Dream Thief

It is dark in the city when the moon hides her face, but that is of no particular concern to a woman who has passed waking through the land of dreams. This one moved with great caution but little care; more certain of her footing than of her path.

She may have feared assault; the streets of Rezingi were notorious for their kidnappers and cutthroats. But it is difficult to halt one who passes unnoticed. Difficult, but not impossible, Idris reminded herself as her silent feet carried her in the direction of Theophilos’s palace.

Overconfidence was disaster; hesitation was doom. This night, she walked along the polished edge of a knife as sharp as the one strapped tightly to her right shin.

It was the thought of that weapon that weighed her step, not the blade itself, Idris told herself. It was a beautiful little thing, wrought of perfectly tempered steel and gilded with the purest silver. The slender, triangular blade was double-edged, with a small channel grooved into its center. It fit her small hand perfectly. But of course — it was made for her, made for this night.

There were people in the street ahead; a dangerous trio waiting just outside the circle of light that spilled from the open door of a noisy common room. These were no amateurs; they wore dark clothes below their creosote-painted faces and waited in calm stillness, not even heavy breaths betraying their presence. Even the blades of their weapons wore black.

Mostly likely they waited for one of the revelers within, but Idris could not be sure. Whatever sense it was that told her of their presence was not so strong as to discern their thoughts and motives. She could not allow herself to be seen, regardless.

She stepped from the shadows of the street into the shadows of their minds, into that gray region of uncertainty where dreams go to die as the sleeper awakens. One of the three shuddered; another thought suddenly of a dog she’d had in childhood. The third fought back a sneeze and Idris was past, her grey eyes sadly watching the street ahead.

This would be the last such witching-hour walk through the streets of the great capital, she assured herself. She would pay a high price for this night’s work, but freedom was her promised reward. No longer would she obey another’s compulsions; no more slipping through the grimy edges of hate-filled dreams. No more masters to demand the use of her body as well as her soul.

Provided she could get to Theophilos.

Even for Idris, that was no certainty.

Theophilos was no mere king; he was a powerful enchanter in his own right. Walls could be breached; guards could be — and had been — paid to look the other way. Nobles could be tempted into betrayal; the faithful few, slain. Even then, Theophilos would be far from defenseless.

He would be expecting an assault. In his two years on the throne, he had done little to win the love of the city’s powerful street lords. What started as a mere contest of wills had grown into a small civil — and most uncivil — war. The assassin charged with removing the king’s closest ally had struck too soon; Lord Wiley had been found dead last dawn.

Not even a fool would miss that warning sign.

The street lords called Theophilos a fool; Idris was not so sure. The man was still alive after 27 months on the throne, which was a full year longer than any of his last ten predecessors. He had survived at least four attempts on his life. The lords called it luck. Idris knew of no such thing.

The squat black fortress at the center of town was called a palace out of stubborn habit. There had been a time when Rezingi was the crowning wonder of the world, with the great marble and gold palace its greatest jewel.

But the marble had long since crumbled under the assault of countless war machines, and the gold had been stripped away to pay the great armies that turned the land fallow with the salt of their blood. Over the years, the palace had been conquered countless times by storm and siege; betrayal and brashness. Each time, its defenses had been redoubled until now, in its hideous gerontocracy, it was considered impenetrable.

Idris walked in unchallenged. That was to be expected; walls stopped only those who believed in them.

She did not know where to go once she was inside. Her masters’ ceaseless efforts to learn more about Theophilos’s inner defenses had been utterly fruitless.

They might not have bothered; Idris could sense Theophilos’s presence the moment she passed the outer defenses. The king slept high up in an inner room of one of the palace’s greatest towers. She could almost taste his dream.

It was an easy thing to pass by the guards who were most carefully not watching. Idris had been provided keys — copies bought from scheming servants — and promised they would open the most critical doors. She had discarded them as soon as she left her masters’ sight; their heavy iron solidity would only have betrayed her. Instead she coaxed the locks open with a slender steel pick and a few kind thoughts, the memory of oil and regular use. She sensed the magical defenses; they protected the king from spells and swords. They were useless against one who advanced as silently as thought.

The sun, like Theophilos, was still fast asleep when Idris slipped through the massive door of the king’s sleeping chamber.

That was where the swift certainty of her advance ended.

There was no one to challenge her; the king did not stir. She had eluded his wards, evaded his every defense. She should have expected no less; she had never failed to go where her masters sent her.

But this was different. Always before, she had been charged with taking battle plans, crowns, secrets. She had never taken the life of a sleeping man. The sound of his quiet, even breaths shook her ears.

She had killed once or twice, in street fights, and that had allowed her to fool herself into thinking this would be no different. It was entirely different.

This was no angry assailant, no menacing lunatic. This was a well-groomed, bearded man not yet in his middle years, resting peacefully alone in his bed.

Idris stood in the absolute dark of the windowless room, watching the king sleep. He was dreaming again; she could sense his eyes twitching under their closed lids. Of what did he dream? Conquest? Glory?

She closed her own eyes, drew a deep breath, and looked.

She saw a palace of marble and gold, streets filled with kindly, laughing people and carts brimming with food and riches. A bearded man in clean, plain clothing tossed her an apple.

“It’s not what you expected, is it?” he asked, grinning.

She froze, breathless.

Theophilos laughed. “I watched you, you know. Those assassins you passed were my three best. I wanted to see how you’d handle them.”

Idris did not answer. She had nothing to say.

“The rest of us can’t dream walk, of course — that’s yours alone — but some of us mere mortals have lucid dreams. Surely you’ve encountered it before?”

She nodded dumbly.

“You’re not used to being noticed, much less expected, of course. I thought you’d look, if I was asleep. I didn’t have any other way of stopping you.”

“You knew about me?” Idris managed to ask.

Theophilos nodded. “Just stories, at first. I knew my enemies had acquired a tool they valued highly. I paid a high price to learn the terms of your captivity: Free will but never free.”

Idris stared at him. “What are you going to do?”.

“Do? I’m sleeping. I can’t actually do anything.”

“Then how are you going to stop me?”

“I was hoping perhaps you’d stop yourself. You’re not really a murderer, are you?”

“My masters bid me kill you.”

“And you must obey?”

Idris sighed. “I cannot free myself any other way.”

“They promised you freedom?”

“The knife is enchanted; after it has tasted your blood, it may drink mine. None other would.”

“You would choose that?” Theophilos demanded.

“Anyone would, in my place.”

“What if I offer another choice?”

Idris laughed thinly. “A choice?”

“Serve me, Idris. I cannot break the spell that binds you, but I can loosen it, let you choose your master. Look around; you see my dream. If I can defeat the street lords, I can make it real. You can be a part of it.”

“As a slave.”

“I don’t want slaves, Idris. I want freedom for my people. Would it be such a terrible thing to be part of a new hope?”

“I want to dream my own dreams.”

“You think that will happen once you pass into the void? You could help me build a new world!”

Idris stared at him a long moment. “If I let you live, you think you can make this real?”

“I can! With your help...”

“Freedom built on slavery? No matter how good your intentions, Theophilos, as long as there is one slave no one is ever free.”

“You’ll do what you will; I swear I will be different from all your other masters.”

Idris smiled softly. “Sweet dreams, my king,” she whispered, and it was more compulsion than suggestion. Theophilos dreamed again of the kingdom he would build: A vibrant land of justice and plenty. He walked the city streets, greeting all he passed in the vibrant marketplace.

The king woke the next morning with a long, shallow gash down his left arm and the body of a small woman draped across the foot of his bloodstained bed. He cried.