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  “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 th
e 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

  ROAN AND LUMPY 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.

  “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 i
t’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.

  “YOU’RE COMING.”

  “YES.”

  “NOT ALONE?”

  “I’M WITH A FRIEND. IS THAT A PROBLEM?”

  “IS HE A WALKER TOO?”

  “NO. ARE WE VERY FAR?”

  “WHAT 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.