The War for the Waking World (10 page)

Kara stepped out of her private elevator and planned her approach. She wished she hadn't been so harsh with Rigby the previous day. After all, she needed information, but she mustn't let Rigby know how badly she needed it. And, no matter what, she mustn't let him learn precisely
why
she wanted it.
Easy enough,
she thought.
Rigby can be manipulated.

Kara settled into her throne and willed up the Shadow Key. She held it in her hands for a few moments, pondering the power that it gave her. This key gave her access to the Karakurian Chamber. It allowed her access to the Masters Bindings and the utterly groundbreaking wisdom within. Most importantly, for now, it gave her control of the Scath.

Well
, she thought,
as much control of those little devils as possible
. The Scath were, after all, notoriously mischievous. When she gave them a task to do, it would get done, but there was always collateral damage. She could almost hear their favorite raspy chorus now:
We must play
. . .

Kara made up her mind. She couldn't just sit in her throne. In fact, she thought it might be best to hide the great chair for now. It was likely a very sore reminder to Rigby of all he had lost. With a twitch of her will, the throne, as if it had been sitting on hydraulic risers all along, began to drop down into the floor. In a moment, it was gone from view.

Then, Kara flexed her will to lift the Karakurian Chamber up from its recessed place in the floor. She inserted the Shadow Key, twisted, and watched the slab doors slide open. She put on a stern face. She expected Rigby to be standing there, top hat in hand, and she didn't want him to think she needed him.

But Rigby was nowhere to be seen.

Usually, the movement of the chamber rising was a clue to Rigby that he was expected to be front and center.
Come when I call, Rigby,
she'd told him.
Always come when I call.

Yet he was not there.
Fantastic
, Kara thought.
He's going to try my patience today of all days.

“Rigby!” she called. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

But there was no sign. For a fleeting moment, Kara feared Rigby might somehow have escaped. But no, that was impossible. The cobalt shackles negated his ability to create with his mental will.
Rigby is stuck here so long as I choose to keep him.

Then, she heard it: a cacophony of whispering. The Scath.

“Sssssss.”

“What is it?”

“Not moves. Not moves again.”

“Fleshling has done this . . . to us?”

“Don't tell; don't tell!”

“No, the master mustn't know!”

Kara rolled her eyes. What were the Scath up to now? What was all this nonsense?

She stepped over the threshold of the Karakurian Chamber. The torches were guttering, the amber light burned low. It was shadowy and difficult to see beyond a few feet ahead of her footsteps. But Kara was not afraid. There was no threat she couldn't handle. She had all the power she needed. All the power in the world.

Still, she wasn't about to get cocky. That was Rigby's greatest flaw, something she'd exploited many times. She would proceed cautiously, eyes wide open, all senses on alert. The doors on either side of the long hall were unevenly spaced and every door was closed. Seeing no sign of Rigby or the Scath, Kara delved deeper into the chamber.

Of course,
Kara thought. In spite of her power and resolve, memories of every horror movie warned her of impending doom.
Maybe this is Rigby's game
, she thought.
Lure me into the chamber, catch me by surprise when I open one of these doors, and knock me out. But then what?
Kara's thoughts darkened.
Then Rigby will leave me in the chamber to rot, or worse.
Kara felt certain that if it came to it Rigby will have no problem taking care of her in a much more permanent way.

Kara involuntarily swallowed as she reached for the first door. The knob turned, and the door swung soundlessly inward, and all the while, Kara readied her will for an explosive attack. But none came.

There was no menace in this room. Wall-to-wall books, a desk with an already burning oil lamp, and a sturdy chair of dark wood. Door after door, chamber after chamber, it was all the same décor, but no signs of Rigby nor of the Scath.

“We hears her!”

“Shhh!”

“Coming!”

“What do we do?”

“Shhh!”

Kara felt her blood begin to boil. She didn't like whatever the Scath were playing. Did it have to do with Rigby? Of course. “Scath,” she commanded, “present yourselves. Now.”

“Told you, told you!”

“Shhh!”

“We are done now!”

“Quiet!”

Kara waited at the end of the hall and stared down into the somewhat sunken chamber. Slowly, among the stone pillars and the ancient war chests, shadows began to waver. The darkness became a living thing as serpentine shades sluiced into the center of the chamber. The Scath were useful, to be sure, so Kara held her temper . . . to a degree. “What took you so long?” she demanded.

“Busy . . .”

“Yes, loads of activities.”

“Nothing wrong, of course.”

The lot of them laughed, sounding like trash bags full of dead leaves that were being crushed under giant feet. “Shut it!” Kara ordered. “I'm not playing games with you. What have you been doing? Where is Rigby?”

“The fleshling?”

“The other fleshling?”

“Yes, the only human who's been locked up with you,” Kara growled. “Duh. What have you done with him?”

“Done? Done?”

“Nothing at all!”

“We're not to blame!”

“Shhh!”

“What do you mean?” Kara asked. “Not to blame for what?”

“Better tell her.”

“We didn't do it.”

“It's not our fault.”

“Don't tell her!”

“Silence! She is master!”

Kara flexed a little of her will and hurled an invisible, Volkswagen-sized bowling ball through the center of the Scath.

“Eee!”

“Look out!”

“Hurts are coming!”

The shadows fled. Some scattered in all directions, some—not so lucky—were knocked silly and sent cartwheeling away.

Kara strode forward, flicking aside any Scath who were stupid enough to venture near. The torches flickered wildly as she came to the narrow aisle dividing the rear of the chamber's tallest bookshelves. In the dim light, she tripped, taking a clumsy step but catching herself before falling. She spun around, looked down to see what had caused her stumble, and screamed.

Between two of the tall shelves, Rigby lay sprawled. His still-manacled wrists were thrown up over his head as if he had been trying to shield himself from something. His body was twisted such that his legs seemed to have been frozen mid-stride but going the opposite direction of his torso. Worse than all the other details was Rigby's face. His eyes were open, but they were motionless, staring fixedly up at the chamber's ceiling.

Rigby Thames was dead.

THIRTEEN

A
T
W
HIM

A
RCHER RECOGNIZED THE SHADOW STANDING JUST OUTSIDE
the bars of his cell. He knew the hooded silhouette all too well. “Surprised to see me, Dreamtreader in a cage? How easily you act your age. Relax, for soon we will all turn the page.”

“Bezeal!” Archer growled. He flew to his cell door, thrust his arms through the bars, and tried to grab the new visitor. But the diminutive robed figure had quickly backed out of reach. “It was you? You're the one who accused me of all this . . . garbage?”

From the corner of his eye, Archer saw Master Gabriel step forward.

“No,” Archer said, stepping back from the bars, “it's okay. I'm not going to kill him.”

Bezeal's face was invisible beneath the dark hood, but his eyes glimmered with cold light like a pair of distant stars. “Little boy, with grown-up pride, be glad your insolence I abide, you couldn't kill me if you tried.”

And then, Master Gabriel did step in. “Careful, Bezeal. You know quite well where you are, and there are empty cells yet. What are you doing here? Visiting with the accused is strictly off-limits for a prosecutor.”

Bezeal's eyes flashed and, for just the briefest of moments, his Cheshire cat grin appeared. “In the interests of a fair and interesting trial,” he said, “I've come with news that will be worth your while. Behold the motion I felt compelled to file.” Bezeal reached inside his robe, withdrew a rolled parchment, and passed it through the bars.

Archer opened the scroll. With Master Gabriel hovering over his shoulder, he began to read. Seconds later, Archer looked up. “What does this mean . . .
the trial shall proceed at whim
?”

“Let me see that,” Master Gabriel said, grasping the left side of the parchment to get a better look. A moment later, he began to shake his head slowly. “This is craven,” he muttered, “even for you, Bezeal.”

The hooded figure said nothing in reply, but simply left Archer's cell and waltzed away down the hall.

“What?” Archer asked. “What's craven? What does
at whim
mean?”

“It means, Archer, that Bezeal has taken the initiative. He's collected and documented all his evidence. He can declare the trial whenever he wants. And I imagine it will be very soon.”

“I have to have time to prepare my defense,” Archer argued. “Bezeal can't do this. Can he?”

“I am afraid he can,” Master Gabriel said. “The trial waits only for the prosecutor to collect his evidence. In most cases, that takes quite some time, but Bezeal was all too thorough.”

“What about me? What about my defense?”

“That was, of course, Bezeal's plan,” Master Gabriel said. “He wants to take you to trial before you are ready. He wants your defense to depend upon Eternal Evidence
.
”

“Eternal Evidence? I don't know what that means.”

“It means your life, Archer,” Master Gabriel replied. “Everything related to the charges, as you remember them. Eternal Evidence allows the court to review your memories and, unfortunately, your motives.”

Archer plopped down to his bunk once more. “Oh,” he said. “That might not be so great.”

“Archer,” Master Gabriel said, “you have convinced me to go to the others . . . to Nick and to Kaylie, but I could still stay to defend you. The trial could be at any moment.”

Archer raised his eyebrows. There was a part of him that wanted to take Master Gabriel up on the offer. But the more he thought about
it, the more he saw restraining Master Gabriel when Kaylie and Nick needed him . . . that would be utterly selfish.

“No,” Archer said. “I need to do this alone.”

“In that case, Archer,” Master Gabriel said, “anchor first.”

“Anchor deep,” he replied.

The Master Dreamtreader stepped outside of the cell and slowly slid the door closed. It latched with a very final sounding clank of metal, and Master Gabriel vanished in a swirl of purple, blue, and bright white sparks.

Archer lay back on his bunk. He thought hard about what the Eternal Evidence would reveal. It was disconcerting to think that events of his life—as well as the attitudes of his heart—would be on display for all to see.

“What if I really am guilty?” he whispered, and the question echoed again and again in his mind. After all, there might be moments in time that he'd misremembered, like childhood stories that grew longer and more colorful in the telling over the years. Maybe, in his passion to stop Rigby from harming Kaylie, maybe he'd gone wrong. It was an icy fear.

But then, in that moment, there was another sensation: this one, oddly warming . . . and freeing.
If I'm guilty,
he thought,
then . . . I am. And I deserve whatever sentence the judge sees fit.

There was really no use in worrying about the past.
What's done is done,
he thought.
I'll just have to defend myself as best I can, and then throw myself on the mercy of the judge.

He found it peculiar he wasn't really worried about himself, about what would happen to him personally. But he was still worried about his family, his friends, and all who called the Waking World their home. If the judge ruled that Archer was guilty and needed to be put away, that he wouldn't be able to use his Dreamtreading talents to help—that would be hard to take.

Archer prayed that when the time came his anchor would be deep enough.

D
REAMTREADER
C
REED
, C
ONCEPTUS
12

T
here is a hierarchy in the Ethereal. The Masters are superior to Dreamtreaders, much as Man is superior to Boy. Master Gabriel is chief among Masters, but a former Master holds court over all.

Chief Michael the Archelion wields the hammer of justice. If there is reason for dispute, it is Michael to whom you must turn. If warranted, the High Court would hear your case, but know this: Michael's decision is final.

Dreamtreading is a high calling. Only three are chosen at a time out of billions. You bear the responsibility to perform your duties according to the Creeds. You must not succumb to the temptation of abusing your power. And, Dreamtreader, that temptation will come . . . in one form or another. You will be tempted to misuse your power, perhaps for your own gain or even for a noble intention that strays far off course. But you must not give in. You must not betray your calling.

For if you do, Michael's hammer will be waiting.

FOURTEEN

S
OMETHING
S
CARY

K
ARA COULDN
'
T STOP STARING AT
R
IGBY
'
S BODY
. S
HE FELT
a twinge of guilt, shed a tear of sorrow, and then her eyes flickered with angry red lightning. “Scath!” she raged. “What did you do?”