A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

  Slotstick... It reminded her of a child's toy made of stuffed rags and whittled, fitted sticks. It's edges were blurred; blackness showed in little splotches scattered over the towering figure. Joslyn chewed a knuckle to keep from giggling. He's not finished.

  Joslyn looked, but there was nothing else in the dream: no illusory oceans or forests, nothing to make a worthy abode for a god. There was only the fragmented deity itself. Joslyn wildly imagined a workman-laden scaffolding ringing the structure as the god was slowly built, brick by brick, under the architect's watchful eye. Joslyn's smile died when she saw something move.

  I wasn't so very far wrong.

  There was no scaffolding, of course—the shadows didn't need it. They swarmed over the patchwork god like ants on a corpse. Joslyn couldn't see what they were doing, couldn't tell what their scurrying meant, but just then she didn't really care. Joslyn searched her memory for shadows and found them in a very painful dream. The one she had shared with Tagramon.

  A lone figure stood before the unfinished god, arms raised. Joslyn knew him even before she saw his infuriatingly joyful face. Joslyn remembered a goddess breaking a stone. She remembered Tagramon's dream of a god being a god. That dream was his way in. I interrupted more than I knew.

  Do you remember?

  She asked the question herself this time, and she gave the answer.

  Yes, Dream Master. Everything.

  *

  All the dream's light was on the outside; once he stepped over the boundary into the dream blackness closed over him.

  Inlos wasn't worried. Darkness was his kingdom; something he understood. Nothing seen, everything imagined. He remembered one favorite prank on a man whose dreams were all light and color. All that was needed was a little darkness Simple. Elegant.

  Final.

  What he didn't understand was the fear. Inlos looked around. Something different...

  Nonsense, of course, but there it was. There was no welcome for him here, no quiet revelation of the best places to watch and wait. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. And nothing was all that greeted him.

  Cowardly Joslyn won't come here, not into the dark. Perhaps... a little more light?

  NO THANK YOU.

  Inlos went into a fighter's crouch, denials bursting in his mind. My thoughts were closed. No one could hear...

  NO ONE?

  The dreamer.

  Inlos was discovered. He knew what that meant—Joslyn had stropped the lesson to razor's edge and made him feel it. There was nothing he could do now but get away. So strange that escape was the one thing he wouldn't do.

  Ran too much tonight. Tired of running.

  I KNOW WHAT WEARINESS IS. REST HERE, IF YOU LIKE.

  Inlos didn't listen to the voice; it was a lie. No one gave anything. Especially not kindness. Inlos had seen the heart of every kind of dream, and one was much like another. Inlos fell into a pattern he knew well; he became the hound. It was easy; it had always been easy. Find the story and you find the dreamer. But someone else owned this cold, aloof darkness, it revealed no one, it gave up nothing.

  Nothing...

  TRUE. AND ISN'T IT LOVELY?

  "Damn you!"

  Inlos tore a piece of darkness, made it into light. Just a tiny gleam, no more. It was too much. Inlos saw the dreamer's face. It was just like in the paintings, and the statues. All the images of the great Adversary.

  I know you...

  THAT IS UNFORTUNATE.

  Someone snuffed the light, and once more Inlos struggled with the darkness.

  Darkness won.

  *

  The increasing cold stole time away like an hourglass filled with snowflakes. Joslyn tried to make sense of what she saw there, but distance blinded her.

  Must get a closer look.

  Joslyn became a shadow. She hid in a cloak of darkness and crept forward to become one more minion of the patchwork god. Up close it was easy to see why the construct was so crude: it was made of dreams. Joslyn saw one flowing into the next, saw the part each played. Some did not fit well.

  Were the others made this way? She had a quick vision of Tagramon eternal, building gods and goddesses one by one. She shook her head. Nonsense. Joslyn thought of the grace and beauty she had seen in the other dreams. There was change, yes, but not conflict. What took shape here was like a child copying a fine statue with clay made from mud and oil. It did not accept its form graciously; it struggled. Joslyn slowly realized that it wasn't made of dreams at all.

  It was made of dreamers.

  Sweet Somna... She touched one of the pieces, saw an outline of the man trapped inside. And do you dream of being part of a god? Joslyn didn't really need that particular answer; there was another that interested her more. She even had an idea of where to look. Joslyn gathered her darkness and went to the very top, a beacon surrounded by flitting shadows. One dreamer, one very powerful dream that formed the capstone and held all the pieces together. Joslyn didn't know his name; she knew his face.

  "Hello, Ghost."

  For a long moment Joslyn looked at what she had come so far to find; she didn't see the shadows stop their random circuits around the dream. They ringed the head very closely; that was when Joslyn noticed them, and noticed she was the only shadow not with them. One flowed forward as if fleeing the setting sun. Joslyn moved back. How did they—

  Of course. She had spoken aloud. Silly me.

  The lead shadow howled, but Joslyn was already away, her shadow-cloak discarded. She couldn't resist one mocking smile at the stunned Dream Master as she flashed away and out of the dream like a shooting star. The nightstage appeared and drowned whatever Tagramon had shouted at her as she left the dream. That was all right; his curse was easily imagined, and done better in the bargain. Joslyn laughed with mad joy, but she didn't fail to search out the dreams she passed in her flight, measuring, considering. She heard the beginnings of pursuit. She knew there was no escape; memory taught her that. Only one thing to do, one thing to search for. She found it huddled among all the grand dreams like a lost child. One small, nearly invisible dream.

  There had to be one like you, she thought. Who else is hiding here?

  Joslyn found the answer sitting on a rickety throne. The woman's skin was pale but marked with fine dark streaks like one of the ruined statues on the streets of Darsa: raiments shattered, face weathered away. Joslyn did not know her, apparently few others did in all the world did. They barely remember her at all.

  The cold crept up Joslyn's legs and arms; her feet were growing numb. Joslyn could almost feel the icy spray on her skin, and, after so much time spent sorting out meanings, she could not help understanding this one. I hope I—she --, doesn't drown before telling him. We all deserve that little triumph... Joslyn shivered. Not much longer. Her movement was no louder than a whisper, but the dream was small.

  WHO'S THERE?

  The dying goddess had no eyes, but still she tried to see. Joslyn saw a little more of the dream fade, watched the enthroned form grow a little less distinct. Even a dream of a goddess can be troubled. It was a little revelation, but Joslyn was grateful. She decided to answer. "My name is Joslyn. Forgive me for disturbing you."

  The fading one's laugh was like dry leaves blowing over stone. EVEN THAT TAKES POWER OF A SORT.

  Joslyn didn't know what to say, but she did feel the need to say something. "I'm sorry."

  Blind eyes, searching. COME CLOSER, GIRL.

  Joslyn wasn't past caution, but she knew the truth of what the goddess said—there was no power here, for good or ill. She stepped closer, let the goddess' hand find hers. Her grip wasn't so much weak as just barely present, like trying to touch a phantom.

  DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?

  If there were a lie that would have served, Joslyn would have used it then. "No," she said.

  The seated figure released her hand, slumping back as if she would become one with the stone. NEITHER DO I.

  Joslyn heard the shadows outside the dream; there was n
o time to hesitate, no time to consider what she was doing. Joslyn stepped up on the dais and slipped into the throne, into the appearance of the goddess like someone putting on a robe. Joslyn had no impression of another presence at all, no sense of sharing. A dark shape poked its snout into the dream, snuffled the air, and withdrew as quickly. Joslyn stepped out of her disguise. She started to apologize but there was no one to hear. All that remained of the goddess was Joslyn's borrowed raiment, lying empty on the throne. A mist gathered around the dais, with wispy tendrils that groped blindly over the empty robes.

  Joslyn wondered how many were left to dream this particular dream. Not enough, she knew. So few that, when Joslyn learned how little remained behind the empty face, there wasn't enough power left in the dream to overcome the weight of her knowing. The mist fell away, sinking into nothing, and the throne itself began to fade. Joslyn shivered again. And again.

  Cold!

  The entire dream turned to ice and shattered.

  *

  Joslyn came up gasping. She flailed through the confusion of waking, pulled enough sense out of the chaos to grab onto the gunwale and hold on while an ebbing wave tried to carry her off into darkness.

  "Ghost, where—?" The wind snatched her words away; the sea strained to take the rest. "Ghost!"

  Suddenly she was being pulled in another direction, and she clutched the gunwale for all she was worth.

  "Joslyn, let go!"

  Surprised, Joslyn did let go. Strong arms pulled her out of the cold waters that swirled and rushed through all the broken places in the ship. Ghost half-led, half-dragged her over the shattered planking toward the stern. The ruined vessel started to sink bow first. Joslyn could barely make out the dim shoreline some thirty yards away.

  Come on!" Ghost pushed her toward the gunwale.

  Joslyn hung back. "Ghost, I can't swim!"

  He shook his head. "From here on we walk."

  For one horrid moment Joslyn thought Ghost was going to use his power, but when they stepped over the side Joslyn realized what he meant. The ship had broken its back on a narrow spine of stone well out from the beach, but the water barely reached past Joslyn's shoulders and the rocks themselves gave some shelter from the worst of the waves. The boat wasn't so lucky; when the bow grounded the rest of the ship settled stern high on the rock and the waves began to pound it like white fists. Ghost and Joslyn finally reached the shore and glanced back just in time to see the last of it breaking up.

  "Nothing I could do," said Ghost, "I barely managed to avoid the rocks farther out. We're lucky to be alive... I guess."

  Joslyn saw how Ghost was looking at her, but she still didn't know the answer to that question.

  "What about the Enders?"

  There was a glimmer of humor in Ghost's voice. "They'll be along soon—" For an instant the boom of wood on stone was even louder than the storm. The shouts and screams were fainter. Ghost shook his head. "They made it closer to shore than I hoped. Some will reach it."

  Joslyn still clutched her sodden blanket and Ghost carried his pack, but the sea had the rest, including Joslyn's arbalest. "We'd better not be here when they come," she said.

  They took what they had salvaged and started inland. The earth rose sharply from the beach, and the stones didn't end at the sea. Ghost and Joslyn moved through rough terrain, with slippery granite defiles and stones that turned underfoot. Joslyn's sleep had nothing to do with rest; every step she took now was a victory of will. She saved her breath for walking, and Ghost asked no questions. The roar of the ocean faded and was lost in the rain and wind. It had been like a whip driving her on, and without its goad Joslyn felt herself losing the fight. "... have to rest."

  Ghost nodded. "I've been considering it myself."

  Joslyn reminded herself that she hadn't been the only one fighting battles tonight. "Sorry."

  They found a shallow cave among the hills, the entrance sheltered by a flat overhang of sandstone. It wasn't very warm, but it was dry. Joslyn tried to wring out her blanket while Ghost gathered some sticks and leaves he found near the entrance, debris from the wizened little bushes that clung to the face of the rock. When he had a respectable pile he rummaged through the pack. His hand came up empty. "Flint was in the other one," he sighed.

  "Damn." Joslyn could no longer tell when one shiver started and the other ended. She watched, eyes dull with fatigue and cold, while Ghost sharpened one end of a slim, straight twig and placed it upright on a piece of dry log. "What's that for?"

  "Read about this in a woodcraft treatise... at least I must have. Always wondered if it would work."

  He rubbed his hands together as if trying to warm them, and the twig spun rapidly back and forth. Soon a wisp of smoke curled up from the point, a spark jumped. Ghost piled dry leaves on the log and began to blow, cheeks puffing like a bellows. In time he had a small fire going.

  Joslyn leaned close, rubbing her numb fingers. Another mystery solved, she thought glumly. Oh, happy day... "I found you," she said.

  Ghost didn't look up from the fire. "I rather thought so."

  Joslyn waited, but he didn't say anything else. "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

  "Yes," Ghost said, "and I think I should be pleased. But you obviously are not, and I'm afraid I've rather gotten used to feeling the world through you."

  Joslyn smiled, but that wasn't enough. She put her head down on her knees and she laughed. Ghost looked bewildered and she laughed harder still.

  "Sorry," she managed, finally, "but it was just so fitting. Of course you use human eyes to see the world, dear Ghost—how else is a god to manage?"

  *

  At the time, young Wessys didn't think the Enders asked very much. Surrender "the things of this world" they said. Fine. It's not as if he had so much to forsake. Only they didn't tell him "the thing's of this world" included food and shelter. And warmth. Wessys missed that most of all.

  The rain ended some time ago, but the wind still blew fiercely. He found another piece of wreckage washed up on the beach: a section of mast, frayed lines still attached. Perhaps it belonged to the boat they had hounded onto the rocks; it was hard to tell. Past a certain size, the wrack of one ship looked pretty much like another. And there were three, all together.

  Not counting the one that sank...

  Wessys made his way back up the beach to where his ten surviving companions took shelter. He found them huddled behind the lee of a large boulder. Cali still tried to start a fire with wet sticks and sea-grass; the rest huddled in their robes, watching with some interest but not much hope.

  Wessys looked around, his apprehension growing. "Where's the Master?"

  A young, freckle-faced brother glanced up. "He is seeking guidance."

  Wessys felt a twinge of unease. "You mean a vision, don't you?"

  The boy nodded. "But after what happened tonight, perhaps... perhaps Malitus has forsaken us."

  That would be blessing indeed...

  Wessys was ashamed of the thought but there wasn't a lot he could do, it being the nature of thoughts to come and go, asking neither leave nor pardon. Words were much easier to manage.

  "Never," he said.

  He joined his brother acolytes by the still-born fire. Weariness was no match for the wet and cold; there was little sleep to be had that night. They watched Cali struggle with sodden tinder for what seemed hours; then Wessys had a try, then all the others. It became something of a game after a bit. Dawn and Master Ligen found them still at it, and Wessys couldn't decide which of them hurt his eyes the most.

  Ligen beamed blindingly. "My prayers were answered."

  Wessys, ambushed by another thought, smiled too.

  Mine weren't.

  Chapter 17—Deverea's Gift, Daycia's Price

  Joslyn lay flat on the ledge, hardly daring to breathe. The Enders were no more than a bowshot away, marching through the valley in military order. She had no illusions about what would happen if she was seen, but still she had to look, had
to know what was happening.

  What was happening didn't make a lot of sense.

  She watched the Enders marching to a quick-time step like children playing soldiers. The line was ragged but cohesive; the marchers looked neither right nor left as they followed a tall priest.

  "Lovely day."

  Joslyn didn't scream; it was more of a squeak. Ghost stood, his full height broadside to the sun. "Ghost, get down! If they look up here..."

  "It would be amazing. First, the rain would have covered our tracks, so we're dead as far as they know. Second, they aren't paying attention anyway."

  He was right—whatever the Enders were up to, they were not searching. But Joslyn didn't take her eyes off the black line until it disappeared from sight to the east. Ghost went back into the cave and came out with their few belongings.

  "Let's go."

  Ghost started down the slope and Joslyn fell into step behind him. They followed where the valley carried them for a bit, but at the juncture of two mountains Ghost chose a northward path. Joslyn didn't ask where he was going; she didn't think it mattered.

  After a while Ghost said, "I slept. Did you?"

  Joslyn shook her head. "I needed rest," she said, "not sleep."

  "You'll need both again soon enough."

  Joslyn smiled. "Practicing omniscience?"

  Ghost stopped. Joslyn nearly ran into him. "Did you or did you not solve the 'Riddle of the Gods' last night?"

  Joslyn thought about it. "I believe I did."

  "Then you should know I'm no god," he said, moving on. He added over his shoulder, "Whatever I am."

  "You're a man with no Nightsoul."

  "Certainly. And thanks to you I know whom to blame. I'm grateful. I still don't know how my Nightsoul was taken, or why. And I especially don't know what makes me—incomplete—so dangerous."

  Joslyn kept her silence for a long time. "Ghost, if you have an Imperial tucked away in that dirty robe of yours, hand it over."

  Ghost shrugged and obeyed; Joslyn tucked the coin into her belt. "I gave you the dream for nothing, Ghost. Or as much as you stayed awake to hear. But tradition demands payment for what comes now. Are you ready for your augury?"