A Warrior of Dreams

by Richard Parks

  "My—?" Ghost stopped again, but Joslyn was a little quicker this time; there were no collisions. Ghost managed two expressions at once: suspicion and hope. "If you know the answers, tell me."

  "Ask me."

  "All right: why?"

  "Why create a god? Why control all that power?"

  Ghost looked properly chastised. "All right—How?"

  "Nightsouls can be held; I've done it myself. And I know what a skilled dreamer can do to those who cannot master their own dreams. Tagramon needed an adept to control the other Nightsouls he stole, to direct their dreams. His slot-stick god needed a "head." That's you... your Nightsoul, rather. How he mastered your Nightsoul I don't know, but I imagine it was no different than what he used to capture the others. Those shadow-creatures he nearly caught me with back in Ly Ossia."

  They were coming to a break in the hills. Ghost and Joslyn stood on a high ridge, and Ghost took a deep breath and asked the last question. "What?"

  Joslyn smiled. "Ghost, look around you. What do you see?"

  A shadowed green forest met the hills to the west. To the north and northeast was the beginnings of a wide flat plain. Ghost frowned, and for a moment Joslyn was afraid he didn't understand. After a moment Ghost smiled, too. "A dream."

  "Blessed Somna... yes, Ghost: a dream. Somna's dream. But we tend to forget that, in its way, Somna's dream is just like the dreams I find on the Nightstage. And when I enter a dream that isn't mine, the only thing that never changes is this: I don't belong. I can control dreams, Ghost, but it's not a simple matter. I trouble them. If I'm not careful I end them. So do you."

  "Don't belong? How—" Ghost blinked. Joslyn waited. "My Nightsoul," he said, finally.

  Joslyn nodded. "The Nightsoul, the 'shining thread', the one and only true link to Somna. I rather thought you'd see that—it's in all the catechisms. I wonder if it's possible that the Daysoul is just a dream image created by the Nightsoul. When it dies the Nightsoul remains... or at least it can be held. Sometimes I think the Nightsoul is the only part of us that is truly real."

  Ghost looked as if he'd tried to walk through a wall. "Could it really be that simple...?"

  He'd asked the question aloud, but Joslyn knew he didn't need the answer. She thought of the dying goddess and gave it anyway. "Yes, Ghost. It damn well could."

  They didn't leave the ridge right away; Ghost followed as it turned north behind the first line of trees. The way was narrow and chancy. After a third stumble, somewhat more painful than the first two, Joslyn had a question of her own. "Is there a reason we're going this way?"

  "Because he... I... oh, damn it all! We have friends this way."

  "Friends..?" Joslyn had no sooner absorbed that when the second implication hit her. Joslyn savored a very vivid and compelling impulse, but she'd already had the chance and passed, and her crossbow was driftwood by now anyway. "You mean you know where we are?!"

  "Never said I didn't. And you didn't ask, so keep your anger. I've got some of my own working and you'll just spoil it."

  Joslyn subsided. "All right. Where are we?"

  "Trecastyn."

  It took a moment, but Joslyn did remember the name. And after three days march from the sea, they found sails again.

  *

  Belor used his finger to trace the words in his book. The lettering was tight and fluid; in a poor light it was possible to misread them. His curtains were open now; the harsh morning light left no ambiguities.

  "Gambling is a sin."

  Belor wasn't surprised to find it written there—he'd collected the sins himself, all entered by hand in the thick bound ledger.

  Add up all the petty taboos of all the petty gods and there isn't a breath taken that doesn't offend someone. That was a pleasant thought, and in his time Belor had learned to take comfort where he found it. Sin was inevitable; the only thing that mattered was to make it count. And so twenty years of work and planning came down to one throw.

  If I misread the signs...

  He didn't finish the thought; it served no purpose. All his plans were coming together, forces set in motion, risks taken. The thing was done. And, win or lose, so was he. Belor allowed his attention to wander within his collection. After a while he even smiled. Dislak of the Lost Time says it's a sin to wait. Penance must be thriving --

  "Belor!"

  The shout was nearly at the door. The high priest shoved the book under his coverlet and got to his feet just as the door nearly burst off its hinges. Tagramon stood gasping in the doorway.

  He was on fire. Smoke curled away in wisps from the Dream Master's charred right sleeve; sparks were born and died there.

  Belor got a better look, and changed his mind. He is fire.

  "What's happening to me?!"

  The high priest rushed forward, treated himself to a little pain when he took Tagramon's hand. "Nothing more than was to be expected, Master. It has begun! Do you feel pain?"

  "No..."

  "Good." Belor's voice was another firm touch, another slow caress. "The god is waking. You feel the link, Master; that's all it is..."

  Tagramon looked down at his smoking hand; Belor saw the struggle for calm and control on the Dream Master's face.

  One thing to plan, quite another to do, Belor thought, you never understood that.

  Belor noticed the faint glory around the Dream Master's head. A start. Yes, very definitely a start.

  I sinned well.

  *

  Joslyn awoke to voices outside the tent. Strange, after so long traveling with Ghost, she had come to expect silence. She didn't miss it. Joslyn stretched slowly and allowed herself a smile. She'd forgotten how restful dreams could be.

  "Ama'te neea, Jooslan?"

  The voice came from outside; Joslyn didn't understand the words, but a pleasant scent came with the voice and she understood that well enough.

  Breakfast.

  Joslyn's tattered clothes were missing. She found new ones carefully arranged by her cot: loose-fitting breeks like those all the Windfolk wore, soft leather boots, and a tunic that seemed to be woven of blue sky and clouds. She put them on and came out into the sunlight.

  A tall man of strong middle age stood by the fire. Caelo. Joslyn had learned little more of his friendship with Ghost except that it was very old and strong. Caelo had read the change in Ghost; Joslyn was sure of it, but if any explanations were offered or accepted she didn't know about it.

  Joslyn had met too many people the day before; his was the only name she remembered. He smiled and motioned for her to sit with the others. The members of his immediate household were all different and all very much alike, with fair hair and sun-darkened skins, and they smiled easily and often. The oldest boy shyly made room for her while the three girls giggled and whispered to one another.

  Caelo handed her a trencher filled with small meal cakes and steaming baked apples; the smell was intoxicating. She used the one phrase she'd learned so far.

  "Ilsaes, Caelo col."

  It was supposed to be a thank-you, and for all she knew, it was. At least no one seemed offended. The children did giggle a little louder. Caelo gave them a stern look and they gave back innocence, then another giggle when his back was turned.

  Joslyn concentrated on wolfing the food down without being too obvious about it. The girls nudged each other and whispered. Joslyn didn't mind but she did feel strange, and a little lost, and she wished she knew what they were saying.

  If Ghost were here he could tell me... Suddenly Joslyn wasn't quite so hungry. She forced herself to finish the meal, though fear was claiming most of the room in her stomach. The younger children gathered the empty trenchers and bowls and hurried off toward a nearby stream, and Joslyn asked the question. "Ghost..?"

  Caelo didn't understand, and after a minute Joslyn remembered another name, the one Caelo had used to greet Ghost when they were brought to his camp. Joslyn had all but squealed in her excitement before discovering it was a sobriquet, not Ghost's true name at a
ll. Use-names were common among the Windfolk, as they were among the thieves of Ly Ossia. Joslyn felt a little guilty at the comparison.

  "Sessis?"

  Caelo said a word Joslyn didn't understand and spread his arms wide. Joslyn frowned. Caelo sighed and, after a quick search, picked up a pebble of rosy quartz. He held it in his open palm so she could see, then, almost quicker than Joslyn could follow, he flicked his wrist and the pebble disappeared. He repeated the word, slowly and distinctly. "Tolg."

  This time Joslyn understood. Gone. Joslyn took a deep breath and turned another name into a question. She tried hard to get the inflections right and keep the proper roll of the tongue, and this time Caelo nodded and motioned for her to follow him. They walked along the edge of the forest; the encampments didn't go very far into the woods; most were just deep enough to hide the windships among leaves and tree-shadow. They passed several pairs of armed sentinels like those Joslyn and Ghost had met the morning before. They all smiled and waved now, but Joslyn remembered a very tense moment that first day before Ghost spoke to them in their own language and they heard Caelo's name.

  They came to a place where three windships were hidden and turned deeper into the woods, and just beyond the first line of trees they entered a long meadow and felt the sun again. Joslyn heard the sound of wheels, then laughter. Two windships, smaller than Joslyn had ever seen, came whizzing over a small rise in the meadow to land several paces beyond with separate creaking jolts. A boy and a girl flashed smiles of excitement at Caelo and Joslyn as they shot past.

  Children.

  Caelo shouted something after them. The dark-haired girl waved over her shoulder and made a long, languid turn toward the far side of the meadow. The boy fell in behind her, and they disappeared where the meadow sloped down toward the trees.

  I think we're being announced.

  The encampment began within the second line of trees. It was big, bigger even than the family and allied groups that surrounded Caelo's household. A cluster of larger tents marked the center. They were a muted green to blend into the forest; the rainbow sails were packed away.

  You're more than you seemed. I hope one day to meet someone who isn't.

  She was waiting for them seated cross-legged on a horsehair rug. A copper kettle whispered on a small fire nearby and Joslyn caught the earthy aroma of rennet tea. Three empty cups were waiting. "Rather thought you'd get around to me, sooner or later."

  Joslyn smiled. "Hello, Deverea."

  *

  The two Watchers the Enders met by the rubble of the north gate took their duties too seriously; they had to be killed.

  Wessys looked about him in amazement. Was I the only one who didn't enjoy that?

  It seemed so; most of the acolytes in his cell—brigade, rather, by Master Ligen's order—were talking and laughing now that they were clear of the city, reliving every twitch, every twist of the knife. Wessys's stomach still bubbled like an alchemist's kettle; a burning at the back of his throat would not go away.

  He wasn't angry anymore.

  Not that he ever had anything against the Watchers—they didn't kill his parents. And he couldn't very well blame the sea or the storm. His family lived well on the sea, and his father's fishing boat had weathered worse storms. There was no reason that his mother and father should have sailed together that day and no reason for the storm to brew then or the boat to fail. Except that it was Somna's will. So there was the rightful target of his anger; The Dreamer took what he loved; he would help take her dream. It seemed fair.

  But it was one thing to slay the dream at a stroke, quite another to feed it with little deaths and laugh at every choking swallow. Only his anger had allowed him to do what the priests expected of him; now that well was dry. Wessys still had trouble accepting that. He had thought his grief and anger bottomless. He was wrong, and that opened other unpleasant possibilities.

  Did anyone feel sorrow? Anyone at all?

  No answer. Wessys kept looking and the Army of Malitus kept marching. It grew as other ragged columns freed themselves from Darsa with their own means and joined the rest.

  They always kept the cells apart. I never knew there were so many...

  Someone began to sing a hymn to Malitus. One by one the others in the column took up the tune until Wessys's silence was uncomfortably loud. Reluctantly, he began to sing.

  *

  Caelo did most of the talking and only Deverea was still listening. Joslyn heard several references to 'tolg' and 'Sessis' and 'Jooslan', but otherwise she had pretty much worked it out for herself. She concentrated on the tea, and she waited.

  Deverea finally spoke to her. "Ghost is gone, and he isn't coming back, at least not soon. Is that what you wanted to know?"

  Joslyn shook her head. "I knew that already. I want to know where he's gone."

  "He didn't say. He did ask Caelo to take you under protection. You're more than welcome to stay with him," she said, "or with me. But you won't do either, will you?"

  Joslyn sipped her tea. "Are you so sure?"

  Deverea laughed. "So sure. You're tempted, bless you, and that's gratitude enough. But, whatever there was between you and Ghost, I sense something unfinished. Am I wrong?"

  "No. Deverea, it's very important that I find him. I think I know where he's going, but time is short and I have to be sure. Did he say anything else?"

  Deverea spoke to Caelo again, who for a while had been sitting with a polite but puzzled look on his face. Deverea nodded and turned back to Joslyn. "There was something else, only Ghost made him promise not to tell you for three days."

  Joslyn's jaw dropped and she stood upright. "Three..! Deverea, is there anything, anything at all we can do to persuade Caelo to tell me now?"

  "Not a blessed thing," Deverea said cheerfully. "He's given his word; you couldn't torture it out of him." Joslyn didn't understand what she was smiling about until Deverea went on. "I'll just have to tell you myself."

  Joslyn felt a little dizzy. "You didn't say Ghost spoke to you!"

  "Because he didn't; you're still thinking like a city girl, Joslyn. Caelo told me because he didn't promise not to. I'm telling you because I likewise made no promise. You get your message and no one loses honor."

  "I should stay here," Joslyn muttered. "There's much to learn... All right, Deverea, what did he say?"

  "'Thank you for the dream.' Does that mean anything to you?"

  "I'm afraid so..."

  It means I'm an idiot.

  Ghost had few emotions and only one motivation—to recover his Nightsoul. He was going back to Ly Ossia, into the very maw of the beast. Or rather the Dream Master, which was much the same. Madness, but Joslyn considered no other possibilities. There were none. She sat back down. "Deverea, you have to help me."

  The Windfolk matriarch smiled a sweet little smile. "Grow older, probably, and eventually die—certainly. Those are the only two things I have to do, Girl."

  "Then will you help me?"

  Deverea poured another cup of tea. "Probably," she said.

  *

  The fear can be beaten.

  Joslyn had suspected as much, especially after being trapped in the mad girl's dream. The proof was rather sweet, but it wasn't enough.

  I can't catch him.

  Night was closing in; the breeze from the west, never very strong, barely stirred the spidery mastlines now. She finished securing the small windship as, for the second time in as many days, Joslyn translated the feeble wind and her pace into time, and the answer was the same.

  It was almost a relief. She had meant to stop Ghost, but she still didn't know how. She had no plan, no alternative. If she caught up with Ghost and persuaded him to turn back, then what? They remained on the run, and Tagramon would work undisturbed on his patchwork god. Joslyn couldn't judge the effect of one more deity on the crowded Mythstage, but she did know that Ghost's soul would be lost forever, and Ghost free in the world was an effect too easy to judge.

  Ghost will destroy
the dream, sooner or later. He knows that as well as I do.

  It was like looking for a caterpillar hidden on a twig. Slowly, carefully, she reached out and pulled the leaves aside, one by one, to get to the prize. Simple really, once she stopped long enough to consider. Ghost did know, had known since the beginning, that he had only two choices: recover his Nightsoul or die. And Ly Ossia was a long way to go to commit suicide.

  Could it be..? She held her breath, afraid to move lest she frighten the thought away. Joslyn had learned to mistrust hope long ago, but she had not learned to ignore it. That seemed to be a serious oversight just then, because this hope was based on one slim possibility—that Ghost might know what he was doing.

  Joslyn shook her head in disgust. A drowning fly wouldn't grasp at that straw. Blessed Somna, when you dreamed me were you really trying?

  The night closed in around her little blasphemy; soon the windship's mast was a dark shadow across the stars. Joslyn reached under the bow decking and pulled out a blanket and thick, quilted pallet. She found a soft patch of grass and slowly made her bed, trying all the while to think of a better reason for what she meant to do. She lay down, finally.

  No luck.

  It was a cloudless night; stars spread out over a black sky like a thousand little dreams. Joslyn saw them there and it finally came to her. Not a reason, exactly. Just a better excuse.

  The Dream Master owes many debts, Ghost. Did you really think you would collect alone?

  *

  The Darsan Nightstage was an echo of the sky over the Grass Sea: the dreams, like stars, were small and cold and distant; the gaps between them were full of darkness. Joslyn found the edges where the hard little dreams began and quickly made a circuit of the boundary. It was hard to put anything in its place with only the pattern of dreams to go by, but she finally settled on the place where the little sparks of light were thickest.

  The market.

  Joslyn made her best guess and faced south, aligning herself with the sea before she began to dream. She conjured her memories there—her time with Ghost and later with Kessa in the marketplace. The memory came out in a riot of faces, sounds and smells; for an instant Joslyn was nearly swept away. She recovered and cleared herself a small patch of order within the confusion. Outside, the images boiled around her in maddened swirls. Joslyn shook her head. I'll need a guide.