Dust of Dreams

in and in, until all the colours became one, and that one was so bright it blinded everyone and everything.
    The last colour is the word. See it burn bright: that is what there is to see in a dying child’s eyes.
    ‘Badalle, your indulgence was too extravagant. They won’t listen, they won’t want to know.’
    ‘Well, now, isn’t that convenient?’
    ‘Badalle, do you still feel free?’
    ‘Saddic, I still feel free. Freer than ever before.’
    ‘Rutt holds Held and he will deliver Held.’
    ‘Yes, Saddic.’
    ‘He will deliver Held into an adult’s arms.’
    ‘Yes, Saddic.’
    The last colour is the word. See it burn bright in a dying child’s eyes. See it, just this once, before you turn away.
    ‘I will, Badalle, when I am grown up. But not until then.’
    ‘No, Saddic, not until then.’
    ‘When I’ve done away with these things.’
    ‘When you’ve done away with these things.’
    ‘And freedom ends, Badalle.’
    ‘Yes, Saddic, when freedom ends.’
     
    Kalyth dreamed she was in a place she had not yet reached. Overhead was a low ceiling of grey, turgid clouds, the kind that she had seen above the plains of the Elan, when the first snows came down from the north. The wind howled, cold as ice, but it was dry as a frozen tomb. Across the taiga, stunted trees rose from the permafrost like skeletal hands, and she could see sinkholes, here and there, in which dozens of some kind of four-legged beast had become mired, dying and freezing solid, and the wind tugged and tore at their matted hides, and frost painted white their curved horns and ringed the hollow pits of their eyes.
    In the myths of the Elan, this vista belonged to the underworld of death; it was also the distant past, the very beginning place, where the heat of life first pushed back the bitter cold. The world began in darkness, devoid of warmth. It awakened, in time, to an ember that flared, ever so brief, before one day returning to where it had begun. And so, what she was seeing here before her could also belong to the future. Past or in the age to come, it was where life ceased.
    But she was not alone.
    A score of figures sat on gaunt horses along a ridge a hundred paces distant. Wrapped in black rain-capes, armoured and helmed, they seemed to be watching her, waiting for her. But terror held Kalyth rooted, as if knee-deep in frozen mud.
    She wore a thin tunic, torn and half-rotted, and the cold was like the Reaper’s own hand, closing about her from all sides. She could not move within its intransigent grip, even had she wanted to. She would will the strangers away; she would scream at them, unleash sorcery to send them scattering. She would banish them utterly. But no such powers belonged to her. Kalyth felt as useless here as she felt in her own world. A vessel empty, longing to be filled by a hero’s bold fortitude.
    The wind ripped at the grim figures, and now at last the snow came, cutting like shards of ice from the heavy clouds.
    The riders stirred. The horses lifted their heads, and all at once they were descending the slope, hoofs cracking hard the frozen ground.
    Kalyth huddled, arms tight about herself. The frost-rimed riders drew closer, and she could just make out that array of faces behind the serpentine nose-guards of their helms—deathly pale, bearing slashes gaping deep crimson but bloodless. They wore surcoats over chain, uniforms, she realized, to mark allegiance to some foreign army, grey and magenta beneath frozen bloodstains and crusted gore. One, she saw, was tattooed, bedecked with fetishes of claws, feathers and beads—huge,barbaric, perhaps not even human. But the others, they were of her own kind—she was certain of that.
    They reined in before her and something drew Kalyth’s wide stare to one rider in particular, grey-bearded beneath the dangling crystals of ice, his grey eyes, set deep in shadowed sockets, reminding her of a bird’s fixed regard—cold and raptorial, bereft of all compassion.
    When he spoke, in the language of the Elan, no breath plumed from his mouth. ‘Your Reaper’s time is coming to an end. Death shall surrender his face—’
    ‘Never was a welcoming one,’ cut in the heavy, round-faced soldier on the man’s right.
    ‘Enough of that, Mallet,’ snapped another horseman, one-armed, hunched with age. ‘You don’t even belong here yet. We’re waiting for the world to catch up—such are dreams and visions—they are indifferent to the ten thousand unerring steps in