A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

  "You little bitch!"

  Joslyn took a deep breath and the fireball approaching her went out. Tagramon hesitated and then Joslyn was away, into a place once lit but now discarded by the Dream Master. One by one she snuffed the other lights.

  Tagramon stood alone. He nodded, slowly. "Well played, but pointless. Why attack me?"

  You're having me killed. It seemed the thing to do.

  "But I take no pleasure in your death; don't you see that? And now you go and ruin an old man's harmless fantasy. You're a cruel child, Joslyn."

  Joslyn felt a little numb. Did he actually believe what he was saying? If yes then he was insane, and she had all the proof she needed. If not—she looked around slowly, careful not to lose sight of her opponent. She saw nothing. What was he up to?

  She sent her thoughts to him again. I take my death rather personally.

  He dismissed that. "Child, the end I planned for you was quick and clean. It still could be. Return and wait for me."

  For answer, Joslyn set him on fire. The image held for a moment and Tagramon twisted in agony. In that moment the reality of the scene wavered, like a shadow cast by a dying candle.

  Almost.

  That had been her intention from the first—attack and drive the great Dream Master from his own dream as from a nightmare. Make him hurt, just a little, for killing her.

  But the dream was not destroyed. Tagramon stood up, slowly, and when he could speak again his tone hadn't altered in the slightest. "Joslyn, you will regret that."

  What are you going to do? Kill me?

  He laughed, and a charred piece of flesh fell from his face. "Joslyn, this may be a revelation to one so young, but Death isn't the most that can happen to a person."

  She heard it then, something in the distant mist. Something that whispered like the wind. Joslyn saw flickers of movement.

  "You see them now, don't you? Wait a bit, Child. It won't be much longer."

  I'm no child and I'm through waiting.

  Joslyn flitted away from the light of his dream, out to where the mists boiled in the wakes of... something. They moved with a whisper and a moan and they headed unerringly toward her. Joslyn stopped. She decided to wait after all.

  *

  When Belor sent the acolyte named Chel to search Joslyn's rooms his instructions weren't very specific. "Look for anything unusual." Chel hadn't dared ask the High Priest just what he might consider 'unusual,' he merely hoped he would know it when he saw it. That proved no problem at all. The door Chel had left open closed very softly behind him. He turned, and there stood a hooded man carrying a small knife. The man held the knife to Chel's stomach and the blade suddenly looked much larger. Chel stood, mesmerized, his eyes on the bright steel.

  "Young man," the intruder said, "I'm in a hurry. A dreamer named Joslyn is somewhere in this Temple. Tell me where she is or I'll kill you."

  It never occurred to Chel that the man might be bluffing. It wasn't anger, or determination in the stranger's tone that convinced him—there was neither. It was the total lack of emotion. The man could have been talking about gutting a fish. Chel licked his lips.

  The day had finally come.

  Chel had dreamed of it now and again, as did most men who felt the call of a deity—martyrdom. To fall nobly, defending the Sanctuary of the Dreamer, or to expire under cruel torture, suffering delicious agonies in the name of the True Faith. As Chel felt the prick of the knife he thought how easy it would be to thrust forward, impaling himself on the sharp steel without a moan. And his killer would marvel at his dedication and faith. Except...

  Except dying sword in hand at the Temple gates or stoicly on the rack was one thing. Knifed by a burglar, quite another. In the dark. With no one to see or remember.

  Chel considered all of this. "She's in a cell in the catacombs," he said, "left corridor. You'll see the stairs."

  "Turn around, please."

  Chel obeyed, afraid the intruder was going to take the decision out of his hands. But in another instant pain blossomed at the back of his skull and not between his ribs. He just had time to feel relieved before losing consciousness.

  *

  Joslyn watched them coming. Tagramon was laughing. He doubled over and pounded his knee. "Stupid child," he gasped, "stupid, stupid—"

  Joslyn set him on fire again. It didn't last long, but it did stop the laughter. She looked back into the mist trying to make out a size, a shape, anything. But there was no shape or size, no one thing to mark one boiling mass of dream-stuff from another, like so many identical hornets swarming madly from the nest.

  What are they?

  The Dream Master wiped soot from his nose. "Mustn't spoil the surprise."

  Joslyn was still watching the mists when the lights came up. She stood revealed as Tagramon suddenly expanded the scope and sweep of his dream.

  He grinned. "You should have been watching me."

  Joslyn tried to run, but he didn't give her a chance. She was in The Dream Master's domain now, and her presence gave him the target he didn't have before. In an instant she was falling. The world vanished beneath her feet and there was nothing below her forever and ever but a cold black void without light or hope of ending. She screamed, and in another instant lay shaking at the Dream Master's feet.

  "Not the same now, is it? Not so easy to strike and destroy when you can be touched by what others do."

  Joslyn didn't answer; he was right and she knew it. From outside the dream her targets were carefully chosen, her will unimpeded, and the victim left with no one to fight. But now she was within the dream, vulnerable, and it wasn't her dream. She got up and braced her mind for the first attack.

  She didn't wait long. With a thought Tagramon killed her. Skeletal apparitions appeared on either side of her and as one they drove rusted daggers into her breast. One laughed harshly as the other twisted his weapon in Joslyn's flesh till the blade snapped.

  There were those who believe that when you die in a dream you die for real, but that was nonsense. Joslyn knew the pain wasn't real. But knowledge wasn't the same as belief. She saw her blood, felt the steel burning in her flesh, and for that instant believed in the pain. She felt her heart stop, her body die...

  Joslyn seized the thought with desperate strength. There was no body—she was the nightsoul. There was will against will here, nothing more. The pain went away, she no longer tasted blood on her tongue. Joslyn opened her eyes.

  Tagramon gave a stiff little bow. "Well done," he said, and then he buried her.

  Joslyn lay wedged into a narrow coffin of stone; the weight of earth above her put tiny cracks through the lid and dust and pebbles filtered down to cover her mouth and throat. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her mind filled with horror and she clawed at the lid knowing it was useless, useless...

  No!

  She lay on her back, arms crossed over her face. She let them fall to her sides and there was Tagramon smiling down at her. "How much more can you take, I wonder? Surely not a lot—"

  Joslyn struck. She lashed out with all the hate his smiling face conjured. It flowed from her like a black tide, a gathering darkness that would flow over and smother the life out of him. Tagramon regarded the apparition with polite interest for a moment, then clapped his hands. It vanished.

  Joslyn shook her head from side to side. Not possible...

  She was dumbfounded. Until then they had played at illusion, conjuring fears out of nothing like two children shouting 'boo!' But the hate was different. The hate was real. And the Dream Master made it go away.

  Joslyn still felt the hate inside her—that was one well with no bottom—but the part that could be felt and seen and used as a manifestation of will was gone. She was powerless to do more, and the Dream Master knew it. He stepped back and waited for her to sit up.

  "How... how did you do that?"

  "I've much to do," he said, ignoring the question, "and this little escapade has cost me enough time. Look around you, girl. Don't worr
y: no tricks this time."

  Joslyn obeyed, and saw them. They ringed Tagramon's dream and they now had forms; they looked like men made of shadow. She could sense their eyes on her, but the light of Tagramon's dream did not enter them. "They're real," she said.

  He nodded looking pleased. "Like your misguided hate, Joslyn. Quite real." He turned to the circle of shadows. "Take her."

  Joslyn managed to get to her feet, but there was no place to run. She tried to dismiss the shadows; they didn't even waver.

  One way out.

  It meant failure and death, but those were weak threats next to the promise of the shadows. Joslyn willed herself away, back to the waking world of dungeons and discreet murder.

  Nothing happened. An instant of panic and confusion, then Joslyn remembered the drug. It was neither normal sleep nor dreamer-discipline that had opened the nightstage door to her, and nothing she could do would close it. After all the effort spent seeking time to explore the nightstage, the irony was too much. Joslyn laughed, but the shadows pressed her close and the laughter died. Long cold fingers closed on her arms, legs, and throat. She kicked and screamed, anger returning in full battle array. "The Dreamer damn you!"

  Something struck her hard in the face and the dream vanished, her part in it ripped to shreds by an explosion of light.

  *

  Joslyn came to in her cell in the catacombs. A blurry face loomed over her and her cheek burned as if she'd been branded. Joslyn struck at the blur, weakly, but strong hands trapped her wrists and held her still.

  "Easy, Joslyn."

  The voice was familiar. Joslyn stopped fighting and blinked till she could see again. "You—you're the Supplicant."

  He let her go and nodded, pleasantly. "You remember me. I'm glad."

  Joslyn needed help to sit up, and her sight was still somewhat blurred. The man pulled down her lower eyelids with his thumbs and examined the whites. Joslyn was too tired and confused to resist. After a moment he nodded. "Nightseed. Small wonder you couldn't return when things got out of hand."

  Joslyn rubbed her eyes. "What do you know of that?"

  He shrugged. "Enough to know that even a Temple Dreamer can't be trapped by such a simple thing as nightmare... assuming it's her own." He looked at her, speculatively, but Joslyn said nothing. He smiled. "No matter. I need to speak with you, Joslyn. I think you can guess the subject."

  She stifled a yawn. "I told you all I know at the augury."

  "Perhaps you don't realize all you know," he said, "but that can wait. I think you're in some sort of trouble. Am I wrong?"

  Joslyn didn't know whether to laugh or hit him. There was something definitely wrong with her rescuer, something... distant. Not fully aware. But right then it was all a little too complicated, and her head hurt. "No, you're not wrong. The Dream Master is going to kill me," she said, massaging her throbbing forehead. "Personally now, I'll wager."

  He seemed to consider this. "Well, then... if we're ever going to have that conversation I think we should leave immediately. Can you walk?"

  "I think so..." Joslyn tried to get up and collapsed into an embarrassed heap. "No, I guess not."

  The stranger lifted her with little effort and carried her out the door. In the corridor Joslyn could see the narrow slots cut into the stone to receive the Blessed Dead, and here and there a pale glimmer of bone in the torchlight. A thick-muscled guard lay sprawled on the flagstones, his chest rising and falling slowly.

  Joslyn looked at the guard, then at her rescuer, her eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

  "You may call me Ghost."

  Joslyn considered this as best she could, and wondered for a moment if she might be better off back in her cell. "Is that your name?"

  He smiled. "No, but it'll have to do. For both of us."

  Chapter 6—The Way Out

  Musa opened the door for the third time in as many minutes, but nothing moved in the dark street. She pushed the door shut and leaned against it. "I'm finished," she announced, "Done for."

  Joslyn slumped forward on one of Musa's stools, both hands over her face. "You didn't have to let us in," she mumbled.

  "Certainly not," Musa said, "I could have left you on my doorstep until the Watchers came, then spent the rest of a tragically shortened life explaining what you were doing there in the first place. Stop talking nonsense."

  Joslyn put her hands in her lap. "Sorry, Musa. I didn't know where else to go."

  "As in the old days—steal a loaf and Musa will hide you. Some oaf craves your fair little body and Musa will hide you. When you went into the Temple I thought `there's one less worry for poor old Musa.' Silly notion..."

  They all heard the shouts, and the sound of running. Musa cracked the door open one more time and Joslyn saw the orange flare of torches over her shoulder. Musa shut the door and looked at her. "White Robes. Joslyn, what have you done?"

  "I wish I knew. It has something to do with him," she said, and nodded at Ghost, who wandered about the shop examining the bottles and jars, oblivious.

  "And just who is `him'?" Musa inquired.

  "Ghost," said Ghost, squinting at a label. Musa stared at him for a moment then sat back down. The chair groaned.

  "From the beginning, Joslyn," she said, "and don't leave out a thing or I will put you out."

  Joslyn told of her augury and its aftermath, though not without several pauses when her memory turned cloudy. She even mentioned the harpy. Musa listened to it all, not prompting, not commenting, not hurrying. Ghost finished his survey of the room and now studied Musa with the same curious frown on his face.

  When Joslyn was done Musa looked at Ghost with renewed interest. "When did it happen?"

  Ghost shrugged. "I'm not sure... a year or two. One morning I woke with no memory of my dreams."

  "Many people don't remember their dreams," Joslyn said.

  He shook his head, slowly. "I wasn't one of them."

  Musa laughed. "I dare say! What is your Order?"

  "Traveler, Somnal Dera. At least, I think it was."

  Something... a glance, a gesture, passed between Musa and Ghost, something Joslyn didn't quite catch. And what did he call her..? Joslyn glared at both of them. "What are you talking about?"

  There was a subtle shift in Musa's bearing, and no trace at all of the fear that was so evident before. "Child—and you are, so don't quibble—can't you even now recognize another adept when you meet one?"

  Joslyn stared. "Him?"

  Musa sighed. "Yes, Sweetness. And of an ancient, respected discipline. Or did you swallow that tripe about the Temple having a monopoly on dreamcraft?"

  "No," Joslyn said. "I've met others now and again. They blunder through the Nightstage like children loose in a potter's shop, pulling images from their rightful places and molding them into unnatural shapes that last only until the poor things rip themselves apart in disgust. You mean you're of that lot?"

  Ghost almost looked hurt, but mostly he looked confused. "No... at least I don't think so. I was searching for patterns, not creating them. I must have searched too far."

  "Beyond this 'Wall' Joslyn mentions?" Musa asked.

  "I don't know about that. My Nightsoul knew, I think, but he never got a chance to tell me."

  It sounded strange the way Ghost spoke of the Nightsoul as something not a part of him, but she couldn't deny that it was accurate just now. That was a problem, but not the immediate one. "Musa, we need to hide here for a while."

  "That's not possible."

  Now Joslyn looked hurt. "You'd really turn us out?"

  Musa chuckled softly. "Joslyn, you do have a talent for avoiding painful truth. Think! The houses and streets aren't the only places the Dream Master will search for you. The only hiding place for you now is distance."

  Joslyn understood. She didn't want to. "You mean leave Ly Ossia?"

  "As I see it you don't have a choice."

  Musa was right. There was no safe place for her, but distance from the Ly Ossian Nightstage
would make the search more difficult. But the thought frightened her in a way Tagramon did not. She was a child of Ly Ossia: first its streets, then the Temple. Here she knew what might happen; the world outside the city walls was one great unknown.

  Ghost broke his silence. "I'm afraid..." He hesitated, and Joslyn could almost feel him grope past that odd name he had given Musa, "I'm afraid Musa is right. He wouldn't find me so easily, but I must go where you go. I need your help."

  Joslyn shrugged, resigned. "I'm not sure I have any to give," she said, "but you saved my life, and if its partly your fault I'm in this mess it's at least as much my own."

  "Agreement among all human beings in one room," Musa said, calling the Dreamer to witness, "Truly a remarkable day."

  "But where can we go?"

  "I have... associates, in Darsa," Musa said carefully. "I'll give you some writing that will mark you to them; perhaps there you can stay out of sight for a while."

  Joslyn bowed to the inevitable. "All right, but I mean to know something first—were you the harpy?"

  Musa smiled. "I'm an old woman, Joslyn. I don't pay much attention to my dreams these days."

  Joslyn thought Musa's smile was quite like that on the statue of the Reclining Dreamer—both spoke of closed doors and secrets. Joslyn's reaction was the same.

  Liar.

  *

  While Ghost and Joslyn planned their escape from Ly Ossia others tried to do the same. Belor worked at a large wooden table in the Temple Archives. On the near wall a honey-comb of niches held hundreds of rolled maps tucked neatly into its cells. One of those maps was spread out him and held in place by a guttering candle one side and a dusty book on the other. The candle made the details on the map dance with the shadows.

  Where will it be?

  A cough at the door made him turn. Tagramon stood just inside he door, the poor light making him squint. "Belor? Is that you?"

  "Yes, Master. I gather you've given the dreamers their instructions?"

  Tagramon brushed a cobweb from his sleeve. "And assigned Acolytes to help watch the gates. She can't get away."