Dreams Lie Beneath

by Rebecca Ross

Since I was eight, my father had instructed me in avertana magic, a defensive magic that lent its strength to spars and duels.

I also had started thinking of the other two studies of magic, metamara and deviah—but deviah in particular. To take one’s skill and create an enchanted object was no simple feat, and I had read of magicians who had devoted decades of their lives to reach such achievement.

With each step I took from Mazarine’s demesne, the more my doubt began to simmer. By appearances, Hereswith felt idyllic and charming. But I began to wonder if the town was hiding something beneath its exterior. I learned a vital lesson from Mazarine that day. One that made me vow that I would never trust appearances alone.

The realm of Azenor had not always been beset with tangible nightmares, although it was difficult to imagine such a world. It was all I had ever known, but Imonie had told me the legend that had started it all: Once, the mountains held a prosperous duchy. Magic itself had been first born in the summits, where the clouds touched the earth. But when the Duke of Seren was assassinated by his closest friends, the mountain province had sundered. Well versed in magic, the duke had cast a curse as he lay dying. No death and no dreams for those in his court who had been touched by the betrayal. They would live endlessly, watching as those they loved grew old and perished without them. And without dreams . . . their own hearts would become dry and brittle.

One does not realize how powerful a dream is, in the sleeping world as well as the waking one, until it has been stolen from them.

The duke had died on a new moon, and that was when the mountains began to spin nightmares into reality, all across the other two duchies of Azenor—the valleys and forests and meadows of Bardyllis and Wyntrough. No one could escape it, and so magicians had risen to answer the danger, perfecting the a...

Imonie had not set a dinner plate at my father’s chair, which meant she believed he was too ill to face the new moon. I had never encountered a new moon night on my own. He and I were always together in the streets, fighting as one.

“I’ve taught you all that I know,” he said. “You’ll do just fine recording this dream, as long as you stick to the rules and predetermined spells.” He paused to study me with squinted eyes. “You know, it’s not a bad thing to be fearful every now and then. The fear reminds you of limits, of what lines you should not cross. Of the doors you shouldn’t open.”

“The nightmares are mine to keep, Mr. Lennox,” Papa said. “I’m the warden of Hereswith. These streets are mine to guard, these people mine to honor and protect. Despite your education and polished upbringing, you seem to have forgotten the most basic of laws and respect when it comes to the magic of dreams and guardianship.”

“Sever occisio loredania. I have come to challenge you, Mr. Madigan. I have come on this new moon in the month of September to win the right of guardianship and the title of warden for Hereswith.”

“This is your night, Clementine,” Imonie said. “Your father will accompany you, but you’ll have to be his strength. You’ll have to defeat this dream before that upstart does. Be patient. Be shrewd.”

Those doors have not been open since, nor will they until the remaining wraiths—the heiress, the lady-in-waiting, the advisor, the guard, the master of coin, and the spymistress—all who once planned the duke’s demise, return as one to break the curse.”

“Do I still need to drink this now? Since we’re no longer wardens?” That had been Papa’s reasoning as to why I shouldn’t dream at night. It would be difficult indeed to face my own nightmare in the streets of Hereswith. Dreams often revealed one’s greatest vulnerability; dreams were doors that led into hearts and minds and souls and secrets.

“But now the question I must ask is if you are willing to pay the cost of my disguise.” “Tell me the cost, then.” She poured a glass of wine. “I will take half of your heart and turn it into stone. It will divide you, and you will turn colder. Because half of who you once were will be no more, you will need to surrender half of something you love to hold the spell. Your art or your magic, most likely, since those are two things that have always been with you, growing alongside you year by year.” She took a sip of her wine, but her gaze never left mine. “So what will you choose to give up, Clementine Madigan? Your art or your magic?”

I wanted to be unremarkable upon appearance. I wanted to be underestimated, overlooked, on the verge of being forgotten. I wanted a trustworthy face that inspired friendship, a face that could draw out a secret. A face that one would never assume hid something vengeful beneath it.

How long will this magic of disguise last?” “The longevity of this spell depends on you, mortal girl,” Mazarine replied. “On how well you guard the stone half of your heart. Be vigilant and your disguise will last unto death. But should the stone within you crack . . . the rest will soon crumble, little by little, until your disguise falls away.” I dwelled on that for a moment. “But you said this enchantment will make me colder. So the chances of me cracking anytime soon are slim.” “It will make you colder. But even the deepest of ice eventually gives way to fire, Clementine.”

“Who are you?” she snarled, and I was briefly taken aback by her tone. “Imonie,” I said, and took a step closer to her. “Imonie, it’s me.” She recognized my voice. Her mouth fell open. The knife tumbled from her grip. She suddenly looked grieved, like she wanted to weep. “Clementine?” I didn’t respond, but I was satisfied. If the woman who had raised me had failed to identify me, then no one would. The mountain wind rushed through the pines, tangling my hair. And I smiled.

“Why did you offer the position to me?” I asked. “You must have had plenty of other promising magicians at the interview today.” “I did. And yet all of them performed for me, as if they were on a stage. Not a single one engaged me as you did,” he replied. “I confess, Miss Neven, that there was a moment when I thought your intentions were to kill me. And then I realized how absurd that was, and that you were testing me as I wanted to test you. You challenged me as if you were a nightmare on a new moon, and I knew then that you were the one that I wanted beside me.”

“And do you feel the same as you did at the beginning?” he asked. “Do you want to see me devastated? Disgraced? Do you want to hurt me, Clem?” How should I respond? I was suddenly terrified to be vulnerable in his presence, uncertain where such a path might guide us. “No, Phelan. You were not who I thought you to be at the beginning,” I said, my cadence clipped with frustration. “You turned out to be different. And I wanted to despise you. I wanted to throw more kindling on my hate and yet you gave me nothing to burn, because you are simply too good. Even now, you are too good.”

“What are you speaking of?” “I dreamt of you yesterday, Clem.” My divided heart all but stopped. “I dreamt of you,” he whispered again. “A nightmare, I presume?” I countered, unable to help myself.

“I wanted it to be you,” he said, his voice deep, rough-hewn. “When I returned to the museum for that final interview . . . gods, how I wanted it to be you.”

Phelan rose with me in his arms. I wanted to ask him, What are you doing? But my voice . . . I couldn’t find it. Yet he seemed to know my thoughts, because he said, “I don’t want to do this without you.”

But sometimes things must break before they can be made whole again, so that they can be forged into something stronger.

I swallowed a hysterical laugh. “But . . . how can you call us that? We aren’t married.” Mazarine shrugged, utterly unperturbed. “You and Phelan are still bound by commitment and magic of your own making. You are partners.”