by Dennis Foon
A feverish chant begins: “Our Stowe! Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”
Inching closer to their destination, she feels bathed in an icy stare. There, on the landing, framed by the grand entrance of the Pyramid, is Darius. At his side stands Master Querin. What Darius does not see, Querin will. Willum’s teachings echo through these thoughts, dispelling her fears: Listen to the people. Use them.
Stowe and Willum dismount at the foot of the Pyramid. A path has been forged through the frantic crowd that leads straight up to the Keeper of the City. She ascends the stairs, head held high, counting each step to maintain her calm. One…two…by the fiftieth step, she can see that Darius’s face is frozen, his eyes cold. Querin is more skilled at deception; the smile on his face seems genuine. Perhaps it is—he’s no doubt already translating her arrival into grist for his propaganda mill.
When Stowe finally glides onto the landing, Darius holds open his arms and without hesitation, Stowe runs into them. The screams of the citizens are deafening. Then, keeping one of his withered arms around her waist, he turns to the crowd and holds up a hand. Silence.
This entire level is an amplification platform and Darius needs only to whisper for his voice to boom over invisible speakers, giving him the illusion of omnipotence. “Did I not promise? Has she not been delivered? Yes! Our angel of mercy has returned! Back into the loving arms of the Conurbation. She has come to care for her people. We stand on the threshold of a new age. Our Stowe will lead us across it!”
“Our Stowe, Our Stowe, Our Stowe!”
She looks down at the masses who eagerly await a word from her, any word. For a moment she stands silently, projecting vulnerability and sweetness and unconditional love. Then, just as the crowd’s muted anticipation has been pushed to its limit, her voice reaches out to each and every individual, as if her words were meant for each one alone. “I left the City hoping to discover the future promised by the prophecies. I walked long in the wilderness. I searched the Devastation. Listened in the towns. But always the City called to me. The City is my home. It is my destiny. I am back and I will never leave you again.”
“Our Stowe! Our Stowe!” Arms flail in the air as the people shriek out her name. They push against the Clerics who line up, forcing them back. It is not long before the throng breaks through the cordon, people trampling each other in their desperation to get closer to Our Stowe. Quickly opening the doors behind them, Master Querin gently guides Stowe and the others safely into the Pyramid.
“Go to your rooms and rest,” Darius coolly commands. “I will summon you shortly.”
With her sweetest smile and most open look, and allowing a quiet tearfulness to color her words, Stowe says, “How I’ve missed you, Father.”
There is the slightest twitch in the corner of Darius’s left eye as she keeps her gaze locked on his. Only a detail, she will not allow herself to make too much of it. Then she uses Willum’s most effective tool and waits. She allows a polite amount of yearning to address her features. As if she were longing for him to say the same, call her Daughter, as if she has come back only for this. She knows she’s won when he turns on his heel, Querin trailing behind him.
Darius has just been dismissed.
Stowe barely had time to change before the Cleric came knocking. Now, as he escorts her down the corridor, she takes in the marble floors, the glass hallways, even the claws on the shining doorknob that grants entrance to Darius’s quarters. All the same. The only change she noticed during the interminable walk down the corridor is in her. Now she stands balanced, not trembling in fear. She and Willum determined her best hope would be to open herself completely to Darius, to speak only the truth, but to parcel it out, as if recalling it by accident. He must have no reason to suspect her—if he probes into the recesses of her mind where the whole truth lies hidden, all will be lost.
“Enter.” Darius’s voice is gentle, a ploy, she knows, to put her off her guard. Stepping into the room, Stowe bows to Master Querin. He stands in a dark corner, the better to intimidate her. The Eldest, however, sits apparently relaxed behind his chrome and crystal desk, positioned below two portraits: one of himself in his most splendid robes, and another of Stowe at her most beatific, the way he likes her. In the dim light, she can see the glimmer around both men.
Stowe lowers her head in shame and deference to Darius.
“So. You were not abducted?” Querin’s amused tone strikes her as irritably condescending. Luckily she is past being affected by such simplistic gambits.
“Forgive me,” she says penitently. “I was in error to abandon my responsibilities, to depart in secret. And I must apologize for all the worry and trouble my misguided actions have caused.”
“The Gunthers were not involved in any way?” It is clear from Querin’s inflection that he has known this all along and requires only her confirmation.
“None whatsoever,” she acknowledges. “I acted completely on my own.”
“Why did you run away from us, my darling?” Darius asks, his voice rasping and repellent and slithering.
Keeping her head bowed, she confesses humbly, “I had a vision. I wanted to tell you, Father, but I knew I had lost your confidence. I wanted to prove myself to you, offer you something that would make you believe in me again.”
Darius snorts, dismissively. “You followed a vision.”
Stowe breathes. He knows…something. How long before he has her on the ground, writhing? Breathe. Breathe.
“Please, Keeper, it would be useful to hear the nature of Our Stowe’s vision,” says Master Querin, stepping out from the shadows.
Ah. Now that’s interesting. Darius stiffened. Just for an instant. But still. These are the small advantages Willum has urged her to press. So she responds as if Darius himself had commanded her to do so. “I saw the children you’ve been searching for. I’m certain they’re alive, Father, somewhere in the Devastation, asleep, guarded by my brother. Or perhaps in the Dreamfield, somewhere I have never been. A huge crevice. They are stretched across it. They bind it together. Do the Eaters have them, Father? Is that where they are?”
The only sound is the whirr of a ventilator as the glimmer around both men is disrupted. A vibrant red spike tears through Darius’s chest. Anger or fear? She reaches with her mind and detects fluctuations in his pulse. He’s definitely unsettled. Querin on the other hand flickers orange: excitement. The information’s excited him. Why?
“Tell me more,” demands Darius, with a snarl that makes her knees feel strangely drawn to the floor.
“The children…they looked as if they were made of iron.”
“How many?” says Querin, not bothering to hide his exhilaration.
“Fourteen.”
“…Fourteen.” Querin whispers the word. “‘Fourteen will keep watch and bless the land where they lay with their innocence.’”
There’s an odd sense of self-satisfaction in Querin’s voice, but if there was any blood in Darius’s face, it has flushed away completely. The air around him is tinged a fetid mustard color, mottled and sulfurous. The Novakin, Willum had called them. They terrify Darius—if not for her brother, they would have been dead by now, fed to Darius’s new Construction. Willum explained they were keeping the Dreamfield from collapsing. You would think Darius would be grateful for that.
“I searched everywhere for them, Father. The vision was so clear, I was sure I would find them. Since I stopped taking the Dirt, I am cut off from the Dreamfield, but when I sleep I am taken to Roan and I am given glimpses of the children. Try as I might, though, I could not find any of them.”
“No signs of Roan?” The Keeper’s eyes are sharp, the raptor’s gaze she remembers.
“There are many rumors, but I saw no signs. The visions must lie…or perhaps I do not understand them.”
Darius stares at his desk as if waiting for her to say more, but she resists, remembering Willum’s instructions not to embellish.
Finally the old man’s skull-like face looks up, his mou
th grim, his eyes intensely determined. “You do not really believe your visions lie and I think you are right not to abandon hope.”
Stowe breathes more easily. Had he guessed that she’d actually seen Roan, their enterprise would have ended here.
“Your quest must be continued, I think…but under safer conditions.”
What Darius has in mind for her Stowe can only guess, but the color seems to be returning to his cheeks.
“A quest? A quest. Of course,” agrees Querin, bowing to Darius. “Ah, Keeper, I see it now. It was you who sent Our Stowe on her admirable journey. An attempt to fulfill the prophecies. I understand why you have trusted no one with this secret. Your wisdom is absolute.”
Did Querin really believe what he’d just said, or was he simply flattering Darius, helping him save face? Either way, it seems to placate the Keeper. “You may provide the citizenry with a Proclamation.”
“Thank you, Archbishop. I shall begin it with a prophecy: ‘For a Daughter shall have the sight…’ I think.” Querin looks to Darius for approval, but the Eldest’s thoughts already seem far away. “After which, something brief about Our Stowe’s infinite love for her citizens, followed by an expression of her bravery on their account.” With obvious excitement, Querin starts composing on the spot: “With no regard for her personal safety, Our Stowe wandered the Devastation on a spiritual quest, seeking a vision of the City’s future. Our Archbishop, knowing the importance of this quest, kept her true plans secret. Thus shielded by the mystery of her disappearance, she wandered freely and was blessed with a revelation: a world—healthy, prosperous and unified, a world embracing Farland and City alike, Master and child. All praise Our Stowe, beneficent shepherd of the new age.” Querin, finishing his speech with a flourish, turns to receive Darius’s appraisal.
How could these words fail to incite Darius against her? She feels a bit like a fiery ball Querin is passing from hand to hand, now saving, now damning her. But Darius is staring off into some unknown gloom, curiously unresponsive. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he hadn’t heard a word Querin had said.
As if by rote, Darius mutters, “You may begin circulation of this official account.”
“The only matter remaining to resolve then, Keeper, is that of the Gunthers,” Querin says, trying to re-engage Darius’s attention with official business. “While their condemnation has placated the populace, it has caused disruptions in the efficiency of our infrastructure. Swiftly reinstated, the Gunthers could rectify these failures.”
“The people have been promised an execution, Master Querin, and they must not be denied their justice,” Darius snaps testily.
“Farseeing words.” Praise slips from Querin’s lips as easily as breath. Years of practice, Stowe thinks. Still, he seems so sincere. No mean feat, that. “The absence of evidence does not equal the absence of guilt. The Gunthers separate themselves from the Conurbation’s grace, and this contempt alienates our citizens and demands retribution.”
“Four would be sufficient,” says Darius, plucking an errant hair from his eyebrow. “Arrange for the executions to take place in Conurbation Park.”
Stowe reigns in her emotions. Any empathy on her part would only serve to betray the Gunthers.
“And the rest discreetly released over the coming weeks?” suggests Querin.
“As always, Master Querin, I trust the details to you.”
“Keeper,” Querin murmurs. He inclines his head, not so far as to indicate acquiescence, but not so little that any insult could be inferred.
Stowe’s fascinated by the shift in the light around him, like a pale blue flame licking an oily surface. Before she can divert her attention, Querin’s gaze locks ferociously onto hers.
Following it, Darius turns to her, his eyes stroking her face. “My darling, do you not approve? Are the deaths of four not enough payment for the agony the City’s residents have suffered on your behalf?”
A year ago, she might have happily been held culpable for the murder of a few Gunthers. But now, she is appalled at the idea. Still, she cannot see any alternative but to agree. “It will suffice,” she says, forcing a glitter of satisfaction to sparkle in her eyes.
“I think it will be much more effective if you preside over the executions, my darling.” Darius’s lips stretch into what she is sure he intends to be a smile.
“Perfect,” Master Querin declares, his gaze remaining implacably circumspect. “Don’t you agree, Our Stowe?”
Pushing down the sickness she feels deep in her belly, Stowe looks at Darius with all the admiration she can muster. “My father’s wisdom is, as always, peerless.” For an instant she fears her repulsion will reveal all and struggles valiantly with the panic rising within her. But like a predator who suddenly smells larger prey, Darius’s glance slides back to the dark corners that seem to have occupied his thoughts throughout her interrogation.
She notices Querin motioning her to the door. As she gratefully glides past him, his hand rests on her back for the briefest moment, as if he were discreetly directing her toward her exit. Though she fears him more than Darius, the touch does not make her cringe or even flinch—the thing is, it feels oddly protective.
She must be tired. He’s probably even more dangerous than she thinks.
THE BURDEN
THE BRETHREN FEARED THE SHUNNED ONE. BUT TIME DULLED THEIR FEAR AND SOON, AWE REPLACED IT, FOR IT WAS HE WHO SET ROAN OF LONGLIGHT ON THE PATH TO ILLUMINATION.
—ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND
ROAN QUIETLY STEPS INTO ONE OF THE SMALLER ROOMS of the Academy. Mabatan chose well. Lumpy’s new quarters are spare but practical, with a desk and room for books, one of which he’s poring over now.
Looking up at Roan guiltily, Lumpy sighs. “Lying here’s nice but there’s a ton of things I should be helping with.”
“Nothing that can’t wait a couple of days,” says Roan, wagging a cautionary finger. “You got off lucky. Imin told me that if that fragment had hit you a thumb’s width to the left, you’d have died.”
“Funny how luck can feel like a big pain in your gut. Umm…speaking of pain, how’s Ende?”
“Very quiet.”
“Do you know how the Apogee killed them? Could you see?” Lumpy shifts in his bed, wincing at the movement.
Roan steps forward awkwardly, not quite knowing how to offer his friend assistance, but Lumpy waves him back. “It’s okay—I didn’t rip anything. Go on: Apogee. What do you know?”
“I couldn’t see much. The air rippled like it was a piece of cloth and when it reached the Apsara it seemed to suck the life out of them. Devour them, like Stinger said. And when they collapsed, there were whispers…horrible…”
“Mabatan heard them too.”
“I wish I’d just disabled the thing, not destroyed it. Then at least we might have a better idea of how it works.”
Lumpy smiles reassuringly at his friend. “Don’t waste your time feeling bad about that. A world with a couple less Apogees is a better place no matter what.”
Roan sits down carefully on the edge of Lumpy’s bed. “We finally got the enabler out. If I’m understanding Othard, which is not always easy, they fooled it into thinking it was still inside that Cleric.”
“Find anything out?”
“I piggybacked the energy straight to the Dreamfield. Territory of the Turned. But I didn’t dare follow it to its final destination.”
Lumpy nods casually, as if that were obviously the right choice. “What about the Cleric?”
Roan shakes his head. “Didn’t make it. Imin was amazed he lasted as long as he did…Lumpy?”
“You’re not feeling like this was all your fault, are you?”
“No. No. It’s just I don’t know where to go from here.”
“You remember what I said about finding the Friend?”
“Believe it or not, yes. And I’ve given it a lot of thought. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to go about doing it.”
Lump
y taps the ancient book in his hands. “That’s where being bedridden helps. You get time to read. This book, for instance. It says you have to…walk.”
“Walk?”
“Yeah. You fast. And walk.”
“For how long?”
“Till you find what you’re looking for.”
“Uh huh. In what direction? Where do I go?”
“Ever heard of ley lines?”
“Sort of…no, not really.”
“Read this—I’ve marked the page.”
“Uh huh. And who’s going to run things while I’m gone?”
“How about Ende?”
“I don’t think she’ll go for it. She’s given up leadership to Kira.”
“Kira, then.”
“Wolf wouldn’t like that. It needs to be someone neutral, who’s not going to take one side over another…hey! Someone like you.”
“Wait a minute, hold on!” yells Lumpy.
“Calm down,” Roan says, one hand gently keeping his friend stationary.
But Lumpy obviously does not want to calm down. “Calling me your Lieutenant, okay, I admit I like it—but I never agreed to actually do anything!”
“You’ll be fine.”
“No. I won’t. I won’t do it. I’m not qualified. Anyway, look at me. I’m injured.”
“I know it’s risky…”
“Risky? It’s insane. Me, trying to wrangle everybody, while you go wandering half—or totally—starved, around the Farlands, a sitting duck for every roving gang of marauders, Clerics, or Fandor. Not to mention wild dogs and Nethervines. On second thought, it’s a really terrible idea.”
“No, it’s not. You’re just jealous.”
Lumpy takes three fast gulps of air and rubs his mottled face with his hand. “That’s brilliant, that’s perfect.”
“Everyone knows what their responsibilities are, and I’ll inform them that in my absence, they’re to answer to you,” Roan says firmly.
“…Oh, great. Great. But what…what if…you don’t come back?” There’s a quaver in Lumpy’s voice that Roan has only ever heard when Lumpy’s talked about Lelbit.