Freewalker (25 page)

“Why, Brothers! For a few coins we'd gladly give you a command performance.”

“How long have you been on this road, Storyman?” asks Wolf.

“Only the day. We were performing at the very town where you made such a timely appearance. Blessings upon you for saving us from those fiendish Fandor.”

“You'll soon be rid of them, and the traitor who rides alongside,” says Wolf, reaching a hand to calm his horse.

“If only that were the end of our troubles. The City already sends out clerics in their stead.”

That gets Wolf's attention. “You've seen clerics?”

“Oh yes, in fact, just yesterday eve, back in the woods. How many would you say?” Kamyar asks, turning to Talia.

“Ten, I think. Or was it nine?”

“And we hear there's a ravaged farm village by the east Finger Lake,” mutters Dobbs.

“That was the clerics' work, certainly,” chimes in Mejan.

“We seek,” shouts Wolf over the mounting clamor, “a fugitive from our brotherhood.”

“We exist to serve.”

“Tall, fair-haired. Uses a sword like this one.” He holds up his hook-sword. “He'd be about eighteen years old.”

Roan wonders if this is Brother Wolf's solitary quest, or if all the Brothers want to make him pay the price for their prophet's death.

“Are you speaking of Roan of Longlight?” inquires Kamyar.

“What do you know of him?” asks Wolf.

“Only that he perished in the Devastation. At least that's the story we tell.”

“We have reason to believe he is alive.”

“Well, a young man with a reputation like his shouldn't be hard to spot,” says Kamyar, tapping his cheek. “Do you want him dead or alive?”

“We want him alive. No one touches him. He's ours.”

“If I may be so bold, Brother, is there a reward?”

“Three horses. And a hundred gold coins.”

Kamyar's eyes light up. “Now that is a prize! We may only be a motley band of players, Sir, but we're clever and we don't miss much.”

“So I have heard.”

“Thank you. If Roan of Longlight is truly alive, we'll be the ones to hear of it, and if at all possible, we'll deliver him to you. A hundred gold coins!”

“Don't underestimate his power, Storyman. He will not be easily subdued.”

“We've heard the stories—in fact, we tell them. But where there's a hundred gold coins, well, there's a way! Not to scoff at the three horses, of course.”

“Indeed,” murmurs Wolf. And at his signal, he and his companion guide their horses past the rest of the company. Setting his eyes on Roan, however, he pauses. “I've seen an instrument like that before.”

Roan freezes, not daring to move a muscle.

“No doubt,” says Kamyar, “but could it be played like this?” He swats Roan hard on the back. His face still hidden beneath the hood, Roan's fingers fly over the holes to deliver a wild, frenzied variation of an old reel. Talia and Dobbs start dancing, stomping a rhythm to the crazed tune.

A hard-won smile spreads across Wolf's face, and with a shake of his head, he leaves the eccentric band of Storytellers far behind. The apprentice with the recorder keeps playing, but once the Brothers are safely gone he shifts to a haunting tune once heard in the village called Longlight.

THE RISE OF THE VULTURE

FOR MANY YEARS, TRADE WAS UNDER THE GUIDANCE AND PROTECTION OF THE FRIEND. BUT CORRUPTION RULED BOTH MASTER AND GOVERNOR AND THEY WERE FOUND UNWORTHY IN THE FRIEND'S EYE. THE PROPHET ENSURED THE ALLIANCE WAS SEVERED AND CHAOS ROSE IN ITS WAKE.

—ORIN'S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

“E
XCELLENT,” SAYS
D
R.
A
RCANTHAS,
“your precision is extraordinary!”

While the doctor makes his notations, Stowe observes the mole-rat's final convulsions. It's the eighth rodent she's terminated today and she's had enough. “Dr. Arcanthas, I need rest,” she says as pleasantly as she can manage. He's had her in his laboratory since early morning. Surely he has all the information he needs.

“Of course, of course, Our Stowe. Forgive me, I become so engrossed I forget myself. I must say, the potential applications of this ability of yours are staggering. I'm afraid I lost all track of time.” He looks like one of his rats as he fidgets in the pristine white room, quickly gathering his precious printouts, fussing over the eight blood-splattered bell jars as if they were about to move on their own.

“Perhaps you might wake me in half an hour?” Stowe gently inclines her head as Arcanthas bustles past the monitors, and settling herself down on the cot, she closes her eyes with a dramatic sigh. She listens for the satisfying click of the door shutting behind the irritating doctor.

There. Now she can stop playing games and find out what Darius is up to.

Though the fear of being stranded outside her body has not left her, the danger of walking into her test unprepared far outweighs any anxieties she might have about traveling. Filling her lungs with air, one breath after another, she patiently controls their flow until the spark arrives. She does not worry it, but continues her measured breathing until the spark turns to flame. As soon as the flame becomes a column of light, she follows it, leaving her body behind. In a moment, she's floating past the good doctor, then along corridors bustling with clerics and technicians and on through the clawed brass door—to find Kordan fawning all over Darius.

“The Brothers continue their disruptions of our commerce, and Raven is helpless to stop them,” Darius states.

Kordan's glee at Raven's failure can barely be contained. “I tried to warn you...”

“When will you let go of your petty jealousies?” Darius snaps. “Have you learned nothing?”

Kordan turns pale. “My role is to advise, my only desire to serve.”

“We must send the clerics farther afield.”

“But many clerics have been killed. The defense of the City—”

“Inform Fortin to step up production on the alpha Enablers. Master Querin has arranged a new campaign that should encourage enlistment...”

“But Keeper, the training, the enhancements, they take months. And then the—”

“Do not waste my time with the details of a program I designed. They will be ready when replacements are required. The elite guard stays in the City. If the people of the Farlands have grown brazen enough to kill our clerics, we must send out more spies.”

“I will make the necessary arrangements.”

“Be certain that you do. We have little time and much to accomplish. The summation of my architecture depends on Our Stowe and you came perilously close to undermining our achievements.”

She chuckles at the quiver that shudders up Kordan's spine.

Don't gloat. You fare no better when you stand before
the Archbishop.

He deserves it.

And you don't?

“But I did not call you here to rebuke you. I wish to discuss the next step in Stowe's education.”

What? Kordan as her teacher again? Impossible!

“I exist to serve, Keeper. What will you have me do with her?”

“
You
will do nothing with her. Stowe will open the way into the Wall. I want her to fetch me an Eater. I believe I have found a means to have you and Willum follow. Then you will be able to help her grapple with it. I need an Eater, Kordan. Alive.”

Alive. What a thought!

“Make the arrangements for an early morning entry.”

Kordan bows with a flourish and leaves. The moment the door is closed, Darius sits wearily in his chair and reaches for the oxygen mask behind his desk. He takes several deep inhalations, reviving himself.

So fragile—from where does he draw his strength?

Why does Darius still trust Kordan to be his assistant when he has failed the Keeper so completely? It is true that Kordan is transparent and his flaws make him easy to control. Could it be that Darius can only abide rank servility? This might be a chink in his armor, a weakness, perhaps fatal, and certainly worth remembering.

“Come,” the Eldest calls out. Stowe's startled, fearing that somehow he's sensed her presence, heard her thoughts, but then Willum enters and she instantly relaxes.

“You requested me, Keeper?”

“Sit, Willum, sit,” says Darius. His tone is uncommonly warm. “I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate the care and attention you've given Our Stowe. Your report on the overuse of Dirt was most appropriate.”

“Thank you, Keeper.”

“The disturbance over those recruits, however, remains a concern.”

“It is certain, then, that she acted against them?” Willum's dismay is so sincere even Stowe believes it.

She studies every nuance, every flicker on Willum's face, but it reveals nothing.

“I am afraid, Willum, that I see no alternative to that analysis.”

“She's a sensitive child, Keeper. Perhaps she felt your love for her was threatened by their presence.”

“Perhaps. Yes. Love. It does play some part, I imagine, but I cannot allow such extravagant displays of emotion to interfere with the greater plan. There is a new breed of human come into existence and I must continue to search for specimens. They will assist me with my latest creation.”

“Has the Eldest conceived a new architecture for the Dreamfield?”

What had he said to Kordan? “The summation of my architecture depends on Our Stowe.” So, he needs her but also these children. To do what? What can it be?

Something to ensure his domination of the Dreamfield.

“I have not called you here to discuss myself but to ask your opinion. Is Stowe ready to Walk again?”

How impassive Willum looks. You'd think he hasn't had any thoughts on the matter until now.

“Perhaps not ready, Keeper, but able.”

Such a perfectly balanced answer. Worried teacher, yes, but as always the faithful servant.

“Kordan will provide you with details of the task.”

“As the Archbishop wills it,” says Willum.

Stowe follows him down the corridor, drifting close to see what he might betray. A hint of nervousness, of consternation. But Willum's face is a perfect mask.

Too perfect.

THE BESPECTACLED MAN

THE AIDING AND ABETTING OF UNAUTHORIZED IMMIGRANTS IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN BY THE CONURBATION. MEMBERS OF THE CONGREGATION FOUND GUILTY OF THIS CRIME WILL BE CAST OUT AND THE RESIDENT PERMITS OF ALL EXISTING MEMBERS OF THEIR FAMILIES PERMANENTLY REVOKED.

—PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

“T
ODAY'S THE DAY,”
says Lumpy as he pokes his head through the tall grass that's provided both bed and concealment for them. “Crickets have been going crazy. Hopping around, wiggling, singing. I think the City's giving them the heebie-jeebies.”

Roan drags himself out of his bedroll. His head feels dense, his limbs heavy, as if he got no sleep at all. He stretches, hoping it will help him shake his grogginess, and from under an arm he raises an eyebrow at Lumpy. “What about you?”

“Oh, me? I've got it all worked out with Kamyar.”

As if on cue, Kamyar brays loudly into the morning haze. “Enough beauty sleep, my uglies, it's time to rise out of the weeds and move on. The festivities in the City await us!”

Careful to make her approach heard, Mabatan joins them. “You slept a long time. Food's all gone,” she says as she hands a few of her charred eggs to Roan.

But Roan has little appetite—the closer they get to the City, the more Stowe's face, or fragments of her thoughts, flash through his dreams, and whether sleeping or awake, the torment is unbearable. Not his, Stowe's. He's not sure if she's doing something to others or something is being done to her. But the pain, confusion, and fury are unmistakable.

“You sense her. So do the crickets. Her mood is dark.”

“We have to get her out of there.”

Lumpy grins ruefully. “Yeah, if we survive meeting her.”

They secure their packs as they step out to face the road before them. Far in the distance, a waning crescent moon hovers over the towers of the City, ghost-like in the livid dawn.

Ruins of neighborhoods that once extended around the City's core litter the landscape, and the dust rising from them streaks the sky in shades of burgundy and mauve. At the sight, Roan experiences an unsettling déjà vu until he remembers the journey he made here with Alandra just over a year ago—but that was in the Dreamfield.

Alandra. Roan felt that since she'd nursed him back from the edge of death, salved the pain of Lumpy's scars, and risked all to help them rescue the children, she was too good a friend to choose any side but his. At least that's what he'd hoped. Maybe it was too much to ask. He supposes he cannot blame her for her commitment to the Forgotten. Kamyar's right: they saved her life, were her second family.

Looking around, he can tell Kamyar and his troupe are growing increasingly uneasy. Even Mabatan's usual serenity has been superseded by a grim alertness. Everyone is on edge. Including him.

“Mabatan, is it the approach to the City that's worrying everyone?”

“Your sister affects them also, but they cannot tell her feelings from their own.”

“It's not as if the walk through these ruins is lifting anybody's spirits either,” chimes in Lumpy.

“I know something that might lift the mood,” says Roan. But when he takes out his recorder, instead of smiles, he's greeted with a chorus of groans.

Dobbs rises to Roan's defense. “Now, hey, hey, be easy on the boy, come now!”

Mejan's in no mood for compromise. “For the last two days, you've played nothing but dirges.”

Talia agrees. “All those doleful notes have been killing me.”

“I believe a few died at
your
last performance, Talia,” quips Kamyar.