“Thanks to the records Livia and the Farthingers found in the ale hall, we have the proof we need to substantiate Lady Sindra Twyne’s treachery and hunt down her associates.” Minister Durst props himself against his desk and surveys the small team assembled in his office. “We arrested her last night, and she confessed to her conspiracy. She said she’s been working with the Commandant to overthrow the Emperor and conquer parts of Farthing as well. The girl, Martine, is her daughter with the original Commandant, and it is her deepest wish to see our two cultures united, as they are in her daughter’s blood.”
Vera crinkles her nose. “What a load of rubbish.”
“What about Nightmare?” I ask. “Trying to resurrect him?”
Durst shakes his head; the shadows under his eyes look even deeper than usual. “She seemed to know nothing about it. Swore up and down that she didn’t even believe in the Dreamer, much less Nightmare. Went on some rant about the Iron Winds as her new religion now—the Commandant as her god and savior of all mankind, and that his forces would be victorious over Barstadt and all the other realms.”
My throat constricts; the dark skull of Nightmare from my dreams looms in my mind. “No. No. She told me, when I was her daughter. I’m sure of what she said.”
Durst glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “Livia, my dear, I don’t doubt what you heard. But our interrogators are quite skilled, and she was more than willing to admit to far more serious things that guaranteed her a death sentence. Without further evidence, we can’t make a case for it. It’s too impossible to believe that Nightmare could be brought back to life—we have no proof.”
Edina Alizard, pen poised over a bound journal, leans forward in her chair. “When do we expect the execution to take place?”
“The Emperor is pushing for this evening.” Durst holds his hands up against our protests. “I know, I know. That isn’t nearly enough time to pursue further questioning. But he wants a swift example made of her, and she’s been quite forthcoming with everything we’ve asked. We would need an extremely good reason to convince him to delay.”
“It just smells off. Like the fish market after Tremmer’s month.” Brandt wrings his hands in his lap; I press my palm to his knee without thinking, but quickly pull it away. “She’s too proud and stubborn to surrender so easily. What’s her angle?”
“‘The face of death makes cowards of us all,’” Edina says, then looks down at her notes, cheeks coloring. “Sorry. One of my father’s sayings.”
Vera had been slumped against the wall farthest from Edina, but at that, she shoves off the wall with a roll of her eyes. “And what does your father say about traitors? I imagine the Alizard family knows all about being promise-breaking little—”
Brandt forces a loud cough, cutting Vera off. “What about this other plan of the Commandant’s? With the mystic?” he asks.
Minister Durst pinches his nose. “Again, she’s professed an irritatingly convincing ignorance on that front. She claims to know very little at all about the Commandant’s plans.”
“But she’s too smart,” Brandt says. “I’m certain there’s something more.”
“Well, we have agents watching her servants and known associates day and night, but there’s no indication a raven’s been sent, or anything else.”
“Did the Farthingers turn up any other leads in the logs we recovered from the ale house?” I ask. “Beyond confirming her dealings in the Land of the Iron Winds.”
“They’re still researching it, last we spoke, but nothing solid thus far.” Durst sighs. “Enough to give credence to her admission of colluding with the Commandant, but naught else.”
There must be some key element we aren’t factoring in. She couldn’t possibly have conducted this plan for five years or more without assistance from other aristocrats, could she? She’d named no names, assuming all responsibility herself. “There must be others she’s protecting,” I say, though my voice falters, betraying my uncertainty. “She’s speaking freely so that we keep our focus on her, instead of casting a wider net.”
“I considered that as well, but she insists she worked alone, with minimal help from sailors and the like to arrange her voyages to the Land. And we’ve no evidence, no shred of proof this extends any further into Barstadt.” Minister Durst leans back against his desk and presses knobby fingers to his temples. “All we have is the word of a traitor against … nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Vera groans; Brandt’s shoulders tense beside me. Edina’s pen taps frantically against her teeth.
I study the minister’s map of Barstadt and her neighbors, and Marez’s check marks copied onto it. “The maps. Did Marez and Kriza find any links between them and Lady Twyne’s trades?”
Minister Durst scoops up a scrap of paper from his desk. “Yes, let me show what our precious alliance has won us. In addition to a hefty bill for damages dealt to the Shanty Ale Hall, we found no records to indicate that the Lady Twyne and the Commandant of the Land of the Iron Winds had smuggled any arms, advance guards, horses, or other elements of war into Barstadt. However, the map you all recovered from the manager’s office indicates that the plans for such an operation had been made. The map marked House Twyne’s estate at the northeast corner of the city, along Nightmare’s Spine, and the archeological site south of Birnau in the Land of the Iron Winds.”
“Oh!” Edina exclaims. “We received a report earlier this morning about Birnau. A dispatch from one of our sources inside the Land of the Iron Winds.” She flips through her notebook. “Looks like the Commandant has called an emergency meeting with all his generals at Birnau.”
Durst scrubs at his goatee. “Interesting. I wonder if the Commandant knows Lady Twyne’s been caught.”
“If he does, then the meeting might be to formulate a new battle plan,” Brandt says.
Vera groans. “Wonderful. Even the average Iron Winder can’t get into Birnau—it’s sealed up even tighter than the Citadel. Only the Commandant and his trusted advisers and staff are permitted within its walls. How in the nightmares are we supposed to peek inside?”
“I got Brandt and Livia into the Citadel safely,” Edina says, with more starch in her tone than usual. “I’m sure I can arrange it.”
Vera’s head cants to one side with unsettling precision. “Well, we all know how excellently you follow through on arrangements.”
“Miss Orban,” the minister says, low and slow. After a moment, Vera huffs and slumps back in her chair.
My gaze returns to the marks on the minister’s map. Whatever Vera and Edina are bickering about now, I’ve not been privy to it; and I have other concerns to tend to. Like the pattern of the marks. They’re like a constellation, that strange network of slashes spun across the Central Realms. Do they mirror the stars: the Dreamer’s Embrace, the Clipper, the Star Ladle, the Questing Swine? I squint but can’t summon any sort of pig or outstretched arms from their arrangement.
Minister Durst buries his face in his hands; his ears burn crimson, and his chest heaves as he smothers the anger surely burning through him like a brushfire. “We can’t fall behind whatever the Commandant is planning next. As soon as we can make the necessary arrangements, I’m sending you all to Birnau.” Minister Durst lowers his hands and sucks in a deep breath. “All four of you.”
That snaps Edina and Vera to attention. “What?” they shriek in flawless harmony.
“Brandt, Vera, you’re the finest operatives that I can spare right now. As for Edina, I know you handled the logistics to get them into the Land of the Iron Winds last time, but Birnau requires more finesse. I think you’re better off managing it in person. And of course I’ll need the dreamstrider. We’ve already tied up too many resources in watching the gates and patrolling the sea for signs of an impending attack. I’ll send Jorn with you for security, but it’s the best I can offer.”
My heart plummets as every eye in the room falls on me. Color rushes to Vera’s face, even as it drains from my own. Two words hang amongst us all, denser and ranker than the worst sewer stench. Our shared failure and our overshadowing shame.
Stargazer Incident.
“No,” Vera whispers. “No. I’ll go with her on trivial missions—fluffy balls and the like—but I don’t trust her with something so dangerous.”
“Livia?” the minister asks. “Can I trust you to pull your weight?”
I freeze under his gaze. How can I defend myself against her fears? I’ve earned all of it and more. “You don’t need me,” I say. “Vera’s right. You’re safer without me.”
Minister Durst presses his lips together. “Were it not for the threat of this mystic, these schemes involving Oneiros itself, then I’d agree. But the Commandant is too paranoid to trust anyone beyond those already in his circle of advisers. I need your skill.” I can’t blame him for looking so grim. I’d be angry, too, at being backed into such a corner, forced to rely on my skill.
Edina nods, looking down at her notes. “We need Livia. It’s our best chance at getting the Commandant to tell us what we need to know.”
Vera sputters like she’s swallowed turnip juice. “But, Minister, you can’t possibly—If it’s only a dreamstriding mission for Livia—I mean, she and Brandt met with the Commandant himself without our presence! You don’t need me—”
“Yes, but when the Iron Council meets in Birnau, it hosts the Commandant and all his deputies,” Minister Durst says.
Edina nods. “I need all of us there so we can split up and cast a wide net.”
“And we need Livia most of all,” Brandt says, far more confidently than I deserve. “She’s our best chance at getting right there in the midst of the Commandant and his private conversations. She can go places no one else can.” I manage a faint smile his way, though I still ache from how he left me after Hesse’s death.
Vera glances from Brandt to me and back, lips twisting. “Ahh. I see.” She turns toward Edina. “No, you’re absolutely right. Brandt and Livia work so well together.”
Oh, Vera’s vile tonight! Whatever she imagines is between Brandt and me can never be, and soon, he’ll be gone for good. Edina, for her part, looks equanimous as ever, but I’m blushing straight up into my scalp. “What about the Farthingers?” I ask hastily, desperate to take the attention off Vera’s comment.
“Don’t need to be involved. If you’re right and they are a few steps ahead of us on this puzzle, then we’re better off letting them rest on their laurels a bit longer.” Durst claps his hands together and rubs them, as if wiping the whole affair from his skin. “All right! We’ll put a few additional pointed questions to Lady Twyne and see what more we can wring out of her. You’ll depart two mornings from now—Edina, can you have all the necessary bribes and logistical arrangements settled by then?”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
Brandt leaps to his feet and issues a stiff nod to Durst. “We won’t let you down.”
Edina moves toward the door, but nearly collides into Vera; the two of them exchange looks that could peel paint. “After you,” Edina says.
“Oh, no, I insist,” Vera retorts. “I know better than to turn my back to an Alizard.”
Poor Jorn. He’s going to wonder what grave punishment he’s being sent to endure.
“Livia?” Durst asks as the others depart. “A moment, if I may.”
Brandt’s gaze meets mine, and he gives me a quick nod before leaving. I sink back into my seat, as if my legs have gone to gelatin underneath me.
“I know our time together has been … difficult. For both of us.” Durst pinches the end of his goatee. “We both believed in Hesse’s research, and expected great things to come from it, many of which it simply could not deliver.”
Much as I’d like to protest, I can’t argue with what he’s said. The memory of listening at the door of Hesse’s office, overhearing Durst and Hesse argue about bringing me into the Ministry’s care is fresh. It had felt like a dream brought to life, leaving my tunneler life behind, but the reality has been much less enchanted.
“I blame myself,” he says, “for expecting too much. I believed Hesse was giving me a miracle, but you’re only a person; it wasn’t fair of me to see you as such. I’m afraid”—his voice cracks—“I expected more of you than was fair of me. Believe me when I say that I wanted more than anyone for you to succeed.”
“What exactly are you asking of me, Minister?” I fold my hands into my lap to keep them from trembling. His tone is gentle, but his words sound dangerously close to a dismissal.
He leans over his desk and passes me a stack of papers, folded in half, though ribbons and sealing wax dangle down from inside. “I need you to succeed on this mission—help us prevent the Land of the Iron Winds from invading. If not for Barstadt, then for this. You have to put aside what’s happened, Livia. Help us stop the Commandant, and these will be yours.”
They’re papers—citizenship papers. Papers like these are exorbitantly expensive if one goes through the proper channels, and even more so if greased with bribes. My temporary papers granted me clemency from a lifetime of tunneler serfdom, but Durst always held issuing power over them, and was free to dispose of them—and me—at any time. These papers are the next step—true citizenship, not a temporary grant.
I look from the paper to Durst. “Permanent papers? No provisions?”
“After we’ve stopped the Commandant, they’re yours. Completely. You’ll be free to go and do whatever you please if you can see this matter with the Land of the Iron Winds through.”
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. My life, completely mine to control. Half a year ago, I couldn’t imagine life away from the Ministry, but knowing now that there’s far more of the Central Realms to see than just Barstadt …
Whatever I decide, my papers are the beginning of it—of true freedom. I have to earn them, no matter how challenging it proves. “Thank you, Minister.” My voice dissolves around me. “I won’t let you down.”
* * *
“Your Farthinger friends left a message for you with the clerk,” Sora says when I head back into the barracks. “They’ll be by tomorrow morning to fetch you for something.”
“Thanks, Sora.” I grab my coat. “Feel free to help yourself to the pastries in my room. I need some time to myself tonight.”
I climb atop the steep barracks roof, my favorite hiding place, as twilight dusts the turrets of the Imperial Palace on the hill ahead of me. Between Hesse’s death, our impending mission back to the Land of the Iron Winds, and Brandt’s recent distance, I feel tangled up like a dropped stitch, and I need the crisp autumn air to clear my head. But then I spy the crowd gathering along the sloping square that leads up to the palace, and a fresh wave of nausea washes over me. It’s almost time for Twyne’s execution, and the roof offers all too clear a view.
The rooftop hatch pops open, and Brandt’s head emerges, grinning like a little boy who’s just gotten away with something. “I thought I might find you here.”
“Are you sure you didn’t get lost on the way to another ball?” I’d meant it in jest, but the words come out too harsh. His grin fades so quickly it must have been for show.
He climbs out of the hatch and settles back against the roof. “Now, now, how could any self-respecting aristocrat miss out on … all this?” He sweeps one arm toward the square. The jail cart hasn’t even arrived yet, but the square is bursting with black-clad Barstadters, from the lower merchants to jewel-encrusted aristocrats seated in private tents. While the din of gossip reaches all the way up to our roof, every single head is turned toward the temporary platform, where the Emperor sits beside a wooden block. “Not even the courting season takes precedence over such a scandal.”
I hug my legs to my chest, tucking my chin over my knees. A question lurks on the edge of my tongue, and even though it pains me to ask, I have to know. “Brandt.” I glance at him. “Are you still courting Edina?”
“Nightmare’s teeth, Liv.” He runs both hands through his hair, then curls them into fists, taking long, steadying breaths. “I’m sorry. I just—I wasn’t expecting to—I came here to say—” He swallows down hard. “I, ah, I came up here to get away for a few moments, is all. Before we’re off on a deadly mission again.”
I nod, face still hidden behind my knees. “I wish we didn’t have to go back. And with Vera and Edina and Jorn—”
Brandt’s smile makes me falter. “You can do this, Liv. I know you. You just can’t let your fear get in the way. That’s when you get tripped up.”
His bangs fall back into place across his tanned forehead, a smooth array of soft browns and heady golds. I reach forward to brush them back, but stop myself short. “I pray to the Dreamer that I’ll be strong enough. That I won’t be afraid. But…” My hand drops to the slate tiles. “It never seems to be enough.”
“Maybe it’s not for the Dreamer to fix. Maybe he wants you to be strong for yourself.”
For myself? I start to laugh. All anyone’s ever wanted from me is what I can do for them. Clean for the gangs, earn enough for my mother to buy Lullaby, dreamstride for the Ministry. But perhaps it’s time I learned to care for myself. If I can truly earn my freedom, then I can finally do whatever I wish, for me alone.
Brandt unhooks a wineskin from his belt and unfastens its lid. The scent of warm cinnamon and nutmeg spills over us, and I tilt my head back with an indulgent grin.
“Mulled cider,” I say, then take another sniff. “And you’ve spiked it, you devil. What’s the occasion?”
“A peace offering. And an apology.” He hands me the wineskin, but his fingers catch in my loose curls; he sweeps them back from my shoulders. “I should have been there for you after … after we visited the constabulary.”
The cider blazes down my throat, but I stiffen at his words, passing the wineskin back to him with a grimace. “You have your obligations. Your duties to your House. I understand.”
“No. I want to help you—help serve the professor’s memory. The constabulary may not be taking it seriously, but I do.” He gulps down the cider as well. “Why was Hesse so overcome with guilt of late? Why now?”
I stare down at the restless crowd in the square. “I thought maybe it was because of what happened to the others who tried to dreamstride.” I can barely speak past the lump, hardening like clay, in my throat. “But it doesn’t explain why it troubled him recently.”
Brandt tightens, a line of muscles standing out along his neck. His eyes sparkle celadon in the dusk. “No. Livia—no. If he knew it could—what it might do to you, to dreamstride, then how could he—”
“I’m only a tunneler, not meant for anything more. Who would have missed me?” I pick at the slate tiles of the roof.
“I would have, for one. You’re … you’re you, Livia. You’ve got smarts, and when you let yourself, you have this determination that I—that inspires me, too. How could anyone not see that?”
I laugh, dry and bitter. “That’s why they’re all scrambling to go on missions with me, right?”
“Only because Durst doesn’t know how to use your properly. I’ve been doing this for ten years—half my life. And you’ve the added burden of mastering dreamstriding, on top of it all. Even the Incident—that wasn’t your fault. Durst just doesn’t know how to use you. It’s like asking a fork to do a spoon’s duty.” Brandt takes another pull from the wineskin.
“If I’m a fork, then I’m a badly dented, tarnished one, a fork no one needs.” I wrinkle my nose. “The nicked one you’re always slicing the inside of your mouth on—”
“Livia.” In an instant, Brandt is looming before me, my cheeks cupped in those strong, broad hands of his. “Don’t talk about yourself that way. I know you—I know your good heart, your determination to see things through.” His mouth softens, all pinkness and spring thaw. “You’re perfect. Nicks and all.”
My heart is thundering like galloping hooves. I lean forward, forehead resting against his, his warmth as radiant as the cider in my blood. I need Brandt—I need to see him smile, see him unburdened. The real Brandt, not the one who wears the Ministry’s masks or his House’s fancy dress. Brandt believes in me in a way no one but the Dreamer ever has.
The crowd roars in the square. Brandt jolts away from me, hands sliding to his hair again; he bites down hard on his lower lip. My chest is heaving; my face must be as red as Brandt’s coat right now. But the sight in the square chills me through.
The iron-barred jail cart rolls slowly through the crowd. Even the horse pulling it proceeds with its head down, bloodlust in its eyes, its nostrils aflare. Those closest to the cart press against it, shouting, taunting, hands darting through the cart’s bars, reaching for the traitor. Inside the cart, Lady Twyne stands tall, chin jutted high. I think she’d stand that way even if she weren’t shackled in place—defiant, looking down her nose at her detractors to the very last.
I snatch the wineskin back from Brandt and draw another mouthful of cider to ward this awful chill from my heart.
“Livia…” Brandt twists his head to watch me, but he’s turned inward, shoulders hunched, hands in his lap; whatever we’d been about to share, it’s gone. The space between us aches like a bruise. “I don’t want you to think I—”
“I don’t think anything.” I let the words fall swift as an ax.
Someone in the crowd manages to catch hold of Lady Twyne’s black robes and tugs them free, baring her upper body to all of Barstadt. She doesn’t scream or attempt to cover herself, and for a moment I feel embarrassed for her, but then I recall what she meant to do to Barstadt, and my pity stokes into rage.
“Edina and I are to be married,” Brandt says, staring down at the crowd.
The world falls out from under me. I lurch forward, and the wineskin tumbles out of my hands, spilling down the slate tiles, and I scrabble for it as I sift through the hundreds of questions in my head all screaming to be heard.
“Oh, Brandt, that’s … wonderful.” I take a deep breath and sink back down on the roof. “Congratulations on your…”
My throat closes up around the word. Betrothal. Such a heavy little word, the sort of thing one slams onto the table as a wager for the final round of Stacks. I can’t say it; I won’t. I force myself to grin like a woman possessed, but I can’t wear masks like he can.
Despite his placid face, Brandt tightens and flexes his left palm, watching it intently, like he expects it to perform a trick. “Our parents signed the agreement just this morning. It’s—it’s the first chance I’ve had to tell you.”
“And why do you need to tell me?” I hear myself say, from somewhere very far away.
“I just … thought you’d like to know.”
I catch him watching me from the corner of my eye, but I keep my gaze straight ahead. Whatever he thought—whatever I dared to hope—it can’t be. I have no right to a son of House Strassbourg. I’ve lived within the strict confines of Barstadt society this long; I can endure this boundary as well.
I will not acknowledge this fraying in my heart, tearing a little more each day as the distance between Brandt and I grows, stretching its fibers just a little too thin.
“Lord Alizard. Oh, he’ll make for an interesting father-in-law.” I suppress a snort. “I know you have to quit the Ministry to work for your family, but please tell me you won’t be working for him, too.”
“Of course I won’t.” Brandt’s mask slips as he grimaces. “Edina and I agree it’s best we distance ourselves from whatever vile deals he brokers with the gangs. Edina will manage our household while I work for my father’s trading concerns.” He shakes his head with a wry half-grin. “Is that why you look so vexed?”
As if I could tell him any other reason. As if I could admit out loud why my heart is aching so, why my mind is a thousand leagues away from this blunted pain I’m feeling. As if there is any other way but distance to survive. I’m watching myself, like my body is just another temporary vessel for my dreamstriding, and I can let it do the work of emotion and pain and speech for me. “As long as you’re happy, Brandt, then so am I.”
He doesn’t answer immediately; instead he squeezes that fist as hard as he can. Veins dance along his exposed forearm—such a lovely olive shade. “Edina is kind—nothing like her father. She’s clever, but not in a scheming way. And Edina, well—” Brandt hesitates. “She’d been … involved with someone before. Some of the Houses are still scandalized about that, but she’s done her best to overcome it. I think she truly cares about my happiness. Isn’t that what matters? Her father’s happy, my family’s happy, everyone’s at peace. I’ll miss working with you—with all of the Ministry—but, well, I know you’ll do great things. You don’t need me.”
I don’t have a chance to respond. The drum corps begins its slow, lumbering beat.
The executioner has covered Lady Twyne back up; now she’s only a black shadow on the horizon, backlit by a sliver of sun, climbing the platform steps. He stands her before the block and turns her to face the crowd. The Emperor reads her sentence, though he’s too far for us to make out much. I catch “treason,” “conspiring with,” “against the Empire.”
“What’s going to happen to the little girl?” I ask Brandt. “Martine.”
Brandt rubs at his chin. “Lady Twyne’s sister is married to the lord of House Kircher. I believe they’re going to take her in.”
I nod. House Kircher is not the kindest, nor the brightest, but it’s better than the streets. Better than leaving her to crawl into the tunnels, never to find her way back out.
The Emperor turns to Lady Twyne, and only because I’ve seen more of these than I’d like do I know he’s asking for her final words. She shouts something, but her voice is swallowed up by great gasps that trickle through the crowd, rushing like water down the hill.
The executioner pulls the hood over her head, snuffing out the dazzle of her facial sapphires, then lays her head onto the block so delicately as if he’s nestling a jewel back into its case. The drumbeats hasten. Brandt reaches for my hand, but I’m sitting on it, frozen in place.
The drums speed up, dissolving into uneven, thundering chaos.
The executioner’s blade swings up, then down.
The crowd roars.
It is only later that night, as Sora and I play a round of Stacks in the barracks, that the gossip mill reaches us with Twyne’s final words: “Awaken into Nightmare.”