A Warrior of Dreams (46 page)

No other god
...

One moment of understanding, and Joslyn finally did choose an avatar, one very different from harpies and cats and images of power; something small and wizened, something with a little impish face and the wings of a gadfly. She soared above the dream and landed on the slotstick god's shoulder. She whispered into his ear.

"Listen."

*

The great weight was gone. Feran was awake, but it was hard to be awake. It hurt his eyes; it hurt his mind. The others were in pain, too. He tried not to be aware of them, of the stifled sounds they made. There was too much he didn't understand, but he
—
they, were threatened by the god in black. He understood that, understood what must be done. It came naturally to a god...

YOU'RE NOT A GOD.

The voice again. It told him lies, but it had no power. And he had no time. "Go away."

YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

"The place of mortal dreams. The Nightstage."

It was trying to confuse him. He would not allow it. He tried to swat the insect on his shoulder, but it was too quick for him. It buzzed around his head like a gnat and settled again by his ear. IF YOU ARE A GOD, it went on, relentless, WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

"I
—
" He stopped. He had a name, but it didn't belong, not to all the hidden ones who were part of him, not to the whole they made. It was his. "
—
don't know."

LIAR. YOU KNOW, YOU REMEMBER. BUT IT ISN'T THE NAME OF A GOD, IS IT? THERE'S AN EMPTY SHELL IN THE WAKING WORLD, AND HE'S WAITING FOR YOU. WAITING TO REMEMBER HIS NAME.

Feran couldn't shut it out. He tried. For an instant a mortal dream appeared before his eyes; he saw an image of a sad-faced man in the robes of an adept. It was too late not to realize where he was, what it meant. He remembered what had happened to him and the others. He felt their separateness, felt their pain and knew it would soon tear the feeble union apart.

The Adversary didn't wait that long. He became lightning, and he flickered and hissed through a gathering storm. His voice was thunder incarnate. "Little God, I'm going to burn you."

The Adversary's power enveloped him, but there was no fire, not yet.

HE HAS TO FINISH THIS PLAY, AND THAT REQUIRES YOU TO REMAIN A GOD A LITTLE LONGER. HE'S NOT MALITUS, NOT WHO HE SEEMS. HIS NAME IS --

A misty hand held up for silence. "I know who I am. I know where I am. It's enough." He spoke to the image of the God of Ending. "Burn me. I won't stop you."

The Adversary laughed and the heavens rolled. "Truly a sad world where a newborn god is in such a hurry to die."

The slotstick, the patchwork god gathered strength instead of storms and noise. Understanding gave him a plan, but did not remove fear. The world might stand one small use of power, and again it might not. They were too close to the waking world; their power would destroy it. But if the legends were true... "I can't stop you. No one can stop you now. Except, perhaps, yourself."

Confusion. Just an instant. Perfect.

"Why should I
—
"

Time itself hadn't a chance to move. The patchwork god closed the gap between himself and the image of Malitus and took hold of the lightning with desperate, divine strength. He held the hood in a grip an earthquake wouldn't loosen. The Adversary didn't move.

"That's right; I know you. You've found a hidden way into the Dream, a mask that will let you destroy it from within. It was masterful, your triumph deserved. Use it. But there's just one condition if you do
—
I swear that your own true face will be the very last thing the Dreamer sees before her dream ends. She will know you, and when she awakens she will remember."

Nothing moved. Across the Nightstage all dreams were still.

"It's a simple choice," the patchwork god said. "Make it."

*

On the plain before the city of Ly Ossia, the army of Malitus watched a theater in the sky. One of the players was a scarecrow giant, but, at the sight of the other, Brother Ligen's face shone with the light of heaven.

"See! Malitus himself has come to lead us!"

A great shout went up from the plain; a thousand curved knives were held aloft to catch the rising sun. On the city walls, bows were drawn, pole-arms made ready, but everyone kept their eyes on the sky, watching the doings of gods as if through a distorted glass.

Brother Ligen held his own knife high. "Follow
—
He didn't get to finish. Another shout came from the army, but it was not of joy. Ligen saw what everyone else saw: Malitus seized by the scarecrow giant. Malitus held like a rag doll. Malitus retreating from the sky to leave the spindly god alone in triumph. Ligen's throat felt like ashes; it was hard to speak, but he tried. He spoke of signs, of tests. He spoke of what the vision meant. Some listened, and held close to him. Others did not. They had their own ideas about the meaning of defeat.

They ran.

*

The gadfly was gone. In its place was a young woman with long, dark hair and a voice of command. "Come out. Now."

"Wait," he said. He didn't know why.

"No. You've done enough damage."

"Damage..." The confusion was coming back. "I saved the dream!"

"Only because you know the proper place for a god. Is this it?"

It was not. And with the Adversary and the Dream Master's avatar both gone, there was nothing to hold the dreamers together. Nothing but himself. He looked back at the way he had come, but the woman shook her head. "Even a god dies at the proper time, and it is time. Break free; the others will follow you."

Every word distracted, every truth drove in the wedge a little more. You. The others. He was Feran. Separate. Alone. The unity split apart, the god emptied like a burst sack of grain and scattered. When it was over the kernel that was himself stood before the dark dreamer.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"I don't remember the way," he said.

The hardness was gone from the woman's eyes; it wasn't needed. She held out her hand. "That's all right," she said. "I'll show you."

*

Joslyn moved warily in the catacombs, but as far as she could tell, she was alone. Once a sudden rattle in a pile of bones startled her, but it was only a rat, more frightened than she was. It disappeared behind a pile of skulls.

Joslyn found a trail of blood. It glistened darkly in the weak light.

Right or left
?

The droplets seemed to splash more to the left. She followed that way and found the Dream Master. His robes were caked with blood, his eyes open and staring. She knew he was dead, had known since the imp vanished from the nightstage. It was quite another thing to see the blood, feel the stillness of his body. Now revenge was satisfied, now the anger could leave her alone. And it did leave her alone, all alone with a cold, empty place inside where it had lived. She wondered if the emptiness would ever go away.

Joslyn backtracked until she found the chamber. Ghost lay slumped against the near wall, a trickle of blood coming from his scalp. Perhaps the injury was worse than it looked, but then again...
Stubborn nightsoul
? It worked before. She drew back and slapped Ghost hard across the face. His eyes shot open, his arms flailed.

"Damn!"

Joslyn danced out of reach and gave him her brightest smile. "Good morning."

Ghost slumped back against the wall, rubbing his eyes and cheek. Joslyn studied his face, looking for... something. She wasn't sure what, but she'd know it when she saw it.

Ghost stopped moaning long enough to notice her. "I think I know you," he said.

"Does that matter?"

"I
think
so," he said, "because if I do, then I deserved that swat. If not, then I have a right to be angry. I think being angry would feel marvelous just now."

"You know me," Joslyn said, "but I'm sure we can work something out."

Ghost started to laugh but winced instead. "I'm sorry. We
—
I, know you, Joslyn. I am whole again. But I'm also a little confused right now."

"You've been less than a man and more than a god all in the same day. That's enough to confuse anyone."

Ghost slowly massaged his jaw. "What's happening above?"

Joslyn pulled a kerchief from her belt and started to dab at the blood on Ghost's head. "The Watchers killed the few Enders who didn't flee with their god. And it seems dear Musa had a few hidden followers, too. She's securing the Temple now; Daycia and her folk will join Musa here in a few days. Without Belor and Tagramon to disturb his dreams I doubt the Emperor will interfere."

Ghost nodded. "That's as it should be. And I'm sure Musa will have a place for you
—
ow!"

Joslyn was still smiling, but she was putting a lot more pressure on the wound than was really needed. "So now I go back to making auguries? Not likely. The average man's dreams are a bubbling swamp; I've waded in them quite enough."

Ghost pried the cloth loose from her fingers and applied it himself. "You're a Temple Dreamer. What else can you do?"

"What else?! Ghost, I've found the road of the gods!"

Ghost groaned. "So did I, Joslyn. An adept working alone, and you see where it got me. I want you to promise you won't take that road again."

Joslyn rested her hands on her knees. "Was that actual concern in your voice? No, of course not. Well, I'll strike you a bargain
—
I'll make that promise if you will." She saw Ghost shake his head. "Why not?"

"Because I spent years to find it, and my way was no less difficult than yours. And because everything we do, everything we feel, everything we
are
is there, with them... There's not an idea or ideal in this world that isn't reflected there, and in its cleanest, most archetypal form. The Nightstage is a cluttered mess by comparison. I have to go back. I have to understand."

Joslyn nodded. "I knew your answer before you spoke. You know mine."

Ghost smiled at her then, and Joslyn saw the thing that had been missing from Ghost's face all along
—
fear. His own fear, not borrowed, not imagined. He was whole again; he could feel. Pain, for instance. He seemed to be expecting it.

"Joslyn, I saved your life and you've done as much for me. I am whole again, and you've rid yourself of some old burdens. The debt is settled between us; I have no claim on you. But I have learned the Mythstage is no place for anyone alone. For what we've seen, and what we still must do, I think we could work well together."

Joslyn's smile was like a cat's
—
all teeth. She shook her head. "Settled? And what kept you tied to this world while awaiting your glorious restoration? Who sacrificed strength and energy and a great deal of
time
nurturing
—
you know the truth of it
—
an inhuman
thing
? The Dream may be worth that, but I don't know if
you
are. So I want that time back, Ghost. You're going to give it to me. You'll start by telling me your name. After that you're going to help me find a friend who's still lost in the Dark Sea. After that... well, I make no promises."

Ghost sighed. "Who taught you to bargain like that?"

"Musa," she said, "and the Dream Master. Two rather fine teachers, and I'm afraid you're no match for me. Your name, Ghost. That's the least part of your debt."

"All right, but it was a long time for me, too. Can't I keep my name for myself, just a little longer?"

Joslyn helped him stand. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Where are we now?" she shot back.

"The Dwelling of the Blessed Dead."

"And what belongs in the Dwelling of the Blessed Dead?"

Ghost considered. "The Blessed Dead?"

"Are we either Blessed or Dead?"

Ghost went along with Joslyn's odd catechism, not really sure where it was headed but strangely eager for the trip.

"Not now," he said, "just living fragments of the Dream."

"Very good. Now let's go join the other living fragments of Somna's Dream. Then perhaps it won't be so difficult for you to share yourself with me."

Ghost leaned on Joslyn till the room stopped spinning. "All right, but when you decide
—
whether I was worth saving, I mean
—
will you let me know?"

Joslyn smiled. "That's one promise I will make."

And with Joslyn's hand on his arm, the man once called Ghost took his first cautious steps back into the living world.

Epilogue

In a place not so very far from Somna's world another dream died. Gahon tried to gather the pitiful fragments together but there weren't enough left to save. He watched the last of them slip through his taloned fingers and vanish.

So tired
....

He managed a smile. It wasn't difficult; there was humor in his failure
—
the creatures of Somna's dream actually thought she didn't know. She knew; it was her dream.

But that isn't how this game is played
.

In that place not so very far from Somna's world Gahon, first called The Lover, returned to sleep. It smoothed his scaly brow and made him less the demon, less the Prince of Nightmares. In time he began a new dream
—
Gahon chose his images and pictured the game as a chess board this time, saw his pieces in place for the winning move. There was one small obstacle.

It wasn't his turn.

Somna chose a piece Gahon hadn't noticed before, a figurine of jade, deep-carved and intricate. She picked it up with long slim fingers and set it before Gahon's king. The stone made a merciless click as it took its place on the board.

"The Changeling...." he muttered. His opponent just smiled in that infuriating way she had, clearer than words and much more painful.
You've lost again
. Gahon looked at her. "I still have one move. The final one."

Somna's smile never wavered. The change was all in her eyes. "Revenge is better than nothing, I'm told. And there are those who settle for that
—
when they lose everything else."