CHAPTER 22Vespa was in the chamber again, looking for the thing she couldn’t remember. This time was different, though. There was someone with her. Or rather, there was someone already there. It was as if she was invisible, watching.
A man dressed in rich robes came down the stairs. Torchlight sparkled along the embroidered scales of dragons like Tianlong on his sleeves. Vespa sensed that he was a great lord or king. He was carrying something. Vespa went closer, and gasped when she saw what he held.
A young boy, perhaps Arlen’s age. He was just as richly dressed as the king, but he wasn’t breathing.
The king carried him to a great sarcophagus, which was painted with Tinker letters and symbols. Vespa couldn’t read most of them, though she was intrigued by a prominent symbol at the very center of it. It looked much like the emblem of the Ineffable Watchmaker, a winged clockface. But the clock formed the abdomen of a scarab beetle.
The king set the boy’s body into the tomb. He was weeping.
“Sleep well, my son. I entrust my army to you, that they may fight better for you in the next life than they did in this. And when my time is done, then we shall be together again.”
He took a key-shaped pendant from around his neck and placed it around the boy’s. He took a cuff from his wrist and slid it over the boy’s as well. All Vespa could see of it was a flash of gold and brass.
The king kissed the boy on his forehead and slid the sarcophagus lid over him.
Then she watched his form shimmer as he took the shape of a black wolf. He circled the tomb three times before lying down in front of it. He looked out over what Vespa now realized must be a burial chamber, and it was as though he saw her, for his gaze pierced her heart.
She gasped and heard herself cry out. The last thing she saw before her eyes flew open was those amber eyes boring into her own.
The dream disturbed Vespa so deeply that all she wanted was to get out of the palace. She wanted to be in the sun and wind for a while, even if the weather was growing increasingly cold.
She took two books with her—the dream book and the palace history—and decided to scout out a spot. She walked briskly through the halls, marveling at their architecture. It was hard to believe Ximu had built this herself. How the great beast must have labored (or had her servants labor)! She caught herself almost admiring her.
At last she found a small sunken courtyard with a pleasant fountain. The day had progressed sufficiently enough that the stones were warm, and they held in the heat so that it almost felt like the end of summer rather than mid-autumn.
Vespa had hoped to find a spot like this where she could study and practice her magic, and especially after such a vivid dream, it seemed she needed badly to do both. The dream book was again less than helpful. It suggested that those who dreamed of a scarabeus were on the verge of a new life. It said nothing about the Ineffable Watchmaker, of course, or a king mourning a dead prince.
The history book was a bit dense. There were long passages loosely translated from the Tinker language that, based on her lessons with Syrus, she wasn’t sure were correct. She’d need to see if he could help her understand it; she knew she wasn’t very gifted at the Tinker language.
The sadness of the dream still filled Vespa’s mind. She decided to try magic instead. A proposition no less frustrating than trying to understand her dreams, she was sure, but certainly something in the here and now.
She wished she could figure out why her magic was so unreliable. Why one day did it seem to serve well and then another not at all? Why did it do that sometimes even from moment to moment?
Vespa had no idea, but perhaps working at what was hardest would be best. She felt she was weakest at illusion, so she started there.
Water was malleable, much more than stone, of course, so she tried shaping something from it. Perhaps a mermaid. She stared hard at it, pulling and stretching at the shape like it was putty. Eyes, nose, fish tail . . .
Someone laughed behind her, and it was as if she’d been plunged into the River again.
All the water splashed back into the basin.
She looked round, chagrined.
“You’ll never get it that way, you know, Miss Nyx,” Charles said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because you’re starting off with things that are far too difficult.”
Vespa frowned. “I don’t see why it matters to you.”
He stepped into the garden. “Well, I suppose it really doesn’t. Except that I hate to pass up the opportunity to help.”
“Yes, we’ve seen how helpful you’ve been in the past.”
Charles sighed and sat down. “Why can’t you let the past go? Surely you’ve seen by now that I have only the best of intentions. I always did. They just got twisted somehow.”
“Oh?” she said.
He ignored her sarcasm and reached for the end of a vine that hung near him.
“Watch,” he said.
Charles stared at the vine but only for a moment. Then he looked up at her and smiled. Nothing seemed to have happened, except that when she looked again, the tip of the vine had burst into full bloom. The scarlet trumpets nodded against his fingertips.
He stood. “Start with what is already there. The blossom is within the vine. You have only to make the vine realize that. It is harder to make water realize it should go into a shape that it was never meant to be. You would need something much more powerful—a focusing device—in order to accomplish that. Master that which seems easy before trying something that is hard. And realize at some point that you may need help.”
Vespa stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Good day, Miss Nyx,” he said.
And then he was gone again, bent on goodness knew what errand.
Vespa waited a while to make sure she was alone again.
Then she went to the opposite end of the arbor and worked at making the vine blossom.