Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  The Eldest motions him over. Querin leans in, but they are far too close to her for Stowe not to hear what’s being said.

  “A shipment has been waylaid.”

  Darius glowers. “How?”

  “Intercepted by the Brothers.”

  Suddenly distracted by matters of state, Darius rises.

  “Father?”

  Preoccupied, Darius pauses momentarily to consider his problem child. “Very well. See to the arrangements, Willum, will you?”

  The Eldest sweeps out of the room and for one brief moment Stowe is caught in the harsh glare of Querin’s eye. This master single-handedly took a hapless little girl rescued from the Farlands and turned her into Our Stowe—does he think her unworthy of the title? She smiles fearlessly, and with the merest hint of a bow, he slithers out the door.

  Willum turns to the doctor. “With your permission, I’ll escort Our Stowe back to her quarters and make preparations for our outing. Any special instructions, Dr. Arcanthas?”

  “Not necessary. I’ll be coming too. In the event of a relapse.”

  Stowe bristles, but Willum seems unconcerned. “Good. I’ll send word before we set out. The farce being performed this evening promises to be excellent.”

  Stowe considers her reflection. In these amber robes, she’s every inch an undercleric. Though most start their training at a later age than hers, no one will suspect that Our Stowe lurks beneath this hooded garb.

  Willum slides into view behind her, an approving look on his face. “The robes suit you.”

  Her head quakes, pain slashes across her eyes. Struggling to hold back the screeching wail, she stumbles against Willum, exhausted.

  In one graceful sweep, Willum lifts Stowe in his arms, then sets her down on the bed. Eyes riveted on hers, he presses his palm against her forehead. Stowe feels him connect with the insane wailing that possesses her. The tingling in her abdomen becomes a heat so intense she believes she will explode... and then the agony ceases, all quiets and is still.

  “You’ll be alright for a while,” consoles Willum. “I’ve silenced the cry within you. It sleeps, but only briefly.”

  “What’s happening to me?” Stowe stammers.

  He says the word with an oppressive gravity. “Ferrell.”

  Ferrell? The lizard!

  Finally she understands. She thought Ferrell had died. But she never really killed the lizard, he’d just wanted her to think she had. “How?”

  “He is the creator of the Wall,” says Willum. “No one knows better than he how to use its power. What happened to you inside the Wall, Stowe? Can you remember anything that might help answer your question?”

  Stowe hesitates, not wanting to reveal her secret. But perhaps, her secret was never what she thought it was at all. “The lights within the Wall found a way inside me. I thought it was energy making me stronger. More powerful.”

  “He was distracting you while he found the way in.”

  And once in, she became his eyes and ears. He took advantage of her dependence on Dirt, used her to spy on Darius, the machinations of the City, the Quarry. He pushed her to check all the rooms... “He tried to make me kill those recruits.”

  “The Eaters fear that if more advanced travelers are found, the Masters will attack fiercely and finally overtake the Dreamfield.”

  “It’ll be with my blessing.”

  “You say that because you do not understand the stakes.”

  “What do I care about stakes? He’s been trying to take me over completely, make me into a weapon against the City. It’s vile. Get him out. Now!”

  “I cannot, not here, not now. But it must be done. Darius has his suspicions, and if he discovers the truth, he will extract Ferrell even if it means leaving nothing of you behind.”

  Stowe needs no further convincing, and immediately begins calming herself, composing her mind. She does not doubt the chilling accuracy of Willum’s prediction. She already knows she’s becoming expendable.

  “What do I do?”

  “It will be difficult to achieve, but I have friends who can smuggle you out of the City.”

  “Who?”

  “We’re going to meet them now.”

  She rises quickly and moves purposefully toward the door, but Willum stops her.

  “Blank this conversation out of your mind, Stowe. Ferrell has a mission, here, in the City. He will not accept a change in plan. He will wake, and when he does, he must not hear your thoughts. You know how to do this. Keep your mind clear. Even if you did not have Ferrell to contend with, your survival would depend on it. When you are discovered missing, the Masters will draw on every skill they possess to locate you. Though they fear you, they intend to use you until they’ve accomplished their goals. Only then will you be destroyed. Stowe, you know your abilities exceed theirs in scope and magnitude. Shield yourself when the need arises, and you will have no trouble evading their reach.”

  Stowe gazes at the man, who until recently she had dismissed as a lowly tutor. “Who are you, Willum?”

  The weight of the world upon him, he sighs, a small smile gracing his weary face. “A friend.”

  FAMILY REUNION

  SHE WILL KNOW WHAT HE CANNOT SEE AND HE WILL SEE WHAT SHE CANNOT KNOW. THUS, THOUGH THE DESTINY OF THE SON AND DAUGHTER OF LONGLIGHT BE JOINED, IT SHALL NEVER BE SHARED.

  —THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  ONE HOUR, TWO MINUTES. One hour, one minute, fifty-five seconds. Roan can’t help but be tortured by time that goes so slowly, so impossibly slowly. He’d seen clocks like these before, antiques in an outdoor market, but then the dials were a cipher, the featureless gray windows that opened onto nothing, a mystery. Now the crimson light burns through his closed eyelids, the time meted out in painfully equal allotments of hope and rage and fear.

  As he expected, after the meal, Gunther Seventy-Nine was worn down by the constant requests to explore the library. Normally that would be the obvious place for Roan to spend time, but today he wanted quiet and solitude to focus his mind. So he stayed here, because he found the lush green of the Gunthers’ hydroponic gardens a comfort. The fragrance of the herbs keep pulling him back to memories of the gardens in Longlight, of sneaking in one afternoon with Stowe to steal a ripe tomato. Stowe, who had always been so mischievous and funny.

  Now she is Our Stowe, Master-in-Training, as powerful and dangerous as any of the Turned. She could have him arrested, have them all seized. What if she attacks him? How will he react? Will he panic like he did when Saint grabbed him? No. He’ll go down fighting before he allows anyone in the troupe to be captured.

  His approach has to be perfect; everything depends on it. No matter how much she’s changed, she is his sister and if anyone can touch her, he can. Will she accept the gift he’s tucked so carefully in his pocket? And then, most importantly, will she accept him?

  He opens one eye. Gunther Number Seventy-Nine waits respectfully for Roan’s acknowledgment. Perhaps there’s a little more to the Gunthers’ invisibility than they shared, because he didn’t sense her arrival. Opening his eyes fully, he greets her.

  “Roan of Longlight. May I see your cricket?” she asks.

  Grateful for the diversion, he opens his pocket and gives her an apologetic look. “It’s really not up to me if it comes out or not. Like most of this species, it has a mind of its own.”

  “I know. I’ve been researching them.”

  “You have books on white crickets?”

  “No, no book has been written yet. The purpose of my research is to fill that gap. But the only information available is unconfirmed. It is terribly frustrating. You see, after the Abominations, many species, including humans, experienced genetic change. I have seen many examples of these mutations in the laboratories of the Masters—Gunthers have access—but they have never succeeded in capturing a white cricket.”

  Gunther Number Seventy-Nine lifts her glasses and moves her face close to Roan’s chest, her nose almost touching the white cricket that has emerged
from his pocket.

  “Smaller than I imagined. Not pure white, almost ivory. Does it sing?”

  “I’ve never seen one that hasn’t.”

  “And this organ.” She points out a tubular structure at the end of its abdomen. “Do all white crickets have this as well?”

  Roan peers at the tiny tube. “I think so.”

  “Were you aware they are hermaphrodites?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Normally, the male cricket sings to attract females. But this cricket has an ovipositor, that organ at the end of its abdomen. It lays eggs. Your cricket seems to be both male and female. Do you think it might stand in this?” Seventy-Nine opens her palm to reveal a cube so transparent it is almost invisible. And though Roan is a bit discomfited by the idea, his cricket complies instantly.

  “Excellent. This device will collect invaluable information on all aspects of the cricket’s physiology.”

  Tiny filaments of light trace geometric patterns over the entire cube and it hums a pitch Roan identifies as middle C.

  “Now, if only it would sing...” the Gunther says hopefully.

  As if in answer to her request, the cricket immediately begins to weave an intricate harmony around the solo note.

  “Astonishing,” Gunther Number Seventy-Nine whispers, the first indication of deep feeling Roan has witnessed from a Gunther.

  Though Roan can tell the cricket is not threatened by the device, he can’t stem the anxiety he feels being separated from it. The snow cricket has been his constant companion since Longlight perished, guiding him through many rough passages. The idea of ever losing it is unthinkable.

  “My hypothesis is that some of the mutations we’re seeing are more than adaptations to the extreme environmental pressures of the last century. I believe they’re part of an overall evolutionary shift that goes beyond the physical body.”

  “I’m not sure that I understand.”

  The Gunther pauses from her intent study of the data she’s collecting and, lowering her glasses, directs her cool gray eyes at Roan. “You must. For you are part of this same evolutionary shift. Did you not realize it?”

  Of course, he knows he’s different, that he can do things others cannot, but part of an “evolutionary shift”? What does that mean? Shift to what? Before Roan can question the Gunther further, a trap door snaps open from the floor above and Lumpy’s head appears, wrong side up. “Time to go.” Seeing the white cricket inside the strange little cube, he asks, “What’s that?”

  “An interactive tonal amplifier,” she explains.

  “Obviously,” says Lumpy.

  Seventy-Nine leans in close to the cricket. “Thank you very much for your cooperation.” With a wiggle of its feelers, it jumps back onto Roan’s shoulder as he rises to join the others.

  By the time they arrive at Conurbation Park, the celebrations are in full swing. Why they call this a park is a mystery to Roan, as it’s simply a square block of white concrete, without a tree or bush in sight. The entire area is hemmed in by green glass towers that hover ominously over the celebration, but no one seems to mind. The revelers, most wearing masks, many fully costumed, are a cacophony of color rippling to the pounding rhythm of steel drums. Roan positions himself between Mabatan and Lumpy, in hopes of distancing himself from the overwhelming swells of emotion radiating from the merrymakers. He has to keep his head clear for his encounter with Stowe.

  “Why aren’t these people enabled?” Roan whispers to Talia.

  “Hey—how can you tell?”

  “There’s too much feeling.”

  “Huh. Well, they’re the rich. Citizens who contribute to the glorification of the Conurbation aren’t candidates for the enabler. At least not yet. They owe their wealth to the Masters—and they know it. That’s control enough.”

  “You sure we won’t get mobbed?” Lumpy asks anxiously. “I mean, the play does make these guys look pretty stupid.”

  “You’d be surprised how much you can get away with when you make people laugh,” Talia says with a wink.

  Roan strains his eyes trying to locate, in this mass of gesticulating bodies, the person he’s come so far to see. He closes his eyes, hoping to sense her, but Mabatan cuts his search short.

  “Take care you do not risk everyone’s safety,” she warns. “There are those in the City who can detect your abilities. You must wait for her to reveal herself.”

  Before Roan can respond, Kamyar settles his bulk between them. His arms enclosing them both, he whispers, “Do not look so serious, my friends. This is, after all, the party of all parties. On top of which,” he grins, “we’re on!”

  A car stops in a quiet street a few blocks from Conurbation Park. A small hooded undercleric, a minor City official, and a doctor in his emerald greatcoat step out. Ahead of and behind them, several other cars lurch to a halt. Clerics ooze out of the vehicles to surround the undercleric. The hooded figure, however, gives the guards such a threatening look that they disperse, not as far as Stowe would like, but as much as they dare. She notes the presence of each, across a street, far ahead, behind. Maybe they’d offer some protection from an assault, but all of them put together are not worth one Willum. How could Darius be so blind? Because Willum wants him to be? Could he be that powerful? One thing is sure, these clerics are not even a match for her. Especially now that they know what she can do to them.

  The business district is devoid of people and activity, but when they turn the corner, festively dressed citizens eagerly converging on the park press against them on all sides.

  “Stay close, Doctor Arcanthas, we don’t want to lose you,” cautions Willum.

  “I’ll stick to you like glue,” promises the doctor. But as a dozen inebriated celebrants barge their way past, the doctor is dislodged and Willum and Stowe blend seamlessly into the crowd, leaving Arcanthas and the clerics scurrying frantically behind.

  Banners festoon the park, revelers are everywhere. Jugglers, stilt-walkers, and fire-breathers wander through the square and a bizarrely masked musical group plays a rollicking jig on an outdoor stage.

  Stowe jerks to a stop, suddenly nauseated. Her insides are roiling, her throat tightening. A voice, not her own, vomits out of her mouth. “What are we doing here?”

  It’s Ferrell, his every word low and raspy, scraping its way into existence.

  “Help me,” Stowe pleads, clutching desperately at her throat.

  Willum seizes her elbow. “We have to keep moving or the others will catch up.” He twines his long fingers through hers. “I am with you. I will not allow him to harm you. Do not fight, leave the way open, permit him to speak.”

  The moment Stowe relaxes, the voice barks, “I asked, what are we doing here?”

  “We are here for a show, it is a mere diversion,” Willum says.

  “I don’t believe you!”

  Willum twists Stowe round and lifts her so he can look squarely into her eyes. “Ferrell, whatever else she is, she remains a child.”

  “She is no child. She’s a freak, a monstrosity!”

  Touching his forehead to Stowe’s, Willum whispers, “Be at peace.” This time, the mounting heat from her wound is instantly quenched by an energy that washes over her like cascades of cool water. Willum holds her tightly to stop her shivering, and in a soothing voice assures her, “All is well.”

  But when he sets her down, Stowe feels small, more childlike than she’s ever remembered feeling. She hates these emotions of vulnerability and fear; they make her want to strike out, to explode.

  “Come. There isn’t much time.” Willum takes her hand and guides her toward the stage. A tall man with black curly hair waves for the music to stop and addresses the crowd. “And now, in honor of the Masters of the City and the annual Festival of the Consolidation, we bring you our modest offering, entitled A Clerical Error.”

  The showman bows to the whistling and applauding audience and is nearly bowled over by a boy with a bag over his head
.

  With a wink to the audience, the man pulls the boy up by his shirt. “Pardon me, lad, but why the bag?”

  “You don’t want to know,” says the muffled voice inside the bag. The man looks at the audience. “Oh, I think we do, don’t we?”

  The people roar back. “We do!”

  With a grin to the crowd, he yanks the bag off the boy’s head, revealing a horrible mask. It’s pitted with craters, the flesh red and raw.

  The audience lets out a collective gasp, but a few people boo, unimpressed. “Where are the Mor-Ticks!” they jeer. The showman, backing away, gestures widely to the crowd. “Enjoy the show!”

  A musician in a fire mask plays a wild tune on a recorder while the fake Mor-Tick victim hops to the rhythm, arms flapping. The music whips round Stowe’s heart, seizing her attention. Her mind reaches out to the masked figure. Blocked. He’s shielding himself. Impossible.

  Willum nudges her closer to the side of the stage, where the showman contentedly observes the audience, apparently unaware of their approach. A young girl, holding a drum, stands near him, her eyes focused on Stowe. She has an oddly soothing gaze.

  “Ah, Willum, gained a few gray hairs, I see, since last we met,” says the showman, eyes still on the crowd.

  Willum glances nervously in the direction of the stage.

  “Relax, that cleric is one of ours. The play’s stooge.”

  “Yes, that one, but not the others, they’ll be on top of us in moments.” Willum turns to Stowe. “This is Kamyar, the friend I told you about.”

  “This way,” Kamyar murmurs as he directs them into the canvas tent behind the stage. Reaching into a trunk, he pulls out a drab ocher apprentice robe. “Put this on. Time for a change in professions. Make haste, please.”

  Stowe lowers her hood and Kamyar’s mouth drops open. “It is her! I was sure I’d misread the code or that you were having us on, even though I know you to be monumentally humorless.”

  “It’s incredibly risky, probably impossible. That’s why I asked you.”

  “In this case, flattery salts the wound.”