Freewalker (3 page)

Watching the Oasis people slowly disperse, Roan can't help wishing he trusted them. They may be visibly shaken, but he's certain they know more than they're saying.

“Want to walk?” Roan asks, turning to Lumpy.

Lumpy, head bowed, his face pinched with worry, blinks away tears as they both head to the lakeshore. “Sorry. I don't know why I'm reacting like this. They're still breathing, Alandra's treating them, she'll fix them.” His eyes, red as the craters that scar his face, search Roan's. “Won't she?”

Jaw and Jam had become Lumpy's constant companions, their friendship a salve for the wound of losing Lelbit. Lumpy had wandered the Farlands for years never meeting anyone who shared his experience, but then he met Lelbit, who had been scarred by the Mor-Ticks, too. Like Lumpy, she was the only surviving member of a family devastated by the lethal insects. He had admired her courage, and between them there had grown a quiet tenderness. What her death cost him, Roan has no way of knowing—Lumpy never talks about it—but is there a limit to how much loss he can sustain?

“Yeh,” Roan says, trying to believe his own words. “She'll figure it out. If anybody can, it's her.”

“You don't sound very convinced.”

Though Roan has a theory, he's not exactly sure how to put it into words—or that he should, even to Lumpy. Still, he can't find it in himself to lie, and in the end, his silence tells all.

“If you know something...”

“She asked for one day. Let's give it to her.” But the words of Kamyar, the storyteller Roan met so many months ago in Oasis, continue to trouble him.
Ask many questions. Accept nothing
at face value. Beware the Dirt Eaters.

They sit in silence, watching the sun's waning rays shimmer on the water. While the light fades, and the two friends fight to keep their hopes alive, Roan's snow cricket jumps onto the dock and begins to sing.

“Okay, okay,” Lumpy says to a rustle near his chest, and takes from his pocket a white cricket with faint black spots on its wings. “Go join him, then.”

When they first came to this new land, they were all amazed to see that it abounded with the rare insects. It didn't take long for one to adopt Lumpy, an attachment he'd yearned for ever since he lost the snow cricket that saved his life.

Soon the music of crickets surrounds them. “You think it will help?” asks Lumpy.

“Can't hurt.”

It is well into moonrise when Lumpy says goodnight. Roan steps off the creaking dock and winds his way through the settlement, pondering the buildings, the walkways, the gardens. They've accomplished so much, far more than he ever expected. And it will all have been for nothing if the children do not survive.

Following the white stone trail to the top of the spotting hill, Roan hikes to the rise that provides a lookout over the water and forest. Now that he's alone, the dark emotions he's been battling threaten to overtake him. His thoughts keep returning to his sister and the night, three years ago, when her hand slipped from his and he fell face down in the snow, never to see her again. His parents had entrusted him with her care. He had failed them—and her. These children trust him completely, they'd placed their lives in his hands. And now he's failing again.

It could be that this place isn't what he thinks it is. There might be a disease or a toxin in this idyllic environment that only the children are susceptible to. It's possible their gifts created the vulnerability that struck them down. Maybe it's an attack of an altogether unexpected nature. But these suppositions are hollow, meaningless. He knows where the germ of the answer lies. Alandra knows it, too, and she'll have to face the truth in one day's time.

Suddenly the hill, the water, the forest, all vanish. And before Roan, branches with orange, peeling bark hang limply in the humid air. Beside the smooth-skinned tree stands a boy, a few years younger than Roan, face brown and open.

“H
OW DO YOU DO THAT
?”
THE BOY ASKS.

“D
O WHAT
?”

“C
ALL ME THIS WAY.
”

“I'
M NOT CALLING YOU.
”

“Y
OU DON'T NEED MY HELP
?”

“I'
M IN GREAT NEED OF HELP.
”

“M
AYBE
I
HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.
”

The boy disappears and the vision ends as abruptly as it began. But standing alone again on top of the spotting hill, the moon high in the sky, the lake below, Roan knows the boy is of this world, somehow reaching out through space and perhaps even time. The experience was certainly unlike any he's ever had with the Dirt Eaters in the Dreamfield. No. This boy seemed innocent and natural. And his voice so full of hope.

OUR STOWE

OUR STOWE, CHILD OF LIGHT
TURN YOUR MERCIFUL EYE UPON US
THAT WE MAY BE BLESSED
WITH YOUR HELP AND PROTECTION

—LITURGY OF THE CONURBATION

“I
T'S STUFFY IN HERE.
” Stowe is scowling.

Their driver winces. The fan is immediately turned up. No one likes it when Stowe scowls.

“Air circulation is not the problem. I want to stretch my legs. I want to be outside.” Stowe glowers at the car-camera that is monitoring her every movement. “These dresses I am obliged to wear are heavy, hot, and uncomfortable. They clench and cinch and are stifling and unbearable. Let me out. I would like to walk to the factory.”

“I am sorry, Stowe, but you do know that prolonged exposure of your person is not permitted by security.”

“But Willum, everyone in the City loves me.”

“You are very much loved, but there are outsiders...”

“Rebels? Are things so out of control that rebels, by the hundreds, stalk the City streets, waiting for a chance to assassinate me?”

Willum glances at the car-camera. “No, no, of course not. But precautions must be taken.”

“You know very well I can protect myself. Besides, they could never get through this.” She knocks on the front panel of the dress, which cracks with the sound of fila-armor. She glares at the impenetrable material, which was invented, she is sure, to make her life perfectly miserable.

Her eyes catch Willum's for a moment. She does not miss how carefully he picks his next words.

“... Under most circumstances you are able, yes. It is the unforeseen that worries us and there has been an inordinate influx of people from the Farlands.”

“Oooo! And are they dangerous to me as well?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then stop the car.”

“The crowds, Stowe. You know how people react when they see you.”

“But we're on a bridge, Willum, there's hardly anyone around. Stop the car.”

“That is not advisable.”

“I need air. I am suffocating!”

Stowe watches the driver's eyes nervously dart in the mirror from her to Willum. She can see the enabler behind his ear throbbing. He must obey—but who? Willum lets out a large sigh and nods. Obviously relieved, the cleric brings the electroengine to a stop. The cars behind and in front of theirs also come to a halt, the doors fly open, and blue-robed clerics scramble out to either side of the bridge, scanning in every direction.

“Only a few minutes,” says the ever cooperative Willum. Stowe's door opens. She bursts from her seat to stand on the bridge. A strong wind buffets her face, flaps her four skirts; even her high stiff collar is bent back by the force. Stowe loves the wind. It should do nicely to obscure any words passed between her and Willum.

Below her, green water. Above, green sky. And on both sides of the inlet, dozens and dozens of airtight domes, all built during the Consolidation, when the rebels massed against the City and the skies rained red. Once used to protect the elite from the toxins that ravaged the environment, the domes now house the laboratories so crucial to keeping the old ones alive. Beyond the domes the new architecture of the Masters is a testament to their triumph over the traitors. Glittering spires, obelisk-shaped towers and, rising above it all, the Great Pyramid, a masterwork of glass, the throbbing heart of the City.

This is the City, the only metropolis to survive the Consolidation, and it adores her. Her image is everywhere, on posters, signs, even giant billboards, like the one that rises at the end of this bridge. She is the City's own true daughter, a mirror into its future. To the citizens, she is perfection, she is mercy, beneficent beauty, possibility, hope. But it is Darius who has made her so, and what is he to her now? A murderer. A liar. This City is his creation, its citizens his. And he controls it just as he controls her.

The line-up of cars grows ever longer behind her cavalcade. Judging by their colors, many are privately owned, a privilege reserved for citizens who contribute to the glorification of the amalgamated City—designers, engineers, architects, doctors, and the like. But as with everything in this Conurbation, not a horn honks or driver curses. All will wait patiently for however long the delay may be. No one ever complains in the City. And if they do, they don't complain for long.

“Good,” says Stowe. “Now we shall talk.”

“You are due at the factory.”

“Center of our civilization, I know. Willum, I love these visits. I realize the importance of our workers' contribution and acknowledge that it would never do to keep them waiting. But—”

“The guards are very nervous. The wind is so strong.”

“But this won't take long,” she insists, turning to him. “I've had a bad dream, Willum.”

“You've had bad dreams before,” he replies, unsympathetically.

Nevertheless, she can hear the kernel of curiosity beneath his dismissal.

“Not like this one.” She scrutinizes his face, ready to detect exactly how much he knows and determine how much she should reveal. “In this dream, I see a man wearing a cloak of many feathers.”

He seems unfazed, but she has his attention now, yes she does. “And who was this feathered man?”

“The one who brought death to Longlight.”

“Stowe, you should always call me when you have nightmares like that.”

That tone, worried like a doting parent. Why does it simultaneously gratify and repulse her?

“Were you able to get back to sleep?”

She feeds him the bait, her eyes steady. “In this nightmare, the Bird Man speaks to the Keeper. He had displeased the Eldest in some way. Failed on a mission. But he has been punished.”

Willum's gaze remains unblinking. “Clearly your dream capacity has blossomed.”

Oh, he treads so carefully. But he suspects. Will he mention his suspicions to anyone?

“Do you know of such a Bird Man as mine?”

“I know what I have been told. Which is not much. I was a journeyman in the barrens of the outer circle when I was called to this position.” He pauses, catching the wary gaze of one of the clerics. “Walk. They will follow.”

As they proceed along the walkway, below the massive cables that suspend the bridge over the churning water, clerics fan out in all directions, frantically maintaining their security net.

“His name is Raven.”

“Such a beautiful name. Not at all suited to the sly wretch on the Keeper's floor.”

Was that a grin? Too swift. She'd catch Willum out yet. His game, his truth.

“He was a failed student at the seminary, they said. He lacked the gift.”

“But under normal protocol, world-locked seminarians are given the Enabler and made into clerics.”

“Darius stopped the implantation. Raven was extraordinarily clever and manipulative, so the Keeper recruited him to join a new movement in the Farlands.”

“The Brothers. So one of Saint's first followers was Darius's spy. How clever.”

“Too clever and yet not clever enough. Though Raven was successful in delivering you into the protection of the Eldest, he failed to locate your brother, or so he said.”

“I ought to be grateful,” Stowe says with a sweetness that could rot teeth. “Darius is like a father to me. His generosity knows no limits.”

“Then it was discovered that Roan had been with the Brothers all along, quite under Darius's nose.”

“Raven was a traitor?”

“So it appeared. Raven was brought in, interrogated, tortured, but his pleas of innocence were never withdrawn.”

“You don't believe him?”

“No.”

“Then he may know where my brother is.”

“He may have once, but no more.”

Stowe's fingers tighten on the railing, as she gazes at the churning water below. “Thank you, good Willum,” she says, smiling up at him.

“I am here only to serve you, Stowe.”

“I know.”

How did he look at her just then? She could have sworn it was elation, but no—no, she must control her emotions, not see in others what she feels in herself. Careless, that was careless. She had allowed herself a moment of triumph. It was so satisfying to know she had been right about Raven, but she must not let Willum see her victories. She cannot let down her guard, not to anyone. Not even him. And she must always look beyond the surface. On the surface are lies the Masters use to deceive her.

“It's Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”

A man and a woman have stopped on the opposite pavement, both waving enthusiastically at Stowe.

“Our Stowe!” they yell, beaming at her. Stowe raises her fine-boned hand in response, her lips curved into a tight smile. How open and vulnerable she must seem, standing before her own gigantic picture, cherubic grin warming the world. The letters on the billboard read: Our Stowe.

Oh, yes, the City loves her. Its citizens bow before her. But they are not hers. She must never forget that it is Darius who owns them.

For now.

THE ASSIGNATION

THE CHILDREN WILL NUMBER FOURTEEN.
THEY WILL KNOW OUR DREAMS AND BE LED BY THEM.
WHERE THEY WILL GO, SO WILL WE ALL.