Dreamfever

by Kit Alloway

  The real reason Mirren hadn’t wanted Whim to come along was that she wasn’t sure he understood the danger. He was having too much fun.

  “Let’s get started,” Josh said.

  Ritual in hand, Mirren took her place at the bottom of the doorway. Gently, she struck the wooden mallet against the rim of the smallest singing bowl, and while it was still ringing out a clear, high A, she began running the mallet around the lip of the bowl. The note continued, coalescing into a golden ribbon of sound, bright and strong.

  Three breaths, Mirren thought, counting as she inhaled and exhaled. After the third release of breath, she nodded to Deloise, who struck another singing bowl, this one an F just lower than the A, and added its voice. Every three breaths, another note joined the chorus, a D, then a G, then a slightly off-key B. Not only did the volume increase, but Mirren felt the vibration of the instruments moving through her body, creating a stir like currents in water. The sensation was not unpleasant, yet it raised an alarm in her, a primordial warning that she was playing with powerful forces.

  Another F, a C, a note between D and E-flat. Each successive singing bowl was larger, its voice lower and deeper. When Josh struck the ninth note, the birds roosting in the trees around them took flight. When Will played the tenth note, the ground began to shake. Mirren struggled to keep her mallet in contact with her singing bowl. Almost reluctantly, afraid of what would happen, she nodded to Haley, who struck the last note from a bowl the size of a kitchen sink. It bellowed with the voice of an ancient leviathan, and Mirren felt her bones shake within her.

  It’s too much, she thought. We have to stop—

  A sonic boom burst through the clearing. Mirren dropped her mallets and clapped her hands over her ears, and she saw everyone else do the same as a shock wave centered on the doorway sent them all tumbling onto their backs. The gunpowder—which they had assumed they would have to light—exploded into three-foot-high flames.

  Holy shit, Mirren saw Josh mouth, but she didn’t hear the words because her ears were stuffy and blocked.

  What do we do? Deloise asked silently.

  I can’t hear you, Whim told her.

  Josh helped Will up. Come on! she mouthed.

  Even the orange flames couldn’t give Will’s face any color. He let Josh take his hand, but he backed away from the burning doorway as she pulled him toward it.

  Mirren clutched Haley with one hand and Josh with another, and they descended on the doorway. Will was shaking his head and trying to wrench his hand out of Josh’s, and Haley was the one who grabbed him, not by the hand but by the belt, and dragged him forward.

  The flames in the doorway vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. Where the earth beneath them had been, now a black hole stretched into the ground. Whim shone a flashlight into it, but the space devoured the light, revealing nothing.

  “Ready?” Josh cried, and Mirren could just make her voice out, a buoy of sound in an ocean of white noise. “On three!”

  Haley and Mirren counted with her. “One, two—”

  Will shook his head desperately. “We can’t!”

  “Three!”

  They jumped, pulling Will with them. Mirren felt herself stretched and compressed at the same time, much as she imagined going through a black hole would feel, a crushing sensation that she escaped only through the distortion of her physical form, and finally a pop that restored her to herself.

  And then blackness, and the sound of lapping waves.

  * * *

  She didn’t know how long she might have been sitting in the boat before she came back to herself. Perhaps the shock of passage had disoriented her. When she became aware of what was going on again, she found that her companions were in a similar state.

  She was sitting on a bench in a wooden rowboat beside Josh. Haley and Will sat on a second bench, facing them. At the boat’s stern, an old man in gray robes stood beneath a lantern suspended on a hook. He pushed the boat with a long wooden pole.

  “Fair,” he said to them.

  Mirren blinked at him.

  “You’re fair,” the old man said, but he sounded irritated.

  “Uh,” Josh said.

  “The fare,” Will told her. His lips were drawn tight and pale with anger, and only when he pulled off his backpack and began digging in one of the pockets did Mirren gather his meaning.

  “He wants the boat fare,” Mirren said. “For the passage.”

  “Oh.” They all dug into their pockets and offered what they could find. The boat driver chose two nickels from Will’s hand, a dime from Josh’s, and Haley’s quarter, and the forty-five cents must have satisfied him, because he planted his pole in the water and pushed the boat forward.

  “Where are we?” Josh whispered, leaning forward. “This doesn’t seem right.”

  “What, Feodor’s education didn’t include Greek mythology?” Will muttered. “We’re on the river Styx.”

  Josh straightened up and looked around as if surprised—whether by the information or Will’s tone, Mirren couldn’t say.

  Haley had his eyes pinched shut. Mirren took his ice-cold hand. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes and gave her a weak smile. “It’s so quiet here.”

  It was quiet. The old man’s pole hardly caused a ripple in the water, and not a breath of wind stirred the air. Mirren couldn’t even tell where they were—everything beyond the water stretched into blackness, and they might have been crossing a starless ocean or traveling an underground tunnel.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Josh said to the old man. “Where are we going?”

  The old man frowned at her. “Boat only goes one place,” he mumbled.

  They fell into silence. The darkness and the quiet seemed to encourage it, and Mirren listened to the lapping of the water against the boat, a sound as soft as kisses. She held Haley’s hand until she felt his skin warm.

  “Is that a light?” Josh asked. “Up ahead.”

  Mirren squinted into the abyss until she, too, could see a light, and as they drew closer the light expanded and took on a golden tone. Soon she made out a large templelike building set on a shore of yellow sand. The temple was round with a domed roof, surrounded by a circle of pillars. Though vaguely Greek, the dome was set with clear skylights, and colored stones created geometric patterns on the pillars.

  The old man guided their boat up to the dock and tied it.

  “Where are we?” Josh asked him.

  “End of line,” was all he said.

  “You’re telling me,” Will muttered.

  They climbed off the boat onto a dock made of white stone. The dock led directly into the temple, and sharp rocks covered the beach below. A wall on either side of the temple blocked Mirren’s view of the rest of the land, but the intent was clear: anyone who arrived by boat would have to pass through the temple.

  “Remember,” Josh said as they walked up the dock, “don’t eat anything, don’t drink anything, accept—”

  “Accept any gifts, walk barefoot, or tell our names,” Will said. “We remember.”

  Josh shut her eyes briefly, as if to hold herself back, but she kept walking.

  Mirren took Haley’s hand again. He squeezed her fingers absently, staring down the coastline. The sand beyond the rocks wasn’t just yellow, Mirren noticed as she followed his gaze. It shone, like gold.

  They entered the temple through an empty double doorway. Inside, white marble reflected the sunlight that came in from skylights high above and bathed the chamber in warm light—or so Mirren thought initially. When her eyes adjusted, she realized that the yellow glow came not from the sun, but from three figures seated on heavy marble thrones.

  “The living!” one of them cried in a voice that came from everywhere at once. “Who has brought the living among us?”

  The figures were indistinct, three golden human forms swallowed up by their own luminescence. Mirren could make out the shadows of their eyes and mouths, but nothing else, no ears, no
hair, no evidence of their sex. Their voices carried no gender markers, only an echo that clouded any accent they might have had. Mirren had heard them called many things: gods, judges, demons; now that she saw them for herself, the title that came to mind was the lords of Death.

  “We came on our own,” Josh said to the figures. Two of them rose from their thrones and walked toward their visitors, revealing astonishing height. As they came closer, Mirren found their luster painful to behold.

  “Name yourself,” commanded the figure that had remained seated, “you who have broken into Death.”

  “We aren’t going to tell you our names,” Josh said, and Mirren felt a flutter of panic inside, like the birds that had rushed from the trees.

  She touched Josh’s shoulder while stepping out in front of her friends. “Please forgive us,” she said, and then stumbled for an instant while trying to decide what term of address would be appropriate. “Your Highnesses,” she added, choosing the first nongendered term that came to mind. “We are four weary travelers who have come to beg your mercy. Our names are not fit for such glory as yours.”

  Then she curtsied. With her head down, she was able to glance behind her and see the others follow suit with awkward bows—even Josh.

  Rising, she discovered that one of the figures was standing so close that she could feel its heat on her skin. She had to close her eyes as it brushed a hand along the side of her face, touching her hair.

  “Nonsense,” it said. “What are your names?”

  “Begging your pardon,” Mirren said, “we cannot say.”

  Now the other figure, which had been examining Haley with some interest, turned toward Mirren, and she felt its touch follow her spine from the back of her neck to the top of her hips, as if its radiant fingers could pass through her clothes.

  “All beings have names,” it whispered in a voice lower than that of the others. “Give us yours.”

  “I cann—”

  “Tell us!!!” the figure bellowed, and it must have had breath, because it blew strands of hair across Mirren’s face as she hid behind clamped eyelids.

  In the quiet afterward, Josh said, “No.” Her voice was calm but firm.

  “Very well,” the seated figure said, and Mirren felt the two beside her move away.

  When she opened her eyes again, all three figures had returned to their thrones. Between Mirren and Josh, they had refused to give their names four times; maybe the lords of Death were allowed to ask only a certain number of times. The center figure, in a voice that betrayed none of its companion’s rage, asked simply, “Why have you come, travelers?”

  Mirren took a deep breath to steady herself before answering. “We have come to speak with a soul that resides here.”

  “And what is this soul’s name?”

  “Feodorik Kajażkołski.”

  The figure made a sound Mirren couldn’t have reproduced or interpreted. “The inumen,” it said. “Why do you wish to speak with him?”

  She didn’t know the term “inumen,” but she could afford only an instant to wonder if it was part of the secret language of the dead.

  Briefly, Mirren explained that someone in the World was going to use two devices Feodor had invented to upset the balance between the universes and that they needed to ask Feodor how to destroy the devices.

  “The balance between the universes must be maintained,” the figure on the right said, and the figure on the left—the one that had shouted at Mirren—abruptly rose and left the temple through an empty side door.

  “You may wait,” the center figure said. “We will bring the inumen.”

  “Thank you,” Mirren said.

  The figure that had walked outside walked back in just as abruptly, and Feodor Kajażkołski walked beside him. He arrived so quickly that Mirren found herself completely unprepared to face him.

  She had seen him only in photographs, and she realized now that he photographed very poorly. Whereas his pictures always showed a simple man, someone who could be anyone, in person the intensity of his gaze and promising hint of a smile made him not just charismatic but hypnotic. He wore a white button-down shirt and gray slacks with a black belt and black shoes that looked somehow old-fashioned. He appeared perhaps twenty-eight; the edges of his thin lips still made a crisp line against his face, and a keen light burned in his gray eyes. Despite not being very tall, he filled the room.

  Mirren heard Will’s breathing speed up, and she saw Josh grab his hand. Josh didn’t look too good herself.

  “American children!” Feodor cried, a smile lighting up his face. “What a wonderful surprise! Always, you find me in the unlikeliest of places!”

  Although he spoke with a Polish accent that softened the ends of his words, his tone was still somehow mocking.

  “And you have brought me another friend,” he added. “Please, an introduction.”

  “No,” Josh said sharply, and this time Mirren didn’t interrupt her. She’d thought that giving her name to the lords of Death would be bad; she sensed that telling Feodor would be far worse.

  “Her name doesn’t matter,” Josh continued. “She’s a friend of ours.”

  Feodor walked toward Mirren, a smile playing across his lips. “Perhaps you are correct.” He tilted his head. “And yet, how familiar you look.…”

  He can’t recognize me, Mirren assured herself. She knew she resembled her grandmother, whom Feodor had known, but not to the degree that people could guess who she was. He’s just toying with us.

  “That red hair,” he mused.

  From the corner of her eye, Mirren saw Josh yank the knife from her shin sheath, but Feodor made no attempt to attack, only laughed.

  “Get away from her,” Haley said, stepping in front of Mirren.

  “Oh,” Feodor said. “Kapuścisko is in love!”

  He pinched one of Haley’s cheeks, then stepped away before Josh could attack him.

  This is crazy, Mirren thought. Feodor had been in the room for only thirty seconds and he was already pulling their strings.

  “Will, no!” Josh yelled as Will pulled a pistol from his backpack. Josh lunged toward him, but not in time to stop him from firing madly at Feodor.

  The shots echoed in the cavernous temple, making it impossible for Mirren to count them. She and Haley grabbed each other at the same time, both of them trying to push the other out of harm’s way, and they landed hard together on the floor. As Josh knocked him over, Will screamed and fired two or three more rounds, but when the noise of the gunshots and fracturing marble died down, the only sound left was Feodor laughing.

  “The dead cannot be killed,” he pointed out as Josh wrestled the gun from Will’s hands. He held up his arm, which Will had shot a hole clear through, and Mirren watched the flesh close back up. Even the shirt healed.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the golden figure on the left demanded, rising from its throne. “You have deceived us!”

  “No,” Mirren said, scrambling to her feet. “No, Your Highness. Please forgive my friend. He has been wronged by the inumen.”

  Feodor shrugged indulgently. “My queen speaks the truth. I forgive the boy.”

  He does recognize me! Mirren thought, and she felt cold inside and out.

  Josh unloaded the gun, jammed it in her waistband, and pointed to one wall. “Go and sit,” she ordered Will, and he reluctantly obeyed.

  “Very well,” the center figure said. “Ask your questions.”

  Josh, keeping one eye on Will, walked just close enough to Feodor to speak to him. “Peregrine Borgenicht has gotten hold of two devices you invented, a circlet and vambrace set that can control the Dream. We need to know how to destroy them.”

  Feodor tilted his head again. “I never built such devices.”

  “But you wrote the plans to build them.”

  “My plans were destroyed.”

  Mirren waited, uncertain as to how Josh would handle him or even if he could be handled.

  “One copy wasn’t de
stroyed. That’s what Peregrine used.”

  Feodor studied her and then slowly shook his head. “Tell me the truth, and I will tell you how to destroy the devices.”

  Josh ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “All right. You recognized us—that must mean you remember what you did to me.”

  “Yes.” If Feodor felt any guilt, it didn’t show.

  “When you sent your memories into my mind, you didn’t just send the negative ones. You sent all of them, and since you died, your memories have been coming back to me. I remembered your plans for the devices, and I built them, and Peregrine stole them from me.”

  For the first time, Feodor appeared serious. “How unexpected,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You remember everything? All my experiences, all my thoughts?”

  “Not all of them. They’re coming back to me slowly.”

  Feodor spoke to her in a language Mirren assumed was Polish, and Josh’s face fell. “Nie pamiętam,” she said.

  “Ciekawe,” Feodor replied, and he wandered slowly away from them, thinking.

  “This isn’t good,” Josh told Mirren.

  Mirren agreed, but she waited without speaking until Feodor wandered back in their direction. “What do you think Peregrine will do with my devices?” he asked.

  Josh explained their suspicions about the Karawar and the DNA database. “Clever,” Feodor said. “How did you create an interface with the Dream?”

  Josh told him about Bash and the towers and the risk of tearing the Veil. Feodor nodded and went back to wandering. He avoided going near Will, who sat against the wall with his arms crossed, glaring.

  Finally Feodor spoke, but not to Josh or Mirren. Facing the three thrones, he said, “I ask that you forget my name and allow me to return to the World.”

  “No!” Will and Josh shouted at the same time. Will sprang to his feet.

  Haley reached out and captured Mirren’s hand. When she glanced at him, she saw something desperate in his face, not fear but dread.

  “Your Highness,” she began, but the center figure held up a hand as if to quiet her.