THERE WILL BE GREAT RIPS IN THE FABRIC OF THE DREAMFIELD AND I WILL BE THE ONE TO CLOSE THEM. BUT ONE DAY, I WILL RECOGNIZE THEIR SOURCE AND ITS POWER WILL BECOME MY DESTINY.
—DARIUS,
VISION #831, YEAR 21 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE
WINTER HAS MOST DEFINITELY ARRIVED, and ice coats the flat barrens. For the first few days of his trek Roan felt exposed, a solitary traveler over their vast emptiness. In keeping with his disguise, he’s had to move more slowly than he would have liked, and sleeping on open ground, he’s had to maintain a level of alertness that’s kept him from getting proper rest. That combined with the cold nights and his growing hunger is compromising his ability to think clearly.
Roan stops for a moment, looking in every direction for some clue as to where he should proceed. He laughs, painfully aware of the irony of his journey—the last trip he took by himself he was running from the god of the Brothers, now here he is trying to find him, and he is most definitely lost.
Mabatan’s explanation of ley lines has been all he’s had to go on. The world, she said, was not unlike the body, and it was possible for him to use his senses to find its lines of power, just as needles are used by healers to tap into the body’s energy flow. Along these lines there were places where the earth’s potency pooled and if he followed their path he would find what he sought. As good a theory as any, but he’s beginning to despair of such places even existing, never mind his ability to find them.
Looking up at the hazy outline of the sun, Roan realizes he’s lost all sense of direction, so he takes out his recorder, and sitting on the frozen ground, he empties his mind and plays. The notes fall like embers igniting invisible waves that weave a subtle magic around him. His music has never sounded so beautiful, and it is unmistakably tugging one way, urging him forward.
As he resumes his journey, Roan of the Parting’s words return to him. “…it was the awesome power of every farmer, manufacturer, student, teacher, child, and adult alike to manifest visions and dreams.” Whatever his ancestor’s culpability was regarding enablers—something Roan found really unpleasant to think about—if the Friend existed because people believed in him, then how they believed could change him. Maybe. Or maybe that was where the muddle-headedness that hunger and lack of sleep brought on could lead you.
Roan wakes, suddenly realizing he’d dozed off. Not knowing how long he’s been walking in a stupor, he stops bleary-eyed at a dense thicket, overgrown with a forbidding mass of black woody vines and tangled bramble. Sitting down to rest, he hears the whisper of a rivulet of water. With great difficulty, he cuts a narrow swath at the base of the thicket and exposes a clear running stream. As he eagerly dips his face to the frigid water for a drink, he glimpses an opening. In an instant his cricket has leapt from his shoulder and is scrambling through it. Without a thought, Roan follows. The sharp brambles tear at his skin but his hands can feel a strong pulse beneath them, as if he were above the very heart of the earth. Following the cricket, Roan inches painfully forward until the thicket opens up at last.
As the white cricket hops back onto his shoulder, Roan rises and feels his heartbeat synchronize with the pulse beneath his feet. The trickle of water winds through what he now recognizes is a labyrinth. To free his mind of fear and expectation, he begins a walking meditation. Proceeding this way, he loses all track of time, but eventually he reaches the labyrinth’s heart—a perfect circle about fifteen strides in circumference, mysteriously clear of all roots and bramble.
The cricket leaps into its center and Roan sits beside it. No longer aware of any hunger or thirst or weariness, his senses attune to the scent of the bramble, the fluttering of the cricket’s antennae, the cold hardness of the clay. The crackling sound of dead leaves shifting on the ground makes him start. He feels no wind, yet he can see the leaves are being blown this way and that. Then, as suddenly as they began, they stop.
Directly in front of him, a thin mist rises from the ground, a wispy thread ribboning out in Roan’s direction. Like a viper striking, it hurtles toward him and wraps around his throat, his arms, his face. He rolls on the ground as it blocks his nose and mouth, suffocating him. Realizing the futility of struggle, Roan retreats into himself, consciously slowing his heart rate.
What are you?
The response comes instantly. The vapor squeezes around his chest, pulsating with a red glow. At first the sensation is pleasantly warm, but in moments he is on fire. Screaming in pain, he watches his torso bubble and blister until all the water has exploded from his chest and nothing remains but his organs aflame within his charred ribcage. Through the blinding agony, Roan realizes the damage must be an illusion. How else could he still be conscious? The fog makes every inch of his skin a blazing inferno, but to survive he must ignore the sensation. Though it takes all his willpower, he is able to endure by submerging himself in the impenetrable essence of his etherbody.
As Roan’s pain subsides, the mist swirls and swells until it towers over him, a huge undulating mass that, twisting in on itself, evolves into a pair of horns. White eyes streaked with blood appear and around them a gigantic head takes shape. The head of a bull. The loose skin of its neck falls and folds into flesh. Then a human torso appears. Rippling with muscle, its thick blue veins threaten to burst the confines of its skin. The being exudes a strength far beyond anything Roan has ever encountered. It smells of the earth, its breath a gust of wind.
Sweat steams off the newly formed being like dew rising in a spring dawn. As its elevated spine curves down into the hips and hind legs of a bull, the creature’s nostrils flare.
Taking care to be still, Roan reaches with his mind. Are you the Friend?
The minotaur’s jowl does not move, but a strange melodious voice resonates in Roan’s skull. Do you doubt it?
The red streaks in the Friend’s white eyes look like gouges, jagged and chaotic, as if something or someone had slashed them. No. It’s just that…I thought you were a man. The man who slew the bull.
The Slayer and the Slain are one.
I killed a bull. In a vision.
The veins in the Friend’s muzzle pulsate with emotion. Yes, and my blood healed the Novakin. But for that to happen, you will have to fulfill my request.
Every fiber of Roan’s being is charged with explosive rage. This is the god who inspired the brutal rituals that culminated in the massacre of Longlight. Still, it is Roan who has sought the monster out. Pushing back his anger, he confronts the god with as much reason as he can muster. I won’t agree to anything without knowing what it is.
A buoyant laughter echoes painfully in Roan’s head. You are brave. I will make my request, and you will choose. If you refuse, never seek me again. I do not ask for much. Just one life…one life that you alone can take.
Roan remains silent. It seems ridiculous that he has come all this way for this. It just can’t be. It can’t.
Do this thing for me, and you will gain much of what you seek.
And who is it you want me to kill?
The Friend shakes his head in fury. Blood sprays from his lacerated eyes in beaded wisps that slash across Roan’s chest, burning holes into his cloak. Me. You must kill me.
It’s impossible. How could I—
You will understand when the time comes.
Why do you want me to do this?
The minotaur stands so still that, for a moment, Roan wonders if he’s staring at a statue. But as the beast’s warm breath blasts over Roan like heat off a smelting fire, he knows the Friend is deliberating.
I will show you. The air between them vibrates and Roan gasps as the energy hits him like a skillfully delivered punch. With both hands, the Friend digs deep into his own chest, and rips it open. Cracking his ribs apart, he pulls the two sides of his torso wide, exposing a giant beating heart, lungs swelling with air, arteries pulsating. Roan’s ether body is pulled from him and drawn through the Friend’s gaping wound, and into the Dreamfield.
ROAN STARES AWESTRUCK AS AN OPAQUE VERSION OF THE ENTIRE DREAMFIELD SPREADS OUT BEFORE HIM. LINES LIKE VEINS CRACKLE BACK AND FORTH ACROSS IT, A GRID OF PULSING AMORPHOUS FORMS ALL HEADING FOR ONE PLACE—THE AREA CONTAINING DARIUS’S CONSTRUCTIONS. HELD FIRMLY IN THE FRIEND’S MIGHTY GRIP, ROAN CAREFULLY FOLLOWS THE PATH OF THE SHADES PAST THE TOWERING RAMPARTS, THE GIGANTIC SPIRALING GYRE, THE OCELLUS’S GLEAMING DISKS AND THE EERILY PHOSPHORESCENT UNDULATIONS OF THE TENTACLED ANTLIA. BUT AS SOON AS THE GHOSTLIKE FORMS CONVERGE ON THE IMMENSE, WHIRLING CLOUD THAT IS THE SPIRACAL, THEY VANISH.
“THE OVERSHADOWER LIES IN THE PIT BENEATH THAT DARKNESS. AS YOUR DESTINY WILL BE DETERMINED IN YOUR STRUGGLE WITH DARIUS, MINE FALLS TO THE ENEMY CONCEALED THERE.” THE FRIEND TURNS HIS LACERATED EYES TOWARD ROAN. “SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME THE GODS HAVE DISCOVERED THEIR PURPOSE AT THE WELL OF OBLIVION. YOUR GREAT-GRANDFATHER STOOD IN THE WATER THAT ONCE RAN INTO IT AND UNDERSTOOD THAT THE ESSENCE OF ALL LIFE IS CARRIED TO THIS ONE GREAT HEART. BUT DARIUS SAW IT ONLY AS A RESOURCE TO BE BENT TO HIS WILL, DIVERTING ALL OF ITS WATERS INTO THE WHORL. ONE AFTER ANOTHER HE SUBVERTED THE PLACES OF POWER. AND AS HE DID SO, THE FABRIC OF THE DREAMFIELD WAS RIPPED AND THE OVERSHADOWER EXPOSED. IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE HE FELL UNDER ITS THRALL. NOW ALL THE DREAMS AND MEMORIES OF PEOPLE BOTH ALIVE AND DEAD ARE NOTHING MORE THAN FODDER FOR THE HUNGER OF THIS BEAST.” THE MINOTAUR WHISPERS, “DARIUS HAS ROBBED US OF OUR VISION AND OUR PURPOSE. WE MEAN TO GET IT BACK. SINCE HE PLAYED A LARGE PART IN MY RESURGENCE, THE TASK IS MADE MINE.”
THE FRIEND BLINKS AND THEY ARE TRANSPORTED TO A GIGANTIC OPEN PALM IDENTICAL TO THE ONE SAINT SHOWED ROAN. WRITHING SHAPES APPEAR OUT OF NOWHERE TO TOPPLE INTO IT. THE SHADES DIM SLIGHTLY AS THE THRONE ABSORBS THEM, THEN SLIDE THROUGH A NARROW VEIN THAT DRAWS THEM INEXORABLY TOWARD THE SPIRACAL.
“WE WILL MEET AGAIN WHEN YOU COME TO DESTROY DARIUS. AT THAT TIME, ROAN OF LONGLIGHT, YOU WILL FIND ME AND OBEY MY REQUEST.” THE BASE OF A TORCH APPEARS IN THE MINOTAUR’S HAND. “TAKE THIS AND SWEAR.”
ROAN GRASPS IT AND THE BASE BURSTS INTO FLAME.
“GOOD,” SAYS THE FRIEND. “WE ARE AGREED.”
The darkness is more overwhelming than any he’s ever experienced. But gradually, as he’s wreathed by pinpoints of light, Roan realizes that he’s in the earth’s atmosphere, floating over clouds, surrounded by the night sky’s countless shimmering stars.
Do you see the bull?
Roan gazes at the brightest star, Aldebaran, shining orange. There is its face, made by the Hyades. The stars Elnath and Zeta Tauri mark its horns. They form the constellation Taurus.
I survive because I am written in the stars in the shape of a bull. Every generation that sets its eye upon me names me anew, and gives me life.
But if humanity dies, so will you.
And what gives life to humanity?
Roan thinks of Stowe, Alandra, Lumpy, Mabatan, of the Novakin, of everyone he has ever known, has ever loved. He thinks of the scent of one flower, of his cricket’s song. That’s a difficult question to answer.
Difficult enough for an eternity. If we are lucky.
Roan wakes to find himself back in the center of the Friend’s labyrinth. Parched and famished, he reaches into his bag. His encounter with the Friend had not been what he’d expected. Instead of answers, he has even more questions. What does it mean to kill a god? What has he agreed to? Why did he agree? Maybe somewhere deep down he just didn’t believe it was possible. Or maybe he thought a world without the Friend was a safer place.
Still, he feels bound to the god somehow and though much of what the Friend said to him is a mystery, he knows it’s vital for him to unravel it.
Roan winces as he puts some jerky to his mouth; his lips are swollen and hot to the touch. As he chews, he places a cooling hand over them and thinks on the Friend’s final words.
My offer is a gift, Roan of Longlight, though you may not guess now what it is.