All for hatred of the Shadows, Morgana mused. Perhaps she should thank the necromancers.
The power that filled the chamber was a sweet elixir, and Morgana shut her eyes for a moment to savor it. Luray’s position as a major trade hub drew the most ambitious men and women from across the region, and many of the Guildmasters in Luray still had allies and agents in the cities they’d left behind. Some of the Guildmasters were said to have sway in the halls of the National Guild Council, and it was rumored that one even had agents in Buckingham Palace. In the shadows of Guild halls it was whispered: As the politics of Luray go, so go the politics of the British Empire.
Gazing at Virilian’s empty chair across from her, Morgana wondered about the Shadowlord’s absence. The undead were uniquely complex creatures, difficult even for a Seer to analyze. The fact that the umbrae majae absorbed souls of dead Shadowlords meant that at any moment some fragment of ancient memory might surface, sparking a long-forgotten passion or long-buried enmity. Without knowing the history of each soul a Shadowlord had devoured, one could not hope to untangle his motives.
The Shadowlords don’t really devour souls, she reminded herself. They absorb the memories of their predecessors. But if a man’s soul was shaped by his memories, wasn’t that a mere technicality?
A chill wind suddenly swept into the room, raising the hairs along the back of Morgana’s neck. Though she could not hear ghosts herself, she could sense them reflected in the mind of the Shadowlord Virilian, who was now approaching: whispery cries, tormented moans, a symphony of suffering. Morgana had never understood why spirits would gather around the Shadowlords if it caused them so much pain. Were they bound to the undead by some necromantic ritual, unable to leave their master’s side? Or did the Shadows’ Gift just draw them naturally, like a flame drew insects? As Morgana heard the Shadowlord approach she braced herself to ignore the pitiful moaning, as well as any other bit of undead activity that might echo in his mind. Virilian must never suspect how much of the Shadows’ world she was able to observe through him.
Suddenly Augustus Virilian himself was standing in the doorway . . . or maybe not. Though the body looked like Virilian’s, something about him had been altered, dramatically enough that Morgana’s Gift had no trouble detecting it. She had observed enough similar changes down through the years to guess at the cause. Virilian had undergone Communion again, absorbing the memories of yet another ancient Shadowlord into himself. If so, that would make him uniquely unstable tonight. Not that Shadowlords were ever truly stable.
Virilian looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, which confirmed her suspicions. As his gaze fell upon each Guildmaster he paused, as if taking a moment to remember who he or she was. But when his eyes met Morgana’s, recognition was immediate. His expression hardened, and hatred resonated in his aura. It was so surprising that it took all Morgana’s self-control not to respond to it, to just smile and nod politely as if she didn’t sense anything wrong. But God in Heaven, where was that coming from? She had never sensed emotion that intense in Virilian before, and certainly never hatred toward her. Clearly, whatever new soul he had devoured had no love for Seers. She dropped her hands into her lap so she could clench and unclench them without his seeing, bleeding off some of her tension.
“Forgive my lateness,” Virilian said. There was an unusual cadence to his voice, Morgana noted, almost a trace of an accent. As he moved toward his chair the nearest Guildmasters edged away, a move that seemed more instinctive than conscious. That, too, was interesting. The Greys and the Soulriders were accustomed to dealing with Virilian, but even they seemed disturbed by his new aspect.
The Domitor was serving as Council Arbiter this month, and after watching the awkward ballet for a few moments, he picked up his gavel and struck it on the table. “The Greater Guild Council of Luray is hereby called to order.” He looked at Virilian. “As you are the one who requested this meeting, the floor is yours.”
“I thank you,” Virilian said. He looked around the table. “Fellow Guildmasters, our Guilds joined forces centuries ago to do battle with an enemy that threatened our world, and though many of our people died in that conflict, or were driven mad—for such is the price of confronting this particular enemy. In the end we thought ourselves victorious. We believed our enemy destroyed, and that all we must do to guard against its resurrection was to weed out the seeds of its Gift whenever it appeared anew.” He paused. “Perhaps we overestimated our victory at that time. Or perhaps we failed in our duty afterward, allowing the seeds of corruption to take root among us. The one thing that is certain now is that our ancient enemy was not destroyed, and is in fact returning. If we do not deal with it swiftly and mercilessly, all the human worlds will be at risk.”
“And the name of this enemy?” the Farspeaker asked.
“I speak of the Dreamwalkers.” The cries of ghostly suffering rose in intensity as Virilian’s black eyes fixed on Morgana. Was there a hidden accusation in their depths? Morgana kept her face carefully neutral, but her mind was racing. Had Jessica slipped up and revealed herself to the Shadows? Or had Virilian perhaps caught wind of the game Morgana was playing? Thank God Morgana hadn’t told her allies about Jessica’s Gift yet. They couldn’t betray secrets they didn’t know.
“The Dreamwalkers are gone,” the Domitor challenged Virilian. “The original ones were destroyed, and new ones are killed in their infancy. If one of them manages to slip through our net, then we catch him when his curse begins to manifest. It’s not a subtle Gift, you know. And there are Seers trained to detect it.”
“Yes,” Virilian said quietly. His eyes were still fixed on Morgana. “There are such Seers, aren’t there?”
There was nothing safe to say, so Morgana said nothing.
The Farspeaker said, “Is there any hard evidence that they’re back? Or is this just speculation?”
Virilian’s voice was like ice. “A Dreamwalker attempted to enter the mind of a Shadowlord. The effort failed, but only because our Guild has sentinels to guard against such things. The fact that those sentinels were activated is proof enough that one exists.”
The Healer asked, “Why would a Dreamwalker target one of your people?”
“Who can say why they do what they do? Perhaps he was just practicing his art, testing his limits. Perhaps there was a darker agenda. Does it matter? One fully manifested Dreamwalker can awaken others. We can’t afford to let the cycle begin anew.”
There was rage building inside Virilian now, and it was unlike anything Morgana had ever sensed in an umbra maja before. The Shadowlords believed that passion hampered their ability to control the dead, so it was rare to see any of them give in to primitive emotions. But this was different. There was a cauldron of seething passion inside Virilian that threatened to break through to the surface at any moment. Dark passion, bloody passion, hatred and fury and a hunger for killing that bordered on madness. It was almost too much for her to absorb.
“How easy it is to discount a threat that you’ve never seen!” Virilian snapped. “It’s little more than a legend to all of you, but I’ve witnessed what the dreamer’s curse can do. I’ve seen grown men frothing at the mouth as they struggled to awaken themselves from sleep, trapped in dreams so terrifying that their sanity was destroyed forever. I’ve seen children running desperately through the streets, screaming as they fled from imaginary monsters, unable to distinguish between nightmare and reality. I’ve seen an entire city go mad as the paranoid fantasies of a single Dreamwalker poured into the heads of each man, woman and child, infecting every thought, corrupting every emotion. And if you think that the Gifted would be spared this fate, you are mistaken. The Seers suffered more than any others in those times, for their Gift made them uniquely vulnerable.” He looked pointedly at Morgana. “In the end, there were so many suicides that bodies had to be piled on carts like those of plague victims. The Euphrates was so thick with corpses y
ou could cross from one shore to the other by walking on them. That was the work of one Dreamwalker. One! So I ask you, how many must there be before this Council is willing to act? How many cities must we lose to them while waiting?” He paused. “How many Gifted must we lose?”
The room fell silent. Virilian’s eyes were still fixed on Morgana, and the challenge in them was unmistakable. Did he suspect that she was involved with the Dreamwalkers? Or was there some other reason he was focusing on her? “How do you propose we fight these creatures?” she asked.
Lips tight, Virilian nodded his approval; Morgana had the sense that she had just passed some kind of test. “First, we must offer them neither sympathy nor mercy. They will tell you their intentions are benign, but that means nothing. Dreamwalkers do not choose to spread chaos; it is a symptom of their insanity, as natural to them as eating and breathing. Any promises they make while they’re sane become irrelevant once their madness manifests. Our ancestors understood that, which is why they were ruthless in eradicating them. So we must be again. Anyone who would argue for mercy must be suspect. Any who would shelter a Dreamwalker must be punished harshly. And any world that harbors them must be Cleansed.”
The Potter’s eyes narrowed. “That seems . . . extreme.”
“The threat is extreme,” Virilian assured him. “Half-measures will not do.”
“Do you have a particular world in mind?” the Domitor asked. “Or are we just theorizing?”
Virilian nodded. “I have reason to believe there is a Dreamwalker active on Terra Colonna.”
The Healer stiffened. The Farspeaker cursed under his breath. The Grey said, “Terra Colonna and Terra Prime are in the same reality cluster. A Cleansing of their world would adversely affect our own.”
“Then that’s a risk we must take,” the Shadowlord said. “Unless, of course, your Guild can manage to find the Dreamwalker.” His tone was acid. “Then there would be no need for extreme measures.”
The Grey didn’t respond, but Morgana saw his jawline twitch. His Guild had no clue why they had failed to find Terra Colonna’s Dreamwalker, but Morgana knew. It was Jessica’s dreams that had originally alerted them to the possibility that one might exist, but since Jessica’s brother was the one who had used them as inspiration for his online games, and had claimed creative credit for them, attention had focused on him. Once it was confirmed that he was not a Dreamwalker, the Greys started seeking out the original source for his stories. The problem was, she didn’t exist. Tommy had created her, breathing life into a fictitious identity with the help of his gaming associates, seeding hints of fake activity in a thousand different forums. It was an impressive feat for such a young boy, and it had successfully turned the Grey’s attention away from his family. But now it looked like Tommy’s plan was about to backfire. By making his counterfeit Dreamwalker seem so real, Tommy had convinced the Greys there was an active threat they weren’t able to find. And now the Shadows were involved. By protecting his family, Morgana thought, Tommy Drake might have doomed his world.
As for her own plans, they were in no better shape. She’d planned to tell her allies about Jessica when the girl was properly prepared to serve them, but now that Virilian had presented his tale of death and destruction to the Council, they weren’t likely to handle the news well. Indeed, the discovery that Morgana had secretly been protecting a Dreamwalker all along could fracture their conspiracy.
Well played, she thought dryly.
What if Virilian was right? All Morgana’s actions thus far had been based upon her belief that the ancient reports must be wrong, that the infamous Dreamwalker madness was never more than a legend. But what if she was wrong, and it was real? What if Jessica did have the seed of a monster inside her, and it was growing because Morgana had nurtured it? Morgana would be the one responsible for returning a deadly threat to Terra Prime.
No. My research was sound. My conclusions are sound. Virilian—or whoever was inside Virilian, using his body like a puppet—clearly had a vested interest in casting the Dreamwalkers as enemies. But why? The bloodthirst she sensed in him when he talked about them was unnerving in its intensity. If he knew that they weren’t really a threat—to the point where he was making up stories to turn others against them—then why was it so important to him that they be killed? What made them so threatening to the Shadows that they merited the destruction of an entire world? She had her suspicions, but as of yet, no proof.
“I am sure I can count on the Seers for that,” Virilian said acidly.
Morgana realized that her mind had wandered away from the conversation at hand, and that she had no idea what he was referring to. Usually she wasn’t that careless. “My Guild understands the issues involved,” she said coldly, hoping that would cover whatever she’d been asked. “We’ll help in whatever way we can.”
Will you? The challenge burning in his eyes was unmistakable. Will you really?
The Domitor broke in. “It is agreed, then. The Greys will prepare a contamination assessment for the Cleansing of Terra Colonna, and we’ll resume this conversation when it’s ready. Is that acceptable to everyone?”
A contamination assessment. That would explore how the destruction of Terra Colonna might affect Terra Prime. In a universe where dreams could bleed from one world into the next, such a study was a necessary precursor to any Cleansing. The request for genocide would not be approved until the Greys verified that any negative influence would be within acceptable parameters.
Genocide.
Jessica must leave Terra Colonna soon. If she didn’t do it on her own, Morgana would have to send her Domitor back to prod her again. And perhaps it was time to recall Rita as well, just to be on the safe side. The game Morgana had played for so long was changing, and not for the better. If she didn’t adapt quickly she could lose everything.
As soon as the crack of the Domitor’s gavel sounded, ending the meeting, Virilian rose from his chair and moved toward the door. Ripples of ghostly misery echoed in his wake. On a sudden impulse Morgana reached out with her Gift to taste his essence. Normally she would never do that with one of the undead, but she needed to understand the change that had taken place in him, and the cause of his new obsession. A wave of raw emotion flooded her mind: Ice and fire, hunger and hate, and blood. So much blood. Death was wrapped around every thought, blood dripping from every emotion. The sensation left her breathless, and though she closed her mind immediately, she could not shut it out.
He had reached the doorway.
“Your Grace,” she said.
He turned back to her. His expression was unreadable. Was this really Virilian? “By what name should we call you?” she challenged him. His emotions might reveal the truth, even if his words did not.
For a moment there was silence, and a fleeting hint of a cold smile. “Augustus Virilian.” A lie, and also not a lie. “That’s the current custom, is it not?”
Then he was gone, and the ghosts were gone, and only the silence remained.
4
MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
JESSE
MOM CAME HOME FROM WORK with her first paycheck in hand and announced that were going out to dinner to celebrate. The paycheck wasn’t huge, so we had to eat cheaply, but it wasn’t like we had a tradition of steak and caviar. We decided to forego fast food options and have a real sit-down meal at Denny’s, a quarter of a mile down the road. Close enough to walk.
The weather was pleasant—unusually cool for a summer afternoon—and under normal circumstances I would have enjoyed it, but in the wake of Devon’s warning it was hard to enjoy anything. Denny’s, by contrast, was crowded and noisy, which normally would have been annoying, but if we kept our voices low we could talk without anyone overhearing, and that was good. As I settled down into our booth I saw Tommy looking at me over the menu. Tell her, he mouthed. But I shook my head and mouthed back, food first. Because once I
told Mom what was going on she would start asking all kinds of questions, and after that we’d be too busy to eat.
I must have looked as disturbed as I felt, because at one point she asked if I was all right, but I just mumbled something vaguely reassuring. Finally I was done eating, and I pushed my plate away and braced myself. Mom looked at me curiously, then put her fork down.
It’s now or never, I thought.
Telling her was harder than I’d expected. Mom knew the basic story of our travels, of course, but explaining to her that our whole world was now in danger, and there was nothing anyone could do about it—and oh yeah, the government might be watching us—was another thing entirely.
The waitress showed up with our desserts just as I finished, and Mom nodded absently to her as the woman put down the plates. That’s when I knew how much my words had shaken her. Normally she went out of her way to be friendly to servers.
When the waitress left, Mom looked down at her slice of layer cake and pushed it aside. My news had spoiled her appetite. “Assuming Devon’s father is right,” she said quietly, “what can we do?”
“I don’t know. Keep our heads down. Be careful what we post or text. Or talk about on the phone, even.”
“You’ve all got a good cover story.”
We did, thanks to Tommy. But it would only protect us so long as we kept playing our parts perfectly. If someone ever heard us talking about our kidnapping in a rational, knowledgeable way, the story about us being drugged wouldn’t hold water.
“I could make up a game,” Tommy suggested. “Write some rules for a role-playing adventure, with parallel worlds and dream-wraiths and all sorts of other stuff that we might want to talk about. So if anyone ever did overhear us, we could always claim it was that.”