ARCHER WANTED TO GO STRAIGHT TO BEZEAL, BUT THE number of breaches evident when he arrived in the Dream wouldn’t allow it. There were whole new patches in almost every fiefdom. With Razz’s help, he managed to sew them up by the eighth toll, leaving very little time for travel, a search for Bezeal, and any confrontation that could ensue.
Archer surfed to the outskirts of Kurdan and leap-walked the rest of the way. By ten tolls, Archer found the marketplace absurdly busy, ten times more than usual. In the central market, a mob of people gathered to make a mad run for some product being sold. Archer leaped from rooftop to rooftop until he could get a better look at what was happening. From the ledge of a bell tower, he saw that there was someone speaking on a huge platform that was piled high with small chests.
“Step right up, do not be shy,” said the speaker. “You too can patch up breaches if you’re willing to try. Ten golds are all you need for one of these kits of mine!”
It was Bezeal, of course. Who else spoke in rhyming triplets?
“Unbelievable,” Archer muttered. “What a con artist.”
“You’re not going down there, are you?” Razz asked.
“Of course I’m going down there,” Archer said. “He’s ripping those people off. Ten golds? Are you kidding me?”
Razz’s face reddened. “I don’t think I want to be here for this,” she said. “But call me if you need me.” She vanished in a squiggly puff of purple smoke.
Archer leaped off of the bell tower and floated slowly downward until he came to a soft landing right behind Bezeal on the platform.
“A plague of breaches is upon us, you see?” Bezeal was saying. “And the Dreamtreaders aren’t doing enough to help us stay free. So that means it’s up to people like you and me!”
The crowd cheered heartily, but apparently it wasn’t the roar Bezeal was expecting because he warily turned to look behind him. He jumped and his eyes flashed when he spotted Archer. “Whu-whu-what? Archer, why you . . . you’re here. Look, good people, a Dreamtreader has come near! Now we know we have nothing to—”
“Save it, Bezeal,” Archer commanded. The crowd gasped. “What are you selling these people for ten golds? Huh? What kind of scam are you running?”
“Shrewd as I am, I am not the heartless kind. I’ve invented a dream fabric patch that is so sublime. With it, anyone can mend a breach in very little time.”
“Prove it,” Archer demanded.
Bezeal’s ultrawhite toothy grin appeared, and suddenly Archer felt as if he might have just become part of Bezeal’s new advertisement campaign.
The small hooded merchant fished around in his robe pockets and at last removed a sealed glass jar containing a frantic scurion. He held it up for the crowd, causing titters of discussion. When Bezeal broke the seal and opened the jar, the customers standing closest to the stage drew back hurriedly.
Bezeal dumped the scurion onto the stage. It wasted no time, but arched up on its tail section and leaped into the air. It caught hold of dream fabric with its front mandibles and began to chew. Slowly, its head disappeared and light plasma began to flow. A breach had been opened. A small one, but a breach nonetheless.
Bezeal waited until the scurion’s head poked back out. Then, with a pair of strange forceps, he grabbed up the wriggling, snapping scurion and tossed it back into the jar. He sealed it immediately and dropped it into his robe.
He raised his little green hands on either side of the breach, and the crowd responded with an appreciative muttering. “Now watch and be amazed,” he said. “Do not avert your gaze. For we shall now subdue the blaze!”
He took a chest off the mountainous pile, opened it up, and removed two objects: a phial of some opalescent liquid and something that looked like a wire hairbrush.
Archer laughed openly and crossed his arms. “This ought to be good,” he muttered.
Bezeal unstoppered the bottle, held it up just above the breach, and began to pour out its contents. The liquid sparkled as it drizzled over the breach, but it didn’t pour through. Not a drop. It pulsed and surged and began to coat the breach. Bezeal emptied the rest of the liquid and then went to work with the brush. Lo and behold, the brush spread the liquid like spackle on drywall.
The enthusiasm of the crowd rose as Bezeal finished up. They cheered when he put down the brush and held up his hands victoriously. They pressed toward the stage with wads of golds in their fists.
“Me first!” one cried out.
“I’ll take three!” someone else shouted.
“You aren’t going to run out, are you?” came a third.
Archer bent at the waist and stared at the seemingly mended breach. There was still a tiny strand of leaking light plasma, but other than that, the breach was sealed. “I don’t believe it,” Archer said. “Bezeal, you evil little genius, you’ve done something extraordinary here!”
Bezeal’s eyes flashed. He grinned, and strange pink glows appeared just where his cheeks would be . . . if he ever lowered the hood.
Archer continued, “I mean, this stuff won’t hold indefinitely. It does let some plasma through, but . . . but this is genius. Can you repeat the recipe? Can you make it in great quantities?”
Bezeal grinned again. “Yesss, yess, as long as the golds keep flowing, my pocket to feed, I’ll take some time off from my usual greed, and work hard, to make as much as you need.”
“That is the best news I’ve heard in a very long time, Bezeal,” Archer said. “But the price of ten golds is far too much, especially since it is no trouble to make more.”
“But—”
“No, no, Bezeal,” Archer said. “I’m already part of your show here. Let me do the talking.”
“But I—”
“People of Kurdan!” Archer cried. He used his Dreamtreader creativity to both deepen and amplify his voice. The crowd hushed. “Bezeal here is a true patriot of the Dream!” Cheers from the audience. “For he has come to all our aid in this time of great need!” More cheers, growing dizzy with joy. “This brilliant invention may not completely mend the breaches that beset us, but they will bind them tightly until a Dreamtreader can permanently weave them shut! And you, good people and your neighbors in the other fiefdoms, must take up the fight against the breach plague!” Hysterical cheers. “And Bezeal, may his eyes ever shine brighter, has agreed to lower the price to two golds per kit!” The crowd erupted.
“T-two?” Bezeal spluttered. “But—”
Archer held up a hand. “No, no, Bezeal,” he said. “I won’t let you make the price any lower!”
“L-lower?”
Archer ran to the piles of small chests and began tossing them out to the crowd. “Here’s yours!” he cried. “And yours!” One after the other, he launched kits to the villagers. “Razz, you won’t want to miss this.”
Poof! Razz was there in a puff of smoke. “What’s up?”
Archer told her. She glanced mischievously at Bezeal. “Right,” she said. “I’ll help!”
Bezeal ran back and forth across the stage and collected golds from the people’s willing hands. In less than an hour, Bezeal was completely sold out.
Back in Bezeal’s rented cottage, he and Archer sat across a table and glared at each other for several minutes before either spoke.
“You just cost me a fortune,” Bezeal said, his lack of rhyme obvious.
“Nonsense, Bezeal,” Archer said. “I believe I just made you a fortune. I stopped counting golds in the thousands.”
“It might have been tens of thousands,” Bezeal hissed.
“Think of it this way,” Archer said. “Do you know anyone who gets around the Dream like I can?”
Bezeal’s bright eyes widened.
“I didn’t think you’d take long to think it through,” Archer said. “Now, this breach patch you’ve created is incredible. Like I said, it’s not permanent, but it could be the key to stopping a full-scale rift. With your leave, I will carry news of your invention to every kingdom in the three districts.”
Bezeal leaned forward and knocked over his tea. “All . . . all three?”
“Yes, Bezeal. Can you see the profits mounting now? If you want, I’ll even tell them that each district must send you a brick of chocolate every moon.”
Bezeal clapped his green hands. “Yes, yes,” he said. “A thousand times, yes! Chocolate and golds unending sounds good, I confess!”
“Now, Bezeal,” Archer said, reaching into the deepest inside pocket of his leather duster. He placed the silver puzzle box on the table and slid it across the surface. “As per our bargain, I have brought your coveted relic.”
Bezeal reached for it, but it leaped into the air just out of his grasp.
“What?” he gasped.
“For this, as well as for my services today, you owe me.”
Karakurian’s Chamber slowly dropped into Bezeal’s hands. The merchant clutched it to his chest and howled with joy. Archer had never seen his white smile so wide. “At last, at last!” Bezeal exulted. Then slowly, he eased the box back onto the table. His fingers roamed it instinctively, and the puzzle box’s panels began to shift and move. The silver sailing ship popped up, and the nine sails seemed to ripple and shimmer as they had when Kaylie had activated them.
“Now, more than ever,” Archer said, “I need you to tell me how to destroy the Nightmare Lord.”
Bezeal’s smile vanished. His eyes shrank to a tenth of their normal glimmering size.
“No tricks, Bezeal,” Archer warned. “Your blood mingled with mine, remember? And no rhymes either. Tell me plainly . . . and tell me . . . right . . . now.”
Bezeal’s fingers danced on the puzzle box, and it closed itself up. “Very well,” Bezeal said, his voice a clear, careful whisper. “Destroy his throne, not once but twice, but the one who does will pay the price, in blood and pain and sacrifice—”
“I said no rhymes!” Archer’s voice was a thunderclap.
Bezeal jumped, jarring the puzzle box. He caught it just before it fell. “I am sorry. The throne must be destroyed, Dreamtreader. It is the seat of his power. But you must destroy it twice.”
“What does that mean?”
“In his stronghold, he has a massive stone chair, his throne. Shadowy as night and dark as pitch. Destroy that first. But travel then to his courtyard. There is a second throne there between two very unique trees. You must utterly destroy that seat as well, but the only way you can do it is by burning up both trees.”
“Two trees,” Archer muttered. “Does one have teardrop leaves; the other’s more like bat wings?”
Bezeal’s eyes flashed. “Yes, yes,” he said. “How did you know?”
“Just finish, Bezeal.”
“Burn the trees, burn the roots,” he said. “Not one sliver of green wood or leaf may remain.”
“Why?”
“They are the Trees of Life and Death,” he said. “Leave one, the Nightmare Lord lives forever. Leave the other, and the Nightmare Lord can never be killed. But . . . once the trees are gone, the Nightmare Lord will be at your mercy. Now, Dreamtreader, I have revealed to you a secret known only to me, a costly secret. Leave me!”
As if on cue, Old Jack struck out eleven chimes.
Archer stood and pointed at Bezeal. “This had better be the truth, Bezeal.”
Bezeal looked away and began to fidget with his silver prize.