The pilot breezed above it, to a secluded inlet, where a single houseboat sat moored. It drifted in a still lagoon upon the blue waters.
The helicopter settled onto a gently sloping rock.
The pilot jumped out and opened the doors. Bron climbed out, peering at the houseboat: it was different from anything he'd ever seen.
The first thing he noticed was its sheer size. They'd passed dozens of houseboats on the way—but none so large. It wasn't a forty- or fifty-foot houseboat. It had to be closer to a hundred.
But it wasn't just size that made it seem so ... stately. Most houseboats on the lake were painted basic white. The color reflected the desert sun, keeping the boats cool. But this one was different. At the waterline it was gold. Not paint, he suspected. It looked like real gold foil. The foil was shaped into scales that reflected like mirrors, showing every little ripple at the waterline.
A walkway encircled the boat, with fluted columns painted ruby and deep blue that reminded Bron of something from ancient Greece. But above them was a deep blue strip of tiles, and upon each tile was an ancient symboclass="underline" the eye of Isis. He recognized it from an old history book.
Not Greek, he realized, Egyptian. The houseboat was decorated to look like an ancient Egyptian pleasure barge, something Cleopatra might have taken out upon the Nile when she sought to seduce Mark Antony. Bron almost expected to see Egyptian slaves, all painted in gold, manning the oars while serving girls stood by to fan him with ostrich feathers.
Broad windows looked to be made of cut crystal, and inside, soft lights glowed an unearthly pink, as if someone kept a setting sun inside them. He could see rich cedar paneling, and a fine bar with couches and a big-screen television, and a walk-in refrigerator with a stainless-steel door. It looked almost like a yacht.
Bron glanced at Olivia, dumbfounded. "Is your friend rich?"
Olivia smiled. "It appears that her investments are doing well."
The pilot climbed back into the helicopter. He'd never turned off the engine. Now he rose up, and the wind from the props washed over them, as if driving Bron toward the water.
He headed to shore, where a pontoon bridge invited him onto the boat. The sky overhead yawned wide, and golden sunlight glinted off the waters and reflected from the stony ground.
Bron held back, waiting for Olivia to take the lead. She didn't. He said, "You've met this woman before, right?"
"Yes, we were roommates in college." Olivia suggested, "Go ahead."
He set out over the bridge, which bobbed with each step. "Where did you say you went to college, again?"
"Harvard," Olivia said, "and Juilliard." Bron glanced back in astonishment, and she explained, "Memory merchants do well in school. I got by on scholarships."
Bron walked along the pontoons, and spotted a pair of jet skis docked inside a little built-in marina near the rear of the houseboat. They were high-tech, black, with custom purple-and-gold flames painted along their bodies. Everything spoke of opulence.
Bron climbed onto the deck, and knocked at a wide door to the interior. It was dark inside, almost black after the blinding daylight. He stood for a moment blinking, trying to let his eyes adjust. Olivia halted. He glanced back.
"Aren't you coming?" he asked.
"No," she said. "You have to go alone...."
Chapter 24
Revelations
"When a bit of wisdom destroys your world in a moment and rebuilds it just as quickly, that is revelation."
"Come in...." a woman called with a British accent. Bron leapt in surprise, then stood blinking stupidly into the darkness. He could see through the glass door, barely. He opened it and entered, then stood peering into the shadows.
A young woman crouched upon a black sofa. A low coffee table stood poised before her. Some glass balls upon it glowed a hot pink, providing the only interior light. She stood and skirted the table, nearly invisible in the darkness.
"Oh, hi!" Bron said, embarrassed. "I didn't see anyone."
She stood before him. She was shorter than him, and had straight black hair, a slender figure. She wore a flimsy red dress, and droplets of sweat had beaded on her chest. She obviously wasn't used to the heat of Utah. She might have been anywhere from twenty to fifty, for there was an agelessness to her eyes.
She appraised him as if he were a fine stallion. "So," she said at last, "You're the asufaak arru'yah, the dream assassin."
She raised her hand, palm up, as if to wave, and suction cups blossomed in perfect little ovals on her fingertips. Bron stood, unsure what to do. She nodded toward his hands, begging him to do the same. He raised his hand, self-consciously showed his sizraels. She smiled graciously.
"My name is Monique. I'm the Weigher of Lost Souls. Has Olivia told you about me?"
"Not much," Bron admitted. "She said you were friends in college."
"Good," Monique said. She had a commanding presence. She stared, as if looking through him, for a long time. "Olivia can't really tell you who you are. That task is left to me to discern. She can teach you about music, but my... specialty, is people—the history of our people. Would you like to know who you are?"
Despite his clash with the enemy, Bron had been told little about the masaaks. He knew even less about the Draghouls and dream assassins. "Yes," he said.
"Knowledge carries a price," Monique suggested. "Knowledge ... changes you. With it comes responsibility, but I will demand more than just a promise to take responsibility. Before I teach you, I must lay your mind bare."
Bron's stomach tightened. He froze with indecision.
"You're afraid of what I will see?" Monique asked. "You have to overcome that fear. I'll learn everything about you—every lie you've told, every lustful thought or deed you've acted upon. I'll learn the deepest secrets that you fear to tell."
"I'd rather not," Bron said. He glanced around for Olivia, wondering what she'd gotten him into, but she hadn't followed him onto the boat.
Monique said, "Olivia is not allowed in here. Not now. This is for me and you alone." She said it in a tone that made Bron suspect that Monique wasn't just Olivia's old friend, but some sort of superior.
"Have a seat," Monique said gently. "I mean you no harm. You and I must talk." Bron felt suddenly nervous. He was stuck on a houseboat in a wasteland with a strange woman who seemed to have unnerving power. She gestured toward an overstuffed recliner, and Bron sat, found himself falling backward into its cushions, as if dropping into a cloud.
Monique knelt before him, and took his left hand in both of hers. The low-cut top of her flimsy dress was tantalizing. She wore no bra, and her small breasts reminded him of Whitney's, and so she filled him with embarrassing longings. He didn't believe that Monique was trying to tempt him. He suspected that she was dressed scantily only because it was so hot. He tried to look up into her heart-shaped face, into those ageless eyes. Monique smiled.
"You lust after me," she said. "Don't be ashamed. You're at an age when your hormones are awakening. It's not just me that tempts you, it's almost everyone—girls at your school, teachers, strangers on the street."
Bron said nothing. He wanted to deny it, because it made him feel embarrassed and out of control, but she was going to peer into his mind. He couldn't hide what he felt.
"I have seen into the minds of a thousand men," Monique said. "Some were criminals, but others were visionaries, and men of profound virtue. Even the greatest of them suffered the same temptations that you do. Some people were so craven that they could not qualify as human. Yet I've also encountered nobleness and beauty, order and insight, and longings for greatness. The mind is like a container, and it holds mainly what you decide to let it hold, what you treasure. I don't expect to find anything inside you that I have not encountered before. At your age, you're like a sponge. You take in everything you see and hear, and you're still learning what thoughts and ideas are of value and what can be discarded."