Dream of a Vast Blue Cavern

Chapter 7: Dreams of V'lturhst: Stasia

 Stasia tossed and turned on her slim pallet of ice. In the dark tunnel beyond her small sleeping alcove, she could hear the quiet sounds of Glace polishing his weapons and his slink, washing itself compulsively. When did her High Captain sleep? How could he watch over her all through the night and then stand and train recruits for another full day? Beyond Glace, she could hear the sounds of shuffling, cries of babes, moans of sickness and hunger from her people echoing through the dark alcoves. Sleep was impossible, had been impossible since the refugees began to fill the spaces shaped out of the back wall of the burial chamber. 

 The afternoon council had been long, boring, and unresolved. No more proposals were laid before her, and she was almost relieved. She was beginning to realize that she could not storm into Council like a Warrior into battle; she had to tread lightly, and be patient, to whisper when she wanted to shout. She was completely inadequate for the role of Regent. If only her sisters would return. Queen, Glace had called her. Stasia knew she was not fit to be Queen; she had seen that in Casser's and Larc's eyes. There had never been any question of her destiny before the war; she was to be a princess forever, and the youngest princess, free to choose her own path.

 She rolled over. She could not get comfortable in this little cave; the pallet was thin over the rock, and she was ill with anxiety. Surrender. How could they win, when they could not even defeat the Flames with the full forces of Iskalon? How would she feed the people, let alone lead them to victory? For every ten refugees brought in, four died of starvation, Larc said. Even the Icers could not prevent the deaths. They had to take back the lake. The scouts said the Flames still patrolled it heavily. Could Iskalon simply wait until Chraun grew bored with its conquest and left? It was not likely. But how was she to retake the lake with starving Warriors?

 Perhaps because dreams of V'lturhst were easier to think of than the destruction of her Kingdom, her thoughts drifted there. She saw an endless expanse of green framed by the bright blue ceiling of lapis. Drawn by the image, she slipped into sleep, and Dreamed.

 Stasia stood in the middle of the burial chamber, staring up at the long blue ice shaft above her head. In her hand she held a Flame’s torch, burning hot. She drew T'Jas from the heat and drifted toward the ceiling and the surface of the burial ice.

 When the fire of the torch hit the ice, it melted away, dripping down over the council assembled on the floor of the burial chamber. The representatives all looked up and started yelling at her. “Heretic!” They screamed. “Blasphemer!”

 She held the torch higher and drifted up into the opening it made in the burial ice. “Flame!” the voices below shouted. “Kill her! She’s a Flame, she’s the enemy!”

 The ice sealed behind her, and she rose through the shaft, the torch melting away the ice. Water dripped over her, cooling her warm body. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she stood on a carpet of waving green stems. They tickled her bare calves. A soft, warm breath from some giant creature enveloped her whole body, and the stems moved, blown by the same breath. The ceiling was dark and covered with millions of tiny pricks of light, as if a cavern above was blindingly lit, and that light was filtered down through tiny cracks and holes in the ceiling. One large hole, perfectly round, let through enough light so that she could see the floor of the vast cavern. The carpet beneath her feet stretched endlessly.

 The breath grew stronger. It tore at the stems, pulling the long strands from the ground until the carpet drifted away completely, leaving her standing on bare rock under that immense ceiling. The lights winked out one by one, until nothing but darkness remained.

 Stasia woke with a start. First chime was sounding softly, echoing on the walls of her tiny room. Somehow, she had slept. She did not feel rested, though. She’s a Flame. She’s the enemy. Often she doubted the clarity of the Dream, but this one at least seemed obvious. She must learn to conquer the power of fire, or she would rest in the burial ice before her time. Stasia stood, hurriedly pulled on a dry suit of chirsh armor, and stepped out of the cave. Two Warriors, Glint and a recruit whose name she did not recall, had replaced Glace. “Send for Casser,” she said. “Tell him to meet me at the Spiral.”