Page 226 of The Bone Season

Pressure mounted in her skull. Her spirit was fighting back in her dreamscape, recovering from the shock of my entry. I had moments to act.

Paige Mahoney lay on the stage, the dress garish against her pallid skin. Jos clambered up to shake me, jolting my silver cord. I could see it, with these sighted eyes, stretching between that body and this one. The golden cord, however, was invisible to Nashira.

Hurry, Paige.

I had to find a way to prove how weak she was. Straining to move her arm, I reached for the Wrath of the Inquisitor.

Even with full control of my host, the sword would have been heavy. I lifted it from its stand. Rephs were resistant to amaurotic weaponry, but this performance was for the emissaries’ sake, not hers. I turned the sword, planting its hilt on the floor.

I threw Nashira on the blade, just as she hurled me out of her dreamscape.

The Guildhall was in chaos. When I opened my own eyes, my ears were full of shouts, and my head was in such agony that tears welled, hot and stinging. I looked up, hair falling over my brow.

Nashira Sargas was impaled on the Wrath of the Inquisitor.

‘Suzerain,’ the Overseer cried, aghast. ‘Red-jackets, to arms, to arms!’

The red-jackets did not reply. Across the hall, they were collapsing.

Nashira opened her eyes. I watched her come back to herself. The blade had gone into her middle and out of her back. She gripped it with both hands, uprooting it from her body. Drops of light scattered the boards and coated the blade; more of it spread in her doublet.

‘A clever display,’ she said to me. ‘Arcturus trained you well, after all.’

I was frozen. Even knowing the Rephs were immortal, seeing her pull that sword out of herself, as if it were just an inconvenience, was paralysing.

The sword fell to the ground. Instead, she unsheathed a knife. It came flying towards me. With so much pain in my head, I barely moved in time. The blade caught my right cheek, leaving a shallow wound.

‘You can do better than knives,’ I said hoarsely. ‘What are you – a common thief ?’

My voice was slurred. Each time I returned to my body, it took a moment for each part of me to wake up. My fingertips were numb; my heart laboured. The poltergeist came back for a second go, only for the pendant to send it packing. In a fury, the poltergeist shot towards the golden sword, the sword coated in the blood of its binder.

The possession had disoriented Nashira. I could see it in the flicker of her eyes, her stiffened gait. Her fallen angel would finish the job.

The Wrath of the Inquisitor began to shake, its blade clattering on the boards. As with angels, I had seen poltergeists lift and hurl objects before, an ability we calledapport.

The nearest candles went out in a rush. A Vigile found Crina, the second dissident to sing. He lifted his rifle and shot her clean in the head. I flinched as she died and fell to the ground, blood on her grey tunic.

The gunshot elicited screams from the audience. They broke like a wave on the doors of the Guildhall. I watched Birgitta Tjäder try another door. Someone had sealed the entrances.

Had that been part of the plan?

I had no time to think about it. The Vigile aimed his rifle at Jos, the first singer. My nose bled as I tried desperately to dreamwalk. Jos backed away, his small hands raised.

Liss swept down from the ceiling and grabbed Jos with one arm. With incredible strength, she swung him into the gallery. He scrambled over the balustrade and ran, pursued by the same Vigile.

A film of cold sweat coated my skin. Turning back to the poltergeist, I watched the golden sword rise of its own accord, casting a long shadow on the wall. Heaving for breath, I dreamwalked yet again.

This time, I had lost the element of surprise. Nashira threw up all her centuries of armour, slamming me back into my own skin. This time, I woke to my own scream of agony. A tight helmet was crushing my skull, more excruciating than when I killed the Underguards.

That was it. I was done.

Nashira recovered faster than I did. As she rose, four of her angels ripped into my dreamscape, trying to destroy a threat to their binder. In the distance, I heard myself sob again; I felt myself thump my head on the boards, as if that could dislodge the invaders. They were tearing at my poppies like a plough, scattering petals.

Her outline came back into focus. As the angels withdrew, she grasped me by the hair.

‘How tired you look,’ she said. ‘Give in, dreamwalker. The æther calls you.’

I was tempted, just to escape the pain. All I could smell or taste was blood.

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