Chapter 55
Chiyo sits on her bed across from me, staring at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “What do you mean you’re going to hold her hostage?”
Having the words said back to me chisels away my courage.
“Last time, she threatened to destroy the dreamscape. I’ve relived that moment again and again and I realize, while the dreamers do have a say in what happens, I rule that realm.
I weave the dreams, I control the imagery … I can hold Winnie until she gives in.”
Chiyo’s face grows increasingly whiter the more I speak. The words sound awful even to me.
“I’m aware how that sounds.”
“Lugda’s scalding balls, Durvla,” she says. She doesn’t speak for a while, but then she asks, “Can’t you dreamwalk to Tiernan?”
“I’ve tried, but I suppose the distance does play a part.
With Carys, we’re connected by our bloodlines.
With Winnie, we have the stones. With Tiernan …
” My throat closes as I speak his name. He’s Chiyo’s brother; I cannot fall apart over him when she’s probably hurting even more than I am.
“It’s odd,” I say, pausing again to clear my throat.
“When we’re together, when I practiced my dreamwalking with him …
something different happened. I felt his emotions, heard his thoughts. It’s like—”
“Your powers merged.”
I nod. “Yet, when we’re apart … I hardly feel anything.”
She frowns, reaching out to place her hand on my knee. “You two are disgustingly adorable together. Have I mentioned?” she says with a tearful smile.
I sniffle, even as I smile. “Once or twice.”
The brief moment of lightheartedness fades as reality sets in again. “Now,” Chiyo says. “We need that information from Winnie.”
I nod and take the opalescent stone into my hands.
It warms against my skin as I close my eyes and slow my breathing.
I recall the royal library, building the shelves in my mind, layering in books, the floor, the velvet couches, the table, and the candlelight fixtures.
Once I’m happy with the dreamscape I’ve created, I ensure the doors are locked, and I call out to Winnie with my mind, my powers reaching out to latch on to her subconscious.
She doesn’t come willingly—not even close. If they’ve been training her to shield her mind, they’ve been doing a great job. She fights, her consciousness slipping from me several times. Nonetheless, she finds herself within my dreamscape.
Her hair is pulled back into a bun, and she’s in her Zenith uniform, a deep frown on her face. She looks bewildered for a moment before fear takes over her features.
“I just want to talk,” I say quickly. As I’ve done many times before in dreams, I step through my own shadows and land in front of her, scaring her witless. “I’m sorry; I don’t want to scare you.”
“Then stop entering my dreams!”
“I will leave you alone if you help me with one last task.”
She only lifts her chin with defiance, her lips sealed.
“Can you tell me with a clear conscience that you truly believe in the Zenith?”
She marches toward the door and begins tugging on it, to no avail. “Let me out.”
“Just talk to me. Please.”
The door rattles as she yanks on it repeatedly. My instinct has me sending shadows skittering across the floor toward her. They turn to mist, surrounding her, and she steps back, frightened. I close my eyes and exhale slowly, trying to find a memory.
One of her memories.
In rapid flashes, I see a curly-haired blond—they’re laughing together, crying together—I see a woman hand her a vial of a strange purple liquid—a man pressing his forearm against her throat—the commander asking her to find the Shadow Wielder—two cloaked figures: one with blazing red eyes and the other with blue.
At last, there’s an image of people clad in white, chanting, offering her a drink in some sort of cavern, and overwhelming pain shatters my connection.
I release my hold on her memories, feeling as though I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. “Forgive me …” I recall the last image and realize that she’d also been in white. “You were a Purist?”
Her deep brown skin blanches and she steps back, leaning heavily against the door.
“I’m not putting any blame on you. I’m just trying to figure out your motivations.”
“You are prying into my innermost thoughts.”
Her words cut through me worse than any knife could. “And you were part of a group known for slaughtering anyone with magic.”
“I was desperate!” she shouts, a hiccuping sob tearing through her.
“I wanted to believe that something could change my life for the better. That I could cure myself of this horrible thing that made my mother loathe me and made my life a living hell. I gave in to their ideals because I wanted to believe it. I wanted to have hope instead of only desperation.”
With all my heart, I want to release her, to hug her, to apologize.
“I understand desperation,” I say. “Desperation is why I am holding you here. I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to hurt you. But we need your help.
Do this one thing and I will leave you alone for good.
If that is what you want, I will respect your wishes. ”
She hiccups again, letting the tears fall. For a while, only her sobs fill the dreamscape.
I sigh and unlock the library doors with an audible click.
“You can walk out right now and never look back. Block me out of your mind. Destroy the stone.” I release the hold of my shadows and her back straightens slightly.
“Or … you can keep in mind everything I’ve shown you, and all the times I’ve pleaded with you.
I can’t force you to believe me or to be a hero, as you put it.
Trust me, all I ever wanted to do was to be safe and sound at home.
But personally, I can’t continue to sit back and allow bad things to happen when there’s something I can do about it. Can you?”
Her hand moves to her pocket, and she stands unmoving for a while. She turns, and for a moment, I think she’s going to walk away. To take the only hope we have left. To sever the connection.
But she pauses, her hand on the door as she glances over her shoulder at me.
“You’re right; I don’t believe in the Zenith.
I want more than anything to get out of here, but I’m afraid.
I may be the one with magic, but my best friend is braver than I have ever been.
I’ve lied to myself for so long. And I hate who I’ve become.
I hate that I’ve allowed people to make me complacent.
But it’s so hard to stop running away, to stop pretending …
when I’m terrified all the time.” She closes her eyes, more tears rolling down her cheeks.
My heart aches for her. I wait patiently for her to find her words again. It feels as though a long time passes before she releases the handle of the door and turns to face me. “Alright,” she says. “What do you need me to do?”