Freewalker (32 page)

“They have hurt your sister's mind,” says Mabatan.

Roan emerges from his deep silence. “The Turned?”

“I do not speak only of the Turned,” says Mabatan.

“Then who else?”

“She is inhabited. I sensed another presence within her.”

“It's a Dirt Eater,” says Kamyar. “Stowe went through the Wall. She attacked the Dirt Eaters and was attacked in turn. It's Ferrell. At least that's what Willum said.”

Roan finds no comfort in having his suspicions about the Dirt Eaters confirmed—they may be responsible, but he has to face the cold truth. “Her feelings were clear. Carrying an entity inside her is no doubt adding to her problems, but her unhappiness, the core of the rage that fed her attack, that was her own.”

“She did no more with her mind than you might have done with a weapon,” says Mabatan.

“If the clerics hadn't been there, if she hadn't had something to focus her anger on, I think she might have turned on me.”

“I only got a glimpse of her,” says Lumpy. “But she looked sad, not angry.”

“Of the two, only anger offers a release,” says Mabatan.

Roan cries out in frustration. “Alandra was right. The Turned have broken her. The Stowe I knew is gone. I could smell the Dirt in her sweat. How could they do that to her?”

Kamyar tries to reassure him. “Willum will take care of her, just like he said.”

“If the clerics don't get her first.”

Kamyar laughs. “They won't. They're no match for Willum. And if he has to, he'll give those Masters a run for their money as well.”

Roan struggles to accept Kamyar's assurances. Why did he feel that deep connection with Willum? If he is such a friend, why didn't he do something about Stowe sooner? Why would he let it progress so far? “Tell me more about this Willum. Is he Turned or Dirt Eater?”

Kamyar taps his finger on the mesh metal screen that covers a yellow bulb. “A little of both, I guess.”

“And neither,” adds Mabatan.

Lumpy's getting impatient. “Is it possible to get a straight answer from anyone?”

“There are none, my good Lump,” says Kamyar. “But I can offer what little I know. I met him fifteen years ago, wandering the Farlands. We were both about your age. He'd just spent a month alone, trekking in the Devastation, on some kind of spiritual search. He was in pretty rough shape, hadn't eaten in weeks, kept muttering nonsense. I fed him but he didn't offer much in return, except to tell me his calling was in the City. He had to prepare the way, he claimed. For what? I asked. But that was all he would say. I can't explain why, really, but I decided to assist. Set him up with the Gunthers, who helped him blend in as only they can, so he could acquire a position that would allow him to work. And work he did, all the way into the Masters' circle. I never breathed a word of it to the Dirt Eaters. Over the years, he's become a good friend, if not a very forthcoming one.”

Thirty days in the Devastation would have been an eternity. Roan knows that he never would have survived his time there if Lumpy hadn't happened along.

“He knew about the children. Showed me Kira. Crickets.”

“Willum also told you where to go,” says Mabatan. “He has given you a map.”

“I don't remember a map.”

“You will.”

“A map? Maybe it'll help us free the children.” The eagerness in Lumpy's voice betrays the anxiety he's been repressing.

Mabatan places a reassuring hand on Lumpy's arm. “They are the ones for whom Willum paves the way.”

Their pace is swift and silence settles over the troupe. Their careworn expressions and fixed concentration show their concern over the riot and all its possible repercussions. Roan wonders what else was revealed to the Storytellers in the City. Humor may dominate their conversations, but their eyes look deeply into everything that crosses their path. What tales will they weave from this experience?

Under the unrelenting banks of yellow light that line the passages, Roan's thoughts shift from the Storytellers to the Novakin. He had not thought much past his hopes of finding his sister and enlisting her help. And now that he's failed, he's lost his direction and he fears he may have made the wrong decision. Having learned, time and again, not to trust strangers, leaving Stowe in the hands of one could be one of the most foolish things he's ever done. But Mabatan and Kamyar trust Willum, and Roan has a greater responsibility—or so he's told: Guardian of the Novakin. But what kind of guardian is he when he's constantly questioning the virtue of his abilities and whether to use them? How can he help the children if he has no idea where to begin?

Shanah picks up her pace, trotting through the tunnel. Dobbs, panting, runs past the Gunther to follow her.

“The animal has a highly efficient sense of smell. The exitway is just a few paces ahead,” says Gunther Number Six.

When they catch up to the pony, Shanah is softly bumping her head against a circular metal door, Dobbs gently patting her neck, trying to soothe her. “I'll be glad to get outta this place too, Shanah,” he coos.

The Gunther, squeezing by the horse, reaches up to the middle of the door and slides open a small peephole. He puts his eye to it. Nods to himself, then reaches into his cart and takes out a long, thin tube. He pushes it through the hole and looks again, twisting the tube this way and that. Pulling it out, he replaces it tidily in the cart. Only then is he ready for his eager audience.

“All clear,” he says. “In theory.” He unbolts the door and swings it open. The pony gallops out, followed by the troupe, all gratefully breathing in the cool night air. A sliver of moon casts its pale shadow along the trench of a steep ravine.

“Follow this east. It should take you safely to the edge of the Farlands.” Reaching into his cart, the Gunther presents them with a box. “This contains nutritious and appetizing energy bars for your consumption, a twenty-day supply.”

Kamyar offers effusive thanks, which only seems to make Number Six uncomfortable. Scooting around Kamyar, he points a finger at Roan. “You must stay. In the morning, I will give you the thing you need.”

“Thing?” Lumpy asks.

“In the morning,” says the Gunther.

“My assumption,” says Kamyar, “is that your journey takes you in another direction, so here is where we part ways. It was good to see you, Roan of Longlight. With any luck, our paths will cross again.”

“Thank you for everything,” Roan says, and takes his hand. “You were right about so much.”

“That could always change, but for the moment I will accept your gratitude. Though I do have one regret.” Kamyar pauses dramatically before turning to Lumpy. “You never got your opening night. And you would have been marvelous, Lump. You're a natural if I ever saw one.”

“One of these days we'll get our chance,” says Mejan, giving Lumpy a hug. After many thumps on the back and friendly punches, Talia and Dobbs also make their farewells, and with promises to journey safely, the Storytellers, knitting needles at the ready, set off down the ravine.

“I must leave as well,” says Mabatan. “Roan, you will find your strength in the song that speaks most powerfully to your heart. Listen well, so that you may hear it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Willum has asked me to help him find your sister.”

Surprised, Lumpy says, “I didn't see you talk to him.”

“Words are not always necessary, dear friend. Be well.” Mabatan bows her head to both of them, and without a sound, disappears into the night.

“You must stay inside for the night,” says Gunther Number Six. “Come.”

But Lumpy doesn't move, straining his eyes for a glimpse of Mabatan. “Just making sure she gets out safe.”

“She was on her own for a long time before we came along,” says Roan. “She'll be alright.”

“Based on our current information, there is a high probability of her safe passage. Go inside now,” the Gunther presses.

But Lumpy, still peering into the darkness, doesn't respond. The Gunther twitches impatiently.

Roan nudges his friend. “You know, right now I think you ought to be more worried about Gunther Number Six.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” frowns Lumpy, grudgingly following the Gunther back into the tunnel.

After securing the circular metal door, Gunther Number Six is noticeably more relaxed. “Sleep. Your departure is scheduled for ten minutes prior to sunrise.” After giving them a few energy bars, the Gunther slumps over his cart, and disappears down the gloomy tunnel.

“Will we see Mabatan again?” Lumpy's voice is choked with emotion.

“I feel certain we will,” says Roan, and strangely enough, he does.

“Well, you're usually right about these things,” sighs Lumpy, looking dispiritedly at the bars in his hand. “I suppose a meal before bed wouldn't hurt. I
am
starved.” Peeling off the wrapper of one bar, he sniffs it dejectedly, then tries a tiny bite. As he chews, his face lights up. “Bugs!”

Roan looks grimly at his bar. “Practical folk, those Gunthers.”

“Delicious,” grins Lumpy, and gulps his down.

They silently set down their bedrolls on the cold concrete. Still melancholy over Mabatan's departure, Roan starts thinking about all the people who've walked into and then out of his life these past few years: Kira, who might not be who he thought she was; the Forgotten, who'd sheltered him when he was a fugitive from the Brothers—Orin, Haron, and Sari, all three probably Dirt Eaters although they never openly admitted it; Alandra—if he thought he could contact her without the other Dirt Eaters knowing, he would. He imagines she's still hovering over the children, trying to bring them back. They'd come to him as a surprise, but she'd sacrificed a lot to be there for them when the time came. He wonders if she has any inkling at all of where or who they really are, these Novakin.

Drifting into sleep, Roan's shoulder tingles, recalling the sensation he had when Willum touched him there yesterday. Then, in a gathering mist, a gigantic map appears. Rippling, multi-colored light on a transparent, fluid surface, it slowly extends itself to float before him. Focusing at any point on the map, he immediately knows the name and purpose of the site. He recognizes the City and its environs, the Quarry where the Dirt is mined, the approach roads, factories, guard gates, and security walls. Roan imagines himself high above the map and, as the City grows smaller, the surrounding area comes into view. He can see the Farlands, Barren Mountain, and the Devastation beyond. He finds the plateau where he spent a year with the Brothers, then on the distant horizon he sees a triangle of glowing red light. Without question, this is the place Willum wants him to go.

The sound of Gunther Number Six clearing his throat rouses Roan. “Time to leave.”

Roan shares a bleary look with Lumpy.

“But we just went to sleep,” Lumpy yawns.

“Sunrise in ten minutes, fifteen seconds. Pack up.”

“Just another fifteen seconds,” moans Lumpy, lying back down.

Despite Lumpy's protestations, they roll up their blankets while Number Six slides opens the door, bringing in a welcome draft of fresh air. The pre-dawn damp makes them shiver as they shuffle into the thinning darkness outside. Chewing on a breakfast bug bar, they watch with growing interest while Number Six negotiates the steep slope of the ravine.

“This way, this way,” Number Six says, and Roan and Lumpy realize with dismay that they are supposed to follow.

“By the way, Roan,” asks Lumpy, “do you have any idea where this Kira lives?”

“Yeh. I had another dream.”

“You know,” says Lumpy blithely, “sometimes I think you dream too much for your own good—or mine.”

They scale the top of the ravine just as the pale golden dawn breaks.

“You'll want these.” The Gunther hands Roan and Lumpy each a pair of goggles, then walks up to a small tree, kneels down, and starts patting his hands on the ground. Digging his fingers in the soil, he pulls up a flat piece of earth. “Willum requested we design a vehicle for his use, should he ever need to escape.” He puts his hand down a hole and his arm sinks all the way in. “And now he's asked that we provide it to you.” Gripping some unseen object, Gunther Number Six pulls, and listening intently, waits.

“You two should stand next to me,” he suggests offhandedly. There's a low rumbling, then the ground shakes violently and begins to rise at their feet.

Scooting behind Number Six, Roan and Lumpy watch in awe as a huge camouflaged platform lifts. Revealed beneath it are two pairs of vast wings made of the translucent material they'd seen in the Gunthers' manufacturing section the day before.

Lumpy gently runs his finger down the curve of a wing. “Do these things really do... what they look like they're supposed to do?”

“Our proudest accomplishment. A flying device of our own invention using the strong, lightweight material we developed for the Masters. As Seventy-Nine mentioned, they use it for body armor and windows, while we use it for our own purposes.”

“I see there's two sets of these,” says Lumpy.

“Yes.”

“... Am I supposed to fly one of them?”

“Yes.”

“How?” asks Lumpy, his anxiety escalating.

“They are intuitive.”

“Ah,” he peeps.

“Watch.” With great precision, the Gunther places his palms over the juncture of two transparent wings. As he raises his hands, the wings lift and seemingly without effort the Gunther maneuvers them until they are perched over Roan's shoulders. “Extend your arms. Imagine you and the device are one.”

Their touch is so gentle, Roan has to look to be sure he's wearing them. He is struck by how weightless they are, as if they were actually a part of him.

“We've embedded sensors in the material that draw the wings toward updrafts and thermals. The reports indicate it will be a hot day, so you should have all the current you need. Your will controls altitude and direction, so your thoughts must be disciplined and focused. The sensors will take care of the rest.”