Of Mortal Dreams: Chapter VIII

Revon

Nightwing screeched miserably as she crested the western mountains, flying into the dawn, towards the mainland of Arras. Her made-heart thundered against her ribs and her carefully woven sinews very nearly creaked under the burden of the entrenched blindsight that hid the valley below. Through Nightwing’s simple mind, Revon knew it felt like flying through honey. But he didn’t stop her. He merely yielded her more power and urged her onwards. She might kill herself.

So be it. Just as long as she got them over the mountains.

Nightwing was replaceable. The mage he had found most certainly was not.

Draped across and lashed to the graven’s rippling back, the black-haired young woman looked as good as dead. Only her shallow breathing suggested that she was, in fact, still alive. To simplify her capture, he had untethered her mind from the other six facets of her being—flesh, bone, blood, heart, soul and breath—and siphoned it into the milky hexstone on his breastplate. Just hours before, that same stone had been weighed down to the limit, each of its nearly four thousand facets occupied by one mortal will. The people of the hidden valley had been as easy to manage as any other group of mortals, but had proven themselves to be far more valuable in the end.

If he could thank them, he might.

It had been well over a hundred years since the last whisper of another Evershade, long quieting any sincere ambition to reclaim the bloodline’s inherited memories. That an entire branch of his house had been propagating, undetected, on the other side of the western mountains bordered on comedy. It had been right under his nose for centuries.

He had had his chances, of course, but he had squandered them. 

Uncharacteristically.

Not this time. Since his last failed attempt, Revon had meticulously studied the last living allwood—it remained standing for this purpose alone—and spent decades among the siphons. Every shred of knowledge pertaining to the allwoods and their function, every word on inherited memories and the art of siphoning, had passed through his hands. He would still need to plan and rehearse every move, yes, but he was more ready than he had ever been to do what no one had ever done.

And yet it must be done.

A powerful shudder went through Nightwing and she released another agonized wail. He felt her beginning to tear asunder, to fray at her weakest points, where her different creature-types were bound together—particularly where her feathered neck met her chest and where her raven wings met her feline shoulders. Revon released more power from his meldstone into its other half, which had been sewn deep into Nightwing’s chest, and felt her bear up once again. She only needed to last a little longer.

Revon felt the resistance, too. At first, it had been a kind of weight on his head and shoulders, drawing them towards the ground. But, as Nightwing had flown east, the direction of the drag had shifted and begun to pull them backwards—no doubt, towards Tareth himself. Beyond the obvious inconvenience, there was something extremely irritating about their situation. It almost looked as if Revon was afraid to face an elder blood mage, which was absurd. He would not have fled under any other circumstances.

At his front, the mage’s breathing hitched. Her mind had been siphoned for only a short while, but he needed to keep a close watch if he wanted her to come out of the ordeal useful. In an abundance of caution, he would need to retether her mind soon.

Abruptly, and with perfect timing, Nightwing shook out her feathery crown. The strain of the blindsight eased then dissipated. Her wings arched and she began to glide through the cold air, using only updrafts to stay afloat. Freed from Tareth’s grip, they picked up speed and were soon soaring east over ribboning riverlands. He would return and deal with Tareth. Soon.

But, right now, Nightwing wouldn’t even get them to Dabdagan. The injuries she had sustained from the struggle with Tareth’s magic were deep and fundamental. And, now that they were over the mountains, Revon would preserve her if he could. They would need to stop at a mortal house between here and the capital, so he could make a full assessment of the damage.

They had reached the western border of crop country, and the rolling green hills had turned to a colorful patchwork of cultivated fields. Ox-drawn plows and their drivers peppered the landscape. Farm dogs barked and howled down below. Every so often, someone in a field would see Nightwing and stare in utter shock. It was unusual for a raven-rider to fly so low and during the day, when mortals could see them.

Revon was unconcerned with mortal history and, given the subjects’ foreshortened lifespans, land and keeps changed hands so often that it hardly made sense to memorize anything about them. But, looking further east as the sun brightened, even he recognized the glassy lake and bustling town that sprawled along its edges. An impressive, flaxen-colored castle was perched on a grassy hill to the north, and deep gold flags with indistinguishable green details fluttered from every visible railing.

Orrendale.

It was by far the largest and wealthiest crop house in Arras, friendly to the Counsel, by necessity, and in control of the thoroughfare that led directly to Dabdagan. He couldn’t remember the lord’s name, but Lady Idabel Orrendale (formerly of Dulac) had been the most beautiful and sought-after mortal woman in her youth, making her marriage to the second-son of Orrendale shocking to say the least. Things had worked out in her favor—his older brother had perished shortly after taking their father’s seat and her husband had shown remarkable industriousness in expanding his family’s holdings—but her choice had been whispered about from the Shudderlands to Surrat.

Even Revon had heard about it, and he cared nothing for the goings on of mortal houses. He had met her in her youth and his only thought was what a shame that something so exquisite had such limited utility. She lacked the gift of dreams and so did the Orrendales, which meant that her children would have no purpose, no real legacy. Here one day, then dust the next.

What a waste.

The castle loomed nearer, its southeastern face glowing gold in the sun. As required by Counsel law for every prominent mortal house, the family had built a ravensward at one corner. Unfortunately, it looked to be one of the more makeshift iterations. Revon brushed Nightwing’s mind with his own and instructed her to circle twice before landing, so as to give them time to prepare for his arrival. A house this large and wealthy would have its own Counselhand, a talented and pleasant mage that would make himself or herself useful to the family, while also maintaining an eye on the Counsel’s interests in the region. He wondered who it was.

I do hope it’s not some lesser. Experience would be appreciated at a moment like this.

As Nightwing circled, Revon extended his third-hand towards the keep, searching for another mage. Someone pressed him back, only briefly. His presence was known.

Nightwing’s landing shook the rickety, wooden platform of the Orrendale ravensward and the cross beams creaked. But it held long enough that Revon dismounted, swept his thick cloak aside, and took stock of their situation. Two stall-like wooden shelters had been built against the stone tower that acted as the platform’s main support. Both were large enough for Nightwing to use but were hardly the spacious quarters she’d grown accustomed to. There was no sign of a keeper, there was no water, there was no food. Nightwing warbled unhappily and collapsed onto her haunches.

Disgraceful.

The tower door opened and a woman stepped out into the mid-morning light. She wore the gold and green of Orrendale, but blue sleeve cuffs to indicate that she served the High Hand. Three stones dangled carelessly on her necklace, swinging back and forth as she approached. As with most Counselhands, she was fair to look at but also forgettable, almost childlike and unremarkable with red-brown hair, brown eyes and skin that was both tanned and freckled. Counselhands were always unassuming in appearance, so as to avoid a sense of competition with their mortal lords and ladies. She smiled pleasantly and he caught a resemblance to someone else he knew.

“Sani, Counselhand to Orrendale. My younger sister was your lesser,” she began, shaking his hand quickly. She knew who he was. “Sya Vorana?”

Ah, of course. This was the less successful Vorana daughter. “I remember.”

“I apologize for the state of our ravensward—I’m having game and water brought up for your graven. How else can I be of service?”

Revon’s irritation eased. For all her mild manners, the mage seemed to have a handle on the place. They could discuss improvements later.

“I need a maker.”

Sani glanced at Nightwing, surprised. “We have none. Is she—”

“Then I need you to get word to Dabdagan, and have them send one,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “Does this keep have a dungeon?”

“Not anymore,” she replied, confused. “But there is a jail in town.”

“A cellar then?”

“Yes, we just expanded it.”

Good. Revon gestured at his unlikely prize. Only now realizing that there was a person draped across Nightwing’s back, the small Counselhand gasped softly and came around to look. The graven didn’t move but hissed and Sani backed up a couple steps once more.

“Who is she?”

“Whoever brings the water and game will take her down to the cellar,” Revon ordered, not bothering to address her question. “I want as few eyes on her as possible.”

Sani nodded, frowning in thought. “Of course, but there are a number of spare bedrooms. The lord and lady are gone but they would never object to—”

“No,” he declared. “The cellar.”

“I beg your pardon, but the kitchen hands use the cellar,” she offered—cautiously. “I’m not sure how we would—”

The same tower door slammed open again, this time revealing a broad man with unkempt pepper-black hair and plain clothing. Two deer were slung over one shoulder and two oversized buckets of water were grasped in the other hand. The weight of his cargo coupled with the stairs should have been enough to exhaust even the strongest mortal man, but he wasn’t even slightly winded. As he ventured towards the further of the two stalls, Revon brushed his mind. It was chaotic, illegible, muddy—as unkempt as his appearance. Revon retracted his third-hand the way one would drop a soiled cloth.

A halfblood.

“Kol will take her down,” Sani offered then, apologetically: “He is stronger than any of the keepers.”

Revon nodded, lips tight. “Koza have their uses.”

Sani’s eyes widened sharply at the archaic slur for the halfblooded—it was not a pleasant word. Unwilling to let him so close to Nightwing, Revon untied the unconscious mage himself and slid her down onto the wood. The graven shuddered, fluffed the feathers on her crest, and lifted herself to her feet with effort. Once she had begun tearing at the deer carcasses, the halfblood swept up the unconscious mage and went ahead of them down the stairs. He didn’t speak and he didn’t lift his gaze.

They reached the main floor of the castle quickly. The old structure had been expanded many times over the centuries, which lent a chaos to the internal architecture. Its one saving grace was that the stone all matched, more or less, having likely been cut from the same quarry. Enormous, richly colored tapestries lined the hall in both directions, and green or golden banners streamed from the dark wooden crossbeams overhead. Gauzy curtains fluttered in windows, and a center courtyard overgrown with fruit trees and flowers could be seen—and smelled—through the nearest doorway. Unseen yet heard, wind ornaments shimmered and a bird sang, as childish laughter and small, shoeless feet echoed through a nearby passage.

With the mage still over one shoulder, the halfblood yanked a door in the outer wall open and began to descend a set of stone stairs. The air rising up from the dark was cool and damp, and smelled of fresh dirt. At the base of the stairs, the halfblood’s boots went silent on packed earth. Sani had brought a lamp down with her, and their own figures cast long, shaking shadows against stacked barrels, racks of wine, bunches of herbs, and salted meats that hung from the ceiling. At the far end, there appeared to be a large swath of open room with a stone platform, as opposed to the dirt floor where they now stood. Revon caught the scent of lye, as if someone had been cleaning. He nearly took a breath to ask then realized—they had expanded the cellar into the dungeon. And, obviously, it had required cleaning.

“Put her where the old dungeon was,” he ordered. Only once the halfblood obeyed did he turn to Sani: “I hope not to be in Orrendale long, but she will need blankets and a cot of some kind in the meantime. Bring a small writing desk, paper, ink and pen—I have several messages to draft this morning.”

Sani nodded, eyelids fluttering as she took it all in. “And I suppose only Kol or myself will be allowed in here until you do leave?”

Kol had come to stand beside her. Revon realized that he still hadn’t spoken. That kind of silence had to be trained. Perhaps he’d been one of the redguard.

“Yes,” Revon replied, putting his curiosity aside. “And bring different foods, I suppose. When I retether her mind, she must be made to eat.”