KARA WAS ALREADY WAITING WHEN RIGBY ENTERED THE courtyard. No surprise. The girl was practically giddy about the whole thing. Can’t say that I blame her, Rigby thought, but, sheesh, look at her.
Kara sat on one of the white stone benches in the center of the courtyard, though sat wasn’t the right word. She was bouncing. The contents of the school lunch tray on her lap threatened to tumble into the grass.
“So far, you’ve handled the club’s duties wonderfully,” he said. “You’re a natural, really, and you’re strong. But going solo is a different kettle of fish. You really think you’re ready, then?”
“Ready?” she asked. A tater tot actually did hop out onto the grass. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been ready for this my whole life!”
Rigby held a finger to his lips. “Not everyone’s ready for this. Not until the club’s ready to expand, that is. Until then, it’s a very select few.”
“Including me,” Kara said. It wasn’t a question.
“And anyone you choose,” Rigby said. “I trust you.”
Kara looked down a half second and said, “Thank you . . . that means a lot.”
“But this is about experience, not trust,” Rigby explained. “You’ve only been, what, six times now?”
Kara huffed and looked away. “I know how to get in,” she said. “I know how to create, how to navigate, and how to disguise.”
“It’s more than that, love,” he said. “There are dangers you know nothing about.”
Kara lifted her hands in the air. “Then tell me about the danger. Honestly, Rigby, what kind of trouble do you think I’ll get into?”
“You want honesty, do you?” he asked, his voice deeper. “Well, there’s plenty of trouble a novice can get into. Also, I’m concerned about the white knight you keep mentioning. I’ve more than a little suspicion that this Prince Charming type is actually the Dream King in disguise. He took out a Dreamtreader once that way.”
“I didn’t know that,” Kara said quietly. “And Dreamtreaders are—”
“As strong as they come.”
“I can finish my own sentences,” Kara muttered. “And I can take care of myself. So what if this white knight is the Dream King? He’s done me no harm. And it is his world. Kind of makes us guests, doesn’t it?”
“Guests,” Rigby said with a laugh. “Yeah, like parasites. I don’t know, but I think he’d just as soon be rid of us.”
“Rigby, please,” Kara argued. “I want this. I need this. I’m begging you.”
Rigby was still and quiet for several long moments. He turned away from her to avoid her eyes. He sighed heavily. “Right, then. If we’re going to get you in solo, you need to understand that there are rules.”
“Fine,” Kara said, frowning. “But I thought anything goes in a dream.”
“Almost,” he said. “But there’s a give-and-take. It’s kind of like being on the moon. Sure, you almost ignore gravity and jump higher and farther than on earth, but there’s that little thing called air that you rather need.”
“Okay. So in a dream, I can do many things I could never do in reality, but the environment forces me to think about other threats.”
“That’s right,” Rigby said, his eyes narrowing a moment. “That’s exactly right. You really are quite smart, you know that?”
Kara blushed. “So what are the rules, then?”
Rigby glanced left, right, and over his shoulder. He turned to face Kara and said, “Rule number one: you’ve got only eleven hours of dream time. You’ll hear the chimes of the big clock in your head. One to twelve, that’s all.”
Kara’s eyebrows went up. Then she squinted. “Wait, you said we have eleven hours, but the clock tolls one to twelve. That’s twelve hours.”
“Right, but your clock, the one in your head, never tolls six.”
“Why?”
“The Dream King made it that way,” Rigby said. “If you ever hear the clock strike six, it’s ’is time. That’s rule number two: if the clock strikes six, you get out and wake up as fast as you can.”
“Okay, you got me again. Why get out? If the Dream King is the white knight, he doesn’t seem so terrible. He’s actually been kind. Benevolent, even. He danced with me in the clouds.”
“My experience has been a little different,” Rigby said. “No benevolence and certainly no dancing. The guy’s a dictator, and there’s nothing he can’t rule over in the world of dreams. He has another name, you know? Nightmare Lord.”
“He’s not a nightmare,” she said. “Not to me.”
“Listen, Kara, don’t get too close, right? He can’t be trusted.”
Kara sighed. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“It’s not my way. It’s the safe way. Lucid dreaming is a fantastic opportunity, but . . . it can be dangerous.”
“But it’s a dream, right? Not real, so how can it hurt you?”
“If you are captured or willingly stay past eleven hours, your personal stroke of twelve on the clock, you’ll . . .” Rigby paused. “You’ll go away.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you won’t wake up here again, ever. In the real world, you’ll go away in your mind and never come back. You’ll be in a coma for the rest of your life.”
Kara ate a tater tot and mumbled, “Next rule?”
“You don’t seem too worried about dying.”
Kara shrugged. “I’m not worried. I’m just not going to let it happen.”
“Well, good,” Rigby said. “But don’t even cut it close, not if you can ’elp it. Rule number three? Do not Lucid Dream more than two days in a row. If you do, you may start to warp. That means you’ll begin to lose touch with reality. It’ll become more and more difficult to tell the world of dreams and our world apart. Do it too often, you’ll go mad. Trust me on this one.”
Kara paused, connecting the dots in her mind. “Your uncle?”
Rigby nodded. He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t pretty. Especially toward the end.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well . . . pioneers often make the most sacrifices.” Rigby’s cheek twitched. He scratched absently at one of his sideburns. “If not for Uncle Scovy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“His research . . . well, he really made the breakthrough, didn’t he?” Kara asked.
“Yeah, yeah . . . he’s the one who came up with Anchor Theory. He discovered the Cerebral Countdown too.” Rigby looked up at the exterior clock. “Lunch is almost over. We should finish this up some other time.”
“C’mon. I don’t want to wait another day. Just go fast. I won’t ask any more questions.”
“You sure?” Rigby asked. “We could talk after school.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Just try.”
“Rule number four: do not eat or drink anything that is black. It was most likely made or seasoned with something my uncle called gort. It’s a kind of berry, I think. It can turn you into something like a zombie. You’ll still be aware, but you’ll be controlled by others more powerful, possibly even the Dream King, if he chooses.”
“But eating’s part of the fun,” Kara said. Rigby gave her a look. “Got it,” she continued, demure. “Nothing black.”
“Rule number five is one you already know: Place your anchor in a place you can easily return to.”
“Right. I remember.”
“Rule number six: always check yourself for tendrils. Always. As soon as you get back. You know the light I gave you?”
“Yeah,” Kara said. “I wondered about that. It looks like some CSI thing.”
Rigby smirked. “Tendrils are like invisible leeches. You won’t see them without UV light. You won’t even feel them. They latch onto your thoughts and can manipulate them. If you come back to your anchor and leave without getting rid of them, you’ll think you’ve woken up, but you’ll really still be asleep. I don’t need to tell you that that can be bad.”
Kara’s eyes widened. “So, yeah, I see. You think you’re awake, but you’re still there, so you miss your deadline. You stay in too long.”
“Scary stuff. You usually don’t pick up tendrils unless you’re in a dream forest for a stretch of time. I don’t know why. It’s prob—”
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.
“Is that it?” Kara asked, standing up with her still-full tray. “Did we get through them?”
“Not quite,” Rigby said. “One more. Rule number seven: don’t get killed in the Dream. It doesn’t kill you in real life. That’s a bunch of Hollywood nonsense.”
“So what does it do?”
“It keeps you from having a Lucid Dream ever again,” he said. “The human body is an amazing thing, right? The mind protects itself. If you get killed in a dream and actually experience the life leaving your body, your mind seals off the nerve passages that make Lucid Dreaming possible. It’s quite extraordinary, really.”
“But I can get shot or stabbed or blown up?” she asked. “I mean, I know I’m in a dream and that it’s not really happening.”
“Sure,” he said. “Yeah, so a guy pulls a gun on you in the Dream world. You see it. You know it’s a gun, but you know it’s a dream, so the bullets hit you. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up. You might bleed a little, but you can make it go away.”
“Right, right,” she said. “But?”
“But if something happens suddenly, without warning, say, like a beheading, your mind doesn’t catch up. You feel yourself fade out. You can’t come back. Uncle Scovy had a research partner that happened to, so that’s ’ow he figured it out.”
“What happened to him?”
“You don’t want to know,” Rigby said, heading for the door to the cafeteria. “C’mon, we have to get to class.”
“No, tell me,” Kara said. “Please.”
Rigby stopped, sighed, and put his hands in his pockets. His intense brown eyes seemed to withdraw within themselves. His usually too-cool, sideways smirk vanished. “It was like the guy was an addict,” Rigby said at last. “Going through withdrawals because he couldn’t experience Lucid Dreams any longer. It was horrible: panic attacks, the shakes, paranoia. Eventually, he went mad and jumped off a bridge.”
In a sightless chamber, where the cold lingered and the air was as still as a grave, two figures sat crouched in the dark.
“It was foolish,” he said.
“Seeking to aid someone in dire need is never foolish,” she replied. “How long will you distress yourself? Isn’t the torture from our captors enough?”
“No, Mesmeera,” he said. “It’s not. It was my folly that drove us both on that beady-eyed little maggot’s errand. It was my folly that took us into the forsaken moors of Archaia. And it was my folly that led us into the Lurker’s torture chamber.”
“Look at me, Duncan!” Mesmeera hissed.
“I cannot look . . . at . . . you.”
“Right.” Mesmeera released a caustic sigh. “I know that. Imagine me, then. Imagine my face, stern and indignant. Imagine my green eyes flashing with anger . . . and compassion. Listen to me. It is not noble to rob me of my responsibility in this matter. I wear these chains now, not because you led me to them. I did. I chose to follow. I made a decision at every turn. It was my folly as well as yours!”
Mesmeera let out fierce cry and shook her fists. The heavy chains rattled, their weight forcing her arms to drop.
Duncan scratched quickly at his beard. “There is wisdom in what you say. But I led you, Mesmeera. I led—”
“Lead, follow—what difference does it make? It’s all a choice. There’s no escape in blame, no comfort in shirking responsibility. We all make choices. We must all face the consequences of those choices.”
“Even when it means we both knew better, that we both knowingly broke almost every rule of Dreamtreading? Even when it means that we will never see the waking world again? Even when it means we will forever be at the mercy of utter wickedness . . . even then?”
“Yes, Duncan. Even then.” Mesmeera sighed. “The truth may hurt, but it is never so agonizing as the dagger of lies we tell ourselves.” She was quiet a moment, resting her head on her cuffed wrists upon her knees. Then she said, “Besides, we need to use our thoughts for something more productive, like getting out of here. I’m not ready to believe we don’t have a part to play in this yet.”
“Shhh!” he whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
“Yes, I am coming to visit you,” came a rasping voice, seasoned with a peculiar buzzing, almost like hornets. “I have brought nourishment, meat and bread.” Footsteps grew nearer.
“Well, now, that’s a relief,” Duncan quipped. “More dream food. You know it does us no good.”
“Oh, it will now, Dreamtreaders.”
The voice was just outside the cell bars, but Duncan and Mesmeera could see nothing in the inky black of the chamber. “What do you mean?” Mesmeera asked.
“This food will nourish your minds. Take. Eat.”
Duncan recoiled as a hunk of bread was pressed into his hand. He hadn’t heard the cell door open. But someone was in with them now.
Mesmeera let out a yelp.
“Mes!” Duncan called.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Just startled me is all. Gave me the food.”
“Same here,” Duncan said. He lifted the bread to his nose. It smelled fresh. It smelled spectacular. Cinnamon for sure. Maybe nutmeg. He took a bite and found it was something like raisin bread. There were little pieces of dried fruit within the flaky flesh of the bread.
“Thank you for the food,” Mesmeera whispered, her eyes straining to pick up some form, some figure outlined against the thick darkness. She saw no contrast. Only pitch-black. “Hello? Are you still here?”
“Yes. Still here.”
“You said this food nourishes our mind. How so?” she asked.
“Your minds are forever in the Dream,” the voice said. “They will need stimulation. My food can do that for you. But I wonder if someone will take such good care of your physical bodies in the Temporal.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Mesmeera said defiantly. “We have plans in place.”
There was laughter from the darkness, but it was not pleasant.
“You’ve kept us in darkness all this time,” Duncan said. “Why all the hiding?” There was no answer. “At least tell us where we are?”
The laughter stopped abruptly. “Now that you’ve eaten, I suppose you’ll have the strength to bear it. So I will tell you about your new home. It is called Number 6.”