Freewalker (16 page)

“I can hear you, Seer,” says Stowe softly. “I almost brought you back a present.” The sadness in her voice is genuine. Best to tell the truth; who knows what he might have discovered.

Darius is pleased. “A present?”

“One of the Eaters. But the thing irritated me so much, I killed it. I am sorry.”

Darius's milky eyes barely conceal their sparkle; excitement trembles beneath the steady calm of his voice. “You killed it? Are you sure?”

Ah, he didn't think she could do it. Make it seem easy. “I crushed it in my hand. It was dead.”

He ponders each sentence, savoring it, turning each over in his mind.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“On the contrary. Killing an ether form with your bare hands, this is good news indeed.”

Could it be no one's accomplished this before? Stowe knows the Dreamfield itself can consume lives, and so can the Constructions the Masters have made within it. But to kill in hand-to-hand combat appears to be something new. It must have been the energy from the Wall, the light coursing through her, that amplified her strength. “What about the corporeal body?” she wonders aloud. “Is it dead too?”

Darius laughs. “They are part of the same whole, my Stowe. If one dies, the other passes also or, at least, ceases to function in any meaningful way.”

“It was a lizard, the one I killed.”

Darius, usually so restrained, gasps with delight. “Ferrell! Finally we are rid of him.”

“How old was he? What did he do?” Stowe hungers for details about him, wanting proof he was the enemy she thought he was, to justify, perhaps even magnify, her triumph.

“He would have been a little older than Willum. A tactician,” Darius purrs. “One of the designers of their Wall.”

“You've met him?”

“My Stowe, I have never set eyes upon him. What I know is based on our intelligence. And this I can say with authority: Ferrell was a great threat, a scheming, word-twisting, treacherous opponent, and his loss to the Eaters will immeasurably weaken their cause. You have made us proud. Now you must tell me of your experience in its entirety. I want to hear every minute detail.”

Stowe dutifully describes the Wall, careful to leave out her absorption of the energy. She tells of the cloud that almost trapped her and how her attackers rose like demons from the sea.

As she finishes, she realizes she's been unconsciously stroking her abdomen. It tingles where the lizard clawed into her. Lingering effects from the bite? Or maybe it's not the wound at all, but an aftershock where the light penetrated her form more deeply and intensely.

“Are you alright, my darling?” asks Darius. He's being more doting than usual and she's no longer naive enough to think that these attentions are benign.

“Yes, fine, thank you,” she says, hoping to appear stoic. He must not find out what's happened; it's her trump card. No one else is capable of entering the Wall and coming out unscathed. Only
she
has real knowledge of what it offers, and what she knows is precious little. She needs to know more. She needs to go back. “Father, I felt strong, so strong. You have taught me well. But now, I am so tired.”

“Yes, of course, rest, my Stowe, rest. Then we will celebrate you, my dearest. You most certainly deserve it.” He strokes her hair, blessing her with a look of... pride? Triumph? Her killing of the Eater pleased him. Is this how he plans to use her? She manages a slight look of bliss before she closes her eyes. The power of the Wall must be hers. It will be. Her wellspring. Her treasure trove. Their demise.

The Grand Epulary is reserved for the Masters' celebrations, a stark, imposing room with high vaulted ceilings and massive skylights. Its austere design belies the wealth assembled here. When Stowe enters, the applause is deafening. Every man and woman is standing, no mean feat, for most are ancient, their decrepitude barely kept at bay. She scans their faces. Their transplanted eyes are riveted on her. They are all here, the forty-one Masters of the City. How delightful. All that newly replenished blood pumping through artificial veins—she can see it throb beneath the skin grafts that strain their corpse-like smiles.

She bows and raises her hand magisterially. “Thank you, esteemed ones. Your appreciation fills my heart with joy.” Stowe then puts her hand to her heart, pausing for effect. All of them in one room. Does she have the power to burst all their skulls with one scream? Perhaps, but first she must be certain. She will preserve this thought as a future pleasure to savor. It could be amusing, imagining all the varied ways in which she might obliterate them.

“You are my elders.” She pitches her voice perfectly: respectful, yes, but with the vibrant power of her youth pulsing beneath each word. “And I thank you for your kindness. Most of all, I must thank the Keeper of the City, Archbishop of the Conurbation, The Great Seer, my godfather, Darius. It is to him we owe all our good fortune.”

More applause. They will always applaud, long and loud, for Darius. Especially when his eye is upon them. Bowing her head, she sits demurely between Darius and Kordan. Darius squeezes her hand. “You owe nothing to anyone, my sweet,” he whispers under the applause. “You were born to be where you stand today. I only provide the proper environment for your talents to blossom.”

Stowe strokes his hand as the first course is set before her, an asparagus and endive salad. Her favorite. Mesmerized by the variance in the greens, her head begins to throb. The plate begins to waver as if she were seeing with two pairs of eyes. She braces herself against the table.

“Is everything all right, Our Stowe?” asks Kordan, an arch coldness in his voice. He's jealous of her triumph. His place by Darius's side hangs by a thread. And that thread is her willingness to have him there.

“The kitchen must not have been aware of my allergies. I cannot eat this,” she smiles sweetly at Kordan, the lie like sugar on the tip of her tongue. “Could you return it, honored teacher, and ask that they prepare something else?”

She's pleased to see her demand has made Kordan blanch. Yes. He must accept his new place in her scheme of things.

“Apologies, Our Stowe. Someone will be punished for the oversight,” he hisses, and sweeps away.

She can feel Willum's eyes burning into her. He's leaning against a pillar, a drink in one hand. His face seems relaxed but his eyes never leave her, a sure sign of irritation. She wishes she could ignore him. The reason for his displeasure is transparent. Why must she always leap to strike at Kordan, like a spoiled child? And why will the throbbing in her head not stop? It's like a screw twisting into her brain. She squeezes her temples with her fingertips, pushes hard, trying to stop the ache. Her hands go clammy, the back of her neck flares, her legs tremble.

“Here. Drink this,” Willum whispers and places a glass of juice in her hand.

The liquid is lusciously sweet and cool. She gulps greedily, her body absorbing it as the desert absorbs rain. What is the flavor? Delicious yet unfamiliar.

“What's this?” she asks as he replaces her empty glass with another. Water. Only water. But no less satisfying.

“All of it,” Willum coaxes.

There. Relief. Was that it? She'd been dehydrated. Was that all? Ha!

How worried Willum looks. It pleases her, this look. But soon he turns away. He is reading the crowd, always the teacher. Of course, she should be doing it as well. They are all hungry, these Masters. So hungry for whatever it is they believe she will deliver. Hungry for what Darius has planned. How much do they know? What a surprise they are in for.

“That was lovely,” murmurs Stowe. “Thank you, my Primary, for your kind attentions.” Then, with her most beguiling smile, she turns back to Darius.

Though the evening was to be a celebration in her honor, it had proved, rather, to be a test of her perseverance. Exhausted from the unrelenting tedium of it, her face aching from hours of false smiles and feigned sentiment, all Stowe wants to do is sleep.

Instead she's lain here for who knows how long, twisting under the covers, memories racing. Gwyneth, her servant, dutifully brought the relaxation tea she always drinks before bed, but for the first time it's had no effect. These memories are a plague.

Mama's hands pulling a sweater over her head. You have to go! Roan
will keep you safe. Be brave, little pumpkin!

Stowe clutching her doll, the one with the shawl she dyed herself. Show
me your brave smile, says Mama, covering her face in kisses. Kisses and
tears. Why is she crying? Stowe doesn't want to let go, but Daddy lifts her
through the open window.

Hide in the blue brush! Run, run!

Roan gripping her hand, pulling her away. Mama! Stowe screams.

Huge monster men on horses, throwing fire. Everything burning.

They run, run, run past the wall. They're on the icy whip-grass, the
blue brush isn't far.

She feels a hand go around her, lifting her. It's hard, hard and cold. She
looks into the monster's face. A red skull! She grips Roan's hand as hard as she can but the man kicks him. Roan! She reaches, reaches for him, almost touching,
but the red skull's club smashes him and Roan falls. Her doll drops and
she screams and screams and screams.

“Our Stowe, you were shouting.”

Stowe, sweating into the sheets, sees the ever calm Gwyneth standing by her bed. The servant's inner peace is gained from the alpha enabler buried in her neck.

“Was I? Every time I shut my eyes I see things, Gwyneth, horrible things. But you wouldn't know about that, would you? You aren't capable of visions, nightmares. You have no need of dreams.”

“I remember that they were unpleasant. We thank Our Stowe daily for taking on this unfortunate burden. Would you like another night draft? Perhaps it will ease your sleep.”

“No, they're useless tonight. Bring me a glass of wine.”

“I have not been instructed to offer you—”

“Gwyneth, I have made a request.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Have you been instructed to obey my requests?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Then get me a glass of wine. Now.”

As the servant scurries away, Stowe leans against her headboard, but the moment she rests her heavy eyes, it begins again.

She kicks and yells and bites. Screams “Mama!” over and over until she
hears her. With a hundred other voices. Humming. Like a cat purrs. The
red-skulled rider spurs the horse and it gallops away. Stowe's insides bounce,
her throat goes sore from screaming, her eyes reach for anything familiar, but rocked and jostled, it's all a blur. Then the horse stops abruptly. She watches
the steam rise off its neck and flanks, feels the chill on her feet, the tension in
the man's arm.

“Just one?” says a voice.

“The search continues,” says Red Skull, shifting Stowe into the arms of
blue-robed men.

“Have you ever tasted ice cream, little girl?” says one. His voice sounds
kind but his face is leaden. “It is the most delicious thing in the world.”

“Our Stowe. Lady.”

Stowe looks up to see her faithful servant hovering, her face frowning with concern. But her eyes are devoid of light, of solace of any kind.

“Yes, Gwyneth?”

“You were smiling, Our Stowe. Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes, thank you.” She remembers how she used to throw things at the women they sent to care for her. Scream at them. Hurt them if she could. Until she realized that they would each be replaced by another, exactly the same. What had she been hoping for?

Gwyneth quickly pours her a glass. Stowe swallows it all despite the bite of fermented grapes. Anything to stop these infernal memories.

“Another,” she calls out. Gwyneth flinches. But Stowe doesn't care. Why shouldn't the blazing mistress of the Dreamfield, the Breaker of the Wall, indulge in this petty drug when she has tasted much stronger? The servant dutifully pours her a second glass. But as Stowe brings it to her lips, the glass slips from her hand, and splatters onto the floor. The lights dim darker and darker until all fades to black.

IN THE LAIR OF THE BLOOD DRINKERS

THEY SLEEP IN THE EARTH LIKE THE WALKING DEAD, THEIR LANGUAGE CLICKS LIKE THE INSECTS THAT SHARE THEIR BEDS. GIVE THEM NO QUARTER FOR THEY ARE NOT HUMAN.

—THE WAR CHRONICLES

R
OAN, HIS BACK AGAINST
the earthen wall, slowly reaches for his hook-sword. The Blood Drinkers inch toward him, their small silver knives glittering in the blue light. He's been forced to fight them before, knows his blade will take its toll.

One of the ugliest, his arms and chest patterned with swirls of scars, leaps at Roan, fangs bared, tongue flitting over his lips, knife flashing from hand to hand. Roan breaks the hook-sword from its binding, whips it forward. The scarred creature steps back and circles as Roan lifts his weapon, ready to strike. Three drinkers slink alongside the first, blades jutting toward Roan. He swings, knocking the knife out of one hand, kicking another. He whirls, but before he can strike again, a hand grips his wrist like a vice. Mabatan.

Lumpy, confused, gapes at her. “What are you doing?”

Roan, respecting Mabatan's will, lowers his sword. Letting go of him, she steps up to the first Blood Drinker. Soft gurglings rise from deep in her throat. The scarred one stares at her with pink, unblinking eyes, then hisses and clicks his tongue. Mabatan carefully takes off her woven rucksack and reaches in, bringing out a small red bag. She lowers her head and offers it to the Blood Drinker, who bows as he accepts it. Opening it, he carefully shakes several dried yellow flowers into his palm. He sniffs, then signals to a young female with bright red eyes. Head bowed, she cups her hands with great reverence. He lets Mabatan's flowers tumble into them. Two sharp inhalations and the value of the contents is determined. With a quick nod, she slips the fragile petals back into the bag, then leaves through one of the holes.