Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,176

a crackling rasp. “Where am I? What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“Nothing,” she said soothingly. He felt a touch on his brow, her soft, warm palm against his skin. “They’ll get better soon. They just haven’t been used for a bit.”

He blinked. He realized his eyes felt cold within their sockets. He tried to touch his face and found he couldn’t control his hands or even wriggle his fingers.

“Shh,” said his mother. “Be calm. Be still.”

He swallowed, and found his tongue felt cold too. “What’s going on?”

“I saved you,” said his mother. “We saved you.”

“We?” He blinked again, and more of the room came into focus. He saw he was in some kind of long, low cellar, with a vaulted ceiling, and there were people standing around him, people wearing gray robes and bearing small, flickering candles.

But there was something wrong with the walls of the room—and, now that he saw it, the ceiling as well. They all seemed to be moving. Rippling.

This is a dream, Gregor thought. This must be a dream…

“What happened to me?” he asked.

She sighed slowly. “The same thing that’s happened to you so often, my dear.”

“I don’t understand,” he whispered.

“I lost you,” she said. “But again, you’ve come back.”

Gregor lay on the stone slab, breathing weakly. And then, slowly, the memories returned to him.

The woman—Estelle Candiano. The knife in his stomach. The swirl of dark water…

“I…I fell,” he whispered. “She stabbed me. Estelle Candiano stabbed me.”

“I know,” she said. “You told us already, Gregor.”

“She…she didn’t really stab me, did she, Mother?” He managed to move his hand and push himself up into a sitting position.

“No, no,” his mother chided him. “Lay back down, my love, lay still…”

“I…I didn’t die, did I, Mother?” he asked. His mind felt thick in his skull, but he found he could think now, just a bit. “That would be mad…I couldn’t die and just…just come…come back to li—”

“Enough,” said his mother. She reached out and touched the right side of his head with two fingers.

Instantly, Gregor fell still. His body seemed to grow numb around him. He could not move, could not blink. He was trapped within himself.

“Be still, Gregor,” said his mother. “Be still…”

Then his skull began to grow hot…Exactly on the right side of his head, right where his mother’s fingers touched him. The pain was a low ache at first, but then it got worse, and worse. It felt like his very brains were sizzling on the right side of his head.

And though he had no memory of this ever happening before…he could remember someone describing a sensation just like this.

Sancia, with Orso and Berenice in the library, saying: And if the scrivings in my skull get overtaxed, they burn, just burn, like hot lead in my bones…

What’s going on? Gregor thought desperately. What’s happening to me?

“Be still, Gregor,” said his mother. “Be still…”

He tried to move, raging at his dull, distant body, and found he couldn’t. The heat in his skull was unbearable now, like his mother’s fingers were red-hot irons.

But he could see his mother’s face now, barely illuminated by the candle flame. Her eyes were sad, but she did not look surprised, or upset, or anguished by any of this, really. Rather, it was like this bizarre act was a regrettable duty she was quite familiar with.

“What happened to you wounds my heart, my love,” she said softly. “But I thank you for coming to us now, when we need you the most.”

Gregor’s heart fluttered in his chest. No, no, he thought. No, I’m going mad. This is all a dream. This is all just a dream…

Another memory from that same night in the library—Orso, shrugging and saying: Oh, it probably wasn’t just one merchant house…If one was trying to scrive humans, they all were. It might still be going on, for all I know…

No, Gregor thought. No, no, no.

He remembered himself, saying aloud: …they could scrive a soldier’s mind. Make them fearless…Make them do despicable things, and then forget they’d ever done them…

No! Gregor thought. No, it can’t be! It can’t be!

And then Berenice, whispering: They could scrive you so that you could cheat death itself…

And finally, he remembered his own words, spoken to Sancia beside the Gulf, describing what it’d been like after Dantua: It was like a magic spell had been lifted from my eyes…

His mother watched him, her eyes sad. “You’re remembering now,” she said. “Aren’t you? You usually do about now.”

He remembered her at the Vienzi Foundry, angrily