“Go, Archer, go!” Razz whispered.
Archer hesitated in his seat for a few moments. He felt as if three hundred spotlights had just been turned on him. “Um, yes, your honor,” he said, while thinking, Here goes nothing.
The judge nodded. “Proceed.”
Archer stood and wandered around the defense table to face the gallery on the left. He’d seen a few courtroom drama movies. He’d even visited a courtroom for a civics class field trip. He thought he knew what to say, but that had been a while ago.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “esteemed high judge, my accuser has leveled charges against me . . . serious charges. I do not take these lightly, and to be honest, I have to admit the charges are . . . mostly true.”
The courtroom erupted in chatter. For about five whole seconds.
The judge raised his right arm, and a massive steel gavel appeared in his hand. When he slammed the hammer down to his desktop, there was a flash of dangerous light, followed a split-heartbeat later by the sound of thunder. Actual thunder. It was the kind off sudden thunderclap that rattles the windowpanes, causes the foundation of the house to shake, and generally scares the bejeebers out of anyone nearby.
It certainly scared Archer. Involuntarily, he jumped and ducked at the same time. Abruptly, the courtroom chatter ceased. Archer swallowed and glanced over to Bezeal, whose pinprick eyes had grown to the size of half-dollars.
“I will have order in this court,” the judge said quietly. And no one argued nor dared to speak. “You may continue, Dreamtreader Keaton.”
When Archer spoke, his words at first came out in some sort of half-strangled, gravelly chicken-squawk. “While the charges are—” He cleared his throat. “While the charges are somewhat true, the motives—suggested by my accuser—are absolutely false. I intend to prove that as a Dreamtreader in the midst of the most difficult circumstances imaginable, I did my job. In fact, I did my job the best way I could, and I intend to prove that each time something tragic happened, it was caused by an opponent seeking to cause the evil that occurred. When we look at the evidence, you will see I am not innocent. I made mistakes. But after you see my motives and my actions, my enemies in action, and the destruction they caused . . . I am content to accept whatever verdict seems right to you as well as whatever sentence seems fair.”
Archer took his seat. Silence reigned.
“Prosecution,” the judge said, “call your first witness.”
“Your honor,” Bezeal began. “My first witness comes from the past. She entered the courtroom moments ago so fast. She is—”
The thunder-gavel fell once more, and this time Bezeal jumped.
“I warned you about that singsong, rhyming nonsense,” the judge growled. “It gives me a headache. Bailiff, if the prosecution rhymes again—even one time—I want you to take him into custody for contempt of court. And then I’d like you to find the coldest, dankest cell and lock him away.”
The bailiff seemed extraordinarily happy with that command. “Yes, your honor,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I will most certainly see to that.”
Bezeal’s eyes shrank once more to a pair of pale dots, and he made an exaggerated bow. “With all due respect, your honor,” he said, putting a strange emphasis on the word. “I do my best thinking in rhyme. To take that from me is . . . well . . . a rather unfair handicap.”
The judge lifted his gavel. Archer winced, expecting a blast. But it didn’t come. Instead, the judge stayed the hammer in his hand and said quite tersely, “That we have allowed you into this court at all, Bezeal, is a courtesy greater than any but you and I can know. Do not fool yourself into thinking you might gain additional courtesies. You will not find them here.”
At this point, Archer was feeling pretty good about the way things were going. Chief Justice Michael did not seem to be really on anyone’s side, but he was definitely not extending Bezeal any favors.
“My first witness, then,” Bezeal said, “shall be Archer’s Dream companion, Razz.”
“Objection!” Razz shouted.
Archer gave himself a face-palm.
“What now, Ms. Moonsonnet?” the judge asked.
“I object because I am co-counsel. How can I be expected to be a witness against my client?”
The judge’s granite expression didn’t soften in the least. “Ms. Moonsonnet, we have no exceptions for truth. If your testimony will shed light on your client’s innocence or guilt, we will hear it. Now, take the stand.”
Razz frowned. She looked at Archer for guidance.
“Just tell the truth,” Archer said.
Razz nodded and whooshed to the stand. She hovered a moment over the seat, decided against it, and sat instead on the rail.
“Ms. Moonsonnet,” Bezeal said snidely. “Would you please tell the court what Archer whispered to you just now.”
“I’d rather not,” Razz mumbled. “It was private.”
“What was that?” Bezeal asked. “So you’re saying you won’t share with the court? Could it be that Archer was feeding you things to say?”
Muttering rippled around the court.
“Um, no,” Razz replied, “Archer just ordered me to tell the truth.”
Bezeal stopped in midstride. “Oh.”
The muttering turned to giggling.
“Very well,” Bezeal said. “Ms. Moonsonnet, I’d like you to recall a little trip you and Archer made to Archaia.”
This, thought Archer, isn’t good.
“Could you state for the court what you and Archer were doing in that part of the Dream Realm?”
“Stitching up breaches,” Razz replied. “The usual Dreamtreader stuff.”
“Just the usual,” Bezeal repeated. “But there was a point where Archer insisted on doing something else, wasn’t there?”
Razz didn’t answer right away.
“Wasn’t there?”
Razz finally muttered, “Yes.”
“And what was that?” Bezeal asked. “What caused you to abandon Archer for the rest of that evening?”
“It was a good idea,” Razz muttered. “I was just frightened.”
“What was it?” Bezeal demanded. “Tell the court what Archer planned to do.”
Razz sighed. “Archer wanted to travel to the Lurker’s lair to look for an old relic.”
“And why did he do that?”
Razz squinted at Bezeal. “Uh . . . because you told him to.”
The crowds exploded in discussions, mutterings, grumblings, and even a few shouts. The thunder-gavel sounded. Silence resumed. Undaunted, Bezeal said, “Yes, Archer and I made a deal, so he went in search of this relic. Why didn’t you join him?”
Here it comes, Archer thought.
Razz frowned. “Because Master Gabriel commanded Archer not to meddle with the Lurker.”
Bezeal’s Cheshire grin reappeared. “Did Archer go see the Lurker? Did he defy his Dreamtreading commander?”
“Yes.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Bezeal said, the lights in the courtroom dimming as he spoke. “I submit to you that Archer impudently turned from his Dreamtreading path. He rebelled. He forsook Master Gabriel’s command and defied him. Let us see the Eternal Evidence.”
Archer felt his skin begin to crawl, especially on his scalp. It felt like a hundred tiny electric ants were parading upon his head. The lights went out altogether, and a strange, white cylinder appeared in the air between the two galleries. Suddenly, the cylinder came to life with moving pictures—not film, but memory. Archer was suddenly looking at himself. He was standing on his Dream surfboard on the eastern border of Archaia, and Razz was perched on his shoulder.
But he wasn’t just watching. That prickling sensation on his scalp intensified and continued for the duration. And, though he was still seated at his table in the courtroom, he could feel the motions of the memory as it played out. The movements felt dreamy and kind of suppressed, more like involuntary flinches than regular motion. It
was a most peculiar sensation, and Archer thought it could have been fun . . . if it weren’t for the fact that he was on trial for his life. With trepidation, he watched as the scene unfolded.
The on-screen Archer seemed to stare, his eyes fixed on some point to the west. But he and Razz were talking, the conversation growing more and more animated as it went on.
“What are we waiting for?” Razz squeaked. “Let’s go get that puzzle relic thing!”
“What about the Lurker?” Archer asked.
“We’ll deal with him if we have to, right? You have plenty left in the tank, don’t you, Archer?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “But there is one more thing.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Gabriel told me not to go, not to get the relic.”
“What? Why?” Razz drifted to the stump and curled up.
“He wouldn’t tell me,” Archer said. “But I think he’s worried about me getting hurt.”
“I guess that settles it then,” Razz said.
“You don’t want to go now?”
“Are you crazy?” Razz yelled. “No one, I mean no one, defies Master Gabriel.”
Archer sighed. He’d been so hopeful Razz would travel with him. “I have to do it,” Archer said. “I have to try. The Nightmare Lord has been going after my friends, my family, even Kaylie. I’ve got to stop him.”
“Yes,” Razz said, “we do need to stop him, but not by going against Master Gabriel.”
“I’m going,” Archer said quietly.
Razz frowned, leaped into the air, and flittered in Archer’s face. “Well, you can count me out then. I won’t cross Master Gabriel. Not now. Not ever.”
The last visual to be displayed for the whole court to see was Archer’s catching an Intrusion wave right to the edge into Archaia. After discarding the board, Archer crossed the border, stepping defiantly onto the blood-red soil of that desolate country. The screen went blank, the darkness feeling like a door slamming shut.
A cell door.
TWENTY
CHEAP WALLPAPER
KAYLIE STOOD IN HER BEDROOM DOORWAY AND FELT A chill. It was actually quite a mild day for January, so it wasn’t from the weather. She was dressed warmly; she had no other symptoms of cold or flu; and she’d eaten a nice warm breakfast. Yet the chill was there.
At just eight years of age, Kaylie possessed a superior intellect. Beyond simply being a genius, she had tested off the charts and out of regular school classes long ago. She understood the nuances of Einstein’s theories. She could do advanced calculus in her head. She found Oxford’s online literature classes overly simplistic. So when her intellect failed to determine a reason for the cold, it was a big problem.
She felt certain something was different. Some variable had changed, but what? Patches, her scarecrow doll, was in his usual spot, sitting on the bed among the pillows arranged just so. Her laundry was folded, stacked neatly on her hope chest. Every dresser drawer was closed tight. Nothing seemed out of place. The shade was drawn down low, and the drapes were just as she’d left them in the morning.
The window.
Kaylie smiled at her own foolishness. Clearly, the chill was coming from the window. Obviously, someone had opened the window and failed to close it tight, and a chill breeze had seeped in. “I’ll take care of that,” she muttered.
Kaylie bounded across the floor, detoured a moment to scoop Patches from the bed, and then scuffed across the carpet with enough force to generate a visible static spark when she touched the metal latch on the window. “Ouch,” she whispered, plopping the zapped finger into her mouth.
The chill’s dramatic increase seemed to confirm Kaylie’s theory, but when she tried to shut the window, it wouldn’t budge. It couldn’t budge, actually, for it was already shut and locked into place. The uncanny chill was still there.
She clutched Patches tighter and looked from the doll to the window and back. Some kind of connection had been made between the window, Patches, and the precise spot where Kaylie stood now. It was like closing a complex circuit. The chill. A monstrous shadow. Sickly green eyes, glistening with malice.
Kaylie let out a high squeak and hurriedly backed away from the window. She squeaked louder when she backed into something near the door, and strong hands gripped her shoulders.
“Kaylie,” he mother said gently. “Sweetie, what’s the matter? You’re shaking.”
Kaylie spun around to hug her mom but stopped and backed the other way.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked.
“Um, nothing . . . nothing, Mom,” Kaylie said, trying to play it cool. “I just caught a chill, that’s all. Well, I better get back to the books. Studying, you know.”
“Kaylie, are you sure?”
“Totally sure, Mom.” Kaylie flopped onto her bed and snatched a physics book off her bedside table. “I’ll be down in a bit.” She flipped open the book and pretended to teach Patches part of the lesson, all the while waiting for her mom to disappear from her doorway.
Once the coast was clear, Kaylie ran to her door, shut, and locked it. At last, she thought she understood the cold. It wasn’t a drafty window, nor any natural phenomenon. It was supernatural. Hearing Archer the other day talking about their mother’s cancer taking her life had terrified Kaylie. But worse still, it somehow rang true.
Then, the icy feel of her room had vexed her until she stood next to the window. Something had happened there. Something with Archer and a dark intruder, a towering force of evil, and it had happened right there in her room. But she still wasn’t able to call the memories back to put it all together. Not until colliding with her mother just now.
When Kaylie had turned to look into her mother’s gentle eyes, there was no comfort to be found there. For just a moment, her mother had no eyes at all . . . just swirling ash. Soon, little bits of gray, like f lurries of ashen snow began . . . bit by bit rebuilding her face. The entire process of restoring her eyes had taken just a few seconds, but Kaylie wasn’t about to second-guess what she had seen.
There wasn’t just something wrong. Everything was wrong. Kaylie sat on her bed, saw her Patches dolly, and then she remembered. She remembered the Nightmare Lord breaking through the Dream into the Waking World. She remembered Archer struggling to protect her. And she remembered the awakening of her own Dreamtreading power and how she’d used Patches against the evil intruder that night.
Like the simplest geometric proof, all the pieces came together.
The Rift.
“So this . . . is what it does?” Kaylie muttered, standing and walking slowly to the bedroom window. “But it’s fake. All . . . fake.”
Kaylie flexed her will to call up a massive amount of her mental power, focusing it like a laser on the window glass. She reached up and with her fingertips pinched until she caught hold of something feathery. She diverted her will to that spot and began to pry mentally at it. Soon, she had a firm grip on . . . something. She began to peel it upward, a disorienting thing to see the reality peel away like some kind of cheap wallpaper. As she removed a shred and then another, she could see clearly that there was another world all around her.
The real world.
DREAMTREADER CREED, CONCEPTUS 13
In previous eras, a Nightmare Lord has always occupied the throne at No. 6 Rue de La Morte. In fact, rarely has that dark seat lain empty for more than a few years.
Dargan was the first Nightmare Lord. His was a short-lived but fiery reign. Under his fist, the first instances of insanity entered the Waking World. And as a result of his meddling, the Dreamtreader Order was founded.
It was by the very first trio of Dreamtreaders—Aurora, Olin, and Fortescue—that Dargan was thrown down. It cost them their lives and set a high standard for all those who would follow in their place.
Dreamtreader, always be conscious of this: the Waking World and those you protect are very much worth your own life. Do not surrender it foolishly, but if you must in order to succeed in your calling,
then cling to it not.
TWENTY-ONE
A NASTY SANDWICH
NICK BUSHMAN LUNGED TO PROTECT HIS LITTLE BROTHER. The old nutter had shown up in his kitchen spewing about dreams and different worlds—lunatic-grade material. That was all surprising and awkward, but didn’t seem particularly worrisome, until the maniac drew a sword.
“Look, mate,” Nick said, pushing Oliver backward toward the den, “I don’t know what you want, but I’ve got some money and some electronics you could sell for a fair bit. We don’t want any violence here.”
“No,” Master Gabriel replied, “and that is part of the problem. You are seeing what you want to see because you do not want the violent truth. And because of that, I have no choice. I must open your eyes no matter the pain it causes.”
The intruder took up his broadsword, and Nick swallowed. This was no costume weapon. This was cold, wickedly sharp metal. Nick’s mind flew into calculations. Before he knew what he was thinking, he’d already sized up the intruder and calculated the best angle of attack.
His kitchen was narrow, so the maniac had a very limited space for any sort of slash or swing. That left a thrust. Nick felt certain he could sidestep the impaling attack, roll toward the cabinets, and take the man down with a ’rang to the throat.
Nick blinked. He’d seen the whole thing in his mind, and it would work—he was sure of it. But here was the baffling thing: he had no combat training. How would he know the first thing about this sort of hand-to-hand fighting?
“Again,” Master Gabriel said, “I am sorry. This will be quite . . . disturbing to you.”
“Oliver!” Nick grunted, lowering to a crouch and readying his countermove. “Get outside. Get on your bike, ride to Dunny’s place. Ring the police.”
“No, Nicky,” Oliver protested, “I can’t leave ya!”
Nick used his body as a shield. He kept his eyes riveted to the intruder, but continued to nudge Oliver back. “No time for heroics, Ollie. Get yourself to Dunny’s like I said. Go!”
The War for the Waking World Page 10