Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (20 page)

“It seems to work.” He pointed the blade. “Again.”

I looked up at him, trying to catch my breath. “Again?”

“You can do better than that. You barely touched my defenses. I want you to make a dent.”

“I can’t do it again.” Black spotted my vision. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it stops me breathing.”

“Have you never gone swimming?”

“What?”

“The average human can hold their breath for at least thirty seconds without causing lasting damage. That is more than enough time for you to attack another mind and return to your body.”

I’d never thought of it like that. Nick had always ensured I used life support when I sensed the æther at a distance.

“Think of your spirit as a muscle, tearing from its natural place,” Warden said. “The more you use it, the stronger and faster it will become, and the better your body will cope with the repercussions. You will be able to jump quickly between dreamscapes—before your body hits the ground.”

“You don’t know anything,” I said.

“Nor do you. I suspect the incident on the train was the first time you ever walked in another dreamscape.” He didn’t move the blade. “Walk in mine. I challenge you.”

I searched his face. He was inviting me to come into his mind, to wound his sanity.

“You don’t really care. You’re just training me,” I said. We circled each other. “Nashira asked you to choose me. I know what she wants.”

“No. I chose you. I laid claim to your instruction. And the last thing I want”—he stepped toward me—“is for you to embarrass me with your incompetence.” His eyes were hard as flint. “Attack me again. And do it properly this time.”

“No.” I’d call his bluff. Let him be embarrassed. Let him be as mortified by me as my father. “I’m not going to kill myself just so you can get a gold star from Nashira.”

“You want to hurt me,” he said, softer now. “You loathe me. You resent me.” He lifted the knife. “Destroy me.”

At first I did nothing. Then I remembered the hours I’d spent cleaning his arm, and how he’d threatened me. I remembered how he’d stood aside and watched Seb die. I flung my spirit back at him.

In the time we spent on that meadow, I barely fractured his dreamscape. Even when he dropped most of his defenses, I couldn’t get any further than his hadal zone—his mind was just too strong. He goaded me the whole time. He told me I was weak, that I was pathetic, that I was a disgrace to all clairvoyants. That it was no wonder humans were good for nothing but slavery. Did I want to live in a cage, like an animal? He was happy to oblige. At first the provocation did its job, but the more the night wore on, the less his insults roused me. In the end they were just frustrating, not enough to force my spirit out.

That was when he threw a blade. He aimed well away from me, but the sight of the flying knife was enough to set my spirit loose. Each time I did it, my body fell. If my foot so much as slipped off the oval, a flux dart came whistling in my direction. I soon learned to premeditate the sound, and to duck before the needle could hit home.

I managed five or six jumps out of my body. Each time was like having my head ripped open. Finally I could take no more. My vision went double and a migraine swelled above my left eye. I bent at the waist, hungry for air.
Don’t show weakness. Don’t show weakness.
My knees were going to give.

Warden knelt in front of me and wrapped an arm around my waist. I tried to push him away, but my arms were like string.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop resisting.”

He lifted me into his arms. I’d never experienced this quick-fire jumping; I didn’t know if my brain would stand it. The backs of my eyes throbbed. I couldn’t look at the lantern.

“You did well.” Warden looked down at me. “But you could do much better.”

I couldn’t reply.

“Paige?”

“I’m fine.” My voice was slurred.

He seemed to take my word for it. Still holding me, he made his way toward the gate.

Warden set me on my feet again after a while. We walked in silence back to the entrance where Thuban had left his post. Ivy was sitting against the fence, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. When we approached the sally port, she stood and undid the bolt. Warden glanced at her as we passed. “Thank you, Ivy.”

She looked up. There were tears in her eyes. When was the last time she’d been called by her real name?

Warden kept his silence as we walked through the ghost town. I was only half-awake. Nick would have made me rest in bed for hours if I’d been with him, and scolded me for good measure.

It was only when we walked past Amaurotic House that Warden spoke again: “Do you often try to sense the æther at a distance?”

“None of your business,” I said.

“Your eyes hold death. Death and ice.” He turned to face me. “Strange, when they burn so hot in your anger.”

I met his gaze. “Your eyes change, too.”

“Why do you think that might be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.”

“That is true enough.” Warden looked me up and down. “Show me your hand.”

After a moment, I showed him my right hand. The burn had taken on an ugly, nacreous appearance. He took out a tiny vial of liquid from his pockets, tipped it against his gloved finger, and spread its contents over the mark. Before my eyes, it melted away, leaving no trace. I pulled my hand back.

“How did you do that?”

“It is called amaranth.” He put the vial back, then looked at me. “Tell me, Paige—are you afraid of the æther?”

“No,” I said. My palm tingled.

“Why not?”

It was a lie. I
was
afraid of the æther. When I pushed my sixth sense too far, I ran the risk of death, or at least brain injury. Jax had told me from the beginning that if I worked for him, I was likely to cut my lifespan by about thirty years, maybe more. It all rested on luck.

“Because the æther is perfect,” I said. “There’s no war. There’s no death, because everything there is already dead. And there’s no sound. Just silence. And safety.”

“Nothing is safe in the æther. And even the æther is not exempt from war and death.”

I studied his profile as he looked at the black sky. His breath didn’t cloud in the cold, not like mine. But for a moment—just the briefest moment—there was something human in his face. Something pensive, almost bitter. Then he turned to face me again, and it was gone.

Something was amiss outside the Rookery. A group of red-jackets were crouched on the cobblestones, watched by silent harlies, talking in quick, hushed voices. I glanced up at Warden to see if he was concerned. If he was, he didn’t show it. He walked toward the group, causing most of the harlies to shrink back into their shacks.

“What is it?”

One of the red-jackets looked up, saw who had spoken, and flicked his gaze back down. His tunic was caked in mud. “We were in the woods,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We got lost. The Emim—they—”

Warden’s hand strayed to his forearm.

The red-jackets were gathered around a boy of perhaps sixteen. His entire right hand was missing, and it wasn’t just his tunic that was red. My mouth clenched up. His hand had been ripped and twisted from his arm, as if it had been caught in a machine. Warden analyzed the scene with no hint of emotion.

“You say you were lost,” he said. “Which keeper was with you?”

“The blood-heir.”

Warden leveled his gaze on the street. “I should have known.”

My eyes burned on his back. He was just
standing
there. The red-jacket was trembling uncontrollably, his face shining with sweat. He was going to die if someone didn’t bandage the stump, or at least get a blanket over him.

“Take him to Oriel.” Warden turned away from the group. “Terebell will deal with him. The rest of you, get back to your residences. The amaurotics will tend to your wounds.”

I looked at his hard-bitten features, searching for a hint of something warm. I found nothing. He didn’t care. I didn’t know why I kept looking.

The red-jackets lifted their friend and staggered toward an alleyway, leaving spots of blood in their wake. “He needs a hospital.” I made myself say it. “You’ve got no idea how to—”

“He will be dealt with.”

He was silent then, and his eyes grew hard. I guessed that meant I’d overstepped the line.

But I was starting to wonder where exactly the line had been drawn. Warden never beat me. He let me sleep. He used my real name when we were alone. He had even let me attack his mind, made himself vulnerable to my spirit—a spirit that could break his very sanity apart. I couldn’t understand why he would take the risk. Even Nick was wary of my gift. (“Call it a healthy respect,
sötnos
.”)

As we headed toward the residence, I let my hair down from its knot. I almost jumped out of my body again when someone else’s hands took over, pulling my damp curls around my shoulders.

“Ah, XX-40. A pleasure to see you again.” The voice was tinged with amusement. High-pitched for a man. “I must congratulate you, Warden. She looks even more ravishing in a tunic.”

I turned to face the man behind me. It took effort not to recoil.

It was the medium, the one that had chased me across the rooftops of I-5—but he wasn’t carrying a flux gun tonight. He wore a strange uniform in the colors of Scion. Even his face matched the color code: red mouth, black eyebrows, face dusted with zinc oxide. He was probably in his late thirties, and he carried a heavy leather whip. I was sure I could see blood on it. This must be the Overseer, the man who kept the harlies in check. Behind him was the oracle from the first night. He looked at me with disconcerting eyes: one dark and piercing, one a clear hazel. His tunic was the same color as mine.

Warden looked down at them. “What do you want, Overseer?”

“Pardon my intrusion. I merely wanted to see the dreamer again. I have watched her progress with great interest.”

“Well, you have seen her now. She is not a performer. Her progress is not for watching.”

“Indeed. But what a charming sight she is.” He flashed me a smile. “Allow me to welcome you personally to Sheol I. I am Beltrane, the Overseer. I hope my flux dart didn’t scar your back.”

I reacted. I couldn’t help it. “If you hurt my father—”

“I did not give you permission to speak, XX-40.”

Warden stared me down. The Overseer laughed, patted my cheek. I jerked away from him. “There, now. Your father is safe and well.” He made a sign on his chest. “Cross my heart.”

I should have been relieved, but all I could feel was anger at his nerve. Warden looked at the younger man. “Who is this?”

“This is XX-59-12.” The Overseer placed a hand on his shoulder. “He is a
very
loyal servant to Pleione. He has done exceptionally well in his studies over the last few weeks.”

“I see.” Warden’s eyes flicked over him, assessing his aura. “You are an oracle, boy?”

“Yes, Warden.” 12 bowed.

“The blood-sovereign must be pleased with your progress. We have had no oracles since Bone Season XVI.”

“I hope to be among those in her service soon, Warden.” There were traces of the north in his accent.

“As you will be, 12. You’ll do very well against your Emite, I think. 12 is about to take his second test,” the Overseer said. “We were just on our way back to Merton to join the rest of his battalion. Pleione and Alsafi will lead them.”

“Are the Sualocin aware of the injured red-jacket?” Warden said.

“Yes. They hunt the same Emite that bit him.”

Warden’s expression flickered.

“The best of luck to you in that endeavor, 12,” he said.

12 bowed again.

“But I do have another reason to interrupt, before we leave,” the Overseer added. “I am here to extend an invitation to the dreamwalker. If I may.”

Warden turned to face him. The Overseer took his silence as permission to continue.

“We are putting on a very special celebration in honor of this Bone Season, XX-40. The
twentieth
Bone Season.” He swept a hand toward the Rookery. “Our finest performers. A feast for the senses. A saturnalia of music and dancing to show off all our boys and girls.”

“You refer to the Bicentenary,” Warden said.

It was the first time I’d heard the word.

“Precisely.” The Overseer smiled. “The ceremony during which the Great Territorial Act will be signed.”

That didn’t sound good. Before I could hear any more, I was blinded by a vision.

As an oracle, Nick could send soundless images through the æther. He called them
khrēsmoi
, a Greek word. I could never pronounce it, so I just called them his “snapshots.” 12 had the same gift. I saw a clock, both hands pointing toward twelve, followed by four pillars and a flight of steps. A moment later, I blinked, and the images were gone. I opened my eyes to see him looking at me.