Freewalker Read online

“He is not dead,” Stowe whimpers. There, let him think it’s grief. Something she can play.

  “Perhaps you are right, perhaps he is still alive somewhere, disabled or in hiding. What is important for you and I is the realization that he is no longer a necessary part of our plans.”

  Our plans? Here it comes. How easy it must have been these last few years, to mold and shape her.

  “Imagine. If he came into our fold, you would be halved, dominated by your older brother, sharing everything when you’ve worked so hard. Why shouldn’t it all be for you? You are becoming something even greater than I hoped for. You are my adopted daughter, and you must rule one day.”

  Yes, Our Stowe. Our Stowe should have it all. And what, oh adopted father of mine, shall be the nature of my gilded cage?

  “But Father, you shall rule forever. I have no such desire.”

  “This flesh is an unbearable burden. I have waited long to slough it off and take my place forever in the Dreamfield. It is for you that I have waited, Stowe.”

  He is lying, of course. But why? Is the sacrifice he will ask of her so great he feels he must offer his place to secure it?

  “What is it, Darius, that I must do?”

  His leathery fingers lightly touch Stowe’s curls. She bends her head into his hand, feigning ecstasy.

  He’s like the monster in the picture book her mother used to read her. Luring her in with candy because he wants to devour her.

  She keeps that thought firmly in the back of her mind as he lifts her head and gazes fondly at her face.

  “Must is an inappropriate word. There is a mission before you. An experiment that could turn the tide forever in our favor. But you are under no imperative. You should think on it, evaluate the risk, and then decide. If you refuse, it shall not change my plans for you.”

  She realizes with an icy chill that he intends to destroy her. How she knows, she’s not sure, but she’s certain of it. He will kill her whatever she does. A tremor passes through her. Fear? Yes, but also relief. He will develop her powers until they are ripe for his use. That will give her time to find a way to turn the tables and destroy him. He’s taught her perhaps too well, this false father of hers.

  “What is the task?”

  “The immediate task is to pierce the Wall.”

  “The Eaters’ barricade?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it was impenetrable.”

  “It is of a most ingenious design, but I don’t think they had you in mind when they built it, my love.”

  “You really think I can get through?”

  “I am sure of it. We must undermine the Eaters’ plans to dominate the Dreamfield. For ten years we’ve searched for a way through their wall—and you are it, my daughter. I would like you to take careful note of its structure. And observe the Eaters’ response. Also... we need to assess the feasibility of bringing one back.”

  “What—an Eater?”

  His lips spread across his face, stretching his skin to its limits. “A wonderful thought, isn’t it? So much we could learn. How quickly we might hasten their demise.”

  The Keeper’s eyes flutter and he sinks deeper into his chair.

  “Keeper? Father?”

  “Do not underestimate the difficulty and the jeopardy. This is a dangerous task.”

  He holds out his hand. Stowe kisses it.

  “What power you have, my little one. Something our clerics have grown to appreciate. We must put it to better uses.”

  Stowe sets Darius’s hand down just as he begins to gently snore. She looks at him, a black well of hatred collecting behind her eyes. He had made her believe he loved her, cared for her, when all he wanted was to use her. Well, I hunger for your touch no more, monster. You tried to become my father so that one hand could squeeze the life from my heart, while the other tore the sight from my eyes. You are responsible for all the death, all the lies. You destroyed my world. You and your City. I will find out what you want to steal from me. I will rise up, and nothing, no one, will ever control me again.

  THE FEVERS OF HELL

  MOST OF THOSE WHO WANDER ARE THOUGHT TO BE LOST IN THE DEVASTATION. WE HAVE NO KNOWLEDGE OF THEIR ORIGINS, BELIEFS, OR NUMBERS. ALL WE KNOW IS THAT WHERE THEY HAVE PASSED, THE WHITE CRICKET THRIVES.

  —THE WAR CHRONICLES

  HEAT RADIATES FROM HIS BODY, the taint of his ordeal with Saint torching his insides, but Roan is certain he’s alive, alive and back in the world. He knows it because he senses the coolness of the air, the rich scent of cedar, his back upon the mossy ground. He can hear voices, can see faces through the fog, but they rise and fall, in and out of view.

  “It’s been a whole day and night and the fever hasn’t quit.”

  Lumpy.

  “It’s not unusual after visiting the place of torment. He must have resisted it. Fled when he should have embraced. Glimpsed instead of becoming. That is the reason for his sickness.”

  “We should move him. Get help.”

  “He has everything he needs. He is strong and my medicine is good.”

  “Then he’ll get better?”

  “His fever will end, but he cannot fully recover until he returns to the place that called him.”

  Roan feels himself writhe on the ground; he tries to call out Lumpy’s name but there’s a stick in his mouth.

  “The cloths,” says Mabatan.

  Cold, wet cloths are spread across his chest and legs, quelling the fire under his skin. Roan opens his eyes a little more, trying to focus.

  Lumpy’s face is very close. “Roan? It’s me.”

  Roan tries to say, “I know it’s you,” but all that emerges is a strangled sound from his throat.

  “Take out the stick,” says Mabatan.

  “You were convulsing before,” Lumpy explains, removing the obstruction. “This kept you from biting your tongue.”

  “Lumpy. I saw the children,” Roan stammers. “Mabatan took me. There’s a rift. In the Dreamfield. They hold it together.”

  Roan closes his eyes and moans, his body wracked with pain. Mabatan touches his forehead. “He is too hot.”

  She crushes a piece of bark with a stone. Putting some of the powder into a cup, she adds a little water and puts it to Roan’s lips. “Drink. This will help you.”

  As Roan sips the liquid, a calmness settles over him. His body sinks into the moss. Lying there, half awake, he hears Mabatan whistle softly and senses his cricket responding to the call.

  Lumpy’s cricket jumps down beside Roan’s, and when they begin to sing, three more white crickets emerge from Mabatan’s pocket to join them. Within moments, crickets descend from the tree, from under rocks and fallen branches. Dozens of them surround Roan, singing.

  Roan sighs heavily, feeling himself enveloped in a cloak of mist.

  “They have taken him to the place between. He is awake to the sounds of the earth but his spirit is resting safely. When he rises, he will be stronger.”

  Relieved, Lumpy sits beside Roan, careful not to disturb the crickets.

  “Mabatan, what do you know about the crickets? I mean, apart from the fact that they are creatures of the earth.”

  “But that is the center of their being. That is exactly what they are. More fully that than any other creature in the world. You must know this, for they chose you.”

  “Well, since the first one I had got crushed, I don’t know how wise a choice it made.” Lumpy lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

  Mabatan, however, remains quite earnest. “The crickets, all of them, they chose you.”

  “You can’t be serious. How would you know something like that?”

  “They told me.”

  “They talk to you?”

  “Talk, no. Tell me things, yes.”

  “Like that I was chosen.”

  “Yes. That you were chosen.”

  Lumpy’s hand goes to the craters that landscape his face. Craters formed by the Mor-Ticks that attacked him and his family. All dead except for Lu
mpy. He was saved by a white cricket, when it killed the parasites that were consuming him. Almost breathless, he forces out the words. “I never understood why I lived and my family died. Why there was only one cricket, and why it picked me to save.”

  “It is because you will save many.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, you’ve made a mistake. I’m not the hero. That job belongs to Roan.”

  “I do not know that saving many and being a hero are always one. I wish I could say more, but that is all I understand.”

  In the fading light, as the clouds shift across the gibbous moon, Roan rests peacefully under the soothing scent of the cedar tree that towers over him. He has thought more than once that his friendship with Lumpy was fated. If what Mabatan says is true, then maybe Roan has more than just a friend watching his back. With all that he guesses lies ahead, it’s a comforting possibility. He wants to open his eyes now, but he knows he must wait. Listen. Though he is unsure why.

  “Do you have a family?” Lumpy asks the girl.

  “I did once.”

  “You seem young to be on your own.”

  “I am not on my own.”

  Lumpy, bemused, restates himself. “I don’t mean now, I mean before you met us.”

  “I have never been alone.”

  “You have the crickets.”

  “The crickets come and go as they wish. Even still, I have much company. What I touch, what I smell, what I see, what I taste, what I hear, all of this is with me. As long as I use my senses to open my spirit, I have the world... I have the world for now.”

  Mabatan is silent a long time, but Lumpy knows better than to interrupt.

  “The world will be lost to us if we fail to close the rift, our spirits taken. I have been told this. The gift we have been given will be withdrawn.”

  “You mean the earth will die?”

  “No. The earth has millions of summers still before it. But she will shrug us off her shoulders and we will be returned to dust.”

  Mabatan and Lumpy become as still as the air Roan breathes, and the night is filled with the song of crickets.

  The sun rises, casting its bloody palette across the cloud-filled sky. Roan wakes to see Lumpy and Mabatan hunched over a small cooking fire.

  “Good morning,” says Mabatan. “We’ve made a soup. It will comfort you.”

  “Feeling better?” asks Lumpy.

  “Way better,” Roan replies automatically. But when he tries to stand, he stumbles, falling back on one knee. Lumpy grabs his arm and eases him down onto the thick moss.

  “Take it easy,” Lumpy cautions, as Mabatan offers Roan a clay cup of broth. “She found a place where tawny mushrooms grow. Best sick food around.”

  The soup’s rich fragrance makes Roan’s mouth water. He starts to gulp it down.

  “Sip slow,” says Mabatan. “You’ve been two days without food.”

  Despite the warning, the soup is quickly gone and Lumpy refills the bowl. Handing it back to Roan, he hesitates before asking a question.

  “You were calling out Saint’s name.”

  Roan shudders. “I saw him.”

  Lumpy’s face crumples in horror. “He’s still alive?”

  “No. He’s in a place. A terrible place.” Roan turns to Mabatan. “What was it?”

  “When the body dies, the mind makes a place for itself. Some know peace and return to oneness. Others do not.”

  A strange, excited look crosses Lumpy’s face. “And you can visit someone else there, when they’re dead?”

  “Some can. Not many. Most can only go to the common place. But Roan walks freely.”

  Lumpy looks imploringly at Roan.

  “It’s not like you think, Lumpy. Not like ghosts or spirits. It’s not the person, it’s a jumbled-up idea of themselves, surrounded by whatever torment they invent. The Lelbit you knew is not there. I don’t think you’d want her to be.”

  Lumpy’s face is tight, eyes red. Realizing the pain that Lumpy’s feeling, Roan whispers, “I’m sorry,” as Lumpy, downcast, turns away.

  Roan looks inquiringly at Mabatan. “I don’t understand what Saint wanted, why he called.”

  “If you had stayed, you would know. But instead you escaped and now the thing has yet to be done.”

  “What waits to be done?”

  “You are called. You must be reborn inside the mind of the dead.”

  The expression on her face is so somber, so devoid of humor, Roan can’t help but take her words seriously, despite how absurd they sound.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were you with him when he died?”

  Roan nods.

  “He was trying to kill you?”

  “He was about to. Lelbit got him instead.”

  “It is possible that he is caught in the moment of his death, seeking forever to complete the action that brought him to his fate.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “But you believe you are responsible for his death.”

  “So I should go back and let him kill me? Why?”

  “Then you could enter his mind, discover what he is trying to offer. If you fear this, if you run in terror, the knowledge he wishes to share will be lost.”

  “I don’t know if I can go back.”

  Mabatan shrugs and breaks up the smoldering sticks from the cooking fire. Roan turns to Lumpy for support, but what he encounters is not solace but grim determination.

  “How long will they survive, Roan? The rift—Mabatan said it will tear them apart.”

  Roan glares at Lumpy. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what I saw, hear what I heard...” But the hurt look in Lumpy’s eyes stops him. They’ve faced so much together and never backed away. And now, when the need is so great, what is Roan doing but turning away, afraid that if he goes he’ll never come back.

  “I can’t imagine what you went through, but I saw what it did to you. You couldn’t go now, even if you wanted to. Not yet. No one’s asking that.”

  Lumpy’s pragmatism immediately lifts Roan’s spirits. Right now, he’d rather face anything than return to that horror. But maybe with a little time, he’ll feel differently. Or better yet, find another way. “How long before I can try again?”

  “You must gather more strength,” the girl replies.

  “I’m going to the City.”

  A laugh explodes out of Lumpy. “You actually think the City’s less risky?”

  “It’s not about risk. Mabatan says there are things in the Dreamfield that only I can do. But that’s not completely true. There is someone else who can match me. My sister.”

  Mabatan closes her eyes. After a moment, she nods her head, as if having consulted with someone in her mind. Her eyes snap open. “She will not help you make peace with Saint. But she may help close the rift.”

  Lumpy shakes his head, distressed. “You said yourself she’s damaged. She’s one of the Turned.”

  “In all this time, I’ve only seen her in the Dreamfield. There is blood between us. We love each other. If we actually set our eyes on each other, touch each other, maybe I could win her back.”

  Lumpy sighs. “You’re serious.” Turning to Mabatan, he shakes his head in mock disbelief. “He’s serious. I recognize the symptoms.” But the frown on Lumpy’s face becomes increasingly genuine. “I wish you weren’t. If you get caught in the City... and how do you expect to get in? They’ll be looking for you. I’m your backup and I can’t go anywhere near those gates. I’m covered in Mor-Tick scars, in case you forgot.”

  Mabatan places a hand on each of them. “I know someone who can take you.”

  THE HOLE IN THE WALL

  DEMONS SEEK TO RUPTURE THE HARMONY OF THE CITY. THE MASTERS BATTLE THEM DAILY IN PARADISE. IN ORDER TO ACCOMMODATE THE OVERWHELMING REQUESTS TO JOIN US IN OUR STRUGGLE, ACOLYTE INITIATION HAS BEEN DECLARED ONGOING.

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  STOWE STARES AT WILLUM sitting sullen in his b
lue lacquered chair. She will wait him out. Whatever it is that’s eating away at him, she suspects it will be aimed at her and that she will resent it.

  After an interminable amount of time, and with a great exhalation, he finally says what’s on his mind. “You have become addicted to the Dirt.”

  “What it allows me to do is beyond the imagination.”

  “The price you have paid is past reckoning.”

  “Master Darius has made certain requests. You have always advised me to follow his directions, not fight them,” says Stowe. “Are you now saying that he’s trying to harm me?”

  “I am suggesting that you take a substantial amount more Dirt than you need.”

  “A great deal is required for what I’m attempting.”

  “That may be what you have been led to believe, but it is not necessarily so.”

  “Willum, must we go round and round? These are things beyond our power to change.”

  For a brief moment, she is overcome with a longing to blurt it all out, tell Willum what she fears, what she intends. Almost as if he were a friend. But she’s not stupid enough to believe in that possibility. Willum, like all the others, wants something from her. What, she cannot guess. He slumps in his chair and gulps his water. She can see he’s resigned himself. Kordan he will fight, but when Darius commands, Willum obeys. He is no fool. Come at him the right way and he might even help.

  Stowe shifts her chair closer to Willum. “Tell me what you know of the Eaters.”

  “A great deal. You must be more specific.”

  “I’ve only heard the official histories. The stories of the Five who discovered the Dirt. How Darius broke from the other four in order to protect it. How their lust for power caused the civil war. And how Darius won that war, leading the City to victory.”

  “We have discussed the fact, have we not, that history is written by the victors.”

  Leaning closer to Willum, Stowe whispers, “There is more?”

  Willum smiles as he pulls back. “There is always more. History says that seventy-five years ago, Darius’s air machines eradicated all but four of the renegade armies. These four scattered. One was discovered and eliminated. No trace of the second remains. The descendants of the third were recently crushed by Darius, leaving only two survivors.”