When he reached the audience chamber there was a servant waiting for him. To his surprise, the servant led him away from the chamber, to another wing of Shadowcrest. Apparently Virilian had decided to meet with him in a less formal setting. That was good. It was hard to have a conversation with someone while he gazed down at you from a throne made of human bones, with ghosts moaning in the background.
He reached a heavy oak door. A servant knocked, and though the Hunter didn’t hear a response, the man seemed to. He opened the door and ushered the visitor inside, announcing him as he entered: Master Aaron Hardt, Secundus of the Guild of Soulriders.
Augustus Virilian was an imposing man, the sort who intimidated others without even trying. But Hardt was accustomed to dealing with people who had absorbed the primitive instincts of the beasts they possessed, so he was not easily cowed. “Your Grace.” The Hunter bowed his head very slightly: a token gesture, no more.
Seated behind a desk of polished ebony, Virilian was turning a letter over in his hand, studying the picture pinned to it. He motioned for Hardt to take a seat in the leather chair set opposite him. “Your news about the girl Morgana is watching intrigues me,” he said quietly.
The Hunter nodded. “I thought it might.” He gestured toward the letter. “Is she one of the ones who escaped from this place?”
A shadow of annoyance crossed Virilian’s face. “I never saw that girl—in person—so I can’t say. But others did” He shut his eyes for a moment, his left hand sketching out a pattern in the air in front of him. His lips moved slightly, as if he were whispering, but Hardt couldn’t hear the words. A chill wind swept into the room a few seconds later, raising hairs along the back of his neck. Or maybe that was just his imagination.
Virilian opened his eyes and held up the photo, displaying it to empty space. “Is this one of the Colonnans you were watching?”
“I don’t—” he began to respond. Then he realized that Virilian wasn’t talking to him. Judging from the direction of the Shadowlord’s gaze, there must be a spirit of the dead standing right next to him.
Finally Virilian turned his attention back to his guest. “It’s her.” He nodded a dismissal to empty air and then put the picture down in front of him. “You say Morgana is watching her?”
“More than watching, your Grace. She’s intimately involved with the girl. I’m not sure what the game is, but I know she’s asked a Domitor to help her, as well as encouraging my own Guild to keep its distance from her.”
Virilian raised an eyebrow. “A Domitor? Do you know what that was about?”
“Apparently Morgana hired someone to give the girl’s family nightmares.” He paused. “I didn’t know they could do that.”
“They can implant a suggestion to make someone dream about something. Sometimes that’s enough.” He tapped a finger thoughtfully on the letter. “Morgana told us that the girl’s brother was a Dreamwalker. He wasn’t. That in itself was of no great concern to me; the Seer’s Gift is notoriously fickle, and she could simply have been wrong. But she urged us to kill him, and I found that suspicious. Usually she’s not that involved in our business.” Lips tight, he leaned back in his chair. “Had we taken her advice, we would never have discovered our mistake. We would have declared ourselves victorious, congratulated ourselves on killing a Dreamwalker, and moved on to other business. Instead of continuing in our hunt for the one who inspired the girl’s brother.” He paused. “Killing Thomas Drake would have protected his sister from our scrutiny.”
“I was told by my agent that Morgana has asked after the girl’s dreams.”
“And thus she reveals her true game.” Virilian’s jaw twitched. “I think it’s time we interviewed this Colonnan girl.”
“She’s back on Terra Prime now, travelling under the name of Jennifer Dolan. I had someone watching her.”
Virilian raised an eyebrow. “Had?”
“She and two companions booked a train cross-country. My agent followed it for a while, but eventually his host became exhausted and he had to return to his own body. I assume they’re still heading west.”
“Where to? Do you know?”
“They bought tickets to Rouelle.”
The Shadowlord’s indrawn breath was a hiss.
“You know what’s there?”
“I know what she seeks,” he said coldly. “She won’t find it. At least not in a condition that will do her any good. Tell me about her two companions.”
“An old man with long white hair and a pale young boy. Ghostly pale, my agent said.” Seeing Virilian’s expression harden, he asked, “You know them?”
He spoke very quietly. “If that boy is who I think he is, then he has made some foolish choices. Some very foolish choices.” He nodded. “My Guild has an outpost in Rouelle. I’ll ask the Shadows there to pick up the girl for me. May I count on your people to assist?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure how many Soulriders are out there, but I’ll advise his Grace to arrange it.”
“Excellent. Do make sure they understand that I need the girl alive. Or if that isn’t possible, that a Shadowlord must be present when she dies.”
The Hunter tried not to think about what Shadowlords could do to the dying. “And the others?”
“Are of little concern to me. Though . . . perhaps we should make examples of those who stray, so that others don’t follow in their footsteps. Let’s bring the ‘pale young boy’ back alive as well.” He smiled coldly. “I’m sure my own Secundus would be pleased to oversee the demonstration.”
“I’ll make sure they know that, your Grace.”
“We are entering a dangerous time,” Virilian warned him. “Your information will help both our Guilds get through it safely. But there are still many challenges to come, and we must be unified and alert in dealing with them.”
“What about the Seers?” Hardt asked. Not daring to ask what he really wanted to know: What about Morgana?
For a moment there was silence.
“They, too, have made foolish choices,” Virilian said. “And would also benefit from an example being made. But all things in their time, Secundus Hardt. Alia Morgana isn’t going anywhere. Let’s deal with the girl first.”
13
ROUELLE
TERRA PRIME
JESSE
OUR FINAL STOP, a town named Rouelle, was as close to the Badlands as one could get without risking instant death or insanity. I expected it to be little more than a ghost town, a lonely outpost maintained for those few fools who were curious enough to want to visit such a cursed site. Who else would live so close to Chaos?
I had failed to take human nature into account.
As we crossed the Rockies our train was surprisingly full. Probably that should have tipped me off about what lay ahead of us, but by then I was too tired to think clearly. The trip had been way too long already, and since each time I managed to fall asleep I had nightmares that quickly woke me up, I’d been awake for most of the trip. Meanwhile Isaac and Sebastian had been giving me a crash course in Terra Prime 101, stuffing my head full of information about Guilds and Gates and every other interworld factoid they thought I might ever need, but after ten hours of that I felt like a kid who wasn’t being allowed to leave the classroom at the end of the school day. God alone knew how much of it I would remember later.
Some of the information was not as alien to me as they thought. For example, clusters. When worlds were similar in type, Isaac explained, they exerted a kind of emotional gravity on one another. Any event that was dramatic enough to affect many people in one sphere—or to affect a single person with unusual intensity—could bleed through to neighboring spheres in dreams and visions. A scientific discovery in one world might cause dreams that inspired the same discovery in others, while a tyrant committing genocide in one location could likewise spread dreams of bloodlust and power to others who were s
usceptible. Thus, though histories within a cluster might vary in minor details—like the failure of the American Revolution on Terra Prime—neighboring worlds were under constant pressure to adopt similar paths. For example, the Louisiana Purchase had never taken place on Terra Prime, but France had ceded the same territory to Britain at a later date.
Isaac thought the cluster concept would be hard for me to grasp, but actually it wasn’t. The doors in my dreams had always been arranged in clusters, with similar visions being located near one another. And much of my art reflected the same kind of pattern. Without even realizing it I had tapped into reality’s master plan.
In a town named Chanteaux we had to switch from our cross-country train to a smaller one that would carry us over the Rockies. The new one had no private cabins, so we were forced to sit in a public car along with all the other passengers. That meant we could no longer discuss sensitive topics, for fear someone would overhear us. After an eternity of talking to the same two people, however, I was grateful for the break.
Snow-capped mountains, forests of aspen, and cool, shadowy gorges flashed past us like a series of National Geographic photographs, lush and inviting. But soon those gave way to a region of sandy red plains punctuated by low mountain ridges and sandstone mesas. The view was impressive—land striped so perfectly you’d think someone had painted it, stone spires carved into bizarre shapes by the wind—but it wasn’t exactly what you’d call welcoming. Some parts looked so dry and lifeless that I got thirsty just looking at them. Now and then we crossed a canyon that had water at the bottom, and you could see a thin ribbon of green slicing through the landscape, but that was only visible when we were right on top of it, after which we were back in the semi-barren landscape.
I took out the small wooden box I’d prepared back home and opened it, removing a feather and thin leather cord from inside. My companions watched curiously as I tied the feather to my hair, letting it hang down over one shoulder like the avatar girl had done. With strangers sitting so close they didn’t dare ask any meaningful questions.
Finally Sebastian dared, “Wren?”
I hesitated. I’d wanted to get a real wren feather, but that turned out to be difficult to find on short notice, so I’d had to settle for buying a generic feather from the local crafts store and using textile paint to give it the right markings. The result must have been convincing enough, since Sebastian recognized the species, but I was uneasy about the forgery. If there was some mystical quality to a wren feather that might actually protect us, I doubted a cheap fake would qualify.
“Someone gave me a feather like this in a dream,” I told him. That was true enough. God alone knew if my wearing it would help us in any way, but it seemed worth a try. Maybe if nothing else it would encourage the avatar to contact me again.
You have to stay asleep long enough for that to happen, I reminded myself.
Finally the train began to slow. Rows of houses were coming into view now, neatly aligned and surprisingly mundane. I guess I’d expected something more . . . well, exotic. Larger buildings followed, equally mundane, and we even passed a shopping mall that wouldn’t have looked out of place back home, save for the giant cactuses flanking the main entrance. Everything had a strange reddish cast to it, as if I was looking at the world through tinted glasses, though that was probably just a trick of the light, reflecting from all that sandstone. Otherwise it was all quite unremarkable.
Finally the train stopped. As passengers gathered up their belongings, I sensed a strange mix of energy in the air, part excitement and part fear. Or maybe that was just me.
This is it, I thought as I shouldered my backpack. The place where my fate will be decided.
When the train door opened a blast of dry heat hit me in the face, and I had to put up a hand to shield my eyes from the ruddy sunlight outside. We waited patiently while the first few passengers climbed down the train’s narrow stairs and then stepped off onto a concrete platform, glancing west as they did so. I expected them to keep moving and was prepared to follow them, but to my surprise they all just stopped, as if something had frozen them in place. After a few seconds the people behind them started getting irritated and began to push forward, but as the new people disembarked and looked west, they also froze. A knot of dread began to form in my gut as I watched the strange ballet, and I wondered what could possibly be out there in the desert that was so disturbing that the mere sight of it was enough to incapacitate visitors. Finally it was my turn to climb down to the platform and step out into the ruddy sunlight. I drew in a deep breath and looked west myself, to see what all the fuss was about.
Holy shit.
It stretched from horizon to horizon, a massive cloud of red dust towering so high that its crest brushed against the clouds. Anchored to the ground perhaps a mile from where we were standing, it curled over our heads like a great wave, ready to come crashing down on us at any moment. The sight of it was terrifying, but it was also mesmerizing, and while part of me wanted to flee for my life—preferably screaming in fear as I did so—I couldn’t bring myself to look away. It was the great wave of sand that was filtering the light of the sun, staining it crimson, making the entire town seem like it was washed in blood. The image reminded me of an Arabian sandstorm I had once seen pictures of—a haboob—but this surreal version was better suited to a Martian landscape than Earth. At least it didn’t appear to be moving toward us.
“Keep a move on, folks.” A transit officer on the platform was urging us along now, and I noticed that he showed no interest in the view. Was it possible to get so used to this bizarre landscape that you stopped noticing it? “El Malo won’t hurt you unless you go walking right up to it, and you’re all too smart for that, right? So let’s clear the platform, please.”
Numbly, I let myself be herded to the far end of the platform, along with everyone else, and down the short flight of stairs at its end. To leave the station we had to pass through the ticket office, and as we entered I saw a small counter at the far end, flanked by half a dozen paintings of the red wave. One of them looked like a depiction of Hell, with lost souls swirling in whirlwinds of red dust. Not exactly the kind of decor I would have chosen, but a powerful image nonetheless.
On the wall opposite the ticket counter, racks of colorful brochures were affixed to the wall. THE BEST OF THE BADLANDS, one proclaimed in bright red letters, while another declared WALK THE WAVE! There were restaurant brochures as well (GAZE UPON THE FACE OF DEATH WHILE YOU ENJOY OUR FIVE-STAR DINING), and bars (TRY OUR WORLD-FAMOUS HOUSE DRINK, THE BADLANDS BASTARD) as well as hotels (PANORAMA WINDOWS IN THE HONEYMOON SUITE!).
Rouelle was a tourist town.
“Jesus,” Isaac whispered.
We’d known that Rouelle served as a base of operations for people who wanted to get a look at the Badlands—that’s why we’d come in the first place—but I got the impression that neither he nor Sebastian had expected such tacky exploitation. Sadly, on my world this kind of thing wasn’t unusual.
The western wall of the ticket office was entirely glass, allowing for an unrestricted view of the blood-colored haboob, and as the other passengers continued on their way, I walked over to it. Looking at it through a pane of glass gave me a bit of emotional distance, like it was something on a movie screen rather than real. That helped calm my nerves but only a little. El Malo was something you feared in your gut, not your head.
Isaac and Sebastian took up positions next to me, one on each side, and for a while the three of us stared at El Malo in silence. The Evil Thing, locals had named it. Or perhaps, the Evil Being. Either name worked well.
Sebastian said quietly, “That’s where you’re talking about going.”
I shut my eyes and shivered. Not just from fear, but from despair. The plan that had seemed so reasonable back in Manassas—and Luray—had been blown away like so much desert sand. What was I supposed to do now, just walk into that thing? Even i
f I survived the first few minutes, where was I supposed to go after that? I’d assumed that once I got out here and assessed the situation I would be able to come up with a plan, but now that I was here, and saw the nature of what I would be facing, I didn’t have a clue how to start.
I turned away from Sebastian, not wanting him or Isaac to see how upset I was. I was the one who had brought them out here, so I had to be strong. But I didn’t feel strong. I felt lost. Sebastian put his arm around me, drawing me gently to his chest, as a father might. A wave of exhaustion and despair broke over me, leaving me shaking.
Isaac said, “Maybe the Dreamwalker will contact you.”
“Maybe,” I whispered.
But what if Sebastian was right and the avatar girl wasn’t a friend, but an enemy? He’d suggested she might be luring me to my death in order to silence me. So what was I supposed to do if she offered me advice—follow it, or do the opposite?
It was all overwhelming. If not for Sebastian’s arm around me, providing an emotional anchor, I don’t know how I would have held myself together.
“Where do you want go now?” Sebastian asked.
“Somewhere safe,” I whispered. “Please.”
But there was no safe place for me. Not here, not anywhere. If I didn’t find a way to get rid of the reapers, there would never be a safe place for me again.
I let the two of them lead me out of the ticket office. A bird was circling overhead as we exited; was that something we needed to worry about? Or were there times a bird was just a bird?
God, how I hated this world.
We found a hotel far enough from the border that its rooms were reasonably priced, and Sebastian checked us in as a family so we could stay together. The place was structured like my hotel in Luray, with rooms accessed directly from the outside. Our suite had windows facing the front and back of the building, so once we made sure we knew how to open/smash the appropriate glass, we had exits available in both directions.
Dreamweaver Page 12