IX
You pour until the clear liquor nearly reaches the rim of the glass. When the Shine is being brewed it reeks sickly sweet, but the purer the final product the less it smells. You take a deep whiff and get only the smallest hint of smoke. Maybe Chastain really is a genius. You tap the base of the glass against the bedside table, summon up your courage, and down it in one quick go.
It burns going down, a sharp, delicious heat. It tastes like the chill in the air, during cold winter nights in the sleeping room. It tastes like pastries snatched from windowsills, and that fish you had caught in the lake while travelling, and you even catch the barest hint of wine on Orianne's lips the night she had kissed you after the fire went out.
You gasp and cough as tears fill your eyes. Moon and Sun and all the heavens, you'd forgotten why you hate drinking the stuff. You feel wispy and delicate, like someone's just smashed your head in with an emotional sledgehammer. Already you can feel the effects coming on, a weariness settling into your bones and eyes. You could fight it, push it away, but the sooner you get to sleep the better, and so instead you strip down to your underclothes, peel back the covers and settle in for the night.
In what seems like only moments, you are in the Dreaming.
The palace glows with an unearthly light around you, walls stretching so high above your head that you can't even see the ceiling. You are no longer in your bedroom, but in a long, hallway, both walls lined with windows that look out into utter blackness. Behind you is nothing but an empty expanse of wall, and so lacking other options you press forward. You can feel the Shine within you, racing through your veins like dull fire, driving away the fogginess of dream. You wonder if Sasha had convinced Gaston to give her more Shine tonight, if she is wandering through the shifting landscape of the Dreaming with visions of what might be flashing before her eyes. You hope not. Stories and histories are littered with the broken minds of would-be prophets.
"No rush for you," she had said, before running away. The nobility like to take their hermits young, you know, but Sasha has a few more years yet. She is impatient and impulsive and desperate, and seeing the frustration in her eyes had been like looking directly into your own past, when you had abandoned all sense to run away with a back alley brewer. But that had been three years ago, when you have been young and lost. Now you're back in Rosny, and more lost than ever before.
You don't notice that you've been looking at your feet until your forehead bumps lightly against something prickly. You look up and see that you're no longer in the hallway with the windows – now you stand in the palace gardens, surrounded on all sides by high hedges.
"Robin?" you hear, whisper quiet. You jerk your head left, then right, trying to identify the source of the noise. "Robin," it comes again, louder, more insistent. "Robin!"
You see one of the hedges rustle, and press your ear up against it. "Robin," the voice says. "Are you in there?"
Recognition flashes through your mind. "Adele?"
The hedge rustles again, shaking violently, but it stands firm. "It is you," Adele says. Her voice is louder now, but muffled. "What are you doing? Where are you?"
"I don't know exactly," you admit. "I think I'm in the gardens? I was in a hallway, and I was walking, but then I look up and I'm here. I don't…" you look around for an exit, but find you can barely see five feet in front of you. "What's going on?"
You hear Adele sigh. "You got lost in thought, dummy," she says from the other side of the hedge. "You can't do that here. Follow my voice."
"I can't," you tell her. "I can't see you. I don't know the right way to go."
"There is no right way to go, Robin," Adele says. "But there's no wrong way either. You just have to focus. Remember what you're doing here."
It comes back to you then, in a flash of insight. "I have to find Sable. I'm going to claim her." Your feet move as you speak, as if of their own volition. You take a left, and then a right, and then another left, strangely confident despite having no earthly idea where you're going. "I'm trying to find out what happened to Margaret. I'm trying to find out why she was in my dream. Why she called me."
And suddenly the hedge ends, and Adele is standing in front of you. In the dim light of the starless sky she glows, gentle and ethereal. Her hairs stirs in an intangible breeze, and her eyes…they are still black, still tiny pieces of midnight, but they dance with pink and green and purple. You have to remind yourself to breathe.
"You found me," your Princess says, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards. "I knew you could do it."
"I'm sorry I got lost."
"You really shouldn't have," Adele says. "That's what the Shine is for. You did take it, right?"
You nod. "A whole glass."
"Really? That's odd." Adele chews her bottom lip. "You don't look it. You should be bouncing off the walls right now. If you were nobility I'd say you had a tolerance built up, but that would take a few months of consistent drinking…"
Or maybe years of consistent exposure to the stuff, you realize. You hadn't drunk the Shine in ages, but you spent every day cooped up in a poorly ventilated room while it was brewed all around you. You're not sure how Adele would take that particular bit of news, however – unauthorized brewing is no longer a death sentence, but it's still one of the highest crimes in the realm.
Luckily, Adele doesn't seem too interested in digging into this particular mystery. "We have to hurry," she says, taking your hand and leading you through a ghostly recreation of the palace gates. "This little detour has cost us time, and those highborn backstabbers will be looking for Sable too."
"They can do that?" There are a million and one stories about just what the nobility can do while they dream, and sometimes it can be impossible to tell truth from fiction.
"Of course. They've been practicing since they were little, so it would be kind of embarrassing if they weren't any good yet. Neville's the best and Darcy's definitely the worst, but even she's at the sixth arcana, I think."
You frown, suddenly wishing you had paid more attention when people had talked to you about the Dreaming. You've heard of the arcana, you know they're important, but it's a difficult topic to broach – not only do few gutterborn know anything more than rumor and legend, but it's also difficult to talk about with strangers. Add that to your preference for brewing the Shine rather than tasting it, and your knowledge of such things is woefully incomplete.
Adele glances over at you and can apparently see the confusion written across your face. "Dreaming consistently is like a long journey," she says as you walk. "And each arcana is like a landmark, noting your progress."
Ah. "The tower I saw…"
"The Tower is the always the first," Adele says, though she doesn't look at you when she says it. "After that, the order varies, but the second arcana is always one of three. The King, the Queen, or the Hermit. Whichever one we find will tell us which Art you have an affinity for."
You're on slightly more solid ground here. "I know the Arts." You slip into a sing-songy rhythm as you repeat the old rhyme. "The Hermit sees through space and time. The Queen is master of her mind. And if you meet the King, beware, he'll take your dreams and lay them bare."
Adele smiles. "There's a reason even children know that rhyme. Hermits 'see through space and time,' meaning the future, or the past, or far away. Queens 'master their own minds.' They can explore their own psyches, understand who they are as people, and shape themselves. They can cut away fear and pain, or instill discipline and courage. Kings 'take your dreams and lay them bare' – they peer into others' heads. It's how I'm here, with you."
"You're a king?" You smile. "So I
was right to call you your Majesty."
"Very clever," Adele says, rolling her eyes. "I'm a Princess, Robin. I know all the Arts, and you will too. But everyone has their natural talents, and everyone has an Art they're better at than the others. That's what we're trying to figure out right now."
"How will I know?"
"Trust me, you'll know," Adele says. "It'll be big, and bold, and it'll look-"
"Exactly like me?" you ask.
Off in the distance is a statue of you, clothed in silk that reflects the sky. Your eyes shine, two emeralds the size of boulders,
and clutched in your hands are…
[] A staff and lantern (The Hermit)
[x] A scepter and a stalk of wheat (The Queen)
[] A scepter and globe (The King)