Chapter 17

A eon picks a spot at random and sinks down to sit cross-legged, back straight. He pats the ground beside him. I sit. This spot is identical to every other square inch of this godforsaken wasteland—featureless, barren, and brutal. The ground is, perhaps, slightly less cracked and hard. There is, perhaps, a thin scrim of dirt or sand.

I glance at Aeon, but he seems to be concentrating rather hard. He's staring at the ground in front of him, his wide, almond-shaped eyes narrowed, his jaw set. I keep silent and wait.

For several moments, he just stares, unblinking, as if willing something to happen. What, I don't know. Then, he uses his index finger to draw a series of lines in the thin layer of dirt—first, a horizontal line going left to right, and then a vertical line bisecting the first, creating a plus sign, and then a third diagonally intersecting the first two, and a fourth the opposite direction…an asterisk, essentially. Then, he draws a circle around the asterisk. He places his hand, palm down, over the center of the design, not quite touching the earth.

Nothing happens.

And then, something. A faint orange-ish glow from the inch-high gap between his palm and the earth. It's so faint I can't swear it's there. He hasn't blinked, keeping his gaze rigidly fixed on the point where the lines intersect.

Slowly, the faint, almost imperceptible glow brightens until it's definite and unmistakable. Heat emanates from the gap, as well—again, faint at first but slowly intensifying.

And then, all at once, there's a WHUMP! as flames ignite. Aeon removes his hand, shaking it as if to assuage a burn. When he looks at me, his eyes are glowing an incandescent azure, quickly fading back to purple.

The fire is blue—a magical blue, the same virulent blue as the glow of his eyes. It dances like normal fire, flickering and casting light and cavorting shadows. The light cast by the fire is a weird, soft blue that soothes something deep inside me.

Aeon shifts back from the fire and lounges backward on an elbow, legs stretched out to one side. The fire emits from the center of the intersecting lines, and while it seems to be reaching higher and higher, it does not extend past the circumference of the circle. It also does not have any fuel source.

I can't help but stare into it. "That's the weirdest fire I've ever seen."

Aeon nods. "The knowledge of it has been lost for a very long time."

I put my hands toward it cautiously. "It gives off heat, but it's definitely not any mage-flame I've ever seen."

He shrugs. "It is mage-flame, but my magic is different than yours, or that of fae." He juts his chin at the fire. "It took me an embarrassingly long time to conjure it, but such minor magics are difficult for me."

I frown at him, laying down on the opposite side of the fire from him, resting my head on my hand. "I don't know if that means you're so powerful that minor magic like conjuring flame is difficult, or the opposite."

He smiles, staring into the flames, as I am—there is something even more hypnotic about this fire than normal. "My magic is…somewhat unique, even among my people. It's why I cannot simply glamour those cursed bracelets off you. Simply put, my magic is…" he frowns, struggling to find the right words. "It works on a far larger scale. To understand what that means, you'd need a lot more context, though—which we'll get to. But, well…put it like this, Maeve: a firehose is a wonderful, powerful, useful tool, but not very good for putting out a candle."

I look at him across the strange blue flames. "I see."

We relax in silence for a very long time, as stars wheel and spin overhead and a sharp white sliver of waxing crescent moon slings across the sky.

Aeon finds my eyes. "Can you trust me?"

I blink at the sudden question. " Can I? Or do I? The former seems more of a question for you."

His lips twitch in a slight smile. "A fair point. Do you? Will you?"

I lift a hand palm-up and let it fall back down to my hip. "I mean, I followed you across the desert. I'm all but helpless, so I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

He scrutinizes me. "Perhaps. But do you?"

I lift my hand again. "I suppose, to a point. It depends on what you're about to ask me to do."

"That's where the trust comes in. It's hard to explain. I'd rather just do it, but I don't want you to be frightened."

I laugh. "After the shit I've been through, Aeon, unless you're about to transport me to Hell itself or turn into, like, some bloodthirsty monster I have no hope of defeating, then there isn't much that will scare me."

He smiles. "Nothing like that." He eyes me for a moment. "You'll have to tell me your story. Will you?"

I smile and flip my hand up again. "Sure. Or, I should say I will if you will."

He nods. "I agree to your terms."

I feel something like static electricity spark along my forehead. Or behind my forehead. It's hard to explain. I touch the spot, frowning. "What the hell was that?"

"We agreed to a pact. It is magically binding. Nothing so serious as an oath, however."

I blink at him. "I'm not sure that was necessary."

He shrugs. "Perhaps not, but I didn't do it. Or rather, not intentionally. One of the things that defines my people is that we must be exceedingly careful about what we agree to and how we phrase our agreements because they are all magically binding, and it is beyond our control. Our magic simply…seizes the agreement and binds it to the parties involved."

"That's weird."

"Perhaps."

"So, what is it I'm trusting you with, Aeon?"

"You'll see. For now, don't worry about it. But when you notice something unusual, that's what you agreed to trust me with. Essentially, yourself. Your physical well-being."

I frown. "That's vague, but I'll play along."

"I need the words, Maeve. If you will, please, tell me that you trust me on this particular, specific matter."

"But I don't know the matter."

"The magic does—my magic does. And so does yours."

"My magic is gone."

"Not gone. Blocked. You cannot access it at this time, nor can you feel it, but it's there." He shifts closer to me, rolls to lay on his back, and moves so we are lying parallel to each other across the fire. He extends his hand to me. "Join hands with me, if you will."

I reach out and take his hand—he threads our fingers together, and I feel a frisson of something sizzle through me.

I ignore it. Not going there. No, no, no.

"Now." His voice is low and quiet and calm. "Try to relax. Breathe. If you have ever meditated, do so now. Eyes closed, slow, even breaths." His voice, already musical, becomes hypnotic, lulling.

He begins chanting or singing. I don't recognize the language, other than to think it sounds related to Arabic or Hebrew, but with slightly less emphasis on the guttural 'ch' sound in the back of the throat. His voice is music. His words, whatever they mean, are powerful. This is no lullaby—it's a glamour. A very, very powerful one. Even without access to my magic, I can feel it. My skin tingles and goosebumps rise all over my body, my fine hairs lift, and my breathing becomes shallow and quick.

I focus on keeping my breathing slow and deep and even. Eyes closed. I listen to his voice and try to pick out the words, but I get lost in the sound, the rhythm. It seems to go on for a very long time, and the heat of the flames and his hand in mine anchor me to reality. Without the heat of the fire and the warmth of his hand, I might just float away on the river of his voice.

Gradually, his singing tapers off, and he falls silent. I don't open my eyes. I can't.

"Tell me about your mother?" He asks, his voice a soft murmur as if he, too, is reticent to intrude on the moment. There's something sacred about what he did—it feels like being in a cathedral, where you just somehow know you shouldn't be loud.

It seems perfectly natural to hold his hand—and to keep my eyes closed.

"She was…" words fail me. "Well, she was magical. I mean, duh, she was fae. But I didn't know that. I didn't know what she was or what I was until after she was murdered by the Tribunal. My whole life, she was all I had and all I needed. We moved around a lot. Like every six months, usually, if not more. Mostly around the south and west. Never anywhere cold—I think she had a secret hatred for cold. She was…gentle. But she had this way of drawing people to her. Everyone who met her loved her. Wanted to be near her. Men especially. Yet she never had to fight men off. They never got violent or inappropriate with her that I ever saw. When she smiled, it seemed like the whole world got brighter. I…I think I was a pretty well-behaved kid because I didn't want to make her sad or angry—it would be like…god, I don't know how to put it. It would be unnatural. That's the best I can do. It would just be wrong. So I always, always tried so hard to be good. And she made it easy. She didn't have many rules. Mainly, stay close to her in public. Don't leave the house without her. Don't talk to strangers without her. But at home, she just…she made everything better. I mean, she wasn't perfect. She was reclusive at times. She'd just want to be in her room alone for hours at a time. I could watch TV or read or whatever, and if I needed her she was there, but I just sort of knew to leave her be. I never knew why. I do, now, though."

"Why?"

"She was casting a demense. Or rather, demenses, plural. According to my grandfather, she spent my whole life turning me into one immense demense of her spirit." I snort. "I didn't mean to rhyme, sorry. Anyway. I realized in hindsight that she was doing it every time she brushed my hair at night. That was my favorite time of the day. She would sit on my bed with her back to the wall and I'd sit between her legs and she'd brush my hair. Over and over, for like an hour. And she'd sing. It always lulled me to sleep, and I never noticed that I never understood the words. Sort of like what you just did, but I wasn't aware that she wasn't speaking English. I think. It's all fuzzy, now."

Aeon doesn't respond for a few moments. Even though my eyes are closed, I feel a weird sense of disorientation, sort of like how when trying to take a nap in the sunshine you feel like you're falling or tilting somehow—drifting off to sleep on a raft in a gentle surf. I keep my eyes closed and wait for Aeon to speak.

"What was the effect of your mother's sacrifice?"

"Sacrifice?"

"Well, yes. To cast a demense is to divest a portion of yourself, your soul, your essence. Putting that sliver into an object which you then carry around? That's a selfish act, because a portion of your soul is outside of your body, which means a part of you will live on as long as that object is intact. But what your mother did? Sliver after sliver, day after day, putting those slivers into you ? That was the ultimate act of sacrifice. Even had she chosen to die directly so you might live, what you say she did with the demenses is a far greater and more noble sacrifice."

"Why?"

"Well, first, answer my question, if you will. What was the effect on you?"

"I…well, you have to understand, first of all, that when I was born, she and my…well, not my father but the man my mother loved who thought of me as a daughter—they cast a glamour on me that suppressed my immortal nature. It didn't just hide it, like a mask, but suppressed it so it was impossible to tell, for anyone, even me, that I was anything but mortal."

"I apologize for the interruption, but why?"

"Because my mother was kidnapped by her father and subjected to a reproductive experiment meant to solve the immortal reproduction conundrum."

"I assume you mean cross-race mating?"

"Yes," I answer. "But against her will. Forcefully. For months."

Silence. "By her own father?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Now, he was under the gun—head of the committee dedicated to solving the problem, which up until then was focused on every other solution but mating with the other kinds of immortal—the other Primi."

"Primi?"

"Oh, yes. That's Zirae's word for Fae, shifters, and vampires. Primi. I, a vaer, am a Secundus. Aeshir and Fomori are the other Secundae—fae-shifter and shifter-vampire, respectively." Pause. "The terms are logical and useful, so we've continued to use them even though they were created by a creature as vile as Zirae. Anyway. My grandfather didn't have much of a choice—or no good choices, at least. Succeed or be executed—and probably his wife and my mother with him, simply to be thorough. So, he chose. And it succeeded. She conceived me with a vampire, escaped, and went on the run. Cast the glamour to hide my nature. When I was eighteen, she was caught and executed by the Tribunal, and that sort of triggered everything. Andreas, my mother's lover, came to get me and told me he was my long-lost father—which was believable since she never told me one single thing about my father or anything about her past. But then I was drawn to Caspian and his coven, discovered the immortal world existed, and it eventually became clear I was not mortal. This is the Cliff's Note's version, by the way. Eventually, it became clear I wasn't just not mortal, I wasn't a normal im mortal—I was both vampire and fae, somehow."

Aeon squeezes my hand. "Go on."

"I was pursued by the Tribunal and the IRRC—the Immortal Reproductive Research Council. They didn't want me to go public—fully public or just within the immortal community—about my nature. It would threaten their hold on power, you see. I mean, sure, they were worried about what, um, is happening out there, but I think it was going to happen anyway, and now, at least, it's happening somewhat on our terms."

"Pardon, but what's happening?"

I snort. "You don't know?"

"No. I have been in a reclusive period. I go through them every few centuries. I get tired of people, mortal or immortal, and choose somewhere to get away for a while. Thus, my adoption of the Gobi. I've been here wandering the Gobi for, oh…a hundred years or so. I do occasionally pop into a city just to take the temperature of the world and sort of just… assimilate a bit, so I don't seem and sound so anachronistic. But I've not done that in, oh, a year or so."

I clear my throat. "So you've just been…walking around the Gobi Desert, alone, for the last century?"

"Yes."

"Weird."

"Perhaps, I suppose."

"So, what's happening is that the mortal world discovered, sort of by accident and sort of my fault, that we exist. The Tribunal and IRRC cornered me, my mate, and my coven in New York, and a battle broke out because I refused to go with them and be their prisoner and lab rat. I refused to be silenced. Well, some mortal livestreamed the whole thing, and it went viral." I hesitate. "Are you familiar with those terms?"

"Yes," he says, sounding amused. "I know what livestreaming and viral mean."

"Well, you just told me you've been out here for a hundred years. It's a logical question."

"It is, but I did also say I spend time in cities just to stay abreast of such things." He pauses a moment. "I assume mortals didn't take it well."

"Um, no. It's…well, it's bad. The American government has all but shut down because so many of the officials in the highest positions were immortal, and the fear and divisiveness that resulted just meant chaos everywhere. It's global, though. I admit I don't know what things are like in every country because I've been focused on mine."

"I see. Not surprising. Mortals have never been fully able to accept our kind. But it comes and goes. In some periods we are more tolerated, and in some less so. This most recent period after The Treaty, however, is different than the others that have come before because of the glamour cast to make mortals forget—not just that generation, but all mortals, forever going forward."

"Yeah, that's the part I've never gotten clarity on. Who decided that? Who agreed to it? Who cast the glamour? How? What was it supposed to solve? I know The Treaty ended the war and the loss of lives, but it also doomed immortals to a slow extinction."

"Indeed. There is much that has been forgotten."

I consider the weight behind that statement. "So it would seem." I resist the urge to look at him. "It seems to me like you know a lot of what's been forgotten."

"I do."

"Don't you owe it to people to share that information?"

"If I thought it would have done any good, I would have. I still would. And now that mortals are aware of what they don't know, the world might be ready for what I know. Accompanying you will serve to help me assess that." He squeezes my hand. "Now. Back to my very first question: what were the impacts of your mother's demenses?"

"A sense of her spirit within me. In moments of extreme danger or need, I would suddenly be able to perform wildly advanced feats of magic that I shouldn't be capable of. And usually, it would just happen without me intentionally trying to do anything. I just seemed to know things despite having zero magical education or training. It wasn't until I met my grandfather and learned the truth from him that I understood what was happening—my mother had infused so much of herself in me that there's almost a second spirit inside me. At least, that's my theory. I spoke to her in The Dreaming once, but only once. As I learn to control my magic I've had to rely less and less on Mother's Spirit, which is bittersweet because once I knew what it was, it felt like a way of being connected to her."

"Remarkable," he murmurs, awe obvious in his tone. "Truly, your mother was a remarkable woman."

"So it would seem. I mean, I know she was—but it feels like I didn't know her."

"Do children ever really know their parents?"

I laugh. "I wouldn't know. I just know I didn't really know my mother—at all."

The sense of tilting, twisting, floating disorientation has subsided. Aeon squeezes my hand.

"Open your eyes," he says.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Stars—an infinite wash of stars, shaded blue by the flickering fire between Aeon and me. Something is off—what, though?

I glance at Aeon. He's washed and shaded in delicate, soothing blue, looking at me with eyes slowly fading back to purple from having glowed brilliant azure.

He did something magical, then.

I blink and examine my surroundings. The flat, endless vista of cracked hardpan has been replaced by low, rolling hills—in the dim light of a fresh rising dawn they're little more than sharp-edged shadows against the backdrop of gray morning on the horizon. The blue mage-flames dance merrily, twisting and shivering and bathing me in delicious warmth.

I sit up. Grass surrounds me, damp with dew everywhere but where I was lying. Aeon sits up beside me, releasing my hand. Watches me, waiting for my reaction.

"Where are we now?" I ask.

A one-shoulder shrug. "Hard to say for sure, but a good distance north and west. Out of the Greater Gobi. Probably somewhere in northern Mongolia or southern Russia. That kind of travel is…imprecise at best."

"What kind of travel is it?" I ask. "And if you shrug and give me another vague non-answer, I shall be extremely displeased."

He grins. "We wouldn't want that, would we?" God, his smile is disorienting. His teeth are white and straight, and his lips are…kissable, is all I can say. The smile, though…it transforms his ageless features. Creases at the corners of his mouth, smile lines at the corners of his eyes, the brilliance of it is intoxicating and nearly as hypnotizing as his eyes.

STOP IT, MAEVE!

This is ridiculous. It's mere physical attraction. Nothing to act on. Nothing to worry about.

"You can't give me that stupid smile and think it'll erase the question, Aeon." I hold his eyes without blinking, without smiling, without expression. It's all an act, and I think he knows it.

He affects me. It's not cool.

I have mates. Five of them. I neither want nor need a sixth, and honestly, I'm not sure I can handle another colossal male personality.

I don't want Aeon. Not in any way.

He stares at me so intently I wonder if he can read my mind. Eventually, he nods, once.

"Very well. I shall uphold my end of the agreement. You shall receive your answers." he places his hands, palms down, index fingers together, thumbs overlapping, above the flames. They reach up and lick at his hands, and then the fire seems to lift up and off the ground and absorb into his hands. The blue glow fades and dissipates, and the natural, normal dawn haze blankets us.

He rubs his hands together as if to warm them up, and faint blue sparks dance around his hands and wink out so fast I wonder if I saw them at all.

He rises to his feet in a lithe, liquid motion. He unbuckles his belt, rests it on one shoulder, adjusts his robe and re-belts it, adjusting the sword. "Come. Let's make miles."

I get to my feet, brush grass off my butt, and rake my hand through my hair. "I'm guessing you can't just travel us like that back to The Enclave?"

A shake of his head. "Alas, no. It has a limited range, and I can only work the glamour every so often. I won't be able to do it again for a few days."

"But what is it? How does it work?"

"In the mortal world, there is a form of written entertainment known as science fiction. I assume you're familiar with it."

I laugh. "Yes, I'm familiar with science fiction, Aeon."

"One mustn't assume. Anyway. Certain writers have posited a theory of travel known as wormholes. One theory in particular works upon the premise that wormhole technology folds space-time and pokes a hole through it, allowing one to travel great and impossible distances in a short period of time. Do you follow?"

I shrug. "More or less."

"What Zirae did—the portal you described—is a version of what I did. Zirae's wormhole was…messy. Self-taught based on fragments of ancient texts from my time. Because he didn't have the full text or a qualified instructor to teach him the correct techniques, he did it incorrectly—and very dangerously. The technique has a name in the language I spoke as a youth, but even the name of the language has been forgotten for over ten thousand years, so knowing it would do you little good. Think of it as…" he looks up, frowning. "Transverse Relocation." Another pause. "Well, no. Relocation is misleading. Hmmm. Transverse, I like. How about telelocation? Tranverse telelocation."

I snort. "That's a mouthful. Sounds like something from Star Trek."

He lights up. "Yes! I met Gene. Wonderful chap."

"The way you talk changes constantly."

He shrugs. "Well, yes. I suppose it would. I pride myself on my facility with language—learning to speak and sound like a native. But I've learned so many languages and dialects and accents over the millennia that they sort of migrate around in my brain willy-nilly. English has been my go-to for several centuries."

We've been walking as we talk, a few feet separating us. Aeon is a tall dark shadow with white hair, his voice seeming to emanate from the shadow. Around us, the hills gain features as the light blooms—waving short grass, the occasional wildflower.

We walk in silence for a while—a long time. Wind blows constantly, a steady stream of cool air from the west. It sends Aeon's hair fluttering behind him like a flag—mine, too.

"Does the…whatever you called it—transverse telelocation…does it cross The Dreaming?"

A thoughtful pause. "In a way, yes. It's not The Dreaming as you would know it, however. It's…well, that's not entirely true. It is The Dreaming. Just…a different form of it. Or a different part of it. It's hard to discuss in English. I don't suppose you know Sanskrit?"

I laugh. "Prana, rakta, mana, and maya. That's about it."

"Ah. Well, never mind. Essentially, you're entering The Dreaming through a different door, which changes the essential nature of The Dreaming. Transverse Telelocation—and you know, that is a mouthful?—it brings you into The Dreaming, but sort of…across the top. Are you familiar with the term meniscus?" I nod, and he continues. "It's sort of like traveling along the surface of the water, within the meniscus but not truly beneath the surface. So, the things that live in the depths below are still there and can find you and eat you, but you're not really in the water. What Zirae did was akin to jumping into the water from a dock and then attempting to swim in the meniscus from there. The correct technique is more subtle and precise—it takes longer but is safer and more accurate. It is more like gliding along the meniscus from shore without ever truly penetrating the surface. No splash, no altering the hungry residents of the dark deeps."

I nod. "Interesting. Could I learn it?"

"Certainly. With ease, I would think." He rests one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Now, if you would, allow me some time to think so I can order my thoughts—what to tell you, how, and in what order."

And so, we walk in companionable silence for several hours after that. The sun rises behind us, and the rolling hills unfold before us and wrinkle away behind us.

The sun is past its zenith and is on its way back down before Aeon clears his throat and begins speaking.