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 muttere
d.
“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?
Don’t trust anyone on Terra Prime, he’d warned me. But I needed a friend on this world. I needed to be able to trust someone. And if the price of Sebastian’s friendship was that I allowed him to dream of the day I would help him destroy the Shadows, that was a lot more benign than what others were asking of me.
“I want to try,” I said at last. Voicing the words sent a chill down my spine, but he was right; I couldn’t turn away from this.
“The Shadowlords generally sleep during the day. So if you need to invoke your Gift while he’s in a dream state, that would be the time to try it.”
“Tomorrow,” I told him. “I have preparations to make first.”
I needed to contact Isaac. Yes, that meant I would have to reveal my nature to him, but I needed information on the wraiths that only he could give me, and had no other way to reach him. I could only hope that the fragile bond we’d established would be enough to keep him from betraying me. If not . . . well, I would deal with the consequences of that when I had to. One emergency at a time.
The full magnitude of what I was planning was slowly sinking in. In a quiet voice I said, “Promise that if anything bad happens, you’ll get word to my family. You don’t have to tell them the truth. Just give them a story that’s easier to accept than my disappearing without a trace. Give them some kind of path to closure.”
He hesitated. “Jessica, you know I can’t go back there—”
“But you can arrange for a message to get to them. Yes?”
“I can do that, yes.”
“So promise me.”
He said it softly. “I promise, Jessica.”
I walked over to the small desk in the corner, took a pen and a piece of paper from the drawer, and wrote down my home address for him. As well as any other instructions I could think of, that he should have if I died.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I would test my Gift. Tomorrow I find out what I was truly capable of.
Or get killed trying.
21
SHADOWCREST
VIRGINIA PRIME
ISAAC
THE WELL OF SOULS is silent and dark, empty of life, empty of unlife, empty even of death. As Isaac walks down the black corridor it echoes his footsteps back at him with the solemnity of a tomb; not even the passing whisper of a wraith breaks the eerie silence. There are doors on both sides of him, and now and then he tries one, but they are all locked. Human bones are scattered along the bases of the walls: skulls, femurs, dislocated vertebrae, random bones bleached white with age. The eye sockets of the skulls are turned toward him, as though their owners are watching. The atmosphere is chilling even by the standards of an apprentice Shadow, and he shivers as he walks down the hall, wishing he were anywhere but here.
Suddenly the corridor divides into two. Confused, he checks each direction, but beyond ten feet it’s too dark to see anything. He doesn’t remember this part of the level having forks in it, but now that he is facing one he must choose a course. After a moment’s hesitation, he starts down the corridor on the right. It’s empty of life and empty of ghosts, like its predecessor, but there are many more bones in this hallway. They’re stacked against the walls in no particular order, a junkyard of bones.
Soon the hall divides again and he must make another choice. He continues on to the right; maybe consistency will help him keep his bearings. But the hall twists around, skewing his sense of direction, and then it divides again. And again. There are more bones on the floor each time, until he has to kick his way through piles of them just to walk. The entire level has transformed into a maze, he realizes, and he is hopelessly lost. Is this some kind of test? He calls out his father’s name, but no one answers.
Suddenly he finds himself standing in front of the great double doors that lead to the Chamber of Souls. A wave of panic overwhelms him. No, test or no, he won’t go in there again. He turns and starts to walk quickly back the way he came. The straight corridor leads to a sharp turn, then to a long curving stretch, then to a fork where he must choose his direction. . . . and suddenly he is back in front of the doors. He feels the sharp bite of fear, and he turns to flee. This time he runs through the corridors, but that only brings him back to the doors faster. Either he is circling back to them or they are transporting themselves in front of him. Try as he might, he can’t get away.
There is nowhere to go but through them.
His heart filled with dread, he reaches out with a trembling hand to open the door, but it swings open of its own accord before he can touch it, and a cold breeze pushes him inside. As he enters the chamber he can see soul fetters gleaming like malevolent stars on all sides of him. Ghosts begin to appear, grouped around the soul fetters that belong to them, and they call out to him. Some try to cajole him, some threaten him with shame, some deride his lack of courage or loyalty or honor. All are trying to coerce him into submitting to Communion. Their voices merge into a din that fills the chamber and makes his head ring, while soul fetters swirl around him in dizzying patterns. He falls to his knees and instinctively shuts his eyes and covers his ears, even though he knows it won’t do him any good. The ghosts are speaking directly to his soul.
Then, suddenly, the voices cease. The ghosts are gone.
Startled, he opens his eyes. There’s only one person in the room now besides himself, and she’s not a ghost, but flesh and blood. The last person he ever expected to see here.
“Jesse,” he whispers.
She’s dressed as he last saw her, in a slim tank top and close-fitting jeans. Her face is flushed red with life, her eyes bright with passion. She is warmth. She is energy. He wants to take her face in his hands and feel the heat of her skin against his fingertips, to drink it in like a precious elixir, along with her passion and her strength. After two weeks in Shadowcrest he is starved for humanity, and she is full of it. The desire is so powerful it leaves him breathless.
But what is she doing here? No outsider is permitted in this place.
She looks around the chamber curiously, studying each element in turn as she would artifacts in a museum: the golden fetters, the richly carved doors, the piles of bleached bones. The fetters have stopped their wild motion, and are hanging in mid-air surrounding them. Isaac struggles to think of something intelligent to say, but all he can come up with is, “There aren’t usually bones here.”
And that’s when it hits him: the bones shouldn’t be here. The corridor shouldn’t be twisted into a maze. The doors shouldn’t appear in front of him no matter where he runs, and she should not be here. So many things are wrong, and while he ignored them before, she is one wrong too many. Only one explanation is possible: He’s dreaming.
With the revelation comes awareness. Suddenly he can sense his body lying on a distant bed, and he’s aware of just how t
hin the veil of sleep is that’s keeping him here. A single thought could breach that veil and banish everything he’s looking at. In fact, he has to concentrate for a moment to hold the dream steady, to remain by the sheer force of his will in a nightmare that ten seconds ago he would have done anything to escape.
But none of that explains Jesse’s presence.
How real she looks! He’s never dreamed of anyone with this kind of depth and clarity before. Compared to her, the rest of this nightmare is like a cheap stage set, ready to collapse the instant the curtain comes down. But in the same way he knows that he’s standing in a dream, and none of this is real, he knows that the Jessica standing in front of him isn’t something his mind created. Her existence is independent of him, and when the curtain falls on his nightmare she will continue to exist. But there’s only one way that could be possible—
His mind won’t complete the thought. He wants to bask in her presence for a moment longer, before speaking the words that will make everything more complicated.
“This is a dark dream,” she says. “Do you have it often?”
The casual conversational tone jars him out of his trance. “Every night, pretty much. Sometimes worse than others. I don’t get much sleep these days.” On impulse he reaches out a hand to touch her—but stops inches short of her skin, not daring to make contact. Part of him is afraid of what he might learn if he did. He remembers how she asked him about dreams the night they first met. How he told her about the Dreamwalkers, that they went insane and infected everyone around them, so they had to be destroyed on sight. That’s what his elders had taught him, and at the time he simply accepted it, as he accepted all their teachings. But were they telling him the truth? He’s come to question so much of Guild dogma that he’s wary of taking anything at face value now. Maybe the Shadows have some other reason to hunt Dreamwalkers, that they wouldn’t share with a mere apprentice. Or maybe they’re just wrong.
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