Freewalker (6 page)

“So...” Lumpy shuffles uncomfortably, obviously anxious for them to be on their way, “... based on this vision of yours, you're sure this is the right direction?”

“Yes. Definitely... I think.”

“Now that's a comfort.”

“I mean we're going toward whatever it is that's drawing me.”

“Animal or vegetable?”

“A person. I think.”

“This possible person you're seeing—its intentions couldn't possibly be bad, could they?”

“It doesn't feel like it.”

Lumpy shakes his head. “So let me see if I understand. We're being drawn away from people who are very nice but who we don't trust, to an unknown, possibly deadly entity who, for no reason whatsoever, we do trust.”

“You've got it. Do you want to turn back now?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

And with a last look at Newlight, they start down the stream.

The uneven streambed doesn't allow sure footing, and with heavy packs on their backs the going is slow. But fine weather, the scent of fir trees, and the singing of white crickets eases every step. Roan's thoughts keep returning to the hook-sword on his back. Though he has no desire to use it again, he felt compelled to bring it. He knows it's likely he'll need all the skills the Brothers taught him before the end of this journey—that is, if he still remembers how to use them.

By the end of the third day, they've moved out of the valley and the air's grown colder. The trees have disappeared, the wild crickets are gone, and wide-leafed ferns converge around them. At a small clearing, Lumpy tosses down his pack.

“This is as good a place as any to spend the night.”

Weary after the long day's march, Roan throws down his bedroll and gathers some dry branches for a fire. Lumpy points to the mountains in the distance.

“According to Bildt, the doorway to Oasis is due north, on the other side of those peaks. So... we'll be wanting to go a different direction?”

“More or less.”

“Good news. The walking's good going east on the foothills.”

“We're going west,” says Roan.

“Oh no... west is marshland.”

“It's where the marker is.”

“Yeah, marking where you don't want to go.”

“No, the tree I'm looking for is in the marsh.”

Lumpy grimaces. “Well, actually, from what I hear, it's more like... swamp. Huge, impassible, dangerous swamp. Bzzz Swamp. No sane reason to cross it.”

“Well, that's the way.”

Lumpy lets out a huge sigh. “Just when you think you've found paradise, it's back to the Devastation and bugs for breakfast.”

“Could be worse.”

“Yeah, and I'm sure we'll get there.”

At sunrise, Roan wakes to find Lumpy at the ready with bean stick and water sack. “Breakfast in bed. Enjoy being nice and dry while you can, because after this it's damp and miserable for days.”

While Roan chews, Lumpy sifts through a small bag.

“Well, that's a relief,” he says, pulling out a small, battered tin. He opens the lid and sniffs. “Umm. Still effective.” He shoves it under Roan's nose.

Roan's assaulted by a horrible stench and jerks away, gagging. “It's like... rotten eggs!”

Lumpy snaps the lid back on. “Rotten eggs would be useless as bug repellent. This is dragonweed.”

“You don't mean we have to...”

Lumpy smiles devilishly as he smears some on Roan's chin. “And it has the added benefit of clearing your sinuses.”

When they set out, pushing through the ferns, a sensation of impending danger eats away at Roan. As if on cue, his mind and body begin practicing the techniques that have lain dormant the last year. He gives complete awareness to every movement, making each footfall an exercise in strength, stamina, and concentration. When the brush becomes too thick for passage, Roan uses his hook-sword to clear the way. Not hacking like any trailblazer, he isolates each stem and the sword slices it in the exact spot he visualizes. With speed and precision, the minimal amount of vegetation is sacrificed, and an opportunity to train is maximized.

“Are you doing what I think you're doing?” asks Lumpy.

“I guess,” replies Roan, as another swing of his blade executes a perfect clearing.

Lumpy bends down and inspects the cut. “Won't that wreck the sword? It was made to slice people, not plants.”

Roan shrugs. “It will need a good cleaning and sharpening every night, but it's a strong blade, it'll survive.”

After two days' walk, their dour expectations of the swamp have been wildly inverted. The marsh is anything but a nightmare of mosquitoes and festering water. Biting insects are mercifully few and the trees, though sparse, are festooned with bright flowers in full bloom. Golden butterflies flutter around them, fluorescent dragonflies dart through the ferns, tiny violet waterlilies float free on the water's surface, and there's enough solid high ground for them to walk at a brisk pace. In the waning light, they make camp on a rise near the water. The trees here are completely unfamiliar, with thick, curling branches and leaves that close up when touched.

“Well, that dragonweed was so effective all the biting bugs fled the swamp.”

“In this case I'm thrilled to be wrong.”

“So when does this odor wear off?”

“Next bath.”

Roan groans.

In the evening mist, a warm fire of dry fern crackles. The aroma of cooking catfish, yanked from the water with bare hands alone, has Roan and Lumpy transfixed. Their crickets perch on their shoulders, still, not a feeler moving.

Across the fire from Roan the mysterious boy slowly takes shape.

“Y
OU'RE COMING.
”

“Y
ES.
”

“N
OT ALONE
?”

“I'
M WITH A FRIEND.
I
S THAT A PROBLEM
?”

“I
S HE A
W
ALKER TOO
?”

“N
O.
A
RE WE VERY FAR
?”

“W
HAT IS FAR
?”

Then the boy is gone. Roan looks up. Lumpy pokes at the fire, completely absorbed in his activity, unaware of Roan's experience.

“I saw the boy.”

“A boy? What did he tell you?”

“He doesn't seem to mind that I brought you along.”

“Well, that's a relief,” says Lumpy. “I'd hate to think I wasn't wanted.”

“It's a good sign. We're going in the right direction.”

“Well, believe it or not, I'm having a great time and,” he grins as he shifts their fish out of the fire, “it's about to get even better.”

PREPARATION FOR THE UNKNOWN

THE ARCHBISHOP CONSTRUCTS, IN CELEBRATION OF OUR ASCENDANCE, A MONUMENTAL STRUCTURE TO EQUAL THE LOST GREAT PYRAMID OF GIZA. IN ORDER TO REFLECT THE VITALITY THE ELDEST BRINGS TO US DAILY, HIS GREAT PYRAMID WILL BE OF GLASS AND BEAR HIS HOLY LIGHT.

—PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

“M
ORE SPEED THIS TIME.
Go!” Willum shouts. Stowe runs full-out toward the half-wall, leaps onto the springboard and vaults up, her hands reaching for the top of the wall. Swinging her legs high, for an instant she hangs upside-down in the air, and feels in that moment as if she could rest there, suspended. Then she flips over, landing on her feet on the other side.

Willum stands by the parallel bars, taking note of every miniscule element of her technique. “Once again.”

“That was my seventeenth vault today.”

“Make it eighteen. And this time, name the six Constructions of Darius.”

Taking her position, Stowe says: “The Ramparts.” She runs to the half-wall: “The Whorl!” Vaulting up, she shouts: “The Spiracal!” Twists in the air, yelling: “The Antlia!” And lands perfectly on the other side of the wall. “The Gyre and Ocellus. That makes six,” she smiles. But her triumph is soured by Willum's expression. “What was wrong with that?”

“Your heels were released too quickly off the board. Again.”

Stowe thumps onto the polished oak floor of the small gymnasium. “I've done enough.”

Willum, a rope in his hand, strides over. “Fine. Then you'll work on stamina.”

He's tense, his face is drawn. Has news of the incident with the clerics reached Darius? Will she be punished? How? Stowe drags herself up and, grabbing the rope from Willum, starts to skip. Every muscle aching, she thinks perhaps this workout is punishment enough.

“Which of the six Constructions is for purely defensive purposes?”

“The Ramparts,” Stowe answers. She wishes Willum would stop being so stern. How else was she supposed to react to the death of her brother? They must be wrong, have to be. She'd know. She'd feel it. Perhaps they're deliberately lying to her because of her new mission. It's clear Willum's not pleased about it either.

“What is the Well of Oblivion?”

Stowe sighs. Will there ever be an end to this lesson? Well, she can amuse herself by reciting in rhythm to her jumps. “Discovered by the Seer in the fifteenth year of the Consolidation, it consumes the memory of any who partake of it. The Eldest used its waters to build the Whorl, thus those captured within the Whorl lose all sense of their identities and their past.” What are they going to ask her to do? Something that will put her life in danger, or Willum wouldn't be so edgy. So it'll be important, very important. And obviously to do with the Constructions.

“What is the secondary purpose of the Spiracal?”

“The Spiracal is the method of termination in any death sentence issued to a Walker for crimes against the Conurbation. As the ether body approaches the Spiracal's pulsing maw, it is transformed into energy and instantly absorbed, rejoining the fabric of the Dreamfield. This final judgment is deemed the most humane and functional form of capital punishment in existence.” Wet with sweat, she gasps, “Why are you asking me these questions, Willum?”

“It's important to review them for your training.”

“How am I supposed to train effectively when I don't know what I'm training for?”

“It is not for me to reveal your task, only to ensure you are ready for it. But it is quite apparent that at least one or two of the Constructions will be used to test you.”

As she suspected. “Is Darius angry at me?”

“I believe he is considering a response to the inappropriate behavior you displayed. Kicks!”

Stowe throws down the rope and leaps into the air, her heels aimed at Willum's ribs. A quick downstroke of his arm deflects her.

“Too slow.”

She releases a flurry of kicks, at his shins, stomach, neck. He fends off each blow with a flick of a fist, his control deliberately unnerving. Undaunted, she spins, pivoting her foot around so that it catches him on the knee.

“Good,” he says, without so much as a flinch.

She strikes again, knocking him down. Jumps up for another blow to his head but is momentarily distracted by someone coming in the door. Willum's hand reaches up, grabs her heel, and flings her to the mat.

“Not fair,” she says.

“You must sense, not look. Reassess while remaining focused on your objective. Any distraction will favor your opponent. A mistake like that could end your life,” Willum warns.

Kordan looms over her. “With such poor concentration, you are sure to fail your next exercise.”

The thought of Dirt and flight in the Dreamfield overshadows her loathing. Let him gloat if it pleases him, soon she'll be soaring. Away from this grueling session, away from sweat. Willum doesn't feel she's really working unless she's covered in it.

“Now?” she asks Kordan in anticipation.

“We still have several hours of practice before us,” Willum says calmly.

Kordan is always on the lookout for an opportunity to undermine Willum. This new mission should provide him with many. Kordan ignores Willum's statement, and dripping condescension, says to him, “I can't see any reason to prevent you tagging along, if you so desire.”

“I shall consider it,” Willum replies, bowing in deference to Kordan.

As Stowe strolls out the door with Master Kordan she can feel Willum's eyes on her. He's right, she does not need to look, she can sense him.

Taciturn as always, Kordan walks briskly through the transparent passage into the next building while she glides effortlessly behind. She has no doubt he knows of her transgression. How could he not when, wherever she goes, nervous clerics immediately give her wide berth or simply rush off the other way? The entire City is probably babbling about the event.

Kordan opens the door of the Travel Room. Inside are four glass chairs, each curved to the shape of a reclining body. Kordan sits on the chair nearest him, the smallest, the one Stowe always uses.

“That's my seat,” Stowe says.

“Why, so it is,” Kordan replies. But he does not move.

Stowe meets his gaze, her eyes blazing. These games he plays, these attempts to provoke her, what do they accomplish?

“Today your goal is acceleration. Do you remember your past lessons, or will we need to review?”

Stowe smiles serenely. “I have not forgotten.”

With the tiniest of smirks, he rises from the seat, casually picks up the bowl and offers her a spoonful of Dirt. She has always associated her pleasure in taking the Dirt with the possibility of finding Roan, but today is different: they will let her search for him no more. But still, the thrill of anticipation rises, as always. Perhaps it is only the excitement of not knowing what she has to accomplish and whether she will be up to the test. And they are wrong about Roan—she's sure of it, she will find him. One day.

Stowe lets her jaw drop open. The soil touches her tongue and she swallows, savoring the stinging heat.