The Keeper's Shadow (16 page)

“Oh my! Dobbs! Was that you? Well, thank goodness you weren't hurt,” Othard says, attempting to pat the giant storyteller's back.

“Othard saved my life, oh, must be fifteen years back—Nethervine poisoning—I still have the scars,” Dobbs says to Roan and Lumpy over the doctor's shoulder. Then, pulling back to look at Othard, he adds, “I was worried about you—five whole years without even a word!”

“Dobbs! Can't you see the man wants to tell us something? Come, come my good physician, spit it out!”

Othard, gaping at Kamyar, struggles for words. “It's…it's an honor…to be in your presence, learned one—”

Kamyar snorts. “Let's have none of that or we shall be here an hour exchanging ‘worthies' and ‘celebrateds' and ‘distinguisheds' until we've put all the others to sleep.”

“Here! Here!” Talia adds. “Where's Imin, by the way?”

“That's just it. I've come to fetch you all to the geography room. Algernon and Imin are waiting there.” Gesturing for them to follow, Othard leads the way through dozens of rooms crowded with overflowing stacks, until they finally arrive at a large open area.

The Gunther and the doctor are sitting at a long table where a most unusual map is spread out. It's been folded and refolded to create a three-dimensional chart tracking the sky, surface and undersurface of the Dreamfield.

“Remarkable, isn't it?” says Algernon. “Hand drawn by the great architect August Ferrell. He was presiding over the Academy when it was abandoned.”

“Well, at least he did something right,” mumbles Kamyar. “Imin,” he says with a friendly tap on the open-mouthed physician's arm. “And you must be Algernon,” Kamyar moves forward to grasp the old man's hand. “A privilege and a pleasure. I'm Kamyar—and permit me to introduce my very rude fellow storytellers, Talia and Dobbs,” he says as both storytellers lean inquisitively over the map, barely sparing the old man a smile.

Roan, too, is entranced by the drawing but try as he might, he can't recognize anything he's looking at. “None of it seems familiar.”

“What you're seeing here is the mere fragment the Masters claimed for themselves,” explains the Gunther. “This map's terribly outdated, I might add, based on notations that were made at the time of the wars. By now I'm sure there are many more Constructions.”

Roan points at a long row of ebony pillars that bridge across all three layers. “Wait. I've seen those before.”

Algernon nods. “The Ramparts. He built that to separate the Dirt Eaters' domain from his own.”

“Would it be all right if I borrow this?” Roan looks around the table, not exactly sure who he should ask for permission.

“It is not the only one, if that is your concern,” says the old man, gesturing at the stacks behind him. Hundreds of cylinders lie stacked in diagonal tiers above shelves of massive tomes. “There are quite a few more amongst all of those.”

Dobbs sighs as he slides a huge atlas off a shelf. “I could stay here forever,” he says to Kamyar, in a hushed and reverent tone.

“Be careful,” says Algernon. “Time flies in this library.”

“Ah. Time,” groans Kamyar. “Yes, it would be easy to forget the outside world in such a place.” Kamyar squints, one eyebrow raised at Roan. “I seem to recall that you have a previous commitment at new moon and that's less than a week away.”

“This is what I came for,” Roan says, coaxing the map back into its tube with some assistance from Lumpy. He pauses, looking at the Gunther. “But before I go I need to ask one more favor, a large one. I think…well, I would like your permission to use the Academy as a base of operations for our fight against the City. Everyone is scattered across the Farlands. We need a neutral place where we can all come together.”

For a moment there is utter silence as all eyes shift between Roan and the Gunther.

“What an inspired idea,” says Algie. “It is centrally located, well concealed and has a great many rooms and facilities in the school wing. As long as they don't smudge the books, having some people around might be…nice.”

“If it's the same to you…” Othard says tentatively.

Imin nods enthusiastically. “…we'd be more than happy to stay…”

“…until you get back…”

“…and keep Algernon company…”

“…if that's alright with Algernon, of course.”

Stepping forward, Talia and Dobbs look imploringly at Kamyar.

“Oh, all right,” he says begrudgingly. “But I'll want a full report. Full.”

Algie smiles. “Wonderful, nothing better than the society of readers. Thank you, Roan of Longlight, for your insightful suggestion. I'll try to have a few more sections of the journal decoded by the time you return. Maybe some of my new companions could be enticed to help,” he says, looking meaningfully at the Storytellers behind him.

“Journal?!” says Kamyar. “Journal?” he repeats, turning to Roan. But he has only to look at him to know. “Where? Where!” he demands, following Roan. Just before leaving the map room, he doubles back for a moment. “Talia! Dobbs! Give Algernon all the help he needs. I expect results!”

Roan smiles as the old Gunther beams—whether from the prospect of help or at the sound of his proper name, Roan can only guess.

“Well, don't just stand there grinning like an idiot,” Kamyar blusters. “Lead on, Roan of Longlight, lead on!”

REMEMBRANCE

THE APSARA'S FIGHTING TECHNIQUES COMBINE THE MILITARY KNOWLEDGE THEIR FIRST LEADER, STEPPE, GAINED AS A MASTER WITH THE MEDITATIVE DISCIPLINE HER DAUGHTER ENDE ACQUIRED FROM THE WAZYA. THEY ARE BELIEVED TO BE UNPARALLELED.

—ORIN'S HISTORY OF THE APSARA

G
AZING ACROSS THE FROZEN VALLEY,
Willum tries to shake off the cold from his limbs and the icy despair in his heart. Worry and frustration gnaw at his conviction: he wants to shield Stowe from suffering, protect her from pain, but he is helpless to do either, so he's become restless and uneasy. Only her true parents and time can heal her now; he must set aside his anxieties and clear his mind for the task ahead.

Kira sought him out late last night. There were reports of Clerics spotted uncomfortably close to the Caldera. Coincidence? Or part of Darius's continuing search for Roan and Stowe? Whatever it was, it was not good. So Willum and Kira began their journey down the steep and heavily camouflaged path at daybreak, hail and frozen rain slowly forcing its way through their heavy cloaks.

As they reach the foot of the path, Kira turns to him, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. “I smell a fight in the air,” she says, voice brimming with joyful anticipation.

“And here I was hoping to avoid a confrontation,” says Willum, eyebrows cocked. But her instincts are keener than she knows. Pointing to a distant rise, he adds, “They're on the other side.”

Kira laughs as she adjusts her horse's girth strap for the ride ahead. “Maybe you should hide here while I eliminate the problem.”

“Not so fast.” Willum's command snaps Kira to attention. “I know your abilities, you have no need to prove yourself to me,” he says, hoping to check her rising indignation. “But there is boldness and there is carelessness. The latter, as you know, gets you unnecessarily dead.”

The thoughts that play across Kira's face are so intense that Willum can easily read them: she knows he's had a vision of her death or something close to it. Knows he's speaking not just from the position of a protective older brother, but from one who has experienced her suffering.

Lowering her eyes, Kira nods. Her heart rate and breath slowly normalize. “How many?” she asks quietly.

“Two. Probably scouts. More will follow.”

“We have to kill them, Willum. They can't be allowed to take back any information about the Caldera—”

“It may be possible to erase their memories, if we can—”

“Willum.” Kira's tone makes it clear this is no longer his sister talking, but the head of the Apsara army, responsible for the safety of her people. “There are no other choices. Not in this. If Darius discovers who and where we are, he will, as he did before, come after us and try to wipe us out. He will take every child and use them in any way he can to further his life and his power. You have seen. You know. I will take no chances that this might happen, Willum. No risks. Do you understand me?”

“Kira,” Willum says, reaching out to her.

“Don't,” she snaps. “I have had to watch infants wrested out of the arms of their mothers, weeping children torn from their parents' sides. Do you think, for an instant, I would waste an opportunity to limit the number of Darius's henchmen? Reduce his power?”

“No,” Willum says simply. There is no advantage in fighting her on this. Mounting his stallion, he nods. “Let's go.”

In an instant, Kira is behind him. “A little faster, please,” she cries with a devilish grin as she slaps her scabbard across the flank of Willum's horse. With a piercing whinny, it rears, nearly throwing Willum, then gallops wildly across the plain. Kira, close behind, howls with laughter.

Pounding the half-frozen ground, the clatter of the horse's hooves echoes through Willum's body, driving out his apprehensions. He flicks the reins, urging his mount to greater speed.

Races like this had been a daily event after they'd been reunited with their grandmother. Ende had insisted on play, every day, all day, long and hard, for almost three years. That was how long it had taken for them not to imagine their parents' deaths in every silence. Willum often wonders if Kira does not still hear her mother's screams whenever she faces an enemy or in the empty hours of the night.

As they near the rise, they slow their horses and dismount. Unsheathing their swords, they silently climb until they hug the slope's edge. The two Clerics, simultaneously reaching the same place from the other side, cry out at the sight of them. With a roar, Kira whirls, sword flashing, and with two quick thrusts the first Cleric falls. She pivots to avoid the second's blade, and with a huge swipe nearly cuts him in two.

An arrow whizzes by Willum's head. A dozen heavily armed Clerics are charging out from the tree line, straight for them. Too many to seize with his mind. Another arrow speeds toward Kira and he bats it away with a flick of his sword. At his sister's side, he plunges directly into the fray. Kira slashes and stabs and slices in a blood frenzy, her sword moving so quickly it seems an almost invisible force.

But the arrows continue to come—not from these warriors. Where?

Following their trajectory, Willum locates two crossbowmen poorly concealed just beyond the tree line and runs toward them. With the flat of his blade, he strikes their arrows, causing them to ricochet into the chests of Kira's attackers. Though volley after volley are fired, he deflects them all. When he is within several feet of them, the bowmen realize the futility of their endeavor. They throw down their crossbows and, with crazed battle cries, they leap at him, swords flailing.

Willum falls to one knee and lowers his head. Then, with a single stroke, he fells them both.

Moments later, Kira, chest heaving, slaps him on the back. “Well, that takes care of that,” she says, glancing at the dozen fallen Clerics that litter the field behind her. “Nice trick with the sword, Will.”

In that moment, one of the dying bowmen reaches out to Willum. “I know you,” he rasps. The enabler in his neck is throbbing beneath his skin, and his eyes have the glassy look of impending death. “Our Stowe's Primary. Have you found her?”

“We search still,” Willum says.

“Forgive us. We did not…know who you were,” says the Cleric, his breath rattling. “Thanks to the Archbishop…for his wisdom. We asked for the Apogee…but we were given only bows. And so…you live.” The Cleric's body spasms, and he is still.

“Apogee?” Willum searches his mind for a clue as to what the bowman might be referring to.

“You don't know?” Kira asks. When Willum shakes his head, she gives him a grim look. “Sounds like one of Darius's deadly surprises.”

Willum's about to respond, but a whirring sound coming from the dead bowman distracts him. The enabler in the Cleric's neck vibrates wildly. With a popping sound it stops abruptly, then melts, leaving a sickly green contusion in the man's neck.

Without comment, Kira leaps up and checks the necks of all the fallen. She returns to Willum ashen-faced. “The same for all of them. I've never seen this before. You?”

“No. New enablers. A new and apparently lethal weapon. Clerics this far afield. Darius is on the move.”

As Willum takes a deep, troubled breath, Kira puts a hand on his shoulder. “I should ride ahead to the Brothers' camp. Warn Roan. Will you come?”

“I must wait for Stowe. If she wakes in time, we will travel with Ende. Then, we must return to the City.”

S
TOWE CLIMBS, HAND OVER HAND, INSIDE THE TRUNK OF THE
B
IG
E
MPTY
. S
HE'S ALMOST AT THE TOP WHERE THE LIGHT STREAMS IN
. I
T'S A HARD CLIMB
. H
ER HANDS ARE SMALL AND THE HANDHOLDS ARE BETTER FOR THE BIGGER KIDS
.

F
INALLY SHE REACHES HER SPOT ON THE LITTLE LEDGE, HER NAME CARVED IN HUGE LETTERS OVER IT
. S
HE PUTS HER FEET ON
R
OAN'S ROPE SEAT AND POKES HER HEAD OUT OF THE BROKEN TREETOP
. A
LL AROUND HER ARE HUNDREDS OF GIANT HOLLOW TREES
. E
VERYTHING IS SURROUNDED BY A PRETERNATURAL GLOW, PALE AND IRIDESCENT, AS IF EVERYTHING WERE MADE OF LIGHT
. T
HE LIGHT OF HER CHILDHOOD
.

H
EARING LAUGHTER, SHE LOOKS DOWN AND SEES
R
OAN CHASING
L
EM
. T
HEY GLOW TOO:
R
OAN IS BLUE LIKE THE EARLY MORNING SKY, WITH ORANGE WISPS AS IF HE WERE REFLECTING THE SUN
. L
EM, THOUGH, HAS LITTLE YELLOW FLAMES DARTING ALL OVER, LIKE GLEEFUL FAIRIES TICKLING HIM
. S
TOWE STIFLES A LAUGH AS SHE HEARS THE LITTLE DOOR OPEN BELOW
. T
HEY'RE COMING IN
!
S
HE FEELS IN HER POCKET FOR THE APPLE HER MOTHER GAVE HER
.