Dreamstrider

by Lindsay Smith

  “Albrecht Hesse’s theory of transference,” Brandt supplies. “We have his research notes on the process.”

  I nod. “I don’t know if they wish to transfer the shard alone, or if they mean to attempt to transfer war machines, troops…”

  Emperor Weideger balks. “Madness. How could anyone with such power slip from our notice—”

  “I’m only telling you what I know is possible, based on Professor Hesse’s research.” That his research never quite translates into reality in the way he’d hoped, I’m in no mood to tell the Emperor. I draw a steadying breath. “There is something else Professor Hesse was working on, too. He called it the binding ritual. I don’t know exactly what it does, but I think someone killed him trying to get it.”

  “Binding?” one of the priests asks.

  “We’ve only found references to it in Professor Hesse’s other notes, so we’re not sure what it’s meant to do. It’s clear, however, that the Commandant and the late Sindra Twyne were trying to unite the shards of Nightmare’s heart. If they’ve been successful in that task, that might explain the recent disturbances in Oneiros.”

  “What recent disturbances?” the Emperor asks, cutting his gaze toward his High Priest. The High Priest blanches and glances away.

  “The—the recent increase in strength of the Nightmare Wastes, and Nightmare’s minions returning to life.” I force myself to stand firm. “If Lady Twyne and the Commandant really mean to awaken Nightmare, and the criminal can do just that…”

  “Madness. Absolute madness.” The Emperor harrumphs. “But if Hesse hypothesized it, it may very well be possible. Minister, do we have any word on who this betrayer might be?”

  Durst steps forward. “A recent report obtained in conjunction with our Farthing colleagues indicates Lady Twyne employed the services of a mystic—possibly an apostate of the Dreamer’s priesthood. The dreamstrider believes he or she may have aided Lady Twyne in preserving her soul inside Oneiros through the transference process.”

  The High Priest, in his loose white tunic and thick golden yoke, shakes his head furiously. “This is the first I’ve learned of it myself, Your Imperial Majesty, I assure you.”

  “Assurances? You want to issue me an assurance?” The Emperor waves his hand. “Assure me that you’ll scour our records for any apostates who might be capable of such a thing.”

  The High Priest drops into a series of bows. “Yes, Your Majesty—”

  “And what about these disturbances in Oneiros?” The Emperor rounds on the High Priest in a flash. “When were you planning to bring those to my attention?”

  “Your Majesty, it’s nothing my dreamshapers can’t handle. And”—the High Priest jabs a finger in my direction—“we’d have it all under control without the dreamstrider’s meddling!”

  “Without the dreamstrider’s warning, you’d let Nightmare crumble the world around us. See that it is handled.” The Emperor’s voice is stretched tighter than a drumhead; gooseflesh lifts on my arms.

  “Y-yes, Your Majesty.” The High Priest bows again, and scampers to the back of the group to confer with his acolytes.

  The Emperor turns back to me, drumming his fingers against his belly, just below a golden pendant set with a glimmering ruby the size of his fist. “Dreamstrider? Lord Strassbourg?” Brandt and I straighten up. “Since my priests are so bloody incompetent at sniffing out traitors in their ranks, I want you two to find this rogue priest for me.”

  Minister Durst’s eyes bulge. “Your Most Divine Majesty, if I may, I think you’ll find the dreamstrider’s talents lie outside of the realm of conventional fieldwork—”

  “Nonsense. I want these two.” Like he’s picking out pastries at Kruger’s. The Emperor leans down toward us, all his bluster channeled into a deadly tone. “Find me this traitor. Now!”

  And so we are dimissed. After we’re all but shoved out of the war room, a maid with a perpetual case of the shakes treats Brandt and me to tea and cakes in a side parlor. I nibble at the cake, but it is so overpoweringly sugary and laden with rum that my already nervous stomach roils in protest.

  “Well,” Brandt says, staring at his steaming teacup as if it might hold the solution. “How do you propose we do this?”

  I shrug and attempt to sip the tea, but it scalds my lips. I only succeed in dribbling it onto my pale dress. “Minister Durst doesn’t believe I can do it. Nor should he!”

  Brandt shakes his head. “Come now, I know you and I can figure this out together. We always manage, don’t we?” He smiles and pops a tartlet into his mouth.

  My nervousness starts to thaw at the sight of that grin. “Very well. What are you thinking?”

  “What do we know about our would-be traitor?” Brandt holds out one palm to tick things off on his fingers.

  “He accompanied Lady Twyne on at least one visit to the Land of the Iron Winds,” I say.

  “Or she.” Brandt leans back in the chair, chewing on the mouthful of cake. “She’s trained to access Oneiros, which means she must be a former priestess.”

  “Or priest. But not necessarily. I’m not a priestess, either.”

  Brandt groans. “All right, so if whoever it is isn’t a priest, he—or she—had to learn to enter Oneiros through some other means. Possibilities?”

  “Bribed a priest to teach them? Figured it out on their own?” I swallow hard as I summon a possibility so frightful I can’t ignore it. “Learned from Professor Hesse?”

  Brandt looks dangerously close to choking on a chunk of frosting. “You said yourself that you’re the only one to survive his experiments.”

  “Yes, his dreamstriding experiments. We don’t know which other theosophical professors had access to his research, or who the other subjects might have told about his experiments, despite their sworn oath.” The very thought rankles and exhausts me, but I can’t ignore the possibility. “And his theories about transference of matter between the dreamworld and the waking one—they weren’t just theories. Sly Fox witnessed it, unless it was all a trick. We have Hesse’s original research notes on transference, but we need to keep hunting for more details about the binding ritual…”

  Minister Durst clips down the hallway toward us, his face puckered up, like he really has spent the past five hours kissing the Emperor’s arse and is none too thrilled about it. “I don’t know what you two are gabbing about, but we have other issues.”

  “We’re talking about how to catch this mystic priest. You wouldn’t be about to ask us to defy the Emperor’s orders, now, would you, Minister?” Brandt asks coolly.

  Durst dabs the sweat from his forehead with a kerchief. His gaunt cheeks look positively skeletal after so few hours of sleep; deep shadows well under his tightened eyes. “The Farthingers,” he says, ignoring Brandt. “The Farthing Confederate Council sent official word to His Imperial Majesty that they were prepared to commit as many forces as necessary to defend Barstadt from the Land of the Iron Winds.”

  “That’s awfully generous,” I say. “What do they stand to gain from it?”

  “Well, if Barstadt falls to the Iron Winds, then Farthing is sure to be next,” Brandt says. “And their naval force is considerably smaller than ours. They command all the confederate privateering ships, but I don’t think the Council would have any luck bossing them around. Helping us fend off the Commandant makes sense, even for a people well known for putting themselves first.”

  Durst nods. “Our good friends from the east, Marez and Kriza, are to oversee an influx of Farthing land troops arriving soon to fortify Barstadt City. Brandt, you can keep hunting for the identity of the rogue priest, but I want you on the Farthingers, Livia. Mind that they don’t get too nosy—they’re here to help us and not themselves. Understood?”

  “The Emperor said…” I start, but the glare from Durst shuts my mouth.

  “The Emperor doesn’t know your limitations as well as I do,” Durst says. “The Farthingers, however, have for some reason taken a shine to you. You’re of bette
r use to me keeping an eye on them—through any means necessary.”

  “Understood,” I say, voice wavering.

  “Glad to hear it. Now, get some rest. I want you meeting the Farthingers tomorrow morning,” Durst says. “Dreamer bless.”

  As the Minister’s heels report down the vast hall, I stare at Brandt. “We’re letting the Farthing army into the city?”

  He shrugs. “It’s happened before. In fact, I’m pretty sure they helped defend against Nightmare way back when. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking when this is all over, I won’t be offended if you spike the celebratory cider.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I toss and turn for hours, fighting my immense exhaustion after Birnau and our audience with the Emperor. I dread what might await me in my dreams—or worse, inside Oneiros. But I can’t escape slumber’s yoke forever. I blink—and then I am gone. I’m flying over Oneiros, and I glimpse the Dreamer’s Spire rising out of the city’s heart, but then I land inside a shallow dream, one I’m sure to forget on awakening.

  In it, I stride through the halls of the Ministry, a sheathed sword banging against my thigh. The Ministry’s layout feels foreign, distant to me, in that annoying way of dreams. Some of the day’s anger with Minister Durst bubbles up and forms shadows that dart along my path. I find myself at his office, and the night guard—is it nighttime in this dream? There are no windows to guide me—nods at me, permitting me entrance.

  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 now 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. And he was 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 undefe
nded 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.