Freewalker (18 page)

He reaches into his pocket and the white cricket crawls onto his finger. As Roan sets it gently on his knee, it begins to sing and Roan breathes in the rhythm. Nothing happens for the first thirty breaths, but then a spark flashes. Roan does not reach for it with his mind, just lets it float, continuing his breathing. The spark begins to multiply until Roan is enclosed in light. He focuses on a point at the top of his head and inhales the glow. The light fills him, flows down his bones and out again—only this time, he goes along for the ride.

From above, he looks at himself, sitting on the bedroll, the cricket still singing on his knee. How peaceful he looks. How free of anxiety. If only he really felt that way.

Roan soars through the tunnel Lumpy left by. Hhroxhi move quickly through the winding pathways, but within moments Roan sails past them.

He is quick to recognize the intricacy of their architecture. Every tunnel leads to a chamber, and each chamber offers multiple exits that lead to more chambers. An infinite web of channels just beneath the surface of the earth. How extensive are they? Roan wonders. What a tool they would be in the right hands.

Roan is stopped by the sight of a family of four. The boy and girl are his and Stowe's age, their parents not much different than his might be if they were still alive. The mother is gently filing the girl's teeth, the father twining rope with his son. Somehow, this is not what he expected to see. But fondness for their children doesn't necessarily make these creatures any less dangerous.

Roan goes on, slipping through the tunnels, visiting chamber after chamber. Every type of worker is housed here. Weavers, drillmakers, cleaners, cobblers, potters, blacksmiths, miners, toymakers. There's a large hospice where the old and dying are cared for, a hospital where a woman is giving birth. He watches the infant emerge, covered in blood. As the midwife cleans it off, Roan can see the infant is precisely the same as any newborn. And the fanged, earless mother who holds it in her arms, nuzzling and cooing, is as loving and nurturing as any mother he's ever seen.

In this ether form, Roan's lost all sense of time. He wonders where Lumpy might be. He pictures Lumpy's face and is instantly in a room where Lumpy and Mhyzah are sitting cross-legged, objects littered around them. She holds up a bowl, softly clicks her tongue, and coarsely hisses. Lumpy repeats with a similar click and hiss. She smiles and Lumpy smiles back. She passes him the bowl.

Lumpy was alone for so long he cannot resist the company of people. There are so few who do not fear him. Do these Blood Drinkers see him as not quite human as well?

The loss of family and friends is a tragedy he and Lumpy share, but Roan's been betrayed too often since to welcome anyone with open arms. He trusted Saint once. There was a time he trusted Alandra completely. Now he's learned to trust only Lumpy and solitude.

Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, Roan leaves his friend to his language lesson and seeks the open air. He finds himself hovering high over fields of tall red-brown grass. Dust billows on a hard dirt road. At its center are several dozen wild-looking men on galloping horses. Fandor.

And riding point, his cloak of feathers swirling behind, is Raven.

But Raven's a Brother. Why is he with one of their most hated enemies? Much has changed, Mabatan said, and Raven always was treacherous. Even Saint didn't trust him. But to turn against the Brothers? Or maybe they've turned against him? Could it be possible that they disbanded after Saint's death?

Desperate to find out, Roan flies beside them, hoping to catch snippets of conversation. But invisible strings pull on him, the separation between his body and spirit straining. He fights against it, trying to stay close to Raven, but it's no use. He's reached his limit.

Frustrated, Roan envisions himself back in his body, and upon contact, is, as always, startled by the heaviness of his flesh. Opening his eyes, he's welcomed back into the world by a glowering Lumpy.

“What were you doing?” he demands. “You didn't look like you were asleep.”

“Traveling.”

“You promised not to.”

“Not the Dreamfield. I can leave my body, see things. But I can't go very far. At least, not yet.”

“Not another new trick,” Lumpy moans.

“Not new, but I haven't done it in a while.” Roan rises unsteadily, his limbs numb.

“Have you been in that position since I left?”

Roan stamps his feet and waves his arms to get his blood circulating. “I'm not sure how time works when I do it. It just felt like a few minutes.”

Lumpy laughs. “No wonder you're stiff, I've been gone all day. See anything interesting on your travels?”

“Raven. With the Fandor. I don't understand what he was doing there. They were battle-ready.”

“How far away?”

Roan shakes his head. “Don't know.” Then a smile curls on his lips. “And I saw you with Mhyzah.”

But instead of the surprise or embarrassment Roan expected, Lumpy looks gloomy.

“Sorry. Did something go wrong?”

“No, we got along really well. She was teaching me their language, it's fascinating. By the end of the day, we were able to communicate a bit.”

“So why the long face?”

“Nothing, really.”

Roan had thought meeting Mhyzah might have triggered memories of Lelbit, but it's not sorrow Roan hears in Lumpy's voice.

“What is it? I want to know.”

Lumpy raises his head and looks at Roan with steady eyes. He breathes deeply, then speaks. “It's about that raid by the Blood Drinkers on Fairview.”

“I threw a lot of them off the wall that day. We were fighting for our lives.”

“So were they,” says Lumpy. “Governor Brack was using Fairview's lake water to flush them out. The men were out on the surface when it happened. Somehow Brack discovered the entry to one of their tunnels, then pumped thousands of gallons of lake water into the hole. Hundreds of Hhroxhi were killed, mostly women and children. When the men returned home and discovered what happened, they went berserk. And did something they never do.”

Roan is staggered. Having experienced Brack's cruelty firsthand, he knows the Governor is all too capable of mass murder. Everything Roan thought he knew about that battle is apparently wrong, and though he doesn't doubt the truth of what Lumpy's said, he finds himself going back to that day, trying to align his experience with this new information. “That's why the Blood Drinkers were so unprepared. Just those ladders. And why they seemed oblivious to pain.”

“Mhyzah's mother was one of those killed. She couldn't stop her father before he ran off to battle. He was one of the first up the ladders.”

“I remember,” says Roan, softly.

“Very few of the Blood Drinkers escaped the Raiders. Those they caught after the battle were thrown dead or alive into the lake. But one of the few young warriors who did make it back told Mhyzah that a human who dressed differently than the others had pushed over that first ladder. Mhyzah's father's neck was broken in the fall.”

A grave stillness settles behind Roan's eyes. “It was me. I killed Mhyzah's father.”

THE CRAVING

THERE ARE CLAWS ON THE HANDLES OF DARIUS'S DOOR
NONE HAVE DARED ASK THE MASTER
WHATEVER ARE THEY FOR
BUT THIS A WISE MAN ONCE WHISPERED IN MY EAR
“YOU NEED NOT WASTE YOUR FEAR ON THEM,
THEY'RE NOT WHAT THEY APPEAR.”

—LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

S
TOWE STIRS FROM THE THICK COCOON
of sleep, the dreams still sticking. All night long, she's had to endure a barrage of every single thing that's happened to her since she was old enough to remember, unmercifully intertwined with screaming, and burning, and terror. Why now? It's as if something has been opened that she is powerless to close.

She does not move, does not lift her heavy lids. What if someone finds out? What if she's been shouting in her sleep? She listens. Someone's beside the bed. Gwyneth? No, not the shallow breaths of Gwyneth's tiny frame—these are steady and measured. Gwyneth has told someone about her night screams. Why? Normally she'd be too afraid, as it would mean having to admit to giving Stowe the wine, and facing the ensuing punishment. Whatever Stowe was doing in her sleep, it was enough to seriously frighten Gwyneth. Who has she told, that's the question.

Stowe opens her eye a crack, just enough to recognize Willum's silhouette. Good. Gwyneth has some sense left in her adjusted brain. With any luck, Willum will understand. Willum will protect her. Lying still, Stowe ponders the yellow canopy above her bed. The slip of light piercing the heavy curtain tells her it's midday.

“Have you been sitting there long?” asks Stowe.

“As you know, time is relative. But for me, no, not very long at all.”

Stowe can tell by his dark puffy eyes that he's been there most of the night. “I think there was something wrong with that wine.”

“Stowe,” Willum whispers, moving closer to the bed, “you were dreaming of when you first came here, what it was like, weren't you?”

Willum's smile is tired but warm, and perhaps it would help to tell him so. She nods. “I remember the red skull man giving me to clerics. And the truck that brought me here. I'd never tasted ice cream before. They let me eat as much as I wanted.”

“Not all children are provided for in that way.” Willum frowns, as if attempting a solution to some intricate puzzle. Then looking back up at her, eyes brimming with concern, he murmurs, “But they feared for your life. You were very thin, very pale. You wouldn't speak. My aptitude with children was brought to Darius's attention and he had me in to meet you.”

“You showed me all those skipping games to try and get me to talk.”

“I tried but it didn't work. You'd been broken, torn from everything you knew, but you still had your rage. Your rage told you to keep from the Masters the one thing they desired: your presence. You withdrew completely into yourself, refused to respond to anything. Kordan claimed the Dirt would be a means to connect with you, and I could offer no alternative but giving you time. I knew if enough time passed, you would gradually recover. But,” Willum smiles softly, “time is relative. And to the Masters, my choice seemed too great a risk. What if your decline continued, they asked? What if it took your life? Darius admitted the Dirt was a dangerous alternative but thought it necessary.”

“Not necessary,” she says, “just expedient.”

“Yes, the results were immediate. But in the long term, expedience has its pitfalls. You lost your childhood and gained an unhealthy dependence. Stowe, you've been unconscious for two days. For a time, you had no pulse at all.”

Stowe stares at him. “That can't be true.” It felt as if she'd just closed her eyes.

“Stowe. Have you ever known me to lie?”

Then they know, they all know. There will be questions. Investigations. She won't be able to conceal the power she's absorbed from the barrier. The power she needs so desperately to overcome her adversaries.

“I'm going to help you, Stowe.”

“Good Willum, kind Willum, why are you being my friend?”

“I will guide you in overcoming your dependence on the Dirt.”

Stowe goes very cold. “Darius approves?” she says incredulously.

“It came to Darius's attention that Kordan's demand for Dirt had tripled in the last four months. And that the greater portion was going to you. Kordan has proved himself an inadequate teacher. Everything is on hold until you become healthy again.”

She's caught in an impasse. No Dirt means no more traveling to the Dreamfield. No new opportunities to absorb the energy inside the Wall. But Willum is offering to shield her from questioning, the blame laid squarely on Kordan and the Dirt. Play the part and she might live to finish the game. She wants to scream in frustration, but instead she sighs in weary resignation.

“You've always looked after me, Willum. You know what's best. How long do you think it will take?”

“Only a matter of weeks.”

Weeks!

“All right then,” Stowe agrees. The more quickly they become satisfied that she's recovered, the more quickly she can return to the Wall.

She finds a wan smile to put on and squeezes Willum's hand with her little fingers. Locating her most sincere tone, she humbly says, “Thank you, Willum. For being by my side. For giving me hope.”

Willum's gaze, however, remains inquiring. He is observing her in the probing way she's seen him, on countless occasions, examine others. What is he looking for? What does he want?

If the days pass slowly, the evenings are interminable. Every night, without fail, as she drifts off to sleep, her mind starts to race.

Are you not Our Stowe? Face on every wall, sister to all, the glue of the fragile alliance that is the City? And how do they treat you? No better than a prisoner! What right have they? One small weakness and through no fault of your own. How dare they! You have to get out! Out!

Shut up! Shut up! Useless, relentless, she can't seem to control the direction of her thoughts. How can she get out when she's crouched in a corner whimpering, trying to hide from the red mask, the fire, the stench of burning... burning...

She counts backwards, forwards, breathes deep, tenses and relaxes every individual muscle, but it won't stop. Doubts, fears, ambitions, all echo in an irritating, endless loop.

Stowe is tired, with a fatigue that goes deep into her bones. She knows this ordeal will not end quickly. Perhaps if she leaves her body...? But no. Her instincts tell her not to; she fears that if she left she might not be able to get back. She doesn't have the strength, anyway—or is it the focus? Whatever it is, it's stopping her.

If she could shout loud enough, she might stop her mind racing. But she can't; everyone would wake up, they would see the extremity of her condition. Then where would she be? She must prove that she's recovering, recovering quickly. She bites her hand, letting the pain shut out her thoughts. She paces the corners of her prison endlessly, her mouth clamped to the side of her palm. Focusing on the pain, she swims in it until finally, she's rewarded with a sweet silence. Only then does she feel the throb in her hand, and opening her eyes, she sees that the floor and her clothes are spotted with her blood. But her head is clear. Clear and blessedly silent.