“Don’t say that name here,” her companion said. “That is not what the dream is about. Who are we looking for? This is important. I’m not going to help you remember.”

“Ronan,” she said.

The black clung to them as they climbed. It was everywhere. Nightwash.

Yes, she remembered.

“You can do it,” her companion said. “You are not different when awake and when asleep.”

Hennessy remembered a little more. “Rhiannon Martin would think differently. Your optimism in me, bruv, killed her. How’s that feel?”

Her companion said nothing, climbing in the dark. Scrabble and claw, flap and click. It put her in mind of Chainsaw, Ronan’s raven.

“I would dream it away, if I could,” Hennessy said. “I would wake up without it. Just walk away.”

“You insult her death,” Bryde said, because now it was certainly his voice. “You insult what we’re trying to do.”

The sky above them lightened still more. It was becoming that complicated pink and gold and red and blue that sunrises can be without conflict. There was a definite line to the summit now, a jagged edge that would mark the end of their climb. It looked like the Lace, but Hennessy didn’t say it out loud.

“You say the lines are getting worse,” Hennessy said. “You’re saying the dreaming is worse. But it’s the same for me. It’s always looked like this. It keeps looking like this. How many dead dreamers you want with my name on them?”

Now it was light enough that he had come into view beside her, his silhouette climbing, face pensive. He was a peculiar-looking person, she thought. Most people could be put into this pile or another. So-and-so reminds me of whatsherface, one says. This dude is this sort of person. Oh, they’re that kind of a person. But what was Bryde? Bryde. Party of one. If he reminded her of anything, he reminded her of … the resemblance slipped away.

Bryde said, “Get better, then.”

“Get better, he says, bread-and-jam, easy. You’re a real ass, did you know? When have you ever failed at anything?”

“You’ve been at this for weeks,” he said. “Do you know how old I am?”

There was something a little dangerous about the question. Hennessy couldn’t tell if it was dangerous to answer it correctly or dangerous to answer it incorrectly, though. Eventually, she said, “Older than Ronan thinks.”

“Yes,” Bryde said.

Now it was possible to see they were headed toward a great hollow stump, a tree that must have been enormous when it was alive. But then Hennessy remembered: It was alive. It was the tree from West Virginia, transplanted. Ilidorin.

“Yes,” Bryde said again, and he sounded tired. “Older than he imagines.”