Visioness (20 page)

Then there was an old King,
who remained nameless, who apparently had managed to create his entire kingdom
from his Dreams, drawing Dreamed-up objects and bringing them into the real
world. Rhene wondered whether he’d ever be strong enough to do this, but he
decided it best not to try. The word Oblivion echoed in his mind, reminding him
that the Dream Frequencies were hardly a place for experimentation.

The Oen’Aerei, as they came
to be known, was born from the understanding within the Visionary society for a
school of some kind. Too many wildings were getting into deathly situations;
thought most could only blame themselves. Count Therron Blaise, at the time
courting Nynette Reelee (who would later be Adabelle’s mother, though the book
omitted that fact) was the Oen’Aerei Chancellor of sorts. Initially, the school
was just a place of training. People would come and graduate after they had
mastered their powers and could control their mental wanderings.

It was Count Therron who
took matters to the next step that would eventually birth the Dreamless. He saw
an opportunity in the Dreaming skill, in that he could hold the monopoly of
information, in espionage. He could, in turn, create a corrupt government
capable of controlling all aspects of human life.

When this happened, much
politicking occurred, and out of it emerged the Dreaming Covenant, signed by
the new leaders of the Oen’Aerei—specifically, someone called Lady Morphier,
and her fellow co-signatories, the four most powerful Dreamers in the nation.
After that, it was promised that any attempt to revive these old thoughts would
be met by military action if necessary. Lady Morphier agreed, and then the
Dreamless were born. Originally made to insure that if the Oen’Aerei did cause
what they’d promised not to, they could act and defend those unable to defend
themselves.

Now, with the Oen’Aerei
relatively silent, the Dreamless appeared as just a symbol of the defenders
that would rise should the time be appropriate.

The rest of the book spoke
mostly of the mythology surrounding the Oen’Aerei, their patron in Melréar and
her haloed stag, and a lot of other scientific discussion about matters Rhene
didn’t entirely understand. He put the book aside when he finally became far
too confused by the text.

For a time while in the
hospital wing, he toyed with the idea of possibility of telling Dreamless
Matthon of Count Therron’s appearance within the Dream Frequencies. If he did,
he might at least have support from somewhere should matters escalate at all. But
what would that mean for he and Adabelle? He liked her, a lot. Would Dreamless
Matthon demand he no longer see her?

Was Count Therron even
targeting me because of Adabelle?
he wondered. It was a genuine consideration he had to
take into account. He could have used her mind to track him down, and have
taken the opportunity there to get to her through him. But Adabelle was never
mentioned at any point in their meeting. It was entirely about the Dreamless,
and the war they intended to charge on the Oen’Aerei.

Adabelle might be safer for
a little while longer. I daren’t risk it beyond a point, though, so if matters
escalate too quickly, I may have to contemplate stepping away for a while.

He touched the cut on his
throat, which was healing quickly. For that he was thankful. He wondered
whether taking an extra dose of Slugleaf tea might be helpful in keeping him
from having to face Therron for a while. He doubted it. The man was surely one
of the most powerful Dreamers in the world; a little tea would do nothing against
him. He kept that option open in the back of his mind, in case he should ever
need it.

He poured himself a hot mug
of the tea regardless, swallowed it in one, and curled up to sleep. Tomorrow he
left the hospital wing; tomorrow, he would meet Therron again.

With what little time he had
left, he continued to press Dreamless Matthon for information. Eventually, he
would be able to re-join the training—it was only his fingers that were broken
after all—yet Matthon continued to display reluctance. He wasn’t even sure if
he’d get any sort of battle plan out of him before long. Regardless, he tried
his best to squeeze it out, pressing and hinting and applying pressure when he
could on the man who seemed so secretive.

All he got out of Matthon was
that it would happen soon. Not tomorrow soon, not next week soon, but soon
enough that he ought to be excited. He ought to be preparing himself whenever
he could, for the blood of the Dreamers would soon be spilt, and the glory of
the Dreamless would finally arrive.

So it was despite the Slugleaf
tea that Rhene found himself asleep and Dreaming once more.

This time he awoke in a
grand hall. His bed still acted as the centrepiece of this dreamscape. It
seemed so out of place, in the centre of the black-and-white-tiled floor, yet
there it sat; an old, rusted bedframe, a speck of dirt amongst opulence and
grandeur.

So much for the Slugleaf
tea,
he
thought, clambering out of his bed and onto the cold floor of the hall.

“And we meet again,” said
Therron, from somewhere behind him.

Rhene turned suddenly,
surprised out of his wits. He had barely a moment to register that musky scent
and the music crackling from a gramophone sitting in the corner of the room.
But it was there, and so was he. Count Therron Blaise.

He had not changed his
clothing since last time, wearing the usual suit and top hat. He kept his knife
close by. It shimmered under the light of the brilliant chandeliers.

“Good evening, master
Rhene,” said Therron, gently, quietly. He was nothing if not composed and calm.
For a man who threatened bloody murder, he seemed surprisingly sane.

“Evening,” Rhene said,
falling on edge. “How are…how are you?”

“I am well,” he said. “I
notice your hand. Whatever did you do to it?”

“The Dream Buffer,” Rhene
replied. “I punched a window.”

Therron’s laugh was like a
hyena’s. Somewhere below the genuine mirth was a black malevolence. It seemed
almost sadistic.

“I see you’re still
learning,” Therron said. “But it is time to see whether you have truly learnt.
Did you discover that which I desired you to?”

“I did not,” Rhene said,
“but I tried.”
I cannot lie here. If he doesn’t accept this, then he is a
monster.

“So you pressed your masters
for information? Yes or no.”

“Yes,” Rhene replied.

“And you personally have not
been told of any plans to infiltrate the Oen’Aerei at this point in time.”

“None.”

“Yes or no!” Count Therron
brandished the knife, moving closer.

“No. No, I haven’t.” His
hands were shaking now, his brow glistening with sweat.

“And you personally have no
idea of the timing?”

“Well….”

“Yes or no, Rhene, it’s all
rather simple if you wish to keep your head.”

Rhene swallowed his fear.
“Yes. But nothing more specific than soon.” It made him a traitor, but at least
he would live. “Not tomorrow soon, not next week soon, but soon enough.”

Therron smiled a sick, cruel
grin.

The scent so thick and musky
wafted up within the room, and it took Rhene back. It took him back to his
childhood, to the knife wounds in his father’s chest; to the bruises around his
mother’s wrists.

“You killed my parents,” he
voiced, suddenly sure of the truth. The music fell quiet, scratching and
faltering on the gramophone. It jumped and repeated, crackling through the
hall.

“I killed many people in my
time walking the earth,” Therron replied, coldly, cruelly. “Too many to count,
beyond memory entirely. One may only assume if your parents were murdered, it
was indeed by my knife and my hand that they died.”

Rhene was shaking now, tears
rushing to his face, throat apparently blocked. He found it hard to breathe,
hard to think. The dream around him wavered, and then it faded. It was just he
and Therron on a plane of blackness.

“Why?” he asked. His voice
echoed, eventually joining the music that continued to permeate the dream. It
was warped and twisted and spat out with pitch.

“Why does one do anything?”
Therron asked. “Because it is fun. Because it is enjoyable.” He spoke so
coldly, so calmly, as if he were discussing nothing more than the day’s events.
“The sense of power you feel when you take another life, the sensation of joy
as you watch them take their final breaths. And that singular brilliant moment,
that last millisecond where they seem on the precipice of death. You think in
your mind they might take one last breath, or that they might fight back. You
think that maybe, just maybe, they might go on. But they don’t. They never do.”
Therron paused, breathing in the moment. “Their eyes go elsewhere, their chests
sink, and they begin to turn cold.”

It was like he was
describing a lover.

“It’s in that single
beautiful moment you feel real power, my friend.”

Rhene’s stomach churned.

“It’s when you enter their
mind, during their last minutes that the real fun begins. You can make a single
moment last an eternity in there. A single idea, kept in time. You can taste
their fear. Smell their hate for you. It is,” he breathed in and out slowly,
savouring the moment. He never finished the sentence, though.

Rhene could already feel
that when he’d wake he’d be out in a cold sweat. He was surprised no one had
tried to wake him. Surely he was tossing and turning in his bed, completely
incapable to sleep soundly.

“Now I will meet you again,
young Master Rhene,” said Therron. “I find you…interesting. And I want to know
more about the Dreamless’ movements. I will always find you. I can break most
barriers you attempt to put up.”

Rhene was paralysed now,
frozen to the dark space on which he stood.

“I’ll let you rest, my boy.”
He patted him on the shoulder with the hand that held the knife, allowing it to
come frightfully close to his face and his jugular. He felt the cold metal
scrape his neck. “Goodnight.”

And then he was gone. Rhene
was alone in the shadows. He stood there for a time—how long, he didn’t
know—but he was unable to move, unable to act.

He eventually pushed himself
back to the real world, back to his own body, where he woke suddenly. He was
sweating and shivering and had thrown all his blankets off himself. He rushed
to the wash basin in his room, turning on the faucet and letting it flow cold
water into the sink. He splashed it on his face, letting it sit there a moment
before he drew forth a second wave. He had to fight this heat that had overcome
him. He had to fight this heat.

The smell still seemed to
waft in his nose. That cologne! It made him sick. He smelled blood, its scent
metallic. He heard the vestigial notes of the lullaby, and he covered his ears
in an attempt to block it. But it was there, and so was the smell, and he
couldn’t escape it.

Eventually, he managed to
climb back into bed, the music having softened, the scent having faded. Soon,
he would be allowed to sleep peacefully; soon he would be able to rest.

He closed his eyes,
welcoming the darkness, and then he slept.

Adabelle took a quiet
afternoon to herself as an opportunity to visit the Oen’Aerei a second time. It
had been weeks, and yet she still heard nothing from Lady Morphier. She told
Charlotte of her movements before leaving, having decided that since she was
now completely aware of Therron, she deserved to be fully aware of everything.

She paused as she went to
leave, hand gripped to the doorknob.

“How would you like to come
with me?” Adabelle asked. “Do you have anything you have to do this morning?”

“I don’t have anything to
do,” Charlotte replied. “But…it’s Dreamers…it’s their school. I don’t think I’d
feel comfortable.”

Adabelle nodded in
understanding. “Well it’s up to you. I won’t make you, if you don’t want to,
but you can come if you want.”

This was a good distance
from which she could be involved, a safe distance. She’d know everything, but
she wouldn’t have to come into the fray.

So long as she can’t Dream,
she’s safe.

“I will come, actually,”
Charlotte said. “It’s time I was brave.”

“Very good,” Adabelle said.
“Well, grab your coat. It’s cold outside.”

Charlotte nodded, taking
down a red coat she had hanging in her wardrobe. It was bright crimson, with
dark lapels and seemed only slightly too small for her. Adabelle would have to
go and buy her a new one soon, if she kept growing as quickly as she was. She
was becoming, in all manners of the world, a beautiful young woman, and
Adabelle had to remember that. She was not a child any more.

All mothers have to let go
some day,
Adabelle thought.
The day will come.

“Right, well let’s go,”
Adabelle said, buttoning up her own blue coat as she went.

The wind blustered through
the streets of Odilla that morning, forcing Adabelle to hold onto her hat.
She’d almost considered leaving it at home, now that she knew what the weather
was like. But she was better off keeping it either way.

From the University, they
caught the tram to the Dreamer’s Bridge, stepping off a little way up to avoid
funny looks from the other passengers. The wind was even worse here, perhaps
from it being so much more open than deeper in the city. The river looked
slightly fuller than normal, too, suggesting rain on the horizon. It always
came down from the mountains before cascading upon the city.

They crossed the bridge
towards the House of the Oen’Aerei, Adabelle keeping Charlotte on her
peripheries. She looked a little awkward, approaching the House with a somewhat
reluctant gait.

“Are you all right?” she
asked as they finally arrived at the gates.

“Fine,” Charlotte replied.
“Just a little nervous is all.” She then paused. “I’m a little too old to be
holding your hand, aren’t I?”

Adabelle laughed, turning to
the gate and pressing the call box.

“Hello, we’re here to see
Lady Morphier.”

A crackly voice responded in
turn. “Do you have an appointment?”

Adabelle hesitated.
That’s
right. Mrs. Abeth made an appointment that time.
“No, but she knows me. My
name is Adabelle Blaise. I’m here with my sister, Charlotte.”

The crackly voice was silent
for a time. “I’m sorry but you need…” and then the voice trailed off. Through
the crackles, Adabelle could make out hushed voices. A woman’s. It sounded
regal and proud.

“Please enter,” said the
resigned voice. The gates swung open, and Adabelle began the walk up the drive.
The huge figure of Melréar stared down upon them from atop the haloed stag, and
somehow Adabelle felt judged.

A robed figure stepped out
from the small side door, the maroon robe billowing out behind him in waves and
bolts.

“Miss Blaise, Miss Blaise,”
he nodded to each of the girls in turn, “come with me.”

They followed him into the
building, Charlotte awed by the wonder of the main atrium.

“Now I must comment,” said
the man, as he began a brusque step up the stairwell. “To just turn up and
request an audience with Lady Morphier is rather…unorthodox, to say the least.
Next time, she requests that you please make an appointment. This time around,
she is happy to have the audience. She may not be so polite next time.”

By now, they were standing
before a door marked with the words LADY MORPHIER.

“She is expecting you,” the
man sighed, opening the door and allowing them in.

Lady Morphier sat behind an
enormous mahogany desk. The sheer size of it made Adabelle wonder how anyone
had been able to carry it, let alone put it together. She sat before them, her
grey hair held up high, the fawn around her neck seeming entirely dead and
alive all at once.

“Good morning, Adabelle,”
Lady Morphier said. “It is good to see you again. And this must be your
sister.”

“Charlotte,” Charlotte said,
voice quavering.

“Lovely to meet you,
Charlotte. I have to admit, the fact that you had a sister entirely slipped my
mind.”

“Indeed,” Adabelle replied.

“Please take a seat. Now
quickly, what did my attendant say on the way in?”

“Sorry?”

“About both of you arriving
and requesting an audience.”

Adabelle hesitated. “He said
next time we have to call ahead first.”

Lady Morphier laughed. It
seemed entirely too high pitched and loud. “Don’t be silly, girls. That is
utter poppycock. Visit whenever you wish! You are the daughters of the great
Therron Blaise; I can assure both of you I am happy to make time whenever you
wish.”

Adabelle smiled. “Well good,
thank you!”

Lady Morphier seemed to
settle back down into her seat. “Now what can I do for the both of you?”

“I just wanted to ask about
the investigation on my father. The police spoke to me and they seem to think
I’m at the centre of this big confusion. I’m a little worried, because I
haven’t heard anything at all.”

“Naturally,” Lady Morphier
said. “When anyone dies in suspicious circumstances, the authorities nearly
always turn first to the family, and then move on from there.”

Adabelle hesitated,
considering for a moment before she spoke. “But it’s not really suspicious
circumstances, is it? It was murder. My father
murdered
my cousin.”

“Innocent until proven
guilty,” Lady Morphier said, “and to answer your question, the investigation
continues in a rather…unexciting fashion. We’ve examined the books, questioned
the guards, and all of them are certain than anyone who went in or out signed
in and out as well.”

“A Dreamer couldn’t get in
through their minds?” asked Adabelle. “A Sturding, I mean.”

“Oh, Melréar no! They wear a
special band that they can’t take off. It seals their mind off.”

Adabelle nodded, not quite
understanding. “You said
seals
their mind off?”

“Well, if someone tried to
enter their mind, they would find a solid wall. No getting in, no getting out.
Just darkness. And all of the thoughts are locked in tight, too. No way for
them to dream.”

Adabelle turned for a moment
to Charlotte, who looked wholly confused. Adabelle’s knowing glance seemed
enough to comfort her sister, though.

“How does that…band work?”

“Well it’s a metal bracelet.
It wraps around their wrist and locks down. It’s too small to get off anyone’s
hand, though. It works on the principals of a mind lock. Essentially, a long
time ago, people could seal other people’s thoughts away using a thing called a
mind lock. One person would hold the thought, another person’s mind would be
the lock, and between the two they would keep it safe. It’s still occasionally
used in espionage.

“The problem is, the mind is
a very temperamental thing. You can’t just go stuffing it with thoughts and
locking them away; there are limits to that kind of power. People went insane
with the mess of other people’s thoughts in their heads. Just like you can’t
mix oil and water, so are our minds. Each person has a different…quality to
their thoughts. Some are vinegar, some are oil, some are water, some are soap,
and you can’t just mix all that together. So instead they made an item that can
just lock away thoughts. They’re unbreakable, and the person can’t remove it
without the key.” She reached down the front of her dress and pulled out a key
on a rope. “And I’m the only one with the key here.”

Adabelle nodded, staring
down at the key.

“And there’s no way for it
to be done anymore aside from the bracelet? The mindlock, I mean.” Adabelle
glanced again at Charlotte.

“Oh there’s theories, of
course, but nothing concrete,” she replied. “In this day and age, I don’t think
anyone would know how to create the mindlock that people once did. It was
forbidden knowledge in our Halls ever since Therron came through. It’s now the
bracelet or nothing else.”

Adabelle nodded, biting her
tongue. She didn’t want to press to hard on the matter, but she was suddenly
curious. If her sister’s mind was under one of these mindlocks, what could be
hidden within? Her curiosity got the better of her, and she spoke.

“I want to know,” Adabelle
said, “my little sister cannot dream. At all. Not even a stray thought as she’s
drifting off.”

“But that’s impossible,”
Lady Morphier said, looking genuinely surprised. “Everyone can dream. Everyone
has that right to do so. And a member of the Blaise family…well I’m surprised
you’re not all just Sturdings to begin with.”

“Well my sister cannot,” she
said, “and the other night I think we had a breakthrough. She had a momentary
dream? Just a second’s thought. But it happened. Is it possible for a person
to…I suppose…learn how to Dream. And to eventually reach steps above that.
Perhaps, become a proper Somnetii, or a Sturding.”

Lady Morphier rose from her
seat, closing her eyes for a moment. Adabelle’s gaze was drawn to the fawn
about her neck. It seemed to shift slightly.

“It’s possible for people to
do countless wondrous things with the boundaries of reality. And it’s very true
that Dreaming is like any muscle in the body. It takes training and skill to
develop. I seem to remember, the few times I spoke with your father, he didn’t
seem to understand that. He was born with an innate skill. He could move in his
Sturding state all over the place before most could walk. He expected that of
most people. I think if he could see you today, he’d expect Sturdings of both
of you.” She laughed quietly to herself. “Only the other day we discovered
another Sturding. He’d never been able to do much with the Dream. He was quite
good at bringing the Dreams together, and entering other minds, but he was
rarely able to hold onto it for too long. And then, snap! He brings out a
flower from the Dream Frequencies. That’s usually how it happens. A single
event that demands them break the rules, and then they themselves just…evolve.”

“Really?” Adabelle asked.
“People can do that.”

“Well, Sturdings can. It
usually takes practice, and he was lucky too. The wrong person makes the wrong
move, and it’s into Oblivion they go. But if a Sturding has the right skill in
place, he can bring Dreamed objects out of the dream. Works best with
non-organic matter, of course. The flower died in minutes; straight to ash. But
the point is he did it.”

Adabelle nodded, not sure if
she understood complete. “So if I tried to bring something out of the Dream
Frequencies?”

“Then you’d drop into
Oblivion. You’d cease to exist, and that would be that.”

She then paused, thinking
deeply.

“And what about my father.
If he is truly limited to Dreams, what would happen if I tried to bring him
out?”

Lady Morphier’s expression
darkened, but only for a moment. With that passing shadow came concern and
uncertainty.

“I don’t know, to be honest.
A person can only really die in this world; no one can really die in Dreams,
unless they’re Sturdings of course. But your father is entirely of the Dream
now. I suspect you’d have to bring him out of the Dream to kill him. Anything
else would be ineffective. He’s just a dream, after all. No physical
manifestation whatsoever.”

My cousin has a cut on her
body proving otherwise,
she thought, but she didn’t voice it.

“But the Dream Frequencies
are a rather finicky place anyway. I wouldn’t risk any experimentation. What I
think you should focus on is the fact of your sister here.” She turned to
Charlotte, and it seemed the fawn around her neck did, too. What was it about
that skinned creature that made it seem so alive?

“Tell me, Charlotte,” Lady
Morphier said, sitting back down, leaning on her hands, “have you been unable
to dream for a long while?”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied,
slightly hesitant to talk. She quickly glanced at Adabelle, who nodded
reassuringly.

“For as long as you can
remember?”