HIGH CHIEF JUSTICE MICHAEL THE ARCHELION LEANED forward from his judge’s bench and turned his eagle glare to Archer. “Dreamtreader Keaton,” he said, “do you wish to make an opening statement?”
“Go, Archer, go!” Razz whispered.
Archer hesitated in his seat for a few moments. He felt as if three hundred spotlights had just been turned on him. “Um, yes, your honor,” he said, while thinking, Here goes nothing.
The judge nodded. “Proceed.”
Archer stood and wandered around the defense table to face the gallery on the left. He’d seen a few courtroom drama movies. He’d even visited a courtroom for a civics class field trip. He thought he knew what to say, but that had been a while ago.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “esteemed high judge, my accuser has leveled charges against me . . . serious charges. I do not take these lightly, and to be honest, I have to admit the charges are . . . mostly true.”
The courtroom erupted in chatter. For about five whole seconds.
The judge raised his right arm, and a massive steel gavel appeared in his hand. When he slammed the hammer down to his desktop, there was a flash of dangerous light, followed a split-heartbeat later by the sound of thunder. Actual thunder. It was the kind off sudden thunderclap that rattles the windowpanes, causes the foundation of the house to shake, and generally scares the bejeebers out of anyone nearby.
It certainly scared Archer. Involuntarily, he jumped and ducked at the same time. Abruptly, the courtroom chatter ceased. Archer swallowed and glanced over to Bezeal, whose pinprick eyes had grown to the size of half-dollars.
“I will have order in this court,” the judge said quietly. And no one argued nor dared to speak. “You may continue, Dreamtreader Keaton.”
When Archer spoke, his words at first came out in some sort of half-strangled, gravelly chicken-squawk. “While the charges are—” He cleared his throat. “While the charges are somewhat true, the motives—suggested by my accuser—are absolutely false. I intend to prove that as a Dreamtreader in the midst of the most difficult circumstances imaginable, I did my job. In fact, I did my job the best way I could, and I intend to prove that each time something tragic happened, it was caused by an opponent seeking to cause the evil that occurred. When we look at the evidence, you will see I am not innocent. I made mistakes. But after you see my motives and my actions, my enemies in action, and the destruction they caused . . . I am content to accept whatever verdict seems right to you as well as whatever sentence seems fair.”
Archer took his seat. Silence reigned.
“Prosecution,” the judge said, “call your first witness.”
“Your honor,” Bezeal began. “My first witness comes from the past. She entered the courtroom moments ago so fast. She is—”
The thunder-gavel fell once more, and this time Bezeal jumped.
“I warned you about that singsong, rhyming nonsense,” the judge growled. “It gives me a headache. Bailiff, if the prosecution rhymes again—even one time—I want you to take him into custody for contempt of court. And then I’d like you to find the coldest, dankest cell and lock him away.”
The bailiff seemed extraordinarily happy with that command. “Yes, your honor,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I will most certainly see to that.”
Bezeal’s eyes shrank once more to a pair of pale dots, and he made an exaggerated bow. “With all due respect, your honor,” he said, putting a strange emphasis on the word. “I do my best thinking in rhyme. To take that from me is . . . well . . . a rather unfair handicap.”
The judge lifted his gavel. Archer winced, expecting a blast. But it didn’t come. Instead, the judge stayed the hammer in his hand and said quite tersely, “That we have allowed you into this court at all, Bezeal, is a courtesy greater than any but you and I can know. Do not fool yourself into thinking you might gain additional courtesies. You will not find them here.”
At this point, Archer was feeling pretty good about the way things were going. Chief Justice Michael did not seem to be really on anyone’s side, but he was definitely not extending Bezeal any favors.
“My first witness, then,” Bezeal said, “shall be Archer’s Dream companion, Razz.”
“Objection!” Razz shouted.
Archer gave himself a face-palm.
“What now, Ms. Moonsonnet?” the judge asked.
“I object because I am co-counsel. How can I be expected to be a witness against my client?”
The judge’s granite expression didn’t soften in the least. “Ms. Moonsonnet, we have no exceptions for truth. If your testimony will shed light on your client’s innocence or guilt, we will hear it. Now, take the stand.”
Razz frowned. She looked at Archer for guidance.
“Just tell the truth,” Archer said.
Razz nodded and whooshed to the stand. She hovered a moment over the seat, decided against it, and sat instead on the rail.
“Ms. Moonsonnet,” Bezeal said snidely. “Would you please tell the court what Archer whispered to you just now.”
“I’d rather not,” Razz mumbled. “It was private.”
“What was that?” Bezeal asked. “So you’re saying you won’t share with the court? Could it be that Archer was feeding you things to say?”
Muttering rippled around the court.
“Um, no,” Razz replied, “Archer just ordered me to tell the truth.”
Bezeal stopped in midstride. “Oh.”
The muttering turned to giggling.
“Very well,” Bezeal said. “Ms. Moonsonnet, I’d like you to recall a little trip you and Archer made to Archaia.”
This, thought Archer, isn’t good.
“Could you state for the court what you and Archer were doing in that part of the Dream Realm?”
“Stitching up breaches,” Razz replied. “The usual Dreamtreader stuff.”
“Just the usual,” Bezeal repeated. “But there was a point where Archer insisted on doing something else, wasn’t there?”
Razz didn’t answer right away.
“Wasn’t there?”
Razz finally muttered, “Yes.”
“And what was that?” Bezeal asked. “What caused you to abandon Archer for the rest of that evening?”
“It was a good idea,” Razz muttered. “I was just frightened.”
“What was it?” Bezeal demanded. “Tell the court what Archer planned to do.”
Razz sighed. “Archer wanted to travel to the Lurker’s lair to look for an old relic.”
“And why did he do that?”
Razz squinted at Bezeal. “Uh . . . because you told him to.”
The crowds exploded in discussions, mutterings, grumblings, and even a few shouts. The thunder-gavel sounded. Silence resumed. Undaunted, Bezeal said, “Yes, Archer and I made a deal, so he went in search of this relic. Why didn’t you join him?”
Here it comes, Archer thought.
Razz frowned. “Because Master Gabriel commanded Archer not to meddle with the Lurker.”
Bezeal’s Cheshire grin reappeared. “Did Archer go see the Lurker? Did he defy his Dreamtreading commander?”
“Yes.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Bezeal said, the lights in the courtroom dimming as he spoke. “I submit to you that Archer impudently turned from his Dreamtreading path. He rebelled. He forsook Master Gabriel’s command and defied him. Let us see the Eternal Evidence.”
Archer felt his skin begin to crawl, especially on his scalp. It felt like a hundred tiny electric ants were parading upon his head. The lights went out altogether, and a strange, white cylinder appeared in the air between the two galleries. Suddenly, the cylinder came to life with moving pictures—not film, but memory. Archer was suddenly looking at himself. He was standing on his Dream surfboard on the eastern border of Archaia, and Razz was perched on his shoulder.
But he wasn’t just watching. That prickling sensation on his scalp intensified and continued for the duration. And, though he was still seated at his table in the courtroom, he could feel the motions of the memory as it played out. The movements felt dreamy and kind of suppressed, more like involuntary flinches than regular motion. It was a most peculiar sensation, and Archer thought it could have been fun . . . if it weren’t for the fact that he was on trial for his life. With trepidation, he watched as the scene unfolded.
The on-screen Archer seemed to stare, his eyes fixed on some point to the west. But he and Razz were talking, the conversation growing more and more animated as it went on.
“What are we waiting for?” Razz squeaked. “Let’s go get that puzzle relic thing!”
“What about the Lurker?” Archer asked.
“We’ll deal with him if we have to, right? You have plenty left in the tank, don’t you, Archer?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “But there is one more thing.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Gabriel told me not to go, not to get the relic.”
“What? Why?” Razz drifted to the stump and curled up.
“He wouldn’t tell me,” Archer said. “But I think he’s worried about me getting hurt.”
“I guess that settles it then,” Razz said.
“You don’t want to go now?”
“Are you crazy?” Razz yelled. “No one, I mean no one, defies Master Gabriel.”
Archer sighed. He’d been so hopeful Razz would travel with him. “I have to do it,” Archer said. “I have to try. The Nightmare Lord has been going after my friends, my family, even Kaylie. I’ve got to stop him.”
“Yes,” Razz said, “we do need to stop him, but not by going against Master Gabriel.”
“I’m going,” Archer said quietly.
Razz frowned, leaped into the air, and flittered in Archer’s face. “Well, you can count me out then. I won’t cross Master Gabriel. Not now. Not ever.”
The last visual to be displayed for the whole court to see was Archer’s catching an Intrusion wave right to the edge into Archaia. After discarding the board, Archer crossed the border, stepping defiantly onto the blood-red soil of that desolate country. The screen went blank, the darkness feeling like a door slamming shut.
A cell door.