“What if I really am guilty?” he whispered, and the question echoed again and again in his mind. After all, there might be moments in time that he’d misremembered, like childhood stories that grew longer and more colorful in the telling over the years. Maybe, in his passion to stop Rigby from harming Kaylie, maybe he’d gone wrong. It was an icy fear.
But then, in that moment, there was another sensation: this one, oddly warming . . . and freeing. If I’m guilty,he thought, then . . . I am. And I deserve whatever sentence the judge sees fit.
There was really no use in worrying about the past. What’s done is done,he thought. I’ll just have to defend myself as best I can, and then throw myself on the mercy of the judge.
He found it peculiar he wasn’t really worried about himself, about what would happen to him personally. But he was still worried about his family, his friends, and all who called the Waking World their home. If the judge ruled that Archer was guilty and needed to be put away, that he wouldn’t be able to use his Dreamtreading talents to help—that would be hard to take.
Archer prayed that when the time came his anchor would be deep enough.
DREAMTREADER CREED, CONCEPTUS 12
There is a hierarchy in the Ethereal. The Masters are superior to Dreamtreaders, much as Man is superior to Boy. Master Gabriel is chief among Masters, but a former Master holds court over all.
Chief Michael the Archelion wields the hammer of justice. If there is reason for dispute, it is Michael to whom you must turn. If warranted, the High Court would hear your case, but know this: Michael’s decision is final.
Dreamtreading is a high calling. Only three are chosen at a time out of billions. You bear the responsibility to perform your duties according to the Creeds. You must not succumb to the temptation of abusing your power. And, Dreamtreader, that temptation will come . . . in one form or another. You will be tempted to misuse your power, perhaps for your own gain or even for a noble intention that strays far off course. But you must not give in. You must not betray your calling.
For if you do, Michael’s hammer will be waiting.
FOURTEEN
SOMETHING SCARY
KARA COULDN’T STOP STARING AT RIGBY’S BODY. SHE FELT a twinge of guilt, shed a tear of sorrow, and then her eyes flickered with angry red lightning. “Scath!” she raged. “What did you do?”
She was answered by frantic rustling, hisses, and whispers.
“Scath, I am the master of the Shadow Key!” she cried out, the words flash-simmering like water thrown on hot coals. “I am your master! I call you to account for this. I call you to come to me and answer for yourselves. And, so help me, if your answer is displeasing, I will use the Shadow Key to end you all!”
“Nooooo!” came a myriad of cries.
“Mercy upon us!”
“It wasn’t our fault!”
“He asked us!”
“He invited us!”
“Told us it was a game!”
Kara stepped back over Rigby and confronted a cauldron of suddenly obsequious Scath. “Speak!” she demanded. “Quickly! Or you’ll regret the moment you were formed!”
In a storm of mewling, apologetic rasps, shouts, and interruptions, Kara pieced together the story. Rigby had tricked the Scath into killing him. He’d become despondent over his failures and his capture at Kara’s hands. He’d come so close to ruling as the next Nightmare Lord only to have it snatched away at the last moment. But because he was cobalt-shackled, he couldn’t use his will to end his own life, so he engaged the Scath in what he had called a game.
This was the part that made the fine hair on Kara’s arms stand on end. He’d called the game: Something Scary. The rules were simple: it had been Rigby versus the Scath. Rigby began by asking, “Do you want to see something really scary?” He turned his back on the Scath, and then spun around with the most horrific facial expressions he could manage.
When it was the Scath’s turn, they would do the same: “Does fleshling want to see something really scary?” The Scath would then whirl and writhe until, at last, becoming some fearsome sight, each more terrifying than the one that came before. According to the Scath’s rambling recollection, they had played five rounds, but on the sixth round, the Scath had revealed what they called “their inner black.”
“Did Rigby know about your inner black?” Kara demanded.
“Don’t know.”
“Rigby studied us.”
“Learned from the Lurker, maybe.”
“Don’t show me!” Kara ordered. “Explain to me. What is this inner black?”
The Scath shuffled nervously. “Inner black is what made us.”
“Nightmare flesh.”
“Pure, rotten evil.”
“Mask of death.”
Kara swallowed again. The Scath, she reminded herself gravely, still had their secrets. From their origins as Sages in the Garnet Province Libraries to their corruption by an ancient Nightmare Lord to their current subjugation under the possessor of the Shadow Key, the Scath were full of mysteries. Dangerous mysteries.
And, by Rigby’s trickery, the Scath had literally frightened Rigby to death.
She looked down on him and felt pity. Yes, the Scath had killed him, but it was no different from cowardly suicide. “Poor Rigby,” she whispered. “I thought you were made of stronger stuff than this.”
Her eyes blazing once more, she rounded on the Scath and unleashed a violent torrent of will. Like invisible hands made of hurricane winds, Kara corralled the Scath, tossed them headlong into one of the chamber’s many rooms, and slammed the door shut. Kara willed the entire room to harden into cobalt and found herself silently exulting at the Scath’s screams of agony echoing through the metal.
Kara turned, took a final look at Rigby, and marched all the way out of the Karakurian Chamber. She collapsed onto her throne seat, but she did not weep. Instead, she thought about where current events had left her. She no longer had Rigby as a resource, nor as a source of entertainment. It meant there were more things to figure out on her own, but that wasn’t a problem. After all, she’d studied Doctor Scoville’s first papers and experiments with lucid dreaming. She’d learned the techniques and even developed more effective methods.
Doctor Scoville.
Kara felt a chill at his name. Doc Scoville or, as he was known in the Dream, the Lurker, was not an opponent to be taken lightly. And Rigby had said that Doc Scoville had completed even more research. Things I know nothing about,Kara thought dismally. He might know things that could interfere.
And if Doc Scoville found out his cherished nephew had died while imprisoned by Kara, well . . . he wasn’t likely to become an ally then, was he? No,Kara reasoned with a sad laugh, no, he’d probably storm Dream Inc. Tower.Even if he couldn’t defeat Kara in her stronghold, he’d likely batter himself to death in the attempt.
No, Doc Scoville could not learn of Rigby’s death. And, just like that, all the pieces fell into place for Kara. She suddenly knew, step-by-crafty-step, what she needed to do to pull this off. She’d begin immediately.
“Scath!” Kara flexed her will to open the cobalt-encased room within the Karakurian Chamber. “Come to me!”
And this time, the Scath were more than punctual. They raced from the Karakurian Chamber as if pursued by ghosts even more frightening than themselves.
“What does master want?”
“Thank you, kind master, for releasing us.”
“Hurt room hurts us.”
“We are sorry for dead fleshling.”
“None of that,” Kara commanded. “Listen to me. I want you to take Rigby’s body. Go beneath the Veil and hide his body someplace where no one will ever find it.” The thought struck her pointedly: how quickly a living person—a he—could become inanimate matter and be called an it.
“We obeys!”
“Hide the fleshling good!”
Kara stood up from her throne and stared down at the Scath. “You listen to me: you hide his body well. Mes
s this up, and I won’t kill you. I’ll lock you in a cobalt prison . . . for eternity.”
Doc Scoville stood in the kitchen of his home and sipped on a steaming cup of coffee. It’s a beautiful afternoon, he thought, staring out through the window above the sink. Much warmer in January than it ought to be. The snow had mostly melted away. “What’s this?” he muttered, slowly setting his coffee cup down on the counter. He craned his neck a bit and smiled. A happy little group of bright red cardinals were playing in the backyard evergreens. They f littered from limb to limb, resting on a swaying branch for only a moment before leaping to a new perch.
Absolutely stunning day, he thought, lifting the almond-flavored coffee to his lips once more. The sun lit the yard in golden hues and caught on the already-budding branches of the ornamental cherry trees. It were as if spring had broken through the gate of winter to capture this day.
It was, Doc Scoville thought, a welcome invasion. He took his coffee to the kitchen table and sat down to ponder important decisions to come. After all, it was clearly a day for a walk.
He put down his coffee cup and began to scroll mentally through the many exotic pets he had in the basement zoo. Which one would he take on the walk?
Then, Doc Scoville heard something entirely unexpected. The front door to the house opened. There were footsteps in the foyer.
Strange,Doc Scoville thought. I wasn’t expecting a visitor today.
He started to stand, but then plopped into his seat at the sight of a young man coming around the corner into the dining room.
“Rigby?” Doc Scoville whispered. “Is that you?”
Rigby smiled and scratched at one of his long sideburns. “Of course it’s me, Uncle,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day outside. Care for a walk?”
FIFTEEN
OPENING STATEMENTS
“ALL RISE!” THE BAILIFF-WARRIOR’S VOICE WAS A CLARION call to the courtroom. At once, deep, demanding, sacred and solemn—it was a voice no one would ever dream of defying. “The most honorable High Chief Justice, Michael the Archelion, is presiding!”
Archer bounced to his feet, and so powerful was the moment he had to fight the urge to salute.
The rest of the cavernous courtroom, which had been abuzz with conversation, went absolutely still and silent. It seemed somehow impossible: the courtroom was absolutely enormous. Intricately carved and stained wood paneling divided at regular intervals by tall columns of marble—the interior looked worthy of a palace . . . or a museum. The four chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling high above—each one seven feet in diameter and lit with a hundred candles—flared suddenly.
“Be ye warned,” the bailiff-warrior continued. “Leave all deceit behind, and darken not this hallowed court with thy vain ambitions, lest . . . ye . . . die.”
Archer swallowed. No lies. Check.
A pair of magnificent fourteen-foot-high doors stood on either side of the magnificently carved, throne-like judge’s bench. Archer wasn’t sure which pair of doors to watch, but the doors to the left opened suddenly, and in strode a being very similar to Master Gabriel, only greater in every way imaginable.
The judge, Michael the Archelion, stood more than half as tall as the doors, was broad shouldered, and clad in Incandescent Armor, but the markings and engravings upon the plates seemed somewhat different from Gabriel’s. Or maybe the markings were just more numerous upon the judge’s armor. Archer wasn’t sure, but either way, the designs gave Justice Michael undeniable authority.
The capes didn’t hurt either. The judge wore a black cape, a silver cape, a gray cape, and an indigo blue cape, and they were somehow layered and intertwined so that when he ascended a hidden stair to the judge’s bench, a hypnotic ripple of color followed behind him.
Unlike Master Gabriel, the chief justice was clean shaven, but his jaw was square and his expression, grave and determined underneath a full head of long, dark hair layered with dignified ribbons of silver. A single cord of black and silver metal encircled his high and regal forehead conveying an air of royalty. Michael’s brow was heavy, and both the size and ferocity of his eyes reminded Archer of a bald eagle’s glare.
“Be seated!” the bailiff-warrior commanded.
Archer sat, and for the first time was collected enough to notice anybody else in the courtroom. He noted the seating galleries on either side of the courtroom were now full, populated by scores of armor-clad warriors, both male and female. They sat in unison with such precision that Archer sighed. So much for a jury of my peers,he thought.
Even without them, the intimidation factor, on a scale of 1–10, was a 13.5. Archer had done class projects where he’d had to speak in front of the whole class. Once, he’d even spoken to an auditorium full of adults for a school fund-raiser. But he’d never spoken on a stage like this one. And the stakes had never been higher.
The only consolation, if there were any, was that Bezeal didn’t seem too comfortable, either. The diminutive merchant, now Archer’s chief accuser, sat at a desk across the center aisle from Archer’s desk that was far too big for him. His feet dangled comically beneath the chair.
It was the very first time Archer had ever noticed Bezeal’s feet. They were predictably strange, just like the rest of Bezeal. He wore black boots, but they were squat things, tapering from the shin to a blockish heel. The strangest bit was the boots had no toes. There was the back heel but that extended forward into a kind of angular wedge. How much odder could he get?
The bailiff-warrior spoke once more. “The court will now hear the capital case of Dreamtreader Archer Keaton vs. Humanity.”
The judge looked at a scroll in front of him, and then leaned forward to speak; “Am I to understand, Dreamtreader Keaton, that you will have no counsel other than yourself?”
“Yes, your majesty,” Archer mumbled.
Justice Michael blinked. “I am no king,” he said. “Judge, Justice, your honor, or even a simple sir will do here, Archer.”
“Yes, your maj—er . . . sir.”
“Are you certain you want to do this alone?” the judge asked.
Want to?Archer thought. Well, no, I don’t want to, but what choice do I have?
“Judge, I will be my only counsel—”
Poof!In a cloud of purple smoke and blue sparks, Razz appeared. She was wearing a slate gray pantsuit, a black tie, and dark heels. She carried a leather briefcase that was just her size and plopped down to the desktop next to Archer’s left hand.
“I apologize for my lateness, your high judgeship,” she said, toning down the squeak of her voice a little. “As I’m sure you know, things are not going well with the Waking World down there.”
“Razz,” Archer hiss-whispered, “what are you doing here?”
“Gabriel sent me,” she said. “I’m your co-counsel.”
SIXTEEN
GLASS HOUSE MOUNTAIN
NICK BUSHMAN STEPPED ONTO HIS PORCH OVERLOOKING the Glass House Mountains and the surrounding Queensland landscape. He sipped a tall, frosty glass of iced tea and sighed. He couldn’t remember a better day in his life. From the moment he awoke to the playful yips of the distant coyotes, everything just felt right.
Some sixty miles north of Brisbane, the Glass House Mountain Township offered Nick a sprawling view of the verdant, almost entirely flat coastal plain. Almostbecause eleven mountains rose up abruptly from the otherwise level vista. The highest, the two peaks called Mount Beerwah, wore a hula hoop of mist, but otherwise there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Just cobalt blue as far as the eye could see.
Nick noticed a little trail of dust kicked up to the east. “Ah, there he is,” he muttered. Then, he raised his voice a bit more and called, “Oliver! Lunch in an hour!”
“Thanks, heaps!” Nick’s mercurial little brother yelled back. He kicked the brakes on his bike and stirred up a fresh whorl of dirt.
“Don’t be late, ya little ankle biter!” Nick hollered.
A hand rose in the midst of the dust cloud and gave a mig
hty thumbs up.
Nick laughed. “Best day ever,” he muttered, turning from the view and heading inside. The telly was on Nick’s favorite news station. He paused to turn up the volume so he could hear the headlines while he worked in the kitchen.
Oliver liked roast beef piled high with Muenster cheese and extra tomato, so Nick went to work, slicing a bright red heirloom tomato that was bigger than his fist. “Ahh!” he said, breathing in through his nose. “Nothing better than fresh, sliced tomato, fair Dinkum. And these little beauties are the best I’ve seen.”
“At just .02 percent, unemployment is at its lowest in Australia’s history,” the anchor on the television reported from the other room. “Prime Minister Davids claims it’s the renewed spirit of the Australian people—”
“Bonzer!” Nick exclaimed. He loved listening to the news shows these days. There was nothing but good news. The economy was thriving. The weather was dandy. Murder and violent crime were nearly unheard of anymore. Nick was grinning as he cut a few more slices of tomato and tossed them on his sandwich. Life was good.
“G’day,” came a voice from behind. “I hope you have enough for three.”
Knife in his right hand and reaching for one of his boomerangs with his left, Nick spun around. He dropped them and stared.
There was a very tall, older gentleman in his kitchen. Nick wasn’t used to looking up to make eye contact, but he did for this strange fellow. The man wore a bizarre combination of outback clothing (bush hat, oilskin vest, and cargo shorts) and some sort of medieval reenactment costumery (boots laced to the calf, a sturdy leather sheath, and a very realistic looking broadsword).
And sunglasses. Dark sunglasses with black frames. With his mane of gray hair and a gray beard both full and long, he looked like a wizard who moonlighted as a park ranger.
Feeling no menace from the stranger, Nick chuckled and said, “You lost, mate?”
The War for the Waking World Page 8