comfortable as I could given the lumps in the mattress and the knots of tension in my shoulders. It took a significant effort of will to close my eyes and several minutes before I was able to find the discipline and concentration necessary to summon my construct- Mélusine.
The briars were still there, exactly as I had dreamed them. I stayed carefully to the center of the clear space; I didn’t want to know if their ability to move, their aggression were real, too.
Insofar as any of this was “real,” of course, a question that was so far from having a satisfactory answer that I wasn’t even sure it had a satisfactory question .
But looking at them now, I thought I recognized these briars. They were nothing native to the swamps and farmlands surrounding Mélusine, and for a moment I couldn’t place them, beyond that nagging sense of familiarity. But then I leaned, very cautiously, just close enough to see the red cast to the vines, and I knew where I’d seen them before: in the Khloïdanikos, in a ring around an enormous and ancient oak, where I’d put Malkar’s rubies for reasons that . . . had seemed compelling at the time. And although Horn Gate, the doorway between this construct and the Khloïdanikos, was closed, the briars were here, shutting me in as effectively as would walls of brick. Yes, something was definitely wrong, and why was I not surprised to find Malkar at the root of it? So to speak.
I thought I saw a wisp of smoke rising lazily from the briars around Chalcedony Gate, but when I turned my head, there was nothing there.
I realized my heart was hammering against my ribs; I’d spooked myself, and given the nature of oneiromancy and dream- constructs, there was every chance that if I stayed, I would start a fire simply by being afraid of one.
I broke my trance with no little relief and sat up. I wasn’t going to find an answer that way; the allegories of dreaming were too overwhelming— like trying to solve a maze from inside it and while being pursued by wild alligators to boot. “Wild allegories,” I said under my breath and almost managed to smile at the conceit. On the other hand, I had no objection to allegories as long as I had some control over them. I stood up and got the Sibylline out of the box in my coat pocket.
I settled myself cross- legged on the bed and shuffled the cards until their energy cleared, then cut the deck and laid out a proper nine- card spread on the quilt. I mostly didn’t bother, not caring for the divinatory properties Mavortian von Heber had so greatly valued, but to night the ritual might be as much help as the cards themselves. Asking what was wrong with my dreams was essentially the same as asking what was wrong with me, and I knew more answers to that than I wanted to. I hoped structuring the reading might give some structure to what it told me.
Nine cards in a spiral, working widdershins out from the center, all facedown. That last wasn’t part of Mavortian’s teaching, but something I’d picked up from reading about the diviners of Imar Elchevar, who used bone tablets engraved with runes.
I was staring at the backs of the Sibylline cards, half laughing at myself for being so afraid of them and half just trying to work up the courage to turn over the center card, when the door opened and Mildmay came in.
“Oh, it’s you. Much luck?”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
“Do you cheat?”
“Don’t have to.”
He tugged the black hair ribbon free; unraveling from its braid, his hair hung in kinked russet strands to the middle of his back. My fingers yearned to touch it, but I kept them still. He took off his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat, placing them neatly over mine. He sat down on the other side of the bed and took off his boots and socks, then lay down on his back, his hands laced behind his head. “So,” he said, “you got Mavortian’s cards out.”
An unnecessary observation: Mildmay’s way of saying he forgave me for our altercation.
He turned his
The briars were still there, exactly as I had dreamed them. I stayed carefully to the center of the clear space; I didn’t want to know if their ability to move, their aggression were real, too.
Insofar as any of this was “real,” of course, a question that was so far from having a satisfactory answer that I wasn’t even sure it had a satisfactory question .
But looking at them now, I thought I recognized these briars. They were nothing native to the swamps and farmlands surrounding Mélusine, and for a moment I couldn’t place them, beyond that nagging sense of familiarity. But then I leaned, very cautiously, just close enough to see the red cast to the vines, and I knew where I’d seen them before: in the Khloïdanikos, in a ring around an enormous and ancient oak, where I’d put Malkar’s rubies for reasons that . . . had seemed compelling at the time. And although Horn Gate, the doorway between this construct and the Khloïdanikos, was closed, the briars were here, shutting me in as effectively as would walls of brick. Yes, something was definitely wrong, and why was I not surprised to find Malkar at the root of it? So to speak.
I thought I saw a wisp of smoke rising lazily from the briars around Chalcedony Gate, but when I turned my head, there was nothing there.
I realized my heart was hammering against my ribs; I’d spooked myself, and given the nature of oneiromancy and dream- constructs, there was every chance that if I stayed, I would start a fire simply by being afraid of one.
I broke my trance with no little relief and sat up. I wasn’t going to find an answer that way; the allegories of dreaming were too overwhelming— like trying to solve a maze from inside it and while being pursued by wild alligators to boot. “Wild allegories,” I said under my breath and almost managed to smile at the conceit. On the other hand, I had no objection to allegories as long as I had some control over them. I stood up and got the Sibylline out of the box in my coat pocket.
I settled myself cross- legged on the bed and shuffled the cards until their energy cleared, then cut the deck and laid out a proper nine- card spread on the quilt. I mostly didn’t bother, not caring for the divinatory properties Mavortian von Heber had so greatly valued, but to night the ritual might be as much help as the cards themselves. Asking what was wrong with my dreams was essentially the same as asking what was wrong with me, and I knew more answers to that than I wanted to. I hoped structuring the reading might give some structure to what it told me.
Nine cards in a spiral, working widdershins out from the center, all facedown. That last wasn’t part of Mavortian’s teaching, but something I’d picked up from reading about the diviners of Imar Elchevar, who used bone tablets engraved with runes.
I was staring at the backs of the Sibylline cards, half laughing at myself for being so afraid of them and half just trying to work up the courage to turn over the center card, when the door opened and Mildmay came in.
“Oh, it’s you. Much luck?”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
“Do you cheat?”
“Don’t have to.”
He tugged the black hair ribbon free; unraveling from its braid, his hair hung in kinked russet strands to the middle of his back. My fingers yearned to touch it, but I kept them still. He took off his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat, placing them neatly over mine. He sat down on the other side of the bed and took off his boots and socks, then lay down on his back, his hands laced behind his head. “So,” he said, “you got Mavortian’s cards out.”
An unnecessary observation: Mildmay’s way of saying he forgave me for our altercation.
He turned his
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