I fell asleep. Dyaros never came, damn him. So why did she feel so relieved?
She threw on a robe, scurried to the door and opened it. Alyssa stood by Ter's door, rapping. Already other doors were opening along the hall. Ter opened the door and Alyssa grabbed his arm and dragged him out into the hallway. Alyssa spotted Joslyn, smiled and beckoned her to follow as she turned and ran down the hall toward the far stairwell. Joslyn yawned and started after them.
"What's this about?"
Pari, trotting beside her, just shrugged. Ter and Alyssa went down the stairs two at a time. Joslyn didn't catch up with them until they reached the bottom and stepped out into the morning light in the central courtyard.
"What is it?" Joslyn demanded. Alyssa pointed.
There was a scaffolding in the center of the courtyard, empty since Joslyn first came into the Temple. It wasn't empty now.
"A thief," Alyssa said. "He was caught in the Temple last night."
"Thief..." Joslyn didn't say anything else.
"I wonder how he got in," Pari said. "Did he confess anything?"
Joslyn fought a rising tide of blackness. Yes. Did he?
"I heard he wasn't taken alive," Alyssa said.
"Why hang him, then?" Ter wanted to know.
Pari shrugged. "That's what you do with thieves."
They all watched for a while. Then, one by one, the others got bored and wandered back into the Temple. Joslyn looked at Dyaros's slowly turning body longer than she wanted to, as long as she dared to, and then followed the others out of the sunlight.
Chapter 4—Dark Waters
Ly Ossia lay across the foot of the White Mountains like the pieces of a shattered jar. That was not to say there was no pattern at all—the older buildings spiraled away from the center like the arms of a pinwheel, and, rough and massive though they were, they kept a harmony of line and form that made them parts of the whole. The rest of the city was everything sudden wealth could build and grandiose competition spawn. It was a mess.
Ghost sat on a high tor to the west, studying the city with the vague interest of a schoolboy kept too long on the same subject. He wore the brown garb of a traveling ascetic; it was the only clothing he owned, as far as he knew. He didn't feel like an ascetic—there was no burning faith at the core of him, just a slight boredom. He cocked his head from side to side as if new perspectives might succeed where study failed. Finally he gave a deep sigh and leaned back against a cold hard rock.
Nothing. Ly Ossia meant nothing to him.
Ghost knew that wasn't right. If the help he sought wasn't here, then there was a very good chance it didn't exist, and the meaning of that was too terrible to consider. And still the city evoked nothing in him. Not fear, not anger, and especially not hope. Even its profound ugliness was an abstraction, evoking none of the emotion that the words 'beauty' and its dark twin bore by right. How long since his Nightsoul disappeared? How long since any such emotion was more than a memory? One year? Two?
Nothingness will smother me if I let it. I have to try again.
Ghost tried again. The sight of it was failing him, so he tried the words of it—Ly Ossia. Old words, perhaps dating back to the Aversan Hegemony, though anything said or noted about that Golden Age was pure speculation. 'Ly' just meant a place of safety, some natural defense that could be put to use—the White Mountains, in this case, guarding the Northern and Western reaches of the city. The Southern Sea in the case of Ly Manes and Ly Alasten.
He warmed to the mental search, like any scholar loose in the cubbies of a vast unknown library. The memories never seemed to belong to him but, when he looked hard enough, they usually opened to him like the dusty scrolls they were. All except his name, of course. That scroll did not open.
Off the subject, Lad. Back to it.
That rough, quiet voice again, one he'd heard before. Also a memory of someone... Aesyd? That sounded right. The voice was Aesyd's, and seemed to come to him when only when he needed chiding. It was very useful. Ghost narrowed his concentration, as ordered.
'Ossia.' That is harder...
When that scroll finally opened, it contained not words but a doorway. Ghost shrugged and stepped through.
*
Aesyd stood at the lectern at the cartographer's table, still-in-process Map of the West spread out before him. A rather younger-looking Ghost stood with the other students ringed around him.
"Of all western city-states, only two are currently of any account: Darsa on the south coast and Ly Ossia to the north. Please don't embarrass me or yourselves by not noting the derivations: Dyr Sa—"Sea Road." Darsa is the seat of the Temple of Somna, of course, and a major trading center besides because of its harbor. Ly Ossia—"Safe Stone." Ly Ossia guards one end of the most western pass through the White Mountains known; several of our order have made the journey though it is not on the Pilgrimage Roster. In all other respects it is a poor second to Darsa. Both are currently beyond the Imperial frontier."
Ghost heard himself speak. "Why was the Temple built so far west? Surely Mekthos is more suitable?"
Aesyd smiled that patient smile that always let him know that you'd asked the precise foolish question he'd expected. Ghost remembered being annoyed. For a moment he was annoyed. Ghost savored the revenant of emotion far too long and had to hurry his concentration to hear what the Master was saying.
"...Tolsan Dynasty and Empire is a fairly recent development, Lad. Two hundred years is nothing, and the tide of civilization ebbs and flows from one end of the world to another and back again. Once it was in the west, though how long ago that was no one is certain. There is legend that the Aversan's had a major shrine in what is now Darsa, though there is no evidence of that. The Temple is there because it's there; if you need more reason I'm afraid you'll have to find it yourself. Now then—"
They never finished the lesson that day. Brother Lyrs appeared in the open doorway, red faced and nearly out of breath. "Master Aesyd, a word..." Aesyd met him at the doorway and they conversed for a few moments in low tones. Finally Lyrs bowed hurriedly and sped away, and after a moment Master Aesyd turned to face Ghost and the other Traveler acolytes.
"Word just came. Our Emperor crossed the border at Pol Mon two weeks ago. Ly Ossia and Darsa were annexed into the Empire as we expected. Except..."
Ghost remembered the look on his old Master's face as the rest of the memory faded. This was the only part that mattered.
Except?
"Except the Temple at Darsa has been destroyed."
*
No one knew why, though the question was asked again and again. A mistake, surely. Ghost shrugged; it made no difference to him. The best he could do in his search was the memory of a greater city, now reduced and impoverished in favor of the bloated mess before him.
Safe Stone. It doesn't look particularly safe. Useless.
Ghost wiped his graying brown hair out of his eyes and looked one last time. Still no emotion, but he did get an image—gate. Strewn between two modest peaks in the foothills, Ly Ossia looked like a broken gate.
An image is better than a nothing.
Ghost got up and followed his lengthening shadow down to the city.
*
Most of the time Dusk Street lived up to its name. It was cobbled with dark stones and very narrow, weaving its way through some of the tallest buildings in the merchant's quarter. But at noon the sun pierced its slim roof of sky and glared down as fiercely as the gargoyles at the eaves. Then the hawkers and potioners retreated deeper into the labyrinth to await a friendlier hour.
Joslyn hurried along the nearly deserted street, grateful for its current deserted state. Her Initiate's robes would attract attention otherwise; Temple Dreamers were not so often seen in the streets that they could pass unnoticed. One traveling alone without armed escort would raise even more notice. She squinted often and kept one hand up to shield her eyes against the sun, the other hand she kept close to her breast. She darted into a side street and stopped at
a tall, weathered door. After two quick glances left and right she knocked. "Musa!"
Something stirred behind the door. "It's Nooning," a muffled voice said, "come back later."
"It's Joslyn, you old pirate!" the girl hissed, "and I don't have 'later.'"
Mutterings from within. The door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of pink, wrinkled skin and one suspicious eye. "Are you alone, Child?"
"Unless you keep me standing here till the Watchers come!"
Musa stepped aside and Joslyn darted in, closing the door as she did. Her eyes throbbed with the shock of trying to readjust to blessed darkness, and it was a full minute before she could see again. Musa's familiar little shop came back into focus, all the small fired-clay jars and the less common blue glass bottles. Musa often bragged that her shop contained everything needed to plan a night's dreaming from dusk to dawn, but Joslyn knew better. Herbs and potions might influence, but the dreamer's Nightsoul had the final say.
Musa settled her bulk into a massive chair beside her table, smiling that smile that turned her face into a fleshy round moon. "Did you get it?"
Joslyn opened her fist just enough for Musa to see the gleam of gold. "Half an Imperial," she said, "donated by a grateful wine merchant."
Musa whistled low. "That must have been quite an augury you made for him, Child," she said, staring at Joslyn's fist. "Twenty years or better since I've seen so much at once."
"Liar. One dose of Flowering Succubus brings you twice this."
Musa's face was a vision of wounded integrity. "You have too much imagination, even for an initiate Temple Dreamer. I'm a poor old woman who barely keeps herself fed." She patted her girth affectionately.
"No small task," conceded Joslyn, cheerfully, "but never mind. Did you get it?"
Musa reached into one of the pockets of her dingy smock and pulled out a small packet wrapped in brown paper. "Two doses. Mix with water beforehand and for the Dreamer's sake don't use wine unless you want the effect to be permanent."
Joslyn gave her the money and took the bundle eagerly. "Can you get more next week?"
"I can, but I'm not going to."
Joslyn frowned. "I can get the money..."
"The way you got this?" Musa asked, her voice milder than milk. "Let the Dream Master catch you holding out and he'll sell you to a brothel, Initiate or no. There may be time enough for dreaming on the Street of Sighs but precious little energy. Or reason, I fancy."
"That's my business!"
"As you said when I asked you why you wanted it in the first place. Your business."
Joslyn stared at the floor. Then, "I'll tell you what I want it for, if you damn well must know."
"I damn well must," Musa agreed. "Before we talk about more Nightseed."
Joslyn took a slow breath. "I'm afraid to dream, Musa."
"Afraid to...?" Musa sat down on her stool. "So then... Explain to me why a Dreamer is afraid to dream."
Joslyn found a bench and sat down, too. "I don't have much time, Musa."
"Then stop wasting it."
Joslyn reddened. "Do you remember, soon after I first went into the Temple? A thief was caught on the grounds and hanged. It... it was Dyaros."
"I knew that," Musa said. "But you never spoke of it. I am sorry for your friend, Joslyn."
Joslyn almost laughed. "Be sorry for me. It was my fault. I asked Dyaros to come to me... no, I dared him to. And he came. And died."
"It is a very sad story, Joslyn. It explains nothing."
Joslyn glared at her. "Then how's this—his soul has taken up residence in my dreams! I found it there, the first time I tried to dream. It was leaking blood and turning slowly in a phantom wind. If I tarry long enough, I can even see the rope. I seldom tarry that long."
Musa hadn't batted an eye. That annoyed Joslyn for some reason she could not name. Musa looked at her. "Nightsouls do not tarry long after death; they are manifestations of Somna and she reclaims them all. I don't know what nightmare you've created for yourself but I do know that you don't need to true-dream to perform your duties, Child. Auguries rather require a Nightsoul alert and unfettered by its own illusions. I'll wager the first thing you learned was how not to dream."
Joslyn sat up. "How did you know that?"
"I watch, and I listen, and I've been doing both for nearly sixty years. Now, then, Joslyn—I tell me the rest, and don't dawdle."
"There are places... I don't know what else to call them. Places beyond the Nightstage! Places closer, perhaps, to the heart of Somna's Dream. I found one of them back before I knew what I was doing, the night before I was taken into the Temple. It looked like a wall, and there was more beyond it. I've always wanted to go back, to learn what else there was to the Dream. I've never found that place as a wandering Nightsoul. Only while I dream for myself can I reach it."
"And you think Dyaros's angry spirit stands between you and the mystery? For the moment let's assume you're right. Have you confronted him?"
"I try," Joslyn said. "I do! But I always wake up, the dream is always... shattered. Then I learned of Nightseed, that it would force me to sleep. So that—"
"So that you could not run away?" asked Musa.
Joslyn would not look at her, but she nodded, slowly. "Yes."
"Then you have two tries only, Joslyn. Make them count."
Joslyn stared at the old woman. "You promised!"
Musa shook her head. "Nothing, if you'd been paying attention. Pay attention now. Nightseed, for a start. Do you really think you were the first dreamer to hear of it? It will give you sleep on demand, truly, but use it more than twice and it's the drug you crave and the dreams be damned."
Joslyn eyed her prize as if it had just sprouted teeth. "I'm not sure I believe you."
"Then don't exert yourself because it makes no difference. This is all you get, Child. Use it well."
There was a note of finality in Musa's voice that convinced Joslyn not to press the matter. "All right, damn your slippery hide. But will you grant me something else?"
"What is it?"
"Stop calling me 'child.' I turned eighteen three months ago."
Musa smiled. "Two years in the Temple and eighteen in the world? Barely an instant, as the stars turn. Well, off with you before the street wakes up and sees you out of the Temple alone."
Joslyn peeked out the door, again checking left and right before braving the daylight. Musa closed the door, and this time Joslyn heard the snick of the bolt.
That's right, Musa. Take no chances.
Later Joslyn would wonder—not for the first time—how simple Musa knew so much about the business of the Temple. But not then, there was no time. Joslyn quickly vanished into the light.
*
Tagramon's kindly face was at that moment the incarnation of strained fatherly patience. He wore a white robe embroidered with clouds in cloth-of-gold, and he held a slim ivory wand across his knees. He stroked it, idly, as a young man in a blue tabard kneeled before him. The boy was saying something with nervous intensity, but the Dream Master wasn't listening. He finally held up a hand for silence. "Ter, why must you lie to me?"
"Master, I swear—"
"No need to repeat it, Lad. I heard you the first time. I am a little surprised that you and Alyssa managed to come up with the same one. Was that planned, or merely odd coincidence?"
The boy's resolve was no match for Tagramon's calm certainty. It crumbled, and Ter looked at the floor. "I failed you, Master. There was no augury."
"Obviously not. The best you and Alyssa could manage was vague pronouncements of wealth and happiness. By the Dreamer, Ter! The lowliest crystal-gazer could do better. What happened to you?"
The boy looked lost. "I don't know! I searched for the Supplicant's Nightsoul so I could observe his dreams. I did! I searched as long and as far as I could. It just wasn't there."
Tagramon smiled, but there was no humor in it. "When I was a boy—about your age—on the streets of the city we had a riddle. Do they stil
l ask it, Ter? It went like this: 'Many doors in, but out not a one. A wide bed within, but no dreaming's done.' What is it?"
Ter licked his lips. "A tomb."
"Well, then. Our client did call himself 'Ghost.' Did he have the odor of the grave about him?" Ter mumbled something. "Speak up, Lad."
"No, Master."
Tagramon leaned back in his ornate chair. "So. Twice the Temple of Somna has failed an augury, and perhaps this means the Dreamer is displeased with us. Or perhaps you and Alyssa have overtaxed yourselves. I'm sorry, Ter, but I think a week of rest is in order."
Ter looked sick. "No, Master! We'll try harder—"
"To try harder in this is to ensure failure. Be brave! I only ask a week. You may serve your time with your sister, if you like."
Ter nodded, resigned. "Yes, Master," he hesitated, then added, "Thank you."
The Dream Master rose and escorted Ter to the door, his arm about the boy's shoulders. He gave him over to one of the White Robes standing guard in the hall and watched until the pair disappeared around a corner. He returned to his seat looking thoughtful. "Belor?"
A shriveled little gnome of a man in the robes of a priest stepped from behind a curtained alcove. His movements were stiff and precise, like a soldier on slow march. A few strands of wispy white hair framed his face beneath the cowl. His voice was the whisper of a razor on the strop. "Here, Most Beloved of Somna."
"You heard?"
Belor nodded. "Certainly. It is most disturbing."
The Dream Master held his wand in one hand and slowly tapped the palm of the other. "There could be other explanations. Some Nightsouls have all the fire and presence of a cart-nag."
"Which makes them difficult to read," Belor conceded, "but not to find. I'll admit the Supplicant isn't the first to try to hide his identity from us, but his Nightsoul cannot be found in simple dream by two competent—if uninspired—dreamers. And you and I both know that the true name belongs as much to the Nightsoul, two parts incomplete without the other. I'll wager this 'Ghost' didn't tell us his true name because he doesn't know it himself."
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