Dreamwalker's Bride - Chapter 91

Chapter 91: Don’t beat yourself up
“No!”

Trace jumped at the cry he heard from Anaisa’s room, leaping to his feet, ready to burst in and help her, but held back. Only the princess was in there with his wife, and she wouldn’t harm Anaisa. Would she?

He gulped, and waited. There were whispers, but nothing else intelligible. He lowered himself back to his seat, turning away from the food on the table. He wasn’t hungry.

The rest of the day passed achingly slowly. Sapphira barely spoke to him except to say that Anaisa wanted to stay in her room, and didn’t want to see him.

The doctor visited once more and revealed that Anaisa seemed to be doing better, and would likely pull through; she’d vomited enough poison for it not to be deadly.

Still, his voice was grave, and Trace wondered what was happening in the rest of the palace. For someone to poison the queen’s personal food was a gross breach in security. Heads would doubtlessly roll over the matter, even if the main one harmed by the act was a maid and not the real princess.

Dinner was eventually delivered, with more broth for Anaisa. Sapphira ate more heartily now that the patient had been declared to be on the mend, but she spoke not a word to Trace.

He idly wondered whether Anaisa had confided in her. He wasn’t sure whether that would make him feel relief or dismay. If the king found out what Trace had been up to, his life would easily be forfeit.

Especially in the king’s current dark mood. The palace reeked of it. There was not a servant unaffected by the rage that trickled down through the ranks. Trace imagined even the stable boys could feel the atmosphere of suspicion and anger.

Trace waited. And sat. And stared, hating his powerlessness. There was nothing he could do. No plan he could think of that wouldn’t be faulty on its face as an attempt to thwart the Count. No action he could take to make things up to his wife. No way forward but to wait and suffer under the millstone of condemnation he’d brought upon himself.

When evening finally arrived, his eyes were dry from staring, his heart numb from the prospect of Anaisa’s hatred lasting forever.

He prepared his bedroll next to the door. Three more nights until the ball. He would be bound to the Count’s orders for at least that long, maybe longer. He wanted to run and escape, but that would leave Anaisa and Katia in danger, not to mention his own family. Unless he managed to get them all out of the kingdom, they would be within Oakdown’s reach.

And as much as Foundrel hated losing the war, his family were unlikely to be treated well there.

That was all even assuming he could get Anaisa to agree to go. She didn’t trust him anymore and he imagined would balk at the prospect of running.

With these grim thoughts in his mind, he settled in for sleep.

Sighing, he opened his eyes to a cracked, red sky. The ground beneath him was rough, and barren. Splinters of an orange sun dangled above him with anemic light.

One corner of his mouth tipped up ironically. Kissing Anaisa really had broken his world. He wondered how long it would take to put it back together, but he hadn’t the will to try right now.

Let it stay broken, reflecting the state of his soul. He didn’t need his dreams anyway.

Drawing to the edge, he looked out. The princess was asleep, and the pull of the commands jerked him towards her dream. He resisted for a short while, to see if he could, but he didn’t want to waste time.

Ultimately, the pull would overwhelm him, but secondarily, he still needed to comply with the Count temporarily to keep his loved ones safe.

Besides, he had other things to do.

Approaching the glossy edge, he laid his hand on Sapphira’s dream world and conjured the bare minimum of what was required, putting the green-and-yellow clad stranger with a charming smile into the mix before backing away.

Next he quickly made his way to the king’s dream, more easily located tonight due to knowing the location of King Harold’s chambers, and briefly peeked inside to confirm the identity of the dreamer before doing the same bare minimum of obedience.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, he turned away. He had better things to do. Racing through void dotted with the dreams of the palace, he shortly found himself at the dream he sought.

“Sanders,” He greeted darkly as he stepped through. “It seems we’re in the same boat now.”

“You should not have tried to come and see me in the daylight,” Sanders shook his head without turning towards the newcomer. “I tried to alert you.”

“Well, apparently I’m dense,” Trace gritted his teeth, “and now I’ve ruined everything.”

“There is always hope,” Sanders turned his head only slightly, but still did not look at his dream’s invader.

“What hope? You heard his instructions.” Trace grimaced.

“I did, but if it makes you feel better, you may repeat them.” Sanders said graciously.

“I have to do what his letters instruct, without attempting to thwart his plans or inform anyone of his orders, his past actions, his identity, or his goals.” Trace spat, repeating the words precisely, like a stamp of mud on his free will. “His letter which will allow him to seduce the princess and take over the kingdom.”

“You believe that’s his goal?” Sanders finally looked Trace in the eye curiously, and the dreamwalker frowned.

“He said that was thinking too small. Taking over a kingdom is too small?” Trace murmured.

“You remember what I said about his magic?” Sanders began to walk, and Trace fell into step beside him. They passed window after window into the lives of magic users.

“You said… that it wasn’t the same as ours, I think. Are these things all happening now, or have they happened before?” He asked, slightly distracted at the sheer number. Surely not all these people were using magic in the middle of the night.

“These are memory windows, although with concentration I can look into the current state of things, it is usually unnecessary.” Sanders replied.

Trace wondered if there were any particular destination he was being led toward. He sensed that Sanders was trying to circumvent Oakdown’s commands, but Trace couldn’t quite pin down what was expected of him. He tried a new question.

“Why isn’t Oakdown’s magic the same?”