Dreamquake: Book Two of the Dreamhunter Duet by Elizabeth Knox Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Knox
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and I don’t want to do any more. Everyone knows now. Someone else can figure out what to do next.” She stamped her foot, in petulance and frustration and weary misery.
The Grand Patriarch told her to calm herself. Father Roy approached and handed her a handkerchief. She took it, spread it open, and held it against her face. The wounds on her lips had reopened, and they printed the white cotton with bright red blotches.
“There are dreamhunters who get on the wrong side of the Regulatory Body,” the Grand Patriarch told her. “And I’ve tried to help them. They’ve confided in me—misgivings, fears, rumors.”
Laura removed the handkerchief and licked her bleeding lips.
The Grand Patriarch said, “Have you ever heard of a dream named Contentment?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like a nightmare.”
“No, it doesn’t. Have you heard of the Depot?”
“That’s a funny name for a dream,” she said. “Dream names tend to be descriptive.”
“I don’t know that it
is
a dream.” The man regarded her steadily. Laura could see he was weighing something in his mind. He said, “Do you know what a master dream is?”
“No, not really.”
“You may have ‘done enough,’ Laura, but you don’t
know
enough.” The Grand Patriarch shook his head. “The Regulatory Body sends you off into the Place with signal whistles but without a full education!”
The Grand Patriarch watched the Hame girl, feeling vexed and sad. He found her lack of shame deeply offensive. The sullen set of her battered mouth, the stubborn ego looking out of her eyes.
But when she answered back, he was less offended than surprised by her coldness. “This isn’t about what I know,” she said. “What I did at the Opera will open a public discussion. We will all soon know more.” She spoke as though she were an angel guarding the gates to Eden.
The Grand Patriarch took a deep breath and began to rethink his approach. He wanted to help this girl more than he wanted simply to ease her misery. She had been left—orphaned and formidably gifted—to find her own way. She had gone off the rails—as the saying went—but in her own peculiar way. She might have gone looking for love and ended up in some unsuitable entanglement. She might have gone looking to forget and drugged herself with dreams or drink. Instead she’d found refuge in this hard, self-righteous autonomy. Though she was clearly suffering, in a way her heart had stopped. To Erasmus Tiebold it was clear that he must find some way to start her heart up again. And he must do it before he sent her to her father. Hame could help his daughter just by turning out to be alive. Finding her father should restore the girl’s faith in the general shape of her life. But right now, looking at Laura, Erasmus felt that he was watching waterset into ice. There were forces at work, altering her soul—the nightmare itself, the act of sharing it, and her obvious terrible loneliness.
The Grand Patriarch had an inspiration then. He said, “Laura, you haven’t injured me. But I’d like you to explain to someone you have injured why you felt you had to do what you did.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t do any worse than I already have,” Laura said, brisk and unfeeling.
The Grand Patriarch retrieved the letter. He turned away, touched Father Roy’s arm, and conducted him out through the small door at the base of the dome. Once they were down the stairwell, Erasmus Tiebold said to his secretary, “She’ll need clothes for her journey. Let’s have her cousin deliver them to her.”
6
HE DREAMHUNTERS WERE HUDDLED IN A DISPIRITED GROUP AT ONE CORNER of the porch of the rangers’ station at DOORHANDLE. NO ONE WAS STANDING ANYWHERE NEAR THEM. AROUND THEIR FEET WERE THEIR DUST-COVERED PACKS AND BEDROLLS. THEY HAD BEEN IN TO GET BEAUTIFUL HORSE. BUT NONE OF THEM HAD BEEN ABLE TO CATCH IT.
Buried Alive
was
—it turned out—a master dream and could not be overwritten.
The Grand Patriarch told her to calm herself. Father Roy approached and handed her a handkerchief. She took it, spread it open, and held it against her face. The wounds on her lips had reopened, and they printed the white cotton with bright red blotches.
“There are dreamhunters who get on the wrong side of the Regulatory Body,” the Grand Patriarch told her. “And I’ve tried to help them. They’ve confided in me—misgivings, fears, rumors.”
Laura removed the handkerchief and licked her bleeding lips.
The Grand Patriarch said, “Have you ever heard of a dream named Contentment?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like a nightmare.”
“No, it doesn’t. Have you heard of the Depot?”
“That’s a funny name for a dream,” she said. “Dream names tend to be descriptive.”
“I don’t know that it
is
a dream.” The man regarded her steadily. Laura could see he was weighing something in his mind. He said, “Do you know what a master dream is?”
“No, not really.”
“You may have ‘done enough,’ Laura, but you don’t
know
enough.” The Grand Patriarch shook his head. “The Regulatory Body sends you off into the Place with signal whistles but without a full education!”
The Grand Patriarch watched the Hame girl, feeling vexed and sad. He found her lack of shame deeply offensive. The sullen set of her battered mouth, the stubborn ego looking out of her eyes.
But when she answered back, he was less offended than surprised by her coldness. “This isn’t about what I know,” she said. “What I did at the Opera will open a public discussion. We will all soon know more.” She spoke as though she were an angel guarding the gates to Eden.
The Grand Patriarch took a deep breath and began to rethink his approach. He wanted to help this girl more than he wanted simply to ease her misery. She had been left—orphaned and formidably gifted—to find her own way. She had gone off the rails—as the saying went—but in her own peculiar way. She might have gone looking for love and ended up in some unsuitable entanglement. She might have gone looking to forget and drugged herself with dreams or drink. Instead she’d found refuge in this hard, self-righteous autonomy. Though she was clearly suffering, in a way her heart had stopped. To Erasmus Tiebold it was clear that he must find some way to start her heart up again. And he must do it before he sent her to her father. Hame could help his daughter just by turning out to be alive. Finding her father should restore the girl’s faith in the general shape of her life. But right now, looking at Laura, Erasmus felt that he was watching waterset into ice. There were forces at work, altering her soul—the nightmare itself, the act of sharing it, and her obvious terrible loneliness.
The Grand Patriarch had an inspiration then. He said, “Laura, you haven’t injured me. But I’d like you to explain to someone you have injured why you felt you had to do what you did.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t do any worse than I already have,” Laura said, brisk and unfeeling.
The Grand Patriarch retrieved the letter. He turned away, touched Father Roy’s arm, and conducted him out through the small door at the base of the dome. Once they were down the stairwell, Erasmus Tiebold said to his secretary, “She’ll need clothes for her journey. Let’s have her cousin deliver them to her.”
6
HE DREAMHUNTERS WERE HUDDLED IN A DISPIRITED GROUP AT ONE CORNER of the porch of the rangers’ station at DOORHANDLE. NO ONE WAS STANDING ANYWHERE NEAR THEM. AROUND THEIR FEET WERE THEIR DUST-COVERED PACKS AND BEDROLLS. THEY HAD BEEN IN TO GET BEAUTIFUL HORSE. BUT NONE OF THEM HAD BEEN ABLE TO CATCH IT.
Buried Alive
was
—it turned out—a master dream and could not be overwritten.
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