The War for the Waking World

“No,” the stranger replied. “But you are. Fearfully and hopelessly lost in a fairyland that really is far too good to be true.”

  “Well, color me gobsmacked,” Nick said. “You delivered those lines, fair Dinkum. You an actor? C’mon, who put you up to this? Was it Charlie Grubbs? Bet it was.”

  The front screen door banged open and closed. Nick’s brother, Oliver, whipped into the kitchen, skidded to an abrupt stop, and asked, “Um . . . why is Merlin in our kitchen?”

  “He was just leaving,” Nick said, trying to take the stranger’s arm.

  The man shrugged loose. His dark eyes smoldered. “Unhand me, Nick Bushman,” he demanded. “I am no derelict, nor am I some peddler selling buttons at the door. As you should know, I am Master Gabriel, Chief Dreamtreader and your commanding officer.”

  “Whoa!” Oliver gasped out.

  Nick blinked. “I don’t know how you know my name, but I think this has gone far enough.”

  “Unfortunately,” Master Gabriel replied, “not nearly far enough.”

  “C’mon, mate, just leave. You’re scarin’ me kid brother.”

  “Oliver is not afraid,” Master Gabriel quipped. “He has the uncommonly good sense to think I am cool. But you, on the other hand, are the one battling fear. Now, gird yourself, and prepare for the news I bear you.”

  “Gird myself?” Nick echoed quizzically. “What does that even mean?”

  Master Gabriel opened his mouth, shut it, and frowned. “I do not know the correct expression for your generation—wait, yes, something I heard Archer say once. It means man upso you can endure the news I bring.”

  Nick turned his chin up. “All right. Spit it out and go.”

  Master Gabriel adjusted his sunglasses and replied, “Good and bad. Which will you take first?”

  Nick swallowed. “Bad news first, I guess.”

  “Very well,” Master Gabriel said. “The bad news is that this—” he lifted both arms and made a sweeping gesture, “—is a fantasy. It may look, smell, and feel real, but it is an illusion.”

  “What’s the good news?” Oliver asked.

  “Yeah, let’s get this over with,” Nick muttered, rolling his eyes.

  “It is clear to me that you do not take this seriously,” Master Gabriel replied. “Given the circumstances, I suppose you must be forgiven for that. The good news, then, is that I have come to open your eyes, to show you the world as it actually is. Nick, I am most heartily sorry for what I am about to do.”

  SEVENTEEN

  THE CASE AGAINST

  ARCHER GLANCED UP AT CHIEF JUSTICE MICHAEL THE Archelion and smiled nervously. Then, he glared at Razz. “Wh—what are you doing here?”

  Razz frowned. “I already explained,” she said. “The Waking World is hanging in the balance, so Master Gabriel sent me to help. Sorry I’m late.”

  “We are all well aware of humanity’s plight, Dream creature,” the judge said, a bemused tone in his voice. “But I am curious as to why you believe you are late to an event that you’ve not been invited to join.”

  Somehow, Archer knew that beneath the fur Razz’s cheeks were reddening like mad. Seemingly undaunted, Razz gave a little bow and said, “Actually, your high justice-ness, I am Archer’s co-counsel. Or co-defender, if you prefer. Co-protector? No? Co-keep-Archer-out-of-jail-ish, uh, person . . .”

  The judge’s stern glare closed Razz’s mouth, and he turned to Archer. “Dreamtreader Keaton, do you wish Miss Moonsonnet to assist your defense?”

  “He knows my name,” Razz whispered under her breath. “I’m a rock star.”

  Oh, brother,Archer thought. And though he thought it was likely a mistake, Archer was so happy not to be in this magnificent courtroom alone that he said, “Yes, your honor, um . . . Razz will help represent me.”

  Sinusy snickers came from across the aisle. Archer glared at Bezeal, who seemed to think Razz’s assistance was quite amusing.

  “And, Bezeal,” the judge barked, causing the merchant’s Cheshire grin to disappear, “it has been some time since we’ve seen your hooded countenance in this court, though there has been no shortage of your associate prosecutors. This case must be of particular interest for you to come yourself.”

  If Bezeal had looked uncomfortable before, Archer thought he looked positively beside himself now. He squirmed in his seat, and his glowing eyes shrank to pinpricks. “Your honor,” he squawked, “the Dream was my world, my livelihood, and my home. Until the Dreamtreaders came there to search, meddle, and roam. I came to seek justice beneath this court’s dome.”

  The judge tented his fingers, and his armor flashed brilliant light. “You may have a case,” he said, “but let’s get one thing straight, Bezeal. No rhymes.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” the chief justice thundered. “You will not make a mockery of my court with your inane singsong banter. Have I made myself clear?”

  Bezeal’s eyes flashed. “All too clear,” he said, “and I fear—”

  “Bezeal,” the judge warned, “one more rhyme from you, and I’ll hold you in contempt of court!”

  Bezeal blinked. “But . . . sir—”

  Chief Justice Michael leaned forward. “How do ten days cleaning Gloriana Stables sound to you? I understand the unicorns have been particularly well fed of late.”

  Archer suppressed the laughter he felt bubbling up inside and silently enjoyed watching Bezeal squirm.

  “That will not be necessary, your honor,” Bezeal muttered.

  “Good,” the judge said. “Now, do you as prosecutor have an opening statement?”

  Bezeal slid off of the chair and waddled out into the open well of the court, a span that stretched between the two galleries. “Yes,” Bezeal said, “if it pleases the court, your honor, the prosecution will speak.”

  “Much better,” the judge said. “Go on.”

  Bezeal strolled along the rail that enclosed the right side gallery. “A perfect balance,” he said to the soldiers seated there. “The Dream and the Waking World coexisted in a peaceful balance for many ages, until now. I intend to prove that a Dreamtreader, one sworn to protect that balance, did in fact cause its destruction; that this Dreamtreader, Archer Keaton, through his action and inaction did cause the Rift. I will show the court Archer’s willful disobedience for the commands of his superiors. I will show Archer’s careless use of excessive power, a traitorous act that led to the deaths of Dreamtreaders Duncan and Mesmeera.”

  The galleries erupted in gasps and hurried comments.

  “Objection!” Razz shouted, spinning in the air above Archer’s head and slapping her two tails together.

  “It is an opening statement,” hissed Bezeal. “You cannot object.”

  “It is unusual,” the judge corrected, “but legal. To what do you object, Ms. Moonsonnet?”

  Razz gave a half bow. “I object because Bezeal called Archer a traitor. That’s totally not true.”

  Archer reached up and yanked Razz’s tail. “C’mere!” he said. “That’s not helping.”

  “Ms. Moonsonnet,” the judge said, “the prosecution has a right to state the nature of the crime he intends to prove. Your objection is overruled.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Razz mumbled. Archer quickly covered her mouth with his hand.

  “I repeat,” Bezeal went on, “that Archer Keaton misused his Dreamtreader powers, betraying the other Dreamtreaders to their deaths. Without the considerable experience of Dreamtreaders Duncan and Mesmeera, the Rift became all but inevitable. Finally, I will prove that Archer, in the face of the Rift, took out his anger by plotting to murder a defenseless human being.”

  Razz squirmed free. “Objection!” she shouted. The judge turned her way. “Archer didn’t kill that old Doc Scoville!”

  “Objection overruled,” the judge replied curtly. “The prosecutor asserts only that Archer plotted to murder.”

  “Your honor,” Bezeal said, “may I continue?”

  “Go on.”

  “Esteemed cou
rt, I will prove that Archer Keaton, a once promising Dreamtreading talent, has been derelict in his duties. From his earliest conflicts with the Nightmare Lord to his mishandling of the Shadow Key even to his most recent negligence leading to the Rift, Archer Keaton has failed . . . failed us all. He is guilty of all these charges. And I will show why he should be removed from Dreamtreading permanently and locked away for good.”

  EIGHTEEN

  BEHIND THE HARLEQUIN VEIL

  RIGBY BECAME PAINFULLY AWARE OF A THROBBING IN HIS head. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t feel anything in his arms and legs, but oh could he feel the pounding in his mind. It was, in fact, the first thing he became conscious of after a sea of darkness had taken him away. The pulsing, the pressurized strokes of pain, were excruciating, but they were there. And feeling something, anything seemed like a good thing to Rigby. Thump, thump, thump—the beat went on.

  Slowly, he noticed a sensation of cold, a crawling chill suggesting that he did indeed have more than just a head and a skull. There actually was a body attached, and the chill prickled and spread until Rigby felt uncomfortable and began to tremble violently.

  A ringing pierced the silence and grew to such an explosive shrill it dwarfed even the headache’s crushing agony. He felt something else now too: burning vapors in his throat, and he was suddenly aware that he was screaming. Then, all at once, he was awake, and all his memories were restored.

  Rigby found himself on his knees. He’d wrapped his arms around a prong of stone and listened to his own breathing for a few seconds. The Scath had done it, he realized. They had managed to pull off their part of the plan. They’d put him into an unconscious state, dropping his vitals so low that he had appeared to be quite dead. Rigby shivered at the memory. The Scath had triggered the death-like trance by breathing upon him, and it was quite possibly the most terrifying experience he’d ever endured.

  Wispy vapors had emerged from their gaping, open-wound-like mouths. Thin, sinewy strands of gray, the vapors had snaked through the air and into Rigby’s breath. He had fought every bodily urge to deny them, but drew them into his mouth, throat, and lungs, sucking deeply at the contaminated air. It had felt like inhaling spiderwebs. Just before everything went dark, Rigby had seen things. Blood, darkness, eyes, rot, teeth, claws—a concentrated mix of all the nightmares Rigby had ever had—and he shook the memory away.

  “Finally, the fleshling recovers!”

  “We thought you might stay dead.”

  “Now, hold still.”

  Rigby went as rigid as the stone he clutched. The Scath were all around him, and there was something holding his arms in place. The cobalt shackles, he remembered with dread. He could feel the cold metal on his wrists. “What . . . are you doing?” he demanded of the Scath.

  They replied with sniggering laughter. Rigby saw one of the larger Scath on the other side of the stone. This one held something that looked like some kind of axe or hammer. The Scath reared back as if readying to swing the weapon.

  “No! Don’t!” Rigby screamed, but the Scath paid no heed to the command. The creature swung the heavy weapon around and struck with such an earsplitting ker-rackthat Rigby’s headache began again with renewed strength.

  But Rigby’s arms dropped away from the stone. The Scath had not maimed him, after all. They had freed him from the cobalt shackles. Rigby felt his will coursing through him as he stood.

  Beyond the ring of Scath in all directions was a crater-pocked wasteland. “I knew it,” he whispered. “I knew she couldn’t pull off the Harlequin Veil.”

  All of the sudden, the weight of all he observed hit home. Rigby swallowed back the hot bile surging up in the back of his throat.

  Where he was exactly, he could not tell. Much like a desert or open sea, everything around him looked the same. Among the craters and scarred-gray terrain, blackened trees leaned, some still burning. Here and there, the thin, barely recognizable skeletons of structures stood. “And this,” Rigby muttered. “This is what’s become of the world?”

  “We’ve done as you asked,” the Scath hissed.

  “You are free.”

  “Now, you must free us!”

  Rigby flexed the muscle in his neck and cracked the knuckles of both fists. “I will keep my promise,” he told the Scath. “Now return to your master—your temporary master—and I will come for you.”

  “Will come?” the Scath chorused.

  “We wants now!”

  “Be patient,” Rigby commanded. “Kara is too well protected in that fortress of hers. I’m going to need help.”

  “We cannot help.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “That’s okay,” Rigby replied. “I am going to visit my uncle.”

  The Scath departed, and Rigby rubbed his wrists. They were cold and tingly, but the cobalt shackles were gone. His will churned as if impatient to be put to use, and Rigby wasn’t going to deny it much longer.

  “So where am I exactly?” he muttered aloud. Instinctively, his hand flew to his jeans pocket, but, as he suspected, his personal cell phone was long gone. And that wasn’t too much of an issue, not now that the cobalt shackles were gone. Rigby held out his hand, flexed his will, and called up a brand-new cell phone. As it powered up, Rigby wondered if the Rift had shorted out the more delicate electronics systems of the world. He thought it likely that most of the cell towers had probably been fried. But the moment his phone’s operating system booted up, Rigby saw it had a full five bars. It was, he thought, a little odd, especially being out in this desolate wasteland like he was, but he was grateful for the signal.

  He called up his maps app and discovered quickly he was in Cunningham Falls State Park in Thurmont, Maryland. Quite a hike from Kara’s Baltimore fortress, but not terribly far from home, he thought. Once again, the Scath had been thorough.

  Rigby jogged down the rocky incline, slid, and almost fell, but, with a thought, he gave himself a pair of tough-terrain hiking boots and found surer footing. Then using his will to maneuver like a deer born to the forest, he raced through the trees and brambles. Leaping, dodging, ducking, and spinning, he darted through the pine trunks and boughs. A strange smell stopped him in mid-stride.

  It was the scent of something burned . . . or perhaps, still burning. But it wasn’t the rich outdoorsy smell from a fireplace or a wood stove. This smoke reeked of acrid chemicals and . . . something else, something pungent. It was altogether wrong, whatever it was. Rigby charged on, noting the darkening of the trees. Their needled foliage thinned until there was nothing but blackened branches and scorched trunks.

  It was a chilling vista. Nearly a third of the forest had been razed. Rigby leaped over the still burning park gate and raced ahead, hoping for a change. The scenery only grew worse.

  He found himself in a rural neighborhood. Or, at least, it had been once. Farms, homes, and buildings were shattered, and debris sat strewn about as if a massive tornado had plowed through the area. People wandered aimlessly about the wreckage. Some were out in the street, but most were wandering through the wreckage of their homes. There were even a few people sitting in the driver’s seats of cars so damaged they would likely never run again.

  As Rigby made his way through the wreckage, he called out to people he passed, “Sir, are you okay?”

  No reply.

  “Miss, you should get out of the car. It doesn’t look safe.”

  Not even so much as a glance in Rigby’s direction.

  People were moving about in the oddest way. They gestured frequently, and their mouths were moving, as if they were acting out some silent play.

  A dull ringing echoed across the area. It grew in intensity and re-triggered the splitting headache Rigby had before. He fell to his knees and clutched his head. The oncoming flood of sensation was too much. He couldn’t bear it. He shut his eyes and fell over on his side. It was tearing at his mind . . . impossible to endure much more—

  Gone. It was all gone. Feeling a surge of we
ll-being, Rigby opened his eyes. At first, he was surprised. He gasped as he clambered back to his feet. Blinking against the strong sunlight, Rigby wasn’t sure why he felt so surprised. He was standing in the middle of a beautiful rural neighborhood. The sky was bright blue, and kids were out, running around or playing with pets.

  Wait,Rigby thought, shouldn’t I be getting home? I’m supposed to be home now. I’m supposed to be home with Uncle Scovy.

  He started walking. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew it was the way home. In a few blocks, he’d come to a bus stop. He’d need to take the bus to get back to Gatlinburg. Didn’t he have a load of homework to finish up before tomorrow? He was pretty sure he did. He picked up the pace a little, but paused as a woman backed her car out of a driveway to Rigby’s left.

  She smiled at him and waved politely. Rigby didn’t wave back. He stared. An image of this woman and this car flickered in and out of Rigby’s mind. He gasped. One second, the car had been a burned-out husk, and the woman had blood streaming down her forehead. The next, she was perfectly normal.

  Rigby turned in a slow circle and watched with sickening fascination as the entire neighborhood flickered in and out of two different realities. Suddenly, as if he’d been nearly unconscious only to walk through a refreshing mist of cool water, Rigby came to his senses.

  “Well, what do you know?” Rigby whispered. “Kara actually did it. The ’arlequin Veil works.” He stared at the real-as-life beauty all around him and shook his head. He’d only been awake for a few hours, and yet already the Veil had taken hold. How had Kara gotten the Veil to be so widespread and so . . . immediate?

  Rigby scanned the treetops and the sky and muttered, “It’s not like she ’as a bunch of broadcast towers placed all over the world, right?”

  He rolled his eyes at his own momentary stupidity. “Of course,” he muttered, sliding his cell phone out of his pocket and staring at it in his palm. “Very clever, Kara.”

  NINETEEN

  ETERNAL EVIDENCE

  HIGH CHIEF JUSTICE MICHAEL THE ARCHELION LEANED forward from his judge’s bench and turned his eagle glare to Archer. “Dreamtreader Keaton,” he said, “do you wish to make an opening statement?”