The War for the Waking World

  “There’s no world in which you ’ave an intellect superior to mine,” Rigby hissed.

  “And yet how easily I caught you,” she said, absently examining her fingernails once more. “It was foolish of you to go after Kaylie in that way. No good could come from extinguishing her extraordinary power.”

  “Well, she’s got to be accounted for,” he replied. “You’ll see. And if you mess with ’er, you’ll ’ave to deal with Keaton—”

  “Archer is out of the picture,” Kara said. “By the time he’s back in, it’ll be too late.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Archer’s past has caught up with him. A terrible shame, really.” Kara began to laugh quietly. “In many ways, you and Archer have taken a similar path . . . and share a similar fate.”

  “Enjoy your miserable riddles.” Rigby sneered, shaking his top hat at her and jangling his chains. “Enjoy it while you can. It’s all going to come down, Kara. It’s going to burn down and take you with it.”

  “Oh, Rigby, don’t be so bleak.” Kara waved her hand dismissively. She stood from the throne and approached her captive, stopping just out of Rigby’s reach. She crossed her arms and studied him for a few moments.

  “You might beat Keaton,” Rigby said. “Might.” His expression showed that outcome to be very much in doubt. He smirked and continued, “If ’e doesn’t get to you in time, you might even manage to fool most of the world. But you’ll never fool my uncle for long. Scovy has research you know nothing about. Don’t you think the inventor of the Veil concept will figure out the Veil . . . and your schemes? And when ’e does, ’e’ll come for me.”

  “I’ll deal with your uncle when the time comes,” Kara said. “But he’d better come soon.”

  “Or what? You’ll sic the Scath on me? You’ve already done that. What else can you do, kill me?”

  “No, I’m not going to kill you, Rigby,” she quipped. “If I did, where would I get my entertainment? You’re like my own private puppet show.”

  Rigby strained against his chains. “You—”

  “Good-bye for now, Rigby,” she said, reaching for the Shadow Key. She gave it a twist, and the slab doors began to close.

  “Wait, what did you mean?” Rigby demanded. “What did you mean by ’e ’ad better come soon? What’s the time component?”

  Kara grinned as the doors slid slowly, like some giant arachnid’s mouth. “Isn’t it obvious, Rigby?” she quipped. “No? Put it this way. If your uncle takes too long, I’ll release you into his custody and wish you both well. In a matter of days, neither of you will care anymore.”

  TEN

  THE CHARGES

  MASTER GABRIEL’S ARMOR FLARED, THE RUNE-LIKE tracings in each articulated plate burning brightly with white fire and lighting up Archer’s bedroom. The other two soldiers wearing Incandescent Armor similar to Master Gabriel’s stepped to either side of Archer and took hold of him at the elbows and shoulders. Gabriel drew his sword, Murkbane the Nightcleaver. For a surreal and terrifying moment, Archer thought the blade might be meant for him, a rather quick sentence for his crimes.

  But Master Gabriel turned to Archer’s closet, and slashed the glowing blade up, across, back down, and across once more, carving a ribbon of light in a gate-sized rectangle that reached from the ceiling to the floor. Master Gabriel sheathed the blade and waited. Archer was about to ask, but snapped his mouth shut.

  The glowing frame began to fill in. Silver tendrils of light cascaded down, spreading to the edge. An image was forming. For Archer, it was like watching a thousand invisible hands painting; only, their brushstrokes left not paint but streaks of lightning. He blinked and squinted, watching with open-mouthed astonishment as a rolling stairway of light came into being. It was not a spiral stair, nor was it a staircase. It was an undulating staircase that climbed, disappeared over a wide ethereal hill, only to reappear beyond with more inclines and hills as far as the eye could see.

  “Come, Archer,” Master Gabriel said quietly, and he stepped through Archer’s closet onto the stair. The soldiers led Archer forward, following their leader. A few steps forward made all the difference. Archer’s closet seemed less real, while the stair became more.

  It was a long journey up and down, but it was not arduous, not taxing. Instead, Archer felt energized. His will pulsed within him, surging and tingling. Each step seemed more effortless than the one before. There was an occasion when he just happened to glance at the horizon to his right. He blinked. He thought he’d seen the faintest hint of an image . . . Old Jack, the Dreamtreaders’ timekeeper. Its clock face seemed strange, though, at the time, Archer couldn’t decide why. What time did it say? Six o’clock? But in light of the Rift, what did that even mean? Archer had little time to consider it. In a blink, it was gone, hidden by a whorl of stardust.

  In the midst of the journey, Archer made the mistake of looking down. Through the shimmering light, the veil-like corona emitted by the stair, he saw down to the world he’d always known. His heart fell, for he saw the toll of the Rift. Archer saw little but fire . . . and destruction.

  At the end of the rolling stairway in the sky, Master Gabriel and his soldiers led Archer through a dense bank of mist, destroying all sense of direction. In fact, all of Archer’s senses seemed muffled. He knew the soldiers still marched on either side, and the shadow ahead must have been Master Gabriel, but it was disorienting. Once, he thought he heard faint music, but it was gone in an instant.

  When they at last emerged from the mists, there was a blue sky and snow-covered terrain, all brilliantly lit but with the sun nowhere to be seen. They picked up the pace now and followed a winding path down into a valley thick with pines. At its heart stood a stone fortress guarded on all sides by towering pines and monstrous snowdrifts. Where he was on earth—or even if he were still on earth—Archer could not tell.

  Inside the fortress, Master Gabriel led Archer down a narrow hall. They stopped for a moment at a pedestal upon which lay a large open book. Master Gabriel took up a quill pen that looked remarkably like the Summoning Feather, and then scrawled a few lines into the book. The soldiers led Archer too quickly past to see what the Master Dreamtreader had written. Archer itched to ask, but the place was so eerily silent that he wondered if it might be an additional crime to speak in such a sacred place.

  They turned left ninety degrees, and Archer winced, thinking they were going to walk straight into a plain white stone wall. But they continued on as if it were nothing but air. Each time they approached dead ends, they neither slowed nor turned but somehow passed directly through. When they at last came to a stop, Archer walked straight into Master Gabriel’s back.

  A door opened, and Master Gabriel cleared his throat audibly. “This cell is yours, Archer.”

  Archer hadn’t seen any other cells, but this one was real enough. A bunk, a desk, a restroom—all white as snow, but that was it. As the soldiers led Archer inside, Master Gabriel said, “Thank you for your service. You are dismissed.”

  “But, sir,” one of the soldiers said, hesitating, “we’re supposed to remain with the accused.”

  “We have orders,” the other soldier added.

  “Given to you by your commander,” Master Gabriel replied curtly. “Yes, I know. This commander is my subordinate. Have I made myself clear?”

  The two guards nodded repeatedly as they hastily disappeared around the corner. Then, the Master Dreamtreader turned his scowl to Archer.

  Gabriel’s ferocity drained away, leaving upon his features something closer to sadness. “You must know I would have avoided this if there were any way I could have, Archer,” he said. “Even at my level, there is an order to things, and order must strictly be adhered to.”

  That first glimpse of sympathy was enough to release Archer to speak his mind. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Master Gabriel, everything has gone haywire. The Waking World is dying.”

  “Indeed. It is killing itself,” Master Gabriel replied. “Peop
le no longer know what is real and what a dream is. They cannot find their anchors.”

  Archer dropped to his bunk. He ran his hands feverishly through his hair, and said, “Look, I don’t know what I’ve done—whatever it is, I’ll answer for it. I’ll take whatever punishment I’m due, but can’t you suspend sentence or something—just temporarily—so I can help the Waking World?”

  If not for the gravity of the situation, Archer would have laughed at Master Gabriel’s slack-jawed expression. The Master Dreamtreader’s gaping mouth closed, and then turned into a broad grin.

  Archer frowned. “What?”

  “It’s nothing,” Master Gabriel replied. “Pride, a touch of admiration. How much you’ve grown in so short a time.”

  Archer wasn’t entirely sure what Master Gabriel meant, but he didn’t allow himself time to ponder it. “So, what about it? Is there some way I can get out of here? Can’t we post bail or something like that?”

  Master Gabriel’s fist constricted around the pommel of Murkbane. “Our system of justice has no provision for that sort of thing. You will remain in custody until your fate is determined by trial.”

  “When will that be? A day? A week?”

  “We do not reckon time in the same way here as you do in your realm,” Master Gabriel explained. “No hours, no minutes. Just order. Your trial will begin once the evidence has been collected and documented.”

  Archer shook his head, stood, and paced the room. “I guess I should know the charge against me.”

  Master Gabriel clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed to hesitate before saying, “I am afraid there are many charges, Archer.”

  “This . . . that makes no sense,” Archer replied. “Just tell me.”

  Master Gabriel sighed. “The first charge is insubordination, for repeatedly disobeying the commands of a Senior Dreamtreader.”

  “When did I—oh. Right . . . when I went after the Nightmare Lord and cut the horn off his helmet.”

  “That and entering the Lurker’s lair in Archaia,” Master Gabriel explained. “But those charges will be easily enough dismissed. You were young and stupid, not defiant.”

  “Thanks. I guess. What else?”

  “The second charge is that of incompetence,” Master Gabriel said gently. “For failing in your Dreamtreading duties, failing to prevent a Rift.”

  “That . . . well . . . ultimately, that’s true.”

  “Well,” Master Gabriel said, “not entirely. Given the circumstances—Rigby’s and Kara’s betrayals, the Lurker’s secret breach-tunnels—I believe we can beat those as well.”

  “Okay,” Archer replied, mentally running back through the events that had led to the Rift. He wondered what he could have done differently, wishing he could go back and fix things.

  “The third charge is much more serious,” Master Gabriel said, “but, fortunately, the easiest of the lot to defend. You are accused of high treason for the murder of fellow Dreamtreaders, Duncan and Mesmeera.”

  Archer felt like he’d just taken two punches to the gut. “When I burned the Nightmare Lord’s trees,” he said, “I didn’t know they were there. I couldn’t have known . . .”

  “Precisely your defense,” Master Gabriel said. “This charge in particular is utterly preposterous. Duncan and Mesmeera are lost, and for that we most heartily grieve. But they made their own decisions, the choices that ultimately led to their capture by the Nightmare Lord’s trickery. It was a tragedy, but you are not to blame.”

  “Thank you,” Archer said. “So that’s it, then? Tough charges, but beatable?”

  Master Gabriel turned his back on Archer and stared through the cell’s bars. “There is one charge that troubles me,” he said quietly. “And I do not know how it will play out in the trial.”

  “Wh—what is it?”

  “Attempted murder,” Master Gabriel explained. “In your efforts to prevent the Rift, you went to Rigby’s home, down to the basement, and threatened to kill a helpless human being.”

  “Doctor Scoville?” Archer whispered. “But Rigby was threatening Kaylie. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t figure out a way—”

  “I know, Archer, but the facts there are dangerous.” Master Gabriel turned to face Archer. “With premeditation, you went to Doctor Scoville when he was helpless, and you were willing to kill him.”

  “But I didn’t,” Archer said. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I understand, Archer, I do. But that is the charge against you. And these are the charges we must defeat if you are ever to leave this place.”

  “This is crazy,” Archer muttered.

  “Nonetheless, we must prepare your defense,” Master Gabriel said. “Of course, I will be your defender. I have . . . some experience with this sort of thing. I am confident of—”

  “No,” Archer said, his voice quiet, but the word weighted.

  Hands on his hips, eyebrows and mustache bristling, Master Gabriel demanded, “What do you mean, no?”

  “You can’t defend me,” Archer explained. “The Waking World, my family and friends, they’re all running blind. It was bad enough right after the Rift occurred. People were accidentally dreaming up all sorts of terrors. At least then, when a monster appeared, people could see it. But now everyone’s been somehow brainwashed. They don’t even see the tragedies occurring all around them.”

  “What do you believe has caused this?” Master Gabriel asked.

  “I don’t know,” Archer admitted. “It might just be an unexpected result of the Rift, but I think Kara’s behind it somehow. All along, Kara’s always had a new trick up her sleeve. What better way to rule the world than to brainwash everyone into believing everything is just perfect?”

  “Hmm. I suspect you are right,” Master Gabriel replied. “The Wind Maiden rules without opposition so long as the world continues to drink her sweet-tasting poison.”

  Archer nodded. “Kaylie’s lost in it too. She thinks my mom is still alive. She needs to wake up. And . . . I have no idea where Nick is.” Archer thought about the newest Dreamtreader, Nick Bushman. The Australian had done well for having such a steep learning curve: playing his part at the dinner with Kara, Rigby, and Doc Scoville . . . and fighting valiantly. “My father told me Nick helped save him just before the Rift occurred, but I’ve lost him since. For all I know, Nick might be under the same spell I was under. He might be too inexperienced to wake himself up. He’ll need help—the Waking World needs help, needs someone to fight for it. It can’t be me; I can’t leave here. So you’ll have to.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” Archer replied, trying to be firm but treading lightly at the same time. “Kaylie and Nick, well, they’re your team. You trained them to be Dreamtreaders, but they can’t do the job unless you help them now.”

  Master Gabriel thought on this. He tapped his lips for a time. “I . . .”

  Archer waited.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Master Gabriel explained. “I must see to Kaylie and Nick; I must see to the Waking World. But what of your defense?” “I’ll defend myself,” Archer said. “If I can’t do it with my will, I can do it with my mind.”

  “Very well,” Master Gabriel said, putting a hand on Archer’s shoulder. “This is our plan, and we will see it through.”

  “One thing still bugs me though,” Archer said. “Who’s bringing these charges against me? Kara? Rigby? Doc Scoville? I don’t even know who could know all these things well enough to accuse me.”

  “There is one,” Master Gabriel explained, “who has been a behind-the-curtain party to all of this. One who, for devious reasons of his own, would like to see your downfall.”

  “But who?”

  There came a soft shuffling from the hall outside the cell. And then, on the other side of the bars, a shadow appeared.

  ELEVEN

  THE SIXTH DOOR SINISTER

  WHEN KARA HAD AT LAST LEFT RIGBY ALONE AND THE door to the Karakurian Chamber shut, Rigby spun on his heels and practically leaped
down into his prison. He hoped his act of pitifulness had convinced Kara he was done. He’d laid it on thick, projecting a wimpy, broken will that was sure to please her highness.

  Truth was, Rigby Thames was far from done.

  Rigby raced around the chamber’s great stone pillars and ducked under arches. He blew by the massive—but now virtually empty—bookshelves, and darted down the hall of many doors. At the sixth door on the left—the Sixth Door Sinisterhe called it—he entered and found a grand desk strewn with parchments, quill pens, and a few squat bottles of ink.

  Chains jangling like mad, Rigby flew to the desk. He crashed into the chair, grabbed up a quill, and stabbed it into a bottle of ink. “Okay, Scath!” he cried out. “Come to me!”

  There came from behind a slithering and a whispering. The torchlight flickered. “We need not follow its command!” one Scath rasped.

  “Disappointed us.”

  “Weaker than she.”

  “I am not weaker than Kara,” Rigby fired back. “Now, cut your nonsense. If you ever want to be set free . . . I mean, really free, get over ’ere.”

  “Promised us once, you did.”

  One of the Scath suddenly appeared at Rigby’s shoulder. “Liar!” it hissed.

  In one swift motion, Rigby dropped the quill pen and threw his arms up and over the Scath’s shadowy head. He drew his fists together, tightening the chain around the creature’s neck like a noose.

  “Whatever Kara did to these shackles to cripple me,” Rigby growled, “might just be enough to unmake you, Scath.”

  The chamber exploded into a swarm of shrieking, spitting-mad Scath, streaking around Rigby like they were hornets and he had just hit their hive with a bat. Their scowling faces passed within inches of Rigby’s, but he did not yet relent.

  “Let us go!”

  “It betrays us!”

  “Now it kills us!”

  “We will tear the Walker apart!”

  Rigby tightened his chains. “No,” he said bluntly. “No, you won’t. If I feel so much as a pinprick from you, I’ll pull these chains so tight his little Scath noggin will pop off.”