Freewalker (5 page)

—PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

T
HE ROAD
S
TOWE'S SPED DOWN
for the last hour is all new concrete and high guard towers. This highway is reserved for the Masters and their minions, while other ancient broken roads are left for the use of travelers and refugees, but there is nothing to see apart from interminable flatlands. Gazing out in bored silence, Stowe's stupor finally ends with the sight of the forest of sleek windmills that signals their imminent arrival at the plant. She steels herself as she watches the spinning blades harness the infinite energy of the wind. She loves what the wind can do. From little innocuous breezes to paralyzing hurricanes, she and the wind share the same kind of force. Invisible, powerful, and often deadly. Stowe loves the wind.

When the motorcade stops at the guard gate, Stowe suddenly senses herself being surveilled. Her eyes dart in all directions, but all she sees is a Gunther, peering through his thick glasses at a windmill transformer. With their half-addled minds, Gunthers are said to be good for only one thing: maintaining the power grid. They hide away like mice and speak like automatons and are generally unpleasant. Something about them makes her cringe... maybe it's the large eyes behind the thick lenses. The city's dependence on those pariahs is inexplicable and she's wondered more than once why Darius granted them guild status. Though she continues to scan the area, it is of no use—the chill of being profoundly observed has left her. If that stupid drudge hadn't been working there, distracting her, she might have found the culprit.

As the convoy proceeds through the guard gate, the factory's sign, prominently displayed over the entranceway, becomes visible. COOPERATION UNLIMITED. Stowe sniggers to herself. This should prove interesting.

Before she has a toe out of the car, she's surrounded by a dozen clerics and whisked into the entryway of the pharmaceutical factory. There she is greeted by a large, amiable man with small teeth, the factory Manager. She instantly identifies him as Fortin, the groveler. At the council meetings, he insinuates himself into every conversation, usually through some sort of self-deprecation. And well he might. Of the forty-one Masters, Fortin is the only one with the lowly title of Manager. His singular incompetence is the stuff of legends, the legends of fools. Even dour Kordan loves to mock him.

“You bless us with this visit, Our Stowe.” Fortin dabs his right eye with a cloth, but not because he's been moved to tears by the sight of Stowe. The veins in his eyes are red and swollen, constantly oozing fluid. Soon his vision will become cloudy, then obscured by dark spots, until his sight fails completely. Whose eyes will they pluck for you, Fortin the Fool?

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Good Fortin.”

“You are too kind. May I have the honor of showing you our facility?”

“I would be delighted.”

Willum and the clerics change into white coveralls, cotton mittens, and covers for their feet. Stowe, in her billowing scarlet gown, like any good trophy, is left untouched. No sanitization is required for Our Stowe.

She is escorted through two sets of doors into an enormous room where hundreds of people peer through magnifying glasses, as they work with the most delicate of tools, intricately constructing what appear to be....

“Enablers?” asks Stowe.

“Our Stowe perceives the truth as always,” replies Fortin.

“And your rate of production?”

He smiles. “One hundred a day.”

“How extraordinary.”

Stowe glances at Willum, but he seems in deep concentration, absorbing every detail in the factory. What does he see?

“We have an excellent success rate. Only five in every three thousand are faulty.”

“So last year...”

“Thirty-five thousand, seven hundred enablers successfully activated, the Keeper be blessed.”

“Yes,” Stowe says. “People are so wayward. Your enablers help to unite all of our citizens.”

“A tremendous focusing tool,” Fortin says. “The clerics' efficiency has tripled since they were enabled. The device has incredible potential. We've only just begun to explore its many possible uses. Terribly exciting, don't you think?”

“Yes. Terribly,” Stowe agrees, now understanding Willum's keen interest in this site—and in Fortin. This groveler puts on a show: what appears a lowly position—Manager of a factory—is, in fact, one of the most important in the Conurbation, one that's in the process of expanding. How?

The Manager leads her down countless aisles of technicians working with deep concentration and a smile of satisfaction on their faces, all encouraged by the bulges behind their ears. Not a worker in the building is without. In fact, all citizens in service positions for the Conurbation have enablers—except Gunthers: the electricity they work with interferes with the field the devices generate. Darius has been fascinated with the enablers ever since he invented them; constantly laboring to improve their function and increase their application. And judging by what Fortin's said, the Eldest has even more developments in mind.

As the whistle blows, Stowe is guided up a flight of metal stairs to a balcony overlooking the manufacturing area. The workers, gathering below, gaze up at her in adoration.

Fortin booms out to the crowd. “Our Stowe has blessed us with the radiance of her presence. Her light illuminates our glorious future. Our Stowe.”

Every worker cheers. Fortin offers his hand, guiding her onto steps of the amplification platform. How gullible she has been. All those blissful faces worship her, yes. Of course they do. Master Fortin enables them to. And she has been seduced by the adulation. How clear that's becoming. The Masters seek to coddle her, to keep her trusting, vulnerable to their coercion. What would happen if they identified her as the enemy? What then? Would all the enabled be summoned to tear her to shreds? No doubt.

“I'm so honored to be here, among such talented, committed people. I know that Darius and the Masters of the City value your work enormously. As I do.”

More cheers and applause.

“Being here like this, so near to you, seeing you at your workplace, witnessing your brilliant accomplishments, fills me with great pride and excitement. I feel so close to all of you. Each and every one of you I carry in my heart because we form a family. And I am little sister to you all.”

“Stowe! Stowe! Stowe!”

Stowe, poster-girl for the Masters, for the first time since her factory tours began, feels the ovation for what it is: the trigger response of a controlled population. A well of sadness rises to catch in her throat and she instantly dismisses it. Not allowed, you idiot. You cannot go weak. This is how Darius keeps you under his thumb. Needing, needing. No more. No.

Taking Stowe's arm in his, Willum guides her to the exit, but not before she casts her most beguiling look Fortin's way. The Manager's eyes, despite appearances, see all too much. But those eyes are also certain others don't notice. And that's his failing.

“You did very well,” Willum assures her.

“I know. I love these visits,” she replies.

“So you said, but today you seemed different.”

“Only tired. The speeches are always the same. I find the repetition a challenge.”

Willum sips the air, as if he's testing the temperature of a hot drink. “Well, Stowe, you're about to face an even greater challenge.”

Ah, here it comes. “And what might that be?” Stowe asks.

Willum looks away, his hands balled tightly into fists.

“Come now, Willum, you've piqued my interest.”

“A trek.”

“I trek every day, looking for my brother.”

“Your assignment's been modified.”

“You mean I won't be looking for my brother?”

The cleric opens the car door but Willum does not get in. “No. Not any longer. At least not for the moment.”

“Then who will?”

His eyes lock on hers. “No one.”

“What do you mean, no one?”

“Darius informed me this morning that Roan has been declared dead.”

“He is not dead,” she states emphatically.

“I'm sorry, Stowe, truly I am.”

“Darius is in error.”

Willum looks fiercely at Stowe. “Recall that your father is the Eldest. Keeper of the City, Archbishop of the Conurbation, the Great Seer. No matter what happens, consider that before you speak.”

“Of course, Willum, I was not thinking.” Stowe feels her whole body begin to shake. When did they find out Roan was dead? How could they know?

“Good then. We will begin to prepare for your new assignment.”

For more than two years she's searched for Roan. Three hours every day in the amplification booth, eating Dirt, crying out to a brother who never comes. The mythical brother who holds the keys of destruction and salvation in his hands. And now they're giving her a new assignment because they think Roan's dead. But it's not possible. She would have known.

“It is expected that you will do your duty,” Willum warns.

“Of course it is. What does it matter to you? Just another Farlands boy, dead! My brother. Dead!”

She lets the anger rise through her body, red hot—she has an excuse now, and a chance to see what happens when she explodes.

“You know nothing! Nothing! NOTHING!”

She lets her fury surge until it shrieks out the pores of her skin, out the pupils of her eyes, her guts, her lungs, her heart. Their driver falls to his knees, then onto the ground, writhing. The other clerics sink down in agony.

“Don't, Stowe.” Willum winces, then covers his ears. It's very subtle, but she notices a glow around him. He's creating a protective aura to shield himself from her!

“Stop it, Stowe, now!” demands Willum.

But she doesn't stop. She doesn't want to stop, the release feels too good, so gratifying. All the fear, the loneliness, the pathetic wheezing apprehension in her chest, gone, gone.

Willum is far stronger than she thought. She imagines Darius's face and her rage builds, pushing against Willum's aura, knocking him backwards.

“Enough!”

Stowe exhales until there is nothing left. Nothing left in her at all. But she felt it, Willum's aura pushing her back. He can push her back.

She looks around her. All the clerics are lying on the ground moaning, contorted from the pain she's inflicted. But the driver, blood oozing from his ears, is silent and still.

“Have I killed him?” asks Stowe, curious.

Willum's aura vanishes. Bending over the body, he gives her a cold look. “He still breathes.”

“Ah,” she says, a trace of excitement in her voice. This is an ability well worth perfecting! And she'll need to perfect it. If Willum can push her, Kordan would probably crush her. Never mind what Darius could do. She must get stronger. Much stronger.

Feeling her cuspid with her tongue, she realizes it's loose. Another baby tooth is about to come out.

WETLANDS

DID THE LAKE TRULY SWALLOW HIM?
HOW COULD IT BE?
TO BELIEVE THAT DENIES THE PROPHECY.
A NEW WORLD WAS PROMISED
SO
IT WOULD SEEM THAT OUR ROAN HAS A LONG WAY TO GO.

—LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

R
OAN AND
L
UMPY WALK THE LAKESHORE
under the waxing crescent moon. Their steps are silent on the rocky beach, and they do not need to speak for they know each other's movements all too well. Once again they are journeying together on an unknown, probably dangerous road, but this time it's not their lives that are at stake—it's the lives of fourteen children, and the weight of it is with them every step.

Just as the trees across the lake glow with the first light of day, Lumpy points out the rivulet that Bildt described when she and the tradespeople first arrived.

“She said they followed this stream all the way from Oasis.”

Roan kneels down and stares at the water slipping through the small pebbles at the bottom of the brook.

Lumpy peers curiously over Roan's shoulder. “See something?”

Roan shakes his head. “The pebbles, this stream, they're familiar.”

“From the dream?”

“Not exactly. I just feel like this is the way we should go. But, if it's the way to Oasis...”

“Are you worried the Dirt Eaters sent you the dream?”

Roan stares at the rippling water, trying to sort through his feelings. “No. It's not them, I'm positive. We're going the right way... for now.”

“Why didn't you tell me you changed your mind about trusting the Dirt Eaters?”

Roan grips a handful of pebbles, worrying the smooth stones in his palm. “Because I felt stupid. How could I trust a man I'd barely met more than a group of people who'd been real friends to us.”

“You mean that Storyteller... Kamyar? The one who warned you about the Dirt Eaters.”

“You remember that?”

“It's not the kind of thing you forget.”

“No, it's not,” Roan sighs, relieved that Kamyar's warning stayed with Lumpy, too. He wishes he'd talked to Lumpy sooner... he's felt so alone with his suspicions. “Anyway, I couldn't let it go. It got me worried that the Dirt Eaters had hidden plans for me and the children. It was true we needed the help of Bildt and the others from Oasis, but in my gut I knew it was an easy way for the Dirt Eaters to keep us under their control. And now the children are sick. I should have listened to my instincts, done something, said something, sooner.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Something.”

“We couldn't have done it without them.”

Though Roan recognizes the truth of Lumpy's words, it doesn't lessen his feelings of responsibility. He presses the stones back into the streambed, as if he could, by correctly placing each one, bring the children back, and undo the damage that's been done.