Dreamstrider (8 page)

“He’s right about your instincts. You haven’t been properly trained, is all. I can talk to Minister Durst about it, see if we can’t arrange for some basic operative training for you.” Brandt smiles, crooked and genuine. “I know you’ll catch on quickly.”

We come to the end of the residential row, passing a steep bridge that crosses into a pocket of municipal buildings—a constabulary, an office for the Ministry of Colonial Management, and, unlabeled and unknown to most Barstadters, the Ministry of Affairs. But my thoughts run to the tunnel entrance far beneath the bridge, just one of the dozens of networks that criss-cross the earth below Barstadt City proper. Brandt may think I can learn, but Durst still holds my temporary citizenship papers. He’s trusting me to keep an eye on the Farthingers now, but one more mistake, and he will cast me back to the tunnels for good.

“I’m not sure we have time for training,” I say, steering myself away from that unpleasant line of thought. “I’m sure the Farthingers will give me ample practice in the field.”

“Make a game of it, then,” Brandt says with a grin. “They’re here to protect Farthing, but I’ve no doubt they intend to gather some information on Barstadt in the process. See what they’re a little too interested in.”

“Aye, Professor.” I nudge him with a grin of my own.

We reach the heavily guarded entrance to the barracks, fenced in by a prickly wrought iron gate. I march up to the guardsman, who knows us both so well by now that we rarely have to produce our papers, but Brandt lingers back.

“Well?” I ask Brandt. “I think we’re overdue for another Stacks tournament. I’ll wager you for your spare pinwheel there.” I gesture toward his bag of pastries.

But then Brandt, my best friend, fades away; what he becomes instead is the aristocrat Brandt. From the tight skin around his eyes and the weary quirk at one corner of his lips, I can see it’s his least favorite role. He looks away from me while he talks, as if he’s reciting something he’s rehearsed. “Actually, I’m staying at my family’s estate tonight. We’re having guests for dinner.”

I arch one brow. “Ones you’re not fond of, I take it.”

He takes a deep breath. “It’s another potential marriage contract.” He says it so quickly it takes me a few moments to parse out his words. “Father’s not going to take no for an answer much longer. The dowries are too large, and the families involved, too influential.”

I don’t hear the rest of his words, because I am a little girl curled up in a remote alcove of the tunnels, her fist clenched around a tithe that could save her life if she’s found. But she only wants the echoing silence of her deep-earth home. Silence too loud to permit footsteps or running water or painful words to break it apart. The silence of true loneliness—of true independence, where trusting no one and feeling nothing is the only way to never get hurt.

“Oh,” I hear myself say, as if I’m my own dreamstriding victim, speaking from my subconscious. Then, before I can stop myself, “Who is she?”

That seems to ease some of the tension from Brandt; his shoulders slump again and he musters a weak smile. “Edina Alizard.”

The blood drains from my face. Of course it would be Edina—clever, kind Edina, who keeps the Ministry’s operations running smoothly and treats everyone like an old friend.

“She’s a good person, Liv. I like that we already know each other—if you could have seen the awkward dinners I’ve had to sit through with other prospects…” He tries to laugh, but stops himself, and frowns instead. “It helps that she works for the Ministry—she understands the truth of my work, and I don’t have to lie. I like that she has ambitions of her own, too. Most of the girls my father’s picked are the sort who frump about the Cloister of Roses, gossiping and visiting the dress shops.”

Yes, Edina is perfectly charming, witty, and amiable—all the things I’m not. Though all she really needs to satisfy Brandt’s father is aristocratic blood. My jealousy is a thorny thing, scratching at my skin from inside.

I always knew this day would come; I can’t keep my dearest friend forever. And that’s all he is to me, I remind myself sternly—my partner, my accomplice, my best friend. He can never be anything more.

“What about her father?” I ask. The words come too easily, spilling out of me like loose grain. “One of the dirtiest aristocrats of them all.”

Brandt winces, pastry bag crumpling in his fist. “Yes, yes, I’m aware…”

But those thorns are scratching, scratching. “I mean, if you think it’s wise to spend time around someone who’d happily toss you to the wolves if he knew the real nature of your work—”

“Livia!” Brandt cries. “I know what her father’s like. She does, too. Obviously she doesn’t agree with his deeds, or she wouldn’t be working for the Ministry, trying to undo the harm her father’s criminal friends cause. But we can’t just change the very fabric of Barstadt society. The Houses have to marry, alliances must be forged, the Empire must carry on. We…” He hesitates. “We all have our roles to play.” Brant’s gaze reels out, casting somewhere far beyond me. “If I have to marry to fulfill my duties to House Strassbourg, then better I wed someone who understands me, who shares my passion for serving Barstadt.”

What does that matter?
I want to scream at him. He’s already promised his father—once he weds, he’ll quit the Ministry and take his place managing House Strassbourg’s affairs. And then he’ll be expected to produce heirs, and attend the Imperial Court … That’s the way with aristocrats and their obligations. As soon as one’s met—as soon as one knot’s untied—two more pull tight.

I shift my weight, bag of pastries hanging limp at my side. Brandt stares past me, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Well … have a lovely night,” I finally say.

“You too, Liv.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads off.

I look back toward the guard station, but as I try to imagine the evening that awaits me—dinner alone in my room, reading in the records room or the library, staring wistfully out the window while I avoid the other operatives’ sour looks—I can’t bring myself to walk through the gates. The sunlight will last for a few hours more. I check my bag of pastries—still a few honeycakes left, Professor Hesse’s favorite—and set off toward the university. If I can’t do anything more to protect the waking world from the coming war, then maybe I can look to the dreaming one.

Banhopf University looms in the backdrop of the municipal district, its muted tile buildings crammed every which way on the hillside. Though Barstadt buildings already tend toward the tall and narrow, the university takes the style to new extremes—each subject of study has its own tower, thrusting skyward like a beacon of knowledge and power (according to the professors) or like a gauntlet of interminable staircases (to the tunnelers who must clean the place).

I once called Banhopf home, but that’s too misleading—it was my home like a mansion might be home to a rat. At night, while tending to my cleaning duties, I watched, and I fettered away crumbs; I scrubbed and dusted and mopped and fetched professors their food; but when the candelabras were lit and the classrooms filled, my job was to scurry into the labyrinth of tunnels underground and not interfere with Banhopf’s lofty pursuits.

But I belong on these manicured lawns now, striding with confidence in a lady’s dress, not hunchbacked in a corridor after hours, scrubbing marble until it glints with my dour reflection. The scholars glance at me sideways, but they’re deep in discussions of philosophy or math or dream interpretation with their peers, all of them flapping about in black velvet robes like flightless birds. I keep my shoulders tossed back. I belong.

Rather than mount the trek toward Hesse’s office high up in the Theosophy Tower, I decide to check his laboratory first, where he conducts all his experiments, blending his religious scholarship and research with the latest advances in modern scientific knowledge. More often than not, this means training priests of the Dreamer in accessing Oneiros and shaping the dreamworld and dreams. Sometimes, though, Hesse’s mad hypotheses about the interplay of body, soul, and dreams results in something like dreamstriding. A scientifically sound theory just waiting for someone like me to come along and prove it true.

As I weave through the honeycomb corridors, I pass a young boy polishing the marble flooring, his hands and knees knobby and red from the effort. I reach into the bag of pastries and fish out a tartlet, then set it atop the nearest bookshelf. I remember the rules. The cleaning boy could lose his job if anyone saw me give it to him directly.

I slip into the back of Hesse’s laboratory, but I needn’t have worried about disturbing a lecture; Hesse and two students are out cold in their cots. The sounds of Hesse’s snores crowd out any other possible noise. I find the timepiece Hesse uses for his exercises—they’ve still some twenty minutes left in Oneiros. My muscles itch; it feels strange to be surrounded by people lost in Oneiros and just stand by. Both of the students look like typical Banhopf boys, soft-muscled, well-dressed, and without the ashy complexion of a sun-starved tunneler; both show the beginnings of jewel markings set into their foreheads and cheeks. More than likely, they’re seeking either priesthood or a fancy scroll with the Banhopf University imprint to hang in their mansion.

I sit at an empty desk, drum my fingers for a few minutes, then can’t stand it anymore. I’m going to join them.

In Hesse’s vast array of potions and substances, only two are crucial for dreamstriding—mothwood smoke, to send a sleeping soul into Oneiros, and dreamwort brew to send an awake one down. The Dreamer’s most devout priests can enter Oneiros without any alchemical assistance; Hesse was the first to find the dreamwort shortcut, and its existence is still something of a state secret. Oneiros is only for the Dreamer’s chosen, the High Priest says, not a playground for the masses. Well, a priest I’m not, but even the High Priest grudgingly tolerates my work in service to Barstadt. I only wish I could feel more certain the Dreamer blesses what I do in his name.

The dreamwort brew burns down my throat; I barely make it to an empty cot before Oneiros pulls me in.

I awake in a field of wildflowers, their pink and purple blooms waist high and bursting with wonderful scents. I’m wearing comfortable trousers and a loose blouse; no trim, tailored dresses hampering my movement. Behind me, Hesse is lecturing his students, every word bright and eager as the afternoon sunlight around us. How nice it is to stay tethered to my body inside Oneiros for once—to not have to hunt for my target, or to fear the prowling Wastes. I gather a fistful of wildflowers and bask in the dreamworld. In the distance, I can see some of the Shapers’ homes. In addition to weaving dreams, the Shapers can alter the landscape of Oneiros and remake it however they please. Here they’ve used their gift to fill Oneiros with their hearts’ desires: homes and sculptures and other creations that let them claim a corner of eternity for themselves.

“Tomorrow, we’ll conduct a few more Shaping experiments, but good work for today, gentlemen.” Hesse waves to me from across the field. “Go ahead and explore until the chime rings in the waking world,” he tells his students, then he starts wading through the flowers toward me.

“Afternoon, Professor.” I wrap my arms around him for a tight embrace. “It’s been too long.”

“The Ministry’s keeping you busy?” he asks. Dreamworld Hesse looks a few decades younger than the actual one, but they’re more or less the same—trimmed beard, a face etched by age, and hands as thick as bear paws. A gentle giant, most of the time, but a lively debate about the Dreamer always stokes the fire in his veins.

“Busy enough.” My smile fades. “I was actually hoping to get your opinion on something. I’ve been having some … difficulty.”

Something always shifts in Hesse’s face when I mention any trouble with dreamstriding—like a gas lamp’s been turned down. He’d never say as much, but he must regret that I’m not the perfect instrument for the Dreamer that he’d imagined in his lab. “Of course. What seems to be the matter?”

Everything,
I think, my heart twisting. I glance toward his students, but they’re absorbed in the favorite pastime of any dreamer—trying to fly. “On my last mission, when I was trying to get back to my body … the Wastes.” A chill courses through me. “They felt stronger. Much stronger—I’m sure of it.”

Hesse’s face screws shut like the lid of a jar. “My dear Livia, that’s not possible. Nightmare is dead. The Wastes can’t become any more powerful than they already are. The Dreamer wouldn’t permit it. You believe that, don’t you?”

Of course I believe in the Dreamer—wasn’t my ability to dreamstride proof enough of that? And yet all his priests and most devout followers speak of a presence that fills them, a voice that speaks to them, guiding them with more than mere dreams. The Dreamer never speaks to me, never shows himself to me with anything other than my half-formed gift.

Hesse touches his fingertips to his sternum. “The Dreamer speaks to us of truth, and realizing our dreams. But Nightmare—” Hesse taps his temple. “Nightmare is the doubt and fear and surrender that keep us from making our dreams come true.”

“But the Wastes are getting stronger. I’m sure of it.” I hold up one hand. “And please, don’t tell me I imagined it, or that I just have to try harder to fend them off. This wasn’t like the usual challenge they pose. I know what I felt and heard. It was real.” My voice shatters on that last. “They were real, in here.”

Distantly, I hear a chime; not in Oneiros, but in the real world. The timepiece Professor Hesse sets to keep his students from missing their next class. Time to return to the real world. The echo of the bell rings though my flesh while the dreamworld crumbles away.

I lurch out of the cot in Hesse’s laboratory as Hesse and his two students do the same. While Hesse bids them farewell, I hang in the back of the room; they stagger around as if drunk, readjusting to their weighty real bodies after their adventures soaring through Oneiros. Hesse’s toothy smile is broad as ever while he speaks to them, but as soon as he closes and latches the laboratory door behind them, he turns to me with a weary frown. He looks older—so much older, now, than his dreamworld self. More than just age has put those deep furrows in his face and that anxious tension in his mouth. It twists at my heart to see him this way.