Chapter 17
Dreamer, dreamer—wake up.”
I sighed, burrowing into the silky depths of my bed. “Go away.”
“How long do you intend to keep us waiting?”
“Us? Is Mother there, too?” I nestled deeper into the bedding, tugging a particularly fine blanket up to my nose. It smelled of juniper, night, and the brush of rain on fallen leaves. “I’m not ready yet.”
“We have not the time as you do,” the voice said irritably, as if I were a petulant child.
“We wait. He waits,” said a second voice, its tone more gravelly than the first.
“But I’ve waited longer,” the first voice snapped.
A groan crept out before I could stop it. Why were Elliot and Mother so insistent? Didn’t they know how exhausted I was? My bones were stone, my skin a sheath of molasses. I couldn’t possibly do what they asked.
“Wake up,” the first voice urged.
“Wake up,” the second echoed.
“Wake up,” they commanded together.
“Fine—I will,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and giving the room a bleary once-over. Everything was so dark, so formless; had they not thought to light a lamp? “Where are you?”
“We’re here,” the voices said as one.
Ice gripped my spine, spiraling up toward my neck.
The Shadow Bringer’s room hit me with all its force—its every shadow, its colors and smell.
I threw back the covers, mortified that part of me still yearned to curl up in his blankets, to breathe deep the scent of night and rain on his pillows, and sleep.
Where did those voices come from?
A quick scan of the Shadow Bringer’s chamber told me I was alone, but there were too many places to hide, too many corners that could cloak or conceal.
And what was that dragging noise coming from the hall?
I squeezed my elbows, wishing that I were wearing the Shadow Bringer’s menacing armor instead of the full-length dress that manifested on my body whenever I dreamed.
I’d have felt much safer under a sheath of metal.
Maybe that was why he wore all those layers.
“Come to me, shadows,” I said, attempting to sound strong and confident.
I waited, expectant, trying to quiet my breathing.
My heart was panicking, clawing at my throat, which made it difficult to hear the demons in the hall.
Were they watching, waiting? Did they know I was here, alone?
“Shadows, come forward,” I hissed again, feeling ridiculous. Why aren’t they listening?
“Let us out!” a demon suddenly shrieked, slamming its weight into the door. The walls trembled at the force of it, letting loose a few books and a lot of dust.
Strength and confidence be damned.
“Please,” I begged, glancing around wildly.
Where were the shadows? It had felt easier to summon them before; what was I doing wrong?
I focused on my hands, acutely aware of the emptiness there.
Nothing prickled at my palms or flooded my chest. There was no rush of energy, no thrum of the Shadow Bringer’s lingering power.
I was truly alone, without anything or anyone protecting me from the demons.
“I’ll mount my defense the old-fashioned way, then,” I said through gritted teeth. And I went to work.
By the time I was finished, the back of my dress was damp with sweat, clinging to my skin as I knelt to inspect my work.
A tower of interlocked furniture—the Bringer’s sumptuous chairs, bookshelves, and bed—was now shoved haphazardly against the door.
It was fine enough, I supposed. At least a demon would be met with some resistance before getting the chance to eat me.
For good measure, I climbed through the maze of furniture and shoved a piece of iron—the scepter of some sculpture—through the door handle.
Better.
I sank into an armchair I had left behind. As with my other Realm adventures, I felt no hunger, no thirst, no urge for bodily functions; but cold, warmth, and the dusting of pain could easily seep in. And seep they did.
Night air swept in from the balcony, chilling my sweat-slicked skin and rustling the curtain it passed through.
It mingled with the many candelabras, tossing their flames close to death, and roved back to me, forcing shivers down my arms. It nearly made me forget why I was there in the first place.
The Shadow Bringer had locked me here somehow, trading places so that he could be free from this cage of demons and darkness.
I muffled a scream into my hands.
The Shadow Bringer must have known he could bind me.
That was why he had led me to his tomb. He’d intended to lead me there, bind me, and then what?
I considered the possibilities. Would he seize Istralla and unleash his demons on all of humankind?
Spread Corruption further and more pervasively? Destroy all the elixir stores?
Why did I get so close to him? And why didn’t I stop him when I had the chance?
I walked to the curtain of billowing fabric, determined to somehow stop the wind, when a strange noise whistled in the distance.
“Dreamer,” it keened, and I recognized it as the voice from earlier. The voice I had thought to be Elliot’s.
Under the unusually bright and silver-tinged stars, the Bringer’s balcony was a sight to behold. Dark roots entwined with ironwork, forming sculptural motifs across the castle walls, and the floor was a glistening, star-flecked obsidian that felt like silk underfoot.
“Have you finally the wits to see us? Here, here,” the voice whistled again, echoing out from somewhere below the balustrade.
I peered down at the forest, uncertain as to what I’d find.
“Ah, dreamer,” the familiar gray-haired demon called. “Quite some time it has been.”
The demon seemed more human than before, its eyes no longer seeping and its cheeks less like the curves of a skull.
Even its posture seemed more composed—tall and graceful, not hunched and dragging as though the weight of hell rested upon its shoulders.
Or maybe it was just the starlight playing tricks on me.
Stars and the shimmering blue orbs that floated through the forest’s many trees.
“Where is he, dreamer?” a second demon asked, slinking from the forest. This one wore a short cape, unlike the long, meandering cloth of the first, and glared up at me with eyes of coal. “What have you done? Where is he?”
Surely they meant the Shadow Bringer. If they knew he was gone, what would they do? Would they try to take advantage of his absence and overrun me?
“He’s inside,” I answered, turning my shoulders as if to leave. “In fact, he’s calling for me. I had better return before he notices I’m speaking to monsters in the woods.”
The first demon grinned and tilted its head. “You’re cold. Has he not attired you with one of his cloaks? They are rather extravagant, but practical enough. Quite suitable for times such as these.”
“He already offered,” I bluffed, hoping they weren’t catching on. “I declined.”
The second demon scoffed. “You would spite him in such a manner? How loathsome.”
The grin of the first demon widened. “Quite loathsome, indeed. But I do forget—our poor demon-riddled minds are so fragile, you know—our lord has only a single cloak, typically affixed to his shoulders. He does not lend it willingly.”
“I spoke too quickly. I only meant that he offered me a blanket.”
“Hmm. A blanket, you say? Strange—my memory has returned. Our lord always adorns his personal guests in cloaks. Yes, most definitely cloaks. A welcome gift, if you will.”
Color rose to my cheeks, clearly revealing my frustration, so I stepped back into the shadows. I wasn’t sure how well the demons could see, or how powerful they were, but I didn’t feel like finding out.
“Retreating so soon?” the first demon questioned. “Are you certain you wish to do that?”
“I won’t tolerate your tricks, demon. Leave me be and go back to where you belong.”
“And where is that, dear mortal? Where is it that we should go?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned on my heel and marched back inside, clenching my jaw against their varied and clever taunts. The conversation had felt almost preferable to the uncertainty and loneliness that dwelled within the Bringer’s chamber. Almost.
I spent the next few hours searching through the Bringer’s things, hoping that his real or imagined cloaks would emerge.
His room was cavernous, stretched tall by ribs of obsidian and adorned with inconceivable opulence, so it took some time to look through it all—even with half its furniture piled against the door.
I found books both strange and familiar; some pages were empty, some burst with poetry, art, and music.
Then there were some Weaver tales, though they no longer felt like tales at all.
They seemed living and true, depicting both Mithras and the seven Weavers in ordinary settings and conversations.
And then there were the citadels Firstlight and Evernight.
In these books, Citadel Firstlight was a haven in Istralla for the Weavers and their acolytes; it provided resources, training grounds, and a means for the Weavers to delegate among earthly rulers.
On the other hand, Citadel Evernight was a place where nobles and their families could dream in profound ways; it was there that collective Dream Realm feasts and balls, lavish affairs beyond the imagination, could occur without restriction.
There were also two unnamed dreamers of great talent.
The young men were anomalies, failing to possess a specific affinity to any Weaver, but their acclimation to the Realm allowed them to join the Weavers’ ranks regardless.
Pages spoke of their raw, unprecedented ability, describing the ferocious battles they led with the Weavers against demons and their false gods.
I read until my eyes hurt—until the pages blurred and the words swam.
Moving to the floor, I cradled my head in the crooks of my arms. Above me, dramatic seascape and mountain paintings, easily the height of three or four men, crawled up the walls to coil around a great chandelier.
The paint broke apart in some places, slipping out of the canvas to float alongside the shadows.
It was a beauty both strange and breathtaking.
The floor held me for some time, ghosting its phantom shadows over my skin and toward the balcony, where they disappeared. Despite its opulence, the Shadow Bringer’s room felt empty. Void of warmth, hope, and joy.
It ached for something, but I wasn’t sure what.