Dreamstrider (27 page)

The office’s contents swirl before me like wreckage strewn along the shore. What am I after? Dream logic demands no answer; I fall to my knees and dig, and dig. The Nightmare shards. There must be more about them. Their locations. Someone has to know.

And then I find it. The blank page that somehow will unlock everything in this strange dream.

I clutch it to my chest before I soar, soar away into the night.

“Bad dreams, my lady?” Sora asks, straightening my sheets after she sets my breakfast before me on the desk.

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to call me that.” I pinch my eyes shut. “And not bad, just … odd.”

“Mind if I take a crack at interpreting? My aunt used to work in the Dreamer’s Temple. She taught me a thing or two.”

I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s just my nerves.” I start setting my own table before she has a chance to fuss over it.

Sora finishes with the sheets and starts sorting through my wardrobe. “Minister Durst says you’re to meet Marez at the southern guard post at noon to plan for the Farthing army’s arrival. May I help you get dressed?”

“No need. I can manage.” I’ve never gotten used to having someone dress me. “How’ve you been, Sora?”

Her cheeks flush, and she lowers the gown she’d been holding up for my approval. “Oh … Oh, I’ve been fine.”

I tilt my head. I may have left the tunnels behind, but I’ve never lost their language, the way we tunnelers hoist our burdens around us like saddlebags. “Is something the matter? There isn’t—” I narrow my eyes. “You’re not in trouble with any of the tunnel enforcers, are you?”

“Oh, certainly not!” She claps both hands over her mouth. “No, my lady, I never meant to make you think that. It’s only that I—Well, it’s my gentleman friend, is all.” Her usually pallid face now matches her kindling hair. “It’s not worth troubling an operative such as yourself with.”

I settle onto the settee to drink my tea and drag Professor Hesse’s journals into my lap. “You know I’m always happy to help, though, yes? Anything at all.”

She backs into the door and nods, barely managing to squeak out a farewell before closing the door behind her.

I shake my head. Only one non-tunneler at Banhopf ever spoke to me as an equal, and that was Professor Hesse. I adored that he did so—so why does my casual talk seem to trouble Sora? I mean to be friendly, but perhaps she finds it improper.

In any case, I’ve much greater concerns. The first is the Farthing army now sailing across the Itinerant Sea. The second is far more insidious, journeying through Oneiros under the control of a heretic dreamer. When the Farthingers arrive, I’ll focus on the first, but until then, I want to search for more clues about the latter. I settle in to read more of Hesse’s journals.

7 Balzan’s Month, 619 AN

Subject 36 did not awaken from his attempt to dreamstride into 39. I witnessed his fall—he circled 39’s consciousness, again and again, but the Wastes pulled at him too fiercely. He was not strong enough to linger in Oneiros.

Had an awful row with 39 afterward. He understands why we cannot offer up a proper funeral pyre—it isn’t that—but he is convinced my timidity is leading to needless deaths amongst the candidates’ ranks. He speaks of slipping into Oneiros at night and trying to reshape it for himself; he taunts me that he knows the truth of how Nightmare was first slain. But how does he evade the grasp of the Wastes? I cannot stray far from my body at all before they tug at me, and 12 has told me much the same. But then, 39 is far stronger than she.

His insubordination grows daily. I cannot teach him the final steps of dreamstriding, of grasping another’s lead—not until I’m sure he’s ready.

So there was someone who could dreamstride like me, or was on the brink of achieving it, anyway. He or she sounds even stronger than me. But 39 must have died like all the others, or Hesse surely would have introduced us. Maybe it was 39’s death that triggered the outpouring of guilt, the regret that surrounded him like a hardening crust in his final days.

12 Julisar’s Month, 621 AN

Subject 39 is no more.

I must put an end to it—all of it. I cannot have any more deaths on my hands. No more dreamstriding, no more transference, no more preservation of souls. And the binding ritual—the most dangerous of all. I have locked away my notes on the binding ritual where they will be safe. Safe from the Ministry, safe from any other outsiders who might come seeking them. 12, should anything become of me, I have left all my research to you, but the key to my research is something you’ll have to find for yourself.

From two years ago—so his death wasn’t the trigger for Hesse’s guilt after all. I swallow down the lump in my throat. He wanted me to read these journals. But who is he protecting them from? The key—I slump forward as I remember the strange cabinet locked away in Hesse’s Oneiros retreat. He didn’t lock the notes in our world—he hid them in Oneiros, using transference to take them to the dreamworld from our own.

But it didn’t save them.

Someone else found them first. They took his research.

I’ve failed him again.

“What a fine dress to go to war in,” Marez says, holding out one gloved hand to hoist me onto the battlements with him. “If nothing else, the Ministry certainly pays its secretaries well, I see.”

My face heats as I glance down at the worn velvet frock from my meager Ministry-supplied wardrobe; with its worn patches and stubborn wrinkles, it’s certainly nothing any Barstadter would envy. But the Farthingers dress much more simply, with an eye toward utility over appearance. My skirts tangle in my legs as I climb, making me grateful for Marez’s hand. I’m beginning to see the value of the Farthingers’ style.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to war.” I lean against the stone battlements. Their ragged surface is cool and damp from autumn sea spray, and pocked from the endless winds. The traveler’s winds move swiftly away from Barstadt this time of year, out through the Itinerant Sea and into the vast ocean to our west—an inauspicious time if ever there was one for the Land of the Iron Winds to declare war. But I suspect the Commandant isn’t one to let reason trump a certain poetry and impulsivity.

Marez follows my gaze to the frothy Bay of Dreams. A few brave gulls wheel on the horizon with aching, lonely cries. A massive galleon treads slowly south, to the bay’s mouth, but the Imperial docks beneath us buzz with pent-up energy: a navy eager to face a real opponent, rather than their usual duties of capturing undefended northern islands and rapping Farthing pirates on the wrists.

“Better to be prepared than not, isn’t it? I’ll admit, I was as surprised as you to learn the Confederate Council was going to send peacekeeping forces to help fortify the city,” Marez says.

“Why does it surprise you? Are you Farthingers so unaccustomed to showing kindness to your neighbors?”

Marez staggers back, clutching his chest. “Oh, how she wounds me! Believe it or not, we aren’t complete strangers to altruism.”

“You understand, though, how it appears to an outsider,” I say.

“Perhaps, but we are known for our attachments. We aren’t strictly out for ourselves.” He moves toward me, dark eyes gleaming. “We value balance—give and take. Perhaps I can show you someday.”

I turn away from him, face tingling from a flush of heat, but I can’t stop thinking about his words. I try to imagine the life I might have in Farthing—tending a business of my own, not beholden to the Ministry or the Emperor or anyone else. Not pining for a boy I could never have because he belongs to another class. Forgetting, at long last, the tunneler life that always hovers behind me like a shadow. Once my citizenship papers are in hand and my life belongs to me, I can find out.

Marez makes a notation in his ledger, eyes the battlement further, then jots something down again. “Am I boring you, Miss Secretary? Your mind appears to be elsewhere.”

I shake my head. “Not much sleep to be had in recent days. I’m sure you understand.”

“Naturally. They must have you taking notes at all kinds of dreary meetings, don’t they? Supply these troops with ten thousand pounds of grain, send three hundred kegs of ale down to this dock…”

“Exactly,” I say, perhaps too hastily, but he doesn’t look up from his scribbling.

“I still say it’s a waste.” His words gain an edge, struck against flint. “Your mind’s too quick for drudge work. Hurry, now, tell me which ship that is that they’re loading the cannons onto below us.”

“The
Thresher’s Harvest
,” I say, without even glancing down.

“And if they’re loading cannons, what type of offense are they expecting?”

I cast my thoughts back to one of the lessons with Brandt at the Ministry—Durst never required me to learn about military tactics, but Brandt thought it better to train me like any other operative. “One by sea. Close-quarters warfare along the blockade line, I’d wager. If we can sink the Iron Winds fleet in the bay, then we never have to test the defenses we’re fortifying here.” I gesture to the men hammering metal plating against the dock gates.

Marez grins. “Precisely. You’ve a tactician’s mind locked away in there.”

I want to believe him, but the truth is, I divined that battle plan from the little toy ships scattered on the Emperor’s war table as much as my lessons with Brandt.

“Now, what about the Commandant’s weaponry?” Marez strides down the battlements to assess the harbor from a new angle. We’re directly above the dockside armory, and men crawl in and out of it with shields, swords, halberds. The tempered black weaponry makes them look like beetles scampering around from this height. “What do you think we can expect him to bring to bear?”

He tucks the folio into the waistband of his leather trousers and props himself against the battlement, leaning toward me. He’s fairer-skinned than Barstadters, but I can see why the Farthing council sent him as their envoy—he could certainly be mistaken for one of us, with those dark, floppy curls and devilish eyes. And that smile—well, one can appreciate a smile like that regardless of homeland.

“The reports we received mentioned war machines,” I say, tenuously, like I’m positioning my feet for an intricate waltz. I don’t want to mention Nightmare outright. His eyes betray nothing, so I take the next step. “This may mean siege weaponry, cannons, or some sort of pathetic failed invention, like the Iron Winds are so notorious for producing. We aren’t really sure.”

He nods and starts to speak, but the wind picks up, snatching the words from him and spraying a curtain of my hair across both our faces. Marez reaches up to disentangle it from my nose and where it’s clung to my lips. His fingertip brushes from one corner of my mouth to the other, leaving a trail of cinnamon and stone. I swallow hard. As soon as his hand is gone, I ache for that warmth, like it was the last ember in the hearth.

“But I’m not interested in what the reports say.” Marez’s expression hardens. “I’m interested in what
you
think.”

My pulse crackles like a lightning flash, starting in my heart, surging through my fingers and toes. “I’m, uh…” What can I say? That I fear the Commandant and a Dreamer’s apostate will awaken Nightmare from the mountaintops? That they’ll devastate Barstadt City with a flood of anguish? “I’m still concerned by Lady Twyne’s involvement. I think there may be others within the city we’ve yet to unearth. And what your informant told us at the gaming den—”

His thumb slides behind my ear; his fingers rest gently at the nape of my neck. I freeze, unable to look away, unable to feel anything but his searing heat and the frantic hammering of my own heart. “Actually,” Marez says, “I take that back. I’m interested in you. Just you.”

I swallow. It sounds so loud in the dense, pulsing silence between us. “But I’m nobody,” I say.

“No, Silke.” His nose touches mine. “You’re everything.”

His lips press against mine. The kiss washes over me like a wave, determined to drag me under. I don’t even believe it’s happening at first, but that velvet mouth quickly convinces me. My lips soften, but then I press back, letting his warmth course through me, tamping down my nerves. Unafraid. Full of fire.

Slowly, he ends the kiss, then presses his forehead against mine. “Apologies, Silke.” He’s grinning madly; it makes me grin, too. “I couldn’t resist.”

I’m too stunned to speak. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I lean back from him, but my back is already aganst the stone wall; there’s nowhere for me to go. And it’s not that I wish to escape him, not at all, only that it isn’t proper for me to be seen kissing men in public, especially where anyone could see. No, especially where
Jorn
could see, and then if Jorn were to tell Brandt—

Marez’s smile curls back down. “I’m sorry. Have I done something wrong? Should I not have kissed you?”

“Yes—I mean, no—it’s just…” I stop and take a deep breath, trying to quiet my trembling. “It’s just that it isn’t done, publicly, here in Barstadt.”

Marez laughs and takes a step back. Instantly I feel colder, aching for the warmth we shared just moments ago.

Those clever, clever lips twist again. “Does it matter what Barstadters think?”

“No,” I say, my face burning up. “Not in the least,” I find myself answering truthfully. The Ministry doubts me constantly; the Dreamer never heeds my call. Marez is right—I don’t need their approval any longer. My chest aches as if I’ve released a long-held breath.

“Then we are in agreement.” He cups my head in his hands and stamps a kiss on my forehead, then turns away from me with a start. “Come.”

We link hands, and I chase him up the battlements, past the discolored span of stone where they were repaired after Nightmare’s flight over six hundred years ago. Nightmare’s Spine surfaces into our view from behind the jagged roofs of the sailors’ quarter. Marez clucks his tongue at the sight of it. “What a grim sight to keep right above your city, don’t you think? If I were Emperor, I’d have scattered its bones to the four winds.”

“They scattered the fragments of his heart,” I say. “That was the important part.”