Freewalker Read online

  “TRUST WHAT HAS BEEN GIVEN TO YOU,” MABATAN URGES.

  HE STARES INTO THE MAELSTROM, THE WATER SWIRLING DOWN INTO AN INFINITE DESCENT. THE EYE OF THE VORTEX DRAWS ROAN IN, TUGGING ON HIM, COAXING HIM TO SURRENDER.

  CASTING ALL DOUBT ASIDE, ROAN YIELDS TO THE INEXORABLE PULL AND JUMPS. CAUGHT IN THE CURRENT, HE’S SWEPT IN ENDLESS CIRCLES, TOSSED AND DRAGGED AND SPUN AS HE’S DRAWN DEEPER INTO THE EDDY. HIS LIMBS ACHE, THE CURRENT THREATENING TO RIP THEM FROM THEIR SOCKETS. BUT JUST AS HE PRESSES HIS ARMS TO HIS SIDES, HE TOPPLES INTO A VOID.

  AS HE SPIRALS DOWNWARD, HE HEARS SINGING, A CHOIR OF MEN’S AND WOMEN’S VOICES. HE RECOGNIZES THEM IMMEDIATELY. THE VOICES OF LONGLIGHT.

  ON THE DAY OF REMEMBERING, AT THE FIRE HOLE, THE ENTIRE VILLAGE WOULD COME TOGETHER. HIS FATHER WOULD SPEAK OF THE VISION OF THE FIRST ONES, AND THEN THEY WOULD ALL SING. MOURNFUL SONGS, SONGS FOR A WORLD LOST, SONGS FOR THE INNOCENT DEAD.

  BUT THIS SONG IS DIFFERENT. THIS SONG HAS NO WORDS. ROAN SEES THE EXPLOSIONS, THE FIRE, THE SKULL-MASKED INVADERS. REMEMBERS SLIDING WITH STOWE THROUGH THE ICY WHIP-GRASS. AND THEN, THE GLIMMER OF A MEMORY HOVERS AT THE EDGE OF HIS CONSCIOUSNESS—AN EERIE RUMBLING SOUND, LIKE HUNDREDS OF VOICES HUMMING IN UNISON. THE PEOPLE OF LONGLIGHT LIFTING THEIR VOICES, WHILE THEIR VILLAGE BURNED.

  THE MEMORY OF HIS PEOPLE’S HELPLESSNESS IN THE FACE OF THAT RUTHLESS VIOLENCE IS A BRAND SEARED ON HIS HEART. HE HEARS HIS MOTHER’S SOPRANO LIFTING ABOVE THE OTHERS. “MOTHER,” HE WHISPERS. “FATHER.” BUT AS HE DROPS, THEIR VOICES GROW FAINTER, AND EVERY CELL IN HIS BODY GRIEVES FOR THE LOSS.

  ROCKED BY WAVE AFTER WAVE OF ANGUISH, ROAN IS SUDDENLY CONFRONTED BY THE REEK OF BURNT FLESH. HE FIRST ENCOUNTERED THIS STENCH THE MORNING HE RETURNED TO LONGLIGHT, AFTER THE BUTCHERY. BONES FLOATING ON THE SURFACE OF THE FIRE HOLE, HIS FATHER’S SHOE CLUTCHED IN HIS HAND, THE AIR TAINTED WITH DEATH, INFINITE DEATH. IT GAGS HIM AND HE CHOKES ON IT.

  REACHING OUT, HE CLAWS AT A WARM, SOFT WALL, HIS FINGERS DIGGING IN. THOUSANDS OF WAILING SCREAMS ASSAIL HIM AND IN THE RISING LIGHT HE SEES THE WALL IS MADE OF RAW BLEEDING MEAT. STRANDS OF FLESH HANG FROM HIS FINGERNAILS, HIS HANDS SWIM IN BLOOD.

  HORRIFIED, HE JERKS AWAY, AND TUMBLES THROUGH A THICK GRAY MIST. BELOW, HE SCANS AN ENDLESS FLATLAND. THE SUN, HALVED BY THE HORIZON, CASTS A DIM AMBER GLOW ACROSS A LANDSCAPE THAT SEEMS TO SHIFT AND WRITHE. ROAN TOPPLES INTO THAT LIVING SURFACE. ANKLE-DEEP IN UNDULATING SLIME, HE’S DEAFENED BY A SYMPHONY OF SUCKING. LEECHES! ENDLESSLY SUCKING AT WHATEVER IS IN THEIR REACH, A WHATEVER ROAN HAS NO DESIRE TO INVESTIGATE. HE FRANTICALLY SCRAPES THE BLOODSUCKERS OFF AS THEY BEGIN TO INCH UP HIS LEGS.

  WITH ONE WILD SWIPE, HE BRUSHES AGAINST SOMETHING SOLID IN THE QUIVERING MASS, AND EXPOSES THE SHAPE OF AN EAR. STARTLED, HE CAREFULLY PULLS THE LEECHES OFF, EXPOSING A NOSE, A MOUTH, AN EYE. UNTIL HE FINDS HIMSELF STARING INTO THE FACE OF SAINT.

  HIS DEAD MENTOR’S EYES OPEN SLOWLY AND LOOK UPWARDS. THEY WIDEN IN SATISFACTION WHEN THEY SEE ROAN. THE MOUTH OPENS, BUT BEFORE IT CAN UTTER A SOUND, LEECHES TOPPLE INTO IT BY THE HUNDREDS, STIFLING IT. SAINT’S EYES SCREAM OUT THEIR DESPERATION. HIS HAND SHOOTS OUT AND GRIPS ROAN’S ARM, DRAWING HIM DOWN. LEECHES SLIDE UP ROAN’S HANDS, HIS ARMS, COVERING HIS BODY, THEN HIS FACE.

  ROAN CONVULSES WITH A PURE PRIMAL FEAR THAT INSTANTLY TRANSFORMS HIM INTO FLAME. HE BURNS INSIDE AND OUT, THE WHITE FIRE THREATENING TO CONSUME ITSELF AND EXTINGUISH HIM AS SURELY AS THE ARM THAT SOUGHT TO HOLD HIM CLOSE. TOO CLOSE.

  THE GOD OF THE CITY

  ELDEST WHO KNOWS ALL MY NEEDS

  THE SECRETS OF MY HEART

  GUIDE ME INTO PARADISE

  YOUR WISDOM TO IMPART

  THAT I MIGHT JOIN WITH THE WONDERS

  YOU HAVE CREATED THERE

  ELDEST WHO KNOWS ALL MY NEEDS

  ACCEPT MY HUMBLE PRAYER

  —LITURGY OF THE CONURBATION

  “FINGERTIPS, fingertips!”

  Not fingertips again. “Where’s Willum?”

  “This level of training comes under my tutelage.” Kordan claps his hands in annoyance. “Now. Make your energy push through each tip.”

  Stowe hates the whine in Kordan’s voice, his acrid smell, his constant demands. But most of all, she hates Kordan’s finger exercises.

  Imagining her fingertips puncturing his eyes does the trick. Heat begins surging through her hands.

  Kordan nods with approval. “That’s the kind of focus you require.”

  Stowe can barely stifle her laugh. So imagining his dismemberment will get her through his relentless training sessions!

  “Now, heels!”

  Stowe sighs. “Where are we going to fly, Master Kordan?”

  “Heels!”

  She gathers the energy around her and, channeling it in through her head, pushes it down into her body. Then she directs it out toward Kordan, just to see if she can make blood come out of his thin nose.

  “Focus! Your heels!”

  Did he feel her attack at all? True, it was just the tiniest burst, but she’d hoped it might have at least brushed the punctilious fool.

  “Are you awake?” Kordan snaps.

  Stowe immediately pushes the energy into her feet.

  “You were letting your mind drift!”

  “Apologies, Master Kordan, it’s just... we’ve been practicing all morning and...”

  Kordan frowns. “You will continue.”

  “Yes, Master Kordan.” Worm that he is, he’s right. Why does she feel so listless when what she needs is to focus, to become stronger?

  “Abdomen!”

  Stowe, biting her tongue until blood trickles in her mouth, gathers in her frustration, and funnels it into her abdominal muscles.

  “Lungs!”

  Off come his arms.

  “Navel!”

  Off come his legs.

  “Eyes!”

  Off comes his head.

  And thus Stowe survives the drills that continue into the early afternoon.

  Finally satisfied, Kordan rewards her with a smug little smile. “Now we are ready to fly.”

  But Stowe doesn’t care. For as Kordan’s hands press on the wall, a drawer emerges. Her heart bangs against her chest, her body courses with adrenaline, her fingers tremble.

  He lifts the silver vessel. She resists the urge to rush over, grab the bowl, and swallow it all. Dirt is power, Dirt is strength. Dirt will take her away from here, where she is barely more than a child and a slave to the whims of the Masters.

  She bows her head. She must not appear too eager. She opens her mouth and Kordan spills in the contents of the spoon. As she gulps the Dirt down, there is a faint glimmering at the edges of her consciousness, but she knows she cannot reach it, she need not even make the effort. “More, please.”

  “As you wish,” says Kordan, with an ingratiating smirk. Taking his time, he leisurely dips the spoon into the bowl and raises a heaping spoonful. And with excruciating slowness, he brings it to her mouth. He so enjoys making her squirm. After she swallows, he takes a pinch for himself. The drawer slides shut, the wall closes, and they settle into their chairs.

  Stowe shudders as Dirt sizzles through her veins and surges under her skin. She shimmers, then bursts into the Dreamfield like an exploding star.

  STOWE, HER SKIN TERRA-COTTA, STANDS UPON A MOUNTAIN RIDGE UNDER THE PULSATING GREEN SKY. THE VULTURE, SALLOW FEATHERS AND BULBOUS RED FACE, HOVERS BESIDE HER.

  “BEGIN THE TRANSFORMATION.”

  STOWE FOLDS ENERGY INTO HER FEET, BUT CRIES OUT IN PAIN AS THE CLAY FLESH CRYSTALLIZES, TURNING TO BRILLIANT DIAMOND.

  “TOO FAST!”

  RECALLING WILLUM’S INSTRUCTION, SHE SLOWS THE FLOW, PERMITTING THE CRYSTAL TO ONLY GRADUALLY INCH UP HER LEGS, OVER HER PELVIS, AROUND HER TORSO. THE METAMORPHOSIS FIRES A MILLION TINY KNIVES INTO HER NERVE ENDINGS. THE CRYSTALLIZATION OF HER FACE IS AGONY. AS HER EYES TURN TO DIAMONDS, HER VISION KALEIDOSCOPES. SHE REFOCUSES, INTEGRATING THE INFORMATION FROM ALL THE FACETS TO FORM ONE COHERENT IMAGE. SHE HAS BECOME ENTIRELY DIAMOND NOW EXCEPT FOR HER RIGHT HAND, AND THOUGH SHE W
ILLS IT WITH ALL HER MIGHT, THE CRYSTAL WON’T MOVE DOWN HER WRIST.

  THIS HAND HOLDS THE MEMORY OF HER BROTHER’S TOUCH—HOW HIS GRIP TIGHTENED AROUND HERS BEFORE SHE WAS TORN AWAY THAT TERRIBLE NIGHT. WHEN SHE CLOSES HER EYES, SHE CAN STILL FEEL THE WARMTH OF ROAN’S FINGERS.

  “FINISH IT,” SAYS THE VULTURE. “EVERY PART OF YOU MUST UNDERGO THE CHANGE.”

  SHE PUSHES WITH HER MIND, BUT SHE CANNOT MAKE THE CRYSTAL MOVE INTO HER HAND.

  “I SEE. YOU STILL NURSE THIS WEAKNESS. SENTIMENT IS DANGEROUS.”

  STOWE BRISTLES. SHE’D LASH OUT AT HER TEACHER, BUT THAT IS WHAT HE WANTS. INSTEAD SHE ERADICATES THE LAST SEMBLANCE OF HER VULNERABILITY. ERASING THE SENSATION OF HER BROTHER’S TOUCH FROM HER MIND, SHE SPREADS THE DIAMOND RAPIDLY OVER HER HAND, AND INSTEAD OF PRIDE AT HER SUCCESSFUL TRANSFORMATION, SHE IS LEFT WITH A PLAINTIVE, SEARING ACHE.

  “GOOD. MAINTAIN THAT DENSITY AS YOU RISE.”

  BUT SHE CANNOT MOVE.

  “RAISE YOURSELF!” DEMANDS KORDAN.

  THE WEIGHT OF STOWE’S LIMBS IS TOO GREAT. KORDAN’S CONTEMPT DISTRACTS HER AND SIPHONS OFF HER ENERGY. HER EFFORTS BECOME BRITTLE AND EVERY TIME SHE TRIES TO LIFT OFF, THE CHALLENGE INCREASES. THEN WILLUM’S INSTRUCTIONS DRIFT INTO HER CRYSTALLINE CONSCIOUSNESS: PAIN IS A FUEL, SWALLOW IT, MAKE IT SERVE YOU.

  FOLLOWING HIS TEACHING, SHE EATS HER PAIN, AND AS SHE ROLLS IT BACK INTO HER CONTROL SHE SLOWLY LEVITATES, RISING TO THE SAME HEIGHT AS THE VULTURE.

  “NOW LET’S SEE IF YOU CAN SOAR.”

  THE LAST VISIT, SHE’D TRANSFORMED ONLY HALF HER BODY. NOW, CARRYING THIS GREATER DENSITY, IT’S DIFFICULT TO PICK UP SPEED.

  “WHY SO CAUTIOUS, OUR STOWE?”

  IF PAIN IS FUEL, THEN HATRED IS ITS IGNITER, THINKS STOWE AS SHE BLASTS INTO THE MIST. SOARING HIGH ABOVE KORDAN, SHE CAN ALMOST IMAGINE BEING FREE OF HIM, OF ANY RESPONSIBILITY TO THE MASTERS OR THE CITY. BUT NOT TODAY. TODAY SHE WILL SUFFER HIS TAUNTS AND OBEY HIS EVERY COMMAND. WITH ANOTHER THOUGHT, SHE PLUMMETS, THEN COMES TO A DEAD STOP INCHES FROM THE VULTURE, HER CRYSTAL FINGERS CURVED INTO A SHARP POINT AT HIS BREAST.

  “YOU WASTE YOUR EFFORTS,” SAYS KORDAN. “DO NOT MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE WHEN YOU PASS THROUGH THE WHORL.”

  “WHAT IF I BECOME TRAPPED IN IT?”

  “YOU WILL ONLY FAIL IF YOU FALTER.”

  ALL THAT HE SAYS IS AIMED AT THE CORE OF HER PRIDE. HE HAS ALWAYS TREATED HER LIKE THIS, FOREVER PREYING ON HER WEAKNESSES, SEEKING TO KEEP HER IN HIS THRALL, DARING HER TO CRAVE THE MYSTERY OF HIS POWER. SO OBVIOUS. NOT LIKE WILLUM, WHOSE HOLD ON HER AND ON HIS POSITION IS A PUZZLE. WILLUM APPEARS OPEN, VULNERABLE, BUT HE FEIGNS THIS TRANSPARENCY. HE KEEPS HIS SECRETS AND, IF THE EASE WITH WHICH HE REPELLED HER ATTACK ON THE CLERICS IS ANY INDICATION, THEY ARE SECRETS WORTHY OF HER ATTENTION.

  STOWE CONTEMPLATES THE TOWERING WATERSPOUT THAT OBSTRUCTS THE HORIZON: THE WHORL. SET IN THE MIDDLE OF WHAT THE MASTERS CALL BLIND MAN’S DESERT, IT DOMINATES A LANDSCAPE THAT IS SAID TO HAVE ONCE THROBBED WITH ACTIVITY, ACTIVITY THE MASTERS HAD TROUBLE POLICING. DARIUS’S CONSTRUCTION IS INSPIRED IN ITS SIMPLICITY. THE WHORL’S WATERS WERE DRAWN FROM THE WELL OF OBLIVION, AND ITS ENERGY FROM ANY ENTITY FOOLISH ENOUGH TO APPROACH IT. SOME CLAIM THAT AT THE VERY MOMENT IT WAS SET IN MOTION, ALL THE BIRDS IN THE CITY FELL FROM THE SKIES, THEIR SPIRITS FOREVER CAUGHT IN THE WHIRLING CASCADE. CHILDREN WOKE SCREAMING FROM NIGHTMARES THEY COULD NOT REMEMBER.

  STOWE HAD ALWAYS BELIEVED IT WAS DRIVEL, A TALE TOLD TO TERRIFY THE UNINITIATED, KEEP THEM IN AWE OF THE DIRT AND ITS POWER. BUT FACE TO FACE WITH THE WHORL AND THE LIFELESS LANDSCAPE IN WHICH IT PULSES, SHE HAS NO DOUBT THAT THE STORIES OF ITS LETHALNESS ARE IN FACT UNDERSTATED. A GREATER CHALLENGE THEN, BUT SHE IS STRONG. STRONG ENOUGH.

  SHE BULLETS STRAIGHT TOWARD THE WHORL. CLOSER AND CLOSER, UNTIL SHE CRASHES INTO IT. THROUGH HER HEAD FLASHES THE FORCE OF AN INESTIMABLE NUMBER OF BEINGS, THEIR MEMORIES INTERTWINING. THEY ENVELOP HER WITH THEIR PLEADING, URGING HER TO JOIN THEM. SHE COULD LEAVE ALL HER PAIN BEHIND WITH THEM, THEY COO, NO NEED TO LOOK BACK, OR TO CARRY SUCH DEVASTATING ANGUISH. SHE COULD GIVE IT ALL TO THEM. THEY WOULD CARRY IT FOR HER. THEIR CALL IS A DIVINE MUSIC THAT WINDS AND WRAPS LIKE VELVET OVER HER LIMBS, HER HEART, HER MIND.

  YEARNING, SHE REACHES OUT, BUT HER MOMENTUM THRUSTS HER FORWARD AND THROUGH THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WHORL TO WHERE KORDAN WAITS. HER CRYSTALLINE SKIN IS SHREDDED, HER HEAD HALF-HANGING TO THE SIDE, BUT SHE IS STILL THERE, ALL THAT SHE IS AND THAT SHE KNOWS, ALL THAT SHE REMEMBERS INTACT. LOOKING INTO THE VULTURE’S EYES, IT SEEMS FORTUNATE THAT IN HER CRYSTALLINE FORM SHE CANNOT CRY.

  She unsteadily picks herself up from the floor, ignoring Kordan’s gaze.

  “You successfully completed your task.” His normal whine is tinged with resentment, and Stowe takes some small satisfaction in the fact that her accomplishments irritate him.

  Her skin feels like it’s blistering, but a quick glimpse assures Stowe that the sensation is simply a side effect of her ordeal. The throbbing ache, however, is no illusion. It takes all her strength to remain vertical, and maintain her pride before this preening, disdainful ogre. She smiles at him.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Master Kordan. Your instruction is invaluable. You make me better than I am.”

  Kordan, peacocking, bows his head with false modesty. “I am here only to serve Our Stowe.”

  Ah, flattery. Such an effective tool.

  A quiet knock on the door and Willum whispers into the room, “I trust your venture was successful.”

  “All is satisfactory.”

  “The Keeper would like to see Our Stowe.”

  Now. Finally. The verdict.

  “Why wasn’t I notified?” snaps Kordan.

  “You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” says Willum, turning to leave.

  “Wait,” Kordan hisses before pompously directing his scowl at Stowe. “Tomorrow you will be challenged. Make sure you are up to it.”

  Stowe gives him her most ingratiating smile. “Thank you again, my teacher.”

  As she and Willum step into the hallway, he offers her his handkerchief. “How much have you been taking?”

  She ignores his offering and licks the corners of her mouth.

  “Enough.”

  “And that is?”

  “Two spoons.”

  “That’s enough for ten Walkers.”

  “The Dirt makes me stronger.”

  “Stowe, do not be deceived by the semblance of a thing.”

  “Nothing can be done, Willum. It is in the interests of the Conurbation.”

  “Nevertheless, I will speak to Darius.”

  His troubled expression seems quaint, but Stowe’s not blind to the consequences of his disquiet. He must not ration her Dirt. It’s unthinkable; Kordan will not let him.

  “There is nothing to fear in Dirt, good Willum.”

  “I do not fear it, Stowe, but I am concerned with its abuse.”

  She will divert him, bury the issue among all the other matters Willum must attend to. “Why has Darius waited so long to call on me?”

  Willum’s silence is his answer. Darius’s withdrawal from her has been part of her punishment. He may be old and mainly made of replacement parts, but few have survived his wrath. How angry at her can he be?

  “What will he do to me?”

  Willum stops midstep. “He does not share his judgments with me. You must prepare yourself for whatever may come.” Rounding the corner, Willum leaves Stowe to take her final steps to the ornate oak door, portal to the Archbishop of the Conurbation, alone.

  Stowe stares at the brass doorknob wrapped in the claws of an animal. But what kind of animal? Not an eagle or a wolf. Something smaller, sharper, more devious. One day she must bring a book with pictures and identify the beast that Darius honors. When she first arrived in the City, she was brought here trembling, but Darius was kind and gentle. He delighted her with intricate wind-up toys and sweet cakes. Plush toy animals from the time before the Wars, a monkey, a lion, and a donkey. He would read her stories, and taught her to build house
s of cards.

  But that time passed once she voyaged to the Dreamfield. Once she became Our Stowe. Now her visits are always official, matters of state, and Darius expects her to take her role seriously. A major breach of protocol has been committed so he has kept his distance. Well, she will accept whatever punishment he inflicts without argument, as it is imperative she regain his confidence. All of his questions must be answered as truthfully as possible. She needs his trust to destroy him.

  She takes in air through her nostrils, calming herself, ready for whatever she is facing. Stowe touches one of the claws on the doorknob and the door opens. She steps in, leaving the safety of Willum behind. She listens as the door slides shut.

  Darius is imposingly erect in his chair. His eyes snap on Stowe, his skull-like face grim and unyielding.

  “Do you know why I’ve called you here?”

  “I was rude to your clerics after our visit to the factory.”

  His thin lips curl upward. “You left one man deaf, another comatose, another paralyzed on one side of his body. Is this what you call rude?”

  She exudes shock and dismay, and quickly bows her head, hoping to indicate shame. In fact, she feels a quiver of excitement. She had the power to do all that?

  “You realize, of course, that there must be ramifications.”

  “Eldest, though I am distressed at my lack of control, I honestly did not know I was capable of such a thing. What is to be done with me?”

  “Your victims have been... adjusted. Since your outburst, or should I say, test, took place in a reasonably secure area, there were not as many casualties as there might have been.”

  “I was not aware I was being tested, Eldest.”

  “Clever girl. You make me very proud. I believe it was you who was doing the testing, was it not?”

  Holding his gaze as steadily as she can, Stowe wonders how much Darius knows, how much she should admit to. Damn Willum, what did he tell? The effort of not averting her eyes is causing them to tear up. She must not let that happen.

  “Willum tells me you were distraught to hear that Roan has been declared dead.”