A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

  "Our letter—!"

  "My letter," corrected Daycia. "If Musa had meant you to see it, she wouldn't have used a seal. I respect her wishes and trust you won't ask." Daycia spoke as one used to obedience—neither arrogant nor insulting, merely in a tone that didn't invite discussion.

  She sounds like the Dream Master. It didn't exactly endear her to Joslyn, but Daycia didn't seem concerned about that. She looked them up and down as if they were two odd bookends she couldn't decide just where to fit.

  "You're Joslyn," she said and moved on. She stopped in front of Ghost. "And you're... well, man, how shall we call you?"

  "'Ghost' will do," he said. "Did Musa explain?"

  Daycia nodded. "Though I'll admit I don't understand it all. No matter, Musa is an old friend and we'll do what we can. You're welcome to stay so long as you don't make nuisances of yourselves."

  "You're most kind," Joslyn said. She didn't like the way her own voice sounded, but she was more than a little tired and the folk in Darsa hadn't done much to soothe her nerves.

  Daycia shook her head. "Joslyn, I am not. Not at all. The folk here are all the family I have, and these are dangerous times in themselves. Never mind that the Imperials and the Temple will be looking for you, as well. All I ask is that you don't make the situation any worse than it is. Do you understand?"

  Joslyn nodded. She did understand the risk Daycia was taking for what she offered them. And if Daycia wasn't overjoyed at the prospect she didn't run from it, either.

  "I'm sorry. I'm also tired and irritable. I ask your pardon."

  Daycia smiled then, just a little. "Freely given. But I think a bit of supper and a place to rest would suit you better."

  Chapter 9—Ruins

  Kessa blended well with the shadows. Her blouse and breeks were the same dark shade as the stones in the corridor. Her hair was a problem—it was so fair as to be nearly white, but a dark scarf took care of that. She waited until the door closed behind Daycia and the strangers, then stepped out into the open. She listened for a moment. Voices were distant murmurs, none raised. Kessa didn't really expect trouble. Still...

  The girl slipped into one of the many broken places in the old temple and found a ruptured vent. It was narrow enough, but then so was she. Kessa wriggled through the break and crawled upward on her elbows and knees, her arbalest cradled in her arms.

  There was something afoot; she could sense it. When Daycia first appeared with the strangers, Kessa had kept close, waiting for some sign. It hadn't been the first time: twice before Daycia had brought strangers. One time a wizened little thief had followed Daycia from the market; he was easily dealt with. The next time wasn't so simple.

  An Ender.

  Kessa remembered the fear when Daycia returned that day with the follower of Malitus at her back, his rusty knife at her throat. The knife didn't worry Kessa as much as his eyes: wild, staring eyes, like a dead man's. He looked and could not see, even when Tolas stepped out from the darkness in front of him. "A witness! See! See this woman die! Remember the madness of the dream—" He didn't get any farther because Kessa's bolt pierced the base of his skull, freezing the knife and the smile and the eyes like some obscene parody of a statue of Malitus himself. And when the Ender finally slumped down and lay dead on the floor his eyes had still not changed—wide open, staring. Kessa shivered.

  But this time Daycia signed her instructions with small gestures the strangers missed—Wait. Follow. And something else to Tolas that Kessa hadn't quite caught. The pair didn't look dangerous, but that impression and a seed would make a decent flower in time. Daycia was almost never wrong, but one time might be enough.

  The vent ended high on the wall in the common room. Kessa stifled a sneeze as smoke from the hearth tickled her nose, and she peered down at the little scene below: Daycia sat in her tall chair just beyond the fire, Tolas off a bit to one side looking serene but watchful. Meleay bounced her child on her knee, apparently oblivious, apparently mad. Kessa smiled, wondering if the strangers were being fooled as completely as she herself had been.

  The strangers... Kessa turned her attention to them. The man, graying but with a youthful face, and so damned calm. Knowing that they were observed in the corridor, not knowing what might wait for them at the end of the journey, and through it all he was so distant, so... cold? No, uncaring was the word. Kessa had seen the same look, the same manner in the streets of Darsa. His was the face of one who had lost too much, endured too long. Almost like one of the Enders, though one driven by despair, not blind viciousness. Kill or be killed, it was all the same to them. That made them dangerous, and Kessa was convinced that the man, too, was dangerous. Whether he brought the danger or was the danger himself was a question she would have to consider later.

  The voices rose to Kessa's hiding place, but not the words. She tried to listen but could not make them out.

  Should have gotten closer.

  There hadn't been time, not if she wanted to observe from the most strategic point. And she did want to observe, especially the girl—a little older than Kessa and someone she understood. The girl had been afraid when the entered the temple; she cared what happened to her. And still she came, which implied a reason. But what sort of folk sought out Daycia, even knew she existed?

  Possibly the kind that Kessa desperately needed.

  It was forbidden, but in this one thing Kessa was quite prepared to disobey Daycia if the chance came; all that remained was to find out if that chance had come. Kessa quietly backed away into the broken places of the temple that seemed made for a small, slim girl to travel.

  *

  At the evening meal Daycia carefully controlled what conversation there was, asking about Musa and the state of Ly Ossia and rumors of the Imperium and dozens of other things that didn't even nick the surface of the questions Joslyn wanted answered. It was soon clear to Joslyn that Daycia wasn't ready to speak of anything important, so she let Ghost carry the burden of empty words and turned her attention on the others.

  Meleay fed her child from a bowl of mashed pease, wiping its chin when it spat, which it did constantly. Making a mental note to geld the next man who so much as smiled at her, Joslyn remembered she'd need her knife for that.

  Tolas ate as he did everything else—silently. He seemed to be having a little trouble; he ate with an exaggerated motion of his jaws, almost like a dog throwing the food back into its throat. He was aware of Joslyn looking at him. After a moment he set the bowl aside, his face impassive.

  "Tolas, may I have my knife back? It was a gift from a friend and I'd hate to lose it."

  The young man glanced at Daycia, shrugged and produced it, apparently from thin air. He handed it to Joslyn with a little nod of his head, then resumed his meal.

  "Thank you," Joslyn said.

  Tolas ignored her, washing his food down with a gulp of weak red wine. Joslyn was getting a little irritated with his silence; it was almost like Ghost's, a call for reminder that there were other people in the world. "Talkative sort, aren't you?"

  Meleay held a cup as the child slurped happily. "Now she's done it, hasn't she, precious?"

  Joslyn was almost as stunned by the madwoman's words as what happened next. Tolas grinned and slowly opened his mouth in a huge yawn. Joslyn saw all the way to the back of his throat, where the blackened root of his tongue quivered impotently. Joslyn almost looked away. Almost. She waited until Tolas closed his mouth again. "I'm sorry; I had no way to know. But you've shown me the fool, and I hope that's payment enough."

  Tolas smiled then, a little smile of regret and apology, eloquent without words. He finished his meal and set about clearing away the bowls and cups. Meleay took over before he was finished, the babe riding in a sling on her hip.

  Daycia called Tolas over and whispered something, then announced, "I know you're both tired. Tolas will show you where you'll be sleeping."

  They followed the mute pickpocket up the staircase, turned into the first door and out again into anot
her large open space. There were several curtained alcoves at the rear of this room, with large marble basins for bathing. Tolas indicated shelves containing towels and fresh linen, then continued down another corridor. Joslyn looked back wistfully at the bath, the grime of the past few days weighing heavily on her skin. She wasn't one reared with scented baths and running water, but in the Temple at Ly Ossia she'd come to appreciate both.

  "Quite elaborate for a ruin," Ghost observed.

  The same thing had occurred to Joslyn, and she was certain they had not seen all the folk at Daycia's command. She resolved to ask no questions but keep her eyes and ears open.

  Tolas brought them to the end of the corridor at a place where the walls were broken. Joslyn could see nothing through the gaps in the masonry, though a draft told her it must eventually open to the outside.

  This place is like a rat-warren, Joslyn thought.

  The corridor ended at three doorways. Two were intact; the third had collapsed leaving large chunks of the lintel on the floor. The others opened onto two large rooms complete with table and chairs, one full oil lamp each, candles, and soft-looking beds.

  "No doubt they've had guests before," Ghost said.

  Something was bothering Joslyn, and when Ghost spoke she realized what it was. They had been speaking in front of Tolas as if he were deaf as well as mute. If he had taken offence, he gave no sign, but Joslyn could imagine what it must be like for him. People tend to forget you exist unless you remind them occasionally. Joslyn wondered how Tolas reminded Daycia and the rest; thinking back to the meal, she could see that Daycia had been every bit as guilty.

  Tolas indicated the two rooms with a broad sweep of his arm, gave a little bow, and left them there.

  Ghost studied their surroundings with something like appreciation. "Well done," he said.

  "If you mean the beds, I agree."

  Ghost frowned. "I was referring to our placement here. Close enough for easy access—both ways—and yet somewhat isolated from the other folk in case... well, in case some action is needed."

  "You mean our deaths?"

  Ghost nodded solemnly. "I'm sure the thought's crossed Daycia's mind. We could become a nuisance to her, and she hasn't survived this viper's nest without crushing a few heads. In any event I don't think we should stay too long."

  "Then where will we go?"

  "I have no idea. Rest tonight, keep your Nightsoul in check as before. The Temple will not be able to search so thoroughly here, but they'll try. Tomorrow we need to talk about starting our own search."

  "For your Nightsoul? About time—I don't know how much more of this I can stand."

  Ghost let out a long gusting sigh. "Me either. I think... I think I'll go to bed now."

  Joslyn glanced back down the corridor. "I'm having a bath," she announced, "and if Gahon the Destroyer himself dares disturb me he damn well better be fetching a towel."

  *

  When the Nightsoul Joslyn awoke on the stage, there was something missing. Habit kept her close to the physical location of the dreamer who was so impertinent as to use her name and so imperious as to attach a gleaming shackle of will to the Nightsoul, a shackle that kept her from roaming the nightstage as was her right.

  I feel different.

  It didn't take her long to figure out what the difference was—no shackle. Nothing at all.

  That was careless of her, wasn't it?

  Served the Daysoul right, sybaritic creature that she was—clean for the first time in days, wallowing in that soft bed. Sleep crept up to join the little fool there and sweep her away like that pretty oaf who had loved her...

  Joslyn-asleep groaned softly and stirred. Joslyn-awake on the stage shivered, quieted her thoughts, and waited for the other's sleep to strengthen again.

  Mustn't think of HIM again. It upsets her so...

  Not that Joslyn was adverse to upsetting the Daysoul a little. It was meager enough payment for keeping her bound for so long. It wasn't as if the danger was so great; all she had to do was be careful, stay out of the dreams, keep to the grey nothing between one sleeping mind and the next.

  Joslyn stepped back into the mist.

  *

  Kessa found the one called Joslyn in the baths. She hid in an alcove and watched while Joslyn scrubbed herself with single-minded intensity, almost like a priestess purifying herself for some secret rite. After awhile her soapy attack lost some of its fury, and her pale flesh showed itself in reddish streaks to mark the battle. Joslyn sat back slowly in the basin and let out one sigh of pure contentment.

  She's not so pretty...

  Not to Kessa, anyway. With her dark hair limp against her skull and her body rubbed raw by the sponge, Joslyn looked a little like a drowned rat. Kessa fixed on the image and almost laughed. It wasn't fear of discovery that kept her silent, it was a thought of Tolas. If he could see Joslyn now, Kessa didn't think he would see a drowned rat, damn him. At sixteen, Kessa was quite sure she had gotten to the heart of the matter of men, simple creatures that they were. Until now Kessa had only fixed hope on Joslyn; now there came the vague stirrings of a threat, like a hidden seed pushing through the earth.

  Kessa kept very still while Joslyn soaked, waited while she toweled herself dry, and then quietly followed when Joslyn returned to her room. She waited outside the door, patiently sitting with her back to the wall until the light beneath the door disappeared. The lock on the door was kept well oiled; it made scarcely a sound when Kessa tricked it open.

  Again, patient and completely still, she waited until her eyes adjusted to darkness. Joslyn was a pale shadow on the bed, her chest rising and falling slowly. Kessa had seen the weariness on her face and knew her sleep wasn't feigned. She slowly lowered herself into the cushioned chair, her legs stretched out before her.

  In a little while she, too, was deeply asleep.

  *

  Be careful, keep to the mists... Joslyn had intended to do just that. But she wasn't long on the stage before all her good intentions failed her. The dreams of the Darsans were different; that was clear from the first one she encountered. In Ly Ossia there was little to tell one dream from another from the outside. First there was the glow, as the imagination of the dreamer marked off the bounds of the play, the shimmer and sifting as a mini-world came into being at the sleeper's whim.

  In Darsa, there was not so much a building of worlds as a building of walls. There was no wide space as the dreamer's imagery took command, no bright colors, not even the harsh blacks and whites and sharp contrasts of the nightmare dreamers. Here every dream was pulled in tight, inconspicuous, miserly in scope and image.

  The mystery was just too attractive. She paused at the next dream she came to and, after a moment's hesitation to tell herself that this was a bad idea, slipped inside.

  Poor bastard.

  Joslyn felt a twinge of sympathy, for the first dreamer was trapped in a circle dream. It keyed on an incident of the day—the initial image was too strong compared with the vagueness of all other details for it to be otherwise. The dreamer found himself in a strange section of the city, lost, perhaps, or on unavoidable business. Joslyn felt the menace surrounding him as his fear took control of the play. First he was lost, wandering forever in a maze of half-ruined buildings with human vultures waiting in every shadowed doorway. Then the mist took the stage, and when the curtain parted again, the dreamer was back at the start. Only this time, every stranger watched the dreamer with glowing eyes, then fell silently in step behind him. The dreamer quickened his pace, but there was no escape as the followers grew to a crowd, then a mob, then a vast horde, ant-like and blindly following.

  Joslyn was tempted to intervene, but the unease that filled the dream was affecting her, too. She thought of the danger. She withdrew.

  I wonder what else I'll find.

  More of the same. It was if the ruin and decay of the city was a reflection of the Darsans themselves. Joslyn found little of the variety of dream mood that was so normal in Ly O
ssia; every dream she encountered was like a cloud of bad emotion: fear, despair, hopelessness. Joslyn didn't understand; even for people whose lives were dominated by such things, dream was a refuge, a chance to know, if only for a little while, what another life might be like.

  In Darsa, it seemed, there was nowhere to run.

  It can't all be like this!

  Joslyn abandoned her casual study of the Darsan nightstage; now she moved with intense purpose, flitting toward the were-lights of dream, sampling, identifying, moving on to the next. Joslyn was thinking of giving up when a play in the distance caught her attention.

  It was not like the other dreams; it had none of their meanness and stunted potential. Its boundaries were wide, sprawling, and generous. There was no muting of its inner light, unlike the others that more resembled thieves' lanterns than true dreams.

  Joslyn crept to the edge of this stage slowly, almost afraid that something might frighten it away. She poked her face through the first curtain, senses heightened by expectation and a feeling of danger.

  Not like the others.

  Joslyn liked the way this dream felt; the aura of gloom and despair that smothered the life out all the others was missing here. She stood at the border, hidden, and looked out over the stage.

  It was the Southern Ocean. The dreamer's vision of it was vivid and, to a girl still not used to the sight, magnificent. Joslyn saw the turquoise green water near shore suddenly change to a deep blue farther out, and beyond that nothing but depth and hazy distance stretching south, east, and west until she could see the curve of the earth.

  If I dreamed again... could I dream like this?

  It seemed impossible: sand so white, vastness so immeasurable. The vision made Joslyn feel small and fragile. She enjoyed the sight, but she did not like the emotion at all.

  Joslyn felt a powerful temptation to enter the dream totally, to feel the warm sand beneath her feet, the glow of sun on her skin, the cool caress of the sea. Caution won out. Barely.