Queen of Embers

XXVIII. Audience with a Dream

Sorne walked barefoot through the gardens of a palace she did not recognize, though the hanging banners of a white wolf on a field of crimson answered many of her questions about where she was. It was a beautiful spring day and people milled about, tending to their duties without a single blink of acknowledgement towards her. Most seemed to be taking their time and enjoying the nature of the day. The strange part was that their conversations were indistinct, almost as if she was too far away to hear them even when she passed right beside them. The world, too, was somehow slightly out of focus.

A little boy was playing in the center of the gardens, under the watchful eyes of some discreet guards. He looked to be five or six years old, brushing some of his short, red hair away from his forehead as he careened around this area of the grounds with his ball. She stepped onto the grass and he carried on as if she was invisible. This area was almost excruciatingly clear. She felt every blade of grass under her feet, caught the smell of sweet spring breezes and blooming roses, felt the warmth of sun on her skin.

"Welcome to Soule, Nessa," a smooth, deep voice said. "Or do you prefer Sorne?" His tone was calm and considered, as if he was ignorant of the visceral hatred that even his voice could evoke.

Sorne turned to face him. The man that had burned her in her youth bore the marks of age, though not as greatly as Sorne had expected. He was still athletic and strong, a few lines clustering on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. His hair and beard were barely red at all anymore, almost exclusively grey or white. And yet, he was hardly feeble. Marks to match her own, though glowing with a soft golden light, covered his body. Still, he was hardly prepared for a fight at the moment. He sat on a smooth wooden bench in the gardens beneath an ash tree, slicing an apple thoughtfully as he studied her with his one good eye, pausing to smooth the black silk covering his other eye's empty socket.

"Sorne," she said tersely, mentally deliberating whether or not she wanted to kill him now. She looked around, though she was very conscious of where he and the paring knife he was using were. "This place isn't real."

"You are correct," Aldana said with that same calm, flicking a few appleseeds to the earth. "This place is a dream. We are sharing it at the moment, though it is one of my design. More of a memory, really. I use Sol's gift for a less...brutish effect."

"Why did you bring me here?" Sorne said as she struggled with her hate. "You will see me on the battlefield. Is that not enough?"

Aldana chuckled. "Am I such a monster that you cannot bear the thought of a civil conversation for a few minutes? I have things to say that you might find rather interesting," he said pleasantly. "Certainly, I burned your hands, but you robbed me of my eye. But where you seem to have clung to old anger and spiteful venom, I have set it aside."

"You put the venom there," Sorne said forcefully.

"Oh, I certainly gave you a wound. But I didn't grind salt into it. I didn't use it as a weapon. At the end of the day, isn't it the responsibility of every one of us to account for our own deeds?" Aldana said. "Or shall I also take the credit for the defeats of the demons? Your heroics?"

"You burned Navarre," Sorne hissed, feeling gnawingly insecure after that comment of Aldana's. She had always prided herself on being a survivor, but did that mean she was letting his cruelty define her life? "That was not my doing."

He shrugged a little. "Sol burned Navarre. No king so ardently wishes the death of his own people. Now, Terese is something of a different story. Such an infuriating girl. Treachery deserves the terror I inflicted on her." He finished carving the apple into pieces. "Apple?"