Freewalker (2 page)

When she first arrived in the City she was too angry and afraid to speak, distrusting everyone she met. But Darius gave her Willum, who made her understand that even if she couldn't give up her anger, she might at least set her fear aside. Then Darius coaxed her and soothed her and coddled her and revealed the mystery of the Dirt—and the Dirt made her more than she was, better and stronger and wiser. She began to forget, and all of Darius's words became her own.

When he'd told her the Brothers were insane, a suicide cult, uncontrolled and dangerous, and that it was a lucky chance she'd been saved by the Masters of the City, she'd believed him. All was not lost, he'd insisted. After all, she had the Keeper himself, Great Seer of the City, to care for her. But he'd lied: Darius had been the one who'd planned it all. The attack on Longlight. Its destruction. The death of her parents. Why had she been so ready to accept his lies?

And how many other lies has he told her?

She must listen. Listen with her eyes as well as her ears. Listen and learn.

“I doubt six months in prison has inspired his loyalty,” sniffs Kordan.

“Perhaps you'd prefer the task?”

Kordan stares at the floor, no doubt trying to control the glower in his eye. Such a weak man. So transparent.

“I thought not.” Darius looks to the door. “Willum.”

Stowe's guardian quickly enters. “I am here, Keeper.” Willum is always there, always offering sensible suggestions. He does not lie, never denies a possibility, only states facts. Darius values his opinion, which is a testament to Willum's intelligence and cunning. Willum has never wronged her, it's true. He's never wronged anyone that she's aware of—but she hasn't been aware of much, it seems. That will change, now that her eyes have been opened.

“Where is Our Stowe?”

“She rests, Keeper.”

Stowe whirls above them, hovering just over their heads. Fools! She is not asleep. At least not this part of her. She has a secret. She can escape her skin. In her ether body, she can fly where she will, flitting around marble columns, sweeping past oblivious citizens or high above spiral towers, glass domes, wire walkways, so high that people look like dots on the ground, and towers become building blocks. Or here, invisible, able to discover what the Masters try to conceal from her. She'll be their dupe no longer.

“The time has arrived, Willum.”

“She is too young, Eldest.”

Kordan sneers. “You fretted she'd be damaged by her use of Dirt and were proven wrong.”

“With all due respect, Master Kordan, my fears were correct. The Dirt has transformed Our Stowe. It has forced her intellect to mature far beyond her years, and exposed her to a depth of knowledge that has shaken the stability of some of our most accomplished Masters. Stowe's powers are just beginning to blossom and as we suspected, her talents will far supersede our own. But to push her too fast too soon bears great risk. It is easy to forget in the presence of one so articulate and poised, but allow me to remind you that within Our Stowe lies the volatile nature of a ten-year-old.”

“Good Willum, of course all of what you say is true. The unfortunate facts remain, however. The governors are uneasy. Their demands increase daily. Should order not be restored, our energies will be diverted. We can wait no longer,” says Darius, regret in his voice.

“I understand that our need is great, Keeper. But it is my duty to impress upon you the danger posed by this acceleration in her development.”

“Her contribution outweighs her impairments. What do a few fits of temper matter? Look around you. We need to act,” says Kordan.

With a wave of his finger, Darius silences Kordan. “Willum, you are to focus her education on the skills she will require to face the challenges ahead. Directing the ventures has fallen to Master Kordan; he shall inform you precisely what those requirements will be.” Darius's tone signals that the discussion is over. As the two men bow and leave the room, Stowe has one last look at the Archbishop, her newfound enemy. She then quickly returns to her bed and slips back inside herself, seething. They think they know who I am. Impairments? Fits of temper? They don't know the power that's inside me. But one day they will. And on that day, I will melt the skin from their bones.

NEWLIGHT

ROAN WAS AFLOAT ON IT WITH CHILDREN HE'D STOLEN FROM UNDER THE NOSE OF THE JABBERWOCK WHEN SAINT SET OUT AFTER THEM WITH TWELVE OF HIS MEN. NOT A ONE RETURNED. THE BOILING LAKE FORGIVES NO TRESPASS: NOT EVEN THEIR BONES REMAIN.

—LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

“I
 LIKE PULLING UP WEEDS!
” shouts Lona, holding up a gnarly root in each little hand.

“I pull 'em faster!” says Bub, tossing another weed in his basket.

“No, you don't, I'm winning!”

Roan chuckles as he tends the seedlings. Both the crops and the children are thriving in their new home, this place they've named Newlight. Once Lumpy rejoined them, it took three weeks of trekking to find their way here, no small task with fourteen rambunctious children. Guided by Roan's snow cricket, their search ended in this low valley, as beautiful a place as Roan has ever seen, a spot seemingly unscathed by the ravages of the Abominations that poisoned so much of the planet less than a hundred years before. Its meadows have rich topsoil, its forests abundant timber and firewood, and its pristine river-fed lake provides drinking water and fish. Rolling hills protect them from the worst of the elements and the four seasons they've spent here have been nothing short of idyllic. This is Roan's first real home since Longlight was annihilated and he's continually reminded of his birthplace. Sometimes he mistakes the children's laughter for that of his old friends or imagines his father just under that tree, reading one of his books, or his mother carving a new door for the main hall. They would have loved this land. Once, Stowe would have thrived here.

To maintain security, he's had to avoid the Dreamfield, the only sure way Stowe had of finding him. The fear of losing her forever preys on Roan. But the dream that is Newlight is haunted by many ghosts. Saint and his agonized plea as he fell to his death. The unbearable grief of Lelbit's final breath while Lumpy watched, his hope for love obliterated. Stowe. All calling out to him. Always calling out to him.

As Roan carefully culls the weaker seedlings, he worries that he might never be able to enjoy his new life here—so much suffering took place in the struggle to arrive. His hand, mounding soil around the base of a surviving plant, reminds him of all he lost and how easily it was taken from him.

“Can we go chop down trees with Merritt?”

Roan looks up, grateful that Bub has liberated him from these dark thoughts. “After we finish here,” he says, marveling at how the boy's grown in the past year. He must be half a head taller.

“O-kay!” Bub scurries back to the weed-pulling contest.

“What did he say?” asks Lona.

“We gotta finish first!” yells Bub, yanking up roots.

Roan can hear Merritt's axe in the nearby wood. He's a good carpenter and an amiable man, but Roan still wishes they didn't need the help of these workers from Oasis. Alandra had argued that even with the mild weather, they needed more than lean-tos for shelter. Buildings were required. For that task they needed craftspeople with proper tools, and people who could bring food and supplies to see them through the winter. People who knew the lay of the land and could ensure a crop come summer.

“You and Lumpy might enjoy surviving on grubs and termites, but children need a bit more than bugs to eat,” she said.

Still, Roan was reluctant to reveal the location of Newlight to anyone, even the Forgotten, and why shouldn't he be—hadn't the first visitor to Longlight brought about its ruin? Alandra kept insisting, though. It wasn't that he doubted her dedication to the children's health and well-being, but in their many disagreements she was always quick to dismiss his concerns. Her relentless single-mindedness was making him wonder where her allegiances truly lay.

In the end, a carpenter and four other workers from Oasis had joined them, a skilled group of people whose commitment is undeniable. For here, unprotected by the caves of Oasis that had maintained their youth, they've already begun to show their true ages, deep wrinkles appearing on their faces. Loren directs the building construction, Bildt oversees the cultivation, Selden the food preparation, and Terre, an accomplished weaver in her own right, commits time to work as an apprentice healer under Alandra. Roan likes them all, more or less. He has to admit the shelters went up quickly, the gardens were planted with success, and the children are happy, relishing their new lives. What more could he ask for?

And yet, these people from Oasis are clearly more than mere craftspeople. Roan can see the wariness in their eyes, the physical discipline they maintain. They must have been sent not only to help, but as guards—of him and the children. It's not an unreasonable precaution, there is always the threat of the Brothers. But the fact that they do not acknowledge this other purpose has only served to increase Roan's suspicions.

“I won! I won!” shouts Lona.

“I got twice as many as you!” protests Bub. “Plus you got lots of broken roots, the weeds'll grow back!”

“Roan!” Lona wails. “Are my roots all broken?”

Roan, with a deeply serious look on his face, strides over to the baskets, inspecting each one intently. He picks up weeds from each basket, sniffs them, pinches them, and finally bites them, eliciting a squeal of laughter from Lona. Then he pronounces his verdict. “Without a doubt, you are both supreme weed yankers and for this reason I am appointing you both to a new position.” And laying his hands on their heads, Roan declares, “I hereby dub you Captains of the Weeds. Congratulations.”

Proud smiles break out across Lona's and Bub's faces. “For true?” Lona says. “For really true?”

“For really true.”

Lona whoops and elbows Bub. “Come on, Captain, let's yank!”

“I still pull better than you!”

Roan watches as they dive back to the ground, hands gripping weeds. But Lona suddenly stops mid-motion. Her head bobs, her eyes roll back, and she collapses.

“What—?” begins Bub, and without another word, he's crumpled down beside her.

“Come on, you two,” Roan smiles, thinking it's some kind of game. As he reaches them, however, he sees that their faces are pale and lifeless.

Terrified, he bends over Lona, and puts his ear to her chest. All he can detect is her hollow shell, and a great darkness within her. Steadying his breath and focusing deeper, he hears it. A faint heartbeat. She's not dead. He instantly reaches with his mind to sense Bub. Like Lona, Bub's consciousness feels so indistinct and distant that Roan can't reach it. Hoping against hope that the other children aren't also stricken, he shifts his attention outward—and the voice of Alandra is the first signal he picks up. Six were with her in the main residence, sorting herbs when they collapsed: Sake, Dani, Beck, Anais, Tamm, Korina. She's already attending to them, along with Runk and Theo.

Anxious shouting draws his attention. In the distance, other cries, other voices. Merritt's screaming for help with Gip. Bildt with Geemo. Lumpy's yelling at Jaw and Jam, splashing them with water but they won't wake, won't move.

Terre, the healing apprentice, ashen-faced, appears at the garden's edge. “It's struck them too?”

“Every one is down,” says Roan, fighting to stay calm.

“Could you reach them?”

“No. But they're still alive. Barely. Help me take them to Alandra.”

Roan carefully places Lona in Terre's arms and takes Bub in his own. Moving as swiftly as he dares, he picks his way across the familiar path toward the lake, taking care to protect his charge from jutting branches. He sees, coming from the water, from the forest, from the fields, Lumpy, Bildt, and Merritt, catapulted forward by the burden they hold in their arms. Roan's apprehension grows at the sight of each limp child. But nothing could prepare him for the panic that hits him as he follows them into the residence. Loren and Selden frantically prepare beds for the new wave of victims. Lumpy's beside Jaw, tears filling his eyes, begging the unconscious boy to wake up. Terre, swiftly laying Lona safely down, joins Alandra, who's shouting out instructions as she rushes from child to child.

“Put them down on their backs! Heads slightly elevated! Make sure their airways are clear! Terre, bring me the salts!”

Brushing the hair from Bub's forehead, Roan scans the room and as his gaze drifts across the fourteen small beds, he struggles to control his own anxiety. These children are teetering on the edge of death, and he's responsible for their lives.

“I don't know what's happening yet,” Alandra says. “Give me one full day with them to formulate a diagnosis.” She holds Bub's wrists, taking his pulses, assessing the strength of his organs and blood and energy fields. Her downcast face tells Roan all he needs about the prognosis.

“Will they last a whole day?” Roan asks.

“The sleep is deep but they live. Go,” she says. “And take the others. Let Terre and me do our work.”

Roan stands and signals everyone but the healers to leave. Lumpy squeezes Jaw's arm, releases it, and rises. Roan silently guides his friend outside.

Merritt and Bildt, their faces fraught with worry, rush at Roan. “Did she say anything to you?”

“Only that she needs time.”

“I've never seen anything like this.”

Bildt sighs. “You've never seen anything like those children either, Merritt.”

“I don't like the look of it,” says the burly carpenter.

“Trust Alandra,” Bildt says, her voice quavering.

“I think Bildt's right,” says Roan. “We've no choice but to wait and let Alandra do her job.”