The War for the Waking World (8 page)

Rigby shook his head. “I don't for a minute believe you've pulled it off, Kara,” he said. “But even if by some miracle you did manage to get the Veil up and running, it wouldn't last. People would see through it eventually. The intelligent ones would, anyway. Our species is far too analytical. They won't accept it. It—it'll be like the body rejecting a transplanted organ.”

“I've already got that covered,” Kara said, nibbling on her pinky nail. “As we speak, under Frederick's supervision, Dream Inc. clinics will be opening all over the world. Five thousand clinics so far, and then double that in three months.”

“Clinics?” Rigby chuckled. “Clinics for what?”

“Reorientation,” she replied. “For people who don't accept the new reality. Dream Inc. will help them adjust.”

“Impossible,” Rigby replied. “That's why Uncle Scovy and I gave up on the Veil concept.”

“You gave up on it because you lacked the resources to see it
through,” she said. “But I've learned from the Masters Bindings. You forget; I spent quite a bit of time with the Nightmare Lord. He taught me a thing or two as well.”

Rigby bent down to retrieve his top hat. He didn't put it on, but stared inside.

“Thinking you'll pull a rabbit out of your hat?” Kara jeered. “It won't work. Those manacles won't let you use your will.”

If Kara's dig had stricken a nerve, Rigby didn't show it by his expression. He shook his head, and when he looked up, he wore a hint of a smile. “What
'
ave you done with the Masters Bindings?” he asked. “They used to be 'ere in the chamber with the Scath.”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” she mused. “I can only imagine how much you must be longing to get another peek at them. Pity you didn't think to make yourself copies.”

“I did think of it, Kara,” he growled. “I'm not an idiot. The Masters Bindings cannot be copied. No amount of mental will can do it.”

“You're certain?” she asked coyly. “Even a superior mental will?”

“There's no world in which you 'ave an intellect superior to mine,” Rigby hissed.

“And yet how easily I caught you,” she said, absently examining her fingernails once more. “It was foolish of you to go after Kaylie in that way. No good could come from extinguishing her extraordinary power.”

“Well, she's got to be accounted for,” he replied. “You'll see. And if you mess with 'er, you'll 'ave to deal with Keaton—”

“Archer is out of the picture,” Kara said. “By the time he's back in, it'll be too late.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Archer's past has caught up with him. A terrible shame, really.” Kara began to laugh quietly. “In many ways, you and Archer have taken a similar path . . . and share a similar fate.”

“Enjoy your miserable riddles.” Rigby sneered, shaking his top hat
at her and jangling his chains. “Enjoy it while you can. It's all going to come down, Kara. It's going to burn down and take you with it.”

“Oh, Rigby, don't be so bleak.” Kara waved her hand dismissively. She stood from the throne and approached her captive, stopping just out of Rigby's reach. She crossed her arms and studied him for a few moments.

“You might beat Keaton,” Rigby said. “Might.” His expression showed that outcome to be very much in doubt. He smirked and continued, “If 'e doesn't get to you in time, you might even manage to fool most of the world. But you'll never fool my uncle for long. Scovy has research you know nothing about. Don't you think the inventor of the Veil concept will figure out the Veil . . . and your schemes? And when 'e does, 'e'll come for me.”

“I'll deal with your uncle when the time comes,” Kara said. “But he'd better come soon.”

“Or what? You'll sic the Scath on me? You've already done that. What else can you do, kill me?”

“No, I'm not going to kill you, Rigby,” she quipped. “If I did, where would I get my entertainment? You're like my own private puppet show.”

Rigby strained against his chains. “You—”

“Good-bye for now, Rigby,” she said, reaching for the Shadow Key. She gave it a twist, and the slab doors began to close.

“Wait, what did you mean?” Rigby demanded. “What did you mean by 'e 'ad better come soon? What's the time component?”

Kara grinned as the doors slid slowly, like some giant arachnid's mouth. “Isn't it obvious, Rigby?” she quipped. “No? Put it this way. If your uncle takes too long, I'll release you into his custody and wish you both well. In a matter of days, neither of you will care anymore.”

TEN

T
HE
C
HARGES

M
ASTER
G
ABRIEL
'
S
ARMOR FLARED, THE RUNE-LIKE
tracings in each articulated plate burning brightly with white fire and lighting up Archer's bedroom. The other two soldiers wearing Incandescent Armor similar to Master Gabriel's stepped to either side of Archer and took hold of him at the elbows and shoulders. Gabriel drew his sword, Murkbane the Nightcleaver. For a surreal and terrifying moment, Archer thought the blade might be meant for him, a rather quick sentence for his crimes.

But Master Gabriel turned to Archer's closet, and slashed the glowing blade up, across, back down, and across once more, carving a ribbon of light in a gate-sized rectangle that reached from the ceiling to the floor. Master Gabriel sheathed the blade and waited. Archer was about to ask, but snapped his mouth shut.

The glowing frame began to fill in. Silver tendrils of light cascaded down, spreading to the edge. An image was forming. For Archer, it was like watching a thousand invisible hands painting; only, their brushstrokes left not paint but streaks of lightning. He blinked and squinted, watching with open-mouthed astonishment as a rolling stairway of light came into being. It was not a spiral stair, nor was it a staircase. It was an undulating staircase that climbed, disappeared over a wide ethereal hill, only to reappear beyond with more inclines and hills as far as the eye could see.

“Come, Archer,” Master Gabriel said quietly, and he stepped through Archer's closet onto the stair. The soldiers led Archer forward,
following their leader. A few steps forward made all the difference. Archer's closet seemed less real, while the stair became more.

It was a long journey up and down, but it was not arduous, not taxing. Instead, Archer felt energized. His will pulsed within him, surging and tingling. Each step seemed more effortless than the one before. There was an occasion when he just happened to glance at the horizon to his right. He blinked. He thought he'd seen the faintest hint of an image . . . Old Jack, the Dreamtreaders' timekeeper. Its clock face seemed strange, though, at the time, Archer couldn't decide why. What time did it say? Six o'clock? But in light of the Rift, what did that even mean? Archer had little time to consider it. In a blink, it was gone, hidden by a whorl of stardust.

In the midst of the journey, Archer made the mistake of looking down. Through the shimmering light, the veil-like corona emitted by the stair, he saw down to the world he'd always known. His heart fell, for he saw the toll of the Rift. Archer saw little but fire . . . and destruction.

At the end of the rolling stairway in the sky, Master Gabriel and his soldiers led Archer through a dense bank of mist, destroying all sense of direction. In fact, all of Archer's senses seemed muffled. He knew the soldiers still marched on either side, and the shadow ahead must have been Master Gabriel, but it was disorienting. Once, he thought he heard faint music, but it was gone in an instant.

When they at last emerged from the mists, there was a blue sky and snow-covered terrain, all brilliantly lit but with the sun nowhere to be seen. They picked up the pace now and followed a winding path down into a valley thick with pines. At its heart stood a stone fortress guarded on all sides by towering pines and monstrous snowdrifts. Where he was on earth—or even if he were still on earth—Archer could not tell.

Inside the fortress, Master Gabriel led Archer down a narrow hall. They stopped for a moment at a pedestal upon which lay a large
open book. Master Gabriel took up a quill pen that looked remarkably like the Summoning Feather, and then scrawled a few lines into the book. The soldiers led Archer too quickly past to see what the Master Dreamtreader had written. Archer itched to ask, but the place was so eerily silent that he wondered if it might be an additional crime to speak in such a sacred place.

They turned left ninety degrees, and Archer winced, thinking they were going to walk straight into a plain white stone wall. But they continued on as if it were nothing but air. Each time they approached dead ends, they neither slowed nor turned but somehow passed directly through. When they at last came to a stop, Archer walked straight into Master Gabriel's back.

A door opened, and Master Gabriel cleared his throat audibly. “This cell is yours, Archer.”

Archer hadn't seen any other cells, but this one was real enough. A bunk, a desk, a restroom—all white as snow, but that was it. As the soldiers led Archer inside, Master Gabriel said, “Thank you for your service. You are dismissed.”

“But, sir,” one of the soldiers said, hesitating, “we're supposed to remain with the accused.”

“We have orders,” the other soldier added.

“Given to you by your commander,” Master Gabriel replied curtly. “Yes, I know. This commander is my subordinate. Have I made myself clear?”

The two guards nodded repeatedly as they hastily disappeared around the corner. Then, the Master Dreamtreader turned his scowl to Archer.

Gabriel's ferocity drained away, leaving upon his features something closer to sadness. “You must know I would have avoided this if there were any way I could have, Archer,” he said. “Even at my level, there is an order to things, and order must strictly be adhered to.”

That first glimpse of sympathy was enough to release Archer to
speak his mind. “What's going on?” he asked. “Master Gabriel, everything has gone haywire. The Waking World is dying.”

“Indeed. It is killing itself,” Master Gabriel replied. “People no longer know what is real and what a dream is. They cannot find their anchors.”

Archer dropped to his bunk. He ran his hands feverishly through his hair, and said, “Look, I don't know what I've done—whatever it is, I'll answer for it. I'll take whatever punishment I'm due, but can't you suspend sentence or something—just temporarily—so I can help the Waking World?”

If not for the gravity of the situation, Archer would have laughed at Master Gabriel's slack-jawed expression. The Master Dreamtreader's gaping mouth closed, and then turned into a broad grin.

Archer frowned. “What?”

“It's nothing,” Master Gabriel replied. “Pride, a touch of admiration. How much you've grown in so short a time.”

Archer wasn't entirely sure what Master Gabriel meant, but he didn't allow himself time to ponder it. “So, what about it? Is there some way I can get out of here? Can't we post bail or something like that?”

Master Gabriel's fist constricted around the pommel of Murkbane. “Our system of justice has no provision for that sort of thing. You will remain in custody until your fate is determined by trial.”

“When will that be? A day? A week?”

“We do not reckon time in the same way here as you do in your realm,” Master Gabriel explained. “No hours, no minutes. Just order. Your trial will begin once the evidence has been collected and documented.”

Archer shook his head, stood, and paced the room. “I guess I should know the charge against me.”

Master Gabriel clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed to hesitate before saying, “I am afraid there are many charges, Archer.”

“This . . . that makes no sense,” Archer replied. “Just tell me.”

Master Gabriel sighed. “The first charge is insubordination, for repeatedly disobeying the commands of a Senior Dreamtreader.”

“When did I—oh. Right . . . when I went after the Nightmare Lord and cut the horn off his helmet.”

“That and entering the Lurker's lair in Archaia,” Master Gabriel explained. “But those charges will be easily enough dismissed. You were young and stupid, not defiant.”

“Thanks. I guess. What else?”

“The second charge is that of incompetence,” Master Gabriel said gently. “For failing in your Dreamtreading duties, failing to prevent a Rift.”

“That . . . well . . . ultimately, that's true.”

“Well,” Master Gabriel said, “not entirely. Given the circumstances—Rigby's and Kara's betrayals, the Lurker's secret breach-tunnels—I believe we can beat those as well.”

“Okay,” Archer replied, mentally running back through the events that had led to the Rift. He wondered what he could have done differently, wishing he could go back and fix things.

“The third charge is much more serious,” Master Gabriel said, “but, fortunately, the easiest of the lot to defend. You are accused of high treason for the murder of fellow Dreamtreaders, Duncan and Mesmeera.”

Archer felt like he'd just taken two punches to the gut. “When I burned the Nightmare Lord's trees,” he said, “I didn't know they were there. I couldn't have known . . .”

“Precisely your defense,” Master Gabriel said. “This charge in particular is utterly preposterous. Duncan and Mesmeera are lost, and for that we most heartily grieve. But they made their own decisions, the choices that ultimately led to their capture by the Nightmare Lord's trickery. It was a tragedy, but you are not to blame.”

“Thank you,” Archer said. “So that's it, then? Tough charges, but beatable?”