Search for the Shadow Key

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “He’s good,” Archer said. “I’m just not sure if the two of us together can handle this.”

  “You are Dreamtreaders, Archer. You and Nick are gifted beyond reckoning and skilled. And now, unfortunately, there is no one more motivated than you.”

  “I’m not sure what I’ll do,” Archer said. “I mean, if I find whoever’s responsible, this anger inside . . . I’m worried I’ll do something I’ll be sorry for after.”

  “We do not know yet who is responsible,” Master Gabriel countered. “But when we do, we will pursue justice.”

  “What kind of justice?”

  “Archer Percival Keaton, you leave that to me.” The Incandescent Armor flared suddenly. There was a sharp crack of thunder, and Master Gabriel was gone.

  Archer sat down across from Buster at the Pitsitakas’ kitchen table. Buster didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t flinch. He had a thousand-mile stare. Archer wanted to join him, to disconnect from it all. How nice it would be to just go on vacation mentally and leave it all behind. But while Archer knew it was natural to feel that way, he also knew it would be intensely selfish for him to take that way out. People were counting on him. Starting with the person in front of him.

  “It won’t always feel like this,” Archer said quietly.

  Buster said nothing. His gaze was still far away.

  “What I mean is, right now, it hurts. It hurts bad, and it feels like it’s never going to get better. It seems like nothing will ever feel good again.”

  Buster blinked. His eyes changed. He wasn’t making eye contact, but he was there, in the moment.

  “I feel it too, Buster,” Archer went on. “Tragedy is hunting our family at every turn. First Mom dies of cancer. Then Dad kind of breaks down. You get a concussion. Dad disappears. Kaylie goes into a coma. It’s too much. We’re just kids. We shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of stuff. Sometimes, I just want to shout at the sky, ‘Enough!’ ”

  Archer’s outburst startled Buster, and the two made eye contact at last. Archer could see it in his eyes. Buster was right there with him now. “Thing is, Buster,” he said, “shouting at the sky doesn’t make sense. It’s not God’s fault all this has happened. There’s evil in this world, and evil’s gonna do what it always does. The question is, will the people God’s put here—the ones who know what’s right and have the strength to do something about it—will we climb out of our pits and fight?”

  Buster’s expression didn’t change. His eyes remained riveted to his brother’s eyes. And Archer saw Buster’s hand slowly close into a fist.

  “We need to fight it,” Archer went on. “And we’re going to. But it’s going to take some faith. You gotta believe it’s not always going to feel this bad; it’s not always going to be this bad. Better times and better days are coming. You gotta trust that God put us here and let us endure all this for a reason. Do you hear me, bro? Do you?”

  Buster nodded slowly. A tear rolled down his cheek. “I hear you,” he whispered.

  “Good,” Archer said. “That’s strength, Buster. Remember that. Faith equals power. And I’m going to need you to be strong. I’m going to need your help. See, I think I know who took Dad. I think I know how to help Dad and Kaylie.”

  Buster’s eyes grew huge. “Dude, you need to tell the cops,” he said.

  “It’s not something the police can help with, Buster,” Archer said. “I can’t explain it all right now, but I’m going to find them, Buster. I’m going to get Dad and Kaylie back . . . somehow. And while I’m fighting that fight, I need you to pray. Pray like you’re trying to beat down the gates of heaven with your fists. Tell God everything you feel and everything we need to beat down the evil that’s come after our family.”

  “Bro,” Buster said, his voice gaining strength. “You mean, I can fight this . . . by praying?”

  Archer nodded. “You probably don’t remember, but Mom always prayed for us at bedtime. She thought I was sleeping, but I heard her. She always asked God to make us tender warriors, to have caring hearts but the ferocity to protect the weak and fight for what’s right.”

  “Mom . . . prayed that . . . for us?”

  Archer nodded.

  Buster blinked back tears and said, “That’s righteous.”

  “Yes, it is,” Archer said. He turned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amy pass by the kitchen on the way to the den. “I’ll be back in a minute, Buster. Maybe we’ll have something to eat. Okay?”

  “Yeah, ’kay,” Buster said. “I got you.”

  Archer couldn’t help but be encouraged by his brother. He gave him a very brotherly fist bump and headed for the den.

  He found Amy sitting on the hearth by a guttering fire in the fireplace.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you,” she said. “It looked serious, yep.”

  “It was, but I wanted to talk to you, Amy.”

  “About Kaylie?”

  “Yes. Is there anything you remember, Amy?” Archer asked. “Anything at all? You were with Kaylie when she fell asleep. Did she say anything?”

  “Before she went to sleep?” Amy clarified. “No, she didn’t say anything. But . . . she woke me up once. She was talking in her sleep. I didn’t understand much of what she said. She sounded angry, like she was threatening someone. Then she was quiet for a long time. But just as I was drifting off to sleep, I think I heard Kaylie say something about the library. But the rest was kind of mumbled. She kept saying ‘Scat’ or ‘scratch’ or something. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Archer got chills. “Yes, it does,” he said. “I know where to start looking.”

  Archer surfed down the gray stair. The Sages of Garnet’s Library were not happy about it. Not even the least little bit. They hissed and shushed Archer relentlessly. He ignored that and raced down the corkscrew, using his short surfboard to navigate the hairpin turns. The ruckus was horrendous, a staccato Smack! Smack! Smack! as the back end of the surfboard hit every other step.

  Their normal warnings ignored, the Sages went to their plan B: shrieking at Archer from all directions, shriveled hands opening and closing like claws. Archer couldn’t ignore that. He ducked and swerved as best he could, avoiding injury until one of the Sages hit him from behind.

  Like many experiences in the Dream, the attack was surreal. Archer saw the Sage fly just overhead seconds before he felt the delayed pain of its strike. It was that fast. Archer winced and spun around to face his attacker.

  Of all the Sages Archer had seen, this was the most demented-looking apparition: gray and black shreds of what once had been a hooded cloak, nasty pale skin, sunken eyes, and a ghastly, “next time I’ll eat you” grin.

  Archer felt cool air from the rip in the back of his leather duster. The pain hit as if someone had fired up three identical blowtorches and run them across his left shoulder blade. Archer yelled out to no avail.

  The Sage seemed to think that was hysterically funny. Archer heard the thing’s maniacal laughter as it wheeled around and prepared for another pass at Archer.

  Still wincing from the slow-healing wound, Archer kept one eye on the Sage and one on the gray stair. He wasn’t close to the bottom yet. Halfway, if that. The Sage was inbound with a vengeance, still laughing and accelerating to hit Archer on his next turn.

  The Dreamtreader was more prepared this time. He will-summoned a Louisville Slugger, slammed on the surfboard’s air brakes, and broke the bat on the Sage’s mottled skull. The ghostly creature careened down the stairs in front of Archer, shrieking and spitting as it went.

  Archer gave his surfboard a shove and raced down the stairs after it. He turned the corner and was shocked to find the Sage on its feet, poised to attack. And now, the creature had an enormous scythe.

  Okay, Archer thought, so how’d the Sage get a big old grim reaper weapon?

  Archer wasn’t about to stop and ask. In fact, he’d just about had enough of this Sage and all his buddies. They were wasting Archer’s time. And Archer was in no mood to b
e delayed.

  The scythe swishing wildly in front of it, the Sage leaped into the air and rushed Archer like a sudden storm. The Dreamtreader called up his will, adding an extra measure to make sure his actions were final, and a bank of laser-guided sidewinder missiles appeared at his elbow. Archer fired once, twice, and a third time, using his will-summoned laser to direct the missiles at the incoming Sage.

  The first explosion burst directly in front of the Sage. The blast sent the scythe flipping from its hands and froze the enraged creature in midair. The second and third sidewinders never had a chance to reach their mark. With a shriek, the Sage whipped out of the hall as fast as it could, the two missiles chasing after it. Two distant explosions rocked dust into the air.

  Archer turned in a slow circle, and the missile launcher turned with him. The other Sages, closing on Archer like a noose, seemed to skid in the air. They halted immediately and retreated, soaring to the vaulted heights of the Sanctum.

  Archer had no more trouble from the Sages on that visit. He arrived at the bottom of the gray stair in peace. After passing through the strange curtain, he found himself bathed in suffocating shadows. But some sixty yards ahead, a conical beacon of light shown down from above, illuminating the Inner Sanctum, the vault door thrown open and its dark entrance gaping.

  Archer approached cautiously. When he and Nick came to the Inner Sanctum before, they hadn’t seen a single Scath. But maybe Kaylie had come down here. Maybe she’d had a very different experience. For all Archer knew, the whole horde of Scath might be in the vault waiting for him, and he didn’t want to be caught off guard. “Kaylie!” he whispered urgently. “Kaylie, are you here?”

  “No, she is not,” came a voice from the opening in the floor.

  Archer froze. He heard footsteps climbing the Inner Sanctum stairs. A black top hat appeared, seated snugly on a tangle of driftwood-brown hair, then long, knifing sideburns, arched brows, eyes like brown embers, and a slanted smile that somehow communicated both vast intelligence and vast arrogance. Feature by feature, Rigby Thames rose up from the steps.

  Archer summoned his flaming sword, and blue fire whooshed up the length of its blade.

  “Now, is that any way to treat a friend?” Rigby asked.

  “Where is she, Rigby?” Archer demanded. “What have you done with Kaylie?”

  “And just what do you fancy you’ll do with that sword?” Rigby asked. “You can’t kill me.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Archer said. “You and your dream company have done such damage to the Dream fabric, things aren’t as certain as they used to be.”

  “Hogwash!”

  “No, I’ve seen things happening. I missed my Stroke of Reckoning by a few seconds, but nothing happened to me.”

  “So? We all stretch things a bit. I know I have.”

  “That’s just it, Rigby,” Archer said. “You don’t stretch laws. You know science. It doesn’t work that way. The Rift is near. The fabric is fraying. There’s a frozen electricity climbing up from the horizon. Even the creatures here are creating now.”

  Rigby teetered on the top step. “What do you mean, Keaton?”

  “You haven’t seen it?” Archer barked out a laugh. “The creatures in the Dream are creating just like us. They’re becoming lucid.”

  “You’re a fool, Keaton,” Rigby said. “These creatures, they’re figments of people’s sleeping imaginations. They do what they do, but they cannot create from nothing.”

  “Believe what you want,” Archer said. “But I’ve seen enough lately to wonder if my sword might do more damage than you think. And I’m willing to test my hypothesis.”

  “Sure, test your hypothesis,” Rigby said. “And if it works for you, you’ll never get Kaylie back.”

  The flame on Archer’s sword spluttered and went out. “There’s . . . there’s no way to get her back,” he said. “She’s trapped now, right? She’s trapped forever.”

  “Trapped like my Uncle Scovy?” Rigby said, making his voice a feigned whimper. “Oh, no, whatever will you do? Poor little Kaylie.”

  Archer felt the blood rush to his face. His sword blazed with new azure fire. “Don’t push me,” he growled. “Tell me what you know. Tell me everything.”

  Rigby laughed. Tiny red fingerlings of lightning coursed down his forearms and hands. Similar spider veins of red appeared momentarily around his eyes.

  Archer rocked on his heels. “What was—”

  “If I were to tell you everything I know,” Rigby said, “we’d be here for a hundred years. But I will tell you this: Uncle Scovy and your sweet Kaylie are not trapped forever. They can return.”

  “How?”

  “It’s quite simple, really,” Rigby said. “Amazing what you’ll learn from one of these.” Rigby held up a book.

  “Is that . . .”

  “One of the Masters’ Bindings?” Rigby finished and grinned. “Why yes, yes, it is.”

  “You’re the fool, Rigby,” Archer said warily. “Those books aren’t made for us, not even for Dreamtreaders. They’ll change you . . . turn you into something . . . something monstrous.”

  “Is that what your Masters told you?” he asked. “Not surprising. The truth is, Keaton, reading these books will change you. They will turn you into something . . . they’ll turn you into a Master.”

  Archer stepped toward Rigby and said, “If that’s what you think, you’re crazier than I ever imagined.”

  “Crazy is such an unenlightened term,” Rigby said. I guess you prefer to stay unenlightened, then? A shame for Kaylie.”

  “Stop!” Archer commanded. “Don’t use my sister as a bargaining chip. Say what you want to say or don’t. I am a Dreamtreader. I already know all I need to know about the Dream.”

  “Really?” Rigby asked. He doffed his top hat, rolled it down his arm to his hand, and then back up to land perfectly on his head. “Well, depart then. But before you go, know that there is only one way Kaylie will ever consciously return to the Waking World.”

  “What is it?” Archer said. “Spit it out.”

  “All you have to do,” Rigby said, “is stop weaving up the breaches.”

  Archer squinted. “But that would cause a—”

  “A Rift,” Rigby said, “precisely. If we induce a Rift, the Dream fabric and the Waking World will become enmeshed. Uncle Scovy and Kaylie will be free to move between. You see, Keaton, this is what I’ve been after all along. And now, it seems we have similar motivations.”

  “I’m a Dreamtreader,” Archer said. “I won’t let a Rift happen.”

  “Even at the loss of your sister?”

  Archer could barely force out the words. They caught in his throat and tasted acidic on his tongue. “I love Kaylie, but . . . even . . . even for her, I cannot.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” Rigby said. “Either you let a Rift form and have your sister back, or you honor your so-called Creeds and leave your sister to rot. What a struggle it is for you. I marvel at that. Fortunately, I have made the hard choice all the more easy for you. I’ve destroyed the Shadow Key. I tossed it into the raging furnace of Xander’s Fortune. You’ll never close the Inner Sanctum, and the Scath will shred the Dream fabric. You’ll have Kaylie back before you know it.”

  DREAMTREADER’S CREED, CONCEPTUS 9

  The Dream is a vast triangle of territory, divided into three districts: Forms, Pattern, and Verse.

  You will find that each of the three districts is in constant motion, prone to great changes and mysteries. But you shall also find features that endure for so long that generations of Dreamtreaders will find them ages after you are gone.

  Forms, the most vigorous District, is the largest span of the three. The markets of Kurdan have always been and will always be. Direton is always dangerous, and Number 6 Rue de la Morte seems to weather even the worst of storms.

  Pattern is the most static of the three. Change comes there little. Only the experienced Dreamtreader should dare to shepherd this place,
for there are ancient things there: ancient and dangerous. Tread not lightly the moors of Archaia within Pattern. There the mist gathers, so beware.

  Verse is the most beautiful of the three, vast and changing, stunning to behold and often deadly. It is said that in view only, that Verse is what leaves the Waking Mind craving the Ethereal Realm, and perhaps that is so. If true, then Verse is also the Waking Mind’s thorn, reminding the dreamer with painful clarity that he is yet far from the Ethereal.

  TWENTY

  DEMANDS

  “YOU LUNATIC!” ARCHER CRIED OUT. FLAMING SWORD held high, he leaped at Rigby, plummeting like an azure fire comet.

  KERRANG!

  Archer’s sword met Rigby’s raven cane, now crackling with spiders of red lightning. “I can play this game as well as any Dreamtreader,” Rigby said, the sarcasm especially thick and dripping on the title.

  Momentarily stunned, Archer fell backward, but he recovered, turning the fall into a somersault. He lunged forward with a thrust. Rigby parried, leaping sideways and swiping his cane high to low. Archer whirled and struck low, but again, Rigby’s weapon met his.

  Archer rolled backward and came back to his feet. He yelled in anger. “You’d sell out your entire world? For what? Money? Fame? What, Rigby?”

  “What’s wrong with love?” Rigby asked.

  Archer’s mouth closed with a snap.

  “You have no idea how important Uncle Scovy is to me,” Rigby said. “He was the first one to believe in me, to see my genius for what it was. He was a father to me, a mentor. All his hard work, all his research, he didn’t deserve to be locked up, trapped forever. No one does. Certainly not a little girl like Kaylie.”

  Rigby’s daggers of conviction struck home. Archer knew what it was like to lose a parent. When his mother withered away from cancer, it had torn out a piece of his heart. Now, his father was gone, taken away in the middle of the night. And Kaylie. Doomed to spend the rest of her life in the Waking World, hooked up to a battery of machines. It wasn’t fair.

  No, Archer thought, it’s not fair. He hovered on the edge of explosion. “You did it, Rigby!” he screamed. “All of it. You released the Scath, you commanded them to take my father, and you trapped Kaylie!”