Dreamseeker (12 page)

“A Fleshcrafter might be able to do something for her, but it would be a chancy operation at best. And they're an insular lot, the Potters. Outside of their work in prepping changelings for adoption they generally keep to themselves, and they don't welcome commissions from outsiders. It would take more than a handful of coin to convince one of them to travel to another world, to help save a woman who, by the measure of our society, is of no consequence.”

I bit back on the sharp comment I wanted to make. I knew from our last visit that she considered my little brother expendable, so it came as no surprise to hear that the rest of my family meant nothing to her. But
I
was not nothing to her. I was part of some project she was planning, which meant that someday she might need my
cooperation. If she left my mother to suffer now, when she had the ability to save her, she could kiss that cooperation goodbye.

None of which had to be said out loud, I was sure.

In my best negotiating voice I said, “I was hoping that you might be willing to help me cut a deal with them. Maybe there's something I could offer you in return for that?” I glanced pointedly at the painting.

She followed my gaze and chuckled. “You would bargain for my assistance without knowing anything about me, or even why I have such an interest in your art? At least you don't lack for audacity.” I blushed slightly but otherwise didn't respond to her; now was not a moment to display weakness. She sighed. “I suppose it's time you understood what's behind that interest. Not that it will be a gentle lesson, I warn you. There is knowledge that has the power to alter a human soul, and once you embrace it, you can't go back.” Her lips pursed as she studied me. “Do you want to risk being altered thus? Or go home now, and take comfort in your ignorance?”

The warning was scary (if a bit melodramatic), but I hadn't come here to play it safe. “I want to know what this is all about,” I told her.

She nodded solemnly, then walked over to one of the display cabinets, took a key from her pocket, and unlocked it. On the top shelf was a large leather-bound volume, which she handled with extreme care, taking it down and laying it on the table beside my painting. Its surface was stained and worn, and I could see places where the leather had dried and cracked; clearly it was an ancient item. As she opened it, I saw that it wasn't a regular book, but a collection of individual papers of different shapes and sizes, that someone had bound loosely together. She leafed through the pages too quickly for me see what was on any of them, then found what she was looking for, smoothed the book open, and gestured for me to come closer so I could see it.

I did so. And my heart stopped beating for an instant.

On the page was a drawing done in charcoal, clearly rendered hastily by a hand that had little artistic skill. But despite its aesthetic
shortcomings, there was no mistaking what the drawing represented, and a shiver ran down my spine as I gazed at it.

It was a fate map.

Each twist and angle represented a choice someone would have to make, a potential future. The sizes and relative position of the elements suggested the possibility that a particular event would take place, while smaller lines splayed off from the main elements like branches of a tree, representing possible consequences. I had no clue who or what had inspired the painting, so I could guess what all the shapes referred to, but not the overall pattern. This was the same symbolic language that I had developed for my own art, which—until this moment—I had believed was uniquely my own.

The paper felt brittle between my fingers as I turned the page, like it might crumble to dust at any moment. The next drawing in the collection was in color, done in a different style than the first one; the quality of the paper suggested it was a more recent work. My hand trembled as I looked at it.

Also a fate map.

I turned more pages, and found more fate maps. Some even had patterns that looked like ones I had trailed behind me when I wandered through my dreamscape. Like someone had been watching me there. I found a few representational works as well, including a watercolor rendering of a mountainous landscape with a disembodied door suspended several feet above the ground. That one really shook me. I glanced up at Morgana to see if she guessed the significance of the image, but she was looking at me, not the book, and I couldn't read her expression at all. I turned another page—and saw something so startling that I backed away reflexively, banging my knee into a chair.

No. No. Not that. Not here.

“Jesse?” Rita sounded alarmed. “What's wrong?”

The drawing was done in ink, and it depicted a ghostly figure reaching out toward a cowering victim. Darkness billowed from the spirit's shoulders like vast wings, and its black body was painted so thickly that the ink had caused the paper to buckle. How did one
capture the essence of a soulless void with mere pen and paper? The landscape behind the creature was meticulously detailed near the edges of the page, but the closer you got to the center of the picture the blurrier and more confused the details got . . . as if the ghastly creature was erasing its surroundings.

Or devouring them.

It was the same death-wraith I had seen in my dream. There was no mistaking it. “What . . . what is that thing?” I struggled to keep my voice steady, even as my fear provided its own answers:

It is death incarnate. It eats dreams. It wants to eat you.

“No one knows,” Morgana said. “It appears in several of the drawings, and since they were all sketched by different artists, that suggests it isn't just a figment of one person's imagination. Something real probably inspired all these artists, but what it might have been, I haven't yet determined.”

It's real, all right.
I had to fight the urge to rub my arm where the wraith had clawed me. “Who made these drawings? Where did you get them?”

“They're from young people, mostly. From dozens of different worlds. They have nothing in common save for these images.” She paused, and; I could feel her eyes fix on me. “There's no predicting when or where the dreamer's Gift will surface, you know.”

My heart skipped a beat. My hand fell back from the page. “You are saying . . . these were drawn by Dreamwalkers?”

“Not exactly. Oh, some of them might have become that, had they lived. But people who are born with the dreamer's Gift these days rarely manifest more than a faint echo of the ancient power. Most likely these artists would have gone through life tormented by strange dreams, and nothing more. However,” the grey/green/blue eyes fixed on me with disturbing intensity, “we do need to err on the side of caution.”

Was she threatening me? Or warning me? I was suddenly aware of how out of my depth I was. “Is that what you think my art means? That I'm. . . . what . . . one of these Dreamwalkers?” I tried to sound
like the idea seemed utterly crazy, rather than something I'd been obsessing about for weeks now.

For a moment she was silent. What if it was her custom to collect Dreamwalker drawings and then kill the artists? That would certainly explain the collection she'd just shown me. If so, I had walked right into the spider's web. A cold sweat was forming on my palms. I fought the urge to wipe them on my jeans.

“I think you're a sensitive young woman,” she said at last, “and your dreams are clearly influenced by outside forces. Dreams do occasionally bleed from one world to another, you know; many of humanity's great oracles drew their inspiration from other spheres, without ever knowing it. Are you sensitive to such things, as they were? Clearly so. Does that mean you are a true Dreamwalker, capable of altering the dreams of others?” She paused. “If I believed that, I would be honor bound to destroy you. That is the law of the land, and the duty of my Guild in particular.” A pause. “You understand me?”

“I do,” I said quietly. But in fact I was more confused than ever. It sounded like she had figured out what I was, and was teaching me how to explain it away so that others wouldn't find out. But why would she do that? What was in it for her? From what little I knew about Alia Morgana, I doubted she had an altruistic bone in her body.

“Now, my dear, you see why I've been so interested in your art. And in you.” She walked to the other side of the reading table and sat down in a thickly tufted leather chair. Her golden hair glowed against the deep green leather, waves of it rippling like water as she moved. “As for your request . . .” She tapped a polished fingernail on the arm of the chair. “What you've asked for would require me to call in a personal favor from the Potters. That's not the kind of service I'd be willing to provide in return for more artwork, I'm sorry. No matter how interesting that artwork might be.”

Frustration welled up inside me, and also anger. Had I come all this way for nothing? Was I only standing here so that she could toy with me? “What else can I offer you? There's got to be something.”

Her regretful smile was maddeningly insincere. I had a sudden urge to pick up my painting and smash it over her head. “There are few things of value in this world—or any other—that I don't already possess.” She nodded back toward the cabinet filled with ancient relics. “What do you have that you think would be of value to me?”

I tried to think of something—anything—but it was hopeless, and we both knew it. A woman of Morgana's wealth and power, with access to all the human worlds, probably lacked for nothing. What could I possibly offer her?

Then Rita spoke up. “Maybe some kind of service?”

We both looked at her.

“Well, you said Jesse was sensitive to dreams, right? It sounds like that's not a common talent here. Is there something she could do for you, maybe, using that ability?”

Butterflies of dread fluttered in my stomach. Did Rita understand what she was suggesting? If Morgana learned how much of the Dreamwalker Gift I really possessed, she might reconsider her decision to spare my life. But what other option was there, besides just giving up and going home? I held my breath as Morgana considered Rita's suggestion, not sure what outcome I was hoping for.

Finally Morgana got up and walked over to another bookcase. This one was unlocked, and there was a stack of papers on the top shelf, from which she withdrew a large brown envelope. She hesitated a moment, as if considering her next move, then handed it to me. I opened the clasp and peered inside. There was a single piece of paper, folded in half, marked with a webwork of shadowy folds that suggested it has once been stuffed unceremoniously in a pocket or purse. I drew it out and opened it. There was a line drawing, with repetitive geometric forms radiating out from a central point, like a Tibetan mandala. It looked vaguely familiar, but my life was so full of weird, vaguely familiar designs these days, that didn't necessarily mean anything.

I blinked and looked up at her. “Am I supposed to know what this is?”

“One of my Seers drew it while meditating. He believes it is somehow associated with the ancient dreamers. He also saw a vision of a location nearby, that appears to be connected to it. We believe there may be an artifact of historical significance there.”

“That sounds kind of vague,” I said doubtfully.

“Our Gift is often cryptic,” she agreed.

“So . . . you want to get hold of this thing? But you know where it is, right? Can't you just send your people out there to look for it?”

“I did. Several times. They failed to find it.”

“Even the Seer who originally had the vision? Can't he just, like, tune in on it, or something?” As the words left my mouth it occurred to me that a technological metaphor might not be appropriate here, but she seemed to understand what I meant.

“Our Gift doesn't work that way. The images that come to us in our trances arrive without invitation and are beyond our conscious control.” She paused. “You may be more sensitive to the influence of such an artifact than my people are.”

I drew in a deep breath. “So, let me make sure I'm understanding this right: You're looking for an item that has something to do with Dreamwalkers, and you want me to help you find it? So that you can . . . what? Hunt them better? Why on earth would I help you do that?”

She smiled as she closed the book of drawings. It was a cold expression. “We know very little about their kind, outside of a few dark legends and these cryptic drawings.” She tapped the book with a gilded nail. “Perhaps understanding them better would enable us to save them, rather than destroy them.”

Yeah. I'm sure that's your real motive, saving lives
. “What is it exactly that you want me to do?”

“You're more sensitive to dreams than my Seers are. If you went to the location in question, perhaps your own visions would offer you insight into what this pattern signifies. Locate its source, bring the artifact back to me, and I'll arrange for a Fleshcrafter to tend to your mother.”

Before I could respond Rita demanded, “Where is this place?
And would you supply transportation? And how long do you expect this to take?”

“It's in a
shallow
, several hours west of here.” She raised a hand, forestalling Rita's response. “That's a place where the barrier between worlds is naturally thin, though not physically passable. Native shamans used such locations for meditation, and for ritual purposes. We believe this one may have served as an Indian burial ground at one point. And yes, I'll take care of all the travel arrangements. The last leg of it would have to be managed on foot or by horseback. Your choice. I'll supply you with whatever equipment you need, including a fetter to hold wildlife at bay. It's bear country. And of course Mistress Seyer will accompany you, for security purposes.”

“And petty cash?” Rita asked, adding quickly, “Just in case something unexpected comes up.”