomach rebelled, vomit choking her. One of the men grabbed her head and turned it to one side so that the vomit ran free of her mouth and onto the straw covering the coach’s floor. The motion made her dizzier and she retched again, smelling the sour odor.

  They stopped, a sudden lurch. The men began to climb down from the coach. They untied the ropes about her arms, which fell limp at her sides. Then two men dragged her out, one on each side—annoyed, hurried, worried. The others followed.

  Her heart struggled to keep up with her fear. She couldn’t get a good breath. She smelled the river.

  They pushed her to her knees. She felt the jar of hitting the ground in her gut. She couldn’t feel her legs now. She willed her arms and her legs to move—to show them she was prepared to fight—but nothing answered her call. One of the men stripped her jacket from her unresisting arms. Her head fell forward and suddenly she couldn’t breathe at all. She looked at the stony ground before her, the moon visible on the river’s surface. Shame flushed through her then that she would die without putting up a fight.

  One of them grabbed her braids and yanked her head back. Her lungs drew in air, reprieved. They removed her vest and shirt. The dark face watched her as if waiting for something.

  Another man stood at the dark man’s side, the bait who’d drawn her in. He looked regretful, eyes turned away, as if he would stop the others if he could.

  She was going to die. They would not do all this and not kill her. She closed her eyes and began to pray, thinking that Father Winter, at least, would not abandon her. She felt pressure on her skin, smelled the scent of blood.

  Deep in her mind, she felt the presence of another, watching and waiting with her in the last moments. His familiar presence reassured her.

  Her lungs wouldn’t draw breath any longer, simply stopping in their motion. She let go, and the darkness and confusion around her faded away.

  • • •

  Mikael sputtered when the icy water hit him. Air rushed into his lungs. The room was lit, blindingly bright after the darkness of his dream. He tried to wipe water from his face but his arms didn’t move.

  Someone bent over him, features obscured in contrast, mopping at the water puddled on his shoulders and neck.

  “Mikael?” Deborah’s voice betrayed her anxiety.

  Mikael tried to reply, but his throat seemed frozen.

  “Can you talk at all?”

  He found he could move an arm and grasped her sleeve.

  Deborah sat down on the edge of his bed, concern plain on her face now that his eyes had adjusted. She touched his bare chest, and Mikael discovered he had the ability to flinch now. They’d removed his shirt, he recalled, to get a better view of any fresh welts that bloomed across his chest.

  “Water,” he finally managed to croak.

  She got up, went away, and then loomed over him again, cup in hand. “Let’s see if we can get you sitting up.”

  Eli had returned to help her. Between the two of them, they propped Mikael up like a rag doll on the bed. Deborah sat next to him again, holding the water to his numb lips so he could drink. He gagged but managed to swallow at the last moment.

  “There’ll be trouble over this,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I know,” Mikael whispered. His neck responded to instructions now, and he looked downward to see the marks on his chest. He couldn’t see directly below his chin, but he thought that the letters ended halfway across. He raised a hand to check and found no tender streak running across his lower ribs. In the earlier dreams, he’d had a slash crossing his chest, the largest of the echoed wounds. He remembered his lungs failing. “The victim died. Before they killed her, ma’am.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure of that?”

  He pointed at his chest. “This is how far they got.”

  She stood up and frowned down at him. “Dahar needs to be aware of what’s happening to you. If nothing else, to take you off duty the day after one of these . . .”

  “No.” He didn’t want to be removed from duty as if he were aged and infirm. “Please.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, her jaw clenched. She looked away, gazing out the open door for a moment, and then turned back to him. “I won’t request that, then, but if Dahar insists, you’ll have to abide by his ruling.”

  Mikael knew better than to argue. “Have you heard from any of the sensitives yet?”

  Deborah glanced over at Eli. His serious face drew up in a mocki
ng smile. “Hel reigned in our quarters, sir. There was actual screaming and gnashing of teeth. Very interesting.”

  How like Eli to see the plight of his sensitives as an amusing curiosity. He probably viewed it as a weakness. Of the twenty-eight in his yeargroup, seventeen were sensitives, an unprecedented proportion. Most yeargroups had no more than one out of four with the talent. Mikael hoped Eli learned to have more patience.

  “Echoes,” Deborah offered. “The sensitives were repeating everything among themselves and it got out of hand.”

  Eli nodded. “Once Gabriel woke up and I got him calmed down, the others followed suit, so I came back to check on you, sir.”

  Deborah leaned forward again to touch his bare chest. “I’m curious to see how many of them echo your . . . lettering.”

  Mikael dreaded that. In the past, his drunken stupor had muted his broadcasting enough that the sensitives had only vague impressions of his dreams. This time they apparently hadn’t been spared. There would be angry and frightened sensitives all over the fortress, each correctly blaming him.

  This had been a terrible mistake. He could see from Deborah’s face that she knew it, too. No point in saying it aloud.

  “Why am I wet?” he asked then, throat hoarse.

  “I dumped a basin on you. You stopped breathing, and I couldn’t get you to wake.”

  “Oh, I thought my pillow felt soggy,” he commented. Drowsiness stole over him, making everything less urgent. Even so, something nagged at him. He caught her sleeve as she moved away. “This one was Lucas. A sensitive.”

  She stared down at him. “Are you certain?”

  Mikael remembered the pressure of a hand tangled in his braids—braids he hadn’t worn since he became a nineteen. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They canceled the run. Everyone should be Below except the sentries.” Deborah sounded alarmed, but Mikael couldn’t summon the will to move.

  He slid to the left, leaning up against the cool stone corner of the two walls. He didn’t notice if she replied to him, her voice trailing away as the room grew dim.

  • • •