The Waking Dreamer

by J. E. Alexander

  Emmett understood enough to know what Dr. Hazrat was implying. An Old One.

  “We will find Amala and prevail, and return immediately to the Lighthouse,” Oliver said confidently to Dr. Hazrat.

  “I wish you safe journeys, gentlemen. May you break the silence of despair and bring the light of truth to the darkness that births deception and lies. May the Song lift you.”

  “And guide us home,” Oliver responded.

  When Keiran, Oliver, and Emmett emerged in the hallway, Eitan was awaiting them, holding three long coats.

  “The car is properly stocked with essentials for a journey of at least a week in length, if not more. Clothes, dry food, water, and a billfold with American and Canadian currency, should you have need of either. Directions are included with maps, as well.”

  “Excellent, Eitan, thank you,” Oliver nodded.

  “What’s our route like?” Keiran asked.

  “Northeast back through Halifax until Northumberland Strait. Follow the coastline around New Brunswick and across the Confederation Bridge into Prince Edward Island at Port Borden,” Eitan said.

  “I know that area,” Oliver nodded.

  “Where is Seacow Pond?” Keiran asked, unfolding the slip of paper.

  “The northernmost tip on the Gulf of Saint Lawrence,” Eitan answered. “A six- or seven-hour drive depending on the weather.”

  Opening the massive doors to a gust of bitterly cold winter wind, Eitan handed a pair of keys to Oliver with a low bow. They followed Eitan down across the grounds, and when they reached the walls surrounding the Grove’s perimeter, Emmett saw a black four-door sedan waiting for them, its engine idling warmly and what was likely its heater fogging its windows.

  Oliver and Eitan exchanged bows, Keiran following with a short nod. Emmett, for his part, had grown weary of the ceremony involved in parting company with any member of the Lighthouse.

  As the trio loaded into the sedan, a hawk screeched in the distant line of snow-capped trees, piercing the silence of the mist-shrouded afternoon. Oliver immediately took to the driver’s seat, and when Emmett looked at Keiran and saw him stepping into the passenger front seat, he suppressed a moment’s irritation before getting into the backseat himself. The sedan’s interior was both roomy and toasty, enough so that he pulled himself back out of his coat before buckling his seat belt.

  Emmett looked up at the grand face of the Lighthouse as he felt Oliver urging the car forward, the two silent in the front seat as he watched the Grove’s stone walls fade in the distance.

  This is going to be a long ride, Emmett sighed as the sedan pulled out onto the road, and quickly gaining speed, it hurtled toward another Old One and to rescue the woman of Emmett’s dreams.

  CHAPTER 23

  They rode through Halifax, passing seaside cottages lined by high snow banks of powdery white. They took Highway 102 north into Truro, where Oliver turned onto Highway 104 and followed it to the Trans-Canada Highway.

  For two with an apparently shared history, Oliver and Keiran were entirely too quiet throughout the trip for Emmett not to notice. The tension could have been due to Amala, Emmett thought, and he had to remind himself that he was not Keiran’s sole focus. Keiran tried to hide the look of longing in his eyes, but Emmett saw it. And his heart raced knowing that they sped toward her.

  The Rot was outright painful now even during moments when he remained still. Any movement felt like nails against sunburnt skin, and he was unable to fully catch his own breath. Even lying motionless in the backseat as the sedan crossed the long bridge over the turbulent winter whitecaps of Northumberland Strait to Prince Edward Island, Emmett felt the Rot draining his life.

  Despite the evening’s gray gloom and approaching storm front low across the horizon, Emmett saw enough of the island’s rolling hills and coastal red cliffs to appreciate what green beauty must exist under the layered banks of winter snow. As the sun set in the west, Oliver drove north toward Seacow Pond.

  They arrived in the seaside village after nightfall. Keiran and Oliver had disagreed for the previous hour about the wisest course of action: to drive directly to the location or approach indirectly to identify potential threats.

  What surprised Emmett, though, was which side each took. Oliver’s faith in Hazrat was such that he advocated an immediate arrival. Keiran, though, approached the situation with greater pragmatism and emotional detachment. He could not permit them to plunge headlong into a situation that could be an ambush; or, as he offered when Oliver seemed to take offense at the suggestion that Dr. Hazrat could be wrong, an unknown situation where the Revenants’ strengths were not yet measured.

  Despite being older, Oliver treated Keiran as his equal. He listened and often nodded when Keiran made a valid point. Only when the legitimacy of the Mara was intimated did he express anything other than his high opinion for Keiran.

  For his part, Keiran showed Oliver equal respect. Keiran weighed his words carefully. Remembering back to Portland when Keiran said that Sebastian and he had spent long nights arguing over the Great Preclusion, Emmett understood now how someone who believed so strongly in something could still be so close with someone like Keiran, who believed quite the opposite.

  When they finally pulled into the village’s empty streets, the two Bards had at last settled on a compromise. They would stop several blocks from the address and spend time watching for signs of Revenant activity. If they found nothing, they would move quickly to the appointed destination and await the unknown hour when their paths would apparently cross Amala’s.

  In the December darkness, the arctic northern winds howled across the coastline with an unrelenting freeze that even Bardic song could not fully protect Emmett from. They parked and observed for over an hour, Keiran and Oliver rolling the windows down so they could listen fully to the night. Bundled in his heavy jacket, Emmett sat shivering in the backseat, his teeth chattering so loudly that he shrugged sheepishly at Keiran when he turned around to check that Emmett was okay.

  “Sorry,” Emmett managed to say as he pulled his arms tighter across his chest for warmth and clenched down at the pain the movement brought.

  “I have heard nothing since we arrived,” Oliver said to Keiran, whose face was clearly concerned for Emmett but eventually turned back to Oliver.

  “Neither have I,” Keiran confirmed.

  “Are you ready?” Oliver asked, looking first to Keiran and then to Emmett.

  “I’m ready for warmer weather,” Emmett chattered.

  “My mind has not changed. Emmett should not be going with us, Oliver. With the spread of the Rot, he is absolutely in no condition to defend himself.”

  “Regardless of whether you believe in Dr. Hazrat’s vision, it is tactically a mistake to leave Emmett alone. He is far safer with us.”

  Not again, Emmett thought as he remembered Keiran’s eyes when they drifted down the river from Silvan Dea. You would have gone back for her if it weren’t for me.

  “I’ll be fine,” Emmett managed to sigh, summoning fortitude within him that he was uncertain even existed and willing it to exert control over his shaking body. “Let’s go get Amala,” he said as he opened the door before Keiran could protest.

  The northern winds’ full onslaught was unbearable. Emmett bit down on his lip and pulled the hood over his head, tucking his hands into the coat’s lined pockets. The address was the juncture of two roads that ended at an aging dock where several small boats were moored for the winter. Metal buildings lined the water’s edge, and even in the howling winds of the approaching storm, Emmett could hear the clinking of the floating docks rolling up and down with the squally tide.

  Oliver stepped around to Emmett and Keiran’s side of the sedan as he zipped his coat up and surveyed the area. “Anything?” he asked.

  “If they are here, they’re not close enough to hear them,” Keiran said.

  Keiran looked to Emmett. “Have you felt anything?”

  “No stomach-churning goodness,” Emm
ett managed to say.

  They crossed the street, Keiran following behind Emmett as Oliver led. There was no sign of another person in the sleepy coastal town. With the approaching storm looming dangerously like a kraken along the watery horizon, no fishermen were returning to the dock that night.

  With some trepidation, Oliver craned his neck to look into the building through the boarded windows’ partially broken slants. Seeing nothing before turning to Keiran one final time, he carefully pulled on one of the boards and, finding the wood heavy with moisture and all but rotted to a pulpy mess in his hands, easily separated it from the frame enough that they could enter one at a time.

  “It’s clear in here,” Oliver finally called out over the torrent of wind. He reached a hand through the opening and helped Emmett step through the frame and into the dark warehouse and finally Keiran. With only the dim streetlights that dotted the road outside, Emmett’s eyes had already begun to acclimate. The warehouse featured no unobstructed windows. The warehouse was unremarkable with tarp-covered stacks of crates and wooden pallets. Only Bardic hearing could assure them that they were alone.

  Stepping toward the open center of the room, Oliver turned around in slow, wide motions, watching for any signs of disturbance as Keiran guarded their rear. Narrow, poor light breached the slats of the boarded windows. As his eyes poured over the unmoving dark patches in the far, unseen corners, Emmett wished Amala’s glowing amber eyes were with them.

  “Willkommen,” a deep voice echoed. Oliver and Keiran reacted with the first ringing syllable. Oliver’s arms sprang outward in a display of preparation just as Keiran sprinted forward and all but tackled Emmett in his arms.

  “I will not attack you unless to defend myself,” the refined voice said.

  “Kellner?” Emmett whispered aloud with recognition. Oliver cast him a confused look as he felt Keiran’s rebuking grip on his arm to silence him.

  “Yes,” the voice answered, and with that the icy warehouse was flooded with a flash of hot air like the opening of a mighty, burning furnace. The darkness seemed to ripple as if being torn apart, and from the nothingness stepped forth an old, impeccably dressed gentleman in a black suit whose determined expression and distinguished appearance Emmett immediately recognized.

  “Charles Kellner,” the old man said as he stepped toward them with the dull, echoing clicking of his cane along the concrete floor. He had manifested on the opposite side of the factory more than a dozen yards from Oliver at a distance that caused Oliver to step back with hesitation upon his sudden appearance.

  “How the hell did—” Oliver began, looking back over his shoulder at Emmett.

  “I do not have much time, so let us dispense with the usual pleasantries.”

  “We determined that you weren’t a Revenant!” Oliver shot back with disbelief. “I was there when Rhiannon reported her findings!”

  “And she was correct.”

  “You invoke dark magiks,” Oliver pointed at him accusingly.

  “If I was a Revenant, your young friend here would be suffering quite a bit more than he already is,” Kellner said, motioning with one hand at Emmett, who was in generalized pain from the Rot but otherwise not nauseous with convulsions.

  “Then what are you, Kellner?” Keiran asked, releasing Emmett and taking one step in front of him to physically separate Kellner from Emmett.

  “There are other powers in this world besides the daoi-syth. Older powers.”

  “The Wights,” Oliver said, and he made no effort to hide his disgust.

  “I will thank you to offer some measure of respect.”

  Oliver dismissed him with a sneer. “Wealth has made you delusional.”

  Emmett had no idea what they were discussing, and though he dared not speak, he was grateful when Keiran spoke up as if to translate for him. “Kellner, the Wights disappeared when most of their believers in the Schutzstaffel were executed for crimes against humanity. I can’t believe that you would resurrect their worship in the Old Ones given what the Nazis did to your parents.”

  “It’s ridiculous, anyway,” Oliver scorned. “The Old Ones take no interest in humans. Wights that invoke the Old Ones are usually slaughtered by the summoning for their affront.”

  Kellner did not react to Keiran’s words but looked instead to Oliver. “I have not come here to discuss dogma. I arranged our meeting tonight at personal expense. As my time is short, I wish to conduct my business and depart.”

  “Assuming I would let you to leave,” Oliver threatened.

  “The Children can claim no action against me. My order does not engage in the practices of the Revenant cultists, nor do we summon the daoi-syth,” Kellner said in a tone of seeming academic debate and not with the defensiveness of someone who fears for their life.

  “Wights kill, Kellner. The summoning rituals require it,” Keiran said.

  “My order only kills evil men. A Bard should appreciate the distinction.”

  “I sure as hell don’t,” Oliver said as he took a testing step forward.

  Kellner lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, and at once the warehouse was filled with an explosion of bright, orange light. A trail of fire burst to life in a single line that encircled Kellner, the flames uniformly as tall as their knees but dancing with red flames whose cores were streaked with an unnatural blue and purple darkness.

  “I do not wish a fight,” Kellner said.

  Oliver’s posture remained offensively threatening. “Then what do you want?”

  “To tell you that I did not order nor aid the attack on your Groves.”

  “Who said you did?” Oliver asked.

  “It will, of course, become known soon that the attack was led by a former protégé of mine. I did not know that she was using my resources to build a secret Revenant force to attack Silvan Dea. That is, of course, until it was too late.”

  “Or she was and this is intended as misdirection,” Oliver accused.

  “I would have nothing to gain from attacking the Children. Her sect attacked my school attempting to murder me, as well. I only narrowly escaped.”

  The Bards said nothing as Kellner continued. “I wish no war with the Children and did not support what was done. You will tell your Elders this. If they wish proof, tell them it was I who summoned the Hag to dispose of Ellie and her minions.”

  Emmett saw Keiran look briefly at him before speaking. “So that’s the reason why you arranged for us to come? To tell us you didn’t do it?”

  “Yes. Though the Children have no direct claim against me, I would nonetheless be foolish to submit myself directly to your Groves for the delivering of such information. Or my servants … assuming I had any remaining.”

  “How did you arrange this?” Oliver asked pointedly.

  “I knew that you would come only if your Companions were in danger,” Kellner said looking between them, and despite Emmett’s discomfort he noted the plural designation and how Oliver turned his head slightly to look at Keiran.

  “So I arranged for them to be followed for the last several days and attacked tonight by another Revenant sect unconnected to Ellie. Their numbers are small, but the threat had to be sufficient for the Turk of the Northern Storm to see it.”

  “Why us?” Oliver questioned.

  “You both come from the Grove that kept watch over me, adding credibility to your voices when you return with an accounting of my words.”

  “Amala is here?” Keiran asked.

  “She will be.”

  “So you’re the old power Dr. Hazrat sensed,” Oliver reasoned.

  Kellner’s head lifted slightly with this information, and Emmett knew that Oliver must have regretted revealing it. It was obvious in Kellner’s expression that he did not know of this. “As flattered as I am by the comparison, I am afraid it is not me. Though I am not surprised to hear that such a power is present in these affairs.”

  “What do you mean?” Keiran spoke before Oliver could.

  “Only that I kne
w Ellie. I mentored her in the ways of the Wights. I am quite powerful, but not as powerful as Ellie became. She could not hold that kind of power; not as someone so young and so angry.”

  “So who was it?” Oliver asked.

  Through the continuing pain in his head, Emmett squinted against the glow of the dancing flames surrounding Kellner and saw an odd look in his eyes. “I doubt very much if it was a who so much as a what. A patron more powerful than me, to be certain.”

  Emmett felt the air rushing past his ears as if it were being sucked from the surrounding area. The darkness surrounding Kellner seemed to ripple. Shadows separated as Kellner stepped back with his cane clicking along the concrete floor. He disappeared into wavering shadow, the flames encircling him burning out with not even a wisp of smoke or wreath of heat remaining.

  Oliver bounded forward to the place where Kellner had once stood and spun around several times before cursing.

  “If this is the location of Dr. Hazrat’s vision, and Kellner confirmed that he had arranged the attack, then where is she?” Oliver demanded.

  Keiran and Oliver both heard it at the same moment: a distant shuffling of feet along the docks. Emmett lurched forward to the ground as his hands shot out to break his fall. He vomited a hot torrent of bile. Both his vision and hearing were awash with competing stimuli as his mind tumbled, the familiar wrenching sickness clashing with the persistent pain of the Rot.

  Oliver jumped with such sudden speed over Emmett’s prone figure that he was almost a blur, bounding toward the nearest boarded window and extending his open palm outward. He wailed a screeching keen that blasted the boards away. Again, Emmett pitched his head forward, nearly falling into the steaming pile of his sick as Keiran wrapped a firm arm around one side of his neck and lifted him with his other arm underneath his opposite shoulder.