Discordant Harmonies 2: Severe Notes

Chapter Ten

After a pause he counted three heartbeats for, he drew in a deeper breath than before. And he whistled. He thought of the undershadow leaving his lungs. Géta imagined it unfurling away from him, dissipating into the walls and curling away from the bricks. Another deep breath, some more whistling, and he pictured the undershadow slipping from his shackles, seeping even further from the wall, out of the mortar. He couldn't quite send it from the stones, but a test of one of his ankles brought it free of the wall. He whistled one last time, the same odd notes he'd been whistling from the beginning, and then, with all his might, jerked all his limbs away from the wall. With a dull clatter, bricks fell from the wall, and he landed on the floor. Before he could scramble away, the wall fell on him, stones landing on his back.

He was free of the wall!

Géta tried to move, but weight held him down, and he smelled soil. A key sscratched the door, metal on metal, dulled by the thickness of the boards. Someone had come! He tried to crawl free, but couldn't, and, as the door opened, he screamed, forgetting all calm and control.

And he woke up.

It took Géta a moment to realize he hurt all over, worst in his head. Sweat had sucked his clothing to his body, right through his tunic. His whole body shook, and his stomach knotted and twisted around what was left of supper, pushing it back up his throat. He swallowed repeatedly and squeezed his eyes shut, wondering why it felt so much worse this time.

A hand grasped his ankle, and he started, screaming. The involuntary jerk of his body as he remembered the ankle-shackles from his dream made him hurt even more.

"Géta?"

Asthané's voice. That meant he was safe. If Asthané was here, and could communicate with him, he was safe. Not a prisoner of the Borderfolk. Not shackled to a wall. Not trapped beneath a pile of soil and bricks. Not in imminent danger of being discovered free of his bonds.

"What's wrong?" The Mage sounded worried.

His concern was enough to induce Géta to curl up on his side and sob. Safe, he was safe. He was free. Not captured and imprisoned. "I dreamed something so real. I thought it was true—it felt true. Is it always so awful?"

Géta didn't hear the rustle of the tent flaps or the Mage crawl in, but a hand capped his head in a cooling spell. It eased the pain somewhat, and Asthané sat, feet tucked up under knees, and pulled Géta's head and shoulders into his lap. It caused Géta's stomach to roil in upset, but he didn't care at this point. Everything hurt, even breathing, and he choked down more regurgitation as he sobbed.

"I think it depends on the . . . severity of the prophetic dream." The Mage rubbed his back, and a warming spell enveloped his spine.

The presence of the warmth induced Géta to relax a little. It wasn't enough to alleviate all the pain, but it did make him feel a little better. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and sobbed again. "I wish it didn't hurt so much. Is there any way to stop it, make it not come at all?"

Asthané moved a little, legs shifting, and rubbed Géta's back again. "No. It doesn't matter how experienced or powerful you are, either. From what I've studied, there's no way to prevent it. It has something to do with being asleep—at least from what I've been able to gather. Something with how our subconscious relates to the Obnubilate Codicil. I think it's not meant to handle the Gods' Will in the way the prophetic dreams do. They disturb our natural dreaming and interrupt sleep too much."

"Then why make us have prophetic dreams when asleep?" Géta sniffled and extended an arm to wrap around the Mage's waist. The warmth Asthané sent into his body—both active in the spells rubbed down his back and passively from the Mage's form—eased more of his pain. His stomach calmed enough it stopped sending up supper, and the cooling spell had eased the pain of his head some more.