Freewalker Page 3

  As they proceed along the walkway, below the massive cables that suspend the bridge over the churning water, clerics fan out in all directions, frantically maintaining their security net.

  “His name is Raven.”

  “Such a beautiful name. Not at all suited to the sly wretch on the Keeper’s floor.”

  Was that a grin? Too swift. She’d catch Willum out yet. His game, his truth.

  “He was a failed student at the seminary, they said. He lacked the gift.”

  “But under normal protocol, world-locked seminarians are given the Enabler and made into clerics.”

  “Darius stopped the implantation. Raven was extraordinarily clever and manipulative, so the Keeper recruited him to join a new movement in the Farlands.”

  “The Brothers. So one of Saint’s first followers was Darius’s spy. How clever.”

  “Too clever and yet not clever enough. Though Raven was successful in delivering you into the protection of the Eldest, he failed to locate your brother, or so he said.”

  “I ought to be grateful,” Stowe says with a sweetness that could rot teeth. “Darius is like a father to me. His generosity knows no limits.”

  “Then it was discovered that Roan had been with the Brothers all along, quite under Darius’s nose.”

  “Raven was a traitor?”

  “So it appeared. Raven was brought in, interrogated, tortured, but his pleas of innocence were never withdrawn.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “No.”

  “Then he may know where my brother is.”

  “He may have once, but no more.”

  Stowe’s fingers tighten on the railing, as she gazes at the churning water below. “Thank you, good Willum,” she says, smiling up at him.

  “I am here only to serve you, Stowe.”

  “I know.”

  How did he look at her just then? She could have sworn it was elation, but no—no, she must control her emotions, not see in others what she feels in herself. Careless, that was careless. She had allowed herself a moment of triumph. It was so satisfying to know she had been right about Raven, but she must not let Willum see her victories. She cannot let down her guard, not to anyone. Not even him. And she must always look beyond the surface. On the surface are lies the Masters use to deceive her.

  “It’s Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”

  A man and a woman have stopped on the opposite pavement, both waving enthusiastically at Stowe.

  “Our Stowe!” they yell, beaming at her. Stowe raises her fine-boned hand in response, her lips curved into a tight smile. How open and vulnerable she must seem, standing before her own gigantic picture, cherubic grin warming the world. The letters on the billboard read: Our Stowe.

  Oh, yes, the City loves her. Its citizens bow before her. But they are not hers. She must never forget that it is Darius who owns them.

  For now.

  THE ASSIGNATION

  THE CHILDREN WILL NUMBER FOURTEEN.

  THEY WILL KNOW OUR DREAMS AND BE LED BY THEM.

  WHERE THEY WILL GO, SO WILL WE ALL.

  —BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  THE MAIN HALL IS THE BIGGEST of the log buildings, harboring the kitchen and dining room. In the morning, Roan, Lumpy, and the Oasis people sit glumly at one of the tables; the other two are conspicuously empty. Selden puts the pot of porridge in front of them and they each fill up their bowls. Loren breaks the silence.

  “Did you check on them this morning?”

  Selden shakes his head. “I brought them their breakfast, but didn’t go in. Terre told me to leave it at the door. Looked like a ghost. Far as I can tell, they worked straight through the night.”

  “What else would you expect,” says Bildt. “Alandra and Terre won’t stop till every last one of those little folks is running about again.”

  “Judging from what I see, they weren’t the only ones who couldn’t sleep last night.” No one answers Roan. Their drawn countenances say it all.

  “So reading between the lines, Selden,” grumbles Merritt, “I gather that there’s not been a scrap of progress.”

  “I admit I listened at the door,” says the cook, just a little embarrassed. “The only voices I heard were those of the two women.”

  “The smartest thing right now,” says Lumpy, echoing Roan’s comment from the night before, “is to do our jobs and let them do theirs.”

  Roan observes the faces around him. He can see they all share his frustration. If he could just get to the bottom of what’s happened to the children, he could do something, stop feeling so helpless.

  After his vision on the lookout, he’d retrieved his hook-sword from its hiding place. He sat with it, for what seemed like hours, before removing it from its sheath. It felt comfortable in his hand, easy. Too easy. He knew it was unlikely he’d have to use it, but he felt better somehow, having it close.

  Roan breaks out of his reverie to find breakfast finished, and everyone pushing back chairs to go their separate ways. Grateful to have the gardens to himself, Roan sets to work immediately, sweating in the sun, turning over shovelful after shovelful of pungent earth. His hands are blistered, his back is aching, but he won’t stop. The work helps calm him.

  He pauses only for water, trying to ignore time, and hoping that somehow the nightmare will magically disappear.

  “She’s ready,” calls out Lumpy from across the fence.

  Roan puts down his shovel, washes his face in the trough, and they wind their way back to the residence, the sun low in the sky. Lumpy knocks lightly on the door. It opens a crack. Terre motions them in.

  All fourteen children lie on their beds, glistening with needles that pierce dozens of points, from around their eyes to their toes. Apart from their chests rising and falling with each breath, they are still. Alandra is bent over one of the smaller girls, Dani, carefully dripping liquid onto her lips. The healer looks up at Roan, her eyes dark from lack of sleep.

  “Nothing works. Not the herbs, not the emulsions, not the aromatics.”

  “Not even the points?” asks Lumpy, nodding at young Jaw.

  Alandra looks up at Lumpy, anguished. “Nothing.”

  “We both know it’s not an illness.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re wrong, Roan.”

  Roan wants to shout at her. How can she deny what’s going on, even now, after all this—why can’t she even acknowledge the possibility?

  “What’s Roan wrong about?” asks Lumpy.

  “I took them into the Dreamfield—even though he expressed some concerns,” Alandra tells him.

  Lumpy looks at Roan quizzically. “It was a necessary part of their training, wasn’t it?”

  “According to the Dirt Eaters. They were the ones pushing for it.” Rounding on Alandra, Roan quietly asserts, “I never agreed.”

  “I assumed you’d accepted it.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “They were ready.”

  Torn between his friends, Lumpy tries to reason it out. “But it’s part of who they are, Roan, isn’t it? The kids have incredible potential. A big reason for bringing them here was to help them develop.”

  “And you see the result.”

  “No,” says Alandra. “We don’t know why this happened. Why should it have anything to do with the Dreamfield at all? I exercised every precaution. I only took them to the nearest edges; they were barely exposed.”

  “Obviously it was more than enough.”

  “You have no evidence.”

  “How many times did you tell me that my sister was being damaged by her early exposure to the Dreamfield and the Dirt?”

  Alandra, flushed, snaps back at him. “You really think I’d do to the children what the Turned have done to your sister? You think I would be that reckless after all we’ve been through—after all I’ve seen?”

  Roan has no reply. He wants to trust her, he realizes—that’s always been the problem. He’s so sure she loves the children that he doesn’t fight her decis
ions, even when he feels he should. But he can’t forget that only part of Alandra is in this world. The rest is with the Dirt Eaters—and he’s certain they’re the ones who encouraged her to test the children. They may even have lied about the risk, and she believed their arguments. She still does.

  “I think Alandra’s telling the truth, Roan,” says Lumpy. “Don’t you?”

  “He can think whatever he wants,” says Alandra.

  “I think,” says Roan softly, “that you care deeply for the children. I know how hard you’re working. I’m sorry.”

  Alandra coolly accepts the apology.

  “But,” Roan adds, “I also think you may not know the truth behind what you’ve been instructed to do.”

  “And what truth would that be?”

  “For that I need to speak to the Dirt Eaters. I want answers.”

  “But it’s too dangerous. The Turned are still searching for you.”

  “And so I’ve avoided the Dreamfield all these months. But I think this qualifies as an emergency. I want to hear what the other Dirt Eaters have to say. My eyes on theirs.”

  The healer considers, then accepts. “There is one place we control that is believed to be impenetrable by the Turned. We will have to remain cloaked, though—and not move beyond, no matter what happens.”

  “Agreed.”

  Alandra takes out a small, plain jar, opens the lid, takes a pinch of the violet dirt inside and swallows it.

  “Come back with answers. Please. And Roan...” Lumpy adds pointedly, “the best way to do that is to actually ask some questions.”

  Roan accepts Lumpy’s admonition with a smile. His friend’s right, of course—Roan needs to steer his thoughts away from his own frustrations and focus on the children’s predicament. Regaining control over his heartbeat and breath, he slowly draws up energy through his feet, his legs, his spine, and out through the top of his head.

  YELLOW CLOUDS HIGH OVERHEAD DRIFT ACROSS THE CRIMSON SKY. ROAN, HIS BODY OF DENSE CLAY, STANDS WITH THE GOAT-WOMAN ON A FIELD OF ROUND BOULDERS.

  “HOW DO WE SUMMON THEM, ALANDRA?”

  THE GOAT-WOMAN MEETS HIS EYES. A TERRIBLE SADNESS STANDS BETWEEN HIM AND ALANDRA.

  “IF YOU TRUSTED ME, WE WOULDN’T NEED TO,” SHE SAYS, AND RAISES HER ARMS.

  THE FAINT GREEN AURA THAT SURROUNDS HER GROWS BRIGHTER. SOON IT’S SO BRIGHT ROAN HAS TO TURN HIS HEAD AWAY.

  “YOU TOO,” SHE TELLS HIM.

  HE STARES AT HIS OWN AURA AND SILENTLY URGES IT TO INTENSIFY. SOON THEY BOTH BLAZE WITH COLOR, THE LIGHT EXTENDING UP INTO THE SKY.

  “THEY COME,” ALANDRA SAYS.

  SUSPENDED ABOVE THEM, A CIRCLE IN THE AIR, BARELY DISCERNIBLE, BEGINS TO SHIMMER. THE RING TURNS AQUEOUS AND TWO SHAFTS OF LIGHT BLAZE THROUGH IT, STRIKING THE GROUND BEHIND ROAN.

  “I SEE YOU’RE STILL WAITING FOR YOUR TRUE FORM, ROAN.”

  THE CLAY MAN SEES A MOUNTAIN LION SITTING ACROSS FROM THEM. BESIDE THE CAT, A RED LIZARD WATCHES WITH UNBLINKING EYES.

  ROAN IGNORES THE SLIGHT. “WHAT’S HAPPENING TO THE CHILDREN?”

  THE LIZARD FLICKS ITS TONGUE. “WE ARE SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS.”

  “YOU PRESSED FOR THEM TO GO TO THE DREAMFIELD BEFORE THEY WERE READY.”

  THE LION GROWLS. “THEIR POWERS, LEFT UNATTENDED, WOULD FESTER AND GROW TO HARM THEM.”

  “AND YET YOU CLAIM MY SISTER’S POWERS HAVE FESTERED AND HARMED HER SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE THEY ARE VERY WELL ATTENDED. YOU CAN’T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS.”

  “THE CHILDREN ARE NOT YOUR SISTER.”

  STIFLING HIS FRUSTRATION, ROAN TRIES ANOTHER APPROACH. “YOU SAY YOU’RE SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS. WHAT HAVE YOU FOUND?”

  THE LION CIRCLES ROAN, THEN ABRUPTLY TURNS TO THE GOAT-WOMAN. “ALANDRA?”

  “IT IS NOT A WEAKNESS IN THE CHILDREN, THEY REMAIN STRONG. NOR A TOXIN IN NEWLIGHT, FOR THE LAND IS PURE. IT CANNOT BE A VIRUS. I DETECTED NO SIGN OF DISEASE.”

  “ANY IDEA WHAT IT MIGHT BE?” ROAN PERSISTS.

  THE GOAT-WOMAN IGNORES HIS QUESTION, DEFERRING TO THE LION.

  “WE HAVE SUSPICIONS,” RESPONDS THE LION.

  THE LIZARD RISES FROM ITS ROCK. “YOU ONCE SAVED THE CHILDREN FROM COMING INTO THE POSSESSION OF THE TURNED. PERHAPS NOW THEY HAVE USED OTHER MEANS TO ABDUCT THEM.”

  “DO YOU HAVE ANY PROOF OF THAT?” SAYS ROAN.

  THE LION’S AND THE LIZARD’S EYES MEET. THEY SHAKE THEIR HEADS. “WE HAVE NONE. BUT WE KNOW OF NO OTHER EXPLANATION.”

  “IF YOU BELIEVE THAT TO BE A POSSIBILITY, THEN WHY BRING THE CHILDREN INTO THE FIELD IN THE FIRST PLACE? WHAT WERE YOU HOPING FOR? WHAT DO THE TURNED WANT FROM THEM?”

  “WE ARE SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS.”

  “SO YOU’VE SAID.”

  A SMALL MOTH FLUTTERS IN FRONT OF THE LIZARD. AND WITH A FLICK OF HIS REPTILIAN TONGUE, THEY ARE ALL GONE.

  Lumpy waits expectantly as Roan opens his eyes.

  “If they know anything, they’re not saying,” Roan mutters.

  Alandra slowly lifts her head. “They’re investigating. We should have answers soon.”

  “How long is soon?”

  “I don’t know, Lumpy.”

  Lumpy’s about to protest but Roan catches his eye, stopping him. “Okay. We wait.”

  “In the meantime, I must get back to the children,” she says, with a pointed look at Roan. “I won’t rest until they’re whole again.”

  Lumpy gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I know they’re safe in your care.”

  The moment he and Roan step out of the residence into the glaring sun, the tradespeople swarm about them, all talking at once.

  “What’d you find out?” asks Loren.

  “Are they going to be alright?” Bildt wonders aloud.

  “It was awful quiet in there,” says Merritt.

  “My guess is you went dreamwalking,” Loren hypothesizes. “Sure felt to me like Dirt Eater business going on in there.”

  “Still no answers. No improvement.” Scanning the Oasis people, it’s clear to Roan that they expected answers. They assumed the Dirt Eaters would suggest solutions to the problem. Well, they were wrong. “Sorry,” he mutters, and using his grief as an excuse to get away quickly, he bows his head and strides toward the wood, Lumpy at his side.

  “Do they at least know what caused it?”

  “They blame the Turned.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. But I mean to find out.”

  “So when do we leave?”

  “Don’t you want to stay close to Jaw and Jam?”

  “I’m no use to them here.”

  “After dark.”

  “We tell anyone?”

  Roan sighs. “All these people come from Oasis. They’re warriors, Lumpy, our guards. I’m sure that they’re all under the direction of the Dirt Eaters.” Roan looks at Lumpy gravely. “And so is Alandra.”

  “I don’t believe Alandra would do anything to hurt the kids.”

  “As our friend, it doesn’t make sense to me that she would. But she is a Dirt Eater. I don’t trust them anymore, and she trusts them too much. I don’t want her to know where we’re going.”

  “And just where are we going?”

  Roan smiles for the first time since this ordeal began. “I had a dream...”

  Lumpy laughs, rolling his eyes skyward. “Of course.”

  COOPERATION UNLIMITED

  PROVIDERS OF ESSENTIAL SERVICES ARE NOW ALL ALPHA-ENABLED AND WE ARE PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THAT THIS TRIUMPH OF KNOWLEDGE AND EXPERTISE WILL SOON BE MADE AVAILABLE TO ALL. THE CONURBATION, STRIVING ALWAYS TO ENHANCE THE FOCUS, STRENGTH, AND WISDOM OF ITS CONGREGATION.

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  THE ROAD STOWE’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 sig
ht 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?