No. I don’t. I may not understand all the ins and outs of my Gift yet, but that limitation seems clear. I can’t change this dreamscape in any major way—
—but Virilian can.
I need to feed him some cue that will set off a chain of associations in his brain, so that his mind switches gears of its own accord, exchanging this narrative for another. But what kind of cue would work? It has to be something small, for me to be able to conjure it; my power here is sorely limited.
Cold wind gusts across my face, sucking the heat from my skin. Down in the valley it must be even colder. Suddenly I realize what I need to do. Summoning all my strength of will, I focus on the concept of warmth. The gust of hot air I create down in the valley is only a small one, but it hits Virilian in the face so hard that it’s as if some vast, unseen dragon suddenly vomited fire on him. He looks shocked, and for a minute he doesn’t move. He’s got two conflicting realities now. Will his dreaming mind try to reconcile them by working the blast of heat into its current narrative, creating a fictional source for it? Or will it switch gears instead and change the setting to one where such warmth might exist? I hold my breath as I pray for the latter.
The bonfire blazes high—so high!—sparks filling the night, heat singing the eyebrows of the warriors who are dancing around it. Their skin is ruddy, their hair long and black, and their bodies decorated with streaks of paint: black, white, red, gold. Some of them have fresh wounds on their bodies, but they show no sign of weakness as they dance around the fire, their feet beating out a pounding rhythm on the earth. The dance is a show of strength.
On the other side of the fire is a cage made of tree limbs bound together, with men packed tightly inside. They’re all wearing the clothing of an earlier era: 18th century, perhaps? I can’t see their faces clearly through the flames, but I can hear them screaming in fear and rage, a chilling concert. They’re pale-skinned, and clearly not of the same race as the dancers.
Where is Virilian in all this?
Suddenly two painted warriors appear, dragging between them a man in a bloodstained shirt. He’s shorter than the Norse necromancer was, and his black hair is bound back in a ponytail, but there’s no mistaking the fact that this, too, is Virilian. He’s badly wounded, and is too weak to offer resistance as the men drag him toward the cage.
Suddenly a tall man with a necklace of animal bones blocks the way. The others stop dragging Virilian and wait.
“You are the one who speaks to spirits?” the tall man asks. He has a thick accent.
Virilian nods.
The tall man signals for his release. I’m relieved that he’s safe now, as he’s less likely to wake himself up to escape this scenario, but I’m also frustrated. I need a Virilian who knows about Shadows and Guilds and missing Fleshcrafters, a creature of the modern world. What can I change in the dreamscape to make that version appear? It would have to be a small change; already I’m feeling the strain of past alterations, and I remember what a wreck I was after the Weaver’s dream. And this is surely not the last alteration I’m going to have to work tonight.
I decide to create a whisper just behind Virilian’s ear. Only three words, barely loud enough for him to hear. Hopefully it won’t require too much energy.
Inspect the Gate.
He turns around to see who spoke to him, but of course there’s no one there. Nor do the words belong in this setting, and his dreaming mind knows that. Suddenly the whole scene around us begins to fragment. I pray that it will give way to something I can use for my purpose.
In the last instant before the dreamscape vanishes, I get a clear view of the men in the cage.
They all have Virilian’s face.
We’re in the cavern where the Blue Ridge Gate is located, and the arch is intact, though it has no crystals. I can’t tell from looking at it if this dream is taking place in the past, before the crystals formed, or after the arch was rebuilt. The whole scene is strangely out of focus, as if I’m looking at multiple versions of the same image layered on top of one another. Only two people are visible—Virilian and a Grey—but the chamber is filled with invisible chatter, voices all around me moaning and weeping and screaming. One is even yelling profanities. The result is deafening, and I put my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help at all; the sounds are in my head. It’s a struggle just to think clearly.
Virilian is undead in this dream. That much I can see clearly, even from behind him. So we’re getting close to the time frame I need.
I’m standing in the middle of the chamber, in plain sight, but the two men are talking heatedly and thus far neither has noticed me. I need to find cover before they do. But the closest cave formations are across the chamber, and the few nearby gurneys are covered in sheets whose ends stop short of the ground, making it easy to see under them. I decide the latter is my only viable option, so I dive for the nearest gurney, praying I can duck down behind it before anyone sees me.
But as I move, a sudden wave of dizziness comes over me. I grab for the gurney, then remember at the last minute that it has wheels, and reach out to brace myself against the floor instead. My head is pounding, my mouth feels dry, and the room seems to be swimming around me. Whatever energy I’ve been drawing on to stay in Virilian’s dreams is running out, and the multiple-exposure quality of the current dreamscape isn’t helping things. If I collapse in Virilian’s dreamscape, will my body disappear, or will he find me lying here, unconscious, still bound by the laws of his mental universe? If he kills me in his dreamscape, will my real body die as well?
The Grey is saying, “We should be operative within the week.”
“Excellent.” Virilian isn’t acting like someone who just escaped a horde of angry ghosts and was beaten bloody by Indians. I wonder if he even remembers those scenes. “And my other request?”
The Grey hesitates. “The Council ordered us not to kill the changelings.”
“I haven’t asked you to kill them. Simply to encourage Terra Colonna in its natural course. It’s an inherently unstable world; encouraging a few key leaders to make ill-advised choices wouldn’t even be noticed.”
The Grey blinks slowly. “You want Terra Colonna destroyed?”
“I want it to cease to be a problem. If it were to self-destruct, as so many high tech worlds do, that would satisfy my requirements.”
There is silence for a moment, at least among the living. Ghosts continue to howl in my ears, but I’m no longer hearing them. Virilian wants my homeworld destroyed. He has the power and the resources to make it happen. And if all he does is hire Greys to tweak the thoughts of key political figures, then no one on Earth—my Earth—will ever suspect the truth.
It’s only a dream, I remind myself sternly. This conversation may not have taken place in the real world.
But Virilian’s dream reflects his desires. If he hasn’t given such orders yet, he may well do so in the future.
This is the fate he intends for my world.
“You’re talking about a lot of Domitor activity,” the Grey is saying. “That isn’t cheap.”
“Do what you need to do and send me the bill,” Virilian says coldly. “I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket if necessary.”
The ghosts should have noticed me by now, I realize. Why haven’t they? There are voices coming from all around me, including behind me, so I know I should be visible to some of them. Why haven’t they tipped Virilian off about my presence?
Maybe they have, I think, and he just hasn’t acted on it yet.
Then another idea occurs to me. A stunning one: Maybe they can’t see me.
This dream is Virilian’s creation, right? Which means that every person in it is conjured by his mind, every event orchestrated by his unconscious. Nothing exists in this dreamscape that is independent of him, other than me. So if he doesn’t know I’m here, maybe his creations can’t respond to me.
He’s turning to walk out of the chamber now. I need to follow him, or shift the dream to another venue, or . . . something. But I’ll have to cross in front of the Grey to do that. Will I be invisible to him, as I seem to be invisible to the ghosts? There’s only one way to find out. Heart pounding in fear, I force myself to rise up from behind the gurney. My legs are unsteady, though whether from weakness or trepidation, I don’t know. At last I’m standing. The Grey is looking straight in my direction. Virilian’s pet ghosts swirl around my head, moaning their endless misery. One second passes. Two.
No one sees me.
No one sees me!
Trembling, I cross right in front of the Grey. He just stands there motionless, like a mechanical doll that has wound down. Virilian is heading toward the tunnel that leads up to Shadowcrest, and as he enters it, the cavern I’m standing in begins to dissolve. I have to keep up with him, even though the tunnel will offer me no cover; if for any reason he turns around, he’ll see me. And while he may not recognize me, surely he’ll sense that I don’t belong in his dream, the same way I did when the avatar girl entered mine. That’s more knowledge than I want him to have.
I need to transform this setting into something that will serve my purpose. But my strength is fading, and it’s getting hard to focus my thoughts. I don’t have many alterations left in me.
Small change. I need a small change.
I try a whisper again. With the voices of the dead already filling this place he’ll probably assume that one of them is talking to him, which at least will keep my presence here a secret. I form the words in my mind and hold them there for a minute, pouring my fading mental strength into them; then I release them into the dreamscape. The whisper manifests right beside his ear, and even though I can’t hear it myself, I see Virilian stop short when he hears it, startled.
Travis Bellefort, it says. The name of the missing Fleshcrafter.
Suddenly the tunnel is gone. We’re in the woods now, in a small clearing with a slender moon overhead. The latter provides just enough light for me to see where the surrounding trees are. Or were. Or will be. Layers and layers of tree-images fill the air, overlapping in mad quantity—young trees, old trees, trees split by lightning and trees hollowed out by birds, all of them occupying the same space. Is this the same multiple-exposure quality of Virilian’s dreamscape that I noted in the cavern, only ten times worse? Or is my vision breaking down from the strain of so much dreamwalking?
Virilian’s back is to me; I need to get out of sight before he turns my way. I spot a cluster of trees that seems to be holding its shape better than most, and I take shelter behind them, flattening myself behind the largest tree in the group, struggling to breathe quietly. For the moment, at least, I’m not visible to the creator of this dream.
“What news?” The Guildmaster demands. His tone is harsh.
The man standing before him is tall, gangly, and has two slender horns growing out of his forehead. I don’t need to see the Guild sigil on his ring to guess what his Gift is.
“Bellefort knows,” the horned man says.
“You’re sure?”
The Potter nods.
“How much?”
“I’m not sure. He started talking to me about a Fleshcrafter who was executed recently in Richmond, for sharing Guild secrets with one of the Seers there. The message seemed pretty clear. He was warning me against similar indiscretion. Which suggests he has a pretty good idea what’s going on.”
“You think he knows about our arrangement.”
“Given the way he presented his warning, I certainly think he suspects.”
“Do you think he would have shared that information with anyone else?”
The Potter hesitates, then shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Our Guild is ruthless in matters like this. If anyone else suspected I was spying for you, I doubt I’d be alive to have this conversation.”
There is a long silence. The ghostly voices surrounding us have quieted to a murmur, little louder than the chirping of crickets. Finally Virilian says, “You understand what needs to happen.”
The horned man shuts his eyes for a moment. “There’s no other option?”
“Not if you value your life.”
The Potter flinches. “Then at least make it clean,” he begs. “Please. For my sake. He’s never done anything to harm you or your Guild.”
“I have no reason to bind his spirit,” Virilian says coldly. “If that’s your concern.”
“It is,” he breathes. “Thank you.”
“I’ll need someone to take his shape afterward, to establish a false trail. It can’t be known that his last act on earth was to meet with me.”
“Of course. Of course. Just let me know when and where, I’ll take care of it myself.”
I’ve focused so intently on the conversation that it takes me a moment to realize that the color is starting to drain from the Potter’s face. His clothes are turning grey as well. I look to the treetops overhead, and see that one by one the dark leaves, barely visible in the moonlight, are losing their color.
Panic grips my heart. I close my eyes and try to reconnect to my sleeping body, to wake myself up, but I can’t. Nor can I make my flesh move in its sleep, even a twitch. Which means that I have no way to signal Sebastian that I need help. For as long my body is lying still on that bed, looking peaceful, he’ll assume my soul is content.
I’m trapped here.
Clouds are starting to congeal blackly overhead, and something even darker than the night sky is taking shape within them. The spirits of the dead have fallen silent, and the very air is thick with dread. I look around desperately for any sign of the door that brought me here, but of course it’s nowhere to be found. I’ve travelled through three different dreamscapes since arriving: God alone knows if the door even exists in this setting.
Virilian suddenly notices the activity overhead. There’s no sign of fear in him, and I get the sense from his confident posture that he knows exactly what is happening. He raises his arms to the heavens and begins to chant. Wisps of golden light appear, circling the mass of clouds, and they join together, first in small geometric patterns then in larger ones. Soon a glowing net has been woven around the place where the reaper is manifesting, a complex web of fine golden lines that is beautiful in form, terrifying in its power.
Suddenly the reaper bursts into reality. Wing-like shapes of pure blackness beat at Virilian’s golden web, thrashing wildly as the creature fights to break through, like a bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage. The sky trembles with every blow, and streaks of shadow spasm across the clearing as the creature blocks the moon in its struggles. But for now, at least, Virilian’s binding pattern is holding it prisoner. The reaper isn’t going anywhere.
The Fleshcrafter is staring at the ghastly display in astonishment and fear. “What the hell is that thing?”
Virilian doesn’t answer him. He’s studying the reaper, as if trying to figure out exactly what it’s doing here. Suddenly I see his body stiffen, and with a sinking in my heart I realize he must have put two and two together. Reapers only appear in dreams, so Virilian knows he must be dreaming. And since there is only one reason for such a creature to manifest, he knows there must be a Dreamwalker nearby. I can sense the enlightenment blossoming within him like a putrid flower, and I realize to my horror that by drawing the reaper to this place, I’ve revealed to Virilian the very thing I most needed to keep secret.
He knows I’m here.
Frozen in dread, I watch as he lowers his hands; the golden patterns overhead begin to dissolve. “Go,” he commands the wraith. “Do what you came to do.” Suddenly the web breaks apart and dissolves into the night. The wraith howls in triumph, its voice splitting the night like a thousand nails screeching across a blackboard. The leaves on the trees nearest to it freeze, then shatter; brittle fragments fall to the ea
rth like hail. The moon becomes bleached of its bluish hue, the grass in the clearing is sucked dry of color, and even the Potter’s face turns completely grey. Only the Shadowlord remains unchanged—not because he is immune to the wraith’s power, but because he is eternally colorless. He and the reaper are soul mates.
The wraith turns toward me then, and I know that it can sense me there, standing in the shadows, as easily as a cat can smell its prey hiding in the grass. Desperately I try once more to cast my mind back to my body, to flee to the safety of the waking world, but I can’t make the connection necessary. It’s as if my body doesn’t even exist. Sebastian and I had discussed the risks of this journey before I left, but that had been a rational discussion, performed in a world whose laws we understood and trusted. Now I’m here, trapped in a madman’s dream, facing a creature out of my worst nightmares, and it’s hard to think clearly, much less remember what we said. Run! an inner voice screams, primitive survival instinct drowning out rational thought. Run! Run! Run! But running from this thing won’t save me. It can move faster than I can, and even if I managed to outrun it, I’d still be stuck in Virilian’s dream. No, my only hope is to stand my ground, and so I struggle to do that, even though the primitive part of my soul is howling in terror, my whole body shaking as I fight to control it.
I can’t run from this thing. I certainly can’t fight it. But there is a third option, that Sebastian and I discussed before I left, and terrifying as it is, I have to try it. Or so I tell myself as Death incarnate bears down on me, its vast wings blotting out the moonlight overhead. The entire world has been drained of color, and my breath turns to fog as it leaves my lips, crystals of ice clinging to my eyelashes, blurring my vision. I draw my knife, bracing myself for the creature’s attack. I doubt I can hurt it, but that’s not my goal.