Dreamseeker (26 page)

A spirit whispered something to the Shadowlord, too low for Isaac to hear. The
umbra maja
nodded sharply. “Go. Report it to him.” Isaac flinched inside. Report to whom? His father? The Guildmaster? Any hope he might have had that he could keep this situation from getting out of hand had just vanished.

He shouldn't have come here. He knew that now. It had been an act of utter foolishness, sheer youthful arrogance, and the magnitude of the mess he was in was just starting to sink in.

The Shadowlord gestured toward the door. “You will follow me,” he commanded.

Isaac nodded weakly and fell in behind the man as he left the room. They walked down the black corridor without speaking, Isaac following the Shadowlord like a whipped puppy, but this time the hallway was not silent. The Shadowlord's ghostly retinue filled it with scorn.
Foolish boy!
they whispered.
Doomed!
Isaac flinched as ghostly fingers prodded at him, mocking his despair.

The Shadowlord entered the elevator. Isaac joined him.

It started to go down.

Not up.

Down.

Isaac felt his heart sink as he realized where they were going. His offense must have been truly dire in the eyes of this elder. After a
brief descent the elevator stopped, and the two left the cage and entered the prison level, where Jesse and her friends had once been locked up. As the Shadowlord directed Isaac toward one of the cells, they crossed the very spot where she had kissed him, and a wave of despair suddenly came over him, so powerful that he was forced to stop walking for a moment to pull himself together.

Emotion. He was displaying raw emotion in front of a Shadowlord. The shame of it doubled his misery.

Finally he entered one of the cells, and the
umbra maja
locked the door shut behind him. There was nothing inside the small space—no food, no water, not even a chamber pot. He could lick cave moisture off the stone wall if he got thirsty enough, but that was about it.

“Your father will be informed of this,” the Shadowlord said. “He'll deal with you.”

There was no point in responding to him. Isaac had gambled everything for the sake of knowledge, and he had lost. Protesting the consequences would only bring more shame upon his family and make his situation worse.

Assuming that it was possible for it to get any worse.

With a sigh he sat down on a stone protrusion and rested his back against the wall. Spiritual exhaustion enveloped his soul like a shroud, the long hours of tension finally taking their toll. Two years ago he had fled from this place to escape a Shadow's destiny, and this was the natural end of that journey. Whatever misery came after this, at least he would no longer have to pretend he was something he was not. In the midst of his despair, it was perversely comforting to know that he would face his final moments being true to himself.

He wondered if Jesse could reach him in this place. He had so much to tell her, but no idea how to establish contact. If he fell asleep, could she come to him again? Or must she wait for him to start dreaming on his own, before she could do that?

He was far too anxious to sleep but too exhausted not to. He lay back and closed his eyes, leaving the choice to
destiny.

S
EER
G
UILDHOUSE IN
L
URAY

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

A
LIA
M
ORGANA

T
HE DAYS WERE GROWING LONGER AND LONGER,
Morgana noted, in workload if not in hours. Each one seemed more complicated than the last, and more dangerous. Seeds that had been planted years ago were starting to bear fruit, and a decade of watching and hoping must now give way to a careful—and secretive—harvest. At her level of functioning there was no room for error.

Miriam Seyer knocked and entered. “Rita Morales is here, Your Grace.”

A painted eyebrow arched upward. “Send her in.”

She had not called Rita to her, but she wasn't surprised that she'd come. Miriam had already reported that Jesse had no intention of talking to the Seers, so there was little left for Rita to do, other than debrief.

Soon a quick, light stride could be heard approaching the study. The footsteps paused at the door—perhaps uncertain, perhaps just respectful.

“Come in, Rita. Shut the door behind you.”

The girl obeyed, taking up a respectful position before Morgana. The Guildmistress noted that she had not seen a Healer yet. Fresh
scratches marked her face and arms in a dozen places; combined with the bruises from a week ago, it gave her skin a surreal aspect, like an abstract painting. The scratches were real injuries, of course, unlike the bruises which had been applied as part of her cover story. Not that voluntary bruises hurt any less than the real thing.

Morgana nodded brusquely to her. “I would say you did a good job, but in light of the chaos you left behind you in the Blackwaters, perhaps ‘good' isn't an appropriate adjective. Nonetheless, you accomplished the task I set for you.”

Rita bristled slightly. “I warned you what Jesse was planning. You told me not to interfere.”

“So I did. Though, to be fair, your warning of a ‘disruption' was a bit of an understatement. But that was my failing, not yours. You did well, Rita. As always.”

The girl bowed her head slightly, a gesture that was respectful but not submissive. Rita was never submissive.

“Tell me more about her dreams,” Morgana commanded.

Rita shrugged. “I already sent you a report about her nightmare. It didn't sound particularly significant, save for the appearance of the safe combination at the end. And that just appeared, without any kind of context or story. She seemed to be as mystified by it as I was.”

“Do you think that was really the case?”

Rita's eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you asking, would she lie to me? I see no reason why she would. We've been in this together since day one. She told me once that she was coming to think of me like a sister.”

“Yet she didn't want you with her today.”

She shrugged. “She needs some time alone. I totally get that. And she wants to approach the Fleshcrafters by herself. I get that, too. This is about her mother, her security, her future. I'm just a sidekick.”

“You did encourage her to meet with me before the two of you headed home, yes?”

“Yeah. She was pretty adamant about not doing that. You're not on her list of favorite people right now. No offense.”

Morgana waved off any concern. “No doubt she wonders how well
she can guard her secrets in my presence. A good sign. She's learning the game.”

Rita opened her mouth, then appeared to have second thoughts and closed it again.

“You have something to say?”

“It's not important, your Grace.”

“You're free to speak your thoughts to me when we're alone together. What is it?”

Rita bit her lip. “Are you planning to tell her who you really are? Because right now she wants nothing to do with you, ever. Maybe if she understood the reason you're so involved with her life . . .” She shrugged. “I don't know, it just seems like if you wait much longer to tell her the truth, you could drive her away for good.”

In answer Morgana walked over to one of the bookshelves, pulled down a black leather-bound volume, and placed it on the reading table. “This book explains the process by which Dreamwalkers go mad. It details a five stage process, of which the first two are fairly benign. In the last stage, their madness is broadcast to every sleeping mind within a hundred miles. There's a description of a city that devolved into total chaos because of one Dreamwalker living in it.” She pulled down another book and set it beside the first; this one was thinner and bound in faded brown pigskin. “This book explains how they drain strength from other people through their dreams. Perhaps the source of succubus legends.” A third book was added. “This one explains how they drain the
life
of others through their dreams—a particularly horrific version.” Another book. “This one details how they slowly transform into terrifying creatures, monsters of darkness that hunger to devour human souls.”

“Like the thing we saw at the compound?”

“Perhaps.” She tapped the top book with her fingertip. “The point is, I can pull a hundred books off my shelves, and each of them will say something different about what the Dreamwalker's Gift is, and how it will change Jessica. We don't lack information. Rather, we have so much information that it's all useless. If the darker predictions turn
out to be true, she may wind up being hunted by the Guilds and could fall into the hands of people capable of stripping her mind bare of secrets. In which case, there's one piece of information she can't be allowed to possess.” She paused, and a muscle along her jaw tightened briefly. “If that means that when she finally learns who I am she curses my name and walks out on me, so be it. She will still play the role she was destined to. I'll just have to guide her from a distance.”

“I don't suppose you'd share with me what that destiny is all about?”

Ignoring the question, Morgana walked back to the leather chair behind the desk and sat down. “You will go back to Terra Colonna, and maintain your friendship with her. Don't press her too hard for information on her dreams; it will only make her suspicious. She'll confide in you when she's ready. As for Devon, I want you to keep that tie close, as well. She may confide things in him that she doesn't tell you, and I want him to trust you enough to share that information.”

Rita snorted. “She thinks I'm interested in him.”

“Then use that. Use whatever you have to. You are my eyes and ears in that world, Rita. Do what you must to stay informed.” She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers as she thought. “I want you to keep an eye on the other changelings, also. Report to me immediately if any more of them die suspiciously. The Council of Guilds ordered Virilian to cease killing them and if he persists, proof of it would give me valuable leverage over him.”

“I'm surprised the Council is showing so much mercy.”

“It isn't mercy, merely expediency. Those murders were sloppy. They revealed the nature of our Gifts too openly, and threatened to draw the wrong kind of attention to us. The Greys are going to work on a short range strategy to distract the locals, while the Council considers more permanent solutions.”

“Such as?”

Morgana said nothing.

“It would be nice to know what's coming, if you're going to send me back there.”

“Let's just say that right now it's safe for you to return. If that
changes, be assured I'll pull you out in time.” She paused. “Terra Colonna is an unstable world. It may well destroy itself without our help.”

Rita pressed her lips together tightly, but asked nothing further. The girl was a loyal agent, Morgana noted, but that might change if the Council decided to Cleanse a world she had connections to. Stronger alliances than this one had collapsed over such details. Morgana would have to watch her closely.

More and more worlds in the Terran cluster were developing sciences that were capable of revealing the changelings' true nature. Terra Colonna wasn't the first, and it wouldn't be the last. The Council of Guilds couldn't just destroy every world that learned how to decipher the double helix. They needed a better solution.

Rita asked, “Are you going to let her approach the Fleshcrafters on her own?”

“She's welcome to approach them. As for getting what she wants from them without my help, I've set things in motion to see that doesn't happen.”

“She's stubborn,” Rita warned. “And not likely to give up on something just because you made it difficult.”

Morgana smiled faintly. “I'm counting on that.” She leaned back in her chair. “You know the proper channels to use to report to me from Terra Colonna. Keep me informed.”

Rita bowed her head respectfully. “Of course, Your Grace.”

As the door closed behind her, Morgana wondered how long it would be before the existence of a true Dreamwalker became public knowledge. Sooner or later it must; there was no way to avoid it. God willing the pieces of Morgana's plan would have time to fall into place before that happened. If not, a lot of people were going to go down, Morgana first among them.

So many variables. So many unknowns. The game was growing more dangerous by the day.

But that was the kind of game she enjoyed most.

And played best.

S
HADOWCREST

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

I
SAAC

T>
HE LANDSCAPE IS FRIGID AND LIFELESS,
lush forest and majestic mountains draped in a glistening layer of ice that renders everything sterile. In some places the ice is coldly beautiful, like a frozen waterfall, but in most it is simply forbidding. Overhead, carrion birds circle impatiently, their black wings stark against the grey and sullen heavens as they wait for something to die.

They are waiting for him to die.

Shivering, Isaac tries to remember the morning he watched the sun rise over those same mountains, with Jesse by his side. No sun is visible now, and though he tries his best to summon a memory of what that dawn looked like, he can't. His soul is too desolate right now to recall such a moment of happiness.

Suddenly he hears her approaching, her footsteps crunching the surface of the ice. She comes to stand beside him, like she did that morning so long ago, although this time there is no joy in her, only concern. It's his sleeping mind that conjured
this setting, and as she watches the vultures circling overhead, she must surely be wondering why it looks like this.

“Jesus,” she says. “What happened?”

He shrugs stiffly. “I went somewhere I shouldn't have, and I got caught. In a lesser family that might have been a minor offense, but for an Antonin, who supports the honor of the Guild on his shoulders, like Atlas supports the globe, it was an unforgivable sin.” He laughs bitterly. “Right now my body is locked in the same cell your brother was once in. It's a bit warmer than this place, and lacks the vultures, but otherwise it's equally cheery.” He looks up at the birds and then adds quietly, “Or maybe we do have vultures there. Just not the kind with wings.”

“I'm so sorry.” The sympathy in her voice makes him ache with shame. No one should have to feel sorry for him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

There is more color in her than in the rest of the landscape, he notes. The spark of her life defies the sterility of his dream setting. He longs to reach out and touch her, to connect with that spark. Instead he looks away. “I have the information you want. It's . . . it's not good news, Jesse.”

“Tell me,” she says quietly.

“The reapers are wraiths, bound by their creator to hunt Dreamwalkers. I don't know how he empowered them to enter dreams, as we don't have that kind of ability ourselves, but he did. They haunt the minds of dreamers, and when they find signs of the ancient Gift, then they attack.” He pauses. “That's why no one has seen them for centuries. There's been nothing to hunt.”

“Now they have me,” she mutters. “You weren't kidding about the bad news.”

He nods. “There were seven of them originally; I don't know how many are still around. I couldn't find any record of them appearing in the waking world unless their creator
summoned them. With him dead, they're probably just running wild.” He pushes back a lock of frosted hair from his forehead. “If someone were to Commune with his memories they might be able to take control of the reapers, but he was one crazy sociopathic bastard, even by our standards, so that's not likely to happen.” Very quietly he says, “I'm sorry, Jesse. But it sounds like a reaper has your scent, metaphysically speaking, and judging from everything I've read, it won't let up until you're dead.”

She bows her head. He waits silently, knowing that she's struggling to process all that he just told her. It's a burden he wouldn't wish on anyone. “So there's no hope?” she murmurs. “Nothing I can do about this?”

“I didn't say that.”

Startled, she looks at him.

“They're just wraiths. They may have some fancy powers, but at the core they're still ghosts, subject to the laws that rule the dead. And the universe is full of necromancers. We harvest the most Gifted ones for our Guild, so that's where most of the power is concentrated, but you'll still find echoes of it in other places. Your own world has its share of mediums, and some of those may have traces of legitimate power. If you can find one who does, who knows how to bind and destroy spirits, maybe he can help you.”

“I thought the Shadows' Gift was the ability to travel between worlds.”

He shook his head. “Our control over the dead gives us the knowledge we need to do that, but it's a learned skill, not inherent in our Gift. All the strange practices that we're known for—transformation into the undead, Communion with the departed—those came late in the game. Near as I can tell, we didn't start doing those things until the end of the Dream Wars. Before that we were simply necromancers.” He managed a weak smile. “Or so I've read recently.”

“Dream Wars? What were those?”

“Some kind of all-out conflict between Shadows and Dreamwalkers. The other Guilds supported us, but it was really our campaign. Planned genocide.” He hesitates. “I have no clue why my Guild wanted the Dreamwalkers dead so badly. That's what I was trying to figure out when I was caught.”

She turns away from him. After a moment she says, very softly, “I have an idea of why.”

He waits for her to say more, but she doesn't. Finally he offers, “I wish I could be more helpful.”

A shadow of pain crosses her face. “You told me what I need to know. If I manage to survive this mess at all, it'll be because of you.” She hesitates. “But now you're in danger because of me—”

“No. No. That's not true.” He takes her hands in his. How warm they are! How full of life! “No one forced this fate on me. I hungered for a destiny other than the one I was born to, and that hunger betrayed me. But because of it I got to experience life—
real
life—and I'll never regret that.”

She is about to respond when the world suddenly begins to shake. Ice shivers on the mountaintops and then begins to crack, shards of it raining down into the valley. The birds overhead screech and then fall from the sky one by one, and as they strike the earth it swallows them. The landscape around them begins to dissolve like smoke.

“It's time,” she said, squeezing his hands. “Good luck, Isaac.”

“Enough,” a voice commanded.

The ghosts who had prodded Isaac to wakefulness withdrew, leaving him half-asleep and disoriented. It took him a moment to focus on the person standing outside the bars of his cell: His father.

“It's time we talked,” the Shadowlord said.

Quickly Isaac got up, ran a hand through his hair to bring order to it, and smoothed the worst sleep wrinkles from his robe. The actions were reflexive; even in these dire circumstances he couldn't bear to look disheveled in front of his father.

The Shadowlord watched in silence as Isaac approached the bars. Normally his father's expression was unreadable, but today there was anger in his eyes. The magnitude of emotion that he must be feeling for it to bleed to the surface that way was unnerving. “You have long disdained the sanctity of our customs,” he told Isaac. “For two years you denied this Guild and our family, indulging in common passion rather than accepting your duty. Now I'm told you were discovered in the Chamber of Souls, an offense against the authority of the
umbrae majae
and the customs of our Guild. By doing so you bring shame to our family and damage the reputation upon which other Antonin depend. And this time you did it in the heart of Shadowcrest, so that all know the details of your transgression.” He paused. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Isaac considered apologizing, but he knew his father well enough to realize that they were well past the point when it would do any good. “No, Sir.”

“Why did you go to the Chamber of Souls?”

Keep it short,
Isaac warned himself.
Keep it simple. The more you say, the more likely it is he will come up with new questions to ask.
“I wanted to learn more about our history, Sir.”

“You could have gone to your teachers for that.”

“There are things they don't teach us.”

“Perhaps there are reasons for that.”

Isaac said nothing.

“At least you could have asked a Shadowlord to bring you there, so that your visit was properly sanctioned. You could have asked
me
to bring you there.” Now anger was evident in his voice, the fury of wounded pride. The man's own son had been unwilling to come to him for assistance. That was his failing as well as Isaac's.

Isaac felt as if he was standing on a rock surrounded by quicksand; no matter what direction he walked in, the end would be the same.
At least I can keep from betraying Jesse's trust,
he thought. It would be miniscule victory in the face of disaster, but a victory nonetheless.

He said nothing.

The cold eyes fixed on him, taking the measure of his soul. “Is there any reason I shouldn't cast you out from the family, excising you from our ranks to protect those who would embrace their responsibility with more enthusiasm?”

Isaac hesitated. He could launch into a speech about how strong his Gift was likely to become, about all the experience he'd gained in the outside world, and how it would make him a better Shadow in the long run, about the thousand and one things he might do for his family in the future if allowed to stay, that would cast honor upon their House . . . but that was all bullshit, and his father knew it. Isaac didn't belong here. His actions had proven it. No simple words could change that fact.

He said it humbly: “None that I know of, Sir.”

“Very well, then.” His father's expression was grim. “By the authority of the elders of House Antonin, I sentence you to be cast out of our House, and out of this Guild. All ties of blood and duty will be severed. You will be as one who was born in the outside world, who has no claim to loyalty, assistance, or affection within our ranks. You will no longer be family to us, or to me. Do you understand?”

He had to swallow back the lump in his throat in order to speak. “Yes, Father.”

“The possibility that you might share our secrets with the outside world must be addressed. While a Domitor could remove them from your mind, that process would enable him to learn things he shouldn't, and your mind could end up so damaged that death would seem a mercy by comparison. Therefore it has been decided by the elders of the House that a Domitor will be brought in to alter your mind, so that any attempt to divulge Guild secrets, no matter how trivial, will
cause you unspeakable agony. In this way your silence will be assured. Do you agree to this course?”

Isaac swallowed thickly. The question was not a rhetorical one; reworking the fabric of someone's mind on that scale required the cooperation—or at least the assent—of the subject. But what choice did he have? Virilian wouldn't allow the Antonin to exile him if there was even a chance Isaac might spill the Guild's secrets to outsiders. It would be far easier just to kill him and secure those secrets forever. Isaac's father was offering him a chance to leave this place alive, as something other than a walking vegetable. Only one answer was possible: “I agree.”

“They have decided you will also bear the mark of shame, so that all who see you will know that our Guild cast you out in disgrace. Do you understand what this means?”

Isaac flinched, then nodded.

“Do you have any objections to voice, about any of this? It's your last chance.”

None that would matter to you
, he thought bitterly. “I do not.”

“So be it, then. I'll make the necessary arrangements.”

His father turned away and walked out without another word. Isaac stood there in silence, the full magnitude of the elders' judgment slowly sinking in. He had little doubt that he could handle exile—he'd lived on his own for two years already—but the mark of shame that his father had proposed was a brutal punishment, meant to identify those who were unworthy of a Guild's trust. Anyone connected with a Guild would consider it his duty to shun Isaac, while anyone not connected with a Guild would see the mark as the sign of a failed elitist, someone who'd been given opportunities they could only dream of, and pissed on them. Someone who deserved to be taken down a notch.

Or several notches.

At least he was going to live. He hadn't even considered that his Guild might sentence him to death for such a minor offense, but his father was right—the secrets of the Guild mattered more to its
masters than a mere apprentice's life. Isaac could be replaced. The secrecy of the Guild could not be.