No good. Tolas sheathed his knife, looking disgusted. He stepped to the near wall and leaned against it, arms crossed, frowning at the both of them as the older man leaned close.
"If you're not going to kill me," Phian said, "please go away."
The man just smiled, and the weariness in his eyes was a mirror-image of Phian's own. "Friend," he said, "how long since you lost your Nightsoul?"
*
"Sestoc is the last day of the week, by the Imperial calendar. The last of anything is sacred to the Enders."
Joslyn watched the black-robed acolytes put the finishing touches on the scaffold. It was of rough wood, set in the middle of the marketplace and carefully ignored by the patrons and merchants there. Joslyn saw several of them sneak furtive glances at the activity, muttering, but none packed their goods to leave. Joslyn asked Kessa about that.
"Maybe they did leave, in the beginning," Kessa mused. "I think they're used to it now. Like so much in Darsa."
Joslyn wasn't as certain. Whatever was about to happen, the folk in the market didn't seem too happy about it. Joslyn could almost taste their resentment, pulled in tight and close like...
Like the shell of their dreams. Here or the Nightstage, it's all one to them. No escape. No respite.
Up until that moment Joslyn had wondered why the Darsans had never rebuilt their city. According to Kessa, the Emperor's orders not to rebuild only extended to the walls, and even with the loss of the Temple, they were still the largest port on the Southern Sea. Joslyn understood, a little. She stopped wondering.
"Almost time for the show," Kessa said. "Come on."
They found a vantage point at the top of a huge column cloaked with thick old vines of ivy. On the top plate, all that remained of the statue that once rested there was an exquisite marble foot. Joslyn looked down at the rubble nearby and found the rest: a cracked torso and breast, one slender hand. They were sitting on what had once been a tribute to the Dreamer, now broken and forgotten.
Small wonder. If there's any part of the Dream Somna no longer smiles on, Darsa is it.
Kessa touched her shoulder. "Look there."
Joslyn looked, but she heard it first—a slow measured beat on a hide drum. Then the first shrieking trumpet, like a cry of pain. Again the beat, and the marchers came into sight around a bend in the ruins. They came by twos—first the black-robed acolytes, then the priest with brown robes and blood-red sashes. Their marching rhythm was no rhythm at all, an asynchronous step that made an art of never once matching the beat of the drum. Some carried small, shrill trumpets, others tabors, their staccato beat also at odds with the booming drum. There was no song, no unity, no harmony. There was only the ghastly noise.
"As hymns go," Joslyn said, drily, "I've heard better."
"A burning rat makes a more pleasing melody," Kessa snapped, "but as a bloody unsettling racket—which is what it's supposed to be—it has few equals. Now watch, and you'll understand as much about the Enders as you need to... Ah, the Honored One himself."
He came surrounded by an escort of acolytes bearing crudely forged, long, curved knives. Unlike the others, he wore a robe of thin white muslin belted with rope. Even at that distance Joslyn could see the ritual scars hacked into his face. "Who is he?"
"Today he is the actual Voice of the Dream, an offering to the God Malitus himself."
Joslyn shook her head. "The Emperor has forbidden human sacrifice!"
"He's also forbidden interference with the religious customs of the conquered. Quite a headache for the Watchers, when you think about it.... Oh, don't worry, they're not going to kill him. That would spoil everything. Now be still and watch."
Joslyn watched as they led the man to the scaffold where two rough beams had been arranged in an "X". Solemn priests removed the man's one garment.
Joslyn wasn't ready for what she saw. Damn...
The scars on the man's face barely hinted at what lay beneath the robe. Pale, puckered scars crossed and recrossed his chest and legs until his skin looked like wicker-work. He smiled serenely and stretched out his arms and legs for the acolytes to bind him to the frame.
"You'd think he was being led to paradise," Kessa muttered.
One of the priests stood at the far end of the scaffold platform while the rest of the noisy throng clambered to the ground. There was nothing like discipline among them; they talked, they laughed, they clapped hands in disjointed rhythm. The priest on the scaffold drew a coiled whip from his sash snapped it at the worshippers to limber his arm. They didn't bother to dodge; one went so far as to turn his face up to meet the lash as if accepting a sacrament. Joslyn saw the whipman smile benignly and take aim. The next instant the acolyte staggered back, blood welling in the gash in his cheek. The worshippers sighed as one breath and shouted in an ecstasy of joy. Joslyn felt a little sick.
The priest grinned, turned suddenly and struck at the sacrifice. A new welt blossomed on the man's chest, and he howled. The next strike was across his thighs and then again his chest. The last one reopened an old wound, and blood began to ooze along the line of the scar. The man's howls turned to shrieks, and all the while, except perhaps when the lash had just struck his skin, the smile never left his face.
Kessa hugged her knees, her face grim. "Sing, Malitus. We hear you."
Joslyn put her hand on Kessa's shoulder. "Why is he being punished?"
"He's not being punished—we are. He's bellowing his pain for us to hear."
Joslyn winced. "We can't help but hear. But why does it matter that we should?"
Kessa smiled at her. "You still don't understand, do you?"
"No. If you know what this is about I'd appreciate an answer."
"It's simple enough—the followers of Malitus believe that Somna's Dream is hopelessly corrupt and must be ended. So anything they can do to hasten her awakening is a holy sacrament in their eyes. They like pain especially."
"That's madness!"
"That's their religion. By their view they have everything to gain, since they believe those who work to end this world will be reborn as some sort of 'ruling elite' in the next."
"That doesn't explain this!"
"As I said—he's sending his pain into the world. As if there wasn't enough already, they came here today to make a little more and sicken the Dream that much more and push Somna that much closer to the Day of Awakening."
Joslyn looked at the sacrifice's gleeful agony. "Let's go back," she said.
Kessa laughed and reached for the nearest vine. "Welcome to Darsa."
*
Ruins covered the island of Memnyre, gleaming white in the sun like the scavenged bones of a lion's feast. That was the sign the priest of Malitus had given Crucian—that and steer south by the Bow Star. He tacked against a slight headwind, then dropped his boomline and let his small craft glide the last few feet to bump against the stone pier. There was no one there to greet the old fisherman; he expected no one. Crucian carefully removed all his supplies from the boat, finally taking the sail itself. Then he took the biggest stone he could lift, smashed the planking of his boat, and made himself watch it sink.
I will never leave this place.
If Crucian ever needed a reminder of that in what time he had left, then here it lay in three fathoms of water. Great undertakings required care, preparation, and commitment. Crucian knew he had the first two; here was proof of the third.
He found a grove of trees with a small freshwater spring on a hilltop close to one of the greater ruins. Crucian made a tent of the sailcloth and arranged his camp the best way he knew. The sun was an hour past setting when he was done and the old man was weary past belief, but, before he allowed himself sleep Crucian made his way to the nearest tumble of white marble and limestone and chose one perfect stone. He carried it halfway back to the campsite to a place where the grassy slope leveled for a moment, and there he began to build his altar.
God of Endings, see the first step that brings the last. May it speed your work.<
br />
The short prayer was all he had strength for. He crawled into his tent and waited impatiently for sleep.
*
Crucian dreamed of the day, two years before, that he did not visit his wife's grave. Instead, he left his boat and his nets unattended and returned to Darsa. He walked through the streets of the city looking for what he did not remember and could not name. Near nightfall he found himself sitting on a stone outside the west gate watching the color changes in the sunset.
"Friend, you look troubled."
The man was dressed as a priest; Crucian had seen that style of robe before. "You're an Ender."
The priest nodded, pleasantly. He was a little younger than Crucian, but not by much. His hair still had a touch of black remaining. Crucian patted the slim knife at his belt and the priest smiled at him. "You've heard of us. It's true—we do kill now and again when it serves our purpose," he admitted. "but we never lie, and I say I mean you no harm."
"What do you want?"
The priest shrugged. "I want what all Enders want. An end to Somna's dream, this corrupt nightmare that is the world. Now, friend: what do you want?"
"I don't know. Rest, perhaps."
"Perhaps we can find out together. I'm called Tyen. What is your name?"
Crucian started to say 'Crucian,' but stopped himself. That had not been his name, then. Crucian was the name the Enders gave him when he joined their sect the very next day. He tried to think of his other name, his first name, but the Initiation had taken it from him. One less tie to the goddess Somna's dream that was the corrupt, wicked world. One less shackle to stop him from doing what he needed to do.
One less dream.
Crucian knew he was dreaming, and the shock ended it. He came awake, stiff and sore on his blanket on the ground. As his eyes opened he got one blurry glimpse of a small, slim figure running through the trees. It disappeared in the morning mist.
Aversa!
At least one of the demons still lived. Skulking close; spying on his dreams. The priests of Malitus, God of Endings, were right once more. Crucian hurried to rise and get back to the great work.
Chapter 11—Another Ghost
When Joslyn knocked on Ghost's door at the appointed hour there was no answer. She knocked again and then tried the door. It wasn't locked; she found Ghost sitting in the room's one chair, staring at nothing.
"I'm here," Joslyn said.
Ghost smiled wanly. "I love the way you say that—'I'm here.' No hesitation, no uncertainty, no dwelling on any other possibility. As I must, and that is my certainty. I envy you yours."
Joslyn saw the pitcher of wine on the table, the cup in his hands. "Feeling sorry for yourself is something of an achievement for you," she said, holding up the pitcher. "Is this the magic draught that made it possible?"
Ghost examined the dregs in his cup. "No... the self-pity I managed on my own. All this seems to do is magnify distance. Take the door for instance—when you knocked just now it seemed entirely too far away."
Joslyn took the pitcher and poured a cup for herself. "I went into the city today."
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
She glared at him. "No, I did not. If only you'd seen what I've seen!"
Ghost took the pitcher back. "I have."
Joslyn stared at him briefly, shook her head. "I should be surprised. I'm not. You followed us?"
"Tolas and I. I wanted to see what you were up to. Never did figure that part out."
"I found a sickness in Darsa's Nightstage. I wanted to see if it extended into the waking world."
"How could it not? There's nothing in dream that we... I mean you, don't bring there—one night glorious visions, the next a fever dream."
"All of Darsa is a fever dream, waking and sleeping. And I never expected the Enders."
"I'd heard rumors, though I didn't connect them to that shrine we found. Rather interesting religion."
Joslyn spat. "It's a disease!"
Ghost smiled. "Perhaps, but the concept is almost elegant—all our self-destructive and violent urges given justification, even sanctity. A certain kind of person will always respond."
"I met one today."
Ghost grunted. It was almost a chuckle. "If you mean Phian, you're mistaken."
"He wants to die!"
"He says he does. Unlike an Ender, who says he wants the rest of us to die and leave him in peace. I suspect their own oblivion is at the heart of their desire. I don't know the heart of Phian's desire."
"You spoke to him? What I heard didn't make a lot of sense."
Ghost took a long drink. "It made perfect sense. Unfortunately."
Joslyn put her cup on the table and sat down hard on Ghost's bed, putting her head in her hands. "I've had quite enough of 'circle question' for one day, thanks to Kessa. If you know what's wrong with that lunatic, say so!"
"He's not a lunatic. He's a ghost."
Joslyn's hands fell to her sides. "Oh dear."
Ghost sighed. "Indeed."
Joslyn groped for her cup and emptied it a little too quickly. She went through a fit of coughing, but when she recovered a little color had returned to her cheeks. "Are you sure?"
"Now who's starting the circle? Yes, Joslyn, I'm sure. I had thought I was the only one. Not knowing how or why it happened in the first place, that was rather presumptuous of me."
"How long..." Joslyn almost bit her tongue.
Ghost did laugh this time. "So that occurred to you, too? The answer is: Phian's been without a Nightsoul longer than I have. I'd hoped that wasn't the case, that I was just stronger... no. As Phian is, so shall I be. In time."
Joslyn stood up. "Then time is something we shouldn't be wasting. We need to begin the search, and now wouldn't be too soon."
"I agree. I just wish I knew how."
*
The dreaming city wasn't much of a beacon—the glow was weak, like a dying fire-beetle. Alyssa flitted closer, found the first feeble mist-plays, examined them, moved on. What she sought would be clear enough when she found it, probably not before.
Joslyn?
She didn't expect an answer, though there was a time when she had a right to. That was all changed. Only the search mattered now, that and what might come of it.
I will find you, Joslyn. I have to.
*
Silly, trusting fool!
Joslyn woke on the Nightstage in fine fury, and fool was the least of the epithets she turned on that other Joslyn now tucked away snug and warm in her bed. Ghost didn't even know where to begin! Granted, since the Nightsoul hadn't returned, it wasn't likely he'd know what happened to it, but surely he knew where to look, how to look --
Of course. He thought I knew.
So simple. In the augury, dear, dumb, Daysoul Joslyn had let it slip about the wall, something she wouldn't even have admitted knowing about except for the Nightseed. And now that particular harsh truth was rattling the bars in its cage once again, locked securely away. If she'd thought of the search at all, it was only to remind herself that Ghost would know what to do, could show her the way he took beyond the wall. But however Ghost's Nightsoul had breached the wall, it was the first and last time. If there was another way, a path besides the one Joslyn would not take, only Ghost's Nightsoul knew about it, and he wasn't in a position to tell anyone.
Joslyn sat down on the stage and laughed. She laughed until big tears rolled from her eyes and she was weak with laughing. The fit left her lying on the mist, giggling.
"Child, you have the oddest sense of humor I know."
Joslyn sat up, startled, and the scent, sound, and smell of the dream rushed in on her. She was back on the bleak shore, lying on a bed of coarse, hard sand. The harpy with Musa's face perched on a rocky spire, shaking its head and making "tsk, tsk" sounds.
Joslyn covered her face. "Go away."
"Since I'm part of this dream, I can't very well do that. Talk sense, girl."
"Who are you? Musa?"
"Haven't we been
through this before? I am an avatar in your dream, that's what I am. I can't very well be a who at the same time."
Joslyn shook her head. "This isn't my dream."
The harpy shook itself like a hen settling into its roost, rustling iron-grey feathers. "How do you know that?"
Joslyn clenched her fists, and every word came out like a curse. "Because I don't dream!"
"A Temple Dreamer who doesn't dream? Next you'll be telling me about cold fire and stone air. What herbs are you eating these days?"
Joslyn gripped the sand in frustration. It flowed over and under and through her fingers, and left nothing but grit under her fingernails. "Roaming the Nightstage is not the same as dreaming, Musa. You know that."
"A name? My mistress is too kind... Yes, I know that. As the eel is not the same as the perch whose blood it sucks away. Is it a good life, my little lamprey?"
"It's the only one I'm allowed."
"Allows? Who's 'allowing' you?"
Joslyn shrugs. "The Daysoul. The One who Sleeps."
"You mean Joslyn."
"I am Joslyn!"
"And she is Joslyn, too, as much Joslyn as you are. That's a hint, Child. She's also no more Joslyn than you are. You have as much say in this matter."
Joslyn shook her head. "Dyaros is still there, waiting, when I dream. I want to face him... I've tried! But she's stronger than I am; she calls me back, ends the fight before it begins."
The harpy laughed, and sang:
"A better foe could not be found!
Mighty Gol fell to the ground,
And wrestled himself for half a day.
'At last!' he cried, 'a worthy fray!'"
Joslyn flushed red. "Nursery rhymes, Musa?"
"Oh, yes. Sung for the amusement and education of children. And what have you learned today, little girl?"
Joslyn cursed and reached for a stone. Her fingers closed on mist and again came up empty. The dream and the harpy were gone as quickly as they had appeared, leaving Joslyn alone on the barren stage.
"Lucky for you, Musa." She almost sounded as if she meant it.
*
Nothing.
Alyssa left another of the cold, mirthless dreams, the only sort she had been able to find. No dream like that could possibly hold the Joslyn she remembered, and still she continued the search, determined but not hopeful. Time was hard to judge on the Nightstage, but she was sure there wasn't much left. Best to be as certain as possible before the night ended, else the Master would make her return. And she didn't want to do that.
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