“Keep your linens on, my good bitch,” the doppelgänger said with a laugh as the world fell apart around him. The sound rang too loud, too full, as if it echoed from every surface at once. “I’m not going to poach him. What happened with the second Paladin was an unfortunate accident.”
The infinite hall shuddered. Its limitless expanse shrank to a more manageable size of a village. As it did, the cracks disappeared, but then all the furniture save for the pieces around the two Stephans burst to shreds, burning with golden flames.
“And I have learned my lesson with the fifth,” the doppelgänger continued, his voice smooth as the surface of an underground lake. “Yes, my greed cost me a precious opportunity, but I will only offer this one the same deal I gave the third and fourth. All right?”
The room shrank further, with no further violent explosions of light. The pressure of the invisible conflict brushed against Stephan’s skin, and he was distinctly aware the gods were watching. Closely.
“Lovely. Now,” he turned towards Stephan, every bit the monster he had fought in the Nightmare Hollow, “my deal is very simple. You tell me how many times you’re going to become the Paladin, and I, I will deliver two messages for you in each of those lives. To any person you can envision. And trust me, near-instantaneous communication is quite valuable.”
He leaned closer, fingers steepled. “Note that near-instantaneous might even be true, as the requirement to receive the message is that both you and the recipient are asleep and alive.”
Stephan kept quiet, his mind processing the situation, as he noted the air smelled like what he imagined a lightning strike would smell.
“Why not twenty messages?” he finally said, after reaching the conclusion that the nightmare creature before him could just as easily send ten thousand dream messages as it could two.
“You’re sharp and not greedy at all. I appreciate that,” the doppelgänger tapped his glass with a finger, the sound coming from it that of Mike’s alarm bell. “Twenty is too much, but on account of you knowing how to think and haggle, how about six? It’s symbolic, considering you’re the sixth of your kind. But we won’t do carry-overs. If you die without using up all your messages, that’s on you, not on me.”
Six is more than I expected he’d give me. Stephan eyed his other self. As his gaze lingered on the blood-stained travel clothes, they changed into a noble’s garb.
The doppelgänger winked at him and opened its mouth to speak, but Stephan was quicker.
“What about the responses?”
The nightmare creature shrugged. “Sure, why not, but they will count against your total separately. You will have to tell me when you expect to hear a response, though. If I were a fae king, I would let your messages go to waste on babbling and confused nonsense, but I’m a much more straightforward player than they are.”
He grinned. “After all, I want to make more deals with you.”
Stephan lowered his gaze to the checkered parquet before looking at the creature again. And even if it wore his skin, the one before him was definitely an inhuman entity.
“Do you know who is the warlock in Cliffort?” There was hope and a brilliance in his eyes as he asked. The nightmare could prove an easy way to flush out the greatest threat in the siege.
Then the doppelgänger burst into laughter.
“I don’t even know where Cliffort is, nor how big it is.” The creature’s features changed from amused laughter to a serious expression without passing through the phases in between. “Yes. I can find him. No, you don’t have anything worthwhile to pay me for that service. At least not without your gods causing a fuss.”
The candles in the chandelier glowed brighter and whiter.
The doppelgänger looked at the ceiling. “For crying out loud, I just said: No. Show a bit of faith, oh wise and mighty gods!”
He focused on Stephan, a brilliant, predatory white smile snapping into place. “So, no, the only thing you have that would interest me is that little skill of yours. Does it truly turn back time or does it make a mass simulation in which all actors are able to think and act freely? Do I dream of its echoes, or do I really experience them? Both are amazing feats, and I could stand to learn so much from—”
The chandeliers blazed.
“Right, right. Sorry, my fault, I was getting carried away again,” the doppelgänger chuckled. “So, no, you have nothing to offer me. Now, how many holders of your living memory are there?”
Stephan frowned. “How do you know all those details?”
“Told you, I made a different deal with the second Paladin, before the gods knew what I was capable of. Before I knew what they could do. It took a long while to find him, and when I did, I caught a glimmer of his skills right before he died a horrible and final death, but I couldn’t peer into how they worked. The only thing I know is that Hope and Fate, the quarreling twins, are behind your class.”
The doppelgänger leaned closer, fingers still steepled, looking every bit the villain. “Now, how many holders?”
“Fifteen,” Stephan said, and the other laughed.
“Wonderful, great! I wish you good, long lives.” The nightmare grinned, mouth grotesquely stretching nearly as wide as his head while he wiggled his eyebrows wildly. “And at least try to meet my expectations.”
With a final wink, the chair beneath Stephan crumbled; the floor opened into a yawning hole.
“Cheers!” a distinctly not Stephan’s voice shouted from the lip of the pit.
Stephan fell, then sat up in his cot, screaming. He spun around, looking for danger, but only found a dark room.
He wiped the sweat off his brow, his hand still shaking. Then he caught the smell of herbs.
Right, the hospice… He struggled to recall the name of the town and came up with nothing. No idea what it’s called, but I’m close to Treetop.
After centering himself in reality, Stephan thought about what he had just experienced. There’s no way that was a mere dream.
He didn’t know what time it was, but sleep had left him completely. He stood and dusted his clothes, suddenly aware he had slept in them for the past ten days.
I wonder what I’ll find in the south. A bath or a soothing long dip would be nice.
He started pacing around the room, muttering and thinking, until he felt his eyelids growing heavy once more. Then he went to bed.
I want to send a message to Marshal Harold Harrington, he kept repeating until sleep took him.
“So, what’s your message?” A strange blocky device made of shiny obsidian asked, speaking as if gurgling underwater.
Stephan looked around the dark room draped in blackish-purple, the statue-creature standing on a dais at the center.
“Do not attempt to heal Bernard. The warlock at Coalpit will be of a higher level than the scout will estimate in his report; he will be able to cast at least sixth level blasphemies, perhaps seventh. When you ride out to pick up Queen Eleanor, go in person and bring two Healers. That night, you will face a hundred mounted men, then an ambush by bandits on your way back. Charger will notice them. Take care of your wife and make time to comfort her. I already sent all this in a letter and more; I don’t know if it reached you. Please respond.”
“A professional, no-nonsense message and a good test. I approve.” The block of obsidian spoke, the crystalline stone flowing and morphing into something akin to a man sitting and thinking, chin propped up by his balled hand. But instead of a man’s head, the creature was topped by a strange orb with multiple eyes and a dozen worms dangling from it.
Then the creature’s distorted voice changed to a clear and familiar one. “Acknowledged.”
Stephan expected more, but the obsidian remained quiet.
“That is all. You have four messages remaining. Do you want to contact anyone else? Send bad dreams to those who scorned you? Ask someone to give you your money back?”
“Wait,” Stephan frowned. “Do warlocks have the ability to use your services?”
“Everyone has the ability to use my services. Fae, fiends, humans, and other creatures you know nothing about; all they have to do is know how to reach out to me and offer something worthwhile for me to take action.”
“And what kind of payment do you demand?”
“Spreading terror and sowing nightmares. If you can justify the cost of my involvement and devise a sound plan, I will follow it for power. Now, unless you have something worthwhile to offer or unless you want me to deliver a message, don’t draw my attention. Focusing on you comes with a cost, and if you try to drain me, I will come to collect. Trust me, you will be sorry if I do.”
The next moment Stephan was gone from the room and standing atop the walls of Cliffort. Instead of frothing men, fiends were jumping over the walls and raining on the defenders, their claws and tails weapons enough to slaughter the brave soldiers defending the last refuge of humanity.
The strange encounter dissipated from Stephan’s mind, leaving behind only the slightest haze before that too got devoured by the imminent danger and threat.
Stephan awoke slick with sweat, aware his dreams had haunted him, and with crystal-clear memory of the message he had delivered and the response he received.
“Good morning, m’lord,” the Priest entered the hospice just as the sun was starting to brighten the sky. “Did you sleep well?”
“Good enough, given the circumstances,” Stephan lied. “Thank you for letting me spend the night. Is there somewhere I can wash up around here?”
The only place the Priest could recommend was the town well, which was already crowded by the townsfolk drawing water for the day.
So, Stephan skipped the pleasure of bathing in public, and ran straight south, planning to reach Treetop by sundown.