The Dreamwalker's Path

2/Hall of the Hours, Sanctuary

Ten Hours and Time stood in the lobby of the Place of Meeting in the Hall of the Hours. It was a wide, open chamber with high stain glass ceilings, and a small, indoor garden complete with bench and koi pond.

The Third Hour, clad in the yellow surcoat of her rank sat on the stone bench and watched the koi with a pale, steady gaze. Behind her, the Fourth Hour, dressed in white, and the Second, dressed in gold, spoke quietly in a tongue that the others did not recognize, purposeully blocking the magic that allowed the Hours to overcome language barriers when communicating with each other. The other Hours lingered in various other quiet locations in the Place of Meeting, no one daring to look at another while Time made its way from one end of the room to the other and back, cycling through the ages of humankind in the time that it took to make one complete round.

No one dared, that is, until Seven entered, agitated once again. He slammed open one of the great doors of the Place of Meeting, and stalked purposefully toward Time with a fearless, ground eating stride. The hard heels of his boots pounded against the marble floor, each echo emphasizing his fury, and his jack o’ lantern yellow eyes flashed. “You told me that you’d fixed this, Time!”

All at once, the Hours pulled themselves into awareness and moved to cut off the man’s approach, confusion etching themselves on the features of some, and disapproval on others. It wasn’t until the Hours met in the center of the hall that they realized it wasn’t anger that drove their companion this time, but a deep sense of fear. Even so, the outburst was met with hostility.

“Watch your tongue, Trite,” the Second Hour, dressed in a pale gold, stepped in front of the approaching Hour, blocking his view from Time. “It’s a tense situation, but if we all just keep our heads—”

“You tell that to the hysterical witch on the front steps, Shikhar.” The undercurrents of Trite’s voice were a low growl, and from behind Shikhar, the Fifth Hour bared a set of dog-like teeth, answering Trite in kind.

The man in gold made a face of disgust, rounding on Five briefly before murmuring, “Sune, you of all of us?”

It was a quiet, but effective reproach; the man in amethyst looked away and took a step back. The man in gold turned his attention once again to the orange Hour, his expression imploring.

“Tell us, Seven, what happened.”

Running a hand over the small ivory spikes that jutted from his white blond hair, Trite, looking shaken now that he’d had his outburst, explained. “The Eastling witch and the Phanin Westie were patrolling section zero when a bunch of gods from the temple burst from the walls and pulled the Phanin in.” He glared passed Shikhar at Time; “Did you hear that, Time? The Gods seem to be out, despite your promise that things were stablizing. Are there any more lies that you have to tell us?”

Time swept her gaze from one end of the room to the other, arching an eyebrow and regarding each Hour in its turn. “I’ve told you what’s happening, Seven! There’s nothing more to tell! Sanctuary is falling to pieces, and unless we find that girl, we’re all going to be in serious shit. I can’t even begin to explain to your feeble, finite little minds how many ways it could, and will, unravel!”

“You told me that we wouldn’t be in any danger with you holding the pieces that Twelve should hold! You said the city would be safe!”

“The gods revolting is an unforeseen strain on my hold. I cannot act in my usual capacity and hold these parts of the city while the gods are pushing against me.”

“Then name another Twelve—a temporary Twelve, if needs be—until we find her! Someone with magic. Someone who can hold the city together!”

“It’s not that simple, Seven, as you well know; it has to be the right sort of magic or it can do Sanctuary more damage than good!”

It was the expected answer, but it was not the right answer, and Trite’s temper snapped.

There was a flash of movement, and both the Gold Hour and the Red were holding the Orange back as he struggled to reach Time.

“How are they getting out of the temple, Time?” Trite’s voice was a deep roar; spittle flew from his mouth. “What aren’t you telling us that’s put all of us in danger?”

Time was on the confined Hour in an instant. In the form of a middle aged woman, she backhanded the Hour, leaving a raw, gristled imprint on the Hour’s face. “I grow tired of you questioning me! I am Time itself, and you are but my servant. I could kill you where you stand, Trite of Illaim, and your homeland will never remember the great deeds that you accomplished with only my help! A fine legend you would be then.”

A single strand of pain weaved into the anger behind the demon’s gaze. The threat felt asthoughit should have been trivial, but it was enough to give Trite pause. He relaxed against the hold of the other two Hours, and looked away.

Slight movement caught his eye. Gabriel the Green of the Hour of Eight looked, for one moment, as though he might step forward. Trite dared hope that the blood-fiend would stand with him—that centuries of working side by side might be enough for Eight to stand up and ask of Time the questions that they had asked each other over and over again since Sebastian the Black had been taken from Sanctuary.

But Eight looked away as well, and did not speak. Trite, it seemed, was left to stand up alone in front of Time once more.

Where Gabriel’s voice should have sounded, a smaller voice with the thick accent of a natural Sanctuarian pushed itself through the tension of the moment.

“Uh, ‘scuse me, Hours? An’, uh, Time, I guess...”

Eleven Hours and Time stared at a boy who looked as though he were made of sand, and Chapel Tames felt as though a world of inquiry had been laid heavily upon his shoulders. Were it not for the bug-eyed chameleon fairy, perched on the boy’s shoulder, who burped and popped his way through a large cheese shallot on a stick, the situation might have seemed detrimental, especially to the boy who had never met Time itself.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your very important argiuin ′ or nothin’, but just thought you might want to know that I think I found out where Emelye’s gone.”

The statement didn’t exactly illicit the reaction that he was hoping for. In fact, no one seemed to be excited or moving at all, and for a moment, the boy wondered if perhaps these were just very impressive statues instead of the figures themselves.

Twix burped imperiously. “If you all are busy beating the snot outta the orange guy, that’s okay; we can wait.”

That seemed to do the trick. The Hours released their companion, and regarded the boy and his pixie with renewed interest. They spoke in a jumble, their voices melting into one.

“What do you mean—”

“Was there any sign of the Temple’s Go—”

“—and if you did, then—”

Chapel hated getting large amounts of attention. After all, he prided himself on being able to be sneaky, and you couldn’t be sneaky if you were attracting attention. Now, with twelve voices tumbling over each other in anxious confusion, and twelve sets of eyes bore accusatory holes into Chapel so that all he wanted to do was find a safe place to hide and never be spoken to again.

Luckily, Twix was there, and with another magnificent (if somewhat gaseous) noise, he silenced the babbling adults. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t hear a turd-drop of what they’re saying.” He blinked slowly and out of sync, gazing blearily at the Hours and Time, and then turning to Chapel to offer him the rest of his shallot.

The boy, took the onion, no longer hungry, but knowing that it would end up on the floor otherwise. “If yer all done now,” he tried to make his voice sound calm and adult like, but somehow it still sounded small and squeaky to his own ears. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “There’s a crack in a wall on Eight’s Street...Right through the wall. ‘cept that Sanctuary en’t on the other side of the crack. Sumthin’ else is.”

“And it’s hot as a fresh turd!” the pixie interjected, sounding one part horrified, one part pleased because several Hours grimaced at the imagery. To provide further, unneeded, clarification, he added, “And it was kind of sticky like one, t—”

Chapel slapped a hand over the pixie’s mouth and grinned a little sheepishly at the Hours. “Anyway, the point is, ah found something that ah think will help, but you’ll prolly wanna see it yerself...”

A man in dark green surcoat stepped forward; his face was tight, anxious, but Chapel recognized him as the Hour that had tried to help him mash potatoes on the day that he’d gone out to find Caitell.

“I’ll go,” the Hour offered quickly. “Section eight is mine to look after. The boy can show me where the crack is. Seven, see to the witch, since you’re so worried about her; Nine,” he looked to the dryad, “Would you please watch my second circuit? It’s next to yours.”

The woman-esque figure nodded. “Of course, Gabriel.”

With that assurance, the man in green offered a hand to the boy. “Chapel, isn’t it?” He smiled, but it was the sort of smile that grownups smiled when they were very worried about something. “Would you show me where this wall with a crack is, Chapel?”

Reluctantly, Chapel took the man’s hand. Twix gave a particularly oniony belch and took off from Chapel’s shoulder with a flutter of his translucent wings.

“Come on then, oh terrible blood-fiend,” the pixie shook himself in an imitation of a shiver, dropping a foot or so from the air before he recovered. “We’ll show you a thing or two. And I expect a reward for this as well!”

Gabriel muttered a slightly disconcerted “We’ll see,” as he was lead from the Place of Meeting and out toward whatever horrors the boy and pixie had found.

Trite watched his companion go with a leery expression.

How can the others be so calm? Gods are attacking citizens of the city—the city itself is undergoing change when it should exist in a changeless state...

And Eight? When had Eight become demur and complying? And where the hell had he gone when the gods rioted?

The only explanation Trite could think was that he was going mad. That’s why none of the Hours saw any reason to question Time. There was no reason. He was just…going mad.

Sebastian would have agreed with you; he was good for calling things like he saw them.

Big fat lot of good that did him. The vampire was dead. “Trite, are you listening?”

The crisp, professional tone of Isanthe the White cut through his thoughts. He turned to look at the Fourth Hour, “What?”

“We’re going to Carter Street for food; some of the vendors have agreed to provide the volunteers with free lunch.”

Trite shook his head. “No, I don’t eat Sanctuary sludge.” “No, that’s right, you just eat virgins.”

“Try saying it without the fangs, Phanin, it will make you seem less hypocritical.”

With deft fingers, he unbuttoned the brass buttons of his

surcoat and tossed it at Isanthe. “Where are you going?”

“To take care of the witch,” he all but snapped. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before your lunch break is over.”

He strode out of the Place of Meeting, feeling strangely relaxed now that he’d left the stiff garb of his office behind him. Perhaps that’s why he’d been so damn tense lately. Maybe twelve hundred years of bullshit was finally beginning to weigh down on him.

He rounded the corner, leaving the Hall of the Hours and skipping down the side steps. A wall of fresh air greeted him beyond the doors of the half-built sky scraper. On it was the faintest hint of lavender and honeysuckle.

Smells like home, he thought, letting his mind drift away from the unpleasantness of Sanctuary and back to Illaim, the plain that he’d been born on. He thought back on the sweeping purple landscape of his homeland and the wild Gulthaari people that he had been raised alongside. He thought about that brief period before he’d been dragged into Sanctuary to serve the needs of a selfish concept that his people could barely grasp when he had returned and tried to explain it to them.

How long had it been since he’d returned there? And why the hell does Sanctuary suddenly smell like home?

Unwilling to let the small comfort he’d gained from the unexpected memories be tarnished by a new bout of worry, Trite headed for the fountain where he had left Caitell.

“Hey,” he held a hand up in greeting as the witch stood

up from the place he’d left her and approached him.

“Hey,” her voice was thin and she sounded tired. “What did they say?”

The demon waved the question away and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. How was he supposed to tell her that Time either didn’t know or wasn’t willing to admit why the gods were able to move about the city?

Didn’t know and didn’t care. The thought hurt.

He cleared his throat. “A boy interrupted the meeting before I could get a word in,” it wasn’t entirely a lie, but it was far enough from the truth that he hoped she wouldn’t press for more details.

A look of concern pinched the woman’s face, but it was eased a moment later by some emotion that Trite couldn’t name. “That’s right; I saw Chapel and Twix rush in and then back out with Eight. What happened?”

Trite shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. Without his orange surcoat, he was dressed in only a pair of black slacks and a black turtleneck. “He said he found out where the little girl went. Eight went with him to assess his findings.”

A thoughtfulness settled over the witch, and he could hear the murmur of her thoughts: That’s good, it will make Chapel feel important to have been helpful. The train continued for a moment, but unwilling to be thought of as a spy, Trite politely turned down his telepathy.

Still, he felt her draw deeper into the confines of her own mind, and he understood that her thoughts had taken a darker turn. Troubled by the stricken look that took over her face, Trite reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you—”

“I found something!” Caitell moved with such speed that Trite jerked his hand back in surprise. He stared at the woman in confusion as she reached into one of the large lavender sleeves of her surcoat, “I only just remembered... What with, well, you know. We were on our way back to tell you when...well anyway, here,” she tugged a glass decanter from her sleeve and held it out to him.

The object was large enough that for a moment the demon wondered when he accepted it how she had fit it in her sleeve; then he felt the slight prickle of magic that passed between his fingers and hers when he took the decanter from her, and he realized that she was not a witch as his people imagined one: a woman of herbal remedies and waking dreams; she was a spell caster, an advocate of Ordered Magic.

Feeling as much in awe of the woman as he was suddenly repelled, the Hour took a step back and turned his attention to the glass that he held in his hands. He ran a hand over the frosted bottom of the container, and traced his fingers along the etching on the gently curved side.

He looked down at Caitell who had taken another step closer. Her blond hair tumbled in soft waves over her shoulder, hiding her face. She seemed to be staring as intently at the decanter as if she had only seen it for the first time herself.

“What’s this?” he asked her, noting the scribbled etchings that he’d been rubbing his thumb over.

“Oh, ah, Old English. It says that mischief follows whatever was in the bottle when it’s let out of the bottle.”

“The bottle is empty.”

“Yes, that’s the general idea.”

He looked up at her again, raising a stark blond eyebrow. “So, what was in it?”

“We—I—” she cleared her throat and pulled her hair out of her grey eyes, “I have no idea. We found it in the Alchemist’s clock, and Jardel thought it would be a good idea to bring it to you. He thought that this was as good as any cause for what’s been happening to the city.”

Trite rubbed one of the small horns that jutted from just above his hairline, his brow furrowing. “Maybe.” He said at length. “Seems awfully small, whatever it is, to be causing such mischief.” He offered what felt like a feeble smile, “But then, it has been my observation that children are fine examples of small and mischievous.”

It was an ill attempt at humor, but she smiled, nonetheless, and that eased Trite’s heart a little.

“Let’s go to the Temple, Caitell,” he offered her his hand. “I’ll get you something to eat, and you can rest under Lyriel’s watch.”

Caitell nodded and, as though feeling somewhat renewed, took his hand and let him lead her down the wide road that would take them to Carter Street.