Dreamstrider (3 page)

I lean forward, scarcely able to contain the excitement skittering through me. It was all worth it—my uncertain dreamstriding, the outrageous expense in smuggling us into the Citadel, our months of preparation to infiltrate the Iron Winds’ culture. Because our informants were right.

The Land of the Iron Winds is preparing to invade Barstadt—and I’m looking at the battle plans.

The Commandant shuttles three of the war vessels to a port city on the western shore. I squint to make out the stylized lettering of the city’s name. Grast. “The Second Fleet will await your troops in Grast in one month’s time,” the Commandant says. “Will they be ready by then?”

Were this the older Commandant we’d prepared for, I would know it’s not a question at all, but an order, unless I fancy getting Cold Sun’s head conveniently detached from his body for him while he sleeps. This Commandant, however, seems more casual than the man described in our reports. Nonetheless, I’d rather err on the side of caution. I suspect one doesn’t become Commandant without an explosive blend of shrewdness and egomania.

“Whatever the Iron Winds…” I glance toward Brandt, but he’s looking through the living space on the other side of the dais, searching for additional clues while the Commandant’s focus is on me. I cast about for a suitably formal word. “Demands.”

The Commandant nods. “And what of the battle preparations I proposed?”

A spicy curse springs to my tongue—well, the general’s—but I stop from voicing it. I knew I’d have to sink deeper into the general’s thoughts sooner or later, and this is far too important not to take the risk.

In Oneiros, I dip my feet into the stream, settling my bare feet into the loose dirt at the bottom. Suddenly a cloud passes over the sun, flooding the forest with darkness. The birds cease their chatter. Am I interfering too much with Cold Sun’s thoughts? I fight to rein in my panic.
Focus, Livia,
I remind myself
. Direct the stream and nothing more.
The battle preparations. How did the Commandant send them to Cold Sun? By raven, by horseback messenger?
Hurry, General, yield your secrets
.
Awaken just enough to provide the answer.

The stream churns, frantic, agitated by my probing.
Elite squadrons,
it cries.
Troops from the west.
But the water is leaping up, crashing against the banks—I’ve pushed too far; I’m letting him wake too much. He’ll remember this conversation as more than just a hazy dream. I need to hurry and leave the Citadel before he wakes up completely.

“We shall have two of the elite squadrons prepared for Barstadt City’s dockside gates.” I’m rushing through the answers I gathered from the general’s thoughts. “And the ground troops will arrive from the west.”
Please, Dreamer, don’t let him awaken.
But then another thought of the general’s reaches his lips before I can stop it—“You’re not seriously considering the mystic’s proposal, are you?”

Brandt’s back is to me, but I see him pause, hands withdrawing from whatever he’d been reaching for. The Land of the Iron Winds is supposed to be stern, revering subservience to the Commandant above all else. Nothing in our research indicates they are given over to mysticism about anything but the Commandant’s supremacy.

“That isn’t your concern,” the Commandant says. “If his aid ensures our victory, then I must seize such an opportunity.” But the Commandant’s gaze lingers on the heart of the Land of the Iron Winds map, a hatchmarked patch of earth labeled only as “Quarry.”

The general leans forward with a determination I’m not controlling. “It’s madness, you know.” The stream rushes faster now, threatening to sweep me under, as his thoughts pour out of his mouth before I can rein them in. “We should leave the dreamworld to the Barstadters who understand it. We have no right to meddle in metaphysical gibberish—”

“You think I don’t know that?” the Commandant hisses. “But the mystic has shown us proof of what he can do. If he can pull
that
off with the entire fleet, then Barstadt’s navy won’t stand a chance.”

I strain to get ahead of Cold Sun’s thoughts—I could take advantage of this outburst of information by asking the Commandant what exactly he means to pull off—but the general purses his lips, squashing my words down.

The Commandant’s eyes take on a glassy sheen as he continues. “The mystic’s dream interpretations are too uncanny. His messages from my father…” My mind whirs. Does he mean the old Commandant? Perhaps he’s not dead after all, or else this mystic is pulling off quite the con. “And he foretells a great victory for us, atop the spine of a mighty warbeast. The Barstadt Empire shall tremble and bow under our fearsome gale!”

Is the warbeast some new weapon the Iron Winds has designed? Dreamer curse their allegorical speech for muddling it all up! I want to poke further at that thought, but General Cold Sun steers the conversation, my grip on his consciousness slipping once more. “This mystic is a charlatan, preying on us. I’ve never known you to be one for superstition. It doesn’t behoove your father’s philosophy: man as god, Commandant as controller of the Winds of Fate. Strength and victory above all.”

The Commandant’s hand trembles; his fingers dance across the sharp edge of a tiny ship’s sail. “I fear if we don’t give him what he wants, he will turn the warbeast’s power on us.”

The general’s shoulders tense; I want to learn more about this mystic, but Cold Sun is on the verge of waking. I lift one foot out of the stream in Oneiros, trying to let him settle back into sleep, and let his thoughts wash over my other foot.
Barstadters. Agents. Traitors,
they say. “And what of our agents within Barstadt City’s walls?”

The Commandant swishes his hand, as if the question was beneath him, but he betrays himself with a glance over his shoulder, toward where the jewel-spangled figure disappeared. “Yes, yes, they will carry out their tasks. You needn’t worry about them.”

But my efforts to ease back from Cold Sun’s consciousness didn’t work. Within Oneiros, the stream is bubbling, rising, heating up, threatening to boil over. I’m out of time.

I try to move Cold Sun’s arms to signal Brandt, but the general’s body fights against me. I’m getting squeezed out as his consciousness tries to return. In Oneiros, steam pours off of the water as it rises from its banks, sharp and acidic against the dark earth. There’s no doubt he can sense me now. I splash back onto the forest floor, but it’s not enough. The stream turns red—molten.

“Commandant—” General Cold Sun speaks freely now. “I fear that I am—We may have been—”

Brandt rushes forward from the shadows, the perfect portrait of the concerned valet. “General, we must return to our carriage. Take you to a physicker.” He casts a glance toward the Commandant. “I’m afraid our fortress has not been spared the latest fever coursing upon the winds.”

Dreamer bless Brandt and his calm, quick mind. Red lava oozes from the stream in Oneiros, turning the trees into columns of fire. The general’s instincts war against mine; even as I fight to stride down the long corridor leading out of the Citadel, he tries to turn the other way. Bile tickles the back of my throat—it’s more his, now—and dimly, I feel Brandt’s hand gripping our elbow.

The Commandant is shouting at us, but I can only hear the shapes of his words, not their substance. We must be violating twelve different social customs right now, but whatever punishment the Commandant has in mind for us is nothing compared to the danger that awaits me in Oneiros if I can’t get back to my body in time.

My vision blurs as if an earthquake is jostling my sight away from the general’s eyes. He’s forcing me out. I’m adrift in Oneiros, bait for the hungering void that I dare not tempt. The Nightmare Wastes feed on fear and doubt; they swallow up souls that are lost from their bodies, and forever trap them in emptiness. I have to cling to the general, keep control of my soul until we reach my body—

Until I can—

Rest your head, and join us in eternal rest …

The Wastes reach out for me like the embrace of winter frost.
Come,
they beckon.
Forget these worlds. Forget your dreams and your life that can’t compare.
A simple request, as insistent as sleep tugging at my eyelids.
You needn’t struggle any longer. Surrender, and suffer no more.

“Livia, please, stay with me,” Brandt pleads, as he guides me through the Citadel. Then he says, softer, “Dreamer, please show us the way…”

The Wastes chuff at me like a wolf checking its prey. Their tug is so strong, stronger than it’s ever been before. Where once the Wastes whispered behind my back, they now seem to have surrounded me, their urges twisting around my limbs like rope.
You’ll only fail again. Surrender to us, pay the price for your weakness …
It tempts me more than it ever has before.

Hay, I smell hay and the tang of manure flooding General Cold Sun’s nose.
Please, Dreamer, protect me for just a moment longer.
I can’t feel the general’s feet or his hands; I don’t know if we’re close enough yet for my soul in Oneiros to seize the tether to my own body. His consciousness presses in on me like all-consuming flames. And still I cling to his body. I can’t be cast out, open to the Wastes.

Then I catch a glimpse through Cold Sun’s eyes—I want to weep at the sight of me, crumpled in the stall. I take a deep mental breath and prepare to seize my body’s tether to return to myself. Just a bit closer.

But the general’s body swings around, and he turns on Brandt, his thoughts crackling like flames.
No!
I try to scream at Brandt, because I’m not certain we’re close enough for me to seize the lead to pull me back into my body.

Cold Sun is awake and forcing me out.

“What is the meaning of this—”

Brandt cocks his fist, swings it at us—

And everything goes black.

Chapter Two

I’m swimming through blackness with the scent of blood heavy in my nose. The general is unconscious again after Brandt’s blow, but now my soul is completely out of his body, vulnerable to the Wastes. They call to me like rocky cliffs, begging for fresh meat dashed across their faces.
Disappoint your friends no longer … Surrender to emptiness …

Visions dance before my eyes—some memories, some not—of my life back in Barstadt. The way the other Ministry operatives fall silent and move to another room whenever I’m around. The Incident, with the crackle of flame and scent of charred meat hanging thick in the air. A glimpse of my mother’s milky eyes, roving the tunnels in search of help that never comes. Other illusions appear, too, of failures I fear are yet to come—Brandt, his throat slit by a gang leader’s blade when I’ve botched yet another operation. And always, always, the fear of Brandt disappearing into his other life, the life of aristocratic dinners and alliance-building, a world I can never know.

“Livia.” Brandt’s voice pierces the veil of whispers and sorrow. “Livia!”

I reach, desperate, scrabbling, for the lead that will pull me back into my body. Almost close enough … I can see my body’s tether dangling down into Oneiros now that we’ve moved closer to my body in the real world. I fight against the Wastes for just another second—

You’ll destroy him—

Brandt. They’re right. I’m only going to cause him harm—

“Livia!” Brandt calls.

I bump into the tether, take hold, and
snap.
I plunge into myself and awaken with a gasp.

“Livia!” Brandt seizes me by the shoulders—my shoulders, with my hair draped over them, crusted with hay. He brushes his fingers along the side of my face as a pent-up breath escapes his lips. “Are you all right?”

I flow back into my body a little more with each hammering of my frantic heart. I try to grip his forearm, but my fingers flop against his elbow. My skin feels scrubbed raw; everything is too loud, too smelling, too feeling.

“Water,” I wheeze.

Brandt fumbles a waterskin free from his belt and holds it to my lips. The sweet, cool water is just what I need, though my mouth isn’t working right yet and half of it sloshes down my chin. I drink my fill, then slowly, carefully bring myself to my legs, tottering like a foal.

“You’re safe,” he promises me, but I know him too well. He’s stern-faced and matter-of-fact, but I see the white rimming his too-wide eyes. His fingertips linger against my cheek. “Will you be all right on your own?”

I manage a nod. “I just … need a moment to come back to myself.”

“I can buy you a moment.” He tucks a stray curl back from my face, then stands up. “I’ll fetch the carriage and give the general and his valet another dose to make sure they
stay
asleep.”

I can’t stop shaking, though I don’t know whether it’s from cold or panic. The Commandant’s guards are surely coming for us, but he shouldn’t know what I really am, what I was doing. No one beyond the Emperor, Professor Hesse, and those I work with in the Ministry of Affairs know about dreamstriding. I study the unconscious general’s chin, where a nice welt is forming, courtesy of Brandt.
Please, Dreamer, don’t let him remember Brandt’s face.

By the time Brandt returns, I’ve adjusted well enough that I can help him wrestle the slumbering general and his valet into the coach. No thunder of boots approaching the stables yet, but we’re out of time. Brandt helps me climb to the driver’s bench, and steers us away from the Citadel.

We sit side by side for our trek back to the port village across the splintered, barren earth. Feeling has returned to my legs and arms, but my nose and fingers are still numb as though I’m intoxicated. I’m grateful for the casual riding breeches and blouse I wear in my coach-driver disguise; I haven’t the wherewithal to sit up like the proper lady I’m usually forced to play.

Neither of us dares speak until we meet with our contacts at the oceanfront town—two coachmen and a physicker, all native Iron Winders, all of them desperate for the bags of grain we promised them in exchange for their cooperation. The Ministry had authorized us to pay these associates in gold, but we learned quickly how little value Iron Winders ascribe to things they can’t put in their growling stomachs.