can see plainly how the dream could be an allegory for dreamstriding—always donning different roles when I don others’ skin. But surely they don’t see it that way—to them it might just as easily be an allegory for spycraft.
“Well?” Kriza asks, impatience thinning her tone. “Which one did you choose?”
I glance back out across the docks. “I woke up before I could pick one.”
She makes a deep guttural sound. “Bloody Barstadters and their dreams.”
But Marez keeps watching me. I can feel the heat of his stare like I’m standing too close to a hearth. “Will you permit me to try my amateur hand at dream interpretation? Isn’t that what you Barstadters love to do?”
I grin in spite of myself. “One of our three claims to fame. Dreaming, politicking, and drinking ale.”
“Well, as I’ve no skill for the second and it’s too early for the last…” He laces his fingers together, then stretches them out, knuckles cracking, as if he’s preparing for a brawl. “I think you’re confronted with a choice. You’re stuck in a secretary’s role now, but there are so many other options available to you, though each brings with it a danger.”
“Not a bad first attempt,” I say.
He wags one finger at me. “Ah, but maybe the roles aren’t what they all seem. The fine dresses, for instance—you might think it’s entry into a life of balls and social calls, but you might find it as confining as the tunneler’s rags.”
My throat tightens; memories of life in the tunnels prick my thoughts. “Perhaps.”
“Or maybe—” Marez snaps his fingers. “Or maybe they’re actually all part of the same choice. Maybe you’re meant to be more than just a secretary to the Ministry—maybe you’re meant to be an operative for them, stealing secrets, advancing the empire, all that excitement. And these are some of the disguises available to you.”
“Or maybe you should leave the boring dreams to the Barstadters and pay attention to the docks,” Kriza says.
Marez grins like a boy whose hand’s been swatted away from the dessert tray. “Come now, I’m just having a bit of fun playing the devil’s advocate.” He tilts his head toward me. “I always forget. Do you Barstadters believe in a devil? Out in the western realms, they have a whole pantheon of them.”
An icy breeze whips around us, raking like nails across my exposed skin. His questions makes my stare drift toward the mountain peaks in the east; try as I might, I can’t help but look at the ancient bones strung across the high mountain ridge, the massive ribs on the mountainside curled like the rusted bars of a cage. The Nightmare Wastes’ words echo in my mind; soft as silk, they slither around me until they tighten into a knot. In my pocket, I let my fingers graze the hilt of the stiletto Marez gave me.
“No.” I shove off of the railing and turn away. “We believe in Nightmare.”
“Nightmare.” Marez snorts. “Are you certain your priests didn’t make up the story of Nightmare? Surely the bones on the mountainside are just that—bones of some ancient creature, long extinct. They’re only trying to scare you into behaving with the stories.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “They aren’t just stories. Nightmare tried to turn the real world into a Nightmare realm. He escaped the confines of the dreamworld and sowed chaos and destruction across Barstadt.” He’s a fool if he thinks Nightmare is only an old legend. I’ve felt the chill of the Wastes against the soul. I’ve heard their taunting words. But Marez strikes me far less as a fool, and more someone only too glad to play one for whatever purpose he requires.
The smirk on Marez’s face has faded, though; his eyes narrow as he looks back toward the mountainside. “Then how was he stopped?”
“The Dreamer reached through to our world and slew him. He shattered Nightmare’s heart, and scattered it to the far corners of the realms so he could never rise
“Well?” Kriza asks, impatience thinning her tone. “Which one did you choose?”
I glance back out across the docks. “I woke up before I could pick one.”
She makes a deep guttural sound. “Bloody Barstadters and their dreams.”
But Marez keeps watching me. I can feel the heat of his stare like I’m standing too close to a hearth. “Will you permit me to try my amateur hand at dream interpretation? Isn’t that what you Barstadters love to do?”
I grin in spite of myself. “One of our three claims to fame. Dreaming, politicking, and drinking ale.”
“Well, as I’ve no skill for the second and it’s too early for the last…” He laces his fingers together, then stretches them out, knuckles cracking, as if he’s preparing for a brawl. “I think you’re confronted with a choice. You’re stuck in a secretary’s role now, but there are so many other options available to you, though each brings with it a danger.”
“Not a bad first attempt,” I say.
He wags one finger at me. “Ah, but maybe the roles aren’t what they all seem. The fine dresses, for instance—you might think it’s entry into a life of balls and social calls, but you might find it as confining as the tunneler’s rags.”
My throat tightens; memories of life in the tunnels prick my thoughts. “Perhaps.”
“Or maybe—” Marez snaps his fingers. “Or maybe they’re actually all part of the same choice. Maybe you’re meant to be more than just a secretary to the Ministry—maybe you’re meant to be an operative for them, stealing secrets, advancing the empire, all that excitement. And these are some of the disguises available to you.”
“Or maybe you should leave the boring dreams to the Barstadters and pay attention to the docks,” Kriza says.
Marez grins like a boy whose hand’s been swatted away from the dessert tray. “Come now, I’m just having a bit of fun playing the devil’s advocate.” He tilts his head toward me. “I always forget. Do you Barstadters believe in a devil? Out in the western realms, they have a whole pantheon of them.”
An icy breeze whips around us, raking like nails across my exposed skin. His questions makes my stare drift toward the mountain peaks in the east; try as I might, I can’t help but look at the ancient bones strung across the high mountain ridge, the massive ribs on the mountainside curled like the rusted bars of a cage. The Nightmare Wastes’ words echo in my mind; soft as silk, they slither around me until they tighten into a knot. In my pocket, I let my fingers graze the hilt of the stiletto Marez gave me.
“No.” I shove off of the railing and turn away. “We believe in Nightmare.”
“Nightmare.” Marez snorts. “Are you certain your priests didn’t make up the story of Nightmare? Surely the bones on the mountainside are just that—bones of some ancient creature, long extinct. They’re only trying to scare you into behaving with the stories.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “They aren’t just stories. Nightmare tried to turn the real world into a Nightmare realm. He escaped the confines of the dreamworld and sowed chaos and destruction across Barstadt.” He’s a fool if he thinks Nightmare is only an old legend. I’ve felt the chill of the Wastes against the soul. I’ve heard their taunting words. But Marez strikes me far less as a fool, and more someone only too glad to play one for whatever purpose he requires.
The smirk on Marez’s face has faded, though; his eyes narrow as he looks back toward the mountainside. “Then how was he stopped?”
“The Dreamer reached through to our world and slew him. He shattered Nightmare’s heart, and scattered it to the far corners of the realms so he could never rise
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