Dreamtreaders

  At that point, there came shouts in the hall, but it wasn’t a teacher, as Archer had hoped. Somehow high school students turned their fight-recognition-radar on all at the same time. Even half a school away, students could sense the buzz or tension in the air and come running to watch. On a Friday, it was all the more keen. As Archer ducked and bobbed and darted around Randy’s relentless attacks, he saw the crowd gathering. This would not end well, no matter what.

  Finally, the moment Archer had been looking for came. Randy had thrown so many shots that he’d grown weary, his breath ragged and heavy. He’d also missed with most of his jabs, turning his face red in anger as well as effort. Randy’s next swing was clumsy and put too much of his weight forward. Archer kicked out his leg, hooking Randy’s, spinning his opponent sideways before driving a side kick into Randy’s ribs. Randy went down in a gasping heap.

  When Archer looked up, the crowd of teens were yelling, Gil was on the ground clutching his elbow, and Rigby and Guzzy were slowly circling each other. Archer’s blood ran cold. Guzzy had a knife.

  “Move aside!” came a very loud, nasal voice. It sounded like the assistant principal, Mr. Bohrs. Archer wasn’t sure that he would make it in time. “Let me through!”

  Guzzy’s nose and lip were bleeding. The corner of his right eye had a red, golf ball-sized welt growing. His face was a mask of fury. He brandished the knife as if he’d used it before.

  “That changes things,” Rigby said.

  “Do that martial arts stuff now!” Guzzy hissed.

  “Guzzy, don’t!” Archer yelled.

  “Should’ve minded your own business, Keaton,” Guzzy said, never taking his eyes off Rigby.

  “Are you certain you want to cross this line?” Rigby asked. There was something different in his tone now, something Archer hadn’t heard before. There was an odd inflection on the end syllables of every word, almost as if there was a second voice speaking Rigby’s words but ever so slightly off in timing.

  “You started this!” Guzzy snapped.

  “Look around,” Rigby said. “There are fifty witnesses. Put the knife away now, maybe no one says anything.”

  “Everybody! Move! Now!” Mr. Bohrs yelled, still too far away.

  Guzzy tightened the circling. He lowered the knife hand to his side. Archer thought for sure he would strike. Less than a yard lay between the fighters.

  “Are you sure you still have a knife?” Rigby asked, his voice still strange. With a rippling of his fingers, Rigby made a gun with his hand and pointed.

  Archer blinked, stupefied. He blinked again, but what he saw, well . . . it was still there. Instead of a knife, Guzzy now held a bouquet of bright yellow daisies.

  “What . . . ?” Guzzy’s mouth dropped open. He dropped the flowers, and his knife clattered to the floor.

  “I can do things,” Rigby whispered as he lunged forward. “You don’t want to mess with me. Ever.” Guzzy retreated so far that his back hit the wall.

  Just then, the crowd parted and Mr. Bohrs lumbered forward. He slammed Guzzy up against the wall and simultaneously put his rather large foot on the knife. “This is it, Guzzy!” the assistant principal rumbled. “This is a weapons violation. You’ll be expelled . . . if you’re lucky!”

  Kara was suddenly at Archer’s side. “You fight pretty well,” she said. “I never knew.”

  Archer didn’t know what to say. “Thanks for getting Mr. Bohrs. This was getting ugly.”

  “I didn’t get Mr. Bohrs,” she said. “Not sure who did.”

  “You . . . but I asked you . . .”

  “And miss the fight?” she said. “Are you kidding?”

  “Keaton, Pell, Gates, to my office!” Mr. Bohrs yelled. “Now! And someone call the nurse for Messchek!”

  SIXTEEN

  TRADING IN FATE

  “SUSPENDED?” ARCHER’S FATHER ERUPTED.

  “It’s the school’s zero-tolerance thing, Dad!” Archer argued, pacing the den. “I didn’t start the fight. It was four against one and I was trying to help!”

  “But we taught you violence doesn’t solve anything.”

  “I know, Dad, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Suspended? Really, Archer?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Archer said. “I didn’t want to see . . . well, I just didn’t want to let . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Archer’s dad dropped his hands from his hips. He’d already run out of fight. He plopped down in his armchair and stared straight ahead. “Guess you did right, Son . . . but still.”

  “I know,” Archer said, stopping near the stairwell. That’s it, Dad? I get suspended for fighting, and that’s all you got? It was crazy to think that way, Archer knew. He honestly didn’t want more consequences. He just wanted to see his dad show a little spirit, a little more . . . life. Maybe he just needed a little prompting. “So how long am I grounded for?”

  His father didn’t answer at first.

  “Dad?”

  “No,” his father said. “You got suspended. That’s enough.”

  Archer shook his head. “It’s just Monday. Anyway, I guess I can use the extra time to study Chemistry.”

  Archer trudged up to his room and flopped down onto his bed. He had a burning urge to summon Master Gabriel. After what he’d seen Rigby do with the knife or flowers or whatever, well, it was mind boggling. In the Dream, Archer could turn a knife into a water buffalo if he wanted to, but in the waking world? How did Rigby do that? Was it some kind of sleight of hand? Some kind of hallucination? Archer had no idea.

  That was exactly why Archer needed to talk to Master Gabriel. But Archer also had in his possession the Karakurian Chamber, the puzzle box he’d been forbidden to seek. And that was exactly why Archer couldn’t summon his master.

  For the whole weekend, Kaylie tutored Archer in the fine points of organic chemistry. Archer’s chosen topic was “States of Matter.” Rigby had picked “Atomic and Electronic Structure.” Kaylie knew both . . . very well. Archer didn’t. Needless to say, it was a long weekend.

  It didn’t help that Archer had an exhausting Dreamtreading adventure Saturday night. There had been more breaches than he could finish before the Stroke of Reckoning. Which meant Archer had to go back Sunday evening.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and held the Karakurian Chamber in his palm. The Smurfs’ song suddenly rang out from his cell phone.

  “Kaylie,” Archer grumbled, punching the cell’s green-lit button. It was a text from Kara.

  Sorry about Friday, she wrote. I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.

  Archer rolled his eyes. As if there were a right way to take what she’d said. I asked you to get help, Archer texted. All you did was bring a mob to watch the fight.

  Everyone likes to see the fights. Well, we don’t want anyone to get hurt, but it kinda livens up the day.

  Archer shook his head. Really, Kara? That was just fun for you? People could have been injured.

  Not you and Rigby. You two can seriously fight. What was that? Kung fu?

  “No, no,” Archer mumbled to himself. He was not going to get sucked in by the compliment. He typed, Look, Kara, I gotta run. I’ll see you in school Monday. He remembered and texted, I mean Tuesday. Then he shut down his phone and turned back to Karakurian Chamber.

  Since the stupid puzzle box wouldn’t fit in the case with the Creeds, Archer didn’t know where to keep it. It was perfectly square and just too big to fit anywhere safe, and too odd to hide in plain sight. All six surfaces were made of a silvery metal so smooth that it looked like a liquid, almost like mercury. The images etched into the metal were intricate and captivating. One side had a ship with nine sails. Another side had skeletons dancing. The last side showed a rising sun with rays radiating out to two crescent moons.

  Each side seemed to have its own story to tell among its hair-thin grooves. Certain pieces even looked like they might be movable. But who knew what this thing was?

  An image flashed into Archers
’ mind . . .

  He was tinkering with the puzzle box, flipped a small lever, and suddenly, there was a blinding white flash and a fiery mushroom cloud.

  . . . but the Dreamtreader shook that thought out and went to his closet. He put the Karakurian Chamber on the second shelf and pushed it as far back as it could go, past the drawing pads, past the cans of pencils and markers, to the very back corner. It wasn’t the best spot, but it was better than nothing. Only then could Archer relax on his bed. Duty called.

  For once, sleep came quickly. One second, Archer was blinking at the alarm clock. The next, he was falling toward the canopy. A crimson tornado gave him a ride past Old Jack and deposited him in a gully that looked like a dried-up creek bed.

  “No water?” Archer said. “No problem.” He summoned his longboard and raced away in search of breaches to mend. The Dreamtreader began where he left off the previous evening: in the rocky crags of Farnham Tor. Just after he’d repaired his sixth breach, a familiar puff of purple smoke blossomed near his shoulder.

  “Did you tell him?” Razz asked, seemingly doing the backstroke in the air.

  “No, I didn’t,” Archer said, tying off a final stitch. “Not yet.”

  “Why?” she asked. “It’s only going to get worse the longer you wait.”

  “I want to see if I can wrangle some information out of Bezeal first.”

  “Whatever would you want to do that for? He’ll only feed you a pack of lies.”

  “I’m going to challenge him on the terms of our deal,” Archer said. “Duncan and Mesmeera were not where Bezeal said they would be.”

  “Surprised?” Razz made a spluttering sound. “Bezeal is a liar.”

  “I know that, but he’s bound by the blood pact. And I need more information.”

  The night went on, but by the eighth bell, all the breaches in Archer’s district had been dreamwoven back to safety. Archer had plotted his course so that he could finish in Kurdan and go looking for Bezeal. Finding the peculiar merchant wasn’t nearly the challenge that it might have been. The Dream sun was up, a blazing yellow-gold oval that seemed to hover too close to the landscape. It brought light and warmth, and the Kurdan Marketplace was hopping.

  As Archer suspected, Bezeal was right in the center of all the action. “Sold!” the merchant cried. “This lovely grelsh cub with the tricolor horn, playful from the day he was born, to the Celosian shopper, shrewd Calgorn!” Bezeal clapped his hands for the local he’d just sold the creature to. His eyes glimmered as he spun around. The moment he saw Archer, he stopped.

  “So, you’ve returned from dangers untold, a venture both noble and naturally bold, deliver my prize before Bezeal grows old.”

  “Not so fast, Bezeal,” Archer said. “We need to talk. We can go somewhere private, or I can shout to the entire market how terribly you ripped me off.”

  Bezeal blinked. Honestly, Archer wasn’t sure if it was a blink, but his light-point eyes went out for a moment. When they popped back on, Bezeal raised his voice and called to the crowd, “Good day, fine shoppers, and good afternoon. I have business away, and I must leave soon. But tonight I’ll be back before the stars or the moon!”

  The undersized merchant nodded for Archer to follow, leading the way through the crowd to a small shop at the edge of the market. Archer didn’t remember it, really. It was one of a thousand little shops and taverns. This one seemed to feature its baked goods. Bezeal ordered a muffin dotted with large black seeds. He offered one to Archer, but the Dreamtreader knew better. They sat at a candlelit corner table, and Archer said, “That was a pretty low attempt, even for you.”

  Bezeal’s Cheshire grin appeared for half a moment. “You Dreamtreaders have so many rules, it’s hard to keep track. You can eat something blue, but never eat black. I’m surprised that you ever dare to come back.”

  “Look,” Archer said, placing one hand flat on the table. “You told me I’d find Duncan and Mesmeera in the same place as the puzzle box. I found the puzzle box, but my friends were nowhere to be seen.”

  Bezeal gasped. “You . . . you found it? The box?”

  Bezeal’s unrhymed reaction took Archer a little off his game. The little man really wanted that box. It was time to switch tactics a little. “I’ve got the box, Bezeal, but to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to kind of like it, especially the side with the ship of many sails.”

  “Ohhhh,” Bezeal sighed. “You do have it.”

  “Yes, and I’m going to keep it. Or maybe I’ll destroy it . . . unless you tell me where my friends are.”

  Bezeal leaned forward far enough that his hood slid down to nearly cover his eyes. “How dare you challenge me. That’s no way to act. You shook my hand. You made a blood pact. Leave me be and return with my prize intact.”

  “You tricked me into the blood pact,” Archer said. “I didn’t agree to bleed over the deal. And then you lied about the other Dreamtreaders. This is barely a deal at all. But I’m still willing to give you the box. You need to tell me where my friends are, and you need to tell me how to destroy the Nightmare Lord.”

  Bezeal lifted a muffin to his hood. There was a sickening suction sound, and half of the pastry disappeared. When he spoke again, his words hissed between his teeth. “If you would learn the Dreamtreaders fate, perhaps they were taken; perhaps, escaped. But in the end, it was far too late.”

  “Wait,” Archer said. “Are you telling me that Duncan and Mesmeera might have escaped? That makes no sense. They would have contacted us by now. And what do you mean by too late? Too late for—?” Archer’s mouth snapped shut. With hopeless clarity, he realized what Bezeal meant.

  Duncan and Mesmeera had stayed past the Stroke of Reckoning.

  Archer shook his head. “How could this happen?” he muttered. “They were too smart for that.”

  “Bezeal knows not what kept them too long, but in this world many things can go wrong. I suspect the tendrils and their illusion were strong.”

  “Tendrils,” Archer whispered. Icy cold conviction sliced down his spine. Those things were the bane of all Dreamtreaders. If it was already close to Duncan’s and Mesmeera’s Stroke of Reckoning, and they carried tendrils back to their anchors, they would believe they’d awakened. They’d have gone about their lives, never realizing that they were still in the Dream until it was too late.

  Archer hung his head. “What about the Nightmare Lord? How can he be defeated?”

  Bezeal’s smile appeared for just a flash. “He is terribly strong and knows his world well, but there is a secret within that fierce shell. Until you bring my treasure, I will never tell.”

  Archer was about to unleash two days worth of pent-up anger when Old Jack began to toll. Bezeal didn’t seem to hear it, and it tolled past five to seven, stopping at eleven. The Dreamtreader didn’t have much time to get back to his anchor, but he didn’t want to let Bezeal off so easily. Archer summoned half of the mental strength he had left and readied to create. “I don’t trust you, Bezeal,” he said. “No one in the Dream trusts you. Now, I warned you once, and you crossed me. Do it again . . .” Archer paused and waved both of his hands.

  A massive oak-beam and wrought-iron guillotine materialized, crushing Bezeal’s chair. The merchant stumbled forward and came to rest with his neck in a very awkward spot.

  “. . . And I’ll finally get to see just how ugly your head really is.” Archer nodded, and the huge, razor-sharp cutting blade began to fall.

  Bezeal shrieked. “No, no!”

  Archer raised his hand, and the blade vanished just inches from beheading Bezeal. A second later, the entire guillotine was gone, and the merchant was back in his chair. “Don’t forget,” Archer said.

  Bezeal adjusted the collar of his hooded robe. “Bezeal never, ever forgets, but kill him, and you’ll have such dreadful regrets. You’ll never stop the Nightmare Lord’s threat.”

  Archer glared once more at Bezeal and stepped outside. But then, a memory of Lady Kasia flickered, something she’d said.
He turned back through the doorway. “Bezeal, I heard you violated the Inner Sanctum of—”

  “. . . ing weary of this part,” Bezeal was saying. His voice was different, confident and ringing of power. At first Archer thought maybe someone else had been talking. After all, he couldn’t see Bezeal’s lips moving, not in the inky black within his hood.

  “Who are you talking to, Bezeal?” Archer asked.

  “Speaking to myself, oh Dreamtreader supreme. Imagination it was, I deem. Perhaps your time has come to leave the Dream.”

  Archer frowned and left the café. Maybe I was imagining, he thought. But that was weird.

  When Archer awoke, there was bright sunshine in his room, and Kaylie was all dressed for school.

  “Playing hooky today, huh?” she asked, a little bounce in her pigtails. She sat at Archer’s desk with her backpack toward the bed.

  Archer rubbed his eyes. “I got suspended,” he spoke through a yawn. “There’s a difference.”

  “Is your Battle of the Brain still tomorrow?” Kaylie asked.

  Archer squinted. “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Means just tonight left to study,” Kaylie said. “But don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

  Kaylie still didn’t turn around.

  A little puzzled, Archer stared at her. “Whatcha doin?” he asked.

  “Playing,” she said.

  “With what?”

  “Your little game,” she said. “You know, it’s good that you’ve been playing with this. It really does challenge your mind . . . for a little while, anyway.”

  “Kaylie, show me what you have. Turn around.”

  Kaylie shrugged once and turned in her chair. In her hands, there was the gleam of silver in the sunlight. She held the Karakurian Chamber. And it was open.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE BATTLE OF THE BRAINS

  “WHAT IS IT?” KAYLIE ASKED. “I MEAN, BEYOND THE OBVIOUS?”

  “Kaylie,” Archer said, his words clipped with tension. “I want you to put that into my hands . . . right . . . now.”