A Warrior of Dreams (21 page)

Kessa was halfway out of the chair before Joslyn's words sank in. "You mean you will help me?"

Joslyn nodded. "As far as I am able."

Kessa's gaze narrowed. "Why, Joslyn? What do you want?"

"What had you planned to give me?"

Kessa shrugged. "I hadn't thought... all right
—
another lie. Anything I have, Joslyn. Ask and it's yours." Done. She'd said it and meant it. She was again a little surprised at the lack of calculation in Joslyn's eyes.

"All I want from you is a favor," Joslyn said. "You know Darsa; I don't. I want you to show it to me."

Kessa was stunned. "Darsa? You don't need to see the rest. It's all like the market and the streets you crossed to get here! Except where it's worse."

Joslyn smiled. "Humor me."

Kessa shrugged. "It'll be risky. Aren't the Watchers looking for you?"

"No, they're looking for a young woman in the company of an older man. Two women don't fit their orders. Besides, Watchers are the least of my worries. Is it a deal?"

"All right, though I hope you have a good reason."

Joslyn grinned ruefully. "So do I."

*

The builders of the Temple of Malitus were faced with very special problems. First, it had to be functional, capable of housing over a hundred Brothers of the Ending, with rooms for admonition, punishment, non-punishment, waiting, working, sleeping, cooking, and eliminating. Second, despite all this efficiency of form and purpose, it could not contribute positively in any way to Somna's dream. The entrance was square and severe, with iron-bound doors and rusting bolts. Rooms piled upon rooms at unnatural, difficult, and disturbing angles. The garderobes and attendant smells were located cheek by jowl with the kitchens.

It was a masterpiece, but contained one small flaw
—
one of the brotherhood had been a mason, back when such things as earning a living, marriage, and children had meant something to him. Perhaps it was only force of habit that made him plane the lintel smooth, but it had been impossible to correct it totally, to put in enough imperfections to glorify the God of Ending properly. Perhaps the man had been innocent of all intent, but Malitus was not pleased
—
the Master, the Echo of Malitus's Voice, had said as much. So the brother had been lovingly whipped to death in the marketplace while the Watchers watched somewhere else.

Brother Jerdan was at one with his surroundings
—
a face not handsome at the best of times, not improved by his habitual scowl. The day was warm, and his cowl was pulled back to show a wealth of coarse gray hair, eyebrows darker but not so thick, like two dried caterpillars. He paused at the lintel as was his custom, made a cursory motion to trace the Sigil of the Whip, and hurried through.

He passed the Admonishing Room with barely a glance at the two novices being reduced to pathetic, sobbing wrecks. Two Brothers stepped aside from the door to the acolyte's barracks; another held the curtain aside for him to pass. Jerdan found Brother Ligen, the Novice Advisor, on his knees beside an acolyte's rough pallet. The boy on the pallet was bound hand and foot. His face was pale and twisted, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl like a dog run over by a cart and left to die in the street. His eyes were bright, but there was no reason in them.

Ligen looked up at Jerdan and smiled. "The Master has created another Storm and a fine one. He got Krus before we could restrain him."

Jerdan followed the Novice Advisor's glance to a nearby pallet and the still form lying across it. The boy was dark of hair and face and small. There was bluish bruises on his throat, his tongue protruded beyond his teeth. His brown eyes were wide open and staring.

"One of the Sulidun converts," observed Jerdan with a touch of regret. "So atypical of his race... I had hopes for him."

"The Master is wise," Ligen replied. There was a touch of reproof in his voice.

"Certainly, Ligen. I didn't say otherwise. Now then... This one obviously has great potential as a Storm of Malitus. What is his name?"

"Aketyr."

"Let it be entered in the Roll. Give him weapons and release him some distance from here. And make sure all the Brothers are warned. I don't want a repeat of the last time."

"Brother Polcyn
was
rather surprised, wasn't he? Or at least look surprised when we found him. Still, I think Malitus enjoyed the joke."

Jerdan hadn't become Brother of the Order by missing opportunities. "You presume to speak for the God of Ending, Novice Adviser?" Jerdan asked, his voice all honey and bile.

"Of
—
of course not. I merely
—
"

Jerdan held up his hand. "Don't let it worry you... unless of course you think of going to the Master with wild tales about my questioning his judgment."

Ligen bowed low. "Brother Jerdan, how could you think such a thing?"

Jerdan smiled. "Then we won't speak of it again. I'll leave you to see to the details; I have much work to do." He allowed himself a moment to savor the whipped look on Ligen's face, but only a moment. Too much pleasure in anything was a blow to piety. Still, one did have to remind the others who was Brother of the Order, and why. As much a duty as any other, and if it gave pleasure, well, that was the price of it. It certainly wouldn't do to let Ligen know that the Master, the Echo of Malitus, had given him no warning that he was about to make another Storm. Strange...

I shall pray tonight
...

*

Ghost followed Meleay's directions, found the break in the ceiling, and the new-made steps. He climbed through the opening and out on the roof into the early morning sunlight.

It's a garden
.

It was smaller now, less of it in useful cultivation than had once been the case
—
Ghost saw the places where the weakened roof had fallen away, saw other places carefully repaired and covered with vegetation. Dwarf cedars grew at seemingly random places around the low wall surrounding the roof, and to anyone on the streets or lower buildings nearby the effect was that the old temple gardens had run riot. Most of it had done just that: vines surrounded a small fountain, now apparently used as a rainwater cistern. In the middle of the thickest tangles of ivy and bramble, smaller plots were laid out, paths hacked through the undergrowth for access. Ghost entered and studied the nearest
—
delicate herbs that needed secret shade for best growth. A little further along he found a conventional garden plot with turnips and peas, and near to that several neat rows of onion, potatoes, and cabbage.

"We tried corn one season. Stalks grew so high you could see them from the street; we had to cut them down before the ears were full. Made me sick."

Ghost turned and found Daycia seated on a small stone bench shaded by a bramble thicket. She was methodically stripping the leaves from a fern-like plant with a yellow spotted stem.

"By rights," Ghost said, "you should be dead now."

Daycia smiled at him. "Step closer and look again."

He did and saw what he had missed at first glance. "Red veins on the leaves... Otherwise it looks just like Deadly Trias."

"A close relative. The leaves steeped in hot water make a tea good for the croup. Which little Calit woke with this morning, poor thing."

"You said you wished to speak with me."

"I do, but first I want to ask how you slept. And since I have a good idea of the answer, I'd suggest you tell the truth."

"Very well... and very badly."

"Why?"

"Because when others dream what
I
do has little to distinguish it from not existing at all. When I sleep I
die
, Lady, and in the morning I rise again. Sometimes, in the gray hours before sleeping and waking, I get a glimpse of the void that swallows me every night, and on some days I wonder if the void ever really lets me go. It's cold where I am, Daycia, and all the little deaths drive the hoarfrost a bit closer to my heart every night. I don't accept sleep gracefully."

Daycia's hands never stopped their work, but did falter once or twice. "I did ask, though I'm not sure I was ready to hear. It's a terrible burden you carry, and I can't help you with it. Musa seemed to think Joslyn might. I hope she's right."

"But you
are
a Dreamer, aren't you? Were you of the Temple?"

Daycia cast one skeletal stem aside and reached for another. "What I was or was not no longer matters, and no one is a Dreamer in Darsa these days." Her voice was flat
—
admitting nothing, denying nothing. She continued, "Joslyn has asked Kessa to guide her around the city."

"Why would she do that?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Ghost shook his head. "Darsa doesn't seem the place for two young girls to be wandering."

Daycia gathered her leaves into a wicker basket and stood up. "Kessa hasn't been young for a long time
—
in the sense you mean. It's part of her value to me. They'll be as safe as anyone is hereabouts, but I did want you to be aware of it. Joslyn wouldn't have told you."

Ghost sighed. "To have met her so recently you know Joslyn quite well."

*

Joslyn and Kessa entered the central chamber together, found most of the others ahead of them. Ghost and Daycia conversed in low tones; Ghost glanced once in Joslyn's direction but for the most part ignored them both. Tolas amused the unhappy Calit by pulling pebbles from his ears and making coins vanish while Meleay prepared breakfast. She was aided by someone Joslyn hadn't seen before, a ragged little girl with frizzled red hair and a narrow, pale face.

No doubt how Kessa started
, Joslyn thought. She knew how Kessa was much like herself, how much they shared, how they once had lived, how much they owed to the timely intervention of others. Joslyn saw something of the same unfolding with this new girl
—
it was clear that Daycia took new folk into her fold from time to time, but the moments were few and carefully weighed. No doubt the child's value
—
potential or immediate
—
had been carefully noted in Daycia's scheme of things, and allowances made.

Kessa and Joslyn sat together in a sort of conspiratorial solidarity. Daycia finally consented to notice them. "Sleep well?"

The question seemed aimed at Joslyn, and she nodded. "Quite well, thank you."

Daycia smiled and slipped back into her conversation. Joslyn caught Ghost looking at her just once, and there was an expression on his face she couldn't read at all.

The girl served them breakfast, her face very serious and solemn. Joslyn fought back a smile and thanked her with equal seriousness. Kessa accepted her bowl of spiced porridge silently and began to eat, expressionless. Joslyn found herself looking for some clue from her
—
a smile, a glance in Tolas's direction, anything
—
but the Kessa Joslyn had met in dream had withdrawn behind an impassive face and hooded eyes. It was Tolas whose glance strayed, whose face tried to soften a little behind the mask.

He knows
.

Joslyn was surprised
—
as a rule men were fairly thick where such things were concerned. For instance, Dyaros...

Dyaros nothing. Dyaros is dead and I should know—I killed him
. Joslyn glared at Tolas, fortunately while he wasn't looking. She regained control and turned away.
Damn him anyway! If he knows, why doesn't he do something about it
?!

The cooler element in Joslyn's mind wanted to discuss it. MAYBE HE DOESN'T CARE FOR HER.

Joslyn remembered Tolas's look.
Maybe the Street of Sighs is a hotbed of virginity. He does care, but somehow I don't think that solves the problem
.

When breakfast was over, no one seemed to notice the two girls slip off together. Joslyn followed Kessa up the stairway, through a gap in the masonry, up a rubble-strewn ramp, and into the crack that was Kessa's hallway.

The room itself had little of decay and ruin about it
—
the ceiling was high and braced with stout oaken beams; two cut-glass windows let in the sun. Most of the furnishings were what Joslyn expected: a rack of throwing knives, two arbalests with full quivers, and a pair of crossed javelins displayed on the wall over the bed. Something else caught her by surprise. It was a doll in a faded dress of scrap cloth carefully arranged on the pillow. Its face was a pitiful thing of wood and yarn and stiff, painted smile.

Kessa caught her looking. "My mother made it for me, and when she died it was all that was left of her. I've kept it."

"You needn't explain to me."

"I know that!" Kessa snapped. "So will
you
please explain why I have this incredible urge to do so?"

"Maybe you just want to tell someone, and a stranger is best. Doesn't matter what we think."

Kessa shrugged. "Maybe... or maybe it's because I think you can find out anything about me you wish, and if I tell you freely it'll feel a little less like rape."

"I never thought of it that way."

"Has anyone ever spied on
your
dreams?"

"Yes, though not in a long time."
You can't spy on what doesn't exist
.

"Well," Kessa sighed, "try to remember how it felt now and again and you'll understand what I mean."

Joslyn knew better, but she asked the question anyway. "Then that's what we're doing to Tolas?"

Kessa reddened but stood firm. "If that's what it takes
—
yes."

They dropped the matter by silent agreement. Kessa opened a wooden chest at the foot of her bed and began strewing garments casually left and right. "You can't go out like that... here, try this."

Joslyn was somewhat taller than Kessa, but she fit well enough into the breeks, and high, soft leather boots covered the gap at her ankles. A brown tunic, a dark cloth over her hair, and Joslyn was set. She tucked Deverea's knife into her belt and studied the effect in a mirror. "Seems practical."