Dreamseeker (23 page)

“The horrors unleashed by your fetters may not be unique,” Sebastian says. “I've heard tales of similar things happening out west, in a benighted region called the Badlands. People who try to enter the area generally don't come out, or if they do, they come out mad. Even zeppelins that fly over it are affected, and the last one to make the attempt drifted back into civilized space with nothing but corpses and madmen on board.” He pauses. “In the days when travelers still tested themselves against the Badlands' borders, survivors spoke of unnatural rain, trembling earth, sickness that came out of nowhere . . . and creatures out of nightmare coming to life.”

“You think they meant that literally? The last one?”

“Who knows? All I can tell you is that Gifts don't appear out of nowhere. They require a human source. And while no one ever associated the wild forces of the Badlands with human Gifts, the similarity to what you witnessed at the compound is unmistakable. And that had a human source.”

“You think there are people living out there? That no one knows about?”

“It's one possibility.”

“Maybe . . . maybe Dreamwalkers? Because that's the only Gift that would manifest nightmares, right?”

The ancient eyes fix on me. So intense, that gaze. So enigmatic.

“Maybe Dreamwalkers,” he agrees.

S
HADOWCREST

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

A
LASTAIR
W
ELLS

M
ASTER
ALASTAIR WELLS
took a deep breath before entering Lord Virilian's audience chamber. The fact that the Greys had sent someone of his rank to deliver their report, rather than the usual journeyman, was a sad comment on how they expected that report to be received. Virilian might lash out at a mere apprentice in anger, they'd reasoned, but surely he would exhibit more control with a Master of Obfuscates.

Surely.

Nodding to the guard, Wells reminded himself that not
all
the news he brought was bad. Just the part that would impact Virilian's personal fortune.

The doors opened, and he stepped forward with what he hoped looked like confidence. Virilian, like a wolf, could smell fear. The Shadowlord was seated on his usual throne, with the usual clamor of dead souls surrounding him. Wells had dealt with Shadowlords often enough to regard the latter as background music, albeit of an irritating variety. “Your Grace.” He bowed his head respectfully.

The Guildmaster nodded. “Master Wells. You honor this Guild by your presence. I understand you have news for me?”

“Yes, your Lordship. Both good and bad, I'm afraid.”

Virilian's eyes narrowed. “In whatever order you like, then.”

“We reached the portal, and have evaluated it. I'm pleased to report it's still functional. A bit unstable, but once we restore the Gate we should be able to rectify that.”

“That's excellent news. How long before it can return to full service?”

Wells hesitated.

“There's a problem?”

“Not here, your Grace. We cleared out the entrance, and once we put a new Gate in place our people should be able to come and go freely. At this end, at least.”

Virilian raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“Our Gate wasn't the only one damaged. Reverberations from the explosion triggered earthquakes throughout our network, destroying the infrastructure on several worlds. Those Gates are still inaccessible.”

For a moment there was silence. A spirit moaned softly behind Wells's left ear.

“So what you are saying is, our people can enter the portal safely from this side, and use it to gain access to other worlds, but the points of arrival on those worlds have been blocked, so it is, for all intents and purposes, useless.”

“Only on certain worlds,” Wells said quickly. “We're cataloging the extent of the damage. Gates outside the Terran Cluster are unaffected, and many of those within the cluster can be restored quickly. Long term, we estimate we can restore eighty to ninety percent of the original network.”

“Long term,” he mused darkly.

“Yes.”

“That does little for us right now.”

Wells bridled slightly. “We're working as fast as we can, your Grace. There are still other Gates available. No world has been cut off from contact with ours.”

“But commerce must divert to other cities. And merchants may establish such connections there that, even when Luray is restored to full functioning, some will not return.”

Wells said nothing. Virilian's personal power was rooted in his control of a major interworld trade hub. Devalue that hub, and his power was diminished. No words from a Grey would change that reality, or make the current situation more palatable.

“I want this addressed as quickly as possible,” the Guildmaster said. “Hire whomever you need, Gifted or otherwise. My Guild will cover the cost of it for now . . . though your Guildmaster and I will need to have a conversation about that responsibility.”

It took all Wells's self-control not to respond sharply.
Don't think you're going to saddle us with the cost of this mess
, he thought.
If you hadn't kidnapped that Colonnan boy, thinking he was a Dreamwalker, none of this would have happened.
“I'm sure our Master will be pleased to receive you.” He reached into his frock coat and took out a thick envelope, which he offered to Virilian.

“What is this?”

“A full report on the explosion.”

Virilian took the envelope from him. “Have you identified the nature of the Codex?”

He hesitated. “Not yet, Your Grace. We're still working on it.”

“Very well. I'll take your report under advisement. Meanwhile, you will keep me informed of your progress on the Gate.”

“Of course.” He bowed his head respectfully. “And I will communicate to my Guild how important it is that we restore it to full function as quickly as possible.”

Like we didn't already know that,
he thought acidly.
Like we haven't been overseeing the Gates for centuries, and need you to tell us how to manage them.
But he kept a polite expression on his face, and
just in case that wasn't convincing enough, activated his Gift to mask his irritation. Never let a Shadow know how you are really feeling. That was the first rule of Guild etiquette.

If this Shadow wasn't so damn obsessed with hunting Dreamwalkers, the Blue Ridge Gate would still be standing.

He wound up leaving with his head still on his shoulders and his mind intact. Which, given the circumstances, was all anyone could ask for.

L
URAY

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

J
ESSE

L
URAY'S LONG RIVER BANKS
were host to a wide variety of docks—public, private, and commercial—and getting a cab to take me to the one I wanted without my being able to provide its name, or to offer better direction than “it's at the south end of town,” wasted a good chunk of my petty cash allotment. By the time we found the right one the sun was setting, and I was hard-pressed to find suitable lodging before it got dark.

The place where I'd booked a room was laid out like a motel, though of course in a world without cars it probably wasn't called that. Two U-shaped floors had small rooms that opened directly onto a central courtyard, allowing guests to come and go without having to pass through a lobby or office. That suited my desire for privacy. It also suited other people who wanted to come and go unseen, who, in this particular neighborhood, were an unsavory lot. I was careful to lock my door once I was inside.

Despite hours of lying on top of the bedspread with my eyes closed, I'd gotten little rest the night before. Maybe sleep deprivation was what drove the ancient Dreamwalkers mad.

It felt strange to spend a night on this world like a normal person. Not hiding in the woods, not cringing in the sewers, and not lying awake at the Seers' headquarters wondering who was spying on my brain emanations. Just me, a rented bed, and enough tired whores and petty drug dealers to give the place atmosphere.

At noon I headed back to the pier, where Sebastian was waiting for me. He wasn't dressed in his usual attire, but in an outfit so mundane that at first I didn't recognize him. Yes, there was a slight period flavor to the collar of his white cotton shirt, and the leather bag slung over his shoulder did have a military air to it, but no stranger seeing him would think to look twice.

I couldn't see his expression as I approached, due to his broad-brimmed hat, but I did see him tense when he spotted me. It took me a moment to realize why he was reacting that way. I'd been living with the concept of visiting other peoples' dreams for long enough that I'd gotten used to the idea. He, on the other hand, had not known up until this moment whether the Jessica who visited him in his dream was real or not. This was his toaster strudel moment.

“It's really you,” he breathed, as I approached. Wonder resonated in his voice. “God in Heaven, it's really you. . . .”

Despite my generally somber mood, I couldn't help but smile. “It does take a little getting used to.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but just then a couple of people walking along the shore started up the pier. Given the sensitivity of what we needed to discuss, they were getting too close for comfort. “Perhaps we should seek some privacy,” he said. He nodded toward where his canoe was moored, a question in his eyes.

I looked across the river, noted that the people on the opposite shore weren't all that far away, and said, “Walls are better. I have a room nearby we can use.”

There were only a couple of people hanging around the motel when we arrived, both of them women with smeared makeup and tousled hair, who looked more than a little hung over. They watched with blatant curiosity as I led Sebastian into my room. Probably they
were wondering what I would charge a man three times my age for my services. It was not a good neighborhood.

I offered Sebastian the one chair in the room, but he chose to remain standing. I watched as he took stock of the small space, and I was reminded of Rita in IHOP, checking for exits. It was a more wary aspect than I'd seen in him before, and I wondered what had put him on edge.

“You said you had something for me,” I prompted.

“So I did.” A shadow crossed his face. “You asked me if I knew of a task that you might undertake for the Fleshcrafters. I do, but it would be a dangerous one, with no guarantee of success. Are you sure this is something you want to pursue? It won't be easy.”

I shrugged. “Nothing on this world is ever easy.” Maybe that sounded impossibly brave, but I had just spent a long and sleepless night resigning myself to the fact that anything the Potters wanted that was safe and easy to obtain, they'd have gotten for themselves long ago. Anything I offered them would have to involve a task so dark, dangerous, or difficult, that they hadn't done it themselves. “Tell me.”

With a sigh he sat in the room's one chair; it creaked beneath him. “There's one piece of information that the Fleshcrafters want, and they want it badly. Their Guildmaster approached me about it some time ago, but I wasn't able to help him. Please note, it's rare that a secret is so perfectly guarded that my contacts can't unearth it, but in this case it was true. The commission he offered me is still open. If you were to deliver that information to Guildmaster Alexander, payment of some sort would be guaranteed. I'm sure you could negotiate for what you want.”

I looked at him incredulously. “You think I can succeed at something where
you
failed?”

He said it quietly: “You have abilities that I don't, Jessica.”

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “My Gift. . . .”

He nodded.

“Jeez.” I didn't know how to respond to that. “All it does is allow me to enter people's dreams. I can't read minds, Sebastian.”

“But you
can
alter dreams. You told me how you tricked the Weaver into revealing her safe's combination. That's a formidable power, Jessica.”

But the safe combination had been a minor secret, probably known to many within the compound, and the Weaver's mind had invested little energy in guarding it. Sebastian was talking about far more significant information, and a level of secrecy so intense that it would probably affect a dreamer's mind. What would the cost of such an effort be? I remembered the condition I was in after altering the Weaver's dream, and shuddered. Was it possible that I could pour so much energy into dream alterations that my body would be irreparably damaged when I returned? Or that I wouldn't be able to return at all?

I needed to know the details before deciding. “Tell me what the Fleshcrafters asked you for.”

“Several years ago a high ranking Master of their Guild disappeared. His people searched high and low for him, but to no avail. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole. They asked me to help, but even my resources could provide no clues. If he was murdered—which his Guildmaster suspects—it was flawlessly managed. And whoever knows about it is not talking.”

“I'm not seeing how my dreamwalking fits into this. Unless you're suggesting that I use it to look for him, and I don't see how that could possibly work.”

“If he was killed, there is at least one person who knows what happened to him.”

“You mean his murderer.”

He nodded.

“If you're suggesting I invade his killer's dreams, you must have an idea who it is.”

“I know whom the Fleshcrafters suspect.”

Something about his expression made me shiver. “Who, Sebastian?”

“The missing Potter's last known appointment was with a Shadowlord.”

For a moment I was speechless. “You're suggesting I invade the dreams of a
Shadowlord
? Do they even have normal dreams? And do you know which one the Potter met with? Or am I supposed to check them all until I find someone with guilty dreams?” I shook my head. “This is crazy, Sebastian.”

“We don't know who he was meeting with. But if any Shadow murdered a ranking member of another Guild, their Guildmaster would surely know about it.”

My eyes widened in astonishment. “Virilian? Is that who you're talking about? You want me to go into
his
dreams?”

“I don't ‘want' anything,” he said evenly. “You asked me if I knew a task you might perform for the Fleshcrafters, of sufficient value for them to heal your mother in exchange. This is the one thing I know of. If you can't do it—or won't do it—then there's your answer. I know of nothing else they need.”

I looked away from him, struggling to wrap my brain around the concept. What was it Sebastian had told us about the Shadowlords?
There's madness at the core of them. Dozens of ancestral voices clamoring inside their heads every waking moment, each derived from a Shadow who was himself insane. Madness layered upon madness, all of it trapped within a soul that must walk the borderline between life and death, committed to neither . . . .Never forget what they are. Never forget that no matter how human they may appear to be, they ceased to be human long ago.
That was the kind of person whose dreamscape he was proposing I invade. It was a crazy idea from start to finish. Totally insane.

“I've never met him,” I muttered. “Never even seen him. How the hell am I supposed to find his dream? It's not like there's a search engine for that kind of thing.”

He reached into his satchel and removed several objects, laying them out one by one on the bed in front of me. The first was a large crescent-shaped brooch with a long pin attached, covered in an intricate knotwork pattern. It looked Viking in design, or maybe Celtic. “This belonged to Augustus Virilian when he walked among the
living. He gave it to the Guildmaster of the Potters several years ago, as part of an exchange of gifts that accompanied the latter's appointment. It has never been worn by anyone else.” He laid a ring beside it. “This belonged to Travis Bellefort, the missing Fleshcrafter.” Beside the two objects he laid out several pictures. “These are photographs of both men. Virilian's was taken when he was alive, of course; the undead don't photograph well.”

I looked up at him. “The Potters gave these to you when you were commissioned for this job?”

“The Potters gave them to me yesterday, when I asked for them.” He smiled slightly. “Will they make the task easier?”

I reached out and picked up the brooch; its surface was cool to my touch, but it revealed no special secrets. Morgana had been able to read my essence from my painting; might an item like this have similar emanations attached to it? So that I could use it to focus in on its owner's dream? Even if it did, I wouldn't have a clue how to activate them. “In the past I've needed an emotional connection to my targets.” I ran my fingers over the intricate pattern as I spoke. “It was ten times harder to get into the Weaver's head than yours or my brother's, because I lacked a personal connection to her. I had to focus on her relationship with Moth, who I cared about, to make it work. So what would tie me to Virilian? I don't know the man. I've never even seen him.”

“But he's the one who ordered the kidnapping of your brother. The one who would have killed Tommy, if you hadn't rescued the boy. Are you telling me you feel no emotion toward Virilian? That there's no connection between the two of you?”

I bit my lip as I considered it. His logic was compelling, but I wasn't sure about the mechanics of it. I was still struggling to figure out how my Gift worked, and everything was guesswork at this point. “So.” I drew in a deep breath. “Is that your counsel, then? That I should try to enter Virilian's dreams to gather this information?”

“My counsel?” He laughed. “My
counsel
is that you go back to Terra Colonna, crawl into a warm bed far from any Shadowlords, and
try to get a good night's sleep without wandering into other people's dreams. Try to come to terms with your mother's condition and make a new life for yourself, far away from Alia Morgana, Miriam Seyer, and all the other people who care nothing for you except as a pawn. Never think about this world again and never return here. That would be the
intelligent
thing to do.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “But it's not what you're going to do, is it? You might be tempted for a while, if you're frightened enough, but in the end that won't make any difference. Dreamwalking will call to you.”

His certainty irritated me. “Maybe you don't know me as well as you think.”

“I may not know you, but I know the Gifted. I've spent half a lifetime on this God-forsaken world learning how to deal with them, and one thing has become very clear: their Gifts aren't just fancy mental powers. They're a kind of hunger. An obsession. A Seer will instinctively sample the emotions of everyone who walks by him. A Shadow will bind passing spirits to him without conscious thought. A Fleshcrafter will contort his own body into strange and inhuman shapes just because he can. They don't think about doing those things, they don't plan them, it's just part of who they are. So no, Jessica, I don't think you can spend a lifetime denying your Gift, any more than you can spend a lifetime not breathing. And I'm willing to bet that while part of you is terrified by the thought of going into Virilian's head, another part of you is hungry to try it. To find out if it's possible.” He paused. “Am I wrong, Jessica?”

I flushed slightly and looked away. For a long time I didn't answer him. “You're not wrong,” I muttered.

“Then let's figure out how we can make this as safe as possible. You told me that Tommy woke you up the first time the dream-wraith attacked, and that saved you. So I can stand guard over your body and do the same, if necessary. You need not fear being trapped in a dream. That was one of your biggest concerns, wasn't it?”

I nodded.

He indicated the brooch in my hand. “If these items can't help
you establish a connection to Virilian, you'll lose nothing by trying. But if it turns out that you can, indeed, use material objects to invade the dreams of a Guildmaster, and twist his mind to your purpose . . . that would be a useful skill to know about, Jessica.”

Something in his tone suddenly made me wary. What was his real interest in this? For decades he'd been a mortal enemy of the Shadows, and now he might have discovered a brand new weapon to use against them. My Gift. Was that why he'd brought me this information? Why he was tempting me to undertake this particular project? Was I just a pawn to him, like I was to so many other people in this damned world? Someone to be tricked and manipulated, so that I served his personal agenda?