They had gone mad—the church. Ivory panted, attempting to call upon that caster dominance over their very minds. It failed her, not because Saedon was some important part of her life; if anything, his death likely stole their puppet ruler from the leeches. Rhaena cared little for the throne.
No, her fear came from a realization.
It was here.
That war.
That chaos Argon and Samara once spoke of.
It had finally arrived.
Rule us, but don't let us know about it. That was the motto—the tiny thread that held this frigid society together. What did they want to achieve by bringing war? To light the fire?
Yes, the church was powerful, perhaps stronger than any one clan. But united? United, no force in Enor could stand against the Order of the Clans. That was a fact. Thus, this was simply insanity.
Ivory offered a defiant gaze. "You will die for that!"
"Would I?" The boy smiled. "Princess, do look at your mother."
She did. And she froze.
By the lords above, Mother was calm. Yes, Samara existed as the perfect form of pragmatism, but even she tended to react differently to things. Especially to those who sought to bring ruin to the clan. Yet, here they were: the bringers of ruin standing before the clan, bringing pain. And Mother? She did nothing.
"What have you done to Mother?" Her tone was far colder than expected. She could slit the throat of this child without a single tear shed. "Answer me, what have you done?"
"Just a simple trick of the silverAssurer."
Ivory glanced at the boy. "You are a silverAssurer."
"Ding ding," he smiled. "So, alongside your clan, I suppose your mother is also a hostage."
"You will burn for that!" she threatened. "The other clans... they will hear of this."
"How?"
"What?"
He grinned. "How would they hear of it?"
"I would—"
"What?" the boy interrupted. "You would tell them of a death."
"Yes."
"What death?"
Ivory twitched. "What are you talking about? You killed him!"
"A mere darkCrown!"
What is he?
Ivory looked down at the box. There was a difference. There, she saw it. A dark-haired man. Completely so. Pale, rough skin and tattered lips. Nothing at all like the brightCrown she had seen.
Terror flooded her heart. "You're taking Saedon."
"From your minds, yes," he nodded. "Quite soon, no one in Valor will remember him at all."
"That's not possible." She stood abruptly, flashing a desperate eye at Mother. "We have saints, we have castWares, we have wards!"
"Yes." The boy closed the box. "And the church remains pleased that you believe such things can protect you."
Something skittered into her mind. She felt it—a newness bouncing, and skipping, and flowing through her memories. Her eyes went wild.
"STOP!" She looked to Mother. "Make him stop!"
The boy handed the box to the Gresendant Sister. "Sorry, but for now, your mother is also not here. She made quite a fuss when Saedon was killed."
Who?
"So I had to alter certain things. Her memories. But alas, the real her will return. Just not that particular memory. Just one of me killing a darkCrown who had offered me the poorest of services."
"Stop!"
Ivory turned her gaze backward, toward the door. Safety. That was all she needed. She needed to be away from here. Without her memories, without a sense of what had been done here, the Church would escape with their sin.
That needed rectification.
She staggered forward. "Saedon is my cousin, brother to Rhaena, son to Aunt Illenna, nephew to Argon of Valor," she repeated. "Saedon is my... friend to Rhaena, nephew to Aunt Illenna, attendant to Argon."
She gritted her teeth, reaching sluggishly for the door. "Saedon is my attendant, friend to Rhaena, lover to Aunt Illenna, unknown to Argon..."
Please, no! She repeated it again and again and again. And with each time, the words changed. She could feel it. She was unsure how exactly they changed, but they did.
Somebody help!
There was nothing.
She could see the door now, just a few more steps. Just a few more. Yet, the memories were changing too fast. She would not make it. The church would escape.
And with nothing else to do but drown in this effect, ivory clenched her fists and called out from deep within. "I AM!"
And the world went dark. Silence came and dawned in her awareness. She had fainted. She knew that much. She had failed, too... the church would steal now from her. And they would escape with victory.
She hated that. She hated that very much.
Why can't they…just for once, fail?
Suddenly, a voice snapped into the darkness. It was cold, mocking, with a childish quality to it.
"Seriously? It's barely been an hour since this organization was formed, and you already need its help?" The child seemed to chuckle. "Wow, look at that!" she exclaimed. "What amateur did you allow to play around in your mind? They really made a mess of it."
A smacking sound rocked the darkness.
"At this point, you could wake up thinking you are a giraffe. Also, what's a giraffe, and why is it in your memory? Lords, it's total mistsense. It's like having Discord without actually having it. Sigh. Well, I suppose it's time I got to work."
And that was the last speck of awareness she managed before plunging into the nothingness. But there was hope still—hope in the Days of the Dreaming.
—-
Merrin watched the child work.
Her eyes were closed, a faint translucent swirl of MindForce flowing outward from her. That much he knew. If anything, he was astonished by the speed of her reaction. In an instant, when the awareness of Ivory's plea had come into his mind, Wednesday had moved to action. Somehow, she had sensed it too—most likely a lingering effect of her brief connection with the Dreaming.
She had used it well, offering aid before him. She seemed to have embraced this group thing. He was unsure whether to accept that or question it. After all, barely a total hour ago, she had attempted to rob him.
What a life it was, to live with your thief!
He heaved a silent breath, closed his eyes, and issued a silent order to the Ardent. They would hear him; the connection was there, and the bird would know what was desired.
It was simple, really. If Miss Wednesday attempts to do anything odd, kill her!
Of course, he was unsure how effective the creatures would be, given that she had previously turned them into toys. However, he hoped that whatever failsafe existed in the Dreaming would be a match for her. That was the only surety that held him strong.
For now, Merrin weaved the beads into an image of himself seated on the throne. For now, I need to make real what the Days of the Dreaming are.
He surged with internal force, flaring his awareness... and he searched. He searched through his Ardents, through the countless that were scattered throughout the world.
He searched, and searched, and searched.
And he found. There, he found a woman, a mother, a person with a dream.
Now, she needs to sleep!
"Play your roles, you damned Shapeless things. Play your roles as you feed on us, and bathe in the blood of our sacrifices. You are gods, are you not? Give us a bountiful harvest."— Written plea of a farmer from one of the Redstone's islands.
Ava was her name. Her mother had called her that, but her father preferred Avalon. He was dead now—everyone was dead now. The fumes and heat of the world were rather intense when you had no Froststones to keep you cold. Those that did, like her flickering one, were barely useful.
Ava wiped the beaded sweat off her forehead. She could feel the heat breathing against the field of the froststones, ever searching for some way into her body to burn and scorch her. That was what it wanted. Some days, when the hours were hard, she contemplated the relief of that moment—of that very instant when the flames consumed her body.
She had seen it countless times in these streets. This was Bolt, one of the Free Cities—the first one, in fact, formally known as Hightown, the Great City of Wishes.
She scoffed, folding a rather depreciated cloth into an elegant square. Her eyes moved left, staring down the sleek yet cracked floors, the scarce, square, buzzing lamps embedded into the ground. There were bodies around, lying there—some charred dead, others still steaming. She had seen such things many times.
"The City of Wishes, my ass!" she cursed.
Perhaps, in the beginning, the city was something unique, back when the Ravens of the House of Black were quite active. But they were no more. They existed, yes, but with little action on Bolt now. Maybe they didn't care anymore. After all, for all the talk of independence from the theocracy, the Free Cities were often worse than the barbarians.
A man fell before her, his lips blue, eyes rolled back, his face smeared with a fine white powder.
Moss!
At least Bolt had something going for it. It was, in essence, the greatest maker of Moss in all of Eastos.
"Thanks to Popurie and Wheatshire fields," Ava mocked.