“If you hear anything else,” Archer said as he stood, “you’ll send word?”
“I may,” she said. “Or I may summon you to my garden once more. I often find it so very lonesome.”
“Have you considered a pine coon?” Archer asked. “They’re cute and very resourceful. I have to go now. Many kingdoms to visit, breaches to weave up—Dreamtreading duties, you understand.”
“I understand very well, lad Archer,” she said. “Pine coon, indeed.”
By the time Old Jack sounded its ninth bell, Archer had closed up forty-two breaches: a new personal record for one night, though Razz had helped. Together, they had also visited nineteen of the twenty-one kingdoms in Archer’s district. Aside from Lady Kasia’s news, Archer had learned precious little about Duncan and Mesmeera. The sum total of information was this: the last time anyone had seen them was two moons ago, two weeks in Dream time; when they had last been seen, they had seemed humorless and pensive; and no one knew where they had gone.
As Archer surfed across the Dreamscape, he wondered aloud, “What could possibly be keeping those two out of the Dream?”
“I’m frightened for them,” Razz buzzed from her perch on his shoulder. “They are so kind and friendly.”
“And powerful. What about their breaches?” Archer continued. “Who’s weaving them if they haven’t been? I need to tell Gabriel.”
“Are you going to return soon, then? It’s getting late.”
Archer gazed up at the distant facade of Old Jack. For him, it read just after tenth toll. He’d heard it only moments before. “No,” he said. “I have a little cushion of time left.”
“A very little cushion.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I remember the last time. But there’s one more stop on our journey tonight.”
“Where?”
“Kurdan,” he said. “I need to talk to Bezeal.”
“Bezeal?” Razz chirruped, huge eyes blinking. “That low-down, no good, swindling, cheat-faced—”
“Temper, temper, Razz. You’re just angry because he got the better of you dealing for that crate of walnut shells.”
“G-got the better of me?” she spluttered. “He practically ripped my heart out! Six golds for walnut shells? I never should have agreed to that!”
“Then why did you?”
Razz avoided his glance. “They were pretty.”
“See there? You may have paid a little extra, but you got quality goods.”
“I know,” she said. “I keep telling myself that, but, Archer, you can’t trust Bezeal. Even when he speaks smoothly and kindly, he’s up to no good.”
“Especially when he speaks smoothly and kindly.”
The Dream region known as Kurdan was a peculiar and forbidding land. The mountains were unlike any other ranges Archer had seen. They were like a tempestuous sea that had been turned to stone. Each peak and valley wore its trees and vegetation like a disguise, covering up more numerous nooks and crannies than one could explore in a lifetime. More characteristic of Kurdan than any other detail was its peculiar soil. It was a fine soil, not sand, but soft like peat moss, and it was dark red, the color of a sunset the night before a hurricane . . . the color of an overripe strawberry . . .
The color of clotting blood.
The soil began and ended at Kurdan’s boundaries with a distinct line between it and its neighboring realms: Varta, Wightsdown, and Celosia. It could not have been a cleaner line if it had been drawn on a map. Things are weird like that in the Dream, Archer reminded himself as he surfed over the border. The Dreamtreader dismissed the longboard and took to the foothills with great leaping strides. If he was to find Bezeal before Old Jack struck his Personal Midnight, Archer would have to go to the famous marketplace of Kurdan City.
The market was more empty than usual, after peak hours in the Dream. Most of the shops, stands, and stalls were closed up for the night. That didn’t mean Bezeal wouldn’t still be there. The real wheelers and dealers would all still be very busy.
Archer steered toward into the Avenue of Precious Metals, rounded past the Vault of Gemstones, and entered the Reliquary, home of very rare inventions and keepsakes. He found two tall men talking in whispers near a broken-out window. Men? Archer thought. They might be men. In the Dream, one never knew.
Archer strode up to them and deepened his voice to address them. “I seek Bezeal.”
“Do you?” one of the tall beings said. He turned, revealing a feline face with reptilian eyes. He bumped the brim of his wide hat with the iron hook that replaced his hand. “Then you are in a hurry to lose your shirt.”
“He’s fresh meat, ain’t he?” the other man replied. His face was just a bag of mottled flesh pocked with little black vacuums where his eyes, nose, and mouth should have been. There was something familiar about this being. What it could possibly be, Archer had no earthly idea. With his thatch of spiky yellow hair, he looked like a scarecrow come to life. Last time Archer checked, he didn’t know any talking scarecrows. Well, except for the one in The Wizard of Oz.
The scarecrow being shifted his stance, haughtily placing a paw-like hand on the hilt of a small axe holstered at his side. “Bet’ee won’t even have skin on his bones when ole Bezeal’s done with him.”
Archer took a deep breath. He’d been working on holding his temper. But Razz was under no such illusions. She leaped off Archer’s shoulder, spun two tight circles in front of the men.
“Listen here, ya know-nothing goobers!” she squeaked, shaking her paw like a shaming finger. “When a Dreamtreader asks you for information, ya speak up, and no guff!”
“Dreamtreader, is it?” Snake Eye asked. “And I’m a great pink dragon!”
“Heh, heh, yeah, prove it,” Scarecrow mocked. There it is again, Archer thought. There was something in this being’s mannerisms that struck him as familiar. The arrogant stance, the tone, maybe? He still wasn’t sure.
Razz put a paw up to her open mouth. “Uh-oh,” she said before vanishing, the purplish smoke making Scarecrow cough.
“Gentlemen,” Archer said. “You might want to look down.”
The reptilian eyes became shrewd slits as if he might be trying to process what sort of misdirection Archer was playing.
“No, really,” Archer said. “You asked for proof that I am a Dreamtreader. Look down.”
Scarecrow looked down first. “Sheejey!” he gasped. “Look!”
Snake Eyes at last lowered his eyes. He grabbed Scarecrow in a desperate embrace. And well he might have. The ground was gone. A chasm had opened beneath them and fell to jagged shards of stone far below.
“That . . . that’s not real!” Snake Eyes hissed.
Archer nodded, and the two men fell. They fell, kicking and scrabbling and screaming. Archer stopped them after about fifty feet and then brought them back to a hover at eye level. It was a ridiculous strain, holding those two up by force of will. A greater drain on his mental resources even than flying. Archer just hoped they didn’t see him sweating. “Proof enough?”
They nodded furiously.
Archer said, “Now, about Bezeal?”
Both men pointed urgently toward a dark corner where a dim red light burned.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Archer said, and he turned to walk away.
“Wait!” Snake Eyes exclaimed.
“What eebout . . . uh . . . well . . . us?” Scarecrow mumbled.
“Oh, oh . . . sorry,” Archer said. He waved his hand, and the ground was there as it had always been.
As he neared the far end of the market, he found himself yawning. “Going to have to watch that,” he muttered. The chasm had been impressive, but it had taken its toll. Archer was close to exhaustion. Exhaustion that might lead to sleep. And falling asleep in the Dream meant a disaster worse than not getting answers from Bezeal. Far worse.
Archer made his way toward the red light but stepped aside so that a small group of cloaked beings could pass. Any one of them might have been Bezeal, but Ar
cher had an inexplicable feeling that the renowned merchant still lurked ahead.
He did.
“A Dreamtreader is here,” came a voice from the stand where the red light burned. “Good fortune draws near. Come. Have no fear.”
Archer blinked the sleep out of his eyes and mustered all his remaining will. He needed his mind sharp for this.
“Long time no see, Bezeal,” Archer said. “And, uh . . . still, no see. Where are you?”
“Look again for my kind,” the voice said. “Seek and you will find unless, of course, you are most willingly blind.”
Archer did look again, and a layer of shadow seemed to unfurl itself into a short, hooded figure with gleaming yellow sparks for eyes. His small, four-fingered hands were sea green and worked deftly to wrap a small mechanical device in a tawny cloth. A wide, wide smile of brilliant, broad white teeth appeared for just a moment.
“I need some information, Bezeal,” Archer said.
Bezeal’s smile vanished. Only his gleaming eyes remained. “To hear that you are in grave need is music to the ears of greed. Tell me, tell me, so that I might feed.”
Mistake number one, Archer thought. “What can you tell me about Duncan and Mesmeera? They seem to have disappeared.”
Bezeal put the bundled device into a small chest. “To search for the Dreamtreaders twain will lead thee in time to pain . . . and in the end, all in vain.”
The game had begun. “I have brought you something,” Archer said. He turned over his right hand, and in his palm sat a small brownish block.
“Is that . . . chocolate?” Bezeal asked.
Ha! Archer thought. He’d thrown Bezeal off. He hadn’t spoken a rhyming triplet. “It is chocolate,” Archer said. “And it’s yours if you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
Bezeal’s eyes flashed white. “Chocolate, chocolate,” he muttered, “glorious and real, sneaky play on Bezeal, but . . . we have . . . a deal.”
Archer handed over the chocolate. A green hand took it, and the chocolate disappeared into Bezeal’s hood.
“Ohhhh, oh yes!” Bezeal said. “Better even than I dared to guess. Creamy and sweet, I do confess.”
“There now,” Archer said. “Tell me about Duncan and Mesmeera.”
“Where they’ve gone now I cannot say, but they departed two moons ago at the break of day, in search of a relic rare and fey. This antiquity, it lingers in a dangerous place, and the Dreamtreaders twain have given chase. But alas, they are gone without a trace.”
“What is the relic you speak of? Where did Mesmeera and Duncan go to find it?”
“It is a puzzle box of clever make. That is what they sought to take, leaving only mystery in their wake. To find them and it, seek the rotten core, the home of evil out on the moor. Knock not once but twice on the Lurker’s door.”
“The Lurker,” Archer whispered, hoping he’d misheard. But Bezeal nodded. “This just keeps getting better.” Duncan had once told him about the wandering madman out on the moors in the province called Archaia. No one seemed to know how the Lurker got there, but he wasn’t like other beings in the Dream. He wasn’t awed or cowed by Dreamtreading power. He had such power himself, but he used it to dark ends.
What was so special about the relic that Duncan and Mesmeera would risk tangling with the Lurker? Archer felt certain that Bezeal knew. But getting him to reveal what he knew would require more . . .
Wait, what would it require? Archer shook his head. He’d nearly drifted off. More drained than I thought. Still, he needed a bargaining chip. A chocolate bargaining chip. He breathed deeply, concentrated, and opened his palm once more. The block of chocolate was small and probably hollow, but it was the best he could do for now.
“Here,” he said. “Will you take this in exchange for telling me why Duncan and Mesmeera went after this . . . this relic . . . thing?”
Bezeal snatched away the chocolate. “No,” he said. “I cannot tell why they sought this thing. But for this, a new deal I’ll sing. You find the relic for me to bring.”
“You want me to get the relic?” Archer blurted. “You want me to go out on the moors of Archaia, knock on the Lurker’s door, and ask for it . . . just so that you can have it? You’re crazier than I thought.”
Bezeal’s eyes flashed red once and the gleaming Cheshire grin appeared again. “Find the relic, find your friends, and something more. When I have it, I’ll tell you something you cannot ignore. I know the secret to cast down . . . the Nightmare Lord.”
“Cast down?” Archer echoed. “You mean, as in defeat?”
Bezeal nodded.
“You mean gone . . . forever?”
Bezeal nodded again.
Archer’s heart hammered against his rib cage. If I could be the one to destroy the Nightmare Lord, I could help so many people. I could change things. He didn’t give words to the next thought, but he felt in his heart that doing such a mighty deed would somehow make his mother proud.
“I can’t find the relic,” Archer said, “if I don’t know more about it.”
“A puzzle box of silver, ornately engraved, with levers and switches for those who are brave. Take it and who knows whose lives you’ll save?”
The deep-toned bell of Old Jack tolled once. Bezeal looked up suddenly, and Archer didn’t know why the little merchant would hear—
The bell tolled again, ringing out before the lingering sound of the first vanished. The few stragglers still in the marketplace began to scatter. The bell struck four more times.
No, Archer thought. Not now. Ring again. Ring again.
But it didn’t ring again. This was not his personal time. It was Dream realm time, and it was the stroke of six: Sixtolls, the height of the Nightmare Lord’s power and a time of utter anarchy in the Dream.
Deep, mournful howls sounded in the distance. “No, not now,” Archer growled. “I’ve got more questions. Too many.” Archer knew he’d run out of time, but even if he hadn’t, he’d definitely run out of bargaining chips.
“I’ve got to go,” Archer said. “I’ve got to go now.”
“Wait, wait! First, you must seal . . . the deal . . . with Bezeal.” He reached out his strange, pale green hand.
“You’d better not be messing with me on this,” Archer said. “Or so help me, Bezeal, I’ll use every bit of my Dreamtreader power to make sure you never make another deal.”
The teeth appeared. Archer shook hands and felt a sharp prick on his palm. When he yanked his hand away, there was a smear of blood. No, there were two smears. One bright red. The other . . . putrid yellow. Bezeal’s blood.
“A bargain in blood must never fail. Even when the Lurker begins to wail, I hope for your sake your will won’t quail.”
Archer furiously wiped his hand on his pants leg and sprinted from the market. With the howls growing louder and more furious, Archer called up his longboard and let the waves of Intrusion propel him swiftly back to his anchor.
DREAMTREADER CREED, CONCEPTUS 2
There exist three worlds: Temporal, Ethereal, and Dream.
The Temporal is the Dim Plane, the waking realm where all of humanity now dwells. It is in the Temporal where sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and thought interpret reality . . . convey existence. Man says, “I think, therefore I am.”
How quaint.
But the Ethereal is the true reality, the home from which mankind originated and to which mankind may yet return. The Ethereal is the Forever Realm . . . the final destination. There, and only there, will mankind discover all the senses that are. In Ethereal, living is alive.
And the Dream, well, that is why you have come to the Creeds, is it not? The Dream . . . the Realm Between. Dream is the twilight world intended to remind those dwelling in the Temporal that there is a far better land, a spectacular far-off country, that waits for them in the someday . . . in the plane of the Ethereal. Dream is the nightly nourishing of the part of each human being that longs for a new world . . . their true home. When you awaken to the Temp
oral, you feel it, do you not? Hauntingly familiar but achingly out of reach? It is the vague memory of life meant to be but . . . yet to be.
A Dreamtreader is a caretaker of the Dream realm. There are always three Dreamtreaders, and together, you will oversee the vast Dream horizon, the Dreamscape. It is no small task . . . because there is an enemy.
He whose will began the Tragedy of Ages is not content to torment mankind in the Temporal, but has built a stronghold in the Dream. His captain is the Nightmare Lord. This being is the one who poisons the resting mind, inflicting all mankind with images and haunts, wicked memories, and crippling fear. You, Dreamtreader, must keep this lord of fear in check.
But beware the Stroke of Reckoning. It is your personal midnight. When Old Jack, the watcher clock, strikes twelve, you must return to the Temporal. You must return . . . or be lost. Tread the stroke of one, two, three, four, five, seven, eight, nine, ten, and eleven. But beware the toll of twelve, your Stroke of Reckoning.
Just as your final heartbeat is the end of the Temporal life, Old Jack’s final toll will be your undoing.
EIGHT
DARE TO DREAM
SLEEP WAS VERY DIFFERENT FOR KARA WINDCHIL ON this particular Sunday evening. She found herself in the midst of a pulsing crimson twilight. Stars sparkled vividly overhead, two moons—one full, one a sliver—hovered just above the distant mountains, and a gigantic clock tower loomed high on the horizon. But something troubled Kara.
“Am I doing this right?” she wondered aloud, turning so that the cape of her white cloak whirled and waved. Then, she rolled her eyes. Of course I’m not doing this right, she thought.
A moment later, Kara wore a long flannel nightshirt with matching pajama pants. And she was at the mercy of a raging, chaotic ocean of dream scenes. The waves crashed in. Suddenly, an evergreen forest surrounded her, and she stared up at a bright full moon, bigger and brighter than the other two moons combined. Wolves howled in the distance, and she thought she saw a large shadow cross the railroad tracks maybe forty yards away. Railroad tracks?