The Bone Season

22 The Triple Fool

Time became a series of moments, interspersed with blank spots. Sometimes there were lights. Sometimes there were voices. I had the sense that I was in a car for a while, a kind of swaying motion.

I became aware of someone cutting my shirt. I tried to push away the intrusive hands, but my body mutinied. I recognized the thick mist of drugs. Next thing I knew, I was tucked up in Warden’s bed, tilted on my left side. My hair was wet. Every single part of my body felt broken.

“Paige?”

The voice came as if from underwater. I made a weak sound: half-sob, half-rattle. My chest was on fire. So was my arm. Nick. I reached out blindly.

“Michael, quickly.” A hand grasped mine. “Hold on, Paige.”

I must have passed out again. When I woke up, I felt as heavy, woolly, and shapeless as a duvet. Most of my right arm was numb. It hurt to breathe, but I could open my mouth. My chest heaved.

I supported myself on my elbow, pulling my body to the left, and ran my tongue over my teeth. All present and correct.

Warden was in his armchair, looking at the gramophone. I wanted to smash the thing. Those voices had no right to be so high-spirited. When Warden saw me move, he stood.

“Paige.”

The sight of him set off a heavy pounding in my chest. I pushed myself against the headboard, remembering his terrible eyes in the dark. “Did you kill him?” I wiped the sweat from my upper lip. “Did you—did you kill the oracle?”

“No. He is still alive.”

Slowly, watching my face, he eased me into a sitting position. The movement pulled at an IV in my hand. “I can’t see properly.” My voice was hoarse, but at least I could speak.

“You have a periorbital hematoma.”

“What?”

“Black eye.”

I traced the soft skin at the top of my cheek. Jax really had done me down. The whole right side of my face was swollen.

“So,” I said, “we’re back.”

“You tried to escape.”

“Of course I tried to escape.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “You think I want to die here and haunt Nashira for the rest of eternity?” Warden just looked at me. A lump rose in my throat. “Why didn’t you let me go home?”

A faint green stain was fading from his eyes. He must have fed on Eliza. “There are reasons,” he said.

“Excuses.”

For a long time, he didn’t speak. When he did, it wasn’t to tell me why he’d dragged me back to this cesspit of a city. “You have an impressive collection of injuries.” He propped me up with pillows. “Jaxon Hall is far more ruthless than we had anticipated.”

“Give me the list.”

“Black eye, two cracked ribs, split lip, torn ear, bruising, laceration on the right arm, bullet wound to the torso. I find it incredible that you were able to run to the bridge after the first round of injuries.”

“Adrenaline.” I focused on his face. “Did you get hit?”

“A graze.”

“Just me that got used as a punchbag, then.”

“You encountered a group of extremely powerful clairvoyants and survived, Paige. There is no shame in being strong.”

But there was shame. I’d been overpowered by Eliza, shot by Nick, and beaten to a pulp by Jax. That wasn’t strong. Warden brought a glass of water to my lips. Reluctantly, I sipped. “Does Nashira know I tried to escape?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What will she do to me?”

“Your red tunic has been rescinded.” He placed the glass on the nightstand. “You are a yellow-jacket now.”

The coward’s color. I managed an acrid laugh, but it hurt my ribs. “I couldn’t care less what tunic she puts me in. She still wants to kill me, red-jacket or not.” My shoulders shook. “Just take me to her. Get it over with.”

“You are tired and wounded, Paige. Things may not look so bleak when you are well.”

“When will that be?”

“You will be able to get out of bed by tomorrow, if you wish.”

I frowned, but stopped when every muscle in my face protested. “Tomorrow?”

“I asked the driver to collect scimorphine and anti-inflammatory drugs from the SciSORS facility before we left London. You will be fully recovered within two days.”

Scimorphine. The stuff was exorbitant. “Did you see my father at SciSORS?”

“I did not enter the facility myself. Only a handful of Archon politicians know of our existence.”

He turned his attention to the IV in my hand. His fingers, always sheathed in leather, made sure the tape was still fastened.

“Why do you wear those gloves?” A spark of anger burned inside me. “Are humans too filthy to touch?”

“It is her ruling.”

My cheeks grew warm under the bruises. However much I disliked him, he must have spent hours patching me up. “What happened to the others?” I said.

“1 and 12 were unharmed. Situla was made latent, but she has recovered.” He paused. “30 is dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“Drowned. We found her in the fountain.”

The news sank in, chilling me. I hadn’t particularly liked Amelia, but she hadn’t deserved to die. I wondered which of the gang had done it. “What about Carter?”

“She escaped. A vehicle took her from the bridge before she could be apprehended.”

At least Carter had got away. Whatever power she had, I didn’t want Nashira getting it. “And the Seals?”

“They escaped. I have never seen Nashira so furious.”

The relief was overwhelming. They were all right. The gang knew I-4 very well, all its secret nooks and bolt-holes; it would have been easy for them all to disappear, even with Nadine and Zeke wounded. Every voyant in that section answered to Jax. They would both have been carried off by his couriers. I looked back at Warden.

“You saved me.”

His eyes flicked over my face. “Yes.”

“If you laid a finger on the oracle—”

“I did not hurt him. I let him go.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew he was your friend.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I know, Paige. I know you are the missing Seal. Only a fool could not have worked it out.”

I held his gaze. “Are you going to tell Nashira?”

He looked at me for a long, long time. Those were the longest seconds of my life.

“No,” he said, “but she is not a fool. She has long since suspected who you are. She will know.”

My stomach writhed with nerves. Warden stood and paced toward the fireplace.

“There has been a complication.” He gazed into the flames. “You and I have saved each other from the first death. We are beholden to one another, bound by a life debt. Such a debt carries consequences.”

“Life debt?” I thought back, working through the remnants of the morphine. “When did I save your life?”

“Three times. You cleaned my wounds, which bought me time to seek aid on the first night. You gave me your blood, preventing me from contracting the half-urge. And when Nashira summoned you to her table, you protected me. If you had told the truth, I would have been executed. I have committed many flesh-crimes, the penalty for which is death.”

I didn’t know what flesh-crime meant, and I didn’t ask. “And you saved mine just now.”

“I have saved your life on several occasions.”

“When?”

“I would prefer not to divulge that information. But trust me: you owe me your life more than three times over. It means that you and I are no longer merely keeper and student, or master and slave.”

I found myself shaking my head. “What?”

He rested an arm on the mantelpiece, staring into the flames. “The æther has made its mark on both of us. It has recognized our tendency to protect one another, and now we are sworn to protect each other always. We are bound together by a golden cord.”

I wanted to laugh at his grave tone, but I got the feeling he wasn’t joking. Rephs didn’t make jokes. “Golden cord.”

“Yes.”

“Has it got anything to do with the silver cord?”

“Of course. It slipped my mind. I suppose it has some link, yes—but a silver cord is personal, unique to the individual. A golden cord is formed between two spirits.”

“What the hell is it?”

“I hardly know myself.” He poured the dark contents of a vial into his glass. “From what I understand, the golden cord is a kind of seventh sense, formed when two spirits save each other at least three times from the first death.” He raised the glass and sipped. “You and I will always have knowledge of each other now. Wherever you are in the world, I will be able to find you. Through the æther.” He paused. “Always.”

It took only a few seconds for his words to sink in. “No,” I said. “No, that’s—that’s not possible.” When he sipped his amaranth, I raised my voice. “Prove it. Prove this ‘golden cord’ is there.”

“If you insist.” Warden set his glass on the mantelpiece. “Let us imagine, for a moment, that we are back in London. It is night, and we are on the bridge. But this time, I am the one that has been shot. I will call you for help.”

I waited. “This is just—” I started, only to stop when I felt something. A soft hum through my bones, just the tiniest of vibrations. It sent goose bumps rolling all over my skin. Two words materialized in my mind: bridge, help.

“Bridge, help,” I repeated, faintly. “No.”

This was too much. I turned to look at the fire. Now he had his own spiritual bellpull to summon me. After a minute, the shock turned to anger. I wanted to smash all his vials, punch him in the face—anything but share a link with him. If he could track me in the æther, I’d never get rid of him.

And it was my fault. My fault for saving him.

“I do not know what other effects it may have on us both,” Warden said. “You might be able to draw power from me.”

“I don’t want your power. Just get rid of it. Break it.”

“It takes more than a word to break the æther’s ties.”

“You knew how to call me with it.” My voice held a tremor. “You must know how to break it.”

“The cord is an enigma, Paige. I have no idea.”

“You did this on purpose.” I pushed myself away from him, sickened. “You saved my life to form this cord. Didn’t you?”

“How could I possibly have engineered such a thing, when I had no idea whether or not you would ever dream of saving my life in return? You despise the Rephaim. Why would you try to save one?”

It was a good question. “You can’t exactly blame me for being paranoid,” I said.

I sank back, my head in my hands. He came to sit beside me again. He had the good sense not to touch me. “Paige,” he said, “you do not fear me. I believe you hate me, but you are not afraid of me. Yet you fear the cord.”

“You’re a Rephaite.”

“And you judge me for that. For being Nashira’s betrothed.”

“She’s bloodthirsty and evil. You still chose her.”

“Did I?”

“You consented, then.”

“The Sargas choose their own mates. The rest of us do not have that privilege.” His voice fell into a soft growl. “If you must know, I despise her. Every breath she takes is repulsive to me.”

I looked at him, assessing his face. His brow was dark, as if with regret. He caught my gaze and dropped it.

“I see,” I said.

“You do not see. You have never seen.”

He turned his face away. I waited. When he didn’t move, I broke the silence.

“I’d like to.”

“I do not know if I can trust you.” The light receded from his eyes. “I believe you are trustworthy. You are clearly loyal to the people you care most deeply about. It would be regrettable to share a golden cord with someone whom I cannot trust, and who does not trust me.”

So he wanted to trust me. And he was asking me to trust him. An exchange. A truce. I could ask him anything now, anything at all, and he would do it.

“Let me into your dreamscape,” I said.

To his credit, he didn’t look surprised. “You wish to see my dreamscape.”

“Not just see it. Walk in it. If I know what’s in your mind, I might be able to trust you. I can see you.” And I wanted to see inside a Rephaite dreamscape. There must be something worth seeing behind all that armor.

“That would require equal trust on my part. I would have to trust you not to damage my sanity.”

“Exactly.”

He seemed to mull it over. “Very well,” he concluded.

“Really?”

“If you feel strong enough, yes.” He turned to face me. “Will the morphine affect your gift?”

“No.” I shifted into a sitting position. “I might hurt you.”

“I will cope.”

“I’ve killed people by dreamwalking.”

“I know.”

“So how do you know I won’t kill you?”

“I do not know. I must take a chance.”

I kept my features carefully blank. This was my chance to break him, to smash his dreamscape like a fly against a wall.

And yet I was curious, more than curious. I’d never really seen another dreamscape—only in flashes, glimpses through the æther. But the iridescent garden in the butterfly—I wanted that again. I wanted to be immersed. And here was Warden, offering his mind.

It would be fascinating to see a dreamscape that had been given thousands of years to develop. And after his sudden confession about Nashira, I wanted to know more about his past. I wanted to know what Arcturus Mesarthim looked like on the inside.

“Okay,” I said.

He sat down beside me. His aura touched mine, jarring my sixth sense.

I looked at his eyes. Yellow. This close, I could see that he had no colobomata. He couldn’t be unsighted, surely. “How long can you stay?” he asked.

The question caught me off guard. “Not long,” I said. “Not unless you’ve got a self-automated BVM handy.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s like an oxygen mask. It provides artificial respiration when my body stops.”

“I see. And if you have this device, you can remain ‘adrift’ for an extended period?”

“In theory. I’ve never tried it in a dreamscape. Just the æther.”

“Why do they make you do it?”

It was clear to both of us who they were. My instinct was to say nothing, but he knew I worked for Jaxon Hall. “Because that’s the way of the syndicate,” I said. “Mime-lords expect payment for protection.”

His aura was changing. “I see.” He was dropping his defenses for me, opening his gates. “I am ready.”

I used the pillows to prop myself up. Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and went into my dreamscape.

The poppy field was a blurred painting. Everything was melting, softened by the morphine in my blood. I cut through the flowers, heading for the æther. When I reached the final boundary I pushed my hands through it, watching the illusion of my body fade away before my eyes. You only resemble yourself in your dreamscape if your mind perceives you that way. The instant I left, I took on my spirit form. Fluid, amorphous. A faceless glimmer.

I had seen Warden’s dreamscape from the outside before, and it still chilled me. It looked like a black marble, barely perceptible in the silent darkness of the æther. As I approached it, a ripple crossed its surface. He was lowering all those layers of armor he’d accumulated over the centuries. I slid past the walls, into his hadal zone. I’d reached this point during our training sessions, but only in sharp bursts. Now I could go beyond it. I moved through the dwindling darkness, heading for the center of his mind.

Ash drifted past my face. As I ventured into unfamiliar territory, my make-believe skin crawled. There was absolute silence in Warden’s mind. Usually the outer rings would be full of mirages, hallucinations of a person’s fears or regrets, but there was nothing. Just a hush.

Warden was waiting for me in his sunlit zone, if you could call it sunlit—more like moonlit. He was covered in scars, and his skin was sapped of color. This was how he saw himself. I wondered what I looked like. I was in his dreamscape now, playing by his rules. I could see that my hands were the same, albeit with a soft glow. My new dream-form. But was he seeing my true face? I could look like anything: submissive, insane, naive, cruel . . . I had no idea what he thought of me, and I would never find out. There were no mirrors in a dreamscape. I would never see the Paige he had created.

I stepped onto the barren patch of sand. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. Warden inclined his head. “Welcome to my dreamscape. Excuse the lack of decor,” he said, pacing without direction. “I don’t often have guests.”

“There’s nothing.” My breath steamed in the cold. “Nothing at all.”

It was no exaggeration.

“Our dreamscapes are where we feel safest,” Warden said. “Perhaps I feel safest when I think of nothing.”

“But there’s nothing in the dark parts, either.”

He didn’t reply. I walked a little further into the fog.

“There’s nothing for me to see. That suggests to me that there’s nothing inside you. No thoughts, no conscience. No fear.” I turned to face him. “Do all Rephaim have empty dreamscapes?”

“I am not a dreamwalker, Paige. I can only guess at what other dreamscapes look like.”

“What are you?”

“I can make people dream their memories. I can weave them together, create a delusion. I see the æther through the lens of the dreamscape, and through the dreaming herb.”

“Oneiromancer.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “You’re a sleep-dealer.”

Jax had always said they must exist. Oneiromancers. He’d categorized them several years ago, long after On the Merits, but never found one to prove his theory: a type of voyant that could traverse the dreamscape, pick out memories, and lace them into what amaurotics called dreams. “You’ve been making me dream.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve been going through memories since I’ve come here. How I became a dreamwalker, how Jaxon found me. It was you. You made me dream them. That’s how you knew, isn’t it?”

He met my gaze.

“That was the third pill,” he said. “It contained an herb called salvia, which made you dream your memories. The herb that helps me touch the æther. My numen, flowing in your blood. After several pills, I was able to access your memories at will.”

“You kept me drugged”—I could hardly get the words out—“to get into my mind.”

“Yes. Just as you watched dreamscapes for Jaxon Hall.”

“That’s different. I didn’t sit there by my fireplace and watch memories like—like some kind of film.” I stepped slowly away from him. “Those memories are mine. They’re private. You even looked at—you must have seen everything! Even the way I felt about—about—”

“Nick. You loved him.”

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

He did.

My dream-form was falling apart. Before I could get out of there myself, I was tossed from his dreamscape like a leaf in a high wind. When I woke in my own body, I put my palms against his chest and shoved him.

“Get away from me.”

My head pounded. I couldn’t look at him, let alone be near him. When I tried to get up, the drip pulled at my hand.

“I am sorry,” he said.

An angry blaze flayed at my cheeks. I’d given him an inch of trust, less than an inch, and he’d taken me for all I had. He’d taken seven years of memory. He’d taken Finn. He’d taken Nick.

He stayed there for a minute. Perhaps he expected me to say more. I wanted to shout myself hoarse at him, but I couldn’t do it. I just wanted him gone. When I didn’t move, he closed the heavy drapes around the bed, sealing me off in a dark little cage.