The War for the Waking World (14 page)

Razz didn't answer right away.

“Wasn't there?”

Razz finally muttered, “Yes.”

“And what was that?” Bezeal asked. “What caused you to abandon Archer for the rest of that evening?”

“It was a good idea,” Razz muttered. “I was just frightened.”

“What was it?” Bezeal demanded. “Tell the court what Archer planned to do.”

Razz sighed. “Archer wanted to travel to the Lurker's lair to look for an old relic.”

“And why did he do that?”

Razz squinted at Bezeal. “Uh . . . because you told him to.”

The crowds exploded in discussions, mutterings, grumblings, and even a few shouts. The thunder-gavel sounded. Silence resumed. Undaunted, Bezeal said, “Yes, Archer and I made a deal, so he went in search of this relic. Why didn't you join him?”

Here it comes
, Archer thought.

Razz frowned. “Because Master Gabriel commanded Archer not to meddle with the Lurker.”

Bezeal's Cheshire grin reappeared. “Did Archer go see the Lurker? Did he defy his Dreamtreading commander?”

“Yes.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Bezeal said, the lights in the courtroom dimming as he spoke. “I submit to you that Archer impudently turned from his Dreamtreading path. He rebelled. He forsook Master Gabriel's command and defied him. Let us see the Eternal Evidence.”

Archer felt his skin begin to crawl, especially on his scalp. It felt like a hundred tiny electric ants were parading upon his head. The lights went out altogether, and a strange, white cylinder appeared in the air between the two galleries. Suddenly, the cylinder came to life with moving pictures—not film, but memory. Archer was suddenly looking at himself. He was standing on his Dream surfboard on the eastern border of Archaia, and Razz was perched on his shoulder.

But he wasn't just watching. That prickling sensation on his scalp intensified and continued for the duration. And, though he was still seated at his table in the courtroom, he could feel the motions of the memory as it played out. The movements felt dreamy and kind of suppressed, more like involuntary flinches than regular motion. It was a most peculiar sensation, and Archer thought it could have been fun . . . if it weren't for the fact that he was on trial for his life. With trepidation, he watched as the scene unfolded.

The on-screen Archer seemed to stare, his eyes fixed on some point to the west. But he and Razz were talking, the conversation growing more and more animated as it went on.

“What are we waiting for?” Razz squeaked. “Let's go get that puzzle relic thing!”

“What about the Lurker?” Archer asked.

“We'll deal with him if we have to, right? You have plenty left in the tank, don't you, Archer?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “But there is one more thing.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Gabriel told me not to go, not to get the relic.”

“What? Why?” Razz drifted to the stump and curled up.

“He wouldn't tell me,” Archer said. “But I think he's worried about me getting hurt.”

“I guess that settles it then,” Razz said.

“You don't want to go now?”

“Are you crazy?” Razz yelled. “No one, I mean no one, defies Master Gabriel.”

Archer sighed. He'd been so hopeful Razz would travel with him. “I have to do it,” Archer said. “I have to try. The Nightmare Lord has been going after my friends, my family, even Kaylie. I've got to stop him.”

“Yes,” Razz said, “we do need to stop him, but not by going against Master Gabriel.”

“I'm going,” Archer said quietly.

Razz frowned, leaped into the air, and flittered in Archer's face. “Well, you can count me out then. I won't cross Master Gabriel. Not now. Not ever.”

The last visual to be displayed for the whole court to see was Archer's catching an Intrusion wave right to the edge into Archaia. After discarding the board, Archer crossed the border, stepping defiantly onto the blood-red soil of that desolate country. The screen went blank, the darkness feeling like a door slamming shut.

A cell door.

TWENTY

C
HEAP
W
ALLPAPER

K
AYLIE STOOD IN HER BEDROOM DOORWAY AND FELT A
chill. It was actually quite a mild day for January, so it wasn't from the weather. She was dressed warmly; she had no other symptoms of cold or flu; and she'd eaten a nice warm breakfast. Yet the chill was there.

At just eight years of age, Kaylie possessed a superior intellect. Beyond simply being a genius, she had tested off the charts and out of regular school classes long ago. She understood the nuances of Einstein's theories. She could do advanced calculus in her head. She found Oxford's online literature classes overly simplistic. So when her intellect failed to determine a reason for the cold, it was a big problem.

She felt certain something was different. Some variable had changed, but what? Patches, her scarecrow doll, was in his usual spot, sitting on the bed among the pillows arranged just so. Her laundry was folded, stacked neatly on her hope chest. Every dresser drawer was closed tight. Nothing seemed out of place. The shade was drawn down low, and the drapes were just as she'd left them in the morning.

The window.

Kaylie smiled at her own foolishness. Clearly, the chill was coming from the window. Obviously, someone had opened the window and failed to close it tight, and a chill breeze had seeped in. “I'll take care of that,” she muttered.

Kaylie bounded across the floor, detoured a moment to scoop Patches from the bed, and then scuffed across the carpet with enough force to generate a visible static spark when she touched the metal latch
on the window. “Ouch,” she whispered, plopping the zapped finger into her mouth.

The chill's dramatic increase seemed to confirm Kaylie's theory, but when she tried to shut the window, it wouldn't budge. It couldn't budge, actually, for it was already shut and locked into place. The uncanny chill was still there.

She clutched Patches tighter and looked from the doll to the window and back. Some kind of connection had been made between the window, Patches, and the precise spot where Kaylie stood now. It was like closing a complex circuit. The chill. A monstrous shadow. Sickly green eyes, glistening with malice.

Kaylie let out a high squeak and hurriedly backed away from the window. She squeaked louder when she backed into something near the door, and strong hands gripped her shoulders.

“Kaylie,” he mother said gently. “Sweetie, what's the matter? You're shaking.”

Kaylie spun around to hug her mom but stopped and backed the other way.

“Honey, what's wrong?” she asked.

“Um, nothing . . . nothing, Mom,” Kaylie said, trying to play it cool. “I just caught a chill, that's all. Well, I better get back to the books. Studying, you know.”

“Kaylie, are you sure?”

“Totally sure, Mom.” Kaylie flopped onto her bed and snatched a physics book off her bedside table. “I'll be down in a bit.” She flipped open the book and pretended to teach Patches part of the lesson, all the while waiting for her mom to disappear from her doorway.

Once the coast was clear, Kaylie ran to her door, shut, and locked it. At last, she thought she understood the cold. It wasn't a drafty window, nor any natural phenomenon. It was supernatural. Hearing Archer the other day talking about their mother's cancer taking her life had terrified Kaylie. But worse still, it somehow rang true.

Then, the icy feel of her room had vexed her until she stood next to the window. Something had happened there. Something with Archer and a dark intruder, a towering force of evil, and it had happened right there in her room. But she still wasn't able to call the memories back to put it all together. Not until colliding with her mother just now.

When Kaylie had turned to look into her mother's gentle eyes, there was no comfort to be found there. For just a moment, her mother had no eyes at all . . . just swirling ash. Soon, little bits of gray, like f lurries of ashen snow began . . . bit by bit rebuilding her face. The entire process of restoring her eyes had taken just a few seconds, but Kaylie wasn't about to second-guess what she had seen.

There wasn't just something wrong. Everything was wrong. Kaylie sat on her bed, saw her Patches dolly, and then she remembered. She remembered the Nightmare Lord breaking through the Dream into the Waking World. She remembered Archer struggling to protect her. And she remembered the awakening of her own Dreamtreading power and how she'd used Patches against the evil intruder that night.

Like the simplest geometric proof, all the pieces came together.

The Rift.

“So this . . . is what it does?” Kaylie muttered, standing and walking slowly to the bedroom window. “But it's fake. All . . . fake.”

Kaylie flexed her will to call up a massive amount of her mental power, focusing it like a laser on the window glass. She reached up and with her fingertips pinched until she caught hold of something feathery. She diverted her will to that spot and began to pry mentally at it. Soon, she had a firm grip on . . . something. She began to peel it upward, a disorienting thing to see the reality peel away like some kind of cheap wallpaper. As she removed a shred and then another, she could see clearly that there was another world all around her.

The real world.

D
REAMTREADER
C
REED
, C
ONCEPTUS
13

I
n previous eras, a Nightmare Lord has always occupied the throne at No. 6 Rue de La Morte. In fact, rarely has that dark seat lain empty for more than a few years.

Dargan was the first Nightmare Lord. His was a short-lived but fiery reign. Under his fist, the first instances of insanity entered the Waking World. And as a result of his meddling, the Dreamtreader Order was founded.

It was by the very first trio of Dreamtreaders—Aurora, Olin, and Fortescue—that Dargan was thrown down. It cost them their lives and set a high standard for all those who would follow in their place.

Dreamtreader, always be conscious of this: the Waking World and those you protect are very much worth your own life. Do not surrender it foolishly, but if you must in order to succeed in your calling, then cling to it not.

TWENTY-ONE

A N
ASTY
S
ANDWICH

N
ICK
B
USHMAN LUNGED TO PROTECT HIS LITTLE BROTHER
. The old nutter had shown up in his kitchen spewing about dreams and different worlds—lunatic-grade material. That was all surprising and awkward, but didn't seem particularly worrisome, until the maniac drew a sword.

“Look, mate,” Nick said, pushing Oliver backward toward the den, “I don't know what you want, but I've got some money and some electronics you could sell for a fair bit. We don't want any violence here.”

“No,” Master Gabriel replied, “and that is part of the problem. You are seeing what you want to see because you do not want the violent truth. And because of that, I have no choice. I must open your eyes no matter the pain it causes.”

The intruder took up his broadsword, and Nick swallowed. This was no costume weapon. This was cold, wickedly sharp metal. Nick's mind flew into calculations. Before he knew what he was thinking, he'd already sized up the intruder and calculated the best angle of attack.

His kitchen was narrow, so the maniac had a very limited space for any sort of slash or swing. That left a thrust. Nick felt certain he could sidestep the impaling attack, roll toward the cabinets, and take the man down with a 'rang to the throat.

Nick blinked. He'd seen the whole thing in his mind, and it would work—he was sure of it. But here was the baffling thing: he had no combat training. How would he know the first thing about this sort of hand-to-hand fighting?