A Warrior of Dreams (30 page)

That was the lie. The ruins were not bones, not the remnants of anything that had lived for a time and then passed into dust. He knew, because the ones who built wonders on Memnyre were there still. The old man felt their presence in every stone, in every shattered carving. But worst of all, he heard their voice.

Especially at night.

Crucian tried not to. On a good day, when the pain in his chest and the ache in his joints drowned out the island's many voices, it was easy.

This was not going to be one of those days.

The old man knew as soon as he woke; time and necessity had made him adept at reading the signs: for one, the sun was clear and bright; it woke him with gentle warmth after a restful night
—
another bad sign. He spread his left hand experimentally, listening for the tell-tale grating of bone on bone. Nothing. He listened to his failing heart, found the rhythm steady and strong.

This day will not be kind to me
, he thought. And knowing that, he still forced himself to rise, wash his face in a cold water stream, and set out to do his day's work. It was all part of the Trial, though in truth that made little difference. The God of Endings might guide but he did not choose; that was left to old men.

Crucian smiled to himself.
I will not be kind to this day
.

The old man went first to the stones; it was the best time to work, in the morning before the sun was high. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at how well the altar was coming along. A few more days at this rate and it would be done.

WHAT IS IT YOU DO?

Crucian almost dropped the fine piece of polished marble that he had so carefully teased from under a fallen statue. He took a deep breath and slid it into place on the altar.

"You are an Aversa," he said aloud. It was the first time the voices had spoken to him directly; before now they had been as whispers, snatches overheard but little sense to them.

YES.

"Masters of Lesser Dream and Illusion. Created first of all races by Somna, Goddess of the Greater Dream that is the World."

Silence, but then Crucian didn't need an answer to that. "A demon, in sum," he said. "I've come to destroy you."

AN ENDER.

It was Crucian's turn to be silent for a bit, then "You know of us?"

DOES THE BODY KNOW OF THE WOUND?

"The dream is the wound. The world is the wound. It festers, it corrupts, it sickens. We would heal it."

YOU WOULD DESTROY IT.

Crucian smiled. "It's the same thing."

NO.

The old man smiled. Let the demon test his faith; he didn't mind. It would pass the time.

Crucian knew about demons, called First Born and Aversa by those with less understanding. His own instruction by Brother Tyen and others he had supplemented by more study, and, recently, first-hand knowledge.
I could write a treatise
, he thought,
if I didn't have to die so soon
.

The pride he felt at the idea had a deliciously sinful feel to it, but perhaps he could be forgiven. After all, the one contribution he
would
live to make was fated to pass unrecorded. No one would know except himself and the demon, and they were both doomed, each in their own fashion. That, not the dying, was the part that didn't seem fair.

Malitus will know
.

That was certain, but not so very comforting to an old man nearing the end of his work.

"The altar to Malitus disturbs you," he said. "You cannot bear its presence here. The meaning it carries is like a knife in your heart."

YES.

"You are beloved of Somna. When you are gone, that is one less reason for Somna to remain in sleep."

YES.

"Good," Crucian said and he lay another stone in place.

*

Soon after the first stars appeared Joslyn and Ghost found a barrier island, little more than a strip of sand, sea-grass, and a few gnarled and twisted evergreens.

"It isn't much," Ghost said.

"It is to
me
," said Joslyn. "Anything's better than sleeping in the boat."

Ghost shrugged. "You say that now..."

Joslyn was too relieved to ask what that meant. Later, when they had made camp and were settling in for the night, she found out.

"Oww!" Joslyn tried to jump up, got tangled in the blankets, and fell in a spray of sand. She slapped at a spot on her hip.

"Sand fleas," said Ghost, "They bite."

"I solved that riddle by myself!" Joslyn untangled herself, muttering, and began to shake some of the sand out of her bedding. "How am I supposed to sleep with those things around?"

He looked surprised. "Do you want to sleep?"

"Why would you think
—
" She stopped.

Ghost barely paused. "Move closer to the fire; they don't like smoke."

Joslyn gathered up her dignity along with the blankets and found a level spot on the far side of the campfire. Ghost dropped some more dead wood on the flames, then added a bundle of still-green seagrass. It began to smolder, and the fire burned low. Ghost took a glowing splint from the flames and lit a small oil-lantern.

Joslyn coughed. "I hope they like the smoke less than I do." Sometimes it was hard to tell, but Joslyn was almost certain Ghost wasn't listening.

"We still don't know where we're going," he said.

"We will if I find the Aversa," Joslyn said, "and I think she wants to be found."

"You're still going to search tonight?"

She looked at him. "Of course."

"I thought... I thought maybe you wouldn't," he said. "You're still afraid..."

"And you're still sucking it in like a starving leech."

"Exactly like that," Ghost agreed. "because I need your emotions to keep living. And you give them, Joslyn: anger, frustration, charitable scraps of affection... all except fear. That one you horde. That one you make me steal. Why is your fear so different, Joslyn?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Need," he explained patiently. "I think you need your fear more than I do."

*

Evening found Crucian sitting on a log by his fire; the silhouette of the altar was clearly visible on the hillside.

I'll lay the capstone on the altar tomorrow. That'll be the end of her
.

'HER' HAS BEEN DEAD A LONG TIME, CRAZY MAN. SHE CAN'T DIE AGAIN.

He was almost relieved. The demon's voice was in his mind again, the odd cadences of someone
—
something, rather
—
not used to forming words. Crucian had to admit she was getting better. The words formed clearly now; he just didn't know what they meant.

"Riddles?" he asked aloud. "Is that how you will test my faith?"

I SPOKE NO RIDDLES. SHE IS DEAD. YOU WERE THERE. SHOULD KNOW.

The old man put some more wood on his fire and pushed back the darkness a little more. He didn't see anything yet, but it was a little soon for that. Perhaps she would appear, with a little coaxing. He wanted to see what he had come to destroy. It made victory something more than abstract.

"For a dead Demon," he said, "you sound lively enough."

THIS ONE NEITHER DEAD NOR DEMON. WHO RIDDLES NOW?

Crucian frowned. "You just said
—
"

HER. THE ONE IN YOUR MIND WHEN YOU SAY 'DEMON.' THE ONE YOU HAVE COME TO DESTROY. IS DEMON HER NAME?

"You are the demon! There is no other!"

ONLY ONE, she agreed, BUT NOT THIS ONE.

He started to curse her but never got it out. A woman appeared just on the edge of the light; fire-shadows touched her face. She was young, young in the way that is always painful to old men, but that wasn't the source of the pain that nearly brought him to his knees
—
it was her eyes, and the two things he recognized there:

Knowledge was the first. She knew him, knew all the lies, postures, and self-serving delusions that came so very close to being all that he was. Fifty years, and he still hadn't escaped the cool grey certainties in her eyes. But even that cruelty wasn't the worst. That honor was reserved for a miracle.

Forgiveness.

She knew him, and the knowledge didn't matter. He'd called that love. She'd forgiven him that, too.

"Aphel..."

He blinked like a child awakened too soon. Or too late.
By the Dreaming Bitch, what have I done
?!

YOU SAID HER NAME.

Such a simple thing. But an old man with no past and only a single-minded determination in the present could not have known that name, could not have spoken it.
It doesn't belong to me
...

BELONGS TO JARETH, A FISHERMAN FROM DARSA. THAT IS YOU.

The damage was complete. It wasn't bad enough that he'd given the demon his dead wife's name.

She'd given his own back to him.

"Damn you!"

The Demon sat down on a broken pillar just within the ring of firelight. She kept the appearance of his dead wife Aphel, and as long as she did, he couldn't forget knowing her. Could not forget who he was. He fought back the fear and panic, tried not to let the demon see either. The familiar pain returned to his chest, but sharper now, less patient. He cried out, once, and one more traitor thought slipped away.

Trapped
.

If the demon read Crucian's thought, she gave no sign. Crucian stared at the dying flames, tried to think, tried to make a plan. There wasn't enough wood to keep the fire going all night; he had nothing to split the log with and the small branches and twigs he found nearby were soon exhausted. The demon had not moved; the failing light cast her more and more in shadow. Soon night would close in around them both, sleep would come and this time his dreams would be different
—
the old man's impenetrable
indifference
would not be there to protect him.

It was the only thing that kept her away
.

The thought was like a sigh. NONSENSE. WAKING OR SLEEPING, YOU DREAMED. AND I WAS CONTENT TO LET YOU.

"That's a lie! I was strong!" he said.

She shook her head, slowly. IT WAS NOT STRENGTH THAT KEPT APHEL HIDDEN, JARETH FORGOTTEN.

Crucian looked about for something, anything he could use as a weapon. Everything had gone into the fire. "What, then?" he asked.

PAIN, SILLY MAN. PAIN SO OLD AND BURDENSOME THAT YOU COULD NO LONGER TELL WHERE IT ENDED AND THE WORLD BEGAN. RIPE FRUIT FOR THE ENDERS. ARE ALL WHO WORSHIP THEIR OWN SORROW LIKE YOU?

"I serve Malitus, Demon," he said. His voice was like a child's.

YOU CONFUSE YOUR PAIN WITH THE WORLD'S PAIN. YOU WOULD STOP THE WORLD FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR OWN HURT.

"Lies!"

STILL YOU SLEEP. I WOULD SEE YOU AWAKE ONCE BEFORE WE DIE.

Crucian still didn't have a plan, but anger and fear made wonderful spurs. He raked the fading embers together just long enough to fire the charred end of one resinous branch. Holding his weak torch high, he set out for the rough heap of stones on the near hill, and on his way up he carried another piece of a fallen Aversa temple to add to the growing shrine.

*

Joslyn huddled on the shore of a borrowed dream. The beach was familiar, the iron-grey granite spires and dark, restless waters as she remembered. She knew who had set the stage for her, and if she didn't feel safe, exactly, she did feel hidden.

Tempted and challenged at the same time. Clever Harpy
.

One moment Joslyn was alone, and the next she wasn't. The harpy perched on a stubby boulder just beyond the surf.

"Clever Joslyn, rather. Tell me you weren't thinking of a place just like this. I'll listen, yes I will. You can waste the whole night telling me lies, if you work at it."

Joslyn shook her head.
I don't have time to play games with you
.

The harpy smiled, showing even, pointed teeth. "Truth? A rather poor start, Child. Try again."

Joslyn stood up.
I'm leaving now
.

Angrily, Joslyn sought the boundaries of the dream but they weren't clear; she couldn't tell if she sensed the end of the dream or just more distance.
The dream can't be that large
.

"Truth again?" The Harpy sighed. "You're not getting the feel of this at all."

Joslyn's will probed the fabric of the dream, searching for the best attack. The harpy waited, infinitely patient. Joslyn finally knew what she had to do, but she didn't like it.

"I don't want to leave," she said. "I'm afraid."

It worked. Just for a moment the monster's face was a little less the harpy, a little more the Musa Joslyn remembered. "I know that, Child, and now so do you. To hide in a lies you have to believe in them and, try as you might, that's one skill you just don't have."

Joslyn sought the end of the dream once more. This time the boundary was sharp and clear, and as she passed through Joslyn heard the fading beat of wings. The thought was fading, but clear.

YOU'RE RIGHT TO BE AFRAID.

*

The nightstage grew from Somna's dream and could never be cut off from the root. Joslyn felt the true ocean beneath her; it was hard not to think of it as the Dark Waters that could drown more than a body. She picked her way carefully and tried not to think of that. It was easy
—
there were far too many other things she was trying not to think about.

Which way
?

Joslyn's first impression
—
and it was no more than that
—
told her that the Aversa was south of Darsa, and that meant somewhere on the great Southern Ocean. But now she had lost all sense of direction, and as far as she could see, there were no guides, no dream-beacons shining in the darkness.

Joslyn smiled.
Almost like being alone
.

*

It wasn't much to see, that last stone. Time and weather had stained its marble; the vines that overran it had found its small flaws and gouged them with tiny root fingers till its face was cracked and lined like Crucian's face, mirrored now in the old carved stone that lay just inches from where he fell. The blood that so nearly choked him outright was beginning to dry at the corners of his mouth. He couldn't move his arms and legs, couldn't even shift his gaze from the final stone.