A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

  How is she holding me? It didn't make sense. And the dream itself was different in a way she had trouble defining. She had seen nightmares before in her short time as a novice, but never anything like this. In those nightmares, it was always the dreamer who was in danger, the dreamer who suffered. This fear was directed outward, and the images were more powerful than anything she had ever seen, more real, as if --

  As if the dreamer didn't know the difference. Not in the way that all dreamers believed the reality of the dream only while they dreamed; more like one whose waking and sleeping lives flowed one into the other with no seams to change one to the other. Joslyn finally understood.

  The child was insane.

  This was no shadow-play; the room was every bit as real as the image of self that turned a little girl into a monster.

  Master, let me out!

  AND IF YOU STUMBLED UPON THIS DELIGHTFUL CHILD BY YOURSELF, ALONE, AS YOU PLAYED VOYEUR ON THE NIGHTSTAGE? WHO WOULD SAVE YOU THEN? THERE'S A LESSON HERE, JOSLYN. LEARN IT.

  There was no nursery anymore, only the spider's weaving all around her. The monster moved at will; Joslyn struggled to keep some distance between them, fought to stay clear of the web, and knowing that sooner or later the dream would close in over her and the spider would feed.

  It seemed to Joslyn that being a lesson was not quite the same as learning one; she was being punished. She didn't ask for help again.

  Must be something I can do, but it isn't my dream— With the word came the memory. My dream wasn't Belor's. There is a way.

  There was almost no time at all. Joslyn forced herself to close her eyes in the spider's face, forced her mind to form another image, one that did not belong to the dream. She opened her eyes.

  It was a poor thing compared to the dream around it. Pale gray, ghost-like, the wasp hovered inches over Joslyn's head. Its twin faceted eyes were empty; its wings were as thin and wavering as the surface of a pool. The spider hesitated, its slow, stalking step no longer sure. Joslyn shook her head, numbly. Won't be enough...

  The wasp began to grow. Iridescence flowed over its wings like a spreading frost; the driftwood gray of its abdomen and waist changed to ruby red, its eyes glowed like the many-paned windows of the Temple itself. The force of its wings tore at the webbing with an angry hum. Joslyn cowered on the floor as its shadow loomed over her.

  I didn't do that!

  The spider began to cry. Joslyn watched with fearful fascination as its body wavered, and for an instant Joslyn saw through the dream, saw a very young, very frightened little girl with large brown eyes and a ragged dress. In another moment the vision was over. Spider and wasp likewise gone. Joslyn was back in the nursery, very relieved and very puzzled. The dreamer has fled. Why doesn't the dream end? After a moment the faint sound registered—someone crying. It was the doll.

  Joslyn picked it up and, moved by an emotion she didn't really understand, cradled it gently in her arms. Waking or sleeping, all the same to you. Nowhere to run, nothing to be but a monster or a broken toy.

  The dream was not so well defined now, the boundaries less distinct. Joslyn found the empty cradle and put the doll inside. After a moment she left the dream, but not before a new sound grew as the sobbing faded. A sound Joslyn had never heard before but had dreamed a time or two herself. It was the sound of a distant sea.

  The Dream Master stood with the others as she emerged. Joslyn had no doubt that the entire scene had been observed, but Tagramon didn't even hesitate. "Do you remember?"

  Joslyn matched him. "Yes," she said, "everything."

  *

  "Everything."

  Joslyn gave the familiar echo as the memory-dream faded around her. She stood alone on the Nightstage, and she did remember. She remembered the time she spent recovering from that night and the time she spent considering what Belor had done to her dream and what she had done to the insane little girl's dream. And how easy it was when others took the seed you planted and nurtured it with their fears, as the girl took Joslyn's puny wasp and made it into what Joslyn could not. Joslyn wondered how much effort Belor had really needed to poison her beautiful dream.

  Belor was wrong, she thought, you don't invite attack—you create it.

  Joslyn remembered her blind panic when Ghost had given her the tiller of the little boat; only now she could put a name on her fear, make him understand why it was so important that she not risk losing control, not in anything.

  And still I'm not finished.

  One more dream to dream, one more step back to take. Joslyn sensed it coming and did nothing. Maybe it would be the center of the storm, calm and safe. Maybe it would be the center of a maelstrom—nowhere to go but down into the dark waters forever. Joslyn didn't know. She did know that the time for choosing was already past. She had stepped into the river, and now there was nothing to do but go where the current took her.

  *

  It isn't enough to be an artist; there has to be an audience.

  Inlos put the finishing touches on his creation, then added a little more scope in the dream, just enough so he could step back and admire his work. It was perfect, of course, perfect down to the last detail of a very harsh reality. Not that Inlos hadn't added his own touches, here and there... He had yet to meet any reality, reflected or no, that couldn't do with a little improvement. He resisted the temptation to try something else, reach for a different effect. Unthinkable not to be ready when the curtain went up. Unthinkable to miss a moment of the play he had written.

  Do hurry, Joslyn. You're holding up the show --

  On cue. Perfect. Inlos caught the dream at first glow and wove his own seamlessly into the fabric. When the time came Joslyn wouldn't know one from the other, and what happened after that... well, his hands were clean. He had merely provided the knife, figuratively speaking.

  The hand cutting her lovely white throat would be her own.

  *

  It was one thing to dream; a child could do it. A child couldn't help doing it. But to dream and be aware of the dream without ending it, that was difficult. Dreams were shy things; prying eyes alone were enough to make them flee. Joslyn moved very slowly, holding the delicate balance in her mind that kept the dream from overpowering her will and her will content within the dream. That last was the hardest for her to do normally; where she saw change needed, Joslyn wanted to make it. Tonight there was a different heavy hand on the balance: time. Joslyn was too aware of it.

  Why did it have to be tonight?

  It was a careless thought, and of course there were consequences. All thoughts and images were linked; part of the wall in the catacombs she traveled suddenly became an open book—the question written within in letters of gold.

  A large brown rat came scurrying along beside the wall and paused long enough to read the question aloud in a soft, lisping voice. Joslyn thought the rat looked familiar but just avoided remembering why. When it was done it looked at Joslyn, shrugged its narrow shoulders, and continued on its business. Joslyn smiled. I don't know, either. Damn you, Dyaros.

  The dream's subversion was nearly complete. As Joslyn walked down the corridor it was if the wall had turned to glass and she watched another play through a long window. She watched her nervous progress down another narrow corridor to unlock the hidden window.

  She saw herself leave.

  Joslyn felt a touch of guilt, but only a touch. It wasn't safe to wait there; she might have been spotted. Dyaros could find her easily enough, and, in the interval, there was time for other things. Dreaming, for instance. A step farther down into the curious place she had discovered. Another look at what she had found in that deepest place—the thing that looked like a wall.

  There's too much to do, too much to learn, now that I've joined the Temple. Dyaros won't understand that.

  Someone else was walking down that other corridor. A young man, his clothes a patchwork of styles and materials: gloves of rich black leather, shirt of worn muslin, soft, quilted boots.

 
Joslyn nodded. He did smile that way. Even when no one was around.

  It seemed the end of one mystery, at least: Dyaros had the same cocksure smile for himself alone as for the rest of the world. Joslyn had wondered about that from the first time she had seen the young thief to the last time, Tagramon allowed her to say goodbye to her old associates. When she told Dyaros that she had been chosen for the Temple. His expression hadn't even flickered.

  YOU NEVER FORGAVE ME FOR THAT.

  The membrane separating Joslyn's dream from the other was not nearly so well-defined now; it didn't seem at all unusual that she should hear Dyaros's voice in her dream. She considered, and decided he was right.

  I deserved more from you, Dyaros. Even a little shallow regret would have been better than nothing.

  SPOKEN LIKE A TRUE WHORE—MEASURE GIVEN AND VALUE RECEIVED. YOUR PARDON, MY LOVE—I THOUGHT YOU WERE A THIEF.

  The corridors were flowing together like two branches of a river. Joslyn hesitated, but only for a moment. I don't want to go forward. I can't go back. No choice at all.

  Joslyn liked that.

  *

  Joslyn's sleep did not die a natural death. She fought, but the pull to wakefulness was too strong. Joslyn struggled, but nothing could prevent her inexorable rise. It was slow, at first, then more rapid as her strength faded. She broke into daylight like a fish yanked from its own dear ocean. Sunlight poured through the window of her room; the glare was like fire. I forgot to close the shutters last night—Joslyn suddenly remembered last night. And now the sun was high into morning.

  Dyaros?

  She heard voices from the courtyard, a low hiss and babble like a quick stream. Joslyn pulled herself out of bed and padded over to the window. A raven perched there on the sill, looking at something Joslyn didn't see. It didn't seem strange that the bird didn't fly away.

  "I wonder what that's about," Joslyn said.

  The raven cocked its dark eye at her. "They caught a thief in the Temple last night," it said.

  There was a scream in Joslyn's mind, but nowhere else. She nodded dully. "Fancy that."

  "Swift justice," croaked the bird. "The Temple has that right."

  There was a scaffold in the center of the courtyard, grim enough as a reminder of harsher times, but long disused. It was in use now; Dyaros's body hung from the thick old beams like a marionette corded in silver. Most of the Temple, acolytes, servants, and priests alike, stood gawking at the spectacle, whispering and laughing among themselves. The raven was still looking at her.

  I didn't know a bird could smile like that.

  "As if he would dance at any moment," the raven said, giggling, "but I guess we already missed that part."

  Joslyn made a grab for the little beast but it hop-flew to the shuttertop, out of reach. Joslyn hurried away from the window and out into the corridor. She didn't pause to wonder why there were no stairs in this Temple now, just a long dark corridor that slanted further and further down. When she reached the level of the courtyard there was no courtyard, no morning sun, merely an abrupt retreat of the corridor walls one from the other until a wide hall was created. There were statues ranged about the walls, and a raised dais on the north wall. Joslyn took scant notice of the them; she was looking at Dyaros.

  The scaffolding was there, too. Dyaros's body turned slowly from side to side, as if pushed by a morning breeze. Joslyn stood at the entrance to the chamber, her heart beating faster. I never got farther than this.

  She wasn't quite sure what that meant; she did know it was important. Another moment and she was aware of the dream, aware of where she was, but the balance was too precarious. Joslyn surrendered her certainty for something far more precious—a chance. Joslyn heard a rustle of feathers in the damp air, felt a touch on her shoulder. It was the raven finding a perch. "Here we are again."

  Joslyn watched the hypnotic swing of Dyaros's body. Again?

  Again. Yes. Not for a long time, and not always with the raven. But always Dyaros. And every time with Joslyn returning the way she came. The memory was fleeting; Joslyn let it go. She needed all her will to hold onto something else—an image of a spider. She stepped into the hall.

  Dyaros brought his audience. Acolytes and priests ringed the scaffolding, their sibilant voices echoed through the chamber. Joslyn took another step and the voices ceased. Everyone was looking at her now; but Joslyn was mostly aware of Dyaros. She felt his dead eyes staring at her. Another step and Joslyn almost reached the outer ring of White Robes. They stepped aside like a curtain being drawn; Joslyn had a clear path to the scaffold.

  Dyaros's eyes were half-closed; only twin streaks of white were visible, but Joslyn knew he was watching her. That didn't prepare her for when he spoke. "I waited, Joslyn. I waited too long."

  A murmur of voices. YES, YES. TRUE. WAITED TOO LONG. CAUGHT HIM FAIR, WE DID. HANGED THE THIEF STRAIGHT AWAY...

  Joslyn took another step. Spider...

  SOMEONE OPENED THE DOOR FROM THE INSIDE. WE COULDN'T MAKE HIM SAY WHO. WE DID MAKE HIM SCREAM. TOO BAD JOSLYN SLEPT THROUGH THE EXCITEMENT. ALL DONE BY THE TIME SHE WAS THROUGH DREAMING.

  Not much farther. Joslyn forced another step, but that was all. The ring of spectators closed behind her. She smiled a sad little smile. I really thought I could do it this time.

  The raven's wing stung her cheek as the bird rose from her shoulder and flapped across the chamber. It landed on the dead man's shoulder, glanced haughtily in Joslyn's direction, and began to peck at the flesh of Dyaros's chest.

  I even supplied the carrion-crow. Her anger did what her will could not, and she ran to the scaffold, her arms raised to frighten the raven away. "Leave him alone—"

  The raven raised its head but otherwise didn't move. Joslyn finally noticed where the bird had been feeding. The wound was deep, and there were others. The raven hadn't made any of them, merely took advantage of the openings in the carcass. Joslyn did the same.

  "They did hang you, Dyaros," she said. "But after you were dead. No torture. No noble silence. Just a quick struggle in the dark when the White Robes found you. Funny how I'd forgotten about that."

  There was a sudden stirring in the audience; the voices rose. TAKE THE BITCH NOW! SHE HAS TO PAY --

  "I already have. More than was due, if the truth be known..." She raised her hand, and the voices went silent as if a door had slammed shut. "We won't be needing you anymore."

  With a thought they were banished; Joslyn was alone in the widened corridor with Dyaros and the raven. Joslyn, her hands clasped behind her back, strode closer to the scaffolding. The corpse seemed to shrink away from her. "One lie gone," Joslyn said. "Were there more? Something about you waiting for me, perhaps?"

  The raven hopped off Dyaros's shoulder, spread its wings and circled the hanged man once before lighting on his belt. It used its beak to worry at something hidden in the waist of the breeks and came up with a gleam of gold.

  "Let's see that," Joslyn said. The raven threw the disk like a vulture breaking an egg. It rolled to Joslyn's foot and stopped, the stamped portrait gazing ahead with empty eyes. Joslyn studied the coin with amusement. "A votive. Minted in the Temple for one purpose only—an offering to the Dreamer. Would that have anything to do with where you were really caught, Dyaros? In the sanctuary, perhaps?"

  Dyaros seized the dream for a moment, and in that moment he stood, splendidly defiant, on the scaffold. The next the lever was pulled, and he quivered on the end of the long rope. YOU KILLED ME!

  Joslyn brushed the attack aside, reclaimed the dream that was her own. "I knew the White Robes caught you in the vaults, not the Dreamer's wing, but I wouldn't understand what that meant. You didn't come for me, Dyaros. You came for the Temple Treasure, and I was just your key. You killed yourself, and I think it's past time you were buried." Joslyn smiled at him. "That looks uncomfortable."

  She took the ropes away. Dyaros fell heavily to the platform, and then she took that away. Dyaros dropped to the stone floor, and that blow seemed to wak
e the dead. He sat up, looking dazed, but no longer the pitiful corpse.

  "I was luckier than you," Joslyn said, "the little spider believed my pitiful wasp, made it real. I won't make you real anymore."

  Fear was a fickle thing in this dream. First Joslyn had it, but it had deserted her to nestle in the eyes of the shibboleth. He came up in a crouch and began to back away from her. Joslyn remembered another aspect of the spider-child's dream. I'm not quite so mad as that... Still, one does what one can.

  She was ready for him. When he tried to flee the dream he found the edges much too hard. He picked himself up and tried again. The second time drew blood. The raven landed on Joslyn's shoulder. "Let him go. He can't harm you now."

  Joslyn shook her head, slowly. "He has some things that belong to me. I want them." And she took them. First the memory of Dyaros's clothes. What he wore and how he wore it. Then the bright blue eyes, and, last, the infuriating, splendid smile. All the borrowed memories until the imposter had nowhere to hide. Joslyn looked on his true face, saw the chaos etched there.

  "What is he?"

  The raven sighed. "Incubi, we called them—a special talent dreamer, a swimmer in the Dark Waters. More than a little insane and capable of powerful imagery. Useful, sometimes. If Dyaros hadn't died robbing the Temple this one—or another—would have been after him."

  "Praise Somna, a straight answer... and what did I steal from the Temple that would send him after me?

  "I don't know."

  Joslyn finally took the time to recognize her surroundings; the chamber was an image of the Temple sanctuary. She clothed her hand in a falconer's gauntlet and gently moved the raven to the dais. What she did then was far different from the "meddling" she might do in another's dream, slight changes in the images aided, knowingly or not, by the dreamer. All belonged to her in this place, and, as with Dyaros's memory, she reclaimed everything that was hers step by step. First the Raven, then the Harpy. Musa was the very last, sitting demurely massive on the dais under the Image of Somna.