by Dennis Foon
“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 “This map’s terribly outdated, I might add, based on notations that were made at the time of the wars.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
GAZING 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.
&
nbsp; 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.”
STOWE CLIMBS, HAND OVER HAND, INSIDE THE TRUNK OF THE BIG EMPTY. SHE’S ALMOST AT THE TOP WHERE THE LIGHT STREAMS IN. IT’S A HARD CLIMB. HER HANDS ARE SMALL AND THE HANDHOLDS ARE BETTER FOR THE BIGGER KIDS.
FINALLY SHE REACHES HER SPOT ON THE LITTLE LEDGE, HER NAME CARVED IN HUGE LETTERS OVER IT. SHE PUTS HER FEET ON ROAN’S ROPE SEAT AND POKES HER HEAD OUT OF THE BROKEN TREETOP. ALL AROUND HER ARE HUNDREDS OF GIANT HOLLOW TREES. EVERYTHING IS SURROUNDED BY A PRETERNATURAL GLOW, PALE AND IRIDESCENT, AS IF EVERYTHING WERE MADE OF LIGHT. THE LIGHT OF HER CHILDHOOD.
HEARING LAUGHTER, SHE LOOKS DOWN AND SEES ROAN CHASING LEM. THEY GLOW TOO: ROAN IS BLUE LIKE THE EARLY MORNING SKY, WITH ORANGE WISPS AS IF HE WERE REFLECTING THE SUN. LEM, THOUGH, HAS LITTLE YELLOW FLAMES DARTING ALL OVER, LIKE GLEEFUL FAIRIES TICKLING HIM. STOWE STIFLES A LAUGH AS SHE HEARS THE LITTLE DOOR OPEN BELOW. THEY’RE COMING IN! SHE FEELS IN HER POCKET FOR THE APPLE HER MOTHER GAVE HER.
“STOWE? ARE YOU UP THERE?” SHE SEES HER BROTHER’S FACE AND SILENTLY GIGGLING, DROPS THE APPLE. HE MOVES JUST IN TIME TO AVOID IT AND YELLS UP AT HER, “STOWE, YOU’RE IN FOR IT NOW!” UNABLE TO HOLD BACK ANY LONGER, SHE EXPLODES WITH LAUGHTER.
“STOWE…STOWE?”
STOWE’S TERRACOTTA EYES OPEN. IT’S HER FATHER, TENDING HER. “I WAS DREAMING AGAIN.”
“HOW OLD WERE YOU THIS TIME?”
“I DON’T KNOW…SIX OR SEVEN. I WAS IN THE HOLLOW FOREST, UP IN BIG EMPTY. ROAN WAS THERE.” STOWE SMILES. “I DROPPED AN APPLE ON HIS HEAD!”
BUT HER FATHER DOESN’T LAUGH.
“WHAT’S WRONG?”
“NOTHING.”
“DON’T LIE,” SHE COMPLAINS. “IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY DREAMS?”
“NO. OF COURSE NOT.” HE PAUSES AS IF STRUGGLING TO FIND THE CORRECT WORDS. “IT’S ONLY…WE’D HOPED YOU WOULD HAVE RECOVERED MORE…BEFORE…”
KNOWING NOW THE REASON FOR HER FATHER’S SADNESS, STOWE SHIVERS. THE MEMORIES, THE DREAMS, THIS TIME SHE’S SHARED WITH HER PARENTS—IT HAS ALL BEEN PARADISE. UNDER THEIR CARE AND THE PROTECTION OF THE SOULS OF LONGLIGHT, SHE’S HEALING, GROWING BACK WHAT WAS LOST WHEN—THE MERE THOUGHT OF IT FILLS HER WITH REVULSION.
“I DON’T WANT TO GO,” SHE WHISPERS. “NOT YET.”
HER MOTHER JOINS THEM, EYES DARK AND DEEP. “DARLING,” SHE SAYS, THEN PAUSES, POSTPONING THE INEVITABLE, IF ONLY FOR ONE LAST MOMENT.
“MOMMA, I’M NOT READY,” STOWE BEGS. “I’M STILL SICK. LOOK AT ME. I’M STILL BROKEN.”
HER FATHER MOVES CLOSER TO HER, RAISES HIS HAND AND TOUCHES HER BROW. IN THAT INSTANT, HER CLAY EXTERIOR FALLS AWAY AND STOWE LOOKS WONDERING AT HER OWN BODY. SHE FEELS HERSELF, NOT QUITE BELIEVING THAT NOTHING’S MISSING.
“THE HOLE THAT FERRELL LEFT IS HERE,” HER FATHER SAYS, HIS HAND OVER HER HEART. “YOU COULD STAY HERE AN ETERNITY, AND STILL IT MIGHT NEVER COMPLETELY HEAL.”
STOWE FEELS THE AIR AROUND HER CHANGE. SICK WITH FEAR, SHE CRIES, “HOW CAN I BE STRONG ENOUGH TO FIGHT, TO SURVIVE DARIUS, WHEN I HAVE THIS GAPING NOTHINGNESS INSIDE?”
HER PARENTS DO NOT SPEAK BUT THEIR EYES ARE INFINITELY ELOQUENT. THERE IS NO QUESTION OF BARGAINING FOR TIME. NOTHING SHE SAYS WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE. IT IS NOT THEIR DECISION.
“DARIUS WILL TORTURE ME,” SHE SAYS, TEARS ROLLING DOWN HER CHEEKS. “HE’LL USE ME AND THEN, WHEN HE’S DONE, HE’LL KILL ME AND THROW MY BODY TO THE DOGS!”
“STOWE!” HER MOTHER’S VOICE SLASHES HER LIKE A SLAP, BUT MOVING CLOSER, SHE PUTS HER ARMS AROUND STOWE, AND STROKING HER HAIR, SHE SIGHS. “DARIUS WILL NOT KILL YOU. HE WILL NOT. YOU ARE TOO STRONG.” STOWE FEELS HER MOTHER’S TEARS BLEND WITH HER OWN. HOLDING STOWE’S HEAD SO THAT SHE CAN LOOK DEEPLY INTO HER DAUGHTER’S EYES, SHE ADDS, “NEVER, NEVER FORGET THAT.”
“PLEASE, KEEP ME WITH YOU!” STOWE WHIMPERS. SHE CLINGS TO HER PARENTS DESPERATELY, BUT A GREAT GUST LIFTS HER, AND SHE FLIES UP, FINGERS FUTILELY REACHING FOR HER FATHER’S OUTSTRETCHED HAND.
Willum hesitates outside the door but it opens instantly. Ende has always been especially sensitive to his presence and he has never been able to shield himself from her. She sits behind the one candle illuminating her chamber and its wavering light carves deep hollows in her aged face as she gestures for him to join her.
“Please, Willum. I would like to speak my mind with you, thoughts I cannot share with my warriors. You may refuse; you are not bound to this favor.”
But of course he is bound. By blood. By the deep pain of wounds never healed, impossible to heal, and left to fester. By the legacy of Darius and the Dirt. And sitting across from her in the dim light he says only, “I will listen.”
“Watching all the men of my family,” she begins, her voice heavy with grief, “all the men of my people, suffer through Darius’s plague, has left me with memories I have never been able to dispel and of late they afflict my every waking moment. Leading meditation and training, conducting council, preparing food, teaching the young ones, these activities have always sustained me, but now nothing keeps the images of the past at bay. They wash over me as if they had only happened yesterday and not fifty years ago—blood seeping from the eyes and ears of our men and boys, the desperate unceasing coughing that ripped them apart from the inside, the blisters pooled under their flesh th
at burst at our slightest touch. There was no relief that we could give. No herb, no balm, no soothing caress. I was eighteen when I watched them all die, all those fathers and husbands and sons. My rage would not quiet and so I left to wander the Devastation. The man who became your grandfather found me. Zoun trained me in the way of the Wazya. I learned control, but control is not a cure. And now I dream increasingly of the knife I might hold to that monster Darius’s throat.”
Though his grandmother holds her anguish at bay, Willum sees it in her blank stare, the way her fingers smooth the line of the wood grain on the table, the deep and even rhythm of her breath being strictly controlled.
“I am going to cede my position to Kira, Willum. The bloodlust is in me and it is strong. I will continue to advise, but only in consultation with Roan. That boy is determined that this be a bloodless conflict—impossible, of course, but it will keep my head clear and directed at the preservation of the individuals in my army, rather than the destruction of my enemy at any cost.
“Willum, I was always more skilled at soothing your sorrow than I was at helping Kira. I identified too strongly with her desperate anger and I did not prevent her from nurturing it. And so, Kira is a bit…impetuous—” at this, Willum could not help but smile, “as you know; so is Wolf. But again, we can be thankful that Roan considers everything before he acts, and so a balance is obtained.”
Pausing, Ende leans forward and places her hand over his. One of his grandmother’s most trusted lieutenants, Petra, eyes wide and lifeless, dropping from Ende’s arms. A cry so piercing, death rides on it as surely as it directs its instrument. Ende’s sword so quick, its passage is only determined by the blood that suspends against the sky in its wake until—
Willum pulls his hand from hers so abruptly, hope of concealment is impossible; besides, Ende’s stern gaze does not permit him to look away.
“My fate is written by my history, Willum. I have awaited it a long time. But Kira…Willum, do I make the right choice?”