Carnelian pondered the strange life Legions must have lived. ‘A living death.’
‘Seraph?’
‘He can have no grasp at all of reality, of life.’
‘The opposite is true, Seraph. Remote from the world he gives thought only to that which is salient. His staff distill events finely and feed this distillation into his perfect mind.’
Try as he might, Carnelian could not see how such an existence could be other than the most terrible imprisonment.
Carnelian lay in his bed exhausted, trying to sleep. Though falling back into the well of dreams filled him with dread, he knew he must confront whatever was waiting for him there in the depths. He felt shame that this was now the only help he could give his loved ones, but even in this he felt undermined by his lack of skill. In any marketplace around the Commonwealth there were sure to be better interpreters of dreams plying their trade. Worse, a part of him rejected utterly such superstition. His only consolation was knowing how seriously the Wise took dreams.
Carnelian, swimming up to the light, came awake, spluttering. His confusion made a cavern of the chamber; monsters of the clepsydra and clocks. The face was there in his mind, fiery, the colour of blood. Akaisha’s face, but not quite hers. Ebeny’s? Thoughts of her penetrated to the child in him. How he longed for her warm embrace, for her hand stroking his head. Locked away in Osrakum she seemed more distant than the stars. He steeled himself. Such longings were weakness.
Blearily, Carnelian was making an effort to examine one of Aurum’s clocks when he heard the sound he most hoped for and dreaded. A knock at the outer doors. Soon, the homunculus had returned with another letter from Osidian in his hand. Carnelian accepted it, his heart pounding. Almost he put it down unopened but, not allowing himself to weaken, he broke the seal and read. He will not let me come to grips with him. I will pursue him all day and then through the night. He will not escape me.
Carnelian felt sick. He could hear Osidian’s voice: the anger in it, the frustration. Such a reaction was predictable to anyone who knew him. He feared Aurum did. He could only hope the letter did not reflect all that Osidian was thinking. He had to believe Osidian was not so consumed by rage that he was blind to the possibility Aurum was leading him into a trap.
He paced up and down, desperate to do something, but what? He stopped and looked towards the homunculus. ‘How does the elixir affect dreaming?’
Looking wary, the homunculus hesitated before answering. ‘My masters believe it makes dreams lucid.’
‘You have yourself experienced this?’
‘I have, Seraph. The dreaming is intense, but I do not have the wisdom that makes their meaning clear.’
Carnelian frowned. What he most desired was clarity. He had to believe he would understand his dreams if he could see them clearly. ‘I must take the elixir.’
The homunculus’ eyes widened. ‘You cannot, Seraph.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘But Seraph, it is forbidden.’
Carnelian laughed. ‘It will be the least of my transgressions.’
‘It is also dangerous, Seraph.’
‘How so?’
The homunculus made vague gestures. ‘Some who take it never wake.’
Carnelian considered this. ‘Yet most do?’
‘Most,’ said the homunculus. He looked pained. ‘Seraph, the initial doses, until the mind and body have become accustomed to its effect, produce unpredictable results.’
‘Nevertheless.’
The homunculus’ gaze fell.
‘There is no need for your master ever to learn of this.’
The homunculus made no response.
‘Fetch me a dose.’
The man bowed and had soon disappeared into the corner of the room. As Carnelian waited, he considered with a growing dread what he was planning to do. Something monstrous lurked in his dreams. By taking the elixir, was he going to trap himself in his dreams with it?
When the homunculus returned, Carnelian made him lie on the bed beside him. He took from him the amber bead. Holding it up to the light, he saw the spiral flows trapped in it. Strands more tenuous than spider silk.
‘Close your eyes, for I am going to unmask.’
Glancing at him with anxiety, the homunculus obeyed him.
Carnelian bit the bead in half. Its fluids oozed sweet and bitter on his tongue. Swiftly he pressed the other half to the lips of the homunculus and made sure he swallowed it. Hopefully, they would both sleep for the same amount of time. Carnelian lay back. The room was already changing shape, as if it were breathing.
He feels the well behind him and the terror of its pull. He denies its whispering. His father offers him a cloak soaked with the wrath of the sky. Carnelian dons it like armour. It brings silence and stillness. It makes him taller. Ebeny offers a gleaming crescent in each hand. In his grip they are ivory ranga. Her feet bleed like crushed fruit. ‘Take the spear.’ He looks at his father, wanting it from his hands, but they are empty. He sees his mother impaled and does not recognize her raging face. Looking to his father for help he sees upon his face an expression he cannot read. Is his father to blame? His father shakes his head, sadly, holding his side, clearly wounded. Seeing the spike in his mother’s belly, Carnelian curls his fingers round it, pulls and it comes free, releasing a flood of blood that soon runs clear. The blue spear is rusted iron. Blade soft as liver, riddled with worms.
Then he is lost and scared in a dark forest. It is raining cold, molten iron. A winking light draws him towards a burning tree. He touches its bark, smooth as bone. It is perfect and crystalline under his hand. Light is trapped in its glass, which looks so delicate he fears he must crack it. He becomes aware of the snake roof of branches shutting out the sky. Hears the sucking slurp as its roots leech blood from the flesh in which his feet are mired. Sickened by its feeding on the living and the dead, he raises his spear to strike, then sees the child trapped inside the chrysalis trunk. He knows it is himself, dreaming. He hesitates, fearing to wake the dreamer. The tree is the child’s dream even though it imprisons him. To kill it, he must sacrifice the child, sacrifice himself. Aiming for the child’s heart, he stabs. The spear comes out clean and sharp and well made. The child is birthed in a torrent of blood. Carnelian walks away, cradling him. They come to a river that he crosses dry-footed because of his ivory shoes. A woman waits for them on the other side. Ancient, vulnerable, he loves her. Her face is a skull. She is the mother of his mother. He offers up the child and she lets him pass. Barefoot on the fresh uncurling green, joyous in the sun, with his brothers and sisters, breathing the blue of the sky.
A wrinkled face. Crail? Carnelian strained to make sense of what he was seeing. The homunculus.
‘The Two be praised.’
Carnelian reached his hand up to touch his own face and felt warm metal. He was masked.
‘How do you feel, Seraph?’
Carnelian saw the homunculus’ eager anxiety. When he tried to sit up, pain shot down his spine. His head seemed to have turned to stone. He fell back.
‘The Seraph must rest, regain his strength. It always takes time to recover from such deep sleep. Much more so when one has been under for so long.’
Carnelian attempted to speak. Still half in the dream, his voice there was clear and strong.
‘Seraph?’
Carnelian tried again and this time noticed the rasping in his throat. He realized that was the only sound he was making. He gathered his strength and pushed air out. ‘How long?’ he croaked.
‘More than two days, Seraph.’
Shocked, Carnelian tried to rise again. The same shooting pain.
The homunculus dared to touch him. ‘The elixir worked very potently in you, Seraph. There was not enough nectar in what you took to sustain you, but I dared not give you more.’
Through the eyeslits of his mask, Carnelian saw how scared the homunculus looked. Clearly he had been frantic. Two days! Something occurred to Carnelian. ‘How long have you…?’