Dreamseeker (29 page)

Panic grips my heart. I close my eyes and try to reconnect to my sleeping body, to wake myself up, but I can't. Nor can I make my flesh move in its sleep, even a twitch. Which means that I have no way to signal Sebastian that I need help. For as long my body is lying still on that bed, looking peaceful, he'll assume my soul is content.

I'm trapped here.

Clouds are starting to congeal blackly overhead, and something even darker than the night sky is taking shape within them. The spirits of the dead have fallen silent, and the very air is thick with dread. I look around desperately for any sign of the door that brought me here, but of course it's nowhere to be found. I've travelled through three different dreamscapes since arriving: God alone knows if the door even exists in this setting.

Virilian suddenly notices the activity overhead. There's no sign of fear in him, and I get the sense from his confident posture that he knows exactly what is happening. He raises his arms to the heavens and begins to chant. Wisps of golden light appear, circling the mass of clouds, and they join together, first in small geometric patterns then in larger ones. Soon a glowing net has been woven around the place where the reaper is manifesting, a complex web of fine golden lines that is beautiful in form, terrifying in its power.

Suddenly the reaper bursts into reality. Wing-like shapes of pure blackness beat at Virilian's golden web, thrashing wildly as the creature fights to break through, like a bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage. The sky trembles with every blow, and streaks of shadow spasm across the clearing as the creature blocks the moon in its struggles. But for now, at least, Virilian's binding pattern is holding it prisoner. The reaper isn't going anywhere.

The Fleshcrafter is staring at the ghastly display in astonishment and fear. “What the hell is that thing?”

Virilian doesn't answer him. He's studying the reaper, as if trying to figure out exactly what it's doing here. Suddenly I see his body stiffen, and with a sinking in my heart I realize he must have put two and two together. Reapers only appear in dreams, so Virilian knows he must be dreaming. And since there is only one reason for such a creature to manifest, he knows there must be a Dreamwalker nearby. I can sense the enlightenment blossoming within him like a putrid flower, and I realize to my horror that by drawing the reaper to this place, I've revealed to Virilian the very thing I most needed to keep secret.

He knows I'm here.

Frozen in dread, I watch as he lowers his hands; the golden patterns overhead begin to dissolve. “Go,” he commands the wraith. “Do what you came to do.” Suddenly the web breaks apart and dissolves into the night. The wraith howls in triumph, its voice splitting the night like a thousand nails screeching across a blackboard. The leaves on the trees nearest to it freeze, then shatter; brittle fragments fall to the earth like hail. The moon becomes bleached of its bluish hue, the grass in the clearing is sucked dry of color, and even the Potter's face turns completely grey. Only the Shadowlord remains unchanged—not because he is immune to the wraith's power, but because he is eternally colorless. He and the reaper are soul mates.

The wraith turns toward me then, and I know that it can sense me there, standing in the shadows, as easily as a cat can smell its prey hiding in the grass. Desperately I try once more to cast my mind back to my body, to flee to the safety of the waking world, but I can't make the connection necessary. It's as if my body doesn't even exist. Sebastian and I had discussed the risks of this journey before I left, but that had been a rational discussion, performed in a world whose laws we understood and trusted. Now I'm here, trapped in a madman's dream, facing a creature out of my worst nightmares, and it's hard to think clearly, much less remember what we said.
Run!
an inner voice screams, primitive survival instinct drowning out rational thought.
Run! Run! Run!
But running from this thing won't save me. It can move faster than I can, and even if I managed to outrun it, I'd still be stuck in Virilian's dream. No, my only hope is to stand my ground, and so I struggle to do that, even though the primitive part of my soul is howling in terror, my whole body shaking as I fight to control it.

I can't run from this thing. I certainly can't fight it. But there is a third option, that Sebastian and I discussed before I left, and terrifying as it is, I have to try it. Or so I tell myself as Death incarnate bears down on me, its vast wings blotting out the moonlight overhead. The entire world has been drained of color, and my breath turns to fog as it leaves my lips, crystals of ice clinging to my eyelashes, blurring my vision. I draw my knife, bracing myself for the creature's attack. I doubt I can hurt it, but that's not my goal.

I need it to hurt me.

Darkness engulfs me, and with it a cold so intense that it fills my lungs with ice, turning every breath to agony. I stab wildly at the creature, trying to drive it away from my lower body, so that it will strike me where I need it to. It clawed me once in the past, so it must have some kind of physical
substance. But there is nothing there—no flesh to slice, no body to bleed. Only Death. Still I keep stabbing at it, my blade angled low, thrusting out again and again and again. Maybe the sheer energy of my assault will convince it to strike a higher target, either my arms or my face . . . the only parts of my body that are not clothed in the waking world.

When the blow comes it is not the swipe of talon or claw like I expected, but from a whiplash of pure cold. It cuts across my face like a razor, and blood spurts out in a rain of scarlet crystal. Terror fills my heart, but also elation. Because right now, in that other world, the flesh that I can't see or control is suffering the same wound, and Sebastian will see that. He will know by the gash across my face that I need to wake up, and he will do what is necessary to make that happen.

It's my only hope of escape.

Jesse!

I can hear his voice now. The reaper is striking out at me again, but I focus on Sebastian's voice, using it as a lifeline, as I struggle to reconnect to the waking world. All I need is one moment of awareness, and I'm out of here. But bands of cold are whipping around my body, and wherever they make contact my flesh freezes, leaving behind strips of ice that encase me like mummy wrappings. The vitality is being sucked out of my soul, and my very thoughts are freezing inside my head. I can't connect to my sleeping body yet, but I have to keep trying. I bet my survival on this one crazy gambit, and if it fails now, I'm doomed.

Jesse!

Images begin to flash before my eyes, my brain bleeding out memories as the reaper begins to feast on my soul.

—
the thing we're looking for isn't here—

—go over there and kiss, you two—

—you're not Guild, are you?—

Then water engulfs me, and suddenly I can't breathe. Icy
liquid is filling my lungs, and I'm drowning, and I'm coughing, and all the memories are gone, and I'm trying to scream for help but I can't get any air into my lungs. Suddenly I can sense my body in the distance, and I reach out to it with my mind, clinging to it so I can shake off this nightmare and escape—

And then I see the changing castle.

It flashes before me as a memory, but it isn't a memory—not my memory, anyway. I never saw it with those turrets, those windows, those pennants flying. Nor did the boy in the Weavers' compound, whose visions I shared, see it that way. Nevertheless, I recognize it. And the shock of having it appear here, now, is so great that for a moment the precious lifeline of Sebastian's voice slips from my grasp. Or perhaps I choose to let go of it, to grasp at knowledge that is even more precious.

It's the reaper's memory.

I can sense the shattered remnants of emotions long forgotten, fragments of an ancient life now dust. I look in the windows of the dream-tower and see images changing there, and I know that the reaper devouring my soul was once in that place, and it understood what those images meant. And I know that it did not come as an invader, or as a destroyer, but as one who belonged there. One for whom that place was built. I see the castle standing in the sunlight—first a red sun, then a golden one, colors flickering across its facade as changing hues swirl overhead—and the reaper's memories are not dark or fearful, but they are buried beneath so much hate and pain I can hardly stand to share them.

Jesse!

How desperately I want to drink in more of this creature's knowledge! I may never have such an opportunity again. But I can feel my bodily organs starting to fail as the life is drained from them, and I know that if my flesh expires in this world I will die in that other one as well. So I force myself to turn away from the landscape of light and wonder, focusing once
more on my sleeping body, centering my awareness on the voice that is calling me home—

Pain came first, and with it the awareness that my body was soaking wet, my right cheek burning with pain. Then the sickness hit, wave after wave of it, and I could do little more than gasp for breath between bouts of vomiting. Sebastian held my hair out of the way like a father whose wayward child had got drunk for the first time. Then the convulsions started, and he took me by the shoulders and held me steady until they subsided.

Finally I lay back gasping on the bed, and he went to fetch some towels from the bathroom. I saw a pitcher lying by my side, and realized that he must have dumped its contents onto me to shock me awake. That must have been what all the drowning imagery was about.

He came back with a towel soaked in warm water and handed it to me. I draped it across my eyes for a moment, drinking in its delicious heat, then started to wipe the mixture of tears, blood, and vomit from my face. In my mind's eye I could see the changing castle, and it rotated like a 3-D computer image, its shape shifting as I studied it. Dreamwalkers knew about this place. The avatar girl had sought refuge there. And now it appeared that a reaper had once been welcome there.

The implications of that were staggering.

“Did you get what you need?” he asked.

Startled, I let the vision fade. It took me a moment to remember what the original purpose of my dream journey had been. Yes, I'd invaded the mind of a powerful Shadowlord, and I'd tricked him into dreaming about his secrets without revealing my true identity. The fine details of that dream might have been fictional, but the seeds of truth were surely in it. And I was confident I knew how to interpret them.

“I have it,” I whispered.

Had the reaper been a Dreamwalker once? It was a mind-blowing
concept, but not an impossible one. Supposedly our Gift turned its users into creatures of nightmare, driving them mad in the process. The reaper I'd seen could certainly fit that description. Did that mean I was fated to turn into the same kind of creature, a specter of Death who haunted the dreams of innocents? That would certainly explain why people had been so anxious to kill all the Dreamwalkers. No grand economic theories were required.

The Shadows had a hand in this
, I reminded myself.
Whatever that creature was, it was not wholly natural.

Perhaps the thought should have brought me some comfort.

But it didn't.

F
LESHCRAFTER
G
UILDHOUSE ON THE
O
UTSKIRTS OF
L
URAY

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

J
ESSE

W
E WERE MET AT THE ENTRANCE
of the Potter's enclave by twin boys. They were slender and pretty, with eyes of a shockingly bright violet, and skin so pale you could see their veins through it. They also had long, thin horns sprouting from their foreheads, which swept back over their heads in graceful arcs, circling down and around to end right in front of their ears. Like a ram's horns, only more delicate. They were strangely beautiful things, delicately spiraled with shades of brown and black and a touch of purple, paler at the base and shading gradually to dark, almost-black tips.

I wondered if they used them to butt heads during mating season.

The twins indicated that we should proceed to the main building. I leaned on Sebastian's arm as we walked, trying to look more steady than I felt. It was a long hike, and I wasn't in great shape. If I could afford the luxury of spending a week in bed, that's where I'd be right now.

“It's all right to stare,” he told me as we walked. “In this place, it's considered a compliment.”

“Then why do they live out in the middle of nowhere?” I looked at the high wall surrounding the estate and the woods that were visible just beyond it; this wasn't the kind of place you chose to live if you wanted people to notice you. “All those twins would have to do is walk down Main Street and they could be stared at to their hearts' content.”

“But as curiosities, not artists. Those who like to experiment with self-modification prefer the company of their own kind. And perhaps a few trusted associates.” He pushed a hanging branch out of the way. “It's rare that any outsider is allowed to see them. You should regard our invitation here as an honor.”

Maybe it was, but I was still too drained from my dreamwalking—and too spiritually sick from the revelation that followed it—to take pleasure in anything. At one point I became so dizzy that we had to pause for a moment, until I could get my bearings again. Was it too soon for me to be up and about? Should I have waited until I had my full strength back—and my spirit—before trekking through the woods to visit shapechangers? Maybe so, but Seyer had told my friends and family on Terra Colonna that we would be back in a week, and that time was almost up. If I didn't return home soon, my aunt and uncle would likely call out the National Guard to look for me. I had no time for a leisurely recovery. Or a leisurely anything.

Was I confident that the news I was bringing to the Potters was correct? Hell, no. And the closer we got to the Potter's headquarters, the more aware I was that all I had to go on was a madman's dream. There was no guarantee that any of its details reflected reality, or that the people and events Virilian had woven into his narrative could rightfully be implicated in Travis Bellefort's disappearance.

But it wasn't the details of the dream that mattered; it was the emotions behind it. Years of interpreting my own dreams had taught me that the mind was a free-association machine that would frequently substitute one person or object for another, so that a nightmare about your dog being hit by a car might really mean that you were worried about your best friend moving away, or filled with guilt
over hurting someone. What linked dream and reality together was the emotional charge they had in common. Interpret that correctly, and you could glimpse a dream's true meaning.

Travis Bellefort had discovered something he wasn't supposed to, involving another member of his Guild. Virilian had killed him because of it. That much was likely to be true. Of course, if I turned out to be wrong, and the scene I'd witnessed was simply a meaningless fantasy—or represented something other than what I thought—I was about to bear false witness to one of the most powerful men in the region, accusing an innocent Potter of treachery. That wasn't likely to end well.

Sebastian wouldn't be here if he doubted me,
I told myself.
He's too much of a survivor to put himself at risk like that.

The building that the ram-twins had directed us to was large and ornate, with stylized human and semi-human figures carved into its stone face. As we approached, I saw that the pillars flanking the main door were made up of sculpted figures—human and animal—intricately twisted together. You couldn't tell where one creature began or ended. A slender man with green skin and pointed ears greeted us at the door, and despite Sebastian's reassurance about staring, my childhood training took over, and I did my best to look away as he opened the door for us. The woman who greeted us inside had long peacock feathers trailing behind her, and though at first I thought they were attached to the train of her gown, I could see when she stepped in front of us that they jutted out from the base of her spine. Since she didn't have eyes in the back of her head—that I was aware of—I stared at the feathers swaying behind her with unabashed curiosity. Childhood etiquette be damned.

She ushered us into a large room with golden walls and crystalline chandeliers. It was filled with such a variety of quasi-human creatures that it was hard to know where to look first. I saw a woman with the skin of a crocodile, another with the whiskers and patterned fur of a great cat, and a man with a Medusa-like crown of snakes coiling and uncoiling around his head. There was even a small girl with bat-like
wings jutting from her shoulders, the delicate membranes rippling with rainbow colors like oil in the rain. Clothing seemed to be optional here, but eating was not; a vast buffet table stretched the length of one wall, with dishes and bowls and pitchers full of decadent foodstuffs covering every inch of it. Nearly everyone in the room had some kind of dessert item in hand, which they nibbled as they turned to watch us progress down the center of the room. The air was filled with the heady scents of honey and chocolate.

At the far end of the chamber was a large ornate chair, and the figure sitting in it looked more like a Hindu god than a mortal man. His slender body was the color of burnished gold, and each of his six arms rested on a different part of his throne. There were half a dozen people gathered around him, of various shapes and colors, including a naked woman covered in iridescent blue scales. She had a bright scarlet tongue that flicked in and out of her mouth as she watched us approach.

If staring was regarded as a compliment here, then they must have been very pleased by my reaction.

“Well. Green Man.” The god-figure nodded to Sebastian. “I hardly expected you back so soon. Does this mean you have information for me?”

“I do, your Grace. But the nature of it would be better suited to a private recitation.” He glanced back at the room full of Potters, most of whom were now watching us.

The golden figure looked at him curiously for a moment, then nodded. “Leave us,” he commanded loudly. A sweeping gesture of one of his middle arms directed everyone in the room to obey. “All of you. Leave us alone.”

Most of them filed out, some Fleshcrafters grabbing a last helping of bonbons or truffles. The ones crowding around the throne seemed reluctant to leave their master's side, but he waved them off as well, until finally only three of his people remained: the woman with the blue scales and two dragon-faced men in matching uniforms. The latter looked like bodyguards and were clearly wary of leaving him alone
with outsiders, but the golden Fleshcrafter waved off their concerns. “All is good. You can go.” The woman with the scarlet tongue remained by his side.

As the doors shut behind the guards, Sebastian nudged me forward. “Your Grace, permit me to introduce Miss Jennifer Dolan, of Terra Colonna.” We'd decided to use the alias that was on my Terra Prime passport. “She has uncovered information pertinent to the matter we discussed.” To me he said, “You stand before Master Tristan Alexander, regional Guildmaster of the Fleshcrafters.”

The mundane name seemed an odd match to such an exotic creature. “I'm honored to meet you, Your Grace.” I wasn't sure if I should bow or curtsy, so I wound up doing something midway between the two, hoping it didn't look as awkward as it felt.

“I'm pleased to meet anyone who has information for me,” the Guildmaster said. He leaned back in his throne. “Tell me what you've discovered.”

Sebastian and I had discussed what I should say—and, more importantly, not say—so that I would not have to reveal the source of my information. I chose my words with care. “What I bring you comes from the conversation of two ranking Shadowlords, when they thought they were unobserved. Travis Bellefort was killed by a member of their Guild. Apparently he had discovered that another Fleshcrafter was reporting all your business to the Shadows, and they murdered Bellefort to protect their informant.”

For several long seconds there was silence. The golden expression was impossible to read. “Do you know the identity of this informant?” he said at last.

I'd made a sketch of the Potter in Virilian's dream; I took it out now and offered it to him. “I don't know his name, but he was described by the same source who gave me this information. He said this was an accurate portrait.” It all sounded suspiciously vague to me, but Sebastian said that everyone would expect me to protect my sources thus.

Alexander unfolded the drawing and studied it. Scowling, he
showed it to the blue woman. “This is a serious accusation. How sure are you of your facts?”

Sebastian interjected, “I'll speak for the quality of her sources, your Grace. That said, any report based on hearsay should be verified before it's acted upon.”

“That goes without saying.” The Guildmaster looked at the blue woman. “Go get the Domitor who worked with us during the Landres affair. Make sure he knows this job is off the books.” As she left his side and headed toward the exit, the Guildmaster turned to me again. “Was it a clean death?” he asked.

Sebastian had warned me to expect that question. “They made no attempt to bind his spirit, sir. It seems they just wanted to silence him.”

“Good,” he murmured, clearly relieved. It was a chilling reminder that I was now in a world where death was not the worst fate a man could suffer.

Sebastian took out the items that I had used to connect to Virilian and placed them on a small table beside the throne. “I thank you for these. They were most helpful.”

He nodded. “You've done well, Green Man. Clearly your reputation is not exaggerated. Assuming this information checks out, you've more than earned your reward.”

I must have bridled visibly, because Sebastian put a warning hand on my shoulder. “With respect, sir, that should go to the one who was responsible for gathering the information.”

A golden eyebrow arched upward. “Indeed?” He looked at me. “Well, Miss Drake. What payment would you like for your services?”

Hearing those words at last, after all I had gone through to get to this point, was nigh on overwhelming. For a moment I couldn't speak. “A member of my family suffered brain damage in an accident, your Grace. I've been told that Healers can't help her, because neurons have to be replaced, but that maybe a Potter could. I don't understand all the technicalities of how that would work, but if one of your people could try, I'd be very grateful.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That's a small price to ask, given the value of what you just delivered.”

Sebastian said quietly, “The work would have to be done on Terra Colonna.”

“Ah. Now I understand.” He nodded slightly. “We don't like to travel offworld—for reasons that I assume are obvious—but you've done me a considerable service, Miss Drake. Assuming your information is verified, I see no reason why I couldn't assign a Master to such a task.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. I felt like crying. “Thank you.”

“And you.” He looked at Sebastian. “Nothing for the man who brought this marvel of investigative talent to me? No finder's fee?”

“To have your favor is sufficient,” Sebastian said, bowing his head. He had explained to me some of the ins and outs of Guild negotiation, so I recognized his message for what it was:
I'd rather have you in debt to me.

“Of course. But surely a small token of favor would be appropriate.” He smiled knowingly. “I hear the Hunters are restless these days. Perhaps you would like your scent altered?” When Sebastian didn't respond he offered, “One of my apprentices could do the work.”

The value of Guild service was determined by the rank of the person performing it, Sebastian had told me. By specifying an apprentice for his job, Guildmaster was indicating it would be a trivial favor, not sufficient to cancel out the larger debt.

The politics in this place were starting to make my head spin.

“That would be appreciated,” Sebastian said graciously. “Thank you.”

“Can I get in on that too?” I asked. Maybe I could have asked the question more diplomatically, but if he had a way to keep Hunters from tracking me, it was an opportunity I wasn't going to pass by.

The Guildmaster looked amused. “I see no reason why we can't include that in your payment. That is, assuming that your report checks out. We do need to verify it.”

I bowed my head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“We can fix that as well, if you like.” He gestured toward the gauze Sebastian had dressed my wound with. I reached up and felt warm wetness where a bit of blood had seeped out.

“Thank you,” I said. “I'd like that very much.”

Sebastian bowed and urged me to do the same. “Thank you, Your Grace. I look forward to serving you again.” With a start, I realized that my first real negotiation with a Guildmaster (as opposed to my scripted sham of a meeting with Morgana) had reached its end. And I had succeeded. I'd wanted to obtain something from this world, and I'd done what was necessary to get it. Without Morgana's help. The sudden realization of that was intoxicating. And my mother was going to be healed! What had seemed an impossible dream a mere week ago was about to become reality. It all seemed unreal.