A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

  Where's the dreamer?

  She came out of the haze to the east, walking along the water's edge. She was taller than Joslyn and wore a short tunic of dark cloth. Her arms and legs were bare to the sun and had long since deepened to brown. She moved with an unhurried, natural grace that made Joslyn think of the telbok out on the grass sea.

  She's beautiful, Joslyn decided. She wasn't certain at first—it wouldn't be the first time a dreamer's image and the reality didn't match. Joslyn remembered the man and the snake-woman and smiled slightly. But this time there was no deception, no masking by the dream-mirror. Joslyn saw a faint puckered scar by the woman's right knee, just the sort made by a childhood fall. There were other signs: a small mole at the corner of her mouth, a birthmark on her arm. She was not perfect, not unmarked by life and reality, but still lovely.

  The woman walked slowly along the waterline, and from time to time, she smiled. Sometimes at a pretty shell, or a sandpiper dodging the surf as if it didn't want to wet its feet, sometimes at nothing at all. Joslyn felt better watching her, knowing that such a dream could exist in Darsa.

  Joslyn wanted to speak to the woman; there were questions she had, and if the woman thought her just another player in the dream, then the dream would not be disturbed. Joslyn had taken her first step inside before she saw the acolyte.

  He sat on a large, flat rock further up the beach. What little of his face Joslyn could see told her that he was young, almost unformed by time. Joslyn couldn't see his eyes, and she wondered if they had the light of madness in them. His voice certainly did. When he spoke Joslyn thought of something twisted and sick.

  "You're being beautiful on a summer's day," he said. "That's a bad thing."

  The woman stopped a few feet from the rock. "I don't understand."

  "It isn't necessary that you understand," the boy said, "only that I do."

  He reached into his robe and pulled out a rusty knife. Joslyn swore, softly, though more in disappointment than shock. The dream was going sour, and after searching so long to find one that didn't start that way it was doubly frustrating. Joslyn braced herself for the change in the dream's dominant emotion. She waited while the robed lunatic chased the woman onto the sand dunes. She waited while he struck her with the pommel of his weapon and sent her dazed and bleeding to the sand.

  I don't feel the nightmare...

  The boy's smile was pure serenity. "There's an art to it," he said, making his first cut. "A beginner might make the mistake of using a sharp blade, and clean scars have a symmetry of form in and of themselves. Defeats the whole purpose..."

  The shock of pain brought the woman around. She screamed once, and the boy methodically clubbed her senseless again and went on with his work. There was still no change, no sudden wave of fear that was nightmare's herald. Joslyn finally understood why.

  It's not her dream. It's his!

  Joslyn cursed herself for a fool. Of course the dream's imagery was powerful! A lunatic's vision could not be otherwise. Joslyn remembered her first encounter with such a one clearly, but more than that, she remembered the way it had felt, the sickness that affected everything the dream touched.

  That feeling was absent in this dream, despite the horror. What the boy was doing was madness, but he didn't feel it and neither did Joslyn.

  If he's not insane, then I am. Shall I test it?

  Joslyn drew back just enough for caution and began the change. First, she restored the woman's face. The dripping blood and ragged gashes vanished. Joslyn resisted the urge to improve on nature; it wasn't necessary. The boy drew back as if slapped, and Joslyn risked a little more direct interference—she caused the hood to fall and looked on the dreamer's face.

  Sixteen at best, thought Joslyn, disgusted. So young to be so warped.

  That was the word—warped. There was anger in the boy's blue eyes, a touch of bewilderment, and something else, a touch of... hurt? She wasn't sure. She did know that he wasn't insane, at least not in any sense she understood. The Dark Sea was waiting for him; Joslyn could almost hear it flowing beneath the fabric of this dream. He hadn't crossed the line yet, hadn't tried to turn the play of this dream into a waking reality. And perhaps he wouldn't, if Joslyn could just reach him in time.

  The boy touched the woman's face, hesitantly traced the smooth line of her jaw. "You are strong, Somna. Malitus is stronger."

  Does he really think he's a stronger dreamer than Somna?!

  This was making less and less sense. Everything he said, everything he did smacked on the Dark Sea and madness. But there was no rage, no chaos emotions in the play. Unless he was hiding them even from himself, burying them so deep that his dreams could catch them only as cold reflections? Joslyn decided to find out.

  The boy touched his knife to the woman's skin once more, and Joslyn took it away from him. A second's confusion, a second's distortion of the dream that quickly passed. The knife reappeared in his hand.

  Quick lad, Joslyn thought, Let's see how quick.

  She took the knife away from him again, and before he could adjust, she took his victim. The woman suddenly woke and shoved the boy backward. He flailed his arms frantically and landed hard on his rump. The woman stood and sprouted butterfly wings, blew the boy a kiss and rose from the beach in an explosion of biting sand.

  He blinked tears from his eyes as the lovely butterfly-woman flew away with lazy beats of her wings. When she was gone he covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly. "Malitus, forgive me. I failed you..."

  His bloody god.

  There was one of the curtains lifted. Not madness—piety. All other emotions smothered until now, when failure breached his tower of faith. Joslyn finally felt the dream emotion change, the despair flow outward like smoke until the stage was filled with it. Here was his nightmare, summoned when ritual mutilation was thwarted. The boy was warped, yes, but by something larger and stronger than himself.

  The tears were just the beginning. Frustration quickly turned to rage, and the boy lay flat on the beach, thrusting his knife into the beach again and again as if—if he only tried hard enough—he could disfigure the world.

  Who is this "Malitus?" A god who hates women?

  It wasn't far-fetched. Joslyn knew more than one man who followed such a creed and didn't need religion to justify it. But Joslyn didn't think it was as simple as that—the boy attacked the beach with as much enthusiasm as he'd shown the woman.

  Or a god who hates everything...

  Hatred, but not blind hatred. There had been too much method in the mutilation, too much made of beauty destroyed. And the beach, too, was beautiful.

  "Look."

  Joslyn didn't know what she was going to do until it was done. Her voice carried over he dream; she kept out of sight but still he heard her.

  He looked up. "Who's there?"

  "Look!"

  Joslyn's voice came from the sea. He looked out, eyes searching the horizon. Joslyn waited till his full attention was on he sea, and then she worked one final, devastating change—she forced him to see, really see what lay in front of him: the white sand, the vast, always moving, never changing ocean. He saw his place in it all as Joslyn saw her own—incredibly small, infinitely powerless.

  Joslyn drilled the thought into his brain like an executioner driving the last nail. IT IS AS IT IS. AND NOTHING YOU CAN DO WILL MAKE THE SLIGHTEST DIFFERENCE.

  There was a warning of sorts—the dreamer screamed. Joslyn barely got clear before the dream burst into a thousand glowing shards of thought and mind. For an instant there was a spot of absolute blackness where the dream had been, and Joslyn felt the closeness of the Dark Sea, knew what she had barely avoided. Knew, too, that the boy had not been so fortunate.

  If he wasn't insane before, he is now.

  The mist of the nightstage finally covered the darkness, healing itself. Joslyn looked around. Except for the flicker of distant dreams, she was alone. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks to Somna, realizing how careless she ha
d been. If there had been a Temple Dreamer anywhere near... Joslyn cursed herself for that, and for what she had done to the fanatical youth. Already close to drowning, and she had handed him a stone.

  I've seen enough.

  Joslyn traced her way back to where she had started, back to the place where the Daysoul was waiting to take control again. Tonight she felt no hesitation, no regret. This dreamstage was like... she groped for a word that fit and came up with a memory instead.

  The Keepinghouse!

  It was a test. That's what the Dream Master had told her, back when she was training for the Temple. He set the stage, told her where to go. Joslyn found herself touring the dreams of the mad, and equal parts luck and natural skill were the only things that kept her from joining the stinking horde in that place where madness was kept.

  I WOULDN'T DARE TEST THE OTHERS SO...

  Joslyn's memory brought back the old familiar anger. How like the Dream Master, to risk destroying Joslyn just to test her strength. One day, my old Master, I'll show you just how strong I can be --

  She stopped. There was something wrong as she returned to the source, something different.

  Somna help me. A dreamer.

  How could that be? The Daysoul was near; Joslyn could feel its impatience to take the reins again and call itself Joslyn for a while. But a dream had taken root almost on top of her. A bright, large dream, rivalling that of the insane youth. And it covered the source like a golden cage.

  They've found me.

  Clear enough, but how? No one had traced her; it was by luck alone, but she was sure of it. And the dreamer—whoever it might be—was in the same room as the sleeper. That meant she was betrayed. Musa has poor taste in friends.

  Images of Daycia dying in various messy ways swirled through Joslyn's mind, but she knew there was no way to make them come true. She was caught clean like a rat in a box; there was no way out except through the stranger's dream, and someone would be waiting for her. But why enter the stage at all? The daysoul was helpless—one quick cut and the fuss would be over. What were they waiting for?

  I can stand here making myself as crazy as I made that poor boy. Or... Joslyn smiled grimly and stepped into the dream.

  The stage was bare except for the slim figure seated in the center of the light. Her hair was uncovered now, but the dark clothes were the same, the face that of their shadow from the market.

  "You're Kessa," Joslyn said.

  The girl smiled. "You're Joslyn," she said, "and I think you're a Temple Dreamer."

  "I don't suppose it would help to deny it," Joslyn sighed, "Did Daycia send you?" She spoke calmly, but all the while her trained senses probed the dream's limits, and she kept her strength and will coiled.

  Kessa shook her head. "She doesn't even know I'm here. I need to speak to you, and I chose to do it here," she swept her arm at the bare stage, "to prove my intent. I'm no threat to you."

  "I don't know that."

  Kessa smiled. "Yes you do, or you're not what I take you to be."

  It was true. Joslyn felt how hard it was for Kessa to maintain the dream as nothing more than a meeting place, noted wavering as Kessa's natural tendency to free-create brought shadow-images into the dream only to fade again. By meeting Joslyn on her own ground, Kessa had placed herself at Joslyn's mercy, and if there was little actual physical danger, Joslyn was sure Kessa didn't know that. "What do you want of me?"

  When Kessa answered there was none of the cold calculation Joslyn had seen in the shadow's eyes. "I need your help."

  Joslyn thought of the dreamer she had made insane. "I've not been much use to anyone lately."

  "Then you won't—"

  The creation took over as Kessa'S concentration snapped. Joslyn moved aside and let the images form around Kessa, saw her pulled into the dream, oblivious, for the moment, of Joslyn or anything else outside the dream. Joslyn watched Kessa's fears and hopes play out their parts like any Temple Dreamer giving augury. Joslyn saw the dream with her trained sight, saw some of the devils that commanded Kessa, but most of all she saw Tolas as Kessa saw him. And that part of the Nightsoul that shared its name with the Joslyn asleep in the ruins remembered what it was like to look at someone like that.

  Joslyn stepped into the dream and pulled Kessa clear of the play. In a moment the images faded and left them alone.

  Kessa looked confused. "What happened?"

  Joslyn sighed. "Oh, nothing... Time to go, Kessa. We need to talk."

  With her arm around the girl's shoulders, Joslyn led Kessa from the stage.

  Chapter 10—A Holy Storm

  Kessa woke first. Joslyn seemed to be having trouble—she groaned once or twice and threw off the covers in what seemed more a wrestling match than an awakening. Kessa kept her distance, and finally Joslyn's eyes opened.

  "Good morning," Kessa said.

  There was no recognition in Joslyn's eyes at first. "Who—oh, I remember now. No wonder your dream covered me. What gave me away?"

  Kessa shrugged. "You know Musa. She moves in more than one circle, but dreamcraft is the largest. I took a chance."

  Joslyn sat on the edge of the bed, massaging her forehead. "Would you tell me which of Musa's circles Daycia fits best?"

  Kessa shrugged. "Business associate, relative... Daycia knows a lot of people."

  "No doubt, though I don't think she supports this happy family selling cloth." There was a question in Joslyn's eyes that Kessa chose not to answer. Joslyn finally smiled. "So be it. Everyone has their secrets and Daycia's welcome to hers. Yours hasn't kept so well—it's Tolas, isn't it?"

  Kessa looked for any sign of amusement or condescension, found none. "How did you know?"

  "You dreamed. Tolas was quite prominent."

  Damn. This wasn't going as Kessa had planned. One mistake and she'd already given away a part of her soul to this stranger's mercy. She thought of the realm of dreams and what such a one as Joslyn could do there. It seemed more power than anyone should have over another. Kessa was surprised to discover that she was more than a little afraid of Joslyn, but there was no turning back now—she's already spent more than she'd intended. "All right," she said, "It is Tolas. He's... my friend. And he's in pain. I think you saw that in the meal hall. I want to help him..." Joslyn was smiling at her. "Is there something amusing in that?"

  "Certainly not—friends should help friends. But what do you want me to do?"

  Kessa took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I want you to enter his dreams, find out what's troubling him... damn you, stop laughing!"

  Joslyn raised a hand in apology. "I'm sorry, Kessa, but you're either a fool or think I am. It's all too clear what's troubling Tolas, and clearer still that you want more from him than friendship. I make no judgment on that or what you plan to do about it, but by the Dreamer tell me the truth or there's little hope for anything we do for him."

  Kessa was halfway out of the chair before Joslyn's words sank in. "You mean you will help me?"

  Joslyn nodded. "As far as I am able."

  Kessa's gaze narrowed. "Why, Joslyn? What do you want?"

  "What had you planned to give me?"

  Kessa shrugged. "I hadn't thought... all right—another lie. Anything I have, Joslyn. Ask and it's yours." Done. She'd said it and meant it. She was again a little surprised at the lack of calculation in Joslyn's eyes.

  "All I want from you is a favor," Joslyn said. "You know Darsa; I don't. I want you to show it to me."

  Kessa was stunned. "Darsa? You don't need to see the rest. It's all like the market and the streets you crossed to get here! Except where it's worse."

  Joslyn smiled. "Humor me."

  Kessa shrugged. "It'll be risky. Aren't the Watchers looking for you?"

  "No, they're looking for a young woman in the company of an older man. Two women don't fit their orders. Besides, Watchers are the least of my worries. Is it a deal?"

  "All right, though I hope you have a good reason."

  Joslyn grinned ru
efully. "So do I."

  *

  The builders of the Temple of Malitus were faced with very special problems. First, it had to be functional, capable of housing over a hundred Brothers of the Ending, with rooms for admonition, punishment, non-punishment, waiting, working, sleeping, cooking, and eliminating. Second, despite all this efficiency of form and purpose, it could not contribute positively in any way to Somna's dream. The entrance was square and severe, with iron-bound doors and rusting bolts. Rooms piled upon rooms at unnatural, difficult, and disturbing angles. The garderobes and attendant smells were located cheek by jowl with the kitchens.

  It was a masterpiece, but contained one small flaw—one of the brotherhood had been a mason, back when such things as earning a living, marriage, and children had meant something to him. Perhaps it was only force of habit that made him plane the lintel smooth, but it had been impossible to correct it totally, to put in enough imperfections to glorify the God of Ending properly. Perhaps the man had been innocent of all intent, but Malitus was not pleased—the Master, the Echo of Malitus's Voice, had said as much. So the brother had been lovingly whipped to death in the marketplace while the Watchers watched somewhere else.

  Brother Jerdan was at one with his surroundings—a face not handsome at the best of times, not improved by his habitual scowl. The day was warm, and his cowl was pulled back to show a wealth of coarse gray hair, eyebrows darker but not so thick, like two dried caterpillars. He paused at the lintel as was his custom, made a cursory motion to trace the Sigil of the Whip, and hurried through.

  He passed the Admonishing Room with barely a glance at the two novices being reduced to pathetic, sobbing wrecks. Two Brothers stepped aside from the door to the acolyte's barracks; another held the curtain aside for him to pass. Jerdan found Brother Ligen, the Novice Advisor, on his knees beside an acolyte's rough pallet. The boy on the pallet was bound hand and foot. His face was pale and twisted, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl like a dog run over by a cart and left to die in the street. His eyes were bright, but there was no reason in them.