NICK. IT HAD TO BE. ARCHER CHECKED HIS MENTAL reserve. It was very low, but enough to power a few tower-to-tower leaps. He launched into the air and propelled himself toward the highest tower, the Hunter’s Stone. Archer at last dropped down next to an exultant Nick Bushman.
“Bonzer, mate!” Nick cried out, clasping Archer’s shoulder. “We dropped that bitzer at last! I owe you heaps!”
“Just keep your promise,” Archer said. “We need to get you to understand that you’re dreaming. You need to become a Dreamtreader.”
Nick swiped away some of the branches and leaves that still clung to his strange outfit. Archer could see his face much better now. He was older than Archer had thought. Thirty, maybe more. His face was leathery and creased but most likely from care and wear over the years. He had three almost perfect triangles of hair on his face: two slanted eyebrows and one below his bottom lip. And his hair, still mingled with twigs and leaves, was spiked, with a tall mohawk crest leaning in the center.
Nick’s eyes darted to the side. His expression changed from exultant to fretful. “I . . . uh, have to fess up, Archer,” Nick said. “I know I’m dreamin’.”
“You what?” Archer spluttered.
“Well, I should say I suspected it pretty strongly.”
“But . . . you said—”
“Fact is, you kind of confirmed things once and for all, but I needed your help. I’m sorry, mate, but time was short, the paravore was upon us, and I just didn’t know what to do.”
Archer chomped down on the first comment that leaped into his mind. He remembered all too well the rash decisions he’d made under the pressure of time and danger. Speaking of time, Archer looked over his shoulder. Less than an hour remained.
Archer finally found the right words. “Look, Nick,” he said, “when there’s time, we’ll need to talk about this again. Dreamtreaders have to be able to trust each other. But in the meantime, I need to know just what you know about your abilities and dreaming.”
“Right then,” Nick said, scratching at the patch of whiskers beneath his lower lip. “So for years, I knew I could dream things when I wanted to. Loads of fun. And I met Taddy; cute little guy knew me. And he kept showing up in my dreams, so I figured something was up.” Nick’s eyes clouded. “Then that paravore beast showed up, took Taddy away. I grieved for months, mate. Strangest thing, being that I only knew him from my dreams. But I’ve put that beast in the dunnie at last. And I’ve got you to thank for it. You’ve got the truth from me and my friendship from here on. And that’s fair dinkum, count on it.”
“Fair dinkum?” Archer asked.
“Eh, it’s the most honest and genuine kind of a pledge,” Nick explained.
“Oh,” Archer replied. “Got it. Well, first thing I can tell you is that your ability to dream things at will is a talent very few people have. It’s a gift. You were born to be a Dreamtreader, Nick, and this world of dreams is a lot more complex that you’ve ever . . . uh . . . well, dreamed. But realizing you’re dreaming is only part of waking you up as a full-powered Dreamtreader.”
“Right. What else do I need to do?”
“It’s different for each Dreamtreader,” Archer explained slowly. “But I have—had—a scroll that told me how to wake you up. We need to follow the winding path to something called the ever-swaying tree.”
“I know it,” Nick said. “I know right where it is.”
Archer exhaled. “Can we get there in twenty minutes or less?”
“Sure thing,” Nick said. “You fly, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m toast. I couldn’t fly now more than a few feet.”
“No worries,” Nick said. “We’ll go my way.”
“What’s your way?” Archer asked.
“Oh, you’ll like this,” Nick said. He put his fingers to his mouth and let loose a trilling whistle that echoed off the nearby canyon walls.
“What are we . . .” A broad shadow loomed overhead. A fierce wind nearly knocked Archer from the stone platform.
Magnificent pure-white paws clutched Archer’s shoulders and lifted him into the air.
“Whoa, hey!” Archer cried out.
“It’s all right,” Nick said, being lifted similarly from the platform. “They’re friends.”
Archer looked up and saw the wind-streaked mane of a huge lion, only this lion was the pristine white of arctic snow . . . and it had wings. Massive eagle-type wings. Griffin? Archer thought. Sphinx? He couldn’t remember which one had a bird head or a lion head, if either one. It really didn’t matter. These flying white lions were cool. And fast.
The majestic creatures airlifted Archer and Nick over the forest, over the vast silvery webs of the spiders in the treetops. Glad I didn’t try going in that way, he thought. Soon, their speed and altitude took away fine details like the spiderwebs. The terrain below became a quilt of earthy colors. Far ahead but growing rapidly closer, Archer saw a misty mountain wrapped in a treacherously winding path.
“Snot rockets, these things are fast!” Archer cried out. He dangled beneath the flying lion and blinked at the rush of air.
“The valkaryx are a real ripsnorter, right?!” Nick called back. “Now where do ya want them to drop us?”
“Drop us?”
“No, mate, not like that. Set us down’s what I mean. Kinda.”
“Kinda?” Archer said, feeling his cheeks reddening. “I can see the winding path, but we don’t have time to follow it. Can the valkaryx take us to the ever-swaying tree?”
“Of course they can,” Nick replied. He shouted a series of words and sounds that Archer didn’t understand. “Rak-ta, Shak-ta, soonerian, tre aborandum, ne!”
Immediately, the valkaryx banked right and accelerated toward the mountain. Archer reflexively grabbed ahold of its paws and hung on. As they closed on the mountains, Archer noted a very small tree growing up from its peak. But, closer still, Archer realized he’d misunderstood the scale. The mountain was much bigger than he’d thought. Colossal, really. The “little” tree was actually a towering giant. The trunk was narrow and full of odd bends and curves. There were branches aplenty, each ending with patches of glistening silver leaves. And the tree was indeed swaying.
The valkaryx swooped a swift spiral down to the base of the tree and lightly placed Archer and Nick in a cleft of the peak. The noble white pair landed nearby and folded their wings behind their broad shoulders.
Nick bowed to them and said, “Gratis, Rak-ta, Shak-ta. Te bonis trel esse.”
The valkaryx with the longest mane made a rumbly growling sound and stamped its paw once.
“I heard you speak like that when we were flying,” Archer said. “You can talk to them, can’t you?”
“Yeah, the words just come, but only in the Dream. Doesn’t seem to matter the creature. They understand, and I understand them.”
“Even the paravore?”
“Yeah, even that brute,” Nick explained. “You shoulda heard what he called you when you stuck that sword in its foot. He was spewing, he was. Would ya like to know—”
“No, I’d rather not,” Archer replied. “What did you tell the valkaryx just now?”
“I told ’em to wait here till we’re done. You’re on a time limit, right?”
“Very much so,” Archer said, pointing up into the clouds. “See that?”
“What?”
“The old clock tower,” Archer said. “You can see it from pretty much anywhere.”
“All I see are clouds.”
“Oh,” Archer replied thoughtfully. He stared across the landscape. Aside from being in an airplane in the Waking World, he’d never been this high up before. The geography below was so distant that it appeared only as vague splotches of color. There were even a few low clouds drifting below. It was an odd sensation, standing above some clouds.
“So what’s the deal with the ever-swaying tree?” Nick asked. “Am I a Dreamtreader yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Archer said. “You don’t see the clock yet. Something’s not quite right. I think we need to climb the tree.”
“’Kay, and then what?”
“You don’t know, do you?” Nick slapped his knee and let out a deep roaring laugh. “Hoo, hoo! You don’t know! There, now, we’re even, right?”
“It was in a kind of riddle,” Archer said. “But I lost the last line.” Archer recited the poem and said, “I don’t know the last line.”
“Guess it rhymes with tree, right?” Nick concluded.
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of things that rhyme with tree.”
“Well, here’s the ever-swaying tree. Let’s give it a burl.” Nick showed no fear, diving for the lowest bough and shimmying up.
Archer followed a little less skillfully. Still, his mental will made him stronger than he would have been in the Waking World. He bounded upward, scaling each crook and bough as best he could. Halfway up, it became crystal clear that the tree was indeed swaying. Archer could feel the motion in his body . . . a slow drifting . . . back and forth. It was hypnotic. It made him sleepy.
“No!” Archer told himself. Falling asleep in a skyscraping tree would not be a good thing.
“Hey, you all right, mate?” Nick called down. “You’re fallin’ behind a bit there.”
“I’m okay,” Archer said. “Just tired is all.”
“’Kay, then. Lemme know if ya need a hand.”
Archer focused on the branches and kept his mind off the sway. Soon, he and Nick reached the highest place where they still had both a branch to stand on and a bough to hold on to. The view there was astounding. The Dream Sky was often a violet-tinged crimson, but from where Archer could see, there was a purplish blue that seemed to undulate like a tide. A light breeze even carried a vaguely familiar scent.
Mom’s pumpkin pie, Archer thought.
It was that nutmeg spicy-sweet smell he had always loved when he had was little, that he remembered so vividly here in the treetop. He saw his mom in that ratty old red-and-white crisscrossed apron that she refused to throw away. He saw the vapors rising from the hot pies fresh out of the oven. He saw the smile on his father’s face as his mother put a big slice of pie in front of him and then proceeded to bury it in whipped cream. He could taste the pie, even. It felt . . .
“Whoa, Archer.”
It was Nick, gripping the Dreamtreader’s shoulder. “You looked like you were about to doze off there.”
“No, I’m okay, I think,” Archer said. “I just had the most vivid memories.”
“Same here,” Nick replied, but he gave no details. “Think I’m a Dreamtreader now?”
“I don’t think so,” Archer said. “Do you see the clock?”
Nick craned his neck every which way. “Nope. No clock. Just really high up.”
But Archer could see the clock. Old Jack hovered out in the distance, a little lower than usual, due to the height of their perch. The time left was not promising. Even with the swift valkaryx, getting back to Archer’s anchor before the Stroke of Reckoning would be a difficult feat.
Archer scoured his mind. When the winding path delivers, you must climb the ever-swaying tree. Above the clouds . . . and then what? Shout out who you want to be? Stare at the clouds and you will see? No, those don’t make any sense.
Something stung his right palm, and he pulled his hand away from the branch. There was no blood, no recent injury, but that reddish blotch on his palm looked redder still. Staring at the ruddy scar sent him back into his thoughts. When the winding path delivers, you must climb the ever-swaying tree. Above the clouds . . . there had been a letter t. It might be the beginning of any word, but Archer felt an idea forming in his mind. Above the clouds . . .
Wait. It wasn’t a letter t. It was a letter f. It came in a sizzling rush: Above the clouds, face your fears, die to live, and take the faithful leap.
Leap? Leap out of the tree? That seemed crazy. Archer didn’t recall much about his own awakening, but it didn’t seem possible that he could forget something so dramatic as leaping from a ridiculous height.
But it made sense in an odd sort of way. Archer pondered this while absently itching the mark on his palm. “I think I’ve got it,” Archer said.
“Ace!” Nick exclaimed. “Lay it on me.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“You never promised me this was going to be a rage. What do I need to do?”
Archer glanced down through the crisscrossing tree branches. “I think you need to leap out of this tree.”
Nick’s mouth dropped open. In fact, his entire face seemed to grow a foot longer. “You’re funning me, aren’t ya, mate?”
“No,” Archer said. “I think I’ve remembered the last line of the scroll. ‘When the winding path delivers, you must climb the ever-swaying tree. Above the clouds, face your fears; die to live, and take the faithful leap.’ ”
“Well, I suppose it rhymes,” Nick said. “More of a slant rhyme, really. But, ah . . . that’s not much to hang a hat on if it means I jump from this tree.”
“I’m sorry, Nick,” Archer said. “I wish I knew better.”
“Well,” Nick said, turning round to face the open air, “we are in a Dream, right? What could it hurt? I’ll give it a burl. Hoorooo!”
Archer cried out, “Wait!”
But it was too late. Nick leaped from the branch. It wasn’t just a raw jump. He actually did a swan dive. The moment the Australian was in the air and out of reach, Archer had second thoughts. The poem’s final verse suddenly didn’t make any sense at all.
Archer leaped. He used what little will he had left and soared down. He had to catch Nick before he hit bottom. Sudden death in the Dream wouldn’t awaken Nick to Dreamtreading. It would probably keep him from ever becoming a Dreamtreader, though. Archer had a chilling fear that it might do even worse.
Archer dodged branches, trying to keep Nick’s plummeting form in sight. But it was becoming more and more clear to Archer that he was too late. Nick disappeared from view. Archer poured on the speed and rocketed toward the mountain’s peak. Archer heard a sudden cry and gave a choked yell.
When Archer slowed his descent and dropped to the mountain-top at last, there was no sign of Nick. The Dreamtreader gasped. He had just enough will left to gasp for air and fear the worst. Careless mistakes, bull-headed stubbornness, and reckless, spur-of-the-moment ideas—the past came back in a rush. His old Dreamtreading partners, Duncan and Mesmeera . . . and flames.
“Well, that was a closey!”
Archer lifted his eyes, and there, seated on the back of the long-maned valkaryx, was Nick.
“You didn’t fall?” Archer yelled.
“Well, yeah, I fell a bit,” Nick explained. “But halfway down I got to thinking it was about the dumbest thing I’d ever done, so I called for ol’ Rocky here.”
“You have no idea how relieved this makes me,” Archer said. He turned. “Do you see the clock by any chance?”
Nick shook his head.
“I’ll just have to talk to my superior.”
“Who’s that?”
“He is called Master Gabriel,” Archer said. “I’m guessing you’ll meet him soon enough. But I need to get back to my anchor. Can the valkaryx get me back to Garnet Province.”
“That where the Libraries are?”
Archer nodded.
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said. “We go there all the time.” He spoke a few words and sounds to the valkaryx. The short-maned creature nuzzled Archer’s shoulder.
“Oh, she wants ya to climb on,” Nick explained. “No sense carryin’ ya like before.”
The journey back to Garnet Province was smooth and swift. The valkaryx were majestic flyers, but there was no questioning their athletic prowess. They flew tirelessly and at a great height, giving Archer and Nick a panoramic view of the Dream landscape.
Feeling more confident about making it back to his anchor before the Stroke of Reckoning, Archer found that he rather enjoyed the ride. It wasn’t every day that you were able to ride a flying lion.
But even that brief pleasure took ill when Archer blinked on his Visis Nocturne. The entire stretch of the northern Verse District was dotted with tiny breaches. No single one was problematic: too small to be a threat. But there were so many.
Forms District was just the same. From the splintered landscape of the Cold Plateau all the way to Warhaven and Direton, especially Direton, tiny dot-to-dot diagrams of breaches appeared. And these were areas Archer knew that he and Razz had repaired breaches earlier. Sure, many of them had been patched up with Bezeal’s paste. But . . . and that’s when the cold realization hit Archer: Bezeal’s paste wasn’t holding. Archer had known all along that it was a temporary fix; it leaked Dream matter. But now, it was degrading far faster than ever.
By the time, the valkaryx delivered Archer to his anchor in Garnet, he was consumed with his thoughts and with his anger toward Bezeal . . . and Rigby: Bezeal for making an inferior batch of breach paste, and Rigby for his bold-faced lies about the Dream being in perfect balance.
“You all right?” Nick asked, stepping past Archer’s well and around a leaning tree trunk. “You look fit to spit.”
“What?”
“Aww, mate, you’re spewing mad, aren’t you? What’s eating you?”
“Nothing,” Archer said. “Nothing I can talk about right now. Just someone I need to kill.”
Nick barked out a laugh. “That’s a ripsnorter, Archer! Ha!” Nick stopped laughing. “Wait . . . you are kidding, aren’t you?”
Archer considered the question a little too long. “Mostly,” he said. And then, as if a switch had flipped, Archer ran out of anger-induced energy. He slumped forward against the valkaryx’s neck. The Visis Nocturne had sapped whatever little bit of mental energy he had accumulated since the battle with the paravore.
“Archer?” Nick said. “Archer, you with us?”
“Huh?” Archer blinked his eyes open. “Awww, man, I am tired.”
“This well is your anchor, is it?” Nick asked.
“Yeah,” Archer said. “It’s the way Dreamtreaders get back to the Waking World.”
“You probably oughtta be getting back then, eh?”
“Yeah,” Archer said. “Almost out of time, anyway.”
“Hey, I don’t mean to pry,” Nick said. “But why a well?”
“It’s not just any well,” Archer explained. He explained a little bit about his mother and how important the well had been to her.
Nick nodded along quite a bit. “I understand that completely,” he said. “Uh, each Dreamtreader needs an anchor then, right?”
“That’s right,” Archer said. “Any idea what your anchor would be . . . I mean, for when you’re officially a Dreamtreader?”
Nick replied without hesitation. “Yeah, I know just what I’d use. I can see it in my mind just as plainly as I see your well here.”
“Good,” Archer said, glancing up at Old Jack. “I have to leave now. I’ll talk to Master Gabriel and explain what happened. We’ll be in touch soon.”
Nick nodded.
Archer put his hand to the well, and just as one world melted into another, he thought he heard a voice. It was Nick’s voice.
He said, “Hey, I can see the clock now.”