‘Our vision-singers had the same dream, Mother Fast,’ said Bern the Younger. Aldasair did not ask how they already knew each other – Bern seemed to be the sort of person who became well known in a very short amount of time. ‘And believe me, they’ve been shitting stones over it. But I am no healer!’ He grinned again. ‘There are more coming every day, and this city needs to be ready. I can help with that, at least. The healing of a god, well, I will leave that to your good self.’
Aldasair couldn’t be sure, but he thought the look Bern shot Mother Fast was a challenging one, and certainly she pulled a face like she was chewing on something bitter. All at once keeping up with how the humans communicated with each other was too much to bear; he lifted a hand to rub at his forehead and saw that his fingers were trembling. He hoped that Bern hadn’t noticed.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, straining to keep his voice steady. ‘There are things I must see to in the palace.’
He turned away from them, his head down so that he might avoid being overwhelmed by their endless questions – but not quite fast enough to miss the concern in Bern the Younger’s eyes. Keeping his back straight and walking slowly, Aldasair strode back across the plaza, promising himself a room full of silence, with just the tarla cards to read.
Hestillion was in the netherdark. The light was all around her, continually moving away and then back into her range, and she half pictured it as a startled bird, one not quite brave enough to settle on a permanent perch. She chased it, constantly trying to stay within its warmth and light; when she was there she could almost feel how Ebora had been. How it could be again.
‘Talk to me, Ygseril,’ she said, trying not to sound desperate or demanding. ‘I know you are there. You do not have to hide from me.’
Silence. Hestillion was aware of the weight of the dream-roots around her, and very distantly, her physical body asleep next to the trunk of Ygseril. She had locked the doors from the inside, so that she could have this time alone. Aldasair hadn’t understood why she wanted to be alone, but then it had been many decades since Aldasair had understood anything at all. For days now she had spent every spare moment here, chasing the light. The plan could change, and the humans could wait; Hestillion had important work to do.
‘Ygseril. Please.’
The light grew, and Hestillion had the strangest sensation of something pushing, a membrane breaking, and then a cold wave that swept from her feet up to the top of her head.
You will not leave.
For a moment, Hestillion was lost. The shock was too great – she was a shed leaf, buffeted away from father-branch – and she thought she would be swallowed by it. Instead, she took hold of everything that she thought of as herself, and held it fast. The voice. The voice was real. It was soft and genderless, made more of thought than sound, existing as it did in the netherdark.
‘No, Ygseril, I will not leave.’ She swallowed down the tears. ‘I will never leave you, not me. I knew, I knew you were not truly gone.’
What do you want?
Too many things to say. Hestillion was conscious of how delicate this connection was. Despite their physical proximity she was stretched to the very limit of her dream-walking, as deep as anyone could go without slipping into a permanent sleep, and the presence she felt was as soft as a shadow across skin. The smallest thing could break this link.
‘To speak with you. To know how I can help.’
Help?
‘Of course, Ygseril. Anything. Ebora –’ Hestillion swallowed, aware this could be too much – ‘Ebora needs you.’
Silence, and a shift in the tone of the light.
‘Ygseril?’
You would give your help freely?
‘Lord, in our ignorance we thought you had died. I would do anything to bring you back. Anything you require.’
Silence again. It was as if the great tree needed time to coalesce its thoughts after so many centuries of silence.
Dead. Was it her imagination, or did the god sound amused? Not dead. Waiting.
‘Waiting for what?’ asked Hestillion eagerly. Something was holding Ygseril back, she could tell that much. ‘If I can give you what you need, I will.’
You are special. The shape of your mind. How it flits. Such a clever little shape.
Hestillion folded herself over, keeping the flare of joy inside lest it startle or embarrass Ygseril.
‘I seek only to renew your glory for all of Ebora.’
A special child, continued the voice. It almost sounded dreamy now, distant. So determined, so stubborn. You are willing to use everything you have, aren’t you? Regardless of the cost, you would see your Ebora revived.
Edging closer to the light-voice, Hestillion nodded. ‘It is all I have dreamed of, great tree-god, all my long life.’
And yet my roots are still rigid with cold and death. For all your efforts, I am still a corpse.
Hestillion’s stomach fluttered.
‘Tell me what I can do.’ She tried to sound confident, but a memory of how small she was here, and how dark it was, flickered at the edges of her mind. ‘How can I bring you to life, great one?’ More silence, so she tried a different approach. ‘Perhaps, if you told me what happened at the end of the Eighth Rain – if you told me what did this to you, I could help.’
No. The voice was no longer a nervous bird; it was an iron door, closed tight. Small flitting mind, let me sleep. Make my roots thirst and stretch again, if you can, but let me sleep.
Hestillion let the silence grow. She did not want to go back to the palace, with all its problems of diplomacy and who was eating what where. Not yet.
‘I have summoned the world to our gates to save you, Ygseril,’ she said eventually. ‘They have brought healers and mystics, men and women of alchemy. They are eager to help, all of them. Perhaps they can make your roots thirst again.’
Concentrating, aware that she was performing for her god, she dream-crafted the scene in the central plaza as it had been earlier that morning: the teeming caravans and tents, the long tables laden with food, the humans walking and talking and eating. She brought every inch of her dream-walker skill to the vision, crafting the watery sun in the pale sky, the mud from hundreds of boots that had been dragged across the shining stones.
‘Ebora,’ she said, ‘has not been so lively in centuries.’
How did you make them come?
‘I spun a lie for them, Ygseril, and I sent it out into the netherdark. A special dream, for especially receptive minds. I told them that the Jure’lia, the old enemy, were coming back, and without Ebora they would all perish. Without you and the war-beasts born amongst your branches, Sarn will fall to the worm people in a single turn of the true moon.’
The voice did not reply immediately. Instead, the soft light increased in brightness, flickering oddly. Hestillion recoiled, holding fast to the netherdark to stop herself from jolting awake. When the voice did speak again, it sounded different.
You extraordinary creature, it said. Such a thing to think, such a confection to craft. The light faded, and then came back. It seemed to hang over Hestillion like a shroud, and for the first time she felt like she was being truly observed. Tell me again, who you are.
‘I am your servant, the Lady Hestillion, of the Eskt family, born in the year of the green bird.’