Garek said something. That happened a lot: people started a conversation in Sign with him, then he spoke and they seemed to forget that speech had not suddenly brought his hearing back.
"Sign, please," said Cloud.
Garek hesitated. His hands moved in small circles, searching for a word. Finally he settled on: "Many."
Cloud tried to quell rising panic. This could be nothing. Nothing new. It could just be people who were in the room with Malal, who had come into contact with the Academics.
It could be Wind.
He tried to banish that thought. He would be lost without her. She could not die.
"Where?" he managed to ask. Garek looked confused, so Cloud added, "Where were they found? The sick ones?"
Now despair tumbled upon him as Garek answered, "Everywhere in palace. Sickness everywhere. People afraid. People leaving."
Cloud digested that. Just a moment, but in that moment he felt the world collapsing. Felt himself grow too late.
He almost ran down the hall toward the door that would lead out.
No. Takes too long.
Instead he turned and slammed through the nearest door. The door of the woman – and he saw it was a woman, though he could only tell by the cut of her suit – who had died last. He ran for the window.
And jumped out.
Glass cut him. Slashed his arms and face. Blood ran down his cheeks. Pain came, but it was a distant thing. Something he barely felt as he plummeted, fell just as had the woman who threw herself out another window on this same floor of the palace.
Cloud had no intention of killing himself, though. He fell only a few feet, then a whirling mass of air caught him. The tornado was small – only perhaps ten feet in diameter, and most of that the eye at the center – but the air pressure shifted within it just enough to catch him. Instead of falling to his death, powerful currents of wind bore him to his destination.
The palace was inside the castle. The castle itself was a connected series of buildings, enclosing fields and free-standing structures where people lived and worked. There were stables, barracks, smithies. Garages for the palace auto-cars, a small dock where air-cars could settle.
All if it was surrounded by a tall wall. And though that wall had been breached by the recent attack, the moat beyond meant there was only one feasible way in or out.
Don't let me be too late. Please, Gods.
Cloud landed just inside the castle wall, standing directly in front of the portico that opened onto the single bridge over the moat.
Word had traveled quickly: people were already swarming toward the bridge, their eyes showing that they had heard what lay inside the castle. Chambermaids, Patches, soldiers, Smiths – all scrambled toward the exit. A few nobles and their attendants sat astride horses and tried to fight their way through, were blocked by the sheer mass of people, and then got down and ran with the crowd.
Cloud turned to the bridge. A half dozen people had already made it there. Running for the safety that lay outside the castle.
Cloud raised a hand. And the storm came in earnest.
He dropped his hand, and the small tornado that had taken him here was suddenly fifty feet across. Rain fell within it, clouds forming in miniature – a strange sight that Cloud knew from experience would terrify most people simply because of its inherent wrongness.
Good.
The tornado kept growing. Faster and faster, and Cloud was aware of that fact but only with a part of himself. It was like a hand, a part of him that operated nearly automatically, allowing him to concentrate on other things at the same time.
And what he had to do demanded his concentration. Not because it was difficult on any phsyical or intellectual level. It wasn't difficult at all.
Just terrible.
He raised his hand, and lightning sheared through the air, seeming to cleave the very heavens in two. It was early morning, the sky barely light, but now the sun was overpowered by the brightness and power of the shard that crashed down.
It hit the bridge.
The lightning had been so intense, so powerful, that most of the bridge simply disintegrated. The rest fell into the dry moat below, small pieces crashing into smaller pieces that fell among the upturned spikes below.
In an instant, the half dozen people who had been on the bridge – people who had committed no crime, and who had acted completely reasonably given the circumstances – turned into nothing more than puffs of red mist. And in the instant after that, even the mist boiled away under the heat of the lightning. There was nothing but a half-melted metal chain swinging from the outside wall, and a torn bit of wood that jutted out a few feet over the moat like a broken tooth.
The throng of people stopped running. The ones in the front halted so suddenly that the people behind knocked them over, tripped over them, fell, and were then themselves buried by the third wave of humanity.
Cloud heard nothing. But he saw people screaming, holding palms to bloody heads, cradling broken arms and legs.
He held up his hands. "Go back inside!" His magic caught the words on the wind and carried his shout, made it grow so that it overpowered the roar of humanity before him.
All but some of the wounded fell silent. Cloud repeated himself, a bit quieter this time.
A man facing him spoke. Cloud couldn't read lips like his sister, but even he managed to make out the word, "plague."
He saw a pair of soldiers break away from the side of the mob, running toward a building Cloud knew held supplies. Probably getting a ladder or a rope. That's what he would have done.
But the tornado he had first called forth had not disappeared. It had grown, and grown, and now hung over the castle like the dark eye of the Gods.
He shouted, "No one can leave. We have to stay!" Again, his amplified words went to the crowd – and to the palace beyond. He meant everyone to hear him.
Again, the man before him shouted something. His face twisted in terror-fueled rage. And again, Cloud made out a few words: "Netherworlds… can't stop us…."
Cloud's voice grew to its loudest. "You. Will. NOT. LEAVE!"
He looked up. The tornado spun, twisted its way downward. The people in the crowd raised hands over their faces, as though they might ward off what was happening. They knew they were going to die.
Cloud had no intention of killing them, though.
Not yet. I hope not at all.
But he knew he would, if it came to that.
For now, though, the tornado would hopefully suffice. It dropped down, and widened still more as it did, and then it fell around the castle. The winds spun only feet away from the walls on all sides, and everyone inside could feel the tremors that rippled through the earth. A few loose stones and mortar pulled away from the wall, flung into the sky by the wind's force.
But mostly, the wall remained as it had been.
The wall was not Cloud's intended target.
The tornado dropped into the moat, instead.
It spun faster and faster. Enough wind escaped the funnel that the people standing before him – those who remained standing – fell over and were pushed bodily backward, shoved toward the palace proper.
Only Cloud remained standing. This was his Gift, and his domain.
The tornado chewed downward, eating away at the bottom of the moat at the same time as it tore away the far edges. Dirt and rock flew upward, spat into the castle and across the land beyond.
Then… it was gone. Suddenly, completely. As though it had never been.
But it had brought change.
The moat.
The tornado had deepened and widened it. The spires that had been within the moat were gone – torn away along with everything else down there. But the moat was still much more intimidating now, because now it was a hundred feet deep, and nearly that far across. It went right up to the spires that had encircled the moat before – the ones that served as warnings to those who would leave Ansborn. The spires, Cloud knew, extended deep below the groun
d, but he hadn't known how deep until now: he could see some of them, extending below the depth of the new moat, disappearing like the roots of a giant's teeth.
Cloud had, with a wave of his hand, cut himself and the others in the castle off from the rest of the world. There was no rope that could be thrown across the chasm he had created. None but an air-car or a Wanderer could bring anyone in or out.
And air-cars could be grounded by a storm, or destroyed outright if necessary.
As for Wanderers… there were none in the palace that he was aware of, so he didn't need to worry about people leaving that way. And if someone transported into the palace, well, they would just be stuck here as well.
The man in front of Cloud eyed the devastation beyond the gate. He spoke. This time Cloud didn't understand a word of it, but he could guess at the gist: You've killed us all.
Cloud spoke, one last time. "You all know there is a disease, and that it is spreading. I know you don't want to die. I don't either. But I won't let you kill the Empire. If we must die to stop the disease, then so be it." His shoulders slumped a bit. "Now go back to your rooms or your work. And pray."
It was the last two words that did it. He knew that they hoped for a miracle. That by telling them to pray he was extending to them the hope that they might live, might somehow leave this place.
A few looked like they might attack Cloud, but only until he conjured a hailstorm that drove everyone into the palace.
Then he looked out over what he had done. The deep hole he had dug.
He didn't want to die, either.
He shivered, then turned back to the palace. If he was to die, he would do it at Wind's side.
A moment later, the storm returned. Swirling clouds spun in a never-ending maelstrom around the castle walls. Dust again swirled, and the funnel extended into the sky. The sun was blocked, and the castle dwelt in a silent, funereal, and permanent twilight.
11
Brother Scieran had cheated.
Like the others – Sword, Arrow, and Father Akiro – he had started out in one of the palace's auto-cars. But unlike them, he had no intention of traveling in one for his entire mission. He hated long drives in auto-cars. And, more importantly, he wanted to get to the catacombs to help Father Inmil as fast as possible. Partly because he knew that speed was of the essence.
But, he had to admit, it was also partly because he knew that Father Akiro was going to Knowledge. And wouldn't it be nice to get back to the palace before he did?
The idea of beating his old teacher at anything was just so delicious.
He did start off in an auto-car, just like the others who were departing on their various missions. But he only drove as far as the far side of the skybridge to Faith before he stopped riding.
Because that was where – if you knew of it – you could find and use the Wandering Line.
Wanderers could transport people or objects from one place to another in the blink of an eye. But they were expensive, charging huge amounts for their services. And they could only transport something a few miles at a time. It was faster to travel with a Wanderer, certainly, but most people were willing to take the extra half hour or hour in order to save a half-Turn's pay. The only people who did use Wanderers with any regularity were the very rich, and even then their usefulness was negated by the many Screens whose magic prevented anyone from magically appearing in the homes of most of the nobles and high merchants.
Wanderers should have been one of the major parts of the Empire's infrastructure. Instead they were relegated – by others' power and by their own greed – to expensive, largely unemployed, courier dispatchers. They couldn't even transport themselves, but had to do it to others; another problem, since many people were unwilling to let someone dissolve them to nothing in the hopes of reappearing somewhere else.
No, the Wanderers were largely useless. Even when bound together by a Thread, groups of them still couldn't move things very far – they just moved bigger things those few miles. Cheaper to transport things the usual way, and usually nearly as fast.
Unless you knew about the Wandering Line. Which Scieran did.
He pulled off the skybridge and veered to the left. The main road that led to the Grand Cathedral – what had once been the Grand Cathedral, now a pile of rubble that would take a thousand Turns to rebuild – lay in front of him, but he wasn't interested in following it.
The Wandering Line did not follow the straightest path. It followed the fastest one.
The smaller road he took was still a fairly large thoroughfare, and there was a fair amount of traffic going in both directions. But in only a few minutes he took yet another turn. This one led to a much smaller road, which quickly narrowed until it was barely a path between thick growths of trees and brush on either side. Branches hung over the auto-car, a canopy that shut out the stars and made the night that had fallen seem even darker.
He kept going until the path ended. Then kept going a bit farther still. The trees looked thick here, but there was enough space between them to push on if you knew where to look.
After a long time in the forest, following twin cones of light from the glo-globes embedded in the front of the auto-car, the trees suddenly ended. In their place was a clearing, filled with grasses, and a small garden planted with the wheat and berries that were a sign of the Gods' giving and love.
In the center of it all stood a small house. More a shack, actually. But though a shack, it was also much more than it seemed.
Scieran pulled the auto-car into a well-tramped spot beside the building. He got out and, without knocking, opened the door and entered.
The woman inside looked up without surprise. Like him, she was dressed as one of the Faithful, though she wore the blue-trimmed, white robe of an Acolyte of the Mind, rather than the garb of a Knight of the Order of Chain.
She was young – not much older than Sword, he realized with a pang. He hoped Sword was all right. Priests could not marry, could not father children. Not unless they chose to leave the priesthood, which they were always allowed to do – family was important to the Faithful. Scieran had chosen to remain a priest, though that decision had cost him much. He knew he would never leave, and so would never have children of his own.
But Sword was close. If any could be a daughter without being of his body, it was she.
The Acolyte looked at him mildly, then said, "A traveler in the night?"
"As are we all, daughter," said Scieran, the words coming automatically even though it had been long Turns since he used the Wandering Line. He made the sign of Faith, his right hand touching shoulder, forehead, and other shoulder.
"Will you keep traveling?"
"I prefer to wander."
The woman – the girl – nodded. She had been reading a book by the light of a lantern, and now she closed it and stood.
"Can I offer you refreshment?" she asked. She didn't know who he was, but he had known the signs and keywords. She knew he belonged here, that he was no stranger. She knew that he was entitled to her help, and so she would give it in any way in her power.
Scieran shook his head. "Alas, daughter, I am in a hurry."
She nodded. "Where to?"
"I need to get to the Grand Cathedral."
A sadness flickered in the girl's eyes. Even though Scieran didn't know her, he rather loved her in that moment. She felt the loss of the Cathedral; felt it not merely as the pain of losing something beautiful, but as the deeper loss of a pillar upon which she had leaned. She was one of the Faithful, not just in name but in word and in deed.
He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it lightly, then smiled. "Things will get better, child," he said.
She nodded somberly. "You are Father Scieran, aren't you?"
He started, saying, "Brother Scieran," automatically before squinting and adding, "Do I know you?"
She shook her head. "No. But you gave my father sanctuary, long ago. He always spoke of you. Said you were a good man."
"
What is his name?"
"Tir."
Scieran remembered him. A petty thief, someone who stole to feed his family in the power-mad cities near the Imperial Palace. Discovered and run out of Center by the police, appearing at Scieran's small church with a young wife with frightened, kind eyes.
"I remember him. Is he well?"
The girl's eyes answered before her words: "Dead."
"I'm sorry."
She nodded, then reached out her hands. Scieran took them. "I'll send you on, then," she said.
He nodded, his head going up…
… and then something changed…
… and when it dropped down again he was no longer in the small shack. He was, instead, in another one. It could have been the same one – the same rough furnishings, the same lanterns, the same table in the center. Only at this table it wasn't a girl, but an old man. Like the girl, he was an Acolyte of the Mind. Like her, he seemed not at all surprised to see Scieran.
"Where to?" he asked as soon as Scieran appeared before him and they went through the code words that showed Scieran belonged: that he knew of the Wandering Line and had the permissions to use it.
"The Grand Cathedral." This one didn't stop for niceties as had the woman. He simply stood, took Scieran's hands in his own, Scieran blinked…
… and somewhere between the moment where his eyes closed and then opened again, in that twinkling moment where sight died and then was reborn, he disappeared and reappeared again.
This was the Wandering Line. A series of small houses where lived Faithful who were also Wanderers. The tiny houses were all hidden away from main roads and cities, and all were close enough to one another that a Wanderer in one could transport someone to the next.
It wasn't perfect – there weren't enough Wanderers in the entire Empire to blanket all of Faith, let alone enough who were also Faithful who could be entrusted with this great secret of the church. But there were enough that people who knew the secret could get from most of the major cities of Faith to most of the others in a series of jumps that took minutes instead of hours or days.
The people at each succeeding waypoint moved quietly and quickly. The keywords were spoken, hands were clasped. A blink, a moment of darkness followed by a step into light.
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