Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

The room was as dark as her own had been. The furniture was the same. Almost lost in a full-size bed, a small figure tossed, crying out, one tiny hand flung upward as if avoiding a blow.

Keleios hurried to her side. The wavy froth of pale brown hair was plastered darkly to Alys’ head. The child murmured words in her sleep, words she couldn’t know, ancient phrases of great power. She was fighting with magic she did not yet possess, in a battle fought long ago.

The phantasm had not gotten her. Alys had hidden herself in one of the tower’s dreams.

It had taken great talent for that. Now she was trapped. The important question was: How long had she been like this? How long had she been fighting to break free? If it were too long, it could be fatal.

Keleios sat upon the bed and grabbed the flailing hands, her own delicate hands encircling the tiny fists. She spoke quietly at first. “Alys, Alys, can you hear me?”

The child whimpered and called out, “Keleios! Keleios, help me, save me!”

“Wake up, Alys, it is a dream. Awake!”

The child struggled, the effort showing on face and flowing in tension through her hands. She was trying, but something was holding her. It took only a moment to find the twist of spell on the child, not a full binding, not even active. It was not holding her to the dream yet, but it was there.

Where were all the Verm-cursed spells coming from?

Keleios dragged the child into her arms and shuddered, holding the girl to her. There was too much power tonight. She was going to have to use sorcery, but an awakening spell was simple enough. She calmed herself and held tightly to her straining power. Too much, and she would wake all the sleepers in the keep. “Awake, Awake!”

Alys moved fitfully in her sleep but did not obey.

“Loth’s blood, I’m going to have to enter her mind.”

The small body writhed in her arms as if trying to escape, but her struggles were not much. She was tired and losing the battle. If she should give up or die in the dream, unable to break it...

The girl rushed through the door, questions ready, but there was no time.

“Sit on the bed.” Selene did as she was told, staring at the thrashing form of the child. Keleios shoved the unresisting girl into Selene’s arms. “Hold her tightly.” Even as they watched, the struggles grew less. She was shivering, limbs twitching, skin cooling.

Selene said, “Keleios, you aren’t going to enter her mind? It isn’t your best spell.”

“There is no time for anyone else to come. May Zardok guide my power this night, but we’re out of time.”

Keleios pressed her fingertips against Alys’ skull. Sorcery came to her, neck-ruffling, stomach-tightening power. She concentrated and held back. Lightly, lightly, or you shatter the mind you probe.

She entered Alys’ mind, the child’s thoughts tumbling round but through all was fear. Keleios called quietly, “Alys, do you hear me?”

A soft sobbing came from far away. “Keleios, help me.”

“Show me the dream, Alys.”

A touch, a butterfly’s wing of power, and she entered. The world was the chaos of battle, weapons ringing, magic blazing. Keleios knew this dream. It was the battle of Ohi-elle.

The shorter blond natives fought mostly with weapons. The conquering Astranthians used both. A fireball threw the field into high relief, screams. It was twilight; the old gods would soon be released. She had to find Alys before that. She stood perfectly still, only her eyes searching for the child. As she didn’t draw attention to herself, no one noticed her. Alys must have interfered somehow.

Then in the distance over a litter of bodies was a small shape in a white nightgown, valiantly defending herself with sorcerous powers that she never outside of dream.

Keleios started forward slowly. She was a ghost that the screaming figures fell through; she was mist until she chose to act. So she waited until she could be close enough to grab Alys.

Dusk fell and with it the gods of the natives. They rushed onto the battlefield, shrieking and throwing magic to match the invaders. A horned devil at least seven feet high approached Alys. The sword that he wielded shone magic to Keleios’ eyes. She hurried forward, tripping on a body that hung spitted on a broken spear. Keleios paused, willing the panic to pass. If she lost control, she would be caught in the fighting and never reach the child in time. She went, carefully holding herself in. The creature approached the child faster. Keleios was almost there, just a few feet. She could clasp Alys to her and they would disappear to the sight of the dream beings. The sword the thing carried was powerful, shattering the bolts of energy Alys threw at it.

Keleios could almost reach out and touch her when the sword came crashing downward, and there was no time left.

The twist of spell inside Keleios flared to life. Real, it said; pain, it said. If she hesitated, Alys would die; if she went forward, they might both die, or not. Keleios took the ‘or not’ and flung herself forward, suddenly appearing to the demon. The blow was heavy and he couldn’t change course. Though it was only a dream, Keleios screamed as the blade broke

her collarbone. The spell forced her to stay for the pain. She screamed and lashed outward with power. She released a burst to the thread that bound her to this dream as surely as it bound Alys. As she lay there, impossibly still alive in the dream, she saw the grey threads going up into the sky, “I am not bleeding,” she told herself. “This is only a dream.” Her heart pumped frantically, wounded by the sword. Shrill piercing screams came from just behind her. Alys of course, poor child. Keleios drew power, all that she could find. Reaching outward and inward, she blasted the threads. The threads in the sky shriveled as with fire. The dream broke.

Keleios knew darkness for a time, the sort her night vision did not touch. Velvety soft it was, and comforting. Tired, she was tired, but something nagged at her, pulled at her. Magic seeping through her mind, someone else’s magic. She lashed out at the touch, and it broke abruptly. There were other things to do besides floating in the dark. Alys had to be found and helped. Yes, helped. “Help me, Keleios, help me.” And there was the dream, that urgent awful dream that needed telling.

Keleios opened her eyes to look at Bertog, the journeyman healer. There was a tightness about her blue eyes and Keleios knew where that second burst of magic had come from. The healer had used a deep probe to waken her, and Keleios had harmed Bertog. She tried to speak, but a hoarse rasp was all that would come.

Bertog spoke carefully, hurting. “Don’t try to talk or move, Journeyman Keleios. You are now out of immediate danger, and Selene has gone to fetch a full healer.”

Keleios made a protesting sound.

The girl sat very stiff, every inch an Astranthian noble. The yellow silk of her dress was almost the same color as her hair. “I met Selene in the hall. I came up to see what I could do.”

Keleios reached up to grab the healer’s flowing sleeve, but her hand would not do it.

There was a fading pain from her left shoulder to the middle of her back. It was an angle of dull throbbing.

Bertog went on as if reluctant to have Keleios speak, “Alys is fine. She is asleep, an exhausted one. I have studied dream sickness thoroughly. She will sleep for hours, not dreaming, except the dreams that normal little girls have.”

Keleios had her voice. “Correct,” She coughed to clear the hoarseness from it and tried to remember why she couldn’t speak easily. A glint of silver as the sword descended—yes, it had been something of a neck cut. Throat wounds sometimes affected the speech. She remembered the threads tying them to the dream.