A Warrior of Dreams (16 page)

"Are you all right?" Ghost asked, "You weren't wounded."

Joslyn's wild laughter was muffled by the blanket, but Deverea nearly dropped the small mug she'd filled. She jabbered a question at Ghost in her own language. Ghost shook his head and waved her over. She came, but she didn't take her eyes off Joslyn for an instant, and when Ghost took the mug Deverea retreated gratefully to the distance of the fire.

"Drink this." Ghost ordered.

Joslyn drank, and it nearly choked her. The mug did not hold the herb tea she had expected; the brew was lightly spiced and heavily potent, foul and wonderful all at the same time. Sanity returned, and she stopped shivering. "What is this?"

"
Paross
. Fermented from a little black berry that grows in the Trecastyn woods. The windfolk are quite fond of it."

"Small wonder..." Joslyn drank again, not so much this time. She started to feel a little better.

Deverea still regarded her with an odd mixture of fear, suspicion, and wonder. Joslyn finally noticed. "What's wrong with her?"

"She thinks you've seen the face of the Goddess Ajel Kar, and that makes you blessed... or cursed. The words are interchangeable in their language."

Joslyn took a hearty gulp of the paross. "She thinks her goddess did
that
?"

Ghost shrugged. "From her point of view it's quite reasonable. I'm sorry if you were startled, but I don't think I had a choice. Did... did you lose control? In dream, I mean."

"I knew what you meant, and the answer is no. The nightsoul... me, that is
—
kept close. I think she
—
I was terrified."

"I was worried. Yes, actually worried. Isn't that marvelous? But I see that you're all right now."

He seemed insufferably pleased with himself. Joslyn wanted to hit him. "No, Ghost, I am
not
all right, and neither are you! Didn't you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

At first she thought he was playing some sort of poor joke, but it was clear that he wasn't
—
Ghost could barely tell day from night, for all that either meant to him. And if Deverea was terrified it was the lightning and the imagined brush with her patron goddess that caused it. Neither had noticed the... Joslyn groped for a word, any word, but none seemed to fit. Nothing really carried the blind terror, conveyed the total chaos of emotion that went with the thought that the world was ending. Joslyn shook her head, slowly. "Ghost when you... killed that man, something happened. I don't know what, and I'm not sure why, but I do know one thing: what you did was dangerous. For all of us."

Ghost frowned and glanced at Deverea. She seemed to be praying. Ghost sighed. "I didn't feel anything, and I don't know why you're so upset. It was such a small thing
—
"

"Small!?" Joslyn hissed. "
Think
, damn you! I know there are other adepts. I know the Temple doesn't hold all power and skill. But you called
lightning
! It was not a little thing, Ghost. I think you actually took control of Somna's Dream, and for an instant changed the fabric of world! It was wrong, wrong in a way the Dream almost couldn't bear. I don't know how you did it and I don't care. You are not to do it again. Do you understand me?"

"Joslyn, I really don't. I felt nothing. I saw nothing. And I did save your life..."

"Yes you did," Joslyn replied, mildly, "and if you do it again I'll have Deverea drop you off in Darsa and
I'll
go wherever she'll take me. Maybe I'll become a Windfolk priestess and spend the rest of my life describing the face of Ajel Kar to anyone who'll listen. But I'll have nothing else to do with you, and your Nightsoul can howl in the dark forever for all I care. I want your promise, Ghost. I want it now."

Ghost rubbed his eyes, wearily. "All right. I think I'm losing the power anyway. Too hard to concentrate."

Joslyn only heard his promise, and felt a profound sense of relief. Then she heard Deverea. The woman sat in front of the fire; there was a small wooden carving in her hand, and her lips moved in some frantic ritual. "What's that?"

Ghost listened for a moment, then smiled. "A prayer to turn away evil. Sorry Joslyn; the Windfolk have learned to be careful."

Joslyn lay back on her blankets. "Ghost, do you think you could bring Deverea over here? It's high time I lifted my curse."

Chapter 8
—
How to Kill a Ghost

The curtains were pulled tight around Tagramon's chamber; a single candle gave muted light, and all sound was muffled. The Dream Master sat in a cushioned chair by his bed, staring at a half
-
emptied wine glass. He wondered for a moment if there would be time to finish it
—
and, perhaps, to refill the glass
—
before the time came.

"Master?"

Tagramon smiled to himself.
There's one answer that won't cost dearly
. "Here, Belor."

The High Priest slipped noiselessly through a split in the draperies. Tagramon, not for the first time, marveled at the...
nothing
, he saw in Belor's face. It might have passed for serenity in another, but Tagramon knew there was no inner peace in Belor. It was just that the High Priest knew what he had to do, and didn't question. Tagramon envied him his conviction, and only wished that he could portray his own faith more convincingly.

Belor stopped and bowed before the Dream Master. "I've found a subject. Are you ready to proceed?"

Tagramon took up the wine glass. "Almost." He took another long drink. Belor said nothing, and for some reason that irritated Tagramon. "You don't approve, do you?"

Belor shrugged. "I didn't say so. But since you seemed determined to goad me I will
—
you know how important this is, Master. It would serve us ill if your faculties were clouded."

"My faculties," the Dream Master said, "are already `clouded' as you say. But my nightsoul doesn't share my frailties. It will not interfere, and it soothes me."

Belor frowned. "Soothes you? I don't understand."

"What we're about to do doesn't bother you? Not even a little?"

"There is compelling reason for all that we do, Master. That is my comfort."

Tagramon put down the glass. "You're right, of course. You're always right. You are my strength, Belor."

"Somna is your strength; I merely serve... now then. We have time, but not a wealth of it. The subject is an old man who sometimes sleeps in the gardens behind the Temple. He was seen sneaking through the gate a few minutes ago."

"Will... will you tend the matter yourself?"

For an instant Belor actually looked uncomfortable. "I must. I cannot ask another to accept the burden."

Tagramon felt ashamed of his own weakness, considering how easy and clean his own part must look to Belor. "Go and make ready. You'll know when the time is right."

The High Priest bowed again and left. Tagramon hesitated only a moment before he took a deep breath, put aside the wine glass, and stretched out on the bed. What came next wasn't a prayer
—
he didn't dare, not for this
—
but it
was
something of a promise:

"I'll be strong as he is, Creator. You'll see how strong I'll be."

*

Fifteen years, almost
—
a flicker of the Dreamer's eyelid at best, but, in human terms, the change was still dramatic. Belor remembered the garden and how it had looked the day he had come at the Dream Master's side to take possession of the New Temple. The garden was new, too, and wild with color. He remembered
—
the sight was almost painful.

For a time it was used to grow such herbs as were needed in those early days, with most of the Darsan Temple Dreamers dead and untrained children taking their places. Now it was mostly abandoned, but some of the herbs grew wild, still. Belor recognized the wide, enfolding leaves of Sweet Oblivion, the green tendrils and creeping vines of Darknet. He considered having the remnants of the garden destroyed, but there was no point: few people living now would know the weeds for what they were.

The wrought
-
iron gate hung on one rusted hinge. Belor squeezed through the gap and moved silently along a cobbled pathway. He found the old man curled up inside a rotting arbor, his head pillowed on a dirty bundle. Belor looked around very carefully, saw no one. He crept closer.

The old man stirred. Belor became as still as one of the vine
-
smothered statues marking the path.
Mustn't be too eager
.

When the old man didn't move again the High Priest fingered the dagger one of the acolytes had given him. It was a bare four inches long, and not very sharp.

We can do better than that
.

Belor tucked the puny knife away and pulled out another. This one he kept in a black leather sheathe in his robes. The blade was long and curved, and the inside crescent of steel was polished and honed to a gleaming edge.

Slowly, slowly, Belor crept to the old man's still form and settled down to wait.

*

Tagramon awoke on the nightstage. The beginnings of a dream were spinning around him, beckoning flashes of life and possibility. Tagramon pulled free of the nimbus and it scattered into fire
-
fly patterns that dotted the gray curtain and slowly faded away.

Later, my lovelies. Work to do
.

The Dream Master waited until the disorientation of reaching the nightstage passed, then looked into the mist in what he thought was the right direction. The glow of a developing dream was faint in the distance, but clear. Tagramon picked his way carefully through the mist until he reached the edge of the play.

The derelict's Nightsoul was a perfect mirror to the man: gray
-
haired, threadbare, worn down by a life of too many wrong turns and missed chances. It did not move boldly on the stage; it did not dare much. The dream was of a throne and crown
—
the throne of plain wood, the crown of tarnished silver.

Tagramon stepped back until the mist hid him completely. Without a word, with barely a thought he summoned the Shadows. They came easily, almost anticipating his need.

The Shadows boiled through the mist.

Slowly
!

They obeyed; the ripples in the mist subsided. Soon they gathered around him. They had no faces, they had no 'self' that needed a mask to show the world. They had no eyes, no sight that Tagramon did not give them. Still the Dream Master shivered. He couldn't help it. Despite their obedience, despite the long service they had given in pursuit of his purpose, Tagramon still didn't understand them. What they were, where they had come from. Perhaps they were spawned somehow from the Chosen Ones. Perhaps they were sent by the Creator as a sign of favor. Perhaps... he didn't know. The uncertainty always held fear nestled close, and Tagramon always felt it.

Be ready
.

Tagramon entered the dream.

The pauper
-
king drew himself up on his rough throne. "Why do you come before Us?"

"Think of it as a revolution, Majesty," the Dream Master sighed. The Shadows followed him into the hall, and the torches made them waver and dance. At Tagramon's command they swarmed over the nightsoul and held him tight. The embers of royalty died from the old man's eyes.

He squirmed in their dark grip. "Let me go!"

"Not just yet. Patience is a kingly virtue."

Tagramon heard the mockery in his voice and was a little ashamed of it, but did not relent. The man's struggles should reach all the way to his sleeping body...

The Nightsoul suddenly convulsed.

Belor
, thought Tagramon,
Punctual as always
.

The throne and crown disappeared. The old man fought with a ferocity that Tagramon hadn't imagined, but he could not get free.

"It doesn't just disappear," said the Dream Master, "The Nightsoul can be held!"

The derelict finally lay quiet. "Please let me go," he said. "She's waiting for me."

There was a dignity in the pauper king missing before, a certainty in his bearing.

"Who is waiting for you?" Tagramon asked the question before he realized that, perhaps, he did not want to know the answer.

"The Dreamer."

Now Tagramon was certain he did not want to know. But it did not matter.
Forgive me, Dreamer, but it is all for you, and we've gone too far to stop now
. Tagramon waved his hand. "Take him."

The shadows melted away, carrying the Nightsoul with them. The rest of the dream started to fade, but Tagramon kept the hall solid, recalled the throne, kept the torches lit. He sat down in the empty seat.

She's waiting for me
....

*

"Master?"

Tagramon woke in his chamber. Belor was already there, cleaning the last drops of blood from a small dagger.

"What happened?" Belor asked.

Tagramon rubbed his eyes and yawned. "After death the flight of the Nightsoul is both temporal
and
physical
—
within the context of the Nightstage, of course. As long as we're prepared beforehand this 'Ghost' can be safely killed, eliminating the threat he poses while keeping his Nightsoul where it is. Timing must be perfect, however."

Belor smiled, gave the knife a final wipe, and tucked it discreetly away. "All moot if we don't catch him. The Watchers reported a windship fleeing the outskirts of the city this morning. Ghost and our erring Temple Dreamer were on it."

"Then they could be almost anywhere by now. Those things are fast."

"Within their limits," Belor conceded. "The territories shored by the Grass Sea. A large area. Not infinite. How much longer till our work is complete?"

Tagramon shook his head. "I don't know. It's like filling a jug in the dark: you're only through when you can add no more."