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

by R. K. Hart

  He gave her a quick smile, an expression that passed so swiftly across his face Lida wondered if she’d imagined it. ‘Sacred is in the stables,’ he said, then disappeared inside.

  Lorcan looked towards the redwood doors. ‘I carried you through the last time you arrived,’ he said. ‘I do not think I will again. The Kalisson made you heavier.’

  ‘I am glad to see your journey has not made you any pleasanter, brother,’ Jakob said.

  ‘You carried me?’ Lida said.

  ‘You did not complain at the time.’

  ‘You weren’t conscious, Lida,’ Mikal said, grinning. ‘It was either him or Kieran, who met us at the door. I had to make the choice for you. I suppose I should apologise.’

  Lida laughed. ‘I think you made the right one,’ she said. She held out her hand to Lorcan as rain began to fall. ‘But this time, I will choose to walk.’

  Epilogue

  It is some time later that you find yourself at the helm of the Belle, looking out at the horizon. You shift your weight, confused; it takes you a few moments to realise that you are asleep, and in a dream of your own.

  You are cross, then; you had planned to be elsewhere, in another dream, and what you were planning to build there was not an ominous sky and an unsettled sea. In the distance, a ship sails; even from here, you can see that its hull is made of black wood and there are a pair of staring red eyes on its bow.

  You shudder. You have managed to push it aside, up until now. You are good at stamping down the things you do not wish to dwell on, good at pushing them deep inside. Until now, you have pushed down the memories of the ship and the smell of fire and the cries of pain and the ash and blood on your hands.

  They are about to resurface.

  You are resentful that this dream has come to ruin your homecoming. You were spoiled for attention all afternoon, between the beautiful Setiian fae and the red-haired Brinnican, who wrestled good-naturedly for your attention like children. You were magnanimously fair, having missed both of them equally, and you let them run you a bath and make you coffee and generally fuss over you until it is time for dinner.

  On the way you see the blonde Eilin boy, and your stomach twists; you hug him and you tell him that the Brinnican hunter misses him greatly. The boy coughs. He clings to you for slightly too long, his hands slightly too tight. He is so torn, poor thing.

  At dinner, you eat so much that you feel ill, but you don’t mind. Your cup stays full of wine, no matter how much you drink, and the world shifts pleasantly beneath you. The stom-ruith has drunk just as much, but has a better head for it; he laughs and props you upright, his arms tight around your waist, as if he cannot quite let you go. There are others watching you, drawn into the spectacle that new love creates; you catch the eye of a pretty Erbidan healer as she stares daggers at you. You have never spoken to her - you do not even know her name - and you stare levelly back. Her eyes are jealous and unfriendly, but you are not made to back down, and you have a flair for the theatrical; you turn and, very deliberately, you run your hands through the stom-ruith’s hair. Mine, the gesture says, loudly.

  There is much to be said for subtlety, and much less so about rashness. I imagine you will learn this, later. I hope it is not too harsh a lesson.

  It is hours later when you leave the dining hall. Your throat is raw with talking - everyone had so many questions - and your steps are unsteady. You are sick of speaking and so you do not, and when the stom-ruith pulls you down the hallway to his bedroom you follow without hesitation, barely sparing a glance for your own empty room.

  You have never seen his bedroom, and you blink in surprise. The walls are lined with neatly overflowing bookshelves, and the colours are all him, sea-greens and blues and greys, soft and strong all at once. Two longbows hang from hooks in the only available wall space, each taller than you, and there are charcoal drawings and small, framed paintings propped everywhere, all of a place that you have never seen in the waking world but you feel you already know.

  ‘My mother made them,’ he says softly, watching you.

  ‘They are beautiful,’ you say, because they are, and you want to look more closely at the work of the Priom-la who has the command of both an army and a paintbrush at her fingertips, but your eye is caught by something else.

  When you find your voice, it is as steady as you can make it, which is not very steady at all. You are suddenly entirely sober. ‘Lorcan,’ you say, trying to sound reasonable, ‘is that a clock?’

  You have never seen one before; most people have not. Clocks are not for commoners. You know that the Eilin King has one, and one of the richer lordlings to the east, and it is this, this moment, this thing, that makes you fully comprehend the path you have committed yourself to, of what you have promised, and to whom you have promised it. It is no small thing to realise and your hands shake as he takes it down from the mantle so you might see it more closely and touch it. You refuse; you look from a distance.

  ‘It stopped, while we were away,’ he says.

  He is right. Neither of you can tell exactly when, though I can. It was an innocuous moment, as most moments are; the ones that are not stick in our memories and take up more space than they strictly deserve. During this moment, this tiny space in time and distance, you were on the back of your red horse, chatting to the blonde Brinnican girl, somewhere on the way to your sandstone city. For that moment, the world froze around you. You did not notice. Between one blink and the next it returned to normal, but you, my dearling, did not. Will not. And neither will your stom-ruith’s clock. He will not mind, I think, for it is precious to him for its own sake, whether it works or not.

  I do not know if you will mind, when you realise, when you look at your hands and your face in the mirror and know that you do not work the way you used to. Every action has a consequence, and this one is a consequence of mine, one that has passed to you. I suppose I should be sorry, but I find that I cannot be. Every way you turn, a new path opens up, a new future, and though I can see them all, they do not solidify until you walk to meet them. I did not expect this path for you; there were others far more likely.

  Would I wish it for you?

  No.

  I have planned for it, all the same.

  When the stom-ruith finally coaxes you away from the clock - its hands are gold and silver, and the pictorial phases of Galis and Phobis are inlays of shimmering pearl, and you cannot seem to stop looking at it - there is a long moment when you stare at one another and his eyes hood and your stomach stirs with something akin to fear. He does not touch you. He sits on the edge of his bed and waits as you shift your weight onto your toes and weigh up whether you wish to flee. Eventually, you decide that you will not run and you go to him; a low sound comes from his throat when you kiss him and I turn away.

  I need not have bothered. I feel a thrum through the white and when I turn back, you are both asleep, curled around each other like kittens, and all your clothes are in place. One of your hands rests cupped on his cheek.

  I smile at that.

  It was his dream that you were planning to join, to build a world of grain crops and cliffs and sea, but you do not make it there. Instead, the Belle rocks gently under your feet and you can smell the salty tang of the ocean. The metal rail is cool under your palms; you close your fingers tight around it.

  Someone touches your arm, and you jump. Eve is beside you, gesturing. She is trying to tell you something, something important, but a gust of wind fills the sails and the waves shout a sibilant response and you cannot hear her over the sudden sounds. This was not of my doing; you do not want to listen to what Eve has to say, at least not yet. The Belle sails relentlessly forward and you frown at the horizon, uneasy; the ship is cutting through the waves towards a bank of black storm clouds.

  I take advantage of your distraction.

  You turn back to Eve, but she is gone and I stand in her place. You stare at me. You do not move. I do not know that you can.

  I know th
at I cannot. I have not been so close to you in eighteen years.

  I take your hand and press it to my lips. My eyes sting with tears.

  Your eyes are brighter than usual and I realise that you, too, are starting to cry. ‘Mama?’ you whisper, and your eyes rake over my face, taking in every line, every angle. I do not blame you. My good-son was right: I can see my lips above Cathan’s chin, my jaw, my ears.

  I did not think you would look so much like me.

  ‘M’etoile,’ I say, and my voice is hoarse. I think it is with emotion, although I have not used it in so long that it is difficult to tell. I want to use it more, I want to tell you so many things, but I do not have the time. It is my fault. I should have spent less of it devouring the sight of you. ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Mama, what -’

  I shake my head, and kiss your hand once more, and then I press my gift into your palm.

  It is no gift at all, and I know this.

  It is a pair of silver scissors, very old and very elegant. You have seen them before - you have dreamed them before - in scapes of future echoes, in ripples of what might be, a whisper of my own power.

  You look down at the blades. They are familiar, and your fingers fit so neatly through the handles. You run a fingertip over one and watch dispassionately as your blood wells and a drop falls onto the deck of the Belle.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I whisper. My throat hurts. ‘But you promised. And Eianna does not forget.’

  ‘I already did as you said, Mama. I found Aaron. I can use my gift. I thought that was all I had to do.’

  My heart aches. ‘Oh, sweetling,’ I rasp. ‘You have only just begun.’

  I want to take you in my arms, touch your face, encase you. I want to warn you, protect you. I want to whisk you far away so that none may ever harm you.

  But I cannot, and I do not, so with a final press of your fingers I step back and out of your sight.

  You look around, and my arms wrap around my stomach as you call for me. You crack your knuckles and look back out to sea. In the distance, the black ship lurks, its eyes staring unwaveringly back at you; for a moment, you think you see something moving in the waves, a merrow, perhaps, golden-haired and gone when you blink. The scissors are heavy in your hands and the single drop of blood on the deck has grown and pooled and shifted to settle between the planks of wood in thin, red lines.

  As you watch, they begin to glow with gold.

  A Note on Languages

  The star people brought many things with them when they landed on Eilin soil. They left behind their lands, but not their histories or their languages, though the culture they wrapped around these changed significantly during their long flight across the skies.

  To Dream of White and Gold takes place in the year 2447 AL, and in the many years that have passed since the star people set foot in Eilan, the languages they brought with them have morphed with time and usage. While they may still bear some similarity to the original, the tongues spoken in modern Eilan, Brinnica, and Erbide should not be taken as faithful reproductions of the languages of the star people, in either their written or spoken forms.

  Glossary of Terms & Select Translations

  Brinnican

  Aine – wise ones. The elders of a tribe, usually related to the tribe leader. In the tribe of the Kali, the aine are the law makers and enforcers. (un-YAH)

  Beni chance – good luck.

  Bi-aime – beloved, ‘best-love’.

  Bienv maison – welcome home.

  Depech – hurry.

  Etoile – star. (Also illa – star, illae – star power, Illarus – star man, Illara – star woman.)

  Joli – pretty. Also belle – beautiful, and cheri – lovely/lovely one (masculine cher).

  l’Cour du Kali – The Kali’s Court (refers to both the amphitheatre used for public gatherings and the settlement itself).

  L’prochenne – literally ‘the farewell’; the taken meaning is ‘goodbye’ or ‘I will see you again’. La – 'the' – is often contracted to l’ but pronounced ‘lah’.

  M’bebe lapiun – my baby rabbit.

  Ma – my/mine. Often contracted to m’ but prounounced ‘mah’.

  Mather – mother. (Venere mather – revered mother.)

  Oisu - bird.

  Peti – little, small, young. Also cila – a child, ‘dear one’. (Cil, a form of ‘dear’ used for adult men.)

  Salu – a greeting.

  Soer/frere – sister/brother. Also used by the gifted to aknowledge their bond through illae.

  Vien - come/follow.

  Erbidan

  Ais-la - dreamer (feminine; there are no male dreamers). (AIH-lah)

  Priom-la – First Woman (literally ‘First’ with a feminine suffix); the matriarch of a First Family. While the husband of a Priom-la is called Priom-lun, this is a description of his status, and not a title.

  Priom-Oidre – First-Heir. A position generally held by the eldest daughter of a First Family. A Priom-Oidre would become Priom-la upon her mother’s death or abdication. (pri-OM-oh-EED)

  Dar-Oidre – Second-Heir. A position generally held by the second eldest daughter of a First Family. A Dar-Oidre would become Dar-la (Second-Woman) upon her sister’s ascent to Priom-la. Her husband would be called Dar-lun as a description of his status; like Priom-lun, this is not a title. (DAR-oh-EED)

  Stom-ruith – storm-chaser. A particularly powerful and volatile type of weatherworker most commonly born in Erbide.

  On Gifts

  In the past, there have been attempts made to pinpoint the physical source of gifts; none has been successful. Despite repeated studies of post-mortem brains and bodies, there is no quantifiable link between a person’s physicality and the existence of a gift.

  This is all the more mysterious given that gifts are overwhelmingly inherited, generally from the mother’s line. A woman with a healing gift is far more likely to bear healing children than any other gift type, and gifted children with non-gifted parents and grandparents are exceedingly rare. There are certain northern families that pride themselves on the prevalence of a certain gift through their bloodline, and some families pay close attention to the gifted nature of potential partners for their children. Gifted women were, in the past, furiously sought for sons of the First Families of Erbide; this often resulted in raids on Brinnican and Eilin coastlines, where gifted women would be kidnapped and married to their captor. What the women thought of this, history does not record.

  Some ungifted will inherit strong natural mindshields; this is generally thought to be a throwback to a gifted ancestor. Mindshields amongst the ungifted range from not present at all to impenetrable to all but the most gifted reader.

  Hedgewitches are individuals who have the ability to sense and – to some extent – draw the star power. They are distinguished from the gifted by the need to use spells or objects to focus and channel their gift. Their mindshields are often inconstantly held, and while some can channel strongly, the effects of their power are mostly short-lived.

  There are four main gift types currently in existence: healers, readers, shielders, and natureworkers. Though there is no link between a gifted person’s physical body and their abilities, gifts can be seen by the shape of the incorporeal mind. Healers have minds that are porous, with tentative shields, to allow them to reach out to their patients; they wield their power gently and precisely. Shielders, by contrast, typically have strong natural mindshields and employ their power in waves. Readers sit somewhere in between, able to both shield and merge, their power strong enough to break into the minds of others, and subtle enough to shape thoughts and feelings. Natureworkers are more apt to feel the power in living things, and their own power works as a suggestion and in tandem with something already existing, much as a sculptor shapes clay.

  On occasion, a gift may appear that does not neatly fit into one of the categories above. Two such known types are weatherworkers and star-skimmers. A weatherworker’s mind looks similar to tha
t of a natureworker, able to reach out and affect forces already in motion, though their reach is much further and they typically command rather than suggest. Star-skimmers, too, have minds that can reach up and out, and some say reaching so far that they see what is to come.

  Storm-chasers are exceedingly rare; in the past, known storm-chasers were executed on sight in Eilan. Their power is like that of a weatherworker, though weatherworkers cannot command storms. They tend not to be long-lived, often losing their minds to the sky they crave so much to touch.

  We know from history books that another subset of gifted were the dreamers; though we might guess at what such a one might do, or be able to do, there are no detailed (or credible) accounts of those individuals, and we do not know the shape of their minds. Today, there are none left, and so we cannot confirm or deny what the history books say.

  Dramatis Personae

  Kingstown

  Alida d’Cathan (Lida) – the last Eilin dreamer. Daughter of Cathan and Siva (deceased), sister of Maya.

  Cathan Valson – an animal healer. Husband of Siva and father of Maya and Alida.

  Maya d’Cathan – apprentice physician. Daughter of Cathan and Siva, sister of Alida.

  Marnie d’Silvus – a farmer. Daughter of Silvus (deceased) and wife of Julis Octusson (deceased). Mother to Antonius Julisson and Marius Julisson. Neighbour of Cathan.

  Jula Kerinsdotter – a physician and researcher. Overseer of the Kingstown hospice and Maya’s mentor.

  Delia d’Artur – a gifted Eilin healer of journeyman status, currently assisting at the Kingstown hospice.

  Other notable persons:

  Marius Julisson, son of Marnie and brother of Antonius, friend to Lida; Nala d’Ciro, daughter of Ciro and Attia, friend to Lida; Triste Jonasson, King of Eilan; Aurelia d’Triste, Princess and heir to the Eilin throne, daughter of Triste and Rosalind (deceased) and sister of Gaius; Gaius Tristeson, Prince and second in line to the Eilin throne, son of Triste and Rosalind; Rikard Llewson, Prince and third in line to the Eilin throne, cousin to Aurelia and Gaius, son of Llewellyn and Octa, brother to Cassia; Cassia d’Llewellyn, Princess and fourth in line to the Eilin throne, cousin to Aurelia and Gaius, daughter of Llewellyn and Octa, sister to Rikard, wife of Hugh Idrisson, warlord of Seti.