Freewalker (19 page)

Two hours later, all evidence of her despair is erased. She's wiped the floors clean, removed the traces of her ordeal from her body and clothes, and felt happy doing it. Happy in the blissful simplicity of her actions, for while she was engaged in them, the nightmare had stopped, the terror—

The red skull smashes at Roan's head. Blood on the snow. His hand, his
hand slipping away.

Stowe hurls herself on the bed, burying her face in the pillow, and screams and screams and screams.

At the rise of the waning moon, Stowe quietly opens her door a crack and peers up and down the dark hallway. The only sound is the circulation fan that drives purified air through the building. Staying close to the wall, she glides along almost imperceptibly, controlling her breath, the weight of her footfalls, the way her shadow plays against the wall. She stops at the door to Darius's office. Listens. Nothing.

She stares at the claws on the shining doorknob. The door will not be locked. Security around the perimeter of these quarters is stiflingly efficient, and the penalty for anyone daring to enter the complex without authorization is death. Stowe runs her finger over one of the claws. Was it ones like these that ripped into her dream-form? No, these are not the claws of a reptile. Wrapping her hand around them, she pushes the door open, just a little. All is quiet. No one in the corridors, no one in this room. She slips inside.

There it is, the golden bowl, gleaming in the moonlight. Her relief grows with every step. Just a couple of spoonfuls, that's all she needs to quiet her mind. He'll never know it's missing. She leans over the precious, beautiful bowl and lifts the lid. She stares uncomprehending. The bowl is empty. Not a fingerful of dirt. Not a grain.

It must be in here somewhere.

Stowe jerks open the top drawer of the desk with a thud. NO. Why look here? Darius does not hide Dirt. Why should he?

Shh.

She freezes, realizing how much noise she's made.

Caution, caution, if you're discovered, all your play-acting will be for naught.

Slowly, quietly, she opens drawer after drawer, her fingers slipping over the contents. Her eyes ache from the sensation of being pushed, moved without her consent. Why does she feel this way? Tense, her entire body sleek with sweat, she reaches beneath the drawers, feeling for a hiding place. Looks behind the portraits, even the dead-eyed picture of herself, but there are no secrets here, no hidden compartments containing a prize. She presses on the mahogany wall panels, each glass shelf rolling out, revealing Darius's ridiculous collection of antique bottles, ticking clocks, ancient coins... But what is she thinking? There is no Dirt. If the bowl is empty, there is no Dirt in this room. None! Stop it. She must stop...

Calm yourself. Do it now. What good are you if they find you like this?

She's shaking uncontrollably. The pain in her side so intense it almost takes her consciousness.

Go to where the pain is, Stowe.
Kind Willum, gentle Willum. Remembering his words always helps her.
Embrace it, cradle it like
a crying child. Love the pain and it will quiet. Go to where...
Perhaps he likes her a little, after all.

Go to the source. The source. So much to explore.

Shut up! Go away! Breathe into the pain. Love it, love it. There, there.

Go to the source. The source!

The tremors are abating. Her skin cooling. The moisture evaporating into the dry air of this sterile room.

The source. Yes. She knows where that is now.

MHYZAH'S JUSTICE

ONLY THOSE WHO WANDER WILL SEE THE FOURTEEN TRULY FOR WHAT THEY ARE.

—BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

R
OAN SITS BY THE FLICKERING GAS LIGHT,
unable to move, overcome with guilt and rage. He believed the Blood Drinkers were monsters, had fought and killed them without a second thought. But now he knows their name, their history, their way of life. Hhroxhi. People who attacked the walls of Fairview in desperation because their families were massacred as cruelly as the people of Longlight.

Roan suddenly stands. “Where is she?”

“In a room, about four thrusalls from here.”

“Thrusall?”

“Their name for a tunnel between two chambers.”

“Take me to her.”

Lumpy stares at him in disbelief. “Mhyzah doesn't know, Roan. I didn't say anything.”

“I need to speak to her.”

“I know that fighting and killing were sins in Longlight. But you weren't in Longlight. You were defending the children. You didn't know.”

Roan points to the tunnel Lumpy and Mhyzah left by earlier. “Is this the way?”

“Just... don't do it because you feel guilty.”

“That's not the reason,” Roan says, trying to curb his impatience.

“She'll have to demand revenge. Do you really want to put her through that?”

Roan remains resolute, however, so Lumpy leads the way, brow knotted in distress.

Mhyzah is sitting in a small chamber, slowly rubbing the edge of her razor knife against a sharpening stone. She turns at the sight of Lumpy and Roan and smiles.

“Tell her.”

“You're sure?”

“Now.”

“I don't know how well I can express it. I hardly know their language at all.”

“Do it.”

Lumpy sighs and, sitting down with Mhyzah, begins a series of hisses and clicks. Her expression grows more and more troubled. Finally, she stands, and with one long look at Roan, disappears through one of the holes.

“I hope you think this is worth it,” Lumpy mutters, so obviously confused and worried that Roan feels compelled to at least try to explain.

“I know it's a risk, but since I saw Saint, I feel it more and more—the children, the rift, what we saw in that village—I think I'm supposed to help change what's been happening, and I know that if I walk away from here without doing this, I'll set off on the wrong path. I'll fail.”

They sit together in silence and wait. Lumpy's eyes stay glued to the gas flame until finally, bewildered, he shakes his head. “You know what scares me most?”

“No.”

“I think I understand.”

A whooshing sound announces the first arrival, the ancient Hhroxhi who led the mutilation ritual of the night before. Five others join him, followed by Mhyzah and Xxisos. All look very grim. Mabatan, her expression impenetrable, is the last to enter. With grave solemnity, she addresses Roan.

“These Hhroxhi are the surviving family members of the four you killed. You wounded several more, but according to Xxisos, the Raiders did most of the killing.”

Roan stands facing the families who mourn four individuals, dead at his hand.

Xxisos looks directly at Roan and lets out a low grumbling growl, followed by an intense battery of hisses and clicks.

“You killed my people,” Mabatan translates. “But I am told you are not one of the men of Fairview, and that you fought to protect the Novakin.”

“The Novakin?” asks Lumpy.

“Hhroxhi legends speak of the Fourteen who will mend the world. I have told them that Roan is the Novakin guardian.”

Roan can feel Lumpy's tension ease ever so slightly, but Mabatan's bleak expression soon squelches any secretly harbored hope of forgiveness. “Blood demands blood. That is the Hhroxhi way.”

The Blood Drinkers all draw their razor-sharp knives.

“This is insane,” whispers Lumpy.

Roan does not budge and faces the Hhroxhi. “I come to make amends.”

Lumpy sighs. The old one barks out an instruction.

“Take off your shirt,” says Mabatan.

Roan immediately obeys. As Mhyzah steps forward, her blade aloft, Lumpy catches his breath. She ignores him, her eyes planted squarely on Roan, and with a wide swipe she slices Roan across his chest.

There's a thin line of blood from his hip to his shoulder, but Roan does not falter. The other seven Hhroxhi take their knives to him, each crossing a central point. When the last has finished, the front of Roan's body is covered by a bloody star. The Hhroxhi all touch his blood with their fingers and taste it.

Then the old one rubs a sepia powder into Roan's skin.

“What's that for?” asks Lumpy.

“It will help with the healing, but it will also make the scars permanent,” Mabatan explains. “If he survives.”

Before Lumpy can react, a strange guttural drone fills the chamber. Led by the old Hhroxhi, throats tighten and together the group raises the pitch to an overpowering whine.

When Roan's white cricket hops onto his torso, the Hhroxhi increase the tempo, the cricket vibrates with the rhythm, and Roan finds himself joining in. The star on his chest bursts into flames that spin faster and faster until the room blurs. Only a giant hole remains where Roan's torso should be and, as he tilts his head forward to look, he is swept into it.

A
GLARING SUN BRINGS OUT THE BRILLIANT GREEN OF THE CARPET
R
OAN'S SITTING ON.
I
TS EXTRAORDINARY PATTERN OF INTRICATELY SPLAYED VEINS HAS FLUID MOVING THROUGH IT.
A
LARMED, HE RISES AND BACKS AWAY, NEARLY FALLING OFF THE EDGE.
T
HE CARPET IS SUSPENDED IN THE AIR.
I
N FACT, THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF THEM, ALL AROUND.
L
EAVES.
H
E'S ON A LEAF.
W
ITH A START, HE REALIZES HE MUST BE THE SIZE OF A FLEA.

S
UDDENLY THE LEAF ROCKS WILDLY, THROWING
R
OAN TO THE SIDE.
H
E CROUCHES, HANGING ON TO A VEIN FOR SUPPORT.
T
HE SWAYING STOPS AND
R
OAN FINDS HE'S NO LONGER ALONE.
T
OWERING IN FRONT OF HIM IS HIS WHITE CRICKET.
I
T TILTS ITS GIGANTIC HEAD, ITS MOUTH MOVING CLOSER TO HIM.
I
T COULD EASILY BITE HIM IN HALF, SWALLOW HIM WHOLE.
H
E TAKES A CAUTIOUS STEP BACK, BUT THE CRICKET LEANS CLOSER, ITS HUGE EYE DIRECTLY IN
R
OAN'S LINE OF VISION.

H
E GAZES INTO THE MOSAIC OF HEXAGONAL LENSES, SEEING A THOUSAND REFLECTIONS OF HIS OWN FACE.
T
HE LENSES WHIRL, SHIFTING THE PICTURE.
T
HE FACE OF
K
IRA APPEARS AND IN A BLINK IS EXCHANGED FOR THE FACES OF
B
UB,
L
ONA,
G
IP,
R
UNK, ALL OF THE FOURTEEN
N
OVAKIN, AND THEN HUNDREDS MORE CHILDREN
R
OAN DOES NOT RECOGNIZE.

T
HERE ARE MORE, MANY MORE, ALL AT RISK.
A
LL AT RISK IN DIFFERENT WAYS.
A
ND
K
IRA
? A
THREAT
? I
T DIDN'T SEEM SO.
W
AS SHE WAS TRYING TO SAVE CHILDREN
? S
AVE THESE CHILDREN
?

“H
OW DO
I
HELP, WHAT DO
I
DO
?”
ASKS
R
OAN, HOPING THAT THE CRICKET MIGHT RESPOND.

B
UT IT ONLY RUBS ITS MASSIVE WINGS TOGETHER, PRODUCING AN EAR-SHATTERING BUZZ.
T
HE SOUND KNOCKS
R
OAN OFF HIS FEET, AND LIFTED BY THE VIBRATION, HE IS RELEASED INTO CONSCIOUSNESS.

Roan opens his eyes, locking them with the old one's, who gives a satisfied nod and hiss-clicks to Mabatan.

“He says it is true. You are the defender of the Novakin.”

“How can he be so sure?” asks Roan.

“You are not dead.”

By the time he rises from a long sleep, the cuts on Roan's chest have already scabbed. The scars will never leave him, but it seems a small price to pay.

“That was some beauty sleep,” says Lumpy. “Don't know if it worked, though.” He's trying to sound lighthearted, but the concern beneath his jovial tone proves he's feeling otherwise. A quick, relieved glance between Lumpy and Mabatan confirm his suspicion—they've been keeping watch over him all night.

“Were you afraid I wouldn't wake up?”

“It happens,” says Mabatan.

“But now that you're up, we can get out of here.”

“Xxisos has located the ones I was looking for,” says Mabatan. “He will guide us there.”

After a quick breakfast of charred eggs and jerky, the three follow Xxisos and Mhyzah through dozens of thrusalls and chambers. As they speed along the polished floors, the connecting rooms become less and less frequent and the muscles in Roan's arms burn by the time they arrive at their destination. It is a chamber that has many entrances, though one of them is covered with a stone hatch secured by a metal bar. They share some water with the Hhroxhi, whose taste for liquids apparently extends beyond just blood.

“I have no idea how far we've gone or where we are,” Lumpy sighs.

Roan's about to speak when Xxisos hisses, quieting them. He puts his earhole against a smooth wall and listens.

Curious, Roan follows suit and is rewarded with a cacophony of thumps and vibrations. Just above a whisper, he says, “People. A lot of people.”

After a few clicks from Xxisos, Mabatan says, “This is the place.”

Mhyzah turns to Roan and hisses something. There's no hostility in the sound, maybe even a trace of warmth.

“She thanks you,” Lumpy says, eager to translate. “For helping her part with her father.”

“Tell her I thank her and her people for the honor they have shown me.”

Lumpy translates and Mhyzah, never taking her eyes from Roan's, speaks again.

“She says that now you are marked,” Lumpy interprets. “Like the Hhroxhi, you are set apart from humankind. But you already know this.”

“Tell her I carry the mark of the Hhroxhi with pride.”

Mhyzah faces Lumpy, placing her palms on his chest and they exchange a flurry of clicks and hisses. Roan makes out a word that Mhyzah repeats again and again. Gyoxip. Lumpy seems humbled by it. Mhyzah takes a leather band off her neck. A long, round piece of silver is attached to it. She loops it over Lumpy's head.