Author: Benedict Jacka
Category: Science
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The Hollow feels magical at night. The moon that shines down from above is a mirror of Earth’s, but the stars are completely different, glowing clusters of blue and purple and gold. The only sound was the faint rustle of the leaves in the trees. The night air was cool but not unpleasant; I crossed the front clearing, grass whispering under my feet, and rounded the copse to Karyos’s cocoon.
The sapling linked to Karyos’s cocoon had grown by leaps and bounds. It had been only as high as my waist when I’d first seen it, and now it was nearly twice my height, its leaves and branches shooting upwards while the other plants around the clearing had barely changed. The cocoon itself was a hemisphere around the tree’s base. It had grown with the tree, to the point that, from a distance, the tree looked like it was sprouting out of a very large anthill.
I rested my fingers against the cocoon, feeling the roughness of the bark against my skin. Above, the wind stirred the trees, the branches shifting gently before settling back into silence. I looked up at the stars, my thoughts moving in circles in troubling paths.
Movement in the futures caught my attention and I looked up to see a white shape appear from behind the copse, bright in the moonlight. “Can’t sleep?” Anne asked softly.
“That lifesight of yours is hard to fool, isn’t it?”
“Not lifesight,” Anne said as she walked closer. She was wearing a silk robe, embroidered in flowers in Japanese designs. “Just old habits.” She nodded at the cocoon. “She’s growing quickly.”
“What’ll she look like when she comes out?”
“Like a seven- or eight-year-old.”
“No bark or roots this time?”
“Not that I can see.” Anne placed a hand flat on the cocoon. “I can’t read her mind, but her brain development seems healthy. When we fought her two years ago, her pattern looked twisted. No trace of that this time. I think she’s going to do well.”
I looked at Anne, slender and thoughtful, gazing down at the cocoon, and had to smile.
Anne looked at me curiously. “What’s so funny?”
“I was just imagining her coming out of her cocoon and calling you ‘mama.’”
Anne smiled. “Would that make you her father?”
“You’re the one who’s been checking on her every week. If anyone counts as her parent by now . . .”
“I’m not sure how good a mother figure I’d be.” Anne tilted her head. “What is wrong? Something’s worrying you.”
I sighed and walked to the edge of the copse, sitting on a fallen tree. “It’s that talk I had with Arachne.”
“About the dreamstone?” Anne came over. “I thought you’d decided not to use it.”
“I don’t want to use it. I’m worried I might not have a choice.”
Anne sat down next to me. Her figure cast a long shadow in the moonlight, stretching to merge with the darkness of the trees behind. “Why?”
“You remember last year when I went to see the dragon that lives under the Heath?”
Anne nodded.
“When I told Luna, she asked me about what it had said. You didn’t.”
“I suppose not.”
“You weren’t curious?”
“I knew you’d tell me if it was important. Besides, I had the feeling that whatever you’d learned, it hadn’t helped.”
“That’s true enough.” I sat in silence for a moment. “I asked the dragon three questions. One was about Rachel: I wanted to know how I could turn her away from Richard. The dragon told me I had to convince her of the ‘truth of her fears.’ The other two questions were about you.”
Anne didn’t reply, and after a moment I went on. “First I asked how I could break you free of the influence of the jinn. Then I asked how I could become powerful enough to stay alive and protect the people I cared about. The dragon gave me the same answer to both. It told me I couldn’t.”
“You . . . couldn’t?”
I nodded.
“But that’s wrong,” Anne said. “You did break me free. Last year, in Elsewhere.”
“That wasn’t really me,” I said. “When I asked, the dragon told me that the link between you and the jinn was a function of the jinn’s own power, and that I couldn’t break it. And that was exactly what happened. I didn’t drive it out—you did.”
“I suppose . . .”
“The dragon explained its answer to the other question as well. It told me I could stay alive, or protect the people I cared about. Not ‘and,’ ‘or.’ And it told me that the person in question was you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ve been feeling for a long time that sooner or later, if I want to have a chance against mages like Richard and Levistus, I’m going to have to do something drastic,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more it feels like this Elsewhere thing might be it.”
“But you said it would probably kill you.”
“And now you know what’s worrying me.”
“No.” Anne put a hand to my shoulder; I looked up to see that her expression was unhappy. “I don’t want you sacrificing yourself.”
“I don’t exactly want to either.”
“Then don’t. How would it even help? You disintegrating yourself in Elsewhere isn’t going to help anyone.”
“Just because I can’t see how it could happen . . .”
“I don’t care,” Anne said. “You aren’t allowed to travel physically to Elsewhere without talking to me first. Okay?”
“I guess.”
“No, not ‘I guess.’ Promise me.”
I hesitated. Anne was looking straight into my eyes, her expression set. “Okay. I promise.”
I felt Anne relax and lean back. “Doesn’t it worry you?” I asked.
“What?”
“It’s a draconic prophecy. From what I understand, they’re never wrong. In fact, they can’t be wrong.”
“Well, maybe this one is.”
I gave Anne a look.
“You’ve already said that you don’t understand what dragons can do or how their prophecies work,” Anne said. “Doesn’t that mean that you shouldn’t be counting on it? I mean, if you’d really believed you couldn’t do anything to help me against the jinn, you wouldn’t have come to Elsewhere. But you did, and it worked. Maybe this prophecy will turn out to be a technicality too.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, having something like this hanging over your head?”
“I’ve never not had something like this hanging over my head.” Anne turned her palms upwards. “Sagash. Crystal. The Council and the Crusaders. Lightbringer, Zilean, Morden, Richard. And now the jinn and her. Every single day, I wake up knowing at the back of my mind that it’s only going to take one thing for my whole world to come apart. Maybe Crystal and Sagash will come back and they won’t make any mistakes this time. Maybe the Council will figure out what really happened at San Vittore. Maybe it’ll be Morden, or Richard, or someone completely new. I used to lie awake worrying about it. I’d stay up for hours and I’d finally fall asleep wondering if someone was going to come for me in the night.”
“How did you deal with it?”
Anne shrugged. “I suppose I just decided that what happens, happens.”
“But we can change what’s going to happen. We can prepare. Head things off.”
“How am I supposed to prepare against all of that?”
“It’s not like we’ve done nothing,” I said. “You’re far better protected now than you were a few years ago. Something like that kidnap attempt back when you lived in Honor Oak wouldn’t work if they tried it again.”
“I suppose.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I . . .” Anne hesitated. “I suppose . . . deep down, I don’t think it makes a difference.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Any of it. Wards, plans . . .” Anne looked down at her clasped hands. “It feels as though in the end, if something like that is going to happen . . . then there’s no point fighting it.”
I frowned at Anne. “You really think that?”
“Sometimes,” Anne said. She shook her head and stood. “Come to bed.”
* * *
An hour later found me back on the futon, staring up at the ceiling. I needed to rest—I had an early appointment tomorrow—but the conversation with Anne had bothered me, and when I finally drifted off, it wasn’t to sleep.
I wandered the landscapes of Elsewhere, feeling the world shift and change. Before this year I never would have come here so casually, but with the dreamstone and Arachne’s tuition, I’d become almost as comfortable in Elsewhere as outside it. I walked through halls of marble, gleaming pillars reaching to arching ceilings. The marble halls became a ruined city, the city became a mountaintop, the mountaintop a castle, the castle a forest, the forest . . .
. . . stayed a forest. Oak and beech trees stretched up above, birds singing in the branches. It took me a moment to realise where I was, and when I did, my first instinct was to turn away.
Usually when you visit someone else’s version of Elsewhere, it’s because they’re in Elsewhere too. Either that or you can find them in their dreams and lead them here. But it’s possible, with a delicate enough touch, to travel to a part of Elsewhere shaped by someone else’s sleeping mind without waking or disturbing them. There’s little reason to do it, since in most cases you’ll find something vague and unfinished, like an artist’s sketchbook. But Anne’s Elsewhere is more real and more defined than anyone else’s that I’ve ever met, for reasons that are both good and bad. I hesitated, on the verge of stepping back into my own dreams. There was only one other person to talk to here, and the thought of that conversation made me uncomfortable.
But what’s comfortable and what’s necessary are usually different things.
I followed the path until the trees fell away to reveal black glass walls, looming up to block out the sunlight. Absentmindedly I created an opening large enough for me to pass, letting it disappear again once I was through. Inside the walls was a bare flat plaza, broken by a black tower reaching up to a cloudy sky. I walked to the tower, opened a door that took form at my hand, and descended.
The spiral staircase wound its way down around a central well. White spheres glowed from the walls, set at even intervals, but the black materials of the tower soaked up the light. I kept descending until I reached a landing. There was only one door, made out of solid metal, thick and heavy. Three bolts held it shut. I slid them back one after another, then opened the door.
Inside the room was a young woman, with black shoulder-length hair and reddish brown eyes, wearing a black dress that left her arms bare. She was seated on an iron throne, though not by choice. Manacles of black metal were fastened at her ankles, knees, elbows, and wrists, holding her legs to the side of the throne and her arms behind its back. Chains disappeared from the manacles into holes in the throne, with only a link or two visible at each. A collar at her neck kept her back straight and her head against the headrest, but her eyes were open and turned towards me. “Oh, look,” she said. “Visiting hours at the prison.”
The girl in the chair had many names. Dr. Shirland called her Anne’s shadow. Anne didn’t use a name at all, just “her.” I’d thought of her as not-Anne, but after the events of last year I’d started thinking that “Dark Anne” might be more accurate. I’d asked her once what she wanted to be called, and she’d told me just to call her Anne. There was a message there.
“How are you doing?” I said.
“Oh, fine, fine.” Dark Anne tilted her head with the small amount of movement she was allowed. “Sitting down here chained alone in the dark has really been a positive experience for me. I feel like I’ve grown as a person, you know?”
I walked across the room towards her. “Well, your sense of sarcasm seems in good shape.”
“Yeah, because there’s so much else to do. So what made you finally show up?”
“I figured I was due.”
“Or because your last chat with real-world me didn’t go the way you wanted?”
“If you already knew, why did you ask?”
“I wanted to see what bullshit excuse you’d come up with. And yes, I heard all of it. Funny thing about being stuck here—I can hear what’s going on outside just fine. Can’t talk, can’t feel, but I can sit around and watch everything my other self gets to do to enjoy herself.” Dark Anne raised her eyebrows. “And yes, in case you’re wondering, that does mean everything.”
I looked at her.
“By the way, you really ought to be more aggressive about—”
“You can stop there.”
Dark Anne smirked at me. “Suit yourself.” The chains clinked as she shifted on the throne. “So let me guess. Her whole ‘que será, será’ attitude didn’t make you very happy, huh?”
“Not really.”
“Aww. What’s the problem? Feel like you know what’s best for her? She’s not being a good little girl and doing as she’s told?”
I looked back.
“I know, I know. You diviners are all about preparation and planning. Must be really annoying for someone to point out how useless it is, right?”
“Do you have anything useful to say, or are you just going to take cheap shots?”
Dark Anne shrugged. “I don’t know, what’s in it for me?”
“Well, there’s the little detail that anything that happens to Anne happens to you,” I said. “So I’d say you’ve got a personal stake in this. Unless you think Anne’s wait-and-see plan is a good one.”
“No, her plan’s dumb as shit. Here’s the bad news: you aren’t going to change her mind.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You really haven’t figured it out?” Dark Anne cocked her head. “Let’s put it another way. Who do you think I am?”
“You’re the side of Anne that Anne can’t or won’t deal with. Aggressive, ruthless, self-centred. You told me you were born in Sagash’s shadow realm, but that wasn’t really true. You were always there.”
“Well, well. Someone’s been talking with Dr. Shirland.”
“I answered your question,” I said. “Now answer mine. Why do you think Anne won’t change her mind?”
“Not won’t, can’t,” Dark Anne said. “Think about it. According to you, I’m the evil side of Anne that’s all nasty and ruthless, not like the real Anne, who’s all sweetness and light. So here’s a question for you. Which one of us do you think’s better at fighting to stay alive?”
“You think it’s you.”
“Of course it’s me, you frigging idiot. I am the side of her personality that got split off specifically to handle life-and-death situations. Except that instead of doing that, I’m chained up down here in the dark where I can’t reach anyone or do anything, while Little Miss Perfect gets to run the show. And now you’re like, gosh, her decision-making when it comes to all this dark and scary stuff doesn’t seem all that good anymore. Hey, I wonder whose fault it is. What do you think, Alex? Who’s the reason things ended up this way?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’re blaming me?”
“You and her.” Dark Anne leant forward. “When I get out of here, she’s first on the list. You? You’re number two.”
“Yeah, with an attitude like that, I can’t think why she’d want you locked up,” I said. “You played the poor-little-me act last year too. Remind me, what was the first thing you did when you got free?”
Dark Anne shrugged as best she could. “So I cut loose a little.”
“Do you even understand how much damage you did in those few hours?” I asked her. “It’s been a year and we are still trying to deal with the consequences. And when I sa
y trying, there’s a really good chance it’s not going to work. The instant they find out who was really responsible for those murders, what do you think’s going to happen?”
“Stop whining.”
I stared at Dark Anne. “You know how many people died because of what you did in San Vittore?”
Dark Anne didn’t answer.
“Eighteen. It would have been more but for the response team.”
“Not like I did anything to them.”
“Oh, don’t even start,” I said in disgust. “You were the one who summoned those jinn. Not Morden, not Richard. You. If you’re seriously going to say that’s not your responsibility, then I’m done talking.”
“That one was the jinn’s idea, actually. I guess all those lesser ones used to be his servants or something.”
“Which means they did what you told them.”
“Yeah, and the men there all worked for the Council, and they did what they told them. I’d given them the chance, they’d have shot me just as fast.”
“They’re still human beings. You know the Council has an entire department for coming up with stories to tell the families of the men that die in their service? I went down there after the attack. Copies and copies of letters to relatives. I don’t even know what kind of explanation they had to come up with for that many deaths at the same time.”
“They knew the risks, didn’t they?” Dark Anne said. “They were prison guards. Not exactly a goody-two-shoes kind of job.”
“I don’t understand you,” I said. “Anne will work for hours with her healing magic to save the life of someone she doesn’t even know. Meanwhile, you’re personally responsible for nearly twenty deaths in as many minutes, and you just shrug it off. I know she’s the empathic one, but don’t you have any of it?”