Freewalker Page 5

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  “MORE 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.

  Kordan holds up the spoon. “Enough?”

  She shakes her head. He knows all too well one dose hasn’t been enough for weeks. Willum enters the room, and takes his place, not realizing that this spoonful is her second. If he knew, he’d be sure to protest.

  Stowe swallows. Ah, there it is.

  And the warm glow envelops her and slips her into the Dreamfield.

  AN ASSEMBLY OF TENDRILS

  THE RED RAIN BURNED ALL THAT IT TOUCHED. BUT ALL THAT IT BURNED DID NOT DIE. AND THAT WHICH DID NOT DIE WAS UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED.

  —THE WAR CHRONICLES

  BY THE AFTERNOON OF THE NEXT DAY, Roan and Lumpy are thigh-deep in murky water, sinking in muck.

  “Should’ve known swamp was inevitable,” Lumpy moans.

  Gone are the butterflies and the floating flowers. Instead, thick, milky white stalks rise high out of the water. Capped with a tangled mass of crimson tendrils, they have an unpleasant resemblance to raw meat.

  “Those hairball things look tasty. Think I’d feel better if I ate one?”

  Roan grins. Lumpy’s appetite knows no bounds. But ju
st as Lumpy reaches to snap one off, a fat dragonfly swoops down and, within seconds of landing on the stalk, is engulfed by the tendrils.

  “Maybe not,” Lumpy shrugs.

  Chuckling, Roan points to a tall shape rising in the distance. A tree with orange, peeling bark. “There. That’s where we want to go.”

  “That’s the marker from your dream?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Well,” says Lumpy, unimpressed, “at least it’s not submerged in this muck.”

  Reaching the tree, however, proves no easy matter. Every step plunges them deeper into the mire, so that they seem to be retreating from, rather than gaining on, their goal.

  “Now this is more like it,” Lumpy comments dryly.

  Impatient and irritated, Roan attempts a long step forward. Plunging deep into a sinkhole, he tries to regain his footing, but every movement draws him farther into the muddy bottom. Blind in the dark water, he stops struggling and focuses on slowing down his heart rate.

  HE’S SOARING IN A TAWNY, SUN-SPATTERED SKY.

  IT’S INCONGRUOUS, HIS BULKY BODY OF CLAY SO EFFORTLESSLY AIRBORNE, BUT HE FEELS LIBERATED. HE DIVES AND SOMERSAULTS, HOPING LUMPY MANAGES TO PULL HIS CORPOREAL BODY OUT OF THE MIRE. AS MUCH AS HE LOVES IT HERE, HE DOESN’T WANT TO BE TRAPPED IN THE DREAMFIELD FOREVER, A MISSHAPEN HUNK OF FLYING CLAY. WOULD HE VANISH ALTOGETHER IF HIS BODY DIED?

  THESE MORBID THOUGHTS ABRUPTLY HALT WHEN HE COLLIDES INTO A COLUMN OF PITCH-BLACK STONE THAT RISES FROM AN ISLAND FAR BELOW. IT’S PART OF A LIMITLESS ROW OF EBONY PILLARS EXTENDING ACROSS THE SEA AND SKY. ROAN CAUTIOUSLY PASSES BETWEEN TWO COLUMNS AND A GIANT SPIKE SHOOTS OUT OF ONE, HEADED STRAIGHT FOR HIS CHEST. HE PIVOTS AND IT NARROWLY MISSES HIM. THE PILLARS BLAST DOZENS OF ARM-LONG SPIKES AND IT TAKES ALL ROAN’S FOCUS AND DEXTERITY TO AVOID THEM. HE MAY BE IN HIS DREAM-FORM, BUT HE’S STILL ABLE TO USE ALL HIS MARTIAL SKILLS, DUCKING AND WEAVING, STRIKING AND KICKING. FINALLY HE FINDS AN OPENING AND RETREATS, SPINNING UP INTO A CLOUD.

  SAFELY HIDDEN IN THE VAPOR, HE STUDIES WHAT SEEMS TO BE A DEFENSIVE WALL. THIS TYPE OF FORTIFICATION IS DIFFERENT THAN ANYTHING HE’S EVER SEEN IN THE DREAMFIELD. WHAT DOES IT PROTECT?

  BEFORE HE CAN PONDER THE QUESTION FURTHER, A SMALL FALCON APPEARS, CIRCLING BELOW. ITS SHAPE IS SUPERSEDED BY A MUCH MORE TROUBLING SIGHT: HUGE BROWN WINGS. RED, BULBOUS SKIN HANGING OVER A LONG BEAK. IS THIS THE SAME VULTURE-LIKE CREATURE THAT PURSUED HIM ONCE BEFORE? HE DIVES DEEPER INTO THE CLOUD AND WATCHES THROUGH ITS CONCEALING MIST.

  A BOOMING SOUND ERUPTS FROM THE SEA BELOW. SMOKE PILLOWS UP AND THROUGH IT BURSTS A SHAPE, ROUGHLY FORMED, ITS TERRA-COTTA SKIN RIPPED AND SHREDDED, ITS THICK HANDS DRIPPING BLOOD. THE FACE IS RUDIMENTARY BUT HE RECOGNIZES HER INSTANTLY. IT’S THE EYES THAT GIVE HER AWAY. STOWE.

  HIS SISTER. LOST TO HIM FOR SO LONG. HE WANTS TO SCREAM HER NAME, TO FLY AFTER HER, GRAB HER, TAKE HER BACK WITH HIM. BUT HE’S PULLED UP THROUGH THE CLOUDS, HIGHER AND HIGHER INTO THE ATMOSPHERE UNTIL HE BURSTS OUT THE OTHER SIDE—

  Roan is coughing, gasping for breath. “I saw her, I saw Stowe.”

  “Easy, easy,” says Lumpy, gripping him tight under the arms. “I had to find a place to get some footing, you were under a long time. What were you doing in the Dreamfield, anyway?”

  “I didn’t mean to be there. It just happened.”

  “Did Stowe see you?”

  “I don’t think so, but she wasn’t alone.”

  “Well, there is some good news.”

  “Really? What?”

  “You’re not dead.”

  “We’ll both be if we don’t take it nice and slow to that tree.”

  They pick their way cautiously, avoiding the ubiquitous bog holes, and what would have taken minutes on solid ground consumes precious hours. Soaked with mud, sweat, and swamp water, they’re relieved to find themselves on dry land before nightfall.

  Throwing off his pack, Lumpy examines the tiny patch of earth that sustains the tree. “How am I supposed to build a fire on this miserable clump of tree root?”

  Roan reaches, grabs a branch, pulls himself up, and in a moment, he’s sitting at the top of the tree, scanning the marsh.

  “See anything?”

  “Yeh. More swamp.”

  “I wish I could say this place was growing on me.”

  “Well, it almost grew on me and I don’t want to repeat the experience.”

  Holding onto the tree trunk and ensuring his footing is secure, Roan quickly hacks off two long branches with his hook-sword and tosses them down to Lumpy.

  Lumpy sighs, shaking his head mournfully. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  While they busy themselves cleaning the twigs off for kindling, Roan worries over the events of the day. He was careless in the marsh. For the first time he realizes how excited he feels, how free of responsibility. It’s an illusion, he knows, and a dangerous one at that. One that almost got him killed—in more ways than one. What were those strange, deadly pillars in the Dreamfield? Had that vulture or Stowe sensed his presence? Would she pursue him, perhaps even find him?

  Immersed in thought over his unbelievable stupidity, it takes Roan a moment to notice that Lumpy’s neglecting his freshly made fire to stare, unusually still, at something: two bulging eyes peeking out of the water. In a flash, Lumpy lurches forward and snaps his branch against the green shape. “Dinner!” he smiles, gathering in the huge bullfrog.

  Roan’s heart sinks. In Longlight, they never killed animals for food. Necessity has turned him into an omnivore; he’s even grown used to eating fish—but this?

  “Look at the size of it,” Lumpy says. “Biggest frog I’ve ever seen. Ever eaten frog’s legs?”

  “No,” says Roan, looking a little pale.

  “You’re going to love them.” Lumpy waves a shorn twig at Roan. “Perfect size. Almost like you knew we’d be roasting frogs tonight,” he chortles, grinning wickedly. He cuts off the frog’s legs, skewers them and sets them on the fire.

  “I’ll be eating a bean stick.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, we’ve got to conserve our food and eat fresh when we can.”

  Aware of the truth in Lumpy’s words, Roan prepares himself for the worst.

  Lumpy smiles. “Don’t worry, it’s better than termites.”

  The meal was easier to eat than Roan feared, and his stomach is fuller than it’s been since leaving Newlight. Bedrolls spread out, Lumpy tends the fire, adding the largest sticks to keep it burning through the night. Roan hones the blade of the hook-sword, performing the task with the focus of a sand painter. Completely engrossed in the tiniest action, he transforms the mundane task into an intense exercise in seeing. He carefully smooths his stone across the blade, surveying every nick on its edge, and as he works, a picture forms in his mind. A rough, scarred hand, the hand of the sword’s maker. Metal red hot, the maker’s mallet pounding it down. Then a young man’s face, Brother Wolf, but the same age Roan is now.

  “Don’t you think you should put that down?” asks Lumpy. “Wouldn’t want to fall asleep and slice off a finger or three.”

  Roan snaps out of his trance. “I was meditating.”

  “It looked like more than just that. Your eyes started fluttering.”

  “The blade was showing me its past,” Roan says.

  “Great, another new trick. Why don’t you put your hand in the muck and see if it will show us the way out of here?”

  “I wish I could. But it doesn’t work that way—you’re right, though, I’m bone tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “Been a long four days, if you ask me,” says Lumpy, who stretches out on his bedroll, closes his eyes, and is asleep.

  Roan fastens the sword on his pack but keeps it within easy reach. He lies back, contemplating a sky clouded with stars, and falls easily into a well-earned slumber.

  Something heavy shuffles on Roan’s lap, waking him. He touches it with his finger—cold, slimy. He opens his eyes. In the light of the first quarter moon, he makes out a bulbous form. It’s a giant bullfrog. Startle
d, he pushes it off. Wide awake now, he sees that every inch of their little island is covered in bullfrogs.

  Lumpy jumps up, throwing a frog off his chest, kicking another at his feet.

  “I’m sorry, okay? I was hungry. Sorry!”

  Slinging his bedroll over his shoulders, Roan gingerly makes his way up the tree, followed by a thoroughly revolted Lumpy. Side by side, bedrolls wrapped like armor around them, they nestle in the topmost branches, observing the quivering mass below.

  “It could be possible they resent us making a meal of them, but more likely they were driven out of the water.” Roan isn’t sure which thought makes him more uncomfortable.

  “And what, do you suppose, could have done that?”

  “A predator that eats bullfrogs at night.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Maybe we’re sharing their safe haven and don’t know it.”

  “What sort of predator, do you think?”

  “Some kind of fish?” Roan replies.

  “It’d have to be a pretty big fish to eat one of these giant frogs.”

  “Snake?”

  “I don’t like snakes. And I really wouldn’t like a snake that eats frogs this size.”

  “It might just be that they’re attracted to the dry ground. Or maybe it’s mating season.”

  “I don’t see any mating going on.” Lumpy looks nervously at the water. There’s no sign of movement, apart from the swaying of the tall, red-tendrilled stalks. Then his eyes narrow. “Wait—the plants... they’re moving.”

  Although they only appear to be bending with the breeze, Roan can see that the plants are actually mobile. Very slow, like the sea anemones he once read about, but there’s no question they’ve changed their position.

  “Weren’t there only a few around here when we came?”

  Lumpy shudders. “They brought friends.”

  Their island is now encircled by the stalks and the pale glow of daybreak reveals that more are on their way.