Freewalker (36 page)

Then she notices that light twinkles through the shutters behind the window boxes. Light! Looking up, she sees the wires. Electricity! What do they possibly do here to have such riches?

Raven stops at a picturesque house. “This is my home away from home,” he announces with such irony she can't help but wonder what truth lies behind his words. After stifling an urge to give Raven a kick as he helps her dismount, Stowe strides past him and into the well-kept cottage. Books! Books in flagrant disobedience of the law. Her eyes scan the titles. Many on medicine and the healing arts. Well, that is sometimes permitted, but there is also poetry, history, even texts in long-dead languages she is certain Raven does not speak.

He sniggers at her questioning glance. “Oh, no, those aren't my books. In fact, this isn't my house. Just where I stay when I'm in town. It once belonged to the local healer. A friend of your brother's, actually. After she escaped with him, I was given it to use.”

Roan was in this town, in this very house. She runs her hand along a table, over a counter... and senses something... an unexpected, delectable sensation. Yes. Yes! The unmistakable resonance of Dirt.

Ferrell, wake up!

Yes?

A Dirt Eater lived here, did she not?

Very much so. Alandra. You met her. She was the best of our young ones, though still only partially formed.

The Goat-woman. The one who didn't fight.

Stowe walks past Raven and opens the door to a small room. An apothecary. She quickly scans the many jars that load the shelves. Stowe points to a small, plain one too high for her to reach. “Would you get that down for me, please?”

Raven's fingers wrap around the precious jar, but before he can examine it, Stowe excitedly takes it from his hand. Opening the lid, her spirit sinks. It's empty, empty apart from the scattering of grains she'd detected. When this Alandra left, she must have taken her Dirt with her.

You're accustomed to an endless supply, but Dirt is not something we leave behind. You consumed in a week what all of us together nurse through a year.

“What an unexpected pleasure, Raven.”

The voice is smooth, self-confident. She can tell instantly that this man is the power in this town. With surprising speed, Raven steps out of the apothecary, leaving Stowe behind.

“Governor Brack! Wonderful to see you again!”

“My dear Raven, has something happened?”

“We were attacked again by the Brothers.”

“Thank goodness you've arrived unscathed.”

“Unscathed and undaunted. I've spent the last few weeks meeting with the governors and they are all seething. The Brothers' attacks have had a devastating effect on commerce, and the governors, like you, resent being held responsible.”

“And high time!”

“I am doing what I can. I cannot be blamed if Darius balks at letting his precious technology out of the City. He promised me the necessary resources to put down the Brothers, and it is only right that he be pressured to live up to his word. Some risks are worth taking. We cannot neutralize the opposition without more advanced weapons.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. If the stories of the City's weapons caches are true, it is suicide for the Masters to procrastinate any longer. But my friend, aren't you going to introduce me to your guest?”

Before Raven can utter another word, Stowe steps out to meet the silver-haired man. Governor, Raven called him. Yes. He fancies himself important in his black, high-collared suit. He smiles and holds out his hand, but his composure collapses when she tosses back her hood.

“Is it—Masters be praised—is it—?”

“I do appreciate your confidence in this matter, Governor Brack.”

Brack, shaken, clears his throat. “What... what may I ask... gives us the honor... of this esteemed visit?”

“I am on a secret mission, Governor. No one is to know I am here. My meals must be brought to this door. No one, not even a maid, may see me. You must not communicate my presence to anyone. I depend upon the strictest confidentiality. Can you provide me with that?”

Brack bows his head. “Our Stowe, you have my word. Remain here, under our watchful eyes and silent lips, for as long as you deem necessary.”

“Thank you,” says Stowe, her sweet tone belying her distaste for the man. “Now you may leave me.”

Brack smiles broadly, bows again, and stumbles out the door, shutting it delicately behind him.

Raven cackles uproariously. “You are extraordinary, Our Stowe, remarkable!” His obnoxious laughter grates on her. Time to knock this bird from his perch.

“Are you finished?” she inquires icily, as if speaking to an errant child.

Raven pulls himself to attention.

“Can Brack be trusted?”

“Be at ease. He'd be a fool to cross us.”

Us? Raven's suit should resemble a vulture's. Edging cautiously ever closer, making sure the meal's not going to bite. No wonder Kordan wanted to see him dead—birds of a feather, these two, and only room for one in the Eldest's nest.

“Now if you'll excuse me, I'll look after our arrangements.” He bows. “By your leave?” And at her nod, he quickly disappears out the door.

When they return, they'll hurt you.

I don't know what they'll do. Yet. But I'll find out.

Making herself comfortable in a soft chair, Stowe closes her eyes and breathes deeply, once, twice, a dozen times. She sees the spark, then the flame, tries to follow the light, but a force clutches at her, holding her back.

Let me go.

No. There's no time. Don't you understand, they're going to try to use you.

You don't know that.

Naïve child! You waste the gifts given to you. Get up!

Stowe strains to stay seated, but her hands thrust down, pushing her to her feet. She lurches toward a table, gripping its leg, but one hand yanks on the other, and as she jerks away, she pulls the table over, its contents smashing all around her. Like a badly handled marionette, she stiffly feels herself being drawn closer and closer to Alandra's apothecary.

What do you want from me?

I want you to cooperate!

Sweat pouring down her forehead, she pushes her arms against the doorway but her grip weakens, slips, and she's inside.

Take the shining green jar. Take it! It will calm you.

Her hand throws the jar against the wall. “Calm me! You think I don't know it's
you
who wants to control me? Or is it just to
be
me? Well, two can play at that game!” She focuses on Ferrell, pushing on the edges of his consciousness.

Tasting blood, she realizes he's forcing her hand to smash a mortar against her skull again and again.

I'll happily kill you and die rather than share my thoughts with you.

Stowe's nerves ignite, a thousand wasps stinging her. Her arms flail madly, knocking jars off the shelves. Spinning into the living room, she grabs hold of the bookcase. Everything collapses, books, bottles, candles, most of them on Stowe.

She's lying helpless, body aching everywhere, amongst shards of glass and clay, when the door opens. Governor Brack and Raven recoil, aghast at the destruction. Raven rushes to her.

“Our Stowe? What has happened?”

But she's so weak, she can barely focus on their faces. Letting her eyes close, she reserves her energy to listen to their hushed conversation as they huddle on the far side of the room.

“She's had some kind of fit.”

“Do you think she's mad?” asks the Governor.

“All the better for us.”

“It's too risky. We should just inform Darius.”

“No. The device will work. Then she'll be ours.”

Brack exhales deeply. “Insurance.”

“If the rumors are true, she's more powerful than all the Masters put together. You deserve more than this small town, Governor. This is your chance. We must always grasp our opportunities, Brack.”

There's a pause. “Alright, then. Do it.”

Raven hovers over her, his breath vile. “We can help you, Stowe. There's so much we could do together.” He lifts her hair, exposing her neck.

“You've done this before?” asks Brack.

“On occasion. Hold her down in case she squirms.”

Wake, wake, wake!

I could be happy, Ferrell.

You'd be a slave and you know it.

No more pain.

Don't be stupid!

Two strong hands weigh on her wrists.

Do something!

There's the click of a blade unfolding.

What are you waiting for? Coward. You'd serve the man who brought death to your people? Disgusting malignant child!

Cold metal drawing a path over her flushed skin. Stowe moans. This is the man who killed her family; it was his word that brought Longlight's destruction. If not for Raven, I would still be a child, chasing my brother for an apple. Stowe opens her mouth as if to speak.

“Wait!” hisses Brack.

The two men lean in to hear what she's saying. They're startled when her eyes snap open, wide. But not for long.

When she screams, their faces twist in agony, then their hands grip their heads, trying to hold in the blood that spurts between their fingers. Raven totters toward the door, trying to escape, and though his hand reaches the latch, he hasn't the strength to turn it. Slipping to the floor, crimson tears flowing from his eyes, he implores Stowe to spare him. But there is no stopping until the great feathered dissembler is silent and lifeless beside his comrade, the late Governor Brack.

And Our Stowe, Icon of the City, Heir to the Archbishop, Idol of the Conurbation, Our Very Best and Beloved, closes her eyes, her doll clutched to her chest, and drifts into a dark, pestilent slumber.

THE FIRES OF HELL

THEIR DECISION DETERMINED THE OUTCOME OF THE WAR, BUT ITS DETAILS WERE KNOWN ONLY TO ITS PARTICIPANTS. FOUR OF THE MOST IMPORTANT REBEL LEADERS, ROAN, HARON, YANA, AND STEPPE, THEN DISAPPEARED WITH THEIR ARMIES. THOSE WHO REMAINED WERE DECIMATED BY THE CONURBATION.

—THE WAR CHRONICLES

U
NDER THE MOON'S NUMINOUS LIGHT,
Kira walks past the rocky scars that mark the lifeless volcano's ancient collapse. Roan studies the lines of smooth stone that were once burning lava.

“Do you know how long it's been dormant?”

“I'm told the last eruption was seventy thousand years ago. Another could come at any time, but if Darius has his way we'll be long gone before then.”

In the deepening gloom, Roan can make out pillars. Carved into the igneous rock, they appear to be the facade of a temple. Kira signals him to take off his footwear and wait.

Roan grips the ring in his hand. How could something that once belonged to his great-grandfather end up in the possession of Saint? Why was it given to him? Kira's whispers beckon him. Perhaps he'll find his answers inside.

In the vaulted open space beyond the pillars, a hundred female warriors are sitting cross-legged
,
swords across their laps, meditating. A wiry gray-haired woman, straight and tall, faces them, without a doubt their leader. Roan is instantly struck by their combined strength and complete focus. It was no wonder they made such short work of the Fandor.

“Our troops rotate once a month. A third are on patrol, a third with their families in the villages, and a third return here to augment their training.”

Roan is unsettled by how much they remind him of the Brothers, but he tries not to show his discomfort. “An elite army,” is all he says.

“They are unparalleled. Better than the best of the Brothers,” Kira replies, as if reading his thoughts.

“Do Brothers Wolf and Asp help with the training?”

Kira laughs. “Other way around. Ende taught them many years ago, before Saint founded the Brotherhood. All the skills you learned from the Brothers derived from that woman.” Kira's eyes shift to the older woman leading the group.

Roan studies her sedate face, high cheekbones, and wide brow. “She looks like you.”

“My grandmother. The work that she's been doing has one purpose: to bring down the City. The armies of the City are many and centralized. We know they have weapons whose nature and number we can only guess at. We are few by comparison, and scattered. Knives, swords, and arrows are effective only if you can get close enough to use them. We've been waiting for the one who will gather the armies together and command them. Saint believed he might be that man but he learned otherwise. He discovered that half the battle will be fought in the Dreamfield, where very few can go—and who among the Walkers still cares enough for flesh and blood to protect the needs of ordinary people? He came to believe that you were the one who was awaited—as did we all, Roan of Longlight.”

“I've seen the City. I could never send people into battle against them—they would be slaughtered.”

Kira stares at Roan, grim-faced. Then she smiles. “You are as they have said. I will be proud to serve you.”

“You don't understand—”

Ende, the gray-haired woman, suddenly rises.

Roan blushes, realizing that he raised his voice. “I beg your pardon,” he apologizes.

“You will have to earn it,” retorts Ende, her voice sharp. She signals one of the women to toss Roan a sword. With astounding speed, she bounds across the room and swings at his neck. He counters, but Ende's fast, faster than he's ever seen. Her sword slashes and jabs from every angle. The clatter of their blades echoes through the stone room, until, just as suddenly as she started, Ende stops.

The warriors, who've been watching with keen interest, break into applause. A quick look from their teacher and they immediately quiet. Ende, stone-faced, turns to Roan.

“Well, you're who you say you are, that's for certain,” she says. “But you're rusty. What have you been doing for the last year, farming?”