Chapter Thirteen
Uneaten Nightmares
Sweat, breath and Art was suddenly sitting up, panting and shivering. His dreams were dark swirling images of the demon sealing ritual he had witnessed. The thing was so massive and powerful, a darkness unfathomable. These two people had given their lives to seal the monster and it had stayed imprisoned for an untold number of years, so long ago no one in the Seminary had known of it. But why was it within him? Had someone put it there? Had it been his guardian?
Art’s mind raced back to his childhood with Evendale. She had been a strict woman, but always loving, always patient with him. He had never felt anything but acceptance from her.
“See her as your mother, do you?” Art felt the demon’s voice ripple over him and he tried not to feel the cold. “Yet, how could she keep secrets from you? How could she not tell you of your fate? She must have known.”
“Shut up.” Art grit his teeth, trying to block the thing from his mind as he would a telepathic thought he did not want to hear.
“Cover your ears boy, but you will always hear me.”
Art felt something behind him and, eyes widening, he realized he was not in the bed in the guest chamber, but sitting on a stone slab in his mind’s eye. Panicked and confused, he rose up only to be confronted with the demon standing before him, billowing smoke and ash, its empty ribcage aglow from hellfire inside. Art turned away, unable to look into the eye sockets filled with black abyss.
“Don’t turn away from me, boy!” The thing bellowed in his mind. “Succumb to me now! You have always been mine! You should never have been. You are an abomination, just as I!”
Art was sitting up again, panting, coughing, heart racing so hard he felt like a horse on its death run.
“No…!” He shuttered into the black of the room, his fingers digging into the meat of his arms, the pain bringing an odd sort of grounding comfort.
Once his breathing had slowed, Art noticed Lucid sitting in a dark corner of the room, eyes glowing in the darkness. He was unsettling at first, moving like a cat he slipped off the chair and came to stand before Art.
“Dark are your dreams. I can’t eat, too much evil.”
He sat down next to the man on the bed. He did not look at him but gazed out the large window into the night of the city. Art started to wonder what he had meant, when he recalled Lucid had said he ate nightmares.
“My dreams are too dark to eat, huh?” he whispered, not wanting to wake the elf in the adjoining room.
“Demon is too real, too strong,” Lucid said. In profile he did not seem like a mystical creature, just a youth of wild ebony hair and pointed ears like the Weaver. He seemed distressed that he could not aid Art. He wanted to function as a dreamcatcher and be a protector. If Art had to choose a word to describe Lucid’s expression it would have been frustration.
The man could easily identify with that. All his life, all his effort had been about doing what he thought he was born for. His natural gifts told him he could have been nothing else but a Weiriman. His guardian had wholly approved of his choice and encouraged him with help and praise. But that had all been snatched away and a darkness billowed up inside, haunting his life, robbing his purpose and setting him against a path of dark conclusions. Hope was illusive. Yet this boy, who likely had a life of comfort before joining with Art’s company, sat next to him, feeling the same emotions, burdened by being unable to perform his true purpose. It brought a small comforting feeling of connection to another person Art had rarely felt.
“I sit with you, Brother.” Lucid mumbled, shoulders slumping a little.
Art nodded, not saying anything, but grateful for the company. Lucid understood what was happening to him, understood the darkness that loomed; he understood everything.
Dawn was not golden but a murky haze of humming light and exhaustion. Art’s eyes felt like two balls of cooled steel. Heavy and cold in his head, they felt his inability to sleep again that night. Every time he had started to nod off, the demon’s face met him in the darkness until he was seeing it even before his eyes closed. Fear, feathered with alarm, kept him awake. He was glad Lucid did not sleep, for the boy was the only comfort in the ruddy night.
Lucid was sitting before Art on the bed after the man had dressed and started to pull his long Weiriman jacket on. He made a motion that Art should eat, but his stomach felt sour and he shook his head.
“I don’t have an appetite. I can’t eat.”
Lucid made a face of disapproval when Ever appeared, looking well rested and refreshed.
“You should try to abide something, Art. You will need your strength.” Orchid floated out after Ever, their tether shimmering between them.
“She is correct,” Ever concurred, gathering his gear to him and pulling his own cloak on. “We should stop in the dining hall before we depart.”
Art hated that idea, but knew protesting was not worth the effort and followed them down, saying little.
There were few Weirimen about but they were able to get service from the kitchen.
“It would seem that this place is always open,” Ever commented, serving Art eggs and toast, which he looked at as if they were made of sawdust and mud.
“Weirimen have an usual schedule. We go when and where we are needed. The hour plays little part in it.”
Art could feel the elf’s eyes on him, weighing the tone of his voice and expressions. He tried not to be irritated. He knew Ever was just being careful, that the demon inside him was a real threat and should Art lose his hold on the thing, it would kill everyone around him. That very same demon was likely making it hard to control his temper. Art hated that he was not stronger.
Weak. His thoughts were as bitter as his mouth tasted.
Taking only a few bites of his toast and a spoon full of eggs, they were ready to depart. Lucid offered Art an Umbra Sweet but he refused.
“I don’t have very many of those left,” Art half hissed. “I’ll be fine.”
Frowning, the boy put the candy back in Art’s pack but re-emerged with the Scarlet Extinction.
“I have even less of those.” Art was trying to keep his voice even but he was snapping at Lucid and he knew Ever had noticed, likely Orchid too. He was glad he could not see her at the moment. He had enough eyes on him, judging him.
Insistent, Lucid held the bottle out to Art, eyebrows raised expectantly. It only further angered Art but before he could respond in a way he would regret, a voice drew his attention.
“Leaving us now, are you?”
The party turned to see Grandmaster Felvase descending the stairs.
“Yes,” Art’s voice was cold, “thank you for your help and your hospitality.”
The man nodded, but there seemed to be something in his eyes. There was a whisper of thought but Art could not quite make it out before the man’s mind swallowed it back up. Art was frowning but he said nothing else. Ever and Lucid both nodded their thanks and took their leave.
The Grandmaster watched them go, following them to the courtyard, but stopping at the centuries, silent. The whole experience had Art on edge. His eyes darted around the ramparts, half expecting an ambush. It would be the perfect place to take him if they were going to. His palms were itchy. He wanted his blades in his hands. He felt hot inside his jacket, but cold in his legs and feet. Everything felt wrong.
“Storygrove,” Ever’s tone was hardly above a whisper, “you must calm yourself. You act as a caged beast.”
Art’s lips pressed firmly together, he could feel his teeth behind them set hard against each other. He knew the elf was right. The caged animal was not him, it was the demon. It did not want to be captured and deported. It had waited such an expansive amount of time to enter the world. In the nest of Weirimen it knew it could be turned back just as it was about to taste freedom. Art closed his eyes as they neared the front gate. He had to will the thing’s emotions apart from his own. He had the soul, he was
stronger. He could force it back. He had to.
“Farewell,” the guard at the gate said, but Art barely heard him. He sounded far away, as if in a tunnel. Ever answered as Art, glassy-eyed, stiffly shuffled passed.
He remembered very little of the trek out of the city. So many people created so many voices and feelings. Art was losing himself in the hum of their thoughts. Never before had his abilities overwhelmed him so dramatically. His mind reading was usually a whisper and only when he sought out the thoughts. They had increased. The air ship flight had first shown that. But he had never experienced anything like the static hum and chatter clamoring between his ears. It could have been due to the demon; perhaps its powers were allowing Art to experience a higher level of his own abilities.
Regardless of the source, he was so intensely relieved he let out a great sigh when they cleared the final city walls and were out on the open road. His chest felt tight as if he might have been holding his breath the entire exiting of Wivenguilder. Art paused for only a moment, eyes on the city, truly surprised they had allowed him to leave. He expected to be detained. Even now that the demon’s presence had died down, he still felt the anxiety.
“How convenient you’ve stopped for us here,” a voice Art had only just come to know, came out the woods. A shadowy shroud of concealment spells fell away, and before them stood Joss Lirecolden.
Ever already had an arrow knocked, his expression showing he was greatly threatened that the Weiriman had used a shrouding spell to hide his presence until he was close to them. Orchid, who had emerged, shimmered turning even more translucent, hiding behind the elf.
“And what is this? Your companion is haunted by a most beautiful ghost. Something you did not share with the Grandmaster. You should have told us, elf. We could have exorcised her for you, since it seems your Weiriman is incapable.”
Four more Weirimen came out of the shrouding spell. It had to have been such a large and perfectly crafted spell to fool a Scarborough Knight’s senses entirely. It could only have been constructed by a master of the art. Art knew instantly Grandmaster Felvase had to have been the caster. He ground his teeth in anger at the betrayal.
“Come near her Weiriman, and I will put an arrow through your mouth.” Ever said, his voice gravel deep full of malice.
“Such odd companions,” Lirecolden smirked. “And what’s with the boy? He doesn’t look elven or man. Fey maybe? An odd mix of rabble for a partner-less Weiriman. But I guess one possessed might do things unlike one’s kind.”
“What do you want, Lirecolden?” Art grit out, his hand on Weir Hewn.
“I’ve come to take you back.”
“The Grandmaster let us go.”
Lirecolden did not try to mask his condescending attitude. “ That was for show. We did not want the entire Guild to see us take you down. There are some who have sympathy for your plight and trust Cindervail when she says she believes you can exorcise the demon from you. And while you are not so afflicted that we can take you legally now, you will be within its clutches soon enough and Grandmaster Felvase sees little point in waiting to hunt you down. Who knows what damage you will do while the demon occupies your body, what heresy you will inflect or what innocent you will harm.”
“I would take my own life before that happens! Cindervail knows this,” Art spat, offended.
“Well, no one has faith that you’ll do the right thing, Storygrove. So I suggest you just accept your fate now and come with us. We will put you down humanely, without the violence and bloodshed that could ensue should this demon get out. You know it could happen even if it takes just partial control of you.”
“You will not take him while I am here,” Ever cautioned.
“We have no qualms with you, elf. I suggest you leave. I don’t know why you’re with him or what he’s promised or paid you for your aid, but by your look you are a Knight. You should have nothing to do with this afflicted. We will take care of our own.”
“I would hardly place Art akin to your kind. Lying, backstabbing thugs! To even think I could be bought and paid for like some underbelly hunter…!” Ever’s beautiful face was a mask of contained rage. “Now, step back or I shall draw first blood.”
Surprised, the other Weirimen, though clearly about to draw their weapons, looked to Lirecolden. His eyes locked on Ever as he started for his blades when suddenly Lucid sprang from behind Art. Fully nightmared and completely black, he jumped on the man so rapidly the others were shocked into stepping back. Man and boy fell to the ground and Lucid clamped his clawed hand around the man’s throat. A black length of thread appeared on the flesh and Lirecolden’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“Sleep!” The dreamcatcher commanded and Lirecolden’s lids fluttered before his whole body went limp and he lost consciousness.
The black thread around his throat spun, moving on the skin like a liquid tattoo. It rolled and twisted until it formed a braid of many tangles. The thing settled into a slow unraveling, like a clock counting down. Lucid had cast the ability so fast that he was sliding backwards after he was finished, avoiding the lunge of the next closest Weiriman.
“Lucid!” Art barked but the boy, more acrobatic than Art had realized, rolled backwards in a perfect arch, rolling on to his hands, then belly and finally his feet.
Weapons drawn, a Weiriman took a step forward and Ever raised his bow.
“No!” Art yelled, pushing Ever’s arm.
Confused, the elf glared at him but Art was not paying any attention. He had already drawn both Weir Hewn and his other blade, stepping between Lucid and the group of Weirimen. He had faced combat with more than one opponent before but the skills Art displayed when the small squad attacked surprised even himself. Blades flying, body spinning, his ability rivaled any training evaluation he had performed. It was as if something else was moving him, almost like he could see his opponent’s strikes before they happened.
His blade narrowly missed the throat of the woman closest to him and Art abruptly realized the source of his sudden great agility. It was the demon. The demon was using his body somehow or feeding information directly into his mind and muscles. It was giving him the tremendous dexterity and a lethal edge rivaled only by the most skilled of elves.
He was going to kill the whole party if he did not stop somehow. He had to pull it back, had to regain control. He focused his mind, shutting out all other thought than taking back his body. He did not want to die, but he did not want to kill these men and women even more. The pure rage of being used inched the thing’s control over him and the fight inside his mind slowed him down.
“Art!” Ever yelled and came between a Weiriman’s knives and Art’s back just in time. Parrying the man back with his bow, Ever pulled his long sword, slashing and finally landing a boot to the man’s knee, knocking him down.
There were too many of them to just deflect and Ever could not stop them all without killing, which Art clearly did not want. Another, moving past Lucid who was trying to protect Art as well, dove at the man. Having collapsed to his knees, Art was trying to hold the demon off inside. He could feel it overwhelming him, icing up his muscles, clawing for control.
“Will you not defend yourself, whelp?!” The thing screamed in his head. “Let me take them! Let me kill them! We will both live! Would you die here like this, hunted by your own?!”
“You’re not killing them!” Art screamed back, his whole brain on fire. “You’re not killing them using my body! I won’t allow it!”
The man was upon him now, blades ready, when Art and demon together looked up, eyes a blazing red and gold, issued a burst of fiery rage, exploding off of him in a wave of energy. The man yelled and was thrown back. Everyone around Art, Ever and Lucid included, were flattened to the ground.
“You useless sack of meat!” The demon bellowed inside Art when the people started to move again. Disoriented and dazed, but very much alive. Art had held back the thing’s pow
er enough so that its energy did little more than stun the group.
Ever was the first to recover, moving to Art’s side, hauling the man up roughly by the arms and setting him on shaky feet.
“Steady,” Ever ordered. “Lucid!”
The boy got to his feet and shook his head, nearly teetering over. He was dizzy but seemed unharmed. He knew what the elf wanted and was at Art’s side, dragging him away as Ever covered their back. The Weirimen were in worse shape and were just starting to roll over and rise to shaky knees as Art, Ever, and Lucid disappeared into the woods just outside the city’s main road.
For the first mad dash into the forest Art was unsteady, breathless and barely conscious. After a half mile of Lucid dragging him along through the woods, Ever stored his bow and hoisted the man into an over shoulder carry. Elves had great strength and though Art was tall, toned, and heavy, Ever was able to carry him with little effort. Elf and boy raced through the woods, light footed, leaving very little of a trail to track, putting much distance between them and Wivenguilder.