Freewalker (12 page)

She unsteadily picks herself up from the floor, ignoring Kordan's gaze.

“You successfully completed your task.” His normal whine is tinged with resentment, and Stowe takes some small satisfaction in the fact that her accomplishments irritate him.

Her skin feels like it's blistering, but a quick glimpse assures Stowe that the sensation is simply a side effect of her ordeal. The throbbing ache, however, is no illusion. It takes all her strength to remain vertical, and maintain her pride before this preening, disdainful ogre. She smiles at him.

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Master Kordan. Your instruction is invaluable. You make me better than I am.”

Kordan, peacocking, bows his head with false modesty. “I am here only to serve Our Stowe.”

Ah, flattery. Such an effective tool.

A quiet knock on the door and Willum whispers into the room, “I trust your venture was successful.”

“All is satisfactory.”

“The Keeper would like to see Our Stowe.”

Now. Finally. The verdict.

“Why wasn't I notified?” snaps Kordan.

“You'll have to ask him that yourself,” says Willum, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Kordan hisses before pompously directing his scowl at Stowe. “Tomorrow you will be challenged. Make sure you are up to it.”

Stowe gives him her most ingratiating smile. “Thank you again, my teacher.”

As she and Willum step into the hallway, he offers her his handkerchief. “How much have you been taking?”

She ignores his offering and licks the corners of her mouth.

“Enough.”

“And that is?”

“Two spoons.”

“That's enough for ten Walkers.”

“The Dirt makes me stronger.”

“Stowe, do not be deceived by the semblance of a thing.”

“Nothing can be done, Willum. It is in the interests of the Conurbation.”

“Nevertheless, I will speak to Darius.”

His troubled expression seems quaint, but Stowe's not blind to the consequences of his disquiet. He must not ration her Dirt. It's unthinkable; Kordan will not let him.

“There is nothing to fear in Dirt, good Willum.”

“I do not fear it, Stowe, but I am concerned with its abuse.”

She will divert him, bury the issue among all the other matters Willum must attend to. “Why has Darius waited so long to call on me?”

Willum's silence is his answer. Darius's withdrawal from her has been part of her punishment. He may be old and mainly made of replacement parts, but few have survived his wrath. How angry at her can he be?

“What will he do to me?”

Willum stops midstep. “He does not share his judgments with me. You must prepare yourself for whatever may come.” Rounding the corner, Willum leaves Stowe to take her final steps to the ornate oak door, portal to the Archbishop of the Conurbation, alone.

Stowe stares at the brass doorknob wrapped in the claws of an animal. But what kind of animal? Not an eagle or a wolf. Something smaller, sharper, more devious. One day she must bring a book with pictures and identify the beast that Darius honors. When she first arrived in the City, she was brought here trembling, but Darius was kind and gentle. He delighted her with intricate wind-up toys and sweet cakes. Plush toy animals from the time before the Wars, a monkey, a lion, and a donkey. He would read her stories, and taught her to build houses of cards.

But that time passed once she voyaged to the Dreamfield. Once she became Our Stowe. Now her visits are always official, matters of state, and Darius expects her to take her role seriously. A major breach of protocol has been committed so he has kept his distance. Well, she will accept whatever punishment he inflicts without argument, as it is imperative she regain his confidence. All of his questions must be answered as truthfully as possible. She needs his trust to destroy him.

She takes in air through her nostrils, calming herself, ready for whatever she is facing. Stowe touches one of the claws on the doorknob and the door opens. She steps in, leaving the safety of Willum behind. She listens as the door slides shut.

Darius is imposingly erect in his chair. His eyes snap on Stowe, his skull-like face grim and unyielding.

“Do you know why I've called you here?”

“I was rude to your clerics after our visit to the factory.”

His thin lips curl upward. “You left one man deaf, another comatose, another paralyzed on one side of his body. Is this what you call rude?”

She exudes shock and dismay, and quickly bows her head, hoping to indicate shame. In fact, she feels a quiver of excitement. She had the power to do all that?

“You realize, of course, that there must be ramifications.”

“Eldest, though I am distressed at my lack of control, I honestly did not know I was capable of such a thing. What is to be done with me?”

“Your victims have been... adjusted. Since your outburst, or should I say, test, took place in a reasonably secure area, there were not as many casualties as there might have been.”

“I was not aware I was being tested, Eldest.”

“Clever girl. You make me very proud. I believe it was you who was doing the testing, was it not?”

Holding his gaze as steadily as she can, Stowe wonders how much Darius knows, how much she should admit to. Damn Willum, what did he tell? The effort of not averting her eyes is causing them to tear up. She must not let that happen.

“Willum tells me you were distraught to hear that Roan has been declared dead.”

“He is not dead,” Stowe whimpers. There, let him think it's grief. Something she can play.

“Perhaps you are right, perhaps he is still alive somewhere, disabled or in hiding. What is important for you and I is the realization that he is no longer a necessary part of our plans.”

Our
plans? Here it comes. How easy it must have been these last few years, to mold and shape her.

“Imagine. If he came into our fold, you would be halved, dominated by your older brother, sharing everything when you've worked so hard. Why shouldn't it all be for you? You are becoming something even greater than I hoped for. You are my adopted daughter, and you must rule one day.”

Yes, Our Stowe. Our Stowe should have it all. And what, oh adopted father of mine, shall be the nature of my gilded cage?

“But Father, you shall rule forever. I have no such desire.”

“This flesh is an unbearable burden. I have waited long to slough it off and take my place forever in the Dreamfield. It is for you that I have waited, Stowe.”

He is lying, of course. But why? Is the sacrifice he will ask of her so great he feels he must offer his place to secure it?

“What is it, Darius, that I must do?”

His leathery fingers lightly touch Stowe's curls. She bends her head into his hand, feigning ecstasy.

He's like the monster in the picture book her mother used to read her. Luring her in with candy because he wants to devour her.

She keeps that thought firmly in the back of her mind as he lifts her head and gazes fondly at her face.

“
Must
is an inappropriate word. There is a mission before you. An experiment that could turn the tide forever in our favor. But you are under no imperative. You should think on it, evaluate the risk, and then decide. If you refuse, it shall not change my plans for you.”

She realizes with an icy chill that he intends to destroy her. How she knows, she's not sure, but she's certain of it. He will kill her whatever she does. A tremor passes through her. Fear? Yes, but also relief. He will develop her powers until they are ripe for his use. That will give her time to find a way to turn the tables and destroy
him.
He's taught her perhaps too well, this false father of hers.

“What is the task?”

“The immediate task is to pierce the Wall.”

“The Eaters' barricade?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was impenetrable.”

“It is of a most ingenious design, but I don't think they had you in mind when they built it, my love.”

“You really think I can get through?”

“I am sure of it. We must undermine the Eaters' plans to dominate the Dreamfield. For ten years we've searched for a way through their wall—and you are it, my daughter. I would like you to take careful note of its structure. And observe the Eaters' response. Also... we need to assess the feasibility of bringing one back.”

“What—an Eater?”

His lips spread across his face, stretching his skin to its limits. “A wonderful thought, isn't it? So much we could learn. How quickly we might hasten their demise.”

The Keeper's eyes flutter and he sinks deeper into his chair.

“Keeper? Father?”

“Do not underestimate the difficulty and the jeopardy. This is a dangerous task.”

He holds out his hand. Stowe kisses it.

“What power you have, my little one. Something our clerics have grown to appreciate. We must put it to better uses.”

Stowe sets Darius's hand down just as he begins to gently snore. She looks at him, a black well of hatred collecting behind her eyes. He had made her believe he loved her, cared for her, when all he wanted was to use her. Well, I hunger for your touch no more, monster. You tried to become my father so that one hand could squeeze the life from my heart, while the other tore the sight from my eyes. You are responsible for all the death, all the lies. You destroyed my world. You and your City. I will find out what you want to steal from me. I will rise up, and nothing, no one, will ever control me again.

THE FEVERS OF HELL

MOST OF THOSE WHO WANDER ARE THOUGHT TO BE LOST IN THE DEVASTATION. WE HAVE NO KNOWLEDGE OF THEIR ORIGINS, BELIEFS, OR NUMBERS. ALL WE KNOW IS THAT WHERE THEY HAVE PASSED, THE WHITE CRICKET THRIVES.

—THE WAR CHRONICLES

H
EAT RADIATES FROM HIS BODY,
the taint of his ordeal with Saint torching his insides, but Roan is certain he's alive, alive and back in the world. He knows it because he senses the coolness of the air, the rich scent of cedar, his back upon the mossy ground. He can hear voices, can see faces through the fog, but they rise and fall, in and out of view.

“It's been a whole day and night and the fever hasn't quit.”

Lumpy.

“It's not unusual after visiting the place of torment. He must have resisted it. Fled when he should have embraced. Glimpsed instead of becoming. That is the reason for his sickness.”

“We should move him. Get help.”

“He has everything he needs. He is strong and my medicine is good.”

“Then he'll get better?”

“His fever will end, but he cannot fully recover until he returns to the place that called him.”

Roan feels himself writhe on the ground; he tries to call out Lumpy's name but there's a stick in his mouth.

“The cloths,” says Mabatan.

Cold, wet cloths are spread across his chest and legs, quelling the fire under his skin. Roan opens his eyes a little more, trying to focus.

Lumpy's face is very close. “Roan? It's me.”

Roan tries to say, “I know it's you,” but all that emerges is a strangled sound from his throat.

“Take out the stick,” says Mabatan.

“You were convulsing before,” Lumpy explains, removing the obstruction. “This kept you from biting your tongue.”

“Lumpy. I saw the children,” Roan stammers. “Mabatan took me. There's a rift. In the Dreamfield. They hold it together.”

Roan closes his eyes and moans, his body wracked with pain. Mabatan touches his forehead. “He is too hot.”

She crushes a piece of bark with a stone. Putting some of the powder into a cup, she adds a little water and puts it to Roan's lips. “Drink. This will help you.”

As Roan sips the liquid, a calmness settles over him. His body sinks into the moss. Lying there, half awake, he hears Mabatan whistle softly and senses his cricket responding to the call.

Lumpy's cricket jumps down beside Roan's, and when they begin to sing, three more white crickets emerge from Mabatan's pocket to join them. Within moments, crickets descend from the tree, from under rocks and fallen branches. Dozens of them surround Roan, singing.

Roan sighs heavily, feeling himself enveloped in a cloak of mist.

“They have taken him to the place between. He is awake to the sounds of the earth but his spirit is resting safely. When he rises, he will be stronger.”

Relieved, Lumpy sits beside Roan, careful not to disturb the crickets.

“Mabatan, what do you know about the crickets? I mean, apart from the fact that they are creatures of the earth.”

“But that is the center of their being. That is exactly what they are. More fully that than any other creature in the world. You must know this, for they chose you.”

“Well, since the first one I had got crushed, I don't know how wise a choice it made.” Lumpy lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

Mabatan, however, remains quite earnest. “The crickets, all of them, they chose you.”

“You can't be serious. How would you know something like that?”

“They told me.”

“They talk to you?”

“Talk, no. Tell me things, yes.”

“Like that I was chosen.”

“Yes. That you were chosen.”

Lumpy's hand goes to the craters that landscape his face. Craters formed by the Mor-Ticks that attacked him and his family. All dead except for Lumpy. He was saved by a white cricket, when it killed the parasites that were consuming him. Almost breathless, he forces out the words. “I never understood why I lived and my family died. Why there was only one cricket, and why it picked me to save.”

“It is because you will save many.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, you've made a mistake. I'm not the hero. That job belongs to Roan.”

“I do not know that saving many and being a hero are always one. I wish I could say more, but that is all I understand.”