Search for the Shadow Key

  “Now, we’re ready,” Rigby said. “Carry on.”

  The string quartet struck up the sonata with whimsical abandon, playing with rousing fervor as two figures entered the chamber.

  “Keaton!” Rigby announced, making a show of rising from his seat to rush over to his guests. “Right on time.” He shook Archer’s hand and turned to Nick. “And you must be the infamous Nick Bushlander.”

  “It’s Bushman, mate,” Nick said.

  “Right, sure,” Rigby said. “Well, there we are. All here. Welcome to the feast of the future. Please come and take a seat.”

  But as soon as Rigby stepped aside, Archer cried out, “Kaylie!” He ran to her.

  “Uh, I wouldn’t,” Rigby cautioned.

  But Archer paid no mind to the warning. He ran to Kaylie’s chair and embraced her. “Kaylie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you before the Stroke of Reckoning. Are you all right? They haven’t hurt you?”

  Kaylie did not return the embrace. Her head turned slowly. Her expression might have been curiosity, but nothing more. “I am no longer my own,” she said quietly. “I belong to Uncle Scovy.”

  “What?” Archer said, releasing her and backpedaling as if he’d been stung. “No! Kaylie, it’s me, your brother, Archer.”

  “I know who you are, Archer,” Kaylie said, her voice empty of emotion. “I am a gort-slave now. I will do what Uncle wants . . . and nothing else.”

  Archer flashed to Rigby and shoved him. “You did this!” he yelled. “It wasn’t enough to have her miss her Stroke of Reckoning? You had to enslave her? What kind of—”

  “Please,” Rigby said, his voice, in contrast to Archer’s outburst, a strangely unnerving kind of quiet.

  “Please, Archer,” Kara said, “Take a seat.”

  “C’mon, mate,” Nick said, pulling Archer back. “Let’s hear ’im out.”

  “That’s good, Bushman,” Rigby said. “We need a calm mind. Haste and fear have been the source of all kinds of grave mistakes . . . for all of us.”

  Archer allowed himself to be led to a chair. He and Nick sat across from the Lurker . . . and Kaylie.

  “I know you may not feel like it,” Rigby said, “but please, eat. It helps to take the edge off.”

  “Yeah, sure. Poison us all with gort?” Nick asked. “We’re not bloomin’ shark biscuits at this, y’know?”

  “Colorful expression,” Rigby said. “Be assured, there is no gort here. Not now. You can pick at everything. Tear it to shreds with your fork and knife. You won’t find a speck of gort. Or, if you like, fill a plate, and then give it to me. I’ll eat every morsel.”

  Archer stared at Rigby and said, “I’m not hungry.”

  “Fine,” Rigby said. He strode back to his chair. “Then let’s get to the point, shall we? The Rift that Dreamtreaders are sworn to stop is inevitable.”

  “The Rift we will stop,” Archer said flatly.

  “No,” Rigby replied, “you won’t. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stop it now. We’ve gone past the point of no return. And I want to be the first to admit I didn’t see this all the way through before I started. My app substantially underrepresented the extent our Dream fabric has frayed.”

  Archer shook his head. “You think?”

  “Your frustration is more than justified here, Keaton,” Rigby said. “But hear me out. We’ve both erred, we Lucid Walkers and you Dreamtreaders too. You denied the inevitable out of fear when, in reality, the Dream and the Waking World were always meant to be together. And we, well . . . we pushed it to happen too quickly. Now, the new world is on the horizon, and we’re not ready.”

  Archer turned to Nick and said, “He’s stark-raving mad.”

  “Maybe,” Nick replied. “Or maybe he needs us.”

  “I do,” Rigby said. “I absolutely do. Things are about to change, and it’s going to be dangerous for a lot of people who just won’t understand what’s happening. It won’t be safe—or profitable—for us to be fighting each other in the midst of all that’s about to happen. The world will need us, Keaton, all of us. Without a team of experienced Walkers like us, the world doesn’t stand a chance. With all due respect to your history, three Dreamtreaders just isn’t enough.”

  “What do you want, Rigby?” Archer countered. “Just say it.”

  Rigby took off his top hat and placed it upside down on the table. “I want a partnership. Dream Inc. and Dreamtreaders, working together, not to keep people from really living in their dreams, but rather, to help them do so safely. I want you to stop fighting the Rift and start planning with us, putting our minds together so that we can teach the masses what to do and how to do it without killing themselves or others.”

  “Even better, Archer,” Kara said, “if you’re with us, like before, you get your father back . . . and Kaylie.”

  “But the gort,” Archer whispered.

  “There are ways around the gort,” the Lurker said. “Kaylie is bound to my will, but if I wish her to be free—to be utterly back to normal—then she must obey.”

  “And once the Rift occurs,” Rigby said, “she won’t be trapped any longer.”

  “We’ll be free again,” the Lurker added.

  “What about Mr. Gamber?” Archer asked.

  “What, the teacher?” Rigby laughed. “He was . . . an accident, a bit of Scath mischief.”

  “You wanted Amy first, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Rigby said. “I just wanted to distract you. But listen to me, Keaton. The teacher will be free too. We all will be free.”

  The room grew silent except for the crackling fire. Archer stared at Kaylie. She stared back but with no expression. Archer bowed his head.

  “Look, Keaton, I know this isn’t easy,” Rigby said. “I never meant it to work out the way it did. Truth is, I just didn’t know. But now, this is the responsible thing to do. The world will need us. All of us.”

  Archer lifted his head, but his shoulders were still hunched forward, his hands in his lap. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “What do I have to do?”

  Rigby smiled and put his hand lightly on top of Kara’s hand.

  “I told you he’d come around,” Kara said.

  Beneath that dark hood, Bezeal’s Cheshire Cat smile spread, broad and luminous.

  “Let me make some room,” Rigby said. With a quick wave of his hand, the meat, the veggies, the desserts—the whole spread—vanished.

  “But I wanted the chocolate,” Bezeal muttered, the lack of rhyme communicating his displeasure.

  “I’ve drawn up a contract,” Rigby said. “It is binding to us all.” He snapped his fingers, and a parchment scroll appeared in his fist. He slid it down the table to Archer and Nick. A quill pen and a bottle of ink appeared next to the scroll.

  “Read it, Keaton,” Rigby said. “And then, sign it. You too, Bushman.”

  Archer untied the lace around the parchment and spread the scroll out so that he and Nick could read it. Archer traced his finger down the page, line by line. He looked up suddenly. “It says here that if you violate any part of the contract, Dream Inc. becomes my property, or the property of whomever I designate as heir. Why would you do that?”

  “I know my own tendencies, don’t I?” Rigby said. “If I didn’t put that in there, I might get tempted on a few points. Of course, you have your own checks and balances. Read on.”

  Archer did, but Nick had read ahead. He pointed to a line in the second paragraph. “No bloomin’ way.”

  Archer read it. “Gort?” he exclaimed. “You want us to take gort from you?”

  “It’s the only way,” Rigby said. “Surely, you see that. I’ve got to be able to trust you. There are a lot of lives on the line. We have to make this work.”

  “By making Dreamtreaders into your slaves?”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Keaton. Just read on a bit.”

  Archer gritted his teeth and read on. Then he nodded. “You pledge not to abuse your control,” Arc
her muttered. “Why am I not encouraged?”

  The Lurker pounded his fist on the table. “Enough of the snide,” he exclaimed. “We’ll never work together if he keeps this up.”

  “You’ll have everyone back, Keaton,” Rigby said. “Think about it. Your father, Kaylie—even the teacher—you’ll be free to live your lives the way you wish. It’s all there in the contract. So long as you assist Dream Inc. in training people to know how to live, in preparing educational materials, and marketing, your life will be your own.”

  “So the gort is just to make sure that Dreamtreaders don’t interfere with . . .”

  “With company business,” Rigby said. “That’s exactly right. If you like, think of it as more of a treaty than a contract. That’s what it is.”

  Archer picked up the quill pen and plunged it down into the ink bottle.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JUST DESSERTS

  “WAIT.” ARCHER’S HAND FROZE IN THE AIR, THE TIP OF the quill pen, wet with ink, just inches above the contract. “I’m not sure I can sign this yet.”

  Rigby spluttered, “Why . . . not?”

  “See, I’m a Dreamtreader,” Archer said. “But I’m kind of like a captain or a field commander, not a general. I don’t really have the authority to make a decision like this.”

  The Lurker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced at Kaylie, who remained expressionless, her eyes riveted to something distant.

  “Well then, Keaton,” Rigby grunted, “who has such authority?”

  White light flooded the chamber. “I do.” His voice was thunder, and his blazing Incandescent Armor was lightning.

  Bezeal hissed, rose from his seat, and backed toward the roaring fireplace.

  Master Gabriel barely fit through the arched doorway, ducking his snowy head at the last moment. He towered over the gathering, standing with one hand on his hip, the other on the hilt of his great sword. “I have the authority over the Dreamtreader Division, and I absolutely reject your ridiculous contract.”

  Rigby bounced out of his chair. Crimson electricity danced on his fingertips and in his eyes. “Keaton, you backstabbing, conniving—”

  “Hey,” Archer said, “you’re the one who told me to invite him.”

  “Now, you listen to me,” Master Gabriel boomed. “Your socalled treaty is a manifesto of madness, a greed-infested, godless blasphemy!”

  “Blasphemy?” Rigby spat. “That’s always the cry of the oppressor. Always so certain of your righteousness while pushing down the common man.”

  Master Gabriel’s armor flared. “We protect not just the common man but every man!” he bristled. “We pour ourselves out for the good of all. While you—you—speak of license and freedom as if they are one and the same. You sing of oppression to line your pockets and warm your hands over the world burning.”

  Rigby’s eyes bulged. “You indescribably pompous . . . fool! I’ll show you burning. My contract was your last chance. I will burn the Dreamtreaders to ashes! There will be—”

  “Be silent, fool!” Master Gabriel thundered. “Your endless talk has made you mad. Listen, for once. You have spent your advantage. All is undone. Archer, make his situation clear.”

  “Dr. Scoville,” Archer said, “I know what you’ve been doing. I know all about your secret deep tunnels, the scurions eating breaches unseen beneath the ground.”

  Rigby’s mouth dropped open. Kara glared at him. The Lurker appeared ready to leap over the table. “How could you . . . how could you possibly know about . . . about that?”

  Archer tensed before he said, “Kaylie, I think it’s time.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Scovy,” she said. “I told Archer about your tunnels.”

  “But—you couldn’t. I control—”

  “I never ate the gort,” Kaylie said. “Every morsel of gort I put into my mouth went right into a capsule I willed up, one I could tuck into my cheek and spit out later. No harm done. Gort, really? How stupid did you think I was?”

  Rigby turned to the Lurker. “Uncle?”

  “I . . . I watched her eat the gort,” Scoville said. “She obeyed my every command.”

  “I acted,” Kaylie said. “I like to act.”

  “Now, we’ve a fair dinkum bit of work ahead,” Nick said, “but we’re going to close up all the breaches, starting with the underground.”

  “I’m stuck here,” Kaylie said. “I can work on breaches all day and all night. No clock for me to worry about anymore.”

  “We’re going to stop the Rift, Rigby,” Archer said. “It’s over.”

  Rigby’s rage simmered, but he mastered it and took a more relaxed posture. “Have you forgotten?” he asked. “We are past the point of no return. A Rift is inevitable now. I have thrown open the Inner Sanctum. The Scath, even now, are punching so many holes in the Dream fabric, you’ll never fix it in time.”

  “Except that they’re not,” Archer said. “Not anymore. See, I have the Shadow Key.”

  Bezeal hissed again. “You said you destroyed it!”

  “I did destroy it!” Rigby yelled. “I threw it into Xander’s Fortune!”

  The Lurker reached into his jacket pocket. “Actually, nephew,” he said, “the key never made it to the bottom. It landed on a ledge.” He held the Shadow Key aloft. “See, I have it here.”

  Rigby exhaled. “Ha, Archer!” he crowed. “You are sorely mistaken.”

  “Uh, Uncle Scovy,” Kaylie said. “That key’s kind of a fake. Sorry.” As she said the words, the key began to decay until it was nothing but ashes falling from the Lurker’s hand.

  “What is this?” he growled. “Where is the real Shadow Key?”

  “I gave it to my brother,” Kaylie said, her pigtails bouncing.

  “And I gave it to the Windmaiden,” Archer said. “Right about now, I imagine she’s locking up the Scath for good.”

  “No!” Rigby rasped. “This can’t be.”

  “It is, trespasser,” Archer said.

  “You’ve stepped in it this time,” Nick chided. “Master Gabriel, Kaylie, Archer, and I? We’re more than enough to take you down for good.”

  “Now, do you want to end this peacefully?” Archer asked. “Or do you really need to learn the hard way. Please, please say the hard way.”

  Kara stood and edged toward Rigby. The Lurker did the same. But Bezeal pulled at Rigby’s elbow until he bent low enough to listen. The merchant whispered in his ear.

  “There won’t be any more deals, Bezeal,” Archer said. “Save your breath.”

  “Archer, look out!” Kaylie cried out.

  Kara had will-formed a great spear and, in the blink of an eye, had hurled it. It sped through the room. Kaylie’s conjured shield protected Archer, but the spear sped past him and buried itself deep in Master Gabriel’s chest.

  “Nice try, Archer,” Kara said. “You almost had me fooled.”

  Archer’s shoulders fell. Master Gabriel began to dissolve. Like a sand sculpture in the wind, the figure of the master of all Dreamtreaders vanished, and the spear clattered to the floor.

  “Now!” Rigby yelled. The torchlights and the fire flickered and went out.

  A bell sounded, ringing out six mournful tolls.

  “Kaylie, Nick, form up on me!” Archer called out. “We fight together!”

  “Light!” Nick yelled. “We need blasted light.”

  White fireballs like shooting stars launched up from the chamber and lodged at intervals in the arched ceiling, bathing the chamber in silvery light. “That work?” Kaylie asked.

  “Much better,” Nick replied.

  “Where are they?” Archer yelled. He leaped over the dining table and searched the far wall, but Rigby, Kara, the Lurker, and Bezeal—they were gone. And then, came the howls. First just a lone cry, then an answer. In moments, the night was drowned out by hundreds of feverish howls. The hounds were coming.

  “That’s a lot of doggies,” Kaylie said.

  “These are not doggies,” Archer said. “Nightm
are Hounds. Huge, ferocious things.”

  “Good luck getting in here, ya bitzers!” Nick shouted, looking at the fortress around him. “These walls are—”

  The eastern wall of the chamber began to tremble. It bulged and then collapsed in a pile of rubble and smoke. Huge red eyes waited on the other side.

  An immense black hound stepped over the debris. It had a mane like a lion’s, only black, and it flared out upon its massive shoulders as the creature broke into a rippling snarl. It lunged for Kaylie. Archer dove to her aid but found himself knocked out of the air and sprawling against the north wall of the chamber. He healed up his bruises even as he stood, wondering, What in the world hit me?

  “Bad dog!” Kaylie shouted. There was a yelp, and Archer saw Kaylie wielding a rolled-up newspaper that had to be at least three feet wide and ten feet long.

  “Bad dog, heel!” Kaylie shouted, whopping the hound on the snout repeatedly.

  “Kaylie,” Archer called out. “You’re going to need something stronger than that!”

  “I dunno,” she said. “It’s the way Dad did it with Bingo.”

  “Bingo was a poodle!” Archer yelled. “These are Nightmare Hounds!”

  Fierce growls announced the leaping attack of too many hounds to count. Archer found himself tumbling among snapping jaws and claw swipes. All the while, he heard Nick shouting, “Take that, ya flea-bitten bitzer! And that, yeah! Hooroooo!”

  Archer bounced snout to snout before falling to the ground and being battered by the mess of paws and legs. “Too much chaos!” he yelled, and he drew up his will and thunder-stomped the ground.

  The shockwave took the nearest hounds. They cartwheeled backward and crashed to the floor ten yards away. They yipped and whined as they righted themselves but then slunk away limping. But others came behind them. Dozens of other hounds. And there was something else. A grating sound like stone.

  Archer looked up and caught a glimpse of starlit sky through a crack in the high ceiling. “Dreamtreaders!” Archer called with will-infused volume. “Watch your head! The roof’s caving in!”

  Archer saw the crack widen. A car-sized panel of fused stone tumbled loose and fell. It crash-landed a few feet away from Nick. The Aussie Dreamtreader gaped wide-eyed and exclaimed, “Whew! That was close.”