Dreamwalker. Part 11

I listened for a moment just to make sure no one was still around then pushed the sheet to one side and reached for my flashlight. But Rita got to hers first. We had been wheeled into a small room that looked like a storage closet of some kind. There were shelves on three sides of us, with boxes and piles of folded fabric and what looked like cleaning supplies. Not until we got to the doorway could we see what was outside.

It was a cavern, similar in form to the one we'd just left. But this one had been upgraded considerably. The central portion of the floor was covered with colorful tiling, and slatted benches were positioned at regular intervals along its periphery. The tunnel where the steel walkway had been was now framed with a decorative archway labeled "Victoria Pa.s.sage," and further down were two smaller archways labeled with symbols I'd never seen before.

All it needed was a ticket booth and it could pa.s.s for Union Station.

"We need to get out of here," Rita said. I could hear fear rising in her voice. "I don't like being trapped underground on a good day, and throwing those Shadows into the mix doesn't make it better. Let's get out of this deathtrap first, then figure out what to do about Tommy." She looked at the arches. "We've got three options, so we can't just flip a coin. Unless someone packed D&D dice." She glanced at Devon.

"Four options," he corrected her. "a.s.suming this cavern really is the same as the one we left."

We took a few minutes to stow supplies from the closet under our sheets, creating what we hoped were reasonable simulacra of comatose bodies. Then we went searching among the formations to see if the crevice we'd come out of in our own cave existed in this one too. It did. Which at least answered the question of how we were going to get out of there without being seen.

Apparently the locals never used this crevice for anything, so they'd never bothered cleaning it out, which meant it was muddy as h.e.l.l. And of course there was no neat brick path at the other end. Our former route was still in its natural state, which meant that much of it was covered in mud, some of it ankle-deep.

We sloshed and mucked and squelched our way through quasi-familiar chambers and tunnels, all too aware that we were leaving behind a trail of footprints deep enough for a blind man to follow. But what had seemed like a simple enough journey when following a brick path wasn't nearly as simple without one. Devon marked every turning point with his chalk, and one time we discovered that we had circled back to a previous mark. But eventually we managed to locate the place where a narrow tunnel cut up through the rock, leading to the surface.

There were no stairs this time, and no one had expanded the tunnel to facilitate climbing, but we were pretty d.a.m.ned determined, and nothing short of solid rock would have stopped us at that point. Eventually, we reached the surface, and we exited onto the gra.s.s one after the other, collapsing underneath a black sky filled with stars. For a handful of minutes we just lay there, utterly exhausted. Every muscle in my body ached, and the night wind chilled me through mud-soaked clothing as I took my first good look around.

The mountain behind us was familiar enough, but there was some kind of large building perched up on the crest. By the light of a slender moon we could make out the shape of a Victorian-style mansion, looming over the surrounding landscape like a hungry vulture. Anyone walking its ramparts would be able to see for miles in the moonlight . . . which meant that for as long as we were out in the open we were vulnerable. We had to find cover, and find it fast.

We started to walk. And we walked. And we walked. We came to a place where the trees were dense enough to s.h.i.+eld us from observation, but that was too close, Devon said. Sooner or later the locals would discover our trick with the gurneys, and we had to be far enough away by then that a basic search of the area wouldn't find us. Much as it pained me to travel away from the place where my brother was most likely to be, I knew he was right. We'd be more use to Tommy if we weren't caught by a search team.

Sometime during the walk that followed, the last of my energy finally faded, and if not for Devon I don't think I could have kept going. He lifted my arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, encouraging me to lean on him. I put up a token protest, but I was grateful for the physical support; I don't know how long I could have gone on without it. The fire had been only a day ago, and the muddy trek out of the caverns had been exhausting. Fear can only sustain you for so long.

"We need rest," Rita said, voicing my thoughts.

At one point I caught her watching us. She turned away quickly when I looked in her direction but not quickly enough. I suddenly realized that I knew nothing about her relations.h.i.+p with Devon. They were such different people, I'd a.s.sumed they were just friends, strangers from opposites sides of the track who'd been drawn together by a common threat, and who had established a friends.h.i.+p of convenience. Which was pretty naive of me, really. The world was full of lovers who had nothing in common. Playwrights wrote whole plays about them . . . and about their jealousy.

I kept a wary eye on her for the rest of the night, but she never looked my way again.

13.

OBFUSCATE GUILDHOUSE IN LURAY.

VIRGINIA PRIME.

WHEN TOMMY WOKE UP in the morning, a fresh s.h.i.+rt and jeans were on the little table, along with a washcloth, sponge, and towel. He was genuinely grateful for the clothing; surely there was nothing more humiliating than being interrogated while wearing Star Wars pajamas. The bath supplies seemed kind of pointless as there was no bathtub in the room, but he took the hint and cleaned up the best he could by the sink.

Keep the kidnappers happy, right?

Soon after that he discovered the purpose of the mail slot, when a food tray came sliding through it. It had been a day since he'd eaten, so he devoured its offerings in record time. No sooner had he swallowed the last bite then he heard the steady rhythm of footsteps approaching his cell once more. This time there was a high pitched tap-tap sound in the mix. High heels, maybe? Sure enough, when the door opened he saw that the grey man had brought a woman with him, and she was ushered into the room with such an air of formality that Tommy guessed she must be a very important person.

She was a striking woman, and-to Tommy's relief-she appeared to be human. Her clothing was white, and it seemed to glow in the shadowy confines of the small room, drawing his eyes to her. White silk blouse, white waistcoat, flowing white evening pants. Her face was pale gold, sun-kissed, with a hint of coral in her cheeks, and her blond hair was dressed up in a complex arrangements of coils and braids that must have taken a hairdresser hours to arrange. Her eyes s.h.i.+fted from grey-blue to grey-green as she looked around the room, and they might not have seemed remarkable on their own, but the thick bands of eyeliner that extended far past the outer corners of her eyes-black on top, gold on bottom-made her look like an ancient Egyptian queen.

"This is Her Ladys.h.i.+p Alia Morgana, Mistress of the Guild of Seers," the grey man announced. "You will cooperate with her in all that she requires."

The woman smiled; it seemed a well-rehea.r.s.ed expression. "Tommy Drake, is it?" When he said nothing she asked, "Are you the dreamer?"

He flushed. "If you mean, am I the one who's been telling this guy all about my dreams? Yeah, I guess so."

"No," she said quietly. "That was not what I asked."

He felt a flutter of unease in his stomach. The woman's gaze made him feel like an insect pinned to a collection board. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what the question is."

"On the contrary, Tommy. I think you are far sharper than this gentleman makes you out to be"-she nodded toward the grey man-"and I think you know exactly what I'm asking."

There were no safe words, so he said nothing.

She walked toward the bed and sat down on the end of it, then patted the mattress beside her. He shook his head quickly in refusal. He didn't want to get any closer to her than he had to.

"Do you know what it means to be a Seer, Tommy?"

"No, ma'am."

The grey man interrupted. "She is to be addressed as Your Ladys.h.i.+p, or Your Grace."

Tommy whispered "No, Your Grace."

"It means I know how to read people," the woman told him. "It means I can tell when they're lying to me, or even when they're just trying to hold something back. It means I can sense their emotions, so I know which questions make them afraid. Which ones they don't really want to answer. Do you understand what that means?"

He nodded miserably. What a fool he'd been, to think that he could have any kind of control over this situation! Never before had he felt so utterly helpless. And she knew it, too. She could read him like a book. He saw it in her eyes.

"Do you know why we're so interested in your dreams, Tommy?"

He shook his head.

"There are some people in the world who have special abilities. For example, I can sense a person's spiritual essence." She nodded toward the grey man. "Master Wells here can walk through a crowded room without anyone noticing him. We call them Gifts, and they come in many varieties. We try to identify the people who have such abilities while they're still young, so that we can arrange for them to have proper teachers."

Wary of where this was leading, Tommy nodded again.

"There is one very special ability that few people have mastered. Can you guess what that is?"

His throat was dry; it took effort to force the words out. "Something to do with dreams?"

"Exactly. That's why we watch for young people who have certain types of dreams, because it tells us that they may have this Gift." She paused. "Your dreams suggest you're one of those people, Tommy."

A tremor of foreboding ran through him. "I . . . I don't know anything about that. . . ."

"Well, you are only thirteen, so even if you had this Gift, it wouldn't be apparent for a few more years. We call it 'manifesting,' when a Gift first appears. Most people can't tell whether someone has a particular Gift until that happens. But a Seer can detect it much earlier. For instance, I can tell right now if you have the dreamer's Gift."

But I don't, he thought desperately. Jesse's the one who has the special dreams. If anyone has this Gift it's her, not me.

"There's no reason to be afraid, Tommy. You won't feel a thing. It'll be just like when someone looks at you from across the street. That doesn't hurt at all, does it? Except that I'll be looking at the inside of you, instead of the outside." She paused. "It will be much easier if you cooperate with me. That's why I've told you all this, you see. In the hopes that you'll understand the value of this examination, and cooperate."

He tried to swallow the lump that was in his throat. "What . . . what do you want me to do?"

She smiled. "Just relax. Think about dreams you've had in the past. Think about how much you'd like to understand them better. How much you'd like me to help you with that."

But I don't want you to help me, he thought. And for one crazy moment he thought about trying to fight her off. But he had no clue how to do that, and he was pretty sure that even if he tried, she'd blow away his best effort in a heartbeat.

He was doomed. Totally, painfully, irrevocably doomed.

Maybe if I cooperate, they'll be less angry at me when they find out the truth.

Biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood, he nodded.

She told him to lie down, but he was way too nervous for that, so they settled for him leaning against the wall. Shut your eyes, now. Take deep breaths. Imagine a pleasant dream you once had . . . Her voice was hypnotic, compelling. He couldn't have resisted her if he'd wanted to.

It seemed to him that he fell asleep for a moment. When he opened his eyes again it took effort to focus them; everything was blurry.

And then her eyes came into focus, and he saw what was in them: She knew.

She knew.

So much for his secret. So much for his kidnappers' thinking he was useful. So much for them having any further reason to keep him alive.

"Well?" said the grey man, somewhat impatiently. "What's the verdict? Is he a dreamwalker?"

Tommy shut his eyes, bracing himself for the storm that was about to break over him.

"It appears so," the Seer said.

His eyes shot open. What the h.e.l.l-?

"Which means he has the potential, nothing more. Whether that Gift will ever fully manifest is something no Seer can tell you. We can only read the potential of a soul; its true destiny is always in flux."

She stood up and smoothed the creases out of her white pants. "Keep him under observation for now. Have him record all his dreams. We still have much to learn about how this Gift works. He can help us."

Her grey eyes fixed on Tommy. "You'll cooperate with Master Wells, won't you? In whatever he asks you to do?"

Dazed, he nodded.

Without further word the two visitors turned and exited the room. The steel door closed behind them, and Tommy heard the heavy lock slide into place. He was alone once more.

He didn't move. He just sat there, stunned. Something subtle and complicated had just happened, but he lacked the mental resources-or perhaps the experience-to interpret it.

At least I'm safe for now, he comforted himself. They would have to keep him alive if they wanted a record of his dreams, right? By giving that order, the woman in white had probably saved his life.

But then he remembered how she had looked at him, right after her examination. The clear and certain knowledge in her eyes. He wasn't the dreamer they'd been searching for, and she knew it.

Why did you lie for me? he wondered.

"Tea, your Grace?"

"Please."

Wells waved to his menial, who went to the sideboard and filled two cups, straining out the tea leaves as she poured. As she stirred sugar into one of the cups, she looked at the Seer and made a hand signal: Instructions?

"Just one, please."

A minute later Alia Morgana was handed a cup of tea with a biscuit neatly tucked beside it. She lifted the porcelain cup from the saucer and sipped from it delicately as the servant withdrew. "How delicious, Master Wells! Some sort of Darjeeling?"

Wells nodded. "From Terra Marcella. Spring rains are unusually constant there; it makes for a unique bouquet."

"You will have to let me know next time a s.h.i.+pment comes in." She smiled pleasantly. "Provided your Guild doesn't keep it all for themselves."

Wells chuckled softly. "There's a limit to how much tea one Guild can drink, your Grace. I'm sure we can set aside a few leaves for you."

They drank their tea in companionable silence for a few moments. Finally the Seer put her cup aside and said, "The boy needs to die, you know that."

The grey man sipped from his own teacup without responding.

"I realize there are things we could learn from him, but his Gift is too dangerous to have around. Whole cities have been destroyed by it in the past. That's why we kill all potential dreamers as soon as they're born, rather than waiting to see if the Gift will manifest. The risk is just too high."

"I'm aware of the culling," Wells said, "but aren't you exaggerating the risk just a tad?"

She leaned forward in her chair; her gaze was intense. "When this particular Gift manifests, the first thing it does is drive its host mad. Then it spreads that madness to everyone in the surrounding area, through their dreams. And yes, we have records of whole populations succ.u.mbing. Prosperous cities falling to chaos, all because of one so-called dreamwalker in their midst." She leaned back in her chair again. Her expression was as controlled as ever, but something hard and cold flashed in her eyes. "That's the reason we eradicated them centuries ago. That's the reason that now, any time we find a child with the potential for that Gift, we remove him from the gene pool. Immediately. No matter what world he was born on, or who his parents were. There are no exceptions."

"Except that this one got past you," he pointed out.

"Since we can't stand guard over every birth on every human world," she said irritably, "there's always the chance that will happen. We deal with such children when we find them."

"But this one's only thirteen. You said yourself it would be a few years before his Gift matured. The matter hardly seems urgent."

"That's what I said to him, Master Wells. In truth, we know very little about how this Gift manifests-only that once it does the madness comes on quickly and consumes every mind in its vicinity." A delicately painted eyebrow arched upward. "So what is it you want this boy for, that's worth risking a whole city?"

"Not me. The Shadows want him. I'm to send him to the Crest tomorrow."

She drew in a sharp breath. "That is . . . very foolish of them."

"Take it up with Guildmaster Virilian, then. It's his call." A faint smile twitched across his thin lips. "I hear he welcomes constructive criticism."