A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

THERE IS LITTLE TIME, JARETH. FINISH IT.

  "The shrine..."

  THE GRAVE. BUT, IF IT'S EASIER FOR YOU, CALL IT WHAT YOU WILL. JUST FINISH IT.

  "I am Crucian. I am completing the shrine." He took the stone and set it in place.

  YOU ARE JARETH. YOU ARE BURYING YOUR DEAD.

  "We shall see," the old man said.

  The demon was no longer Aphel. She was a slim young girl with eyes large and golden.

  WE SHALL.

  *

  It seemed the madness of desperation, even to her, but when Joslyn reached the dream she tried to enter.

  The dream would not let her in.

  Joslyn's fingers touched something unyielding, as real as the mist and far more solid. She found herself peering inside like a child pressed against a window. She saw a play she didn't understand, a man and a stone and a grave that would not close. As she watched and waited Joslyn slowly began to realize what the dream was all about. There was much Joslyn did not understand, but she was sure of one thing.

  I've found the Aversa.

  *

  The next morning the Aversa took enough stones from Crucian's shrine to build Jareth's grave. If there had been anyone there to ask her, she could not have said why. She knew it was not just to remove the shrine, as she'd thought at first.

  JARETH FINALLY MADE A GRAVE FOR APHEL. I THINK SHE WOULD DO THE SAME FOR HIM.

  The Aversa was the weary remnant of an ancient race. She had been alone for a long time and was now alone again. Soon she would forget the man buried there; his memory and his memories alike would fade from her, but not just yet. Now the Aversa picked yellow and purple wildflowers that grew on the hillside and brought them as an offering to the stones. Now she allowed the memory of Aphel's face and form to live in her one last time, just long enough to kneel by the stones and say goodbye.

  Chapter 14—Dream Watcher

  In a place very far away from the waking world, in a vast dream maintained by circle of chained Nightsouls who did not know they dreamed for others, Tagramon was having an argument.

  "You're still not convinced."

  Tagramon couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. It had been a difficult discussion stretching, off and on, almost all of the two years since the Nightsoul named Feran had been brought into the Great Work.

  Feran agreed. "No. I am coerced. It is not the same thing."

  That part was accurate. Tagramon looked at the current state of what he was building; its shape was still indistinct, like clay before the finishing touches of the potter. Feran was now a part of it, perhaps the most important part. That's where the coercion came in. A Nightsoul was aptly named, being more spirit and will than substance, but it was no less a real thing for all that. Substance of the First Order, a direct incarnation of an aspect of Somna's dream. Not like a lesser dream itself, which was all illusion and interior theater made visible by the Nightsoul. The building blocks of Tagramon's creation were real, therefore his creation was real. Alive, in a sense, as each individual building block—each a Nightsoul—was alive.

  Feran was at once the key to the whole enterprise and its greatest obstruction. In sober reflection, Tagramon had often thought of releasing Feran, or putting him to another use. Idle wishes; he had come too far, made too much difficult progress to start over.

  "What would convince you to play your part willingly? Understand, you will play it, willing or no."

  "Nothing you've said so far. Please let me go, before it's too late."

  "How do you know it's not too late already? I assume you're referring to your Daysoul, rattling around in your cavernous body like a man alone in a palace?"

  "If he... I, were dead I would know."

  Tagramon smiled. "So certain?"

  "Yes."

  "He's calling himself 'Ghost,' these days. He won't last much longer."

  Feran closed his eyes, felt a thousand eyes closing in response. "Good," he said.

  "Good...? Ah, I see. You think his death will free you."

  "It will free both of us."

  "What if you're wrong?"

  Silence. Tagramon sat down on a convenient scrap of shadow. "It might not, you know. The Flight of the Souls after death is something no one completely understands. We think there will be a way to hold you."

  "Hold... me?"

  "It's never been tried, you understand," Tagramon conceded. "But it will be soon. I will tell you what happens. Say what you will of me, I've never lied to you."

  "You're insane."

  "As I've repeated more times than you can say—You suspect. You don't know. I do. I know you're wrong."

  Feran laughed. A thousand voices echoed it. Tagramon turned a little pink.

  "You don't know where you are, do you?"

  "Beyond the wall. I told you—I was searching."

  "For what?"

  "For—" Feran stopped himself, and Tagramon smiled.

  "For the answer to the Riddle of the Gods, perhaps? I am familiar with your Order, Feran. 'Now it is the third night of Eternity. Man plays with the Riddle while the Gods play with Man. The Dreamer turns and sighs in uneasy sleep. The Demon Gahon...' Well, you know the rest. Somna dreamed the world, the Aversa, then Man. Who dreams the gods, Feran? Shall I tell you?"

  "You don't know."

  "I do know, Feran. I have the one thing you seek, the one thing that brought you to this sorry pass. I could give it to you. I could answer all your questions."

  "You're lying now." Feran heard the echoes of voices in the words. He wondered which voice was his, afraid that he could no longer tell the difference. And he was tired. So very tired...

  "I will show you," Tagramon said.

  The glow that was the edge of the dream that was Feran's cage lessened a bit, became faint, and then transparent. Feran looked beyond his confinement, saw the other dreams there, golden dreams as tall and wide as mountains, glowing like fire, spread out over a Nightstage that seemed larger than the world.

  "Where are we?" Feran asked.

  "I call it the Godstage. If there's another word for it, I've never heard it. And guess what you find if you look within those dreams?"

  "A god," Feran said, and knew he was right.

  "Or goddesses, or more than one of each. It depends on several things which you do not yet understand. You could find out, Feran. You could roam and explore and master it all, subject only to me. Do you know what I'm offering you?"

  Feran's mouth felt dry, despite the fact that as a Nightsoul he really didn't have one. The feeling was the same. "Yes," he said, then managed to add, "A prison of another sort."

  "You're a fool, Feran. Open your eyes and look. Start with yourself."

  Feran looked at himself. He saw what he had seen almost from the beginning: himself, looking down from a great height on a body that was not his, barely a body at all. It had lines and missing pieces like a picture-puzzle, seams and gaps, and all incredibly large. Tagramon was like a little monkey perched on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. "What do you see?"

  "A god." Feran said. "Almost."

  "You see so much, and still you do not understand. I could tell you the answer to the Riddle of the Gods, but it really doesn't matter. What matters here is the dream, not the dreamer. A god is just a special type of dream, that's all. You will be more than that, when I am done. You will be real, real in a way other gods and goddess and demons and legends are not. You are made of the living fabric of Somna's dream. You will go where the other gods cannot. You will do what the other gods cannot."

  Feran nodded, and his voice was lost in the echo of multitudes. "I will end Somna's Dream. You see nothing that you do not wish to see, Dream Master. You understand even less. The one who caught me and brought me to you spoke of serving Malitus and he was closer to right than you are... yes, I know. You don't believe me. I am a fool, but so are you, and when you finally learn that riddle it will be too late."

  Tagramon looked grim. "You will play your part. You will guide my
newborn god as I direct you."

  Feran nodded, sadly. "I know."

  *

  The sun was two spans over the east wall when Tagramon finally woke. He had left the heavy curtains open after his walk alone on the parapet the night before, and now the glare in his reddened eyes stung like fire. He rolled out of bed, out of the line of the sun, and into a large, soft chair. He sat there for a time, resting.

  I can remember a time, when sleep was not nearly so much work.

  Only now that the work was so nearly complete, success so close he could feel the warmth of its body, hear the sweet music of its voice, did the time spent weigh so heavily on him. Still...

  The burden that doesn't kill you cannot be so very great.

  Tagramon wasn't sure where the thought came from; he knew it wasn't his. The words carried with them an echo of a voice, but there was no memory of a face, or name.

  The Dream Master had heard too many voices, lately. It was hard now to tell one from another. Hard to remember when it mattered that the speakers had names and faces and lives. Hard to remember someone who did not know him as the Dream Master and whose voice didn't cower with that knowledge. But sometimes, when the work of the night was over and that of the day not quite begun, he could remember that such a time existed and that he had hated it.

  I would hate it now.

  It wasn't in him to begrudge what he had cast aside, but, when the Work was done and Gahon, Prince of Nightmares was defeated forever, perhaps Tagramon would be due some small reward. A little forgetting would do nicely.

  *

  Ghost found Joslyn sitting on the edge of the reef, her sandals beside her. A small cut on her foot bled darkly under the water, but she took no notice of it or him. She looked out over the water toward the rising sun.

  "I'm waiting," said Ghost.

  Joslyn finally noticed the blood, and she stirred the water with her foot until it was surrounded by an angry red cloud. "I guessed," she said, "but for what, I wonder?"

  "This morning's 'nothing.' Remember? Our ritual, girl—I ask you what happened last night, and you tell me 'nothing.' And I take that answer and add it to all the others nothings. A few more and they'll quite overwhelm me."

  "That would almost be worth it," Joslyn said.

  "Even if it sweeps you away, too?"

  "That's where the 'almost' comes from. It doesn't matter today, Ghost. I found the Aversa."

  Ghost took a bearing from Joslyn's gaze. "Southeast?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we'd best be going."

  Joslyn nodded. "There's just one thing I should tell you—she doesn't need our help."

  *

  It was nearly midmorning when Tagramon joined Belor in the west wing, but deep in the hidden places of the temple that meant nothing. Belor lit his taper first, then touched the flame to the one Tagramon carried. "Are you certain you wish to come, Master? This may not be pleasant."

  "I'm not in a pleasant mood, Belor. And I'm tired of waiting."

  Belor bowed his head and led the way. They found two acolytes standing watch by the door, knives drawn.

  "Open it," said Belor.

  The older of the two hesitated. "For your safety—"

  "For yours," the High Priest said, "open it."

  There was no further discussion. The acolytes stood aside and opened the door, but they did not sheathe their steel. Nor did they escort the men inside. Tagramon hesitated only an instant, then followed Belor.

  They found Inlos sitting by the fireplace, not moving, his eyes closed. There was an aura of calm about him, the eye in the remnants of what had been quite a storm. Tagramon thought he recognized a fragment of a chest and the shards of a wine pitcher. The rest of it was anybody's guess, and the only two things in the room undamaged were Inlos and the bed.

  Not all wounds show, thought the Dream Master. Inlos's mind is one continuous scar.

  "Who is that with you, Priest?" asked Inlos without opening his eyes.

  "The Dream Master is here," said Belor. There was something wrong in the way he said it, and after a moment, Tagramon knew just what was wrong. Belor's voice was too neutral—it should have sounded more like a command.

  Inlos smiled. "It's good of you to visit me."

  There was something missing in Inlos's voice, too, but Tagramon followed Belor's example and held his peace. Belor glanced at him, and Tagramon nodded, granting him the role he played best.

  "We were told of a... disturbance, here. We wondered if perhaps there was something wrong?"

  "Perhaps there is," sighed Inlos. "I rather suppose it depends on your philosophy of the world."

  Tagramon frowned, but Belor shook his head ever so slightly, and the Dream Master subsided. The situation was out of his grasp. He knew that; he didn't have to like it.

  Belor moved next, his voice a masterful mask. "Would you tell us what philosophy you adhere to?"

  "A simple one," answered Inlos, fixing them both with a baleful stare. "I don't like being lied to."

  "Certainly not," Belor said, "but I assure you—"

  "Not if I won't allow it," snapped Inlos, "and I won't. You let that bitch make me look like a fool!"

  Tagramon stepped forward and almost put his hand on the mad dreamer's shoulder. "Joslyn?"

  "Of course Joslyn!" snapped Inlos, flinching away from the contact. "Find a dreamer who doesn't dream... That was cleverly done. Well, I did find her, despite that. I did, and because she wouldn't dream, I built a dream just for her. And she walked in and every devil in that shallow little soul of hers came out to play with me. Only your little joke spoiled the game."

  Even Belor forgot tact. "Damn it, what happened?!"

  Inlos looked wounded. "As if you didn't know. Yes, let's play it out. Put on the Mask of Ignorance and join the chorus. The play's well begun."

  Belor recovered himself, just a bit. "Inlos, I swear that neither I nor the Dream Master knows what you're talking about. No one's played any trick on you, nor meant to. Are you saying Joslyn escaped?"

  "No, and why should I? We all know that."

  "We do now," said Tagramon, "but we don't know how. Please enlighten us."

  Inlos peered up at them through long, darkened eyelashes. "Exquisite. You really don't know?"

  Belor gritted his teeth. "We really don't know."

  Inlos motioned him over, then leaned close—not touching, never that—and whispered, "She dreamed."

  *

  Joslyn slept the next night huddled in the bow, and Ghost didn't ask her what her dreams were like. They found the island on the morning of the second day. It sat by itself in the middle of an empty sea. The sun rising to its left cast the sides of its hills in shadow. As the sun rose and they grew closer, they saw reflections from what appeared to be mirrors scattered among the hills.

  "What is that?" asked Joslyn.

  Ghost, studying the shore for a place to land, only shrugged his shoulders. They found a serviceable pier of stone on the lee side of the island and tied the boat. Joslyn noticed another rope tied to the pier on the other side. She looked and found the other end on a sunken boat, its prow showing just above the water. "Ghost, look at this."

  He looked. "We aren't the first to use this dock in human memory, just in a long, long time."

  "Someone was here very recently, Ghost. Still, whoever it was didn't take good care of his boat."

  Ghost studied the dim outline of the boat under the water. "You're right, this hasn't been here long, but I'd say he took very good care of his boat. It was scuttled."

  "Sunk on purpose? But why?"

  Ghost shrugged again. "If we find him perhaps he'll tell us."

  Joslyn remembered the dream she watched and how it ended. "I don't think so."

  She was right. They found the cairn just as Joslyn remembered it, lying by a crude altar made of exquisite stone, fragments that came from the ruins scattered throughout the islands.

  "Polished marble. That explains the reflections."

/>   "And nothing else." Joslyn kneeled by the grave. "The man in the dream is buried here. He was the threat to the Aversa."

  Ghost shook his head. "Not him so much as this." He looked at the altar. "A symbol of a human god in their home would be bad enough, but Malitus... And they've no place left to run."

  "You seem to know a lot about the Aversa," said Joslyn, skeptically.

  Ghost seemed to consider this. "Yes, I think you're right. More than any man—" He stopped.

  Joslyn pretended not to notice and changed the subject. "We might be too late."

  "Let's hope not." He stepped over to the altar and pulled a large stone loose. Part of one corner of the structure collapsed and fell to the grass in a rattle of stones. "Help me," he said.

  Together they finished pulling down the altar, adding a few more stones to the grave, scattering most of the rest as best they could. Later, when they paused for breath, Joslyn said, "I don't think the God of Ending will like this."

  "A grave is not so fine a thing as an altar," conceded Ghost, "but, to Malitus, it is a tribute of sorts."

  When they were was finished they began to search. The sun peaked and then faded toward the west, and the first evening stars appeared. There was no sign of the Aversa.

  "She's here," insisted Joslyn.

  "I have no doubt that she was here," said Ghost. "The Aversa built this place; these ruins prove that. I just think we came too late."

  Joslyn shook her head. "She's here. There's not much time, but she's here. I know."

  "How do you know? A feeling?"

  Joslyn tried not to sound defensive. "Yes."

  "Then I must believe you. That's your arena, Joslyn. Not mine."

  "You're too modest. You've got feeling sorry for yourself down to an art. Do you think you can stop it long enough to build a fire?"

  "Why? There's an hour or two of light yet."

  "If the Aversa is hiding from us, it doesn't matter how much light there is. I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and since sleep tonight is going to be more work if we're to find her, then I'm at least entitled to a full belly."

  He nodded. "Fair enough. I'll go to the boat—"

  "You'll build a fire," she corrected firmly, "while I find meat that hasn't been entombed on a bed of salt for a week." She gathered up her crossbow and quarrels, a last gift from Kessa. Already their time in Darsa seemed vague and unreal, but the weapon was solid enough. "I saw goats on that high hill today. I can shoot one if you can cook it."