The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(71)

“I want to try something,” he said. “Meet me tonight.”

“Where?”

“My room. I want to see how good you are.”

“We’ve already tried that,” she said drily, “and I believe we both rose admirably to the occasion.”

“Not that,” he said, though he was obviously not opposed. “I only meant I’m going to spend the day burying something. A thought.” “An answer?”

“Yes.”

A little thrill coursed through her.

“I thought you wouldn’t play games with me?”

“This isn’t a game. It’s a test.”

“What do I get if I pass?”

“An answer.”

“The answer?”

“Yes, fine.” A pause. “It will drain you.”

“Good,” she said invitingly.

“I already know what you can do without trying. I want to see what happens when you try.”

She shivered with anticipation. She had missed the sensation of operating in her element.

“Alright,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Then I’ll try.”

By the time she reached his private chambers, slipping in quietly when the others had gone to bed, Dalton was already sleeping. There was an hourglass beside the bed, with the implication clear enough: there was a time limit to this test. She flipped it, closing her eyes, and lay on her back beside Dalton, finding the rhythm of his pulse. It would be a matter of sinking into her own consciousness to locate the edges of his, then the effort of seeking out the most difficult doors to open.

When she opened her eyes, it was to a tangle of thorns.

“How very cliché,” she sighed, spotting the labyrinth that led to the castle. “I have an hour to reach the princess in the tower, is that it?”

An hour of his experience, that is, and all indications suggested he was particularly brilliant. She turned to the side, glimpsing a handful of non-native fungi sprouting along the path of thorns.

“Subtle,” she said drily, and plucked one, letting it turn to sand in her palm.

Mental chronometry. She was playing with his concept of time, collecting it for her use. She conjured, for purposes of allusion, a fashionable set of thin-plated armor, tucking the grains of excess time away.

The process of traversing the thorns was merely designed to waste her energy. Working her own magic inside his head was exponentially more effort than doing it in the physical universe; power worked like a traffic jam that way. One car slowing down meant a wave of amplified delay, and likewise, the use of magic outside Dalton’s mind compounded to a phantom degree of effort inside it. If she used the extra time she collected, she would exhaust herself. If she did not, she would run out. It was a clumsy set of rules, but clever enough, particularly for someone who was not primarily telepathic.

Not that any of this was primitive in the least; the kingdom Dalton had built in his head could not have been erected in a day, not when a lesser medeian would not have managed it in a lifetime. The labyrinth was unstable, constantly shifting, but grandiose and complex. Whatever the secret was that Dalton Ellery had locked away, it did not want to be found, and he must have had extraordinary capabilities to be so capable of keeping it from her.

She expected, given the sophistication of his mental defenses, something to force her out; flame was easy for the mind to conjure, and small brush fires leapt up through cracks, incandescent tongues to light her path. When she was attacked by spectral guards, she wasn’t surprised. They had been hastily cloned from one conception, and all fought mechanically—the same pattern of blows, over and over. Again, impressive for the work of an amateur, but this was only a test. Dalton had already made it clear he didn’t want her to die, so perhaps that was why his mind could not truly bring itself to threaten her. It was only designed to give her something to prove.

She took the tower steps two at a time, sprinkling sand as she went. The armor she’d made had begun to rust. She, corporeally, was fading. Time was running out.

The castle itself was well formed, uncreatively imagined. Based, most likely, on somewhere Dalton had once been, though there were details she hadn’t expected: each individual torch was lit upon the wall with a flame that responded uniquely to changes in the air, and the colors in the tapestries must have been selected, not recalled. She took the central staircase, following the path set for her, but could see that the rooms flanking it were furnished and filled; they were crafted, not copied.

The corridors narrowed, leading her upwards from landing to landing until she stepped onto a winding, circular staircase. At the top of the stairs were three tower rooms; these, unlike the others, were shut. She had time to open all three, but only long enough for a glimpse. If she wanted to fully search their contents, she would have to choose one.

Inside the first door was herself. That Parisa—Dalton’s Parisa—turned in Dalton’s arms to look at where the real Parisa stood in the corridor, expectant. Ah, so he had given her the opportunity to see what he truly felt about her, then. Uninteresting.

She opened the second door, finding a memory. A stranger, and Dalton with a knife in his hand. So that was what had happened. Tempting.

The third door contained only a locked chest. To break it might require more time than she currently had, though she paused when she realized the setting. It was a Roman plaza; a forum. The Forum.