Oblivion (35 page)

He was fighting that darker side itself.

Just then Gwen came sprinting into the clearing. In the split second it took Isobel to glance her way, the double to her right grabbed Isobel.

“Don't cheerleaders belong on the sidelines?” he hissed in her ear before tossing her aside.

Hurrying to meet her, Gwen caught her before she could fall.

Well,
Isobel thought, clinging to her friend as she steadied herself
, at least now I know.

Or thought she knew.

No sooner did Isobel look back to the duplicates than they rejoined their scuffle. Again they clashed, and again she lost track of the imposter. “Which—?” Gwen asked between winded gasps for air.

“I don't know!” Isobel exclaimed.

Long coats flapped as the two Varens swung in place until, with a well-timed shove, one Varen sent the other skidding away.

The thrown Varen, who managed to stay on his feet, crouched, his boots skating over ground that became something else beneath his sliding soles—a patch of marble. The smooth surface unfurled beneath its conjurer, rushing fast as brush fire to consume and replace the dust underneath them.

Curved stone walls rose from the circular perimeter of the new floor, sealing the four of them into a rounded, roofless room.

An arena,
Isobel realized, an instant before tall, black, spiked iron gates shot up in front of her and Gwen, cutting them off from the fighting ring.

Armored stone angels materialized along the other side of the gates, each offering forth a range of different weapons. Wings unfurled and orb eyes open, the angels held the air of spectators, each again bearing Isobel's likeness.

Grabbing the iron bars, Isobel pulled herself close to the gate.

“Varen!” she shouted to the duplicate who approached the carved sentinel closest to her. “You
can
stop this. You can make it all go away. You can—”

“What do you think I'm doing?” he asked without looking at her, taking a sword and dagger set from the angel with two quick scrapes of metal on stone.

Renewed terror jabbed Isobel's gut when she saw the Varen on the opposite side of the arena draw a spear from the grip of another statue. Tightening her hold on the bars, she imagined the barrier disintegrating to dust.

But the cold, unwavering metal refused to comply with her silent command.

Varen's mind was made up. His conviction that he would enter this match was too strong for her to dispel. And unlike when they had been in the courtyard of statues, there was no window of doubt that Isobel could infiltrate with her own dreams.

At least, not through her strength alone.

“Gwen,” Isobel said, pushing back from the bars to face her friend. “Listen, I know you don't understand what's happening, but I need your help. Please, we
have
to stop them.”

“How?” Gwen asked, her expression stricken with fear and shock.

“With your thoughts,” Isobel said. “
Our
thoughts together. They're both holding all of this in place, but if we concentrate at the same time, we might be able to make the gates vanish. If I can get in there, Gwen, if I can get between them again, I
can
make them stop.”

Though Isobel could tell that her friend didn't grasp everything she'd said, she was grateful to see Gwen give a stiff nod of solidarity.

Gwen approached the gates, her hands wrapping the bars. Isobel did the same.

Beyond the gates, the Varens rushed each other.

The sword slashed down.
Snick
came the sound of the blade clashing with the spear's wooden shaft. Recoiling, Sword Varen swung again. Spear Varen ducked, then straightened. He sidestepped and leaned this way and that, evading the sword at every pass until, finally, its wielder landed the first strike.

Blood gushed from the spear bearer's arm. The only color in this dull, grayscale world, it splashed vibrant and bright onto the marble.

Isobel gripped the bars harder, willing the iron to loosen.

“Think about the gate disappearing,” she told Gwen. “Picture the parts we're holding dissolving away.”

In the corner of her vision, Isobel saw Gwen's hands tighten, her knuckles paling to white. Yet the bars remained solid, and even though Isobel knew she'd be able to concentrate better if she closed her eyes, she couldn't bring herself to shut out the fight.

Quick shuffles allowed Sword Varen to evade the repeated jabs of his enemy's spear. Again and again, he crossed his two blades in front of him to deflect its pointed tip. But Spear Varen eluded the sword swipes with equal ease, his guard obviously raised after being clipped.

Clacks and clangs echoed through the arena as each Varen matched the other strike for strike.

Just as Isobel had been able to do things in the dreamworld without knowing how—like keeping up with Pinfeathers's mad masquerade waltz and Reynolds's frenzied sword-fighting lesson during their skirmish near the cliffs—so too, it seemed, was the real Varen able to keep pace with his counterpart.

It wasn't long, however, before one landed another strike.

Spear Varen feinted once, then twice, before penetrating his foe's defenses. With an upward flick of his weapon, he caught Sword Varen across the chest. The spear's spiked tip sent an arc of crimson over the floor, and the appearance of fresh blood made Isobel feel even more helpless; that
both
Varens bled told her that the Noc had taken care to construct a veneer that was internal as well as external.

“Isobel, nothing's happening,” she heard Gwen say. And it wasn't. Because Isobel wasn't focusing. How could she?

Snap, clack, crack—clang!

Isobel gasped as the dagger fell from Sword Varen's hand. Armed now with only a single blade, he staggered away from his assailant, trailing blood.

Spear Varen flipped his weapon into a better grip and, advancing on his target again, unleashed a string of onslaughts that forced Sword Varen all the way to the gates. There they crashed together, Spear Varen squeezing Sword Varen into the iron bars.

Isobel heard one of them hiss something to the other, though she couldn't decipher what was said or which had spoken.

Then, with an angry growl, Sword Varen sent Spear Varen tumbling backward. Now, as the doubles re-entered the center of the arena, it was Spear Varen who retreated, struggling to deflect the ceaseless string of swipes and slashes.

A whip-fast swing of the sword knocked the spear aside. Moving in, Sword Varen grasped its shaft, holding it and its wielder steady with one hand. Then he coiled his blade-bearing arm, preparing to send it down on his opponent's exposed neck in a killing blow.

“Stop!” Isobel screeched, and her cry caused Sword Varen to hesitate. Long enough for Spear Varen to reclaim his weapon and break away.

“I thought you said we had to concentrate!” Gwen snapped.

Tensing, Isobel forced herself to shut her eyes.

The clanging of weapons, scuffle of steps, and snapping of coats resumed, the mixture of sounds screaming louder and louder in her ears.

Isobel tried to push the echoing clamor aside, to concentrate on the pressure of Gwen's shoulder against hers. She allowed the sensation to transport her back in time, to that moment at the burial site when she'd found the hidden reserves of her own strength. Again she pictured the bars dissolving.

“It's working,” Isobel said when, to her surprise, she felt the iron loosen. “Don't stop.”

She squeezed her fists and felt the brittle metal give. Opening her eyes, Isobel pushed forward and, wasting no time, burst through the gate as it crumpled apart like dry, rotted cloth.

Isobel hurried past the angels, who turned their focuses on her, bleeding scars opening on their cheeks.

She dashed into the arena, the soles of her shoes clapping against the marble just as, tripped by the end of the spear, Sword Varen went sprawling.

His blade leaped from his grip as he fell, and with a shriek, it glided to a stop at Isobel's feet.

She bent to retrieve the sword, clutching its heavy hilt.

When she looked up, however, she saw Spear Varen raise his weapon high and aim the tip for the heart of his rival.

“Do you really win if you know she won't make it out of here alive?” the felled Varen asked between heavy breaths, his chest bloody and heaving.

Spear Varen held off, his own breaths coming fast, his white-knuckled hands quivering.

“Go ahead,” said the floored double. “End it. You should know better than anybody that I'm telling the truth when I say I want you to.”

At these words, Isobel released the sword, realizing it would do her no good.

No weapon would. And no words would either.

She'd been wrong to tell Gwen she held the power to stop this. To stop them.

She couldn't.

Because this was not her fight. Like the angels, she was on the outside. A spectator left with no choice but to watch.

Isobel rose slowly to stand, leaving the sword where it lay.

“Strike,” said the Varen on the floor.

“First, tell me why you say she'll die,” snapped the standing Varen.

“I think at this point, you and I both know that it's going to be either her or us,” Sword Varen responded, never once breaking gazes with his double. “You only hesitate now because you know it's true. How else can it end? I think we both understand that whichever one of us—you or I, I mean—gets to walk away from
this
little scrap will also determine who survives in the end. Her or us. So why not seal the deal now? After all, isn't control all you've ever
really
wanted?”

“You're telling the truth,” said Spear Varen, his grip on the wooden shaft loosening as he lowered the weapon, “aren't you?”

“Wouldn't you be the first to know?” the double replied.

Isobel tried to keep up with the dizzying exchange, her eyes darting between the two as, stepping back, the standing Varen allowed the felled Varen to rise. Still, she could not tell them apart, and in that moment, even though knowing wouldn't have helped her at all, she despised herself for it.

The Varen with the spear extended his weapon to his opponent, who accepted it with an odd gentleness.

Isobel shook her head, already sensing what would come next.

“Please don't,” she said, more to herself than to either of them because, even if she'd screamed it, she doubted they would have heard.

“I suppose this way we both win,” said the now unarmed Varen, a small ironic smile tugging at his lips.

“I suppose so,” replied the new victor before shoving the forfeiter to the floor and jamming the spear straight through his heart.

Isobel flinched when she heard the smash. And again when the conquering Varen jerked the spear free.

Tossing his weapon aside, he glared down at his defeated enemy, the empty-eyed Noc who, even in his half-shattered state, had retained Varen's likeness.

The ghoul's cracked face even held on to that last ghost of a smile, as if he'd found something amusing in his own demise.

Maybe, Isobel thought, the creature's continued disguise had been meant as a punch line. One more Grim Facade . . .

Breaking his gaze on the Noc, Varen turned toward her.

Isobel wavered in place.

Then, without her command, her feet carried her forward in a run. Under her shoes, the floor went soft, returning to ash.

Like crumbling sand castles, the angels collapsed with a unanimous
whoosh.

The curved stone walls went next, causing new dust clouds to rise and blot out the surrounding woodlands, enclosing her with the boy who wrapped her in his arms the moment she reached him.

“Oh
God
,” she breathed against his bloodied chest.

“I'm sorry,” Varen whispered as he pulled her closer, squeezing her hard. “I had to.”

He meant the fight, she was sure, though Isobel still wasn't certain why he'd felt obliged to risk everything—including his own soul—in order to engage in the battle.

She wondered, too, why the conclusion to their war had been so strange and abrupt. Scowling, she tried to replay their last words in her mind. To make sense of them . . .

“You said . . . one of us was bound to die,” Isobel murmured. She pressed her ear to his ripped, stained shirt, listening to the frantic rhythm of a heart that was very much intact.

Then she peered over at the shell of a body sprawled in the dust. The Noc's eyes—vacant, hollow holes—seemed to watch her. But though Isobel waited, the creature's form still looked like Varen's, refusing to return to its monstrous state.

“I think one of us just did,” Varen replied.

Isobel forced herself to look away from the Noc. Closing her eyes, she buried her face against Varen.

But even as she breathed in that nearly faded essence of old incense and dried orange peels, burned leaves and worn leather—an aroma now tainted by the coppery tang of blood and the mordant smell of ash—she feared she might awaken any moment to find that none of this had really happened.

Tricks and turns, twists and illusions—these were the elements that defined this world.

Here, time was a lie.

Faces perceived as false proved real and real faces false.

A dream could be as tangible as reality, and things that seemed real as ephemeral as a dream.

As she considered the sheer infiniteness of this realm and its limitless capacity for treachery, Isobel now had to wonder which category
she
fell into.

Was it possible that Varen and this whole horrible, confusing day were all the workings of her imagination? A toxic balm her mind had produced to soothe itself?

Or could it be that, unbeknownst to herself or Varen, she really was just another product of
his
imagination? A dream version of herself that, like the Nocs, had grown a cognizance of its own?