Dreamtreaders

  But the shrieking wail faded to a distant, echoing moan. Archer rose to his feet but saw the threat had died out. Only a series of rippling circles made of still-burning pools of white fire remained. A distant bell began to toll eleven strokes.

  Archer charged up the hill toward the stone ridge. He knew the archway was something, and he had no time to lose. He skidded to a stop in the ridge’s dark shadow and stood before a massive, arched, dark iron door. “Knock not once but twice on the Lurker’s door.” Bezeal’s command came ringing back to Archer’s mind. He lifted his fist and gave two sharp raps to the metal. Each blow sounded like distant thunder. One side of the door swung inward.

  “Highly respectable effort,” came a high, crazed voice. “Or you would’na have passed my wraithlings, would you? No. Come in, come in, Dreamtreader. Come and join my little collection.”

  “Sword,” Archer muttered. He reached over his shoulder and loosed the blade from his back hanger. Blue flame crawled up its cutting edge, but very faintly. When Archer stepped through the door, over the Lurker’s threshold, the flame went out altogether.

  Yellow torches lit a curling tunnel winding into the stone.

  “Come on, come on!” the voice taunted. “We have’na got all day. I suppose I should say you have’na got all day, right, Dreamtreader?”

  Archer took a deep breath and nearly choked. A smell filled the air as if something had died and been left to rot. Yet there was little else to do but go forward.

  Each torch flared once as Archer passed by. An even brighter light was somewhere up ahead, shining golden upon the curving stone.

  Archer came into a vaulted chamber that looked very much like a laboratory. There were a dozen stuffed bookcases and twice that many shelving units holding jars of every size, shape, and hue. Small burners lit various beakers and cylinders on vast tables, but there was no sign of Duncan or Mesmeera.

  “You said I was joining your collection,” Archer called out. “Where are the other two Dreamtreaders? Do you have them?”

  “They visited me, yes,” the voice answered. “They came to call on the Lurker. Wasn’t that nice? And nice of you to drop by. Won’t you stay?”

  “I don’t think I should,” Archer said. “It would be rude to take advantage of your hospitality.”

  “Well-spoken, aren’t you, Dreamtreader?” There was coarse, hacking laughter. “On the contrary, it would be rude t’leave so soon. Can I get you something? A little refreshment, perhaps?”

  Archer stared into the corner where the bright light’s glow seemed to originate. There was movement in that light, a shadow shape intermittently swallowed up by the light. “Well, maybe something, I suppose. I’m looking for a silver puzzle box. Do you know of it?”

  The hiss that came out of the light made Archer feel as if his skin were shriveling.

  “You seek the Karakurian Chamber!” the Lurker howled. “I was afraid of that. Now, unfortunately, you will have to stay.”

  Archer turned but couldn’t take a step. Heavy chains appeared out of the ground. Faster than he could think, they curled around the Dreamtreader’s torso and constricted. “You . . . you’re killing me!” Archer cried out, struggling in vain.

  “Not yet,” the voice said. “Sands of the hourglass will serve your fate, and we will forever have something in common. Forever!” The voice trailed off, and the shadow shape in the light became more distinct as it came closer. It took on the shape of a man. An impossibly large man.

  A bell tolled in the distance. Archer sucked in a sharp breath. “No,” he whispered. “No, it can’t be time already.”

  The bell tolled again. And again. Old Jack had tolled eleven just before the attack of the mist. That left one toll left: the Stroke of Reckoning. There came a fourth toll.

  “Oh, dear, how unfortunate,” the voice said, and the tall shadow began to withdraw. “I am afraid you’ll have to wait until later for my attentions.”

  “No, no, wait!” Archer yelled. “Let me go! You can’t leave me like this!” The bell tolled a fifth time. Archer summoned up all his focus and tried to will sections of the confining chain to split apart. But nothing happened at all.

  “I am afraid I must,” the Lurker said. “I will return once I’ve dealt with the hounds.”

  “Hounds?” Archer mumbled. Old Jack struck six. But no more came.

  Wait, he thought. No wonder the Lurker heard the tolls too. Never had Archer been so glad to hear Sixtolls. Sure, that meant that the Nightmare Lord was unleashing chaos into the Dream, in effect, turning every dream to nightmare, but at least time still remained before Archer’s Personal Midnight. But not much time.

  Archer heard a tremendous metallic thud. The Lurker had gone. Out to deal with the hounds? That struck Archer as very strange, but he didn’t have time to ponder it. He tried to free himself again with the full might of his will, but the chains didn’t even move an inch. They were as tight as ever, and as heavy.

  “Razz!” he called. “I could really use some help here!”

  No puff of purple smoke. No sudden fuzzy appearance.

  “Razz? Come on! This is no time to be fickle! I’m in trouble here!”

  “Think, Archer,” came a voice. But it was not Razz. It startled Archer until he remembered where he’d heard it before: this was the deep womanly voice that had helped him back to his anchor after he’d failed to take down the Nightmare Lord. “Use your mind.”

  “I’ve tried that!” Archer grumbled. “It didn’t work.”

  “Think chemistry,” the voice said. “Consider the chain’s properties.”

  “Chemistry?” Archer muttered. “What? What do you—solids, liquids, and gasses. Solid, for sure. And a metal. No, wait.” Archer paused, thinking. He held up his one free hand. “Welding torch,” he said. “Mask!”

  A shaded-visor mask fell down upon his head. An industrial-grade acetylene torch appeared in his hand. He went to work on the chain immediately, working the outer links to keep the heat bleed from burning his own flesh. The first began to redden. Soon, he had sheared the link in half. Some of the chain’s length fell away, but not enough to free him. Twisting his upper body painfully, he set the torch to another link on the opposite side.

  When that link melted open, the rest of the chains fell. Archer leaped up out of the coils and started to race back the way he’d come.

  “The puzzle box,” he whispered, stopping hard. He darted back into the laboratory and searched frantically. There were strange objects and artifacts in every nook and cranny of the place, but no silver puzzle box, the Karakurian Chamber, or whatever the Lurker had called it.

  “I don’t have time for this!” Archer grumbled. He cast himself about the chamber, going to the bookshelves and cabinets. Still nothing promising. He couldn’t linger much longer. Who knew when the Lurker would return? Who knew when the Stroke of Reckoning would sound?

  At last, Archer came to an odd cabinet made of bamboo with tortoiseshell handles. He pulled open the door and found . . . another cabinet. It was made of the same materials in exactly the same style, but it was scaled down one size. He slung open those cabinet doors and found . . . another cabinet.

  “Really?” Archer blurted.

  He opened that cabinet, and the next, and the next, until there was one cabinet about ten inches high and seven wide.

  Expecting to find yet another tiny cabinet, he opened the small doors. There was no cabinet, but there was a small silver cube. It was ornately carved with all manner of figures and symbols. The puzzle box. It had to be.

  Archer snatched it up and sprinted out of the lab. As he raced out onto the moors, he heard Old Jack begin to toll once more.

  “No!” he yelled, pouring on the speed. He used up every last bit of will to propel himself forward. He was running, but barely touching the ground, a blur on the moors. He crossed the border out of Archaia with two strokes of Old Jack remaining. He dove for his anchor.

  Before leaving the realm of Dream, his last though
t was about the relic . . . the puzzle box he’d taken from the Lurker. What would happen to it? Would it fall back to the ground in the Dream where any idiot could pick it up? Had all his efforts been for nothing?

  But when Archer opened his eyes and sat up in his bed, he still clutched the puzzle box in his hand.

  DREAMTREADER CREED, CONCEPTUS 3

  The difference between life and death is a matter of small details. And so, over the ages, Dreamtreaders have made painstaking observations about the nature and boundaries of the Dream in such precise measures that they have detected nine laws at work. Learn them, Dreamtreader! Your life and the lives of those you love may depend on it.

  The Laws Nine

  LAW ONE: Anchor first; Anchor deep. Construct an anchor image that is rooted in a deeply powerful emotion. It must be dear to you.

  LAW TWO: Anchor where you may return with ease, but no one else can. If your anchor is destroyed or otherwise kept from you, your time may run out.

  LAW THREE: Never remain in the Dream for more than your Eleven Hours. Your Personal Midnight is the end. Depart for the Temporal . . . or perish.

  LAW FOUR: Depart for the Temporal at Sixtolls or find some bastion to defend against the storm. The Nightmare Lord will open wide his kennels, chaos will rule, and the Dreamtreader will be lost.

  LAW FIVE: While in the Dream, consume nothing made with gort, the soul harvest berry. It is black as pitch and enslaves your body to those with dark powers.

  LAW SIX: Defend against sudden and final death within the Dream. Prepare your mind for any number of calamities that may come, or else be shut out from the Dream forever.

  LAW SEVEN: Never accept an invitation from the Nightmare Lord. Not even to parley. He is a living snare to the Dreamtreader. There is no good-faith bargain. With him, the only profit is death.

  LAW EIGHT: By the light of a Violet Torch, search yourself for tendrils, the Nightmare Lord’s silent assassins.

  LAW NINE: Dreamtread with all the strength you can muster, but never more than two days in a row. To linger in the Dream too often will invite madness. Temporal and Dream will be fused within you and shatter your mind.

  FOURTEEN

  THERE ARE RULES

  KARA WAS ALREADY WAITING WHEN RIGBY ENTERED THE courtyard. No surprise. The girl was practically giddy about the whole thing. Can’t say that I blame her, Rigby thought, but, sheesh, look at her.

  Kara sat on one of the white stone benches in the center of the courtyard, though sat wasn’t the right word. She was bouncing. The contents of the school lunch tray on her lap threatened to tumble into the grass.

  “So far, you’ve handled the club’s duties wonderfully,” he said. “You’re a natural, really, and you’re strong. But going solo is a different kettle of fish. You really think you’re ready, then?”

  “Ready?” she asked. A tater tot actually did hop out onto the grass. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been ready for this my whole life!”

  Rigby held a finger to his lips. “Not everyone’s ready for this. Not until the club’s ready to expand, that is. Until then, it’s a very select few.”

  “Including me,” Kara said. It wasn’t a question.

  “And anyone you choose,” Rigby said. “I trust you.”

  Kara looked down a half second and said, “Thank you . . . that means a lot.”

  “But this is about experience, not trust,” Rigby explained. “You’ve only been, what, six times now?”

  Kara huffed and looked away. “I know how to get in,” she said. “I know how to create, how to navigate, and how to disguise.”

  “It’s more than that, love,” he said. “There are dangers you know nothing about.”

  Kara lifted her hands in the air. “Then tell me about the danger. Honestly, Rigby, what kind of trouble do you think I’ll get into?”

  “You want honesty, do you?” he asked, his voice deeper. “Well, there’s plenty of trouble a novice can get into. Also, I’m concerned about the white knight you keep mentioning. I’ve more than a little suspicion that this Prince Charming type is actually the Dream King in disguise. He took out a Dreamtreader once that way.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Kara said quietly. “And Dreamtreaders are—”

  “As strong as they come.”

  “I can finish my own sentences,” Kara muttered. “And I can take care of myself. So what if this white knight is the Dream King? He’s done me no harm. And it is his world. Kind of makes us guests, doesn’t it?”

  “Guests,” Rigby said with a laugh. “Yeah, like parasites. I don’t know, but I think he’d just as soon be rid of us.”

  “Rigby, please,” Kara argued. “I want this. I need this. I’m begging you.”

  Rigby was still and quiet for several long moments. He turned away from her to avoid her eyes. He sighed heavily. “Right, then. If we’re going to get you in solo, you need to understand that there are rules.”

  “Fine,” Kara said, frowning. “But I thought anything goes in a dream.”

  “Almost,” he said. “But there’s a give-and-take. It’s kind of like being on the moon. Sure, you almost ignore gravity and jump higher and farther than on earth, but there’s that little thing called air that you rather need.”

  “Okay. So in a dream, I can do many things I could never do in reality, but the environment forces me to think about other threats.”

  “That’s right,” Rigby said, his eyes narrowing a moment. “That’s exactly right. You really are quite smart, you know that?”

  Kara blushed. “So what are the rules, then?”

  Rigby glanced left, right, and over his shoulder. He turned to face Kara and said, “Rule number one: you’ve got only eleven hours of dream time. You’ll hear the chimes of the big clock in your head. One to twelve, that’s all.”

  Kara’s eyebrows went up. Then she squinted. “Wait, you said we have eleven hours, but the clock tolls one to twelve. That’s twelve hours.”

  “Right, but your clock, the one in your head, never tolls six.”

  “Why?”

  “The Dream King made it that way,” Rigby said. “If you ever hear the clock strike six, it’s ’is time. That’s rule number two: if the clock strikes six, you get out and wake up as fast as you can.”

  “Okay, you got me again. Why get out? If the Dream King is the white knight, he doesn’t seem so terrible. He’s actually been kind. Benevolent, even. He danced with me in the clouds.”

  “My experience has been a little different,” Rigby said. “No benevolence and certainly no dancing. The guy’s a dictator, and there’s nothing he can’t rule over in the world of dreams. He has another name, you know? Nightmare Lord.”

  “He’s not a nightmare,” she said. “Not to me.”

  “Listen, Kara, don’t get too close, right? He can’t be trusted.”

  Kara sighed. “Fine. Have it your way.”

  “It’s not my way. It’s the safe way. Lucid dreaming is a fantastic opportunity, but . . . it can be dangerous.”

  “But it’s a dream, right? Not real, so how can it hurt you?”

  “If you are captured or willingly stay past eleven hours, your personal stroke of twelve on the clock, you’ll . . .” Rigby paused. “You’ll go away.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you won’t wake up here again, ever. In the real world, you’ll go away in your mind and never come back. You’ll be in a coma for the rest of your life.”

  Kara ate a tater tot and mumbled, “Next rule?”

  “You don’t seem too worried about dying.”

  Kara shrugged. “I’m not worried. I’m just not going to let it happen.”

  “Well, good,” Rigby said. “But don’t even cut it close, not if you can ’elp it. Rule number three? Do not Lucid Dream more than two days in a row. If you do, you may start to warp. That means you’ll begin to lose touch with reality. It’ll become more and more difficult to tell the world of dreams and our world apart. Do it too often, you’
ll go mad. Trust me on this one.”

  Kara paused, connecting the dots in her mind. “Your uncle?”

  Rigby nodded. He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t pretty. Especially toward the end.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well . . . pioneers often make the most sacrifices.” Rigby’s cheek twitched. He scratched absently at one of his sideburns. “If not for Uncle Scovy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “His research . . . well, he really made the breakthrough, didn’t he?” Kara asked.

  “Yeah, yeah . . . he’s the one who came up with Anchor Theory. He discovered the Cerebral Countdown too.” Rigby looked up at the exterior clock. “Lunch is almost over. We should finish this up some other time.”

  “C’mon. I don’t want to wait another day. Just go fast. I won’t ask any more questions.”

  “You sure?” Rigby asked. “We could talk after school.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “Just try.”

  “Rule number four: do not eat or drink anything that is black. It was most likely made or seasoned with something my uncle called gort. It’s a kind of berry, I think. It can turn you into something like a zombie. You’ll still be aware, but you’ll be controlled by others more powerful, possibly even the Dream King, if he chooses.”

  “But eating’s part of the fun,” Kara said. Rigby gave her a look. “Got it,” she continued, demure. “Nothing black.”

  “Rule number five is one you already know: Place your anchor in a place you can easily return to.”

  “Right. I remember.”

  “Rule number six: always check yourself for tendrils. Always. As soon as you get back. You know the light I gave you?”

  “Yeah,” Kara said. “I wondered about that. It looks like some CSI thing.”

  Rigby smirked. “Tendrils are like invisible leeches. You won’t see them without UV light. You won’t even feel them. They latch onto your thoughts and can manipulate them. If you come back to your anchor and leave without getting rid of them, you’ll think you’ve woken up, but you’ll really still be asleep. I don’t need to tell you that that can be bad.”