Bern tugged at his beard, obviously concerned, but inclined his head. ‘Soon, I hope.’
With no more than that, Hestillion was dragging him back across the gardens, her bare hand an icy cuff on his arm. He hissed questions at her, but she just shook her head, and eventually he simply let her lead him back to the Hall of Roots. Inside, there were lamps burning just around the thick trunk of Ygseril. As they approached the twisted landscape of the god’s roots, Aldasair saw that there were some items spread out by the trunk – a thick embroidered blanket, a bowl full of something half congealed, a bottle of wine, mostly untouched. It looked as though Hestillion had made camp here. When he followed her up onto the roots, he noticed that the hem of her robe was stained, and again he felt that shiver of unease.
‘Hestillion, you should leave it alone,’ he said, glancing up at the branches as he spoke. The glass roof was full of lilac light as night shaded into day. ‘I thought you wanted people to come here, so that we would get help. We have so many people here now, Hest, and they all have opinions and demands and they all want something else to eat or they don’t want sleeping quarters near someone else, because their great-grandfathers were once on opposing sides of a battle, and they all want to know what’s happening in here—’
‘Be quiet. Do you remember dream-walking, Aldasair? Do you remember how to do it?’
‘That’s what you brought me here for?’
She took his hand suddenly, glaring at him, and squeezed it until he gasped with pain.
‘You are so much brighter than you were, Aldasair. So much more aware. It’s being around people that did that. Your mind was softening, being torn into shreds of rotting silk, but I brought people here and now you are getting better.’ She squeezed his hand again. ‘I did that for you. Now do this for me.’
He blinked and sat down next to her, looking carefully at his own feet. He remembered very well how he had once sat for hours, days even, without speaking. How the sun and the shadows chased each other through the window, and none of it mattered, and down the corridor somewhere there was the distant sound of someone coughing themselves to death. He did not want to go back to that silent place.
‘I want to show you something,’ Hestillion was saying. ‘I wasn’t going to yet, but I think perhaps, if there’s more than one of us, he might respond better. That perhaps that is the key.’ She took hold of his chin and made him look at her. ‘Go into the netherdark, find me there, and follow me. Can you do that?’
Aldasair nodded solemnly, and closed his eyes. He had never been especially good at dream-walking, and hadn’t cultivated an interest in it – dream-walking wasn’t like painting, after all. The visions you conjured while dreaming were gone when you woke, never to be recovered. But he was certainly capable of the basics. Relaxing his body, he sent himself down, down into the netherdark, and quickly found Hestillion there. In that place she was more light than person; the sort of light that glitters on broken things.
Good, she said. Now follow me down. We will have to go a long way, but you mustn’t doubt me.
She dived, slipping down away from him, and he followed after. Very soon he was aware of being in a place where the darkness pressed in around him, and although he couldn’t see anything, the netherdark felt dense, thick with pressure. It was uncomfortable, but Hestillion kept slipping down, and so he followed, wondering what she could possibly want to show him.
Once or twice, the light that was Hestillion stopped, turning and flitting, and Aldasair began to suspect that something was wrong. She put on a sudden burst of speed then, and he had to struggle to keep up with her, and then she stopped, rounding on him with a sudden flare of anger.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded. ‘Why can I not find him again?’ And then, before he could reply, ‘It is your fault! You are not worthy!’
Aldasair opened his mouth to reply. He did not like to speak in the netherdark.
‘But Hest—’
‘No!’ To his horror, Hestillion abruptly seemed on the verge of tears. She pushed at him with a force that wasn’t quite physical, and suddenly they were both sitting on the roots again, the bottle of wine lying on its side next to them. ‘Get out!’
‘Hestillion—’
‘I said get out! The Hall of Roots is not for you. If I have lost him because . . . Leave!’
Aldasair scrambled to his feet, more afraid of the naked sorrow on his cousin’s face than her angry words. He stumbled across the roots, moving awkwardly on faintly numb legs, until the wine bottle sailed past him and smashed on the marble floor. He moved faster after that.
You would bring another to speak to me?
Hestillion’s heart thundered in her chest, bringing her back to an awareness she had almost lost. She had been drifting in the netherdark for hours, convinced she had ruined everything, but the soft diffuse light of Ygseril’s dreaming mind had returned. She let herself be warmed by it, almost ashamed at her childish joy.
‘Aldasair is my cousin, Ygseril. He hasn’t been well, but he has a kind soul. He would want only to help you. I thought – surely you wish to speak to your children once more?’
The light faded a touch. Hestillion held herself as still as she could, holding down the panic that threatened to flood her chest. But the presence of Ygseril stayed with her.
No. Only you. My special, strange child. There are things that I can trust only you with. We feel that strongly.
‘I – Lord, I am honoured.’ There were so many questions, but Hestillion forced them all from her mind. They had clearly done something to lose Ygseril’s trust. It was now her responsibility to win it back. ‘Whatever you wish of me.’
The light did fade then, but Hestillion felt a warmth from it that she hadn’t felt before, and she knew that in some form, Ygseril had expressed his approval. Fighting back up through the netherdark, she awoke stiff and cold, crouched on the roots.
‘My responsibility,’ she said, stroking the twisted bark. ‘My responsibility, alone.’
38
Tor stamped his feet on the ground, trying to force some warmth back into them while Noon began making their fire. It was certainly faster to travel by bat, he had to admit that, but it was neither comfortable nor warm. After several hours in the air his face felt like a rigid mask, the numbness all the worse on the damaged side, and his burned arm ached abominably from clutching at the reins. He shot a faintly resentful look at the great black bat they had retrieved from the Winnowry agent; it was snuffling and stretching its wings awkwardly, making ready to hunt for the night. Fulcor, the bat who had followed Noon from the Winnowry, and had been summoned once more by her whistle, had already gone.