To Dream of White & Gold (Death Dreamer Legacy Book 1)

by R. K. Hart

  He felt her draw. He watched the mist’s golden shadow, twining around her, pressing on her shield. He let go of her fingers and stepped forward, sending his mind up and out, gently questing. The mist pressed back.

  ‘Who did this?’ he wondered aloud. There was no answer; he opened his eyes. ‘Ais-la?’

  He stood alone, and the mist swam before his face. He spun around, his hand reaching for the knife at his hip, but he could see nothing in any direction but the thick, silent white.

  Chapter Thirty: Lost

  Lorcan stood very still for some time, unwilling to move on the chance Lida might return. He called her name repeatedly, but something in the oppressive damp diminished his voice: it was like trying to shout in a temple. The white of the mist was too close to his memory of the place near death for him to be calm, and he desperately sought the sky through the cloying cloud with no success; when he sent his mind up, the illae pressed him down. When he sent his mind out, trying to speak to the mist, trying to wind his will around it, the illae quivered and shoved him roughly back. He closed his eyes and took a handful of deep, steady breaths, trying to quell his panic.

  ‘Lida!’ he shouted.

  There was no response.

  ‘Lida!’

  He tried again and again, shouting until his throat rasped. When it did not work, he drew and sent his mind out, over and over, forcing his will against the illae-mist until he started to shake and his stomach roiled. He came back to himself and walked slowly forward.

  The mist closed in more thickly. He took another step, and felt as if he were walking into a wall of white.

  He stepped back, his fingers on the handle of his knife. The mist retreated, restoring visibility to a few steps around him.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He itched to pull his shortbow from his pack, but knew he might as easily loose an arrow into Lida as into any other danger that might appear in the white. The cliffs were close, somewhere; he had lost all sense of direction, and he could not hear the sea.

  He frowned at the mist and strode forward again. It thickened immediately, collecting to run down his face in tiny rivulets. He hissed wordlessly and pressed forward.

  The white became so dense he could not breathe. It was as if he was underwater, and he started to gasp, retreating, slicking his wet hair away from his face impatiently.

  ‘Well then,’ he said aloud. ‘You do not wish me to walk forward.’ He studied the mist. ‘But I need to go forward. Backwards is never an option.’

  The mist swirled, silent. Lorcan wiped his face on his shirt and tried again.

  He tried walking to the side and forward, mindful of the cliffs. He achieved nothing, and steadily lost his hold on his growing fear. He sent his mind up to the sky and was pushed relentlessly back down. He ran both hands through his dripping hair, then closed his eyes and examined the mist again. All he could see was a thickening cloud of gold.

  Hopelessness settled heavy on his shoulders.

  ‘Lida!’

  The mist was silent, and Alida did not answer.

  He shrugged off his pack and opened it to run a hand over his redwood bow for comfort. He did not pull it out, but found a handful of dried fruit and nuts and ate just enough to stave off hunger. He had two flasks, but he did not drink; he did not know when he would find water again. The thought of opening his mouth to the mist made him shudder.

  ‘She has three,’ he said aloud, mostly to distract himself. ‘Three flasks. The cheese, the bread. Sugared cherries, the cocoa, the tea.’ He touched his bow again, tracing the familiar shape. It had been the last thing his uncle had made before he died. Arlyn had made it for his own use, but he had always promised his youngest nephew a bow, and so Lorcan’s mother had sent it to him, along with a quiver of arrows that Arlyn had not finished. They lay at the back of Lorcan’s wardrobe, still incomplete; he could never quite bring himself to touch them. ‘She has the flint. Aaron’s knife.’ He wished he had given her his as well. It had better balance than the Brinnican blade, and a nasty serrated edge. He had seen Aaron teach her how to throw them. She had a large measure of natural aptitude for it, which made him think she would take to a bow. Although, he thought, she would need to work on her patience if she wanted to be good at it.

  He was not sure how long he stayed kneeling. Periodically, he would shout for Lida; periodically, he succumbed to his fear and shook. He reached for the sky, again and again, but he could never find it.

  After a while, he wept.

  He wiped his face when he finished, and squeezed what he could from his hair, braiding it back from his face and tying it tightly. He twisted his silver cuff around his wrist.

  ‘So,’ he said, and shouldered his pack. He pressed into the mist again.

  He started slowly, a step at a time, stopping for some minutes with each tedious step, giving himself time to adjust to the increasing thickness of the white. He had reasoned it would be preferable to the fast rushes he had tried before, but instead it was like slow-burning panic; his heart was thudding erratically and he could not draw a full breath. He gasped for air, uncomfortably reminded of his illness aboard the Belle, and he closed his eyes.

  All he could see was gold. Usually, this would have been a comfort; as it was, it only made his heart thud faster, to see the power working so steadily and obstinately against him. He had never feared it before, not even the first time it had rushed through him to carry his mind up to the clouds. He had feared the lightning at first, but never illae. Looking at it now, he thought he might understand some of what the ungifted felt, knowing that a force surrounded them that they could not see or hope to touch; something lurking just outside their grasp, something unknowable and dangerous.

  ‘Gods above, Merchant,’ he muttered. ‘Straighten your spine and shoulder your bow.’

  He rolled his shoulders back and pushed forward.

  He strode further into the mist until he felt as if he was drowning, and then he succumbed to fear and sprinted back to where he could breathe again. When he got there, he crouched down and put his face in his hands.

  There was a faint pull, swiftly followed by a wave of illae that smashed through the air and mist, parting the white for a moment and almost knocking him to his knees. He leapt upright and whipped around to where he thought it had come from.

  ‘Lida!’ he roared.

  The white closed back in. He waited, every muscle taut. His fingers started to tremble.

  ‘Lorcan!’ he heard, faintly. ‘Lorcan!’

  The call had come from his left. He wiped his face on his sleeve and took a handful of running steps towards the sound, stopping abruptly when he remembered the cliffs. ‘Alida!’

  ‘Lorcan!

  ‘Lida!’

  He heard a wordless scream of frustration, and his name called again, desperately. He tried to push his mind out to find her, but could not rally the strength. A chill ran down his spine when he realised he had almost completely drained his reserves; he hoped she had been more sensible.

  The illae-wave came again. The mist pulled back for a moment and he turned, frantically seeking the source of the wave. The white closed like curtains before he could see anything.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath.

  There was a rush of feet and something struck him square in the back, the force cushioned by his pack. Years of training kicked in and he turned as he fell, grabbing whatever it was and pulling it down with him. He rolled, and in less than a moment both its wrists were gathered in one of his hands and pinned above its head in the grass and his free fingers were sliding his knife from his belt but a voice was saying his name, over and over, punctuated with stop it, you ass, it hurts and two legs locked themselves around his thighs. He had just enough time to think I know that move when he was thrown over and it was him on his back on the cold, wet ground, arched uncomfortably over his pack, and she slammed her forearm down on his throat hard enough to bruise.

  ‘I said it hurts, Lorcan.’

/>   He tried to speak but he could not breathe with her arm crushing his windpipe. She realised and sat up, releasing him, but he followed and frantically touched her face, then wove his arms around her waist and pressed her to him. She was shaking, but he was, too, so he buried his face in her neck and she wound her fingers into his wet hair, pulling it from its braid.

  ‘Do not go,’ he heard himself say, his voice hoarse. ‘Lida, please, do not go.’

  ‘I won’t go,’ she answered with tears in her voice. She showered his face in kisses while he sat and drank in the sight of her.

  He eventually closed his eyes, trembling. ‘Gods, Lida,’ he said. ‘I have never been so scared.’

  She shook her head wordlessly, splattering droplets of water everywhere, then grabbed two handfuls of his shirt, pulling him back closer.

  ‘I do not know what to do,’ he said hopelessly. ‘The mist will not listen. It grows thicker when I try to move forward and I cannot breathe in it, Lida. I do not know if I can find water, whichever way we walk. I do not know where we are. I am afraid that no matter which way we choose, we will end up on the cliffs. I have no sense of time. I have no idea how long we have been here. When I reach out, illae pushes straight back. I have done it so many times that I am too tired to draw. It is like being held down to drown.’

  ‘I know,’ she murmured, cupping his face in her hands. ‘I know.’

  ‘I am so tired,’ she said. ‘I cannot stand this. It feels like a shroud.’ He laughed, but it was half a sob. ‘Do you know that I sleep with my curtains open? I cannot stand not seeing the sky.’

  ‘Lor,’ she whispered, but he gave up fighting and pressed his face into her shoulder, weeping silently as she stroked his hair. ‘Ces beni, cher. We will go back. We have water and food enough. It will be all right.’

  She shrugged off her pack, one arm at a time. ‘You need rest, first,’ she said firmly. With one hand, she unrolled one of her blankets and spread it out on the grass next to them. It coated with damp immediately. When he realised what she was trying to do, he reached for one of his own, and they spread it atop hers, trying to keep the inner layers as dry as possible. She pushed his pack from his shoulders as if he was a child, placing it and her own next to their makeshift bed. She shifted slightly but did not disrupt his embrace, unlacing her boots and pulling them off, then pushing them inside her pack. She coaxed him to do the same, keeping hold of one of his hands. When he was done, she pulled him down beneath the blanket, and drew it high up to cover their heads from the unremitting damp.

  He had barely settled when her mouth slid onto his. Her lips were fierce and desperate and he responded in kind, his fear and relief and anxious yearning for the sky all channelled into his mouth and hands. It was not playful and nor was it gentle, their breaths rasping into the silent white; one hand bunched in his hair and the other dug its nails in the back of his neck. His own fingers found her wet shirt and pulled it up to caress chilled skin; she made a mewling noise when they slid over her stomach and higher, tracing over the soft swell of breast. He liked the sound so he did it again, his hands spanning her waist. Her stomach had been slightly rounded the first time he had seen it, bared to the night after she had torn strips from her shirt to bind Jakob’s face; it was flat and hard with muscle now, and he stroked her skin, exploring the contrast between muscle and curve. Her own hands were tracing up and down his back with increasing urgency, mapping out the raised scar that stretched from just below his right shoulder and ended beneath his lowest left rib. Her legs wound around his again, but this time it was to press him closer; when her teeth sank into his lip, a sound tore from deep in his throat and he reached for her buttons.

  His fingers never got there. They froze instead, hovering over her collarbone.

  Not like this, he thought.

  ‘What?’ she said breathlessly. Her fingertips skimmed over his stomach and slipped beneath the waistband of his jodhpurs, finding his hips; he almost lost his resolve as they slid further down.

  He kissed her hard, stroking her cheek and shifting his weight - and his hips - away from her. ‘You are right. I need rest.’

  Lida swallowed. ‘All right,’ she said thickly, and her hands moved back up to his shoulders. She did not seem inclined to let him go any more than that - and he was not about to argue - so he lay his head on her chest and listened to her heart beating. It was fast at first, and it skipped when he slid his hand back over her stomach to rest it on the curve of her waist, but it eventually slowed, and as it did his breathing matched it, and he listened to her heartbeat and felt her fingers moving gently in his hair.

  Eventually, he slept.

  Lida fought sleep as long as she could. She dreaded what was to come and she feared she could not resist it; as soon as she closed her eyes, she found that she was right.

  Lorcan’s nightmare was filled with mist. It swirled menacingly, invasive and cloying, cold and damp. Lida could see nothing but white. For a moment, she shifted her weight to her toes and considered leaving, but his voice wove through the mist, calling for her, and she cursed herself for a coward.

  ‘I’m here,’ she shouted, walking towards his voice. With one hand, she gestured in a sweeping motion, pushing the white away and shifting it into soft snow on a brilliant winter’s night.

  Almost immediately, the snow became a blizzard, obscuring her vision as much as the mist had. She shivered and her teeth began to chatter as an icy wind whipped through her clothes and hair. She gestured again, changing the snow to gentle rain on a beautiful grey day. The image lasted a few moments before the rain turned into a deluge so great that she could not see more than a foot in front of her and her hair dripped into her eyes.

  ‘Stop it, Lorcan!’ she yelled, furious. She didn’t think he was fighting her consciously, but she was too tired to be patient. She gestured again. The clouds overhead rolled back, revealing clear blue sky. She drew and concentrated, making the warmth of the sun palpable, filling the air with the scent of honey and grain. It held, and she relaxed.

  The grass beneath her burst into flame.

  She screamed as flames licked up her legs, eating at her jodhpurs and burning into her skin. She beat at them uselessly until her mind started working again and she used her gift to extinguish the blaze.

  Her boots were tough leather and were unharmed; the same could not be said for her legs. Her jodhpurs had burned away to above the knee, and her skin was red and shiny with burns that were already blistering. Tears ran down her cheeks as she removed her boots and tried to pull bits of scorched cotton from the wounds.

  ‘Lida, oh, gods,’ Lorcan said, appearing beside her, his voice rough with worry. With a wave of her hand, Lida conjured a small pond full of icy water and cried out as she lowered in her legs.

  Lorcan reached out to touch her and then thought better of it; she glared at him resentfully. ‘I hope you’re ready to carry me tomorrow,’ she snarled. ‘I called out to you! Why didn’t you listen?’

  A range of emotions flickered across his face before it settled into a careful blankness. ‘Remember that feeling,’ he said evenly, ‘and I will remind you of it the next time you do not listen to me. Probably first thing in the morning.’

  She growled wordlessly at him and returned her attention to her legs, trying to clear the burns of the remains of her jodhpurs. It was excruciating.

  ‘Ais-la,’ Lorcan said. ‘Remember where you are.’

  She scowled at him before she realised what he meant. She closed her eyes; when she opened them again, the tattered cotton was gone and she wore a simple white shift, her legs bare. The change had done nothing for the burns, which still hurt abominably, but she no longer needed to pick material from her blistered skin.

  She stared at the water, then slapped a wet palm to her forehead.

  ‘Where we are. Of course. Gods, I’m so slow. Lor, I have to go. Try to stay calm.’

  ‘What?’

  She blew him a kiss and pushed herself from the dream.
In a moment, she was floating in the white place. Lorcan’s dreamline was beneath her, still pulsing with black, and, looking ahead, she could see the mess of golden lines that she thought - that she hoped - were the sleepers at the Illarum. The glow was quite a distance away.

  She lowered herself and walked there slowly, steadily drawing to try to conserve her strength as she winced with every step. She thought it looked closer than the night before; they must have gained at least a little ground before the mist grew too thick. She fought constantly against the force holding her back, feeling as if she was moving against a gale.

  It took her some time to reach the outskirts of the Illarum dreamlines. She was very tired by the time she got there, and with much of her strength drained she was finding it difficult to draw. She wondered how her mother had managed to reach Aaron while he had been in Brinnica and Siva in Eilan; she must have been very powerful, Lida realised with a chill.

  There were about thirty dreamlines before her, some tangled together. She drew up her feet and floated over them, considering. With her energy so low, she had to choose carefully. She reached out tentatively, tasting.

  The first dreamline reminded her strongly of Aaron. She guessed that the mix of arrogance and aggression was one of Caradoc’s students; she didn’t know them well enough to tell who it might be. The next was all earth and heady green sensuousness: Brigid. One was sunlight and cheerfulness and the rumble of galloping hooves and Lida smiled, thinking of Jed. She kept searching, and when she found the dreamline cloaked in fierce grey and ringing with the screech of a hawk, she reached out to touch the gold.

  Tiernan was dreaming of Katrin again. It wasn’t a coherent memory-dream, but rather a set of random images emerging from and disappearing back into black unconsciousness. There was no narrative to the dream, no chronology; Lida thought it was more a manifestation of how much he must have been thinking about her, and she wondered - not for the first time - why Katrin had left. She did not think it could be for the same reason as Maya.