That's not me. That's her...
It was an odd certainty, but it wouldn't go away. She was different. She was Joslyn and that other was Joslyn, too. It was an understanding that had grown slowly in her, in the months since she'd been taken into the Temple. In order to free herself to travel easily on the Nightstage she'd had to develop that strong sense of self that enabled her to stand apart when the dreams of all the sleepers in the city were blossoming around her like morning-glories after a rain. To stand apart from her own impulse to dream, and walk the stage of dreams as a free Nightsoul, able to see and do at will like some minor goddess. But it was also that sense of self that forced her to see how she was different from that other Joslyn now asleep in the Chamber of True Dreaming.
And what was it I'm supposed to do?
After a moment that came back, too. Joslyn took a moment to orient herself, using her still-fledgling sense of direction to pin down where the Supplicant's dream should be. It wasn't hard to find.
It looks healthy enough.
Joslyn was a little surprised. It had the same golden glow of any other dream; none of the flashes of dark lightning and shadow she'd expected from a troubled dream. But that didn't make sense—there should have been trouble, some sign, something. Joslyn crept up close like an urchin trying to see through a bakery window. If it isn't the dream, what is it?
There were no answers waiting on the outside. Joslyn took a steadying breath and slipped into the dream.
Careful...
The dream held together, and Joslyn felt a strong sense of relief. It was difficult to see just what sort of scene one was walking into, and the balance was so easily disturbed. But Joslyn had judged correctly, slipped through the curtain but not into the play. She stood back, taking in the scene in front of her.
The Supplicant sat at a table in the middle of a damp stone chamber. He seemed to be waiting for something. His manner was calm... no, that wasn't right—resigned. Joslyn puzzled this for many long moments; it was a few more before she realized that he was sitting in the middle of a dungeon. His awareness seemed to rise with hers; the chains, burning coals, spikes and manacles arranged on the walls and around the room suddenly moved into high relief. The dreamer seemed to note this, sighed. Waited. A key turned in a lock in a door that hadn't been there a moment before. The door swung open and banged against the wall.
"Good evening, Quin. Sorry I was detained. Shall we begin?"
What an unpleasant little man.
Joslyn looked at the newcomer and was instantly seized with dislike. He wore the garb of a torturer and an affected air of professional detachment that only held so long as you didn't look at his eyes. The Supplicant—Quin? At least now Joslyn had a name to use—rose from the table and stood towering over the newcomer.
"What have you decided for tonight?" he asked, resigned.
"The lash, I think. Yes, I think so. The lash," he grinned. "Please be so good as to chain yourself to that wall."
He's going to do it!
Joslyn watched, amazed, as Quin stripped to the waist and proceeded to clamp a pair of manacles to his wrists. He stood against the wall, watching dully as his tormenter went to a rack of whips conjured out of nothing on the opposite wall. The little torturer stood a few moments, inspecting his options, and Joslyn's mind worked furiously, trying to make some sense of what she was seeing. There was nothing here of signs and portents, symbols and cryptic messages from the Dreamer of All. Just a young man about to be whipped by an image he conjured himself for the purpose...
No.
Joslyn didn't so much realize the error as feel it. Then after a moment she remembered the weary sadness that the other Joslyn had seen in the young man's eyes. Whatever was happening now, he wasn't enjoying it. It was driving him to madness or death with an equal wager for either, but Joslyn was sure he wasn't doing it himself. If she'd learned any one thing in the brief months she'd spent in the Temple, it was that a dream was a poor place to keep secrets. They rose to the top like bubbles in a rain barrel, and there was no keeping them down. That left only one possibility.
Young Man, your dream-candle has attracted a Moth.
Joslyn's studies had told of such though this was the first time she'd actually seen one. A Moth was not an adept; in most cases they were not even consciously aware of what they did or how they did it. They were like sleepwalkers, stumbling about blind.
Moths roamed the nightstage because they had little choice in the matter; their own dreams were so narrow and miserly that there was nothing to anchor the Nightsoul within and they fled them like prisoners quitting their cells. The problem was that the frustrated Nightsoul tended to take control of any dream it found like a cuckoo stealing another bird's nest. It might even be drawn to one particular dreamer time and again because of the cruel fun it found there. In short, blind instinct matched with a powerful, mean-spirited will—Moths were dangerous.
The intruder selected his whip, turned back to his work. He flicked the whip once to lay it out on the stone at full extension, the lash touching Quin's right foot, and then without pause he struck the first blow. Quin cried out, a red welt appearing on his shoulder, and the dream shuddered, almost as if it was wincing with his pain.
Joslyn knew there wasn't much time. A few more of those and the pain would break Quin's dream, and he would awake as he had all those other nights, not to sleep again until time and weariness gave him no choice. And the other Joslyn would have to make up some story about Somna's anger and an appropriate penance that would enrich the Temple but not do very much for the poor idiot chained to the wall in his own dreams. That thought made Joslyn angry, even more than the thought of failing her first augury.
If I'm right there should be able to find some sign... there!
With a little effort Joslyn spotted what she was looking for, easily missed in the slightly hazy images in Quin's dreams—there was a very faint glow around the little torturer, one that did not match the misty outlines of the other props there. The man was not a part of Quin's dream at all, but another Nightsoul; now Joslyn was certain.
Moth to a flame. The Dream Master named them well --
The lash snaked out again. Joslyn fancied she could hear the dream cry out, too. She had to do something quickly, but what? She knew what she should do—send the Moth packing with singed wings. But if Quin became aware of her, or aware of the Moth for what he was, that cold knowledge alone could end Quin's dream before any good was done. The dream must survive...
She smiled a resigned smile. Of course. Not her—Quin. Quin would have to deal with the Moth himself if he ever was going to heal himself. And right now he feels so helpless that he chains himself to the wall at that monster's whim...
Another blow. No time. Joslyn skirted the edge of the dream, came up behind the bit of dream stuff that Quin had made into a dungeon wall out of habit and fear. Careful to keep out of the line of Quin's sight, she used her will delicately and worked one little change in the dream—the manacles fell from Quin's wrists and landed on the stones. Quin and the Moth both looked down at once at the chains on the floor. There was confusion on Quin's face, anger from the Moth.
"Put those back!"
There was a flicker as the dream adjusted itself, and the manacles were back in place. Joslyn was disappointed but not surprised. And she wasn't through yet. She blended with the dream as much as possible, a chameleon moving only when she must, blending with a wall of stone, a brazier of fire and smoke, and then she leaned close and whispered, so softly that the sound could have been in Quin's mind all along, "I took off the manacles. I put them back. What else could I do?"
Quin became the 'I' Joslyn whispered about; she saw the confusion return for a moment only to be replaced by puzzlement.
That's right, poor Quin. Think about it. And while you do I'll give our friend another surprise. Joslyn considered. Whatever she did, Quin had to think it came from him. Chameleon again. Joslyn whispered into Quin's mind again. "What would I do
... with the whip?"
A gamble, but necessary. Like tossing dice with Dyaros' thieves. Sooner or later you either made your point or lost everything, but, either way, the throw had to be made. Joslyn made her throw.
Quin, wearied past worry or understanding, loaded the dice. "I wish that whip would bite your nose."
Point!
One pure hot thought from Joslyn and the whip coiled through the air and struck. Only now it wasn't a whip at all but an angry blacksnake. It granted Quin's wish and sank sharp little teeth into the Moth's big nose. He shrieked and cursed, holding his hand over his face while the snake wriggled away into the mists. Joslyn took advantage of the confusion to remove Quin's manacles again.
"What..?"
That was Moth. Quin was laughing at him. Tears ran from Quin's dark eyes and his laugh was almost hysterical.
"How dare you—"
Quin dared a little more. "You're not so strong."
And the Moth wasn't so strong. His presence and power within the dream visibly shrank. Still unable—or unwilling—to believe that he had lost control, the Moth raised his fists and took a step toward Quin. Quin started to shrink back, almost by reflex, but again Joslyn was there to plant the thought that his mind needed. "You won't hit me."
And Moth didn't hit him. For a long moment the Moth did not move at all. And then Quin did, and the thought and the movement was all Quin. He stepped forward and, as hard as he had the strength, he struck the Moth across the face. The intruder staggered back against the wall of the dungeon, now made more real than ever by Quin's will. All the despair he had felt was very rapidly turning into anger. It wasn't dream skill, or even a strong will, but it was much more than the poor Moth had left in him.
"I want you chained to the wall," said Quin.
The moth was chained to the wall.
"I want the whip in my own hand."
The whip was in Quin's hand, and with no direction from Joslyn at all.
I did it!! Joslyn fairly hugged herself with excitement.
"I don't have enough whips," Quin said. And he now had six. And as many arms to hold them. His face was no longer quite human.
I did it... Joslyn wasn't nearly as joyous now. The whips cracked forward and struck the Moth like a feast of snakes. His scream nearly tore her heart out. Quin was pain incarnate now, all that he had suffered gushing out of him in a blind fury of vengeance on his former tormentor. It was all Joslyn could do to remind herself of what had brought the Moth to this, that he got no less now than his deserving. It was hard. It was all Joslyn could do to keep from breaking the dream herself now and ending the torture for everyone. She knew better. The Supplicant was what mattered, and until he had cast out all his pain and fear, her work was not done. Still, there was nothing that said she had to witness the bitter end of it all.
Quin will not finish for some time. The Moth could not leave, because at heart it was Quin's dream and he would not end it until he had no anger left. Joslyn left him to his revenge, slipping once more unnoticed through the mist curtains and out onto the Nightstage.
Tagramon was waiting for her. "Dear Girl, you astound me."
At first Joslyn didn't understand him. Then she developed some anger of her own. "You expected me to fail!"
"Was that unreasonable of me?" Tagramon asked.
Joslyn thought about it. "No."
"I should say not. Your first Augury, and frankly, one of the more difficult subjects I've seen in years. Take a lesson, Dreamers."
The others came out of the mists. Her new friend Alyssa and her brother Ter. Dark, quiet Pari. Several other young men and women Joslyn had only seen in passing, apparently quartered in a different wing of the Temple. They all looked at her with even mixtures of envy and awe. Joslyn couldn't say which bothered her the most.
The Dream Master glanced at the supplicant's dream. It showed no signs of fading. "It'll be some time before he's done with that poor idiot. You have the rest of this time to wander the Nightstage at will. Thank Joslyn, Dreamers."
And they thanked her, solemnly, speaking with one voice before, in ones and pairs, they slipped away into the mists.
*
It had been too long since Joslyn had the freedom of the Nightstage. The training of the Temple was incredible; Joslyn had learned to do things with the fabric of dreams that were beyond her imagining. But that came at a cost; sleep was no longer a time of rest—short naps during the day had to suffice for that. Time to herself was meant as a reward and she saw it as such.
What to do?
The trouble with unlimited possibilities is that it's hard to pick just one. And to do anything at all you have to pick just one. Joslyn thought about it and decided that a little good-natured revenge was in order.
*
One of the first lessons of the Temple was that the Nightstage and the waking world were only different forms of the same thing. With practice, you could read the layout of streets and buildings just by watching where dreams were and where they weren't. Joslyn knew the waking city as well as any thief who depended on it for her livelihood. It wasn't too hard to find her way to the shrine of the forgotten god where the thieves were.
The glowing mists that marked individual dreams were winking out all about her as dawn crept closer. Soon all the good folk of Ly Ossia would be up and about their days, but to the thieves the time of rest was fast approaching. Joslyn wasn't sure she'd be able to wait much longer.
She didn't have to.
There...
The dreams appeared, one by one. Joslyn moved carefully, trying not to let her recent triumph make her careless. She looked for the one dream, grander than all the others, that led to Dyaros. It wasn't hard to find. Joslyn paused only a moment at the curtain of mist and then slipped inside.
Dyaros dreamed of treasure. Gold coins gathered together in piles, jewels and plate heaped themselves on the floor in great mounds. Joslyn thought at first that the treasure had come to the thieves' hall, but she didn't recognize the image of the room. It was much larger, its limits ill-defined and changing. Great tapestries hung in heavy folds from walls that were more shimmer than substance. It occurred to Joslyn that Dyaros's dream of treasure was much clearer than his imagination of where that treasure might be.
She found him sitting on a throne of rosewood and ivory; she didn't bother to mask herself from him. "Where is this place?"
Dyaros frowned, but the dream did not change. Joslyn's presence apparently was incidental to him; he did not take his attention from the treasure. "I don't know. Go away."
"It's not real," Joslyn pointed out, slyly.
"You're not real," Dyaros said.
Joslyn smiled. I'm going to enjoy this. "I'm a Dreamer of the Temple of Somna now, Dyaros. I am very real. This is a dream."
Now Dyaros did look at her, and Joslyn's smile went away. "You think I don't know that?"
"What..?"
Dyaros's gaze was back on his phantom gold. "I know this dream—I've had it almost every night of my life. Sometimes others, I admit, but I always return to this room. It exists, Joslyn, somewhere. It's more real to me than you ever were."
Dyaros knew that he was dreaming, knew her. Joslyn slowed her breathing with an effort. "Just because you never possessed me—"
Dyaros laughed. "I know I'm not dreaming you; I'd never imagine that you understood so little. Possessed? What thief possesses anything? What belongs to a thief except a few dreams and a body that is one day hanged—or worse? I know I'll never find this room; I know this gold will never buy my way out of this wretched Guild. But what about your dreams, Joslyn? You thought my pursuit of you was about pride? Heavens, girl, I've been turned down by far worse than you and smiled to think of it. It was about life, Joslyn. I dream, yes, but I don't live in them the way you did... and do. Living in a dream is all you know, Joslyn. Will it really be no different for you in the temple?"
"I am a Dreamer!" Joslyn said with a shaky voice.
"Somna made us all dreamer
s, Joslyn. Now you'll be paid to steal the dreams of others, though I'm certain the priests have other names for it. Did you come to steal my dream, Joslyn? One of the very few things a thief can call his own?"
"I came..." Joslyn didn't finish. She did know why she came now, and she knew it wasn't about life. It was about pride. And I accused you, Dyaros. Somna forgive me.
Joslyn backed toward the curtain of mist, hoping that the dream would return to its normal course. Dyaros did not turn back to his gold; without his attention the image of wealth was not quite so real.
"Time to hide, Joslyn? I think it must be."
"I will go. I... I will not trouble you again."
Dyaros shrugged. "You trouble yourself far more than me, always. This is a new dream for me; perhaps I will forget. But if I remember I will breathe a sigh of regret into my wine now and again for a girl who is little but dream."
Joslyn stopped. "I am real."
Dyaros laughed again. "Bold words."
Joslyn took a breath. "I will prove it."
"How?"
"In the alley behind the Temple there is a grating in the wall ten feet from the ground. Tomorrow after sundown you will find it unfastened." Joslyn didn't stop to think about what she said; the time for that was past. "Take the stairway on the right up one level; the first door you see is mine."
"What about the White Robes?" Dyaros asked.
"Most will be in the Chamber of True Dreaming for augury then; I'll feign illness. They will not miss me overmuch."
Dyaros was still smiling, but he looked thoughtful. "Well."
"I am real," Joslyn repeated. "If you are, too, then come to me."
Dyaros's dream closed in around him, faded. "Well," he said again, and was gone.
*
On the morning following the second evening Joslyn woke to a the sound of knocking and a babble of voices in the hallway. She glanced at the empty place in the bed beside her for no reason she could name, then woke up enough to remember.
A Warrior of Dreams Page 5