9
Xander cleared his throat.
“Ninety-five percent of your dreamers survived the first trial,” he said, his tone very much like that of a teacher accusing lackluster pupils of lying on an examination.
If Xander wore glasses, he’d surely have been peering over them to give us a withering stare.
He tipped his regal head at Erebus and me, some of his chestnut hair flopping across his brow.
“While the other five percent failed to rise, succumbing to the elements of earth and air.”
The Weavers all turned to look at us, as though that number meant something important.
I forced my back straight, trying not to fidget.
They all sat at our table in various states of intensity, ignoring the starlit drinks Sorren had quickly prepared before returning to help Ceveon settle the dreamers.
Erebus, unaffected by their stares, brazenly traced his hand along my spine as he drank from his goblet.
Even the shadows around us shimmered in what I would almost describe as pride. Our shadows were sated. Content.
Triumphant.
His energy was at odds with what I felt: that I had failed, somehow. As though there were a thorn wedged in my teeth, and if I opened my mouth, the Weavers would see it.
“We’ve done our best given the circumstances,” I said, feeling defensive. Five percent failed, but ninety-five didn’t. That wasn’t so pitiful, was it? “I know we’re in a rush to reclaim Evernight, but these dreamers aren’t formally trained scholars like you’re used to seeing.”
Never mind the fact that I myself was barely trained.
“We are aware,” Xander said primly. “That is what makes this situation so peculiar.”
“Forgive me, but didn’t scholars train for years at Citadel Evernight before becoming acolytes in your domains?” I asked. “And even then, only the best ever rose to the ranks of your legions.”
“Of course they trained for years,” Fenrir snapped. “It is what made our legions so strong. It took time for power to emerge.”
“If you are not satisfied with our progress,” Erebus began, commanding the shadows to wrap around his silver goblet and fill it to the brim, “then leave us to handle the demons by ourselves. We know our target.”
“It is not that we aren’t satisfied,” Ceres admonished, shaking her head.
The jeweled beetles on her headpiece clattered together, and for a moment I thought a few moved on their own.
“It is merely that what you accomplished has never happened before. Ripping apart our magic by using shadows like blades is—”
“Most unusual,” Nephthys finished, amethyst eyes glittering under a fan of perfectly curled lashes. “But perhaps not surprising at all; you are new. You do not yet know our ways.”
In other words, we were not like them. We were inadequate. A weak excuse for beings meant to rule our section of the Dream Realm.
“Ninety-five percent of your dreamers survived the first trial,” Xander repeated, peering at Erebus and me more intently.
Erebus’s lip curled. “Point taken, Xander.”
“The resounding average across the Seven is a twenty-five percent survival rate for preliminary trainings such as these,” Xander illuminated, letting the words hang.
Erebus’s mouth snapped shut; mine dropped open.
“And that came from, as Fenrir so eloquently put it, our seasoned dreamers. Acolytes who were carefully selected after years of training at Evernight.”
“You commanded them,” Lelantos noted, thumbing the faint stubble on his jaw. “You told them how to succeed.”
“We told them to imagine the threats they faced as soft and movable. That they could simply pretend the danger wasn’t danger at all,” I described.
What I was explaining felt so painfully obvious.
It was a lesson they’d surely taught their own dreamers thousands of times.
“Once the dreamers defeated their mental blocks, they were able to rise.”
Ceres’s brow furrowed. “But I did not hear you speak, Shadow Weaver. Only to Erebus did you converse.”
The shadows stilled, listening.
“Well, they surely used their minds, then,” Somnus sighed. His skeletal fingers slipped around his goblet, giving it a good swirl. “How peculiar our new Weavers are.”
“Peculiar?” Xander queried. “Weavers should be leaders and guides, not puppeteers. If a dreamer cannot succeed during training, they simply do not triumph. We do not command them using their minds.”
“We didn’t command them like some cruel puppeteer,” Erebus spat.
“We just did what we could to help them survive,” I supplied.
Somnus flipped some of his inky hair over his shoulder. “Personally, I believe it to be a particularly useful skill. Especially since we are dealing with so many unrefined dreamers.”
“You did what was right,” the voice in my head purred, tickling the inside of my skull.
Are you the Maker? I asked.
But the voice was silent, unfurling itself from my mind like smoke chasing the wind. I quickly raised my goblet to my lips, hoping to shake myself back into reality.
If you’re not the Maker, then who are you? I tried again.
Silence.
You are imagining things, Esmer. Stay focused.
The starlit drink tasted like a fantasy given life.
Dark purple liquid, infused with roses and elderberry, caressed my tongue, each star dissolving into a small shadow; it was like sipping on the essence of night itself.
Its subtle sweetness lingered, the aftertaste of dusk.
Crisp evening air before a midnight storm.
It almost drowned out the visibly disturbed expressions of the Weavers around us.
All disturbed, except Somnus.
Somnus waved his fingers as though the Weavers’ concern were a foul odor that could be fanned away.
“We are running out of time, Weavers. And options. If the Shadow Weavers can freely speak to their acolytes and use that connection to their advantage, why shouldn’t they?
It’s not so different from the dreams we once gave humanity.
In dreams of our own creation, such communication wasn’t impossible.
Merely rare.” His thin lips broke into a smile.
“We just need to make the next trial more difficult.”
Theia slowly nodded. “You have a point, Somnus. And the situation at Citadel Evernight is growing dire.”
“Precisely,” Somnus agreed. “We don’t have the luxury of time to argue over proper training protocol. Nothing about this crisis is proper. It is fitting that their methods are unusual.”
Xander steepled his fingers in front of his nose, glaring at the obsidian table as though it were telling him some dreadful secret.
And then, with a surprisingly dramatic sigh, he took several long drinks from his goblet.
“Fine. We make the next two trials more challenging. And make haste to secure Evernight.”
“How much time do we have?” Lelantos queried, glancing at the Weavers who oversaw the past, present, and future.
“Until?” Erebus pressed.
“Until Citadel Evernight perishes beneath the Nocturne’s poisoned waves,” Theia said grimly. “Evernight anchors our domains. Without it, the Dream Realm will become unstable.” She added softly, pale eyes darkening, “It would make Corruption inevitable.”
Fenrir crossed his arms. “No amount of elixir could stop the demons then,” he said, scoffing. But despite his arrogance, part of him seemed a bit shaken. Sad, even. “If Evernight is lost, we’re damned.”
“It isn’t like you to be so pessimistic,” Nephthys noted, walking her nails down one of his exposed biceps. When she reached the crook of his elbow, where one of his powerful hands rested, he locked their fingers together.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Fenrir snapped, but his anger wasn’t directed at Nephthys.
“For centuries we’ve slowly lost entire legions of dreamers to the demon rot.
And the villain supposedly behind it all was a Weaver in disguise, hidden from us in his crumbling castle.
We were wrong. All of us were wrong.” Fire burned in his reddish-brown eyes, mirroring the rubies that dripped from his crown, ears, and fingers.
“Maker save us,” he grumbled, pressing a lightning-fast kiss to Nephthys’s hand before downing his drink in one impressive pull.
Ceveon and Sorren briskly joined us, conjuring seats to my left.
Sorren immediately made some adjustments to the table fare—more variations of the starlight drinks, puffs of shadow that tasted like chocolate, and a spread of various meats and cheeses that were eagerly tasted despite the Weavers’ initial hesitation.
“What is the full situation at Evernight, then?” I asked carefully, aware of the sudden shift the room had taken. The Weavers’ gazes had turned haunted. Pained. “You know something we don’t. What is it that we’re preparing our dreamers for?”
The Weavers directed a pointed glance at Ceveon and Sorren.
“They can hear whatever it is we can hear,” Erebus said, irritated. “Ceveon and Sorren are worthier allies than many of you.” Ceveon snorted mid-drink; Sorren’s calculating eyes simply lit up with amusement. Fenrir, on the other hand, cursed. “I take that back. They are worthier than all of you.”
This ruffled a few feathers.
Some rose to stand, but Xander impatiently waved them to sit back down.
“If you so believe,” Xander said. “We are in your domain, after all.”
“That you are,” Erebus said icily. “Let it not be forgotten.”
The invisible threads that connected us to the other Weavers, as they did to our dreamers, quivered. One snap and the Weavers would be sent flying, much as we had done to Somnus all those weeks ago. The ghost of a smile tugged at Erebus’s lips, as if he could tell I was considering their dismissal.
But we couldn’t let them go. Not yet.
“We need to show you the current situation at Evernight—a vision that must first be marked by a glimpse of the past.” Xander pursed his lips, resentful of having to state his next inquiry. “Permission to weave these visions?”
“Permission granted,” I said smoothly.