Page 47 of Never the Roses

He threw himself into the work, researching the plans forconquest, constructing the maps, composing the strategy for conquering the Southern Lands as a musician would approach a symphony. Math and music shared a great deal in common, both metaphors working for him to frame his magical thinking.

In this way, every line of attack became its own instrument. The bass rhythm of the foot soldiers set the beat that would propel each battle, carrying the momentum of the war. The navy and the cavalry set the harmonies, weaving in and out, lighter and darker tones, sometimes methodically surging, other times shooting through, fast as lightning. The melody grew from those, the magic-workers with their solos, the fantastic creatures of earth, sea, and sky, singing a song of irresistible might.

Through it all, he added the counterpoint of supply lines, underscoring every other melodic component. Food, water, shelter, healers. Here and here and here, a consistent pulse allowing the symphony to grow and thrive.

Aware of the overall structure, Stearanos designed the opus of the war. The opening salvos to set the tone, perhaps with an overture of threats, along with posturing disguised as diplomatic forays. A flurry of intensifying attacks to drive toward a crescendo, diving into the downbeats of extended siege. Then the final build to the true climax, all of the instruments coming together, adding their parts to become a force greater than the simple sum, a building wave to wash away everything in its path, a grand finale of ultimate victory!

Then the denouement, the falling action into resolution, some callbacks to the original overtures, pained and pointed reminders of the peace they’d once enjoyed and could once again establish. A new regime, a golden era, looking forward to a bright future. Peace and prosperity.

He almost convinced himself those final resonant chords of peace would be the end. But not quite.

Sitting back in his chair, Stearanos became aware that the sun had set while he worked, the library shrouded in shadows. With a wave of his hand, he lit all the lamps at once and surveyed what he’d wrought. It was surely his masterwork. A brilliant blend of the magical and the mundane. Without Oneira, the southern queen couldn’t hope to stand against them. Her remaining magic-workers, her armies and defenses would topple one by one, until she found herself kneeling before His Majesty, yielding everything to her new overlord.

In his satisfaction, in his sheer pleasure at his own genius, Stearanos could almost forget the true and bloody cost this war would exact. Easy to focus on the bass rhythm of marching feet and forget the individual minds that rode with them, each with their own hopes and dreams, their wishes for fruitful, rewarding lives that had nothing to do with conquest of lands they’d never enjoy for themselves.

Oneira had made him think too much about war and its cost—and their role in it. Perhaps she was correct that any continued conversation between them could only lead to grief and sorrow. Already Stearanos felt a kind of weary despair that threatened to erode his resolve. Or perhaps that was the erosion of his promise not to bother her, not to venture again past her wards unless she invited him. He’d been a fool to leave the decision in her hands. Even as he’d said the words, he’d known he handed her too much power.

But then, she’d possessed all the power from the beginning, the Dreamthief running stealthy circles around him. When he’d punched through her wards, he’d felt a rush of vindicated triumph, which had faded the moment he’d laid eyes on her and known her for what she was: not merely a thief, but the one capable of stealing his heart for all time.

No, he wasn’t surprised that she’d never come back to hislibrary. Oh, she’d find a way to return that novel. Knowing her, she’d return both books, just to be extra certain that he’d have no leverage on her. Sorcerers were very careful about getting themselves into positions of breaking promises or incurring debt. Even when wreaking spells of terrible destruction, a magic-worker meticulously followed established rules of engagement. There was zero margin for anything but complete honesty between the sorcerer’s will and the manifestation of magic. The sorcerer who breaks faith in the external world of consensual reality runs the risk of destabilizing their internal reality.

Even a sorcerer like Stearanos, who used quasi-objective reality like numbers, equations, and advanced mathematics to shape his magic, had to acknowledge to himself that it was all a construct. That’s how he understood magic, but the numbers didn’t actually and in truth govern the magic. The manipulation came from him. For a sorceress like Oneira, who dealt primarily in the realm of the Dream, where reality bent according to whim as much as to disciplined thought, she would be even more wary of blurring her own lines of truth and lie.

With a growl of restless frustration, he launched himself from his chair to pace across the room to stare at the note he’d left her, undisturbed on the shelf for days. It enraged him that she wouldn’t take up his challenge, that she wouldn’t allow them this chance. And he understood why, also. His respect and admiration for her grew as a result. Oneira drew clear boundaries and she’d walk away rather than risk violating them. No wonder she was the one to retire, to exile herself rather than tolerate another moment fighting the wars of men.

The wonder of it was that she’d lasted as long as she had. Whereas he… well, he’d been one to capitulate to what was asked of him. Just this moment, he’d drawn up an elaborate, stirringly brilliant strategy to win a war he didn’t care about, and why? Because he could. Because he’d been told to and he’d always done what he was told.

He paced back to his desk and splayed his hands over the work. A work of genius. Stearanos tightened his fingers into claws, the paper bunching beneath the rictus of his despair and rage. He should tear it apart, throw it in the fire.

Let the mobs come for him. What did it matter? He had nothing to live for.

At that moment, just as he’d resolved to do it and give himself up to whatever punishment Uhtric would devise—though Stearanos could hardly be more in debt—his exhausted dispiritedness morphed into a deeper wave of sleepiness. Belatedly, he identified the reason, the source.

Oneira.

He knew the flavor of her magic, the irresistible siren call of her enchantment sending him to sleep, to dream. She was coming. And she was not leaving him awake.

Stearanos didn’t bother fighting the spell. He’d tried and failed before. This was her strength, her sole kingdom where she ruled and he was but a powerless denizen. But, as the Dream roared up in all its drugging, sapping release, dragging him into its arms, sweet, soft, and promising surcease, he seized the quill and defiled the once-crisp lines of his plans with a single word. The one challenge that pierced the high walls of Oneira’s determination to shut him out.

Coward.

Oneira stepped out of the Dream and into the Stormbreaker’s library—not at all surprised to see Stearanos there, slumped overhis work again. Sound asleep, as she’d intended. Good. He might have the power to smash through her wards, but he couldn’t resist her ability to put him safely out of commission.

What she didn’t expect was the stab of acute longing at the sight of even the back of his head, his unbound braids spilling over to puddle on the desk. She’d spent the last several days convincing herself that his visit, thathe, had been something less than her memories suggested. That her imagination had conjured him from wistfulness and yearning. She wasn’t able to pretend that it had all been a dream, as she understood dreams far too well to delude herself to that extent, but she had been able to decide that the kiss couldn’t have been that potent. That the conversation hadn’t been so stimulating. That his interest in her must be far more transient and far less intriguing than it had felt at the time.

That the temptation was nothing she couldn’t withstand.

How wrong she’d been, on every point. Even fast asleep, Stearanos was even more potent, more vivid and tantalizing than her most lurid fantasies had served up.

Not that the revelation changed her mind. She’d made a decision and she was sticking to it. No more of this ridiculous vacillating.

Moving with brisk determination, she made herself go to his shelves, to replace the novel and the book on rose cultivation in their precise spots. But, when she went to put the novel away, though the exact space had been left empty for it, she found a folded note sitting there slantwise, so she’d have to at least move it in order to replace the book. With a sigh, she extracted the paper with her barest fingertips, seriously considering consigning it to ash with a small burst of flame, leaving it for Stearanos to find on his plush and pristine rug.

Except he didn’t deserve that. He hadn’t done anything wrongor aggressive by issuing his seductive invitation. She couldn’t even blame him for breaking her wards and forcing a confrontation, as that was understandable, even expected.

Checking to be sure he still slept soundly, she unfolded the note and read.

My dearest Dreamthief,

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