by Dennis Foon
“No more than the people have missed you, my pet. The thought of Our Stowe presiding over an execution has proven impossible for the citizenry to resist. I’m told they began to gather in Conurbation Park at dawn.”
Willum’s in the front seat, next to the driver. He stares ahead, never turning, never letting a stray thought reach her. They’ve made a plan, of course, but still, she is on her own with this task.
The limousine turns down a vile, untended street that is all too familiar. “What is this place, Father?” she asks ingenuously.
“I have avoided showing you this before, my dear,” he says, scanning the slum with self-satisfaction. “But I think you’re ready to see it now.”
He’s brought her to the underbelly of the City, the same decaying ghetto she hid in when she ran away. She remembers the stench of stale urine and rotting garbage, the people wandering like zombies under her image or praying at shrines they’d created for Our Stowe. As hollow eyes shift lazily over their passing vehicle, she realizes that here things only ever get worse.
“This is the home of the Absent,” says Darius. “Master Querin came up with that appellation.” Turning his ravenous eyes on Stowe, he continues, “A very dangerous man. But you know that, don’t you? Lucky for us he prefers to serve rather than rule. Still…”
Darius looks vaguely out the window.
Adopting her most worried tone, Stowe whispers, “Father?” She’s astonished at how quickly his head snaps back. She would not have been surprised if he had bared his teeth.
But the effect is dissipated the instant he flashes his most fatherly smile. “Ah, yes, what was I saying? The Absent. They abandoned their productive labors in the Farlands and migrated to the City hoping to find an easier life. We cannot reward their choice. If we did, who would tend our fields and work our mines?”
Stowe knows that most of these vacant-eyed women and defeated men came as refugees when their villages were destroyed by marauders. They believed they’d find succor here, salvation. They never would have imagined this.
“We have no plans for reconstruction in this part of the City, so it costs us nothing to let them squat here. They pay their way by contributing their offspring to our recycling laboratories.”
“Cattle,” Stowe says in dawning awareness. “Do you breed them, Father?”
A deep, dry chuckle rises from Darius’s sunken chest. “Good question!” The sound, like a death rattle, sends chills up her spine. “For all their self-inflicted deprivation, we still have compassion for them, which we mete out through you, Our Stowe. It is you who brings meaning and value to their lamentable lives.”
Stowe does not fail to notice that he has studiously avoided answering her question. Unable to repress a shudder, she covers by saying, “I don’t like it. It feels dirty, having those vermin worship me.”
“Adulation has its uses.”
“How shall I use it?” she asks, allowing a tiny amount of genuine excitement to creep into her voice.
“Consider the park a learning opportunity. Feel the crowd, play with them, allow them to bask in your divine presence again. We should very much like to put the problem of the Gunthers to bed. Whatever else they are, my dear, the Gunthers are efficient. We like our City to run smoothly. A repulsive appearance is a small price to pay for that. So, when you address your devotees, be sure they know that Our Stowe is satisfied with the sentence we have passed on these four chosen ones.”
“And if the crowd is not happy?” she asks with a mischievous grin.
“You have my permission to improvise.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Father.” There. She’s accomplished her objective. Since Darius has so kindly granted her secret wish, Stowe offers him her most gracious smile. “Oh, Father, it’s so good to be back.”
Conurbation Park. The last time she was here it was strewn with banners, alive with music. Of course, that was before the riot she had precipitated with her scream. The mood today is somber but there is also a current of anticipation.
Stowe waits behind a veiled grandstand at the south end of the square. On the gleaming platform sit four ebony gallows surrounded by a phalanx of well-armed Clerics—Querin flexing his muscles.
“How many are in attendance?” Darius asks, with only a hint of boredom.
The Master of Inculcation radiates satisfaction. “Approximately fifty thousand. Speakers positioned throughout the City will reach every citizen. All shall be blessed with the sound of Our Stowe’s voice.”
Angry shouts from the throng announce the arrival of the four prisoners. Protected by Clerics on all sides, the Gunthers are assaulted by jeers and taunts that quickly escalate to a fevered pitch. They’re all wearing glasses, just as Willum said. One of them is a young girl, not much older than Stowe. Though she’s trying to appear unaffected, Stowe can see her flinch again and again. It is not difficult to imagine the insults thrown at her as knives; the scars they leave will be as permanent.
Wrists bound behind their backs, the Gunthers are roughly pushed onto the platform. The veil parts enough to reveal the prisoners as they are positioned over the trap doors. When the nooses are fitted around their necks, they do not quake with fear or beg for mercy; instead they stare at the inside of their lenses, oblivious to their surroundings.
Master Querin steps out to announce her. “Our Stowe,” is all he says, raising an arm toward her.
Willum signals Querin to wait as he adjusts Stowe’s fila-armor collar. “Listen,” he whispers.
“Yes, my Primary,” she says. And the veil opens wide to reveal Stowe gliding regally down the stairs. As she sweeps onto the grandstand’s amplification platform, the crowd’s chant rises to greet her, “Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”
But Stowe stands silently before them. She does as Willum ordered, and listens to their cries of “Monsters!” “Scum!” “Eviscerate them!” “Make them bleed!” And worse. Much, much worse. These people are so cruel, so rabid in their hatred, she can’t help doubting Willum’s crazy plan. But with a sweep of her hand all are silenced.
“Before you stand criminals.” Stowe extends an arm, indicating the four Gunther prisoners behind her. “But what is the nature of their crime? They did not spirit me away as the Conurbation suspected. No one could do that. I go where I will and always where I can be of service to my people. To you.
“No. They did not commit this offense against my person, but they deserve to be treated as criminals. And I will tell you why.
“Look at them. Are they like us? Can one of you call a Gunther friend? Or even neighbor? Do they walk in your streets? Shop where you shop? Work where you work? No. They hold themselves apart. They think they are above participating in our Conurbation. But are they?”
“No! No! No!” The crowd shouts.
“No!” Stowe cries. Allowing the amplified hum of her breath to work its magic, she waits until the mob breathes with her. “No.” This time her voice barely rises above a whisper. “Death is an end. It is quick. It will not open their eyes to our compassion, to our love.” Stowe raises her voice, letting the crowd know she will tolerate no protest. “Yes. I love them. As I love all my citizens. As I love all of you.”
“Our Stowe! Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”
Stowe allows the crowd to bask for a moment in her love; then, turning toward the Clerics, Stowe issues her command. “Remove their glasses! Blind them!” She rather enjoys the stunned silence of her audience.
“No! Please!” the Gunthers beg, in a state of panic. They fight against their ropes and snap their heads away from the guards, bobbing frantically—all to no avail.
Stowe points dramatically to the floor before her, and the four pairs of glasses are laid at her feet. “Perhaps the Gunthers have become too fond of their difference. If they wish to live apart from the Conurbation—so be it.” Stowe places her foot on the pile of spectacles and bears down again and again, pulverizing them. “They shall know what it is like to live without our compassion and love. They shall
be exiled and abandoned to wander blind in the Devastation.”
The gasp is instantaneous, almost creating a vacuum in the plaza. She has sentenced them to the one thing worse than death. The crowd is in an uproar but Stowe shouts over them: “Let this be a warning to all Gunthers! Those who wish to remain shall report to the offices of the Master of Inculcation. We will see that they contribute to our Conurbation and thus be returned to our good graces. Those who do not will be banished forever.”
As the Gunthers are marched away, Stowe watches the crowd taunt, spit, and throw garbage at the innocent offenders. She sees Willum slip into the crowd behind them. The shouting continues, but as if deterred by an unbearable stench, a wider berth is given to the prisoners. She hopes the four make it out of the City unharmed.
Querin takes her arm and draws her back to the Eldest, who places his hands on her shoulders. “You surprised even me, my daughter,” he says, his newly implanted teeth sparkling. “Yes. It might work.”
“With a few encouraging proclamations,” Querin agrees. “And, I think, new uniforms. By the end of the week, every Gunther in the City will be visibly taking part in our Conurbation.”
Darius laughs and so Stowe laughs too, relieved to have saved the Gunthers’ lives but even more at the Masters’ apparent lack of suspicion. It is clear they’re happy that the Gunthers have become one less thing to worry about. They’ve other pressing concerns, that much is obvious. With any luck, it will be enough to keep them distracted while she and Willum get on with a little snooping.
A FRIEND IN NEED
THERE WILL BE GREAT RIPS IN THE FABRIC OF THE DREAMFIELD AND I WILL BE THE ONE TO CLOSE THEM. BUT ONE DAY, I WILL RECOGNIZE THEIR SOURCE AND ITS POWER WILL BECOME MY DESTINY.
—DARIUS,
VISION #831, YEAR 21 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE
WINTER HAS MOST DEFINITELY ARRIVED, and ice coats the flat barrens. For the first few days of his trek Roan felt exposed, a solitary traveler over their vast emptiness. In keeping with his disguise, he’s had to move more slowly than he would have liked, and sleeping on open ground, he’s had to maintain a level of alertness that’s kept him from getting proper rest. That combined with the cold nights and his growing hunger is compromising his ability to think clearly.
Roan stops for a moment, looking in every direction for some clue as to where he should proceed. He laughs, painfully aware of the irony of his journey—the last trip he took by himself he was running from the god of the Brothers, now here he is trying to find him, and he is most definitely lost.
Mabatan’s explanation of ley lines has been all he’s had to go on. The world, she said, was not unlike the body, and it was possible for him to use his senses to find its lines of power, just as needles are used by healers to tap into the body’s energy flow. Along these lines there were places where the earth’s potency pooled and if he followed their path he would find what he sought. As good a theory as any, but he’s beginning to despair of such places even existing, never mind his ability to find them.
Looking up at the hazy outline of the sun, Roan realizes he’s lost all sense of direction, so he takes out his recorder, and sitting on the frozen ground, he empties his mind and plays. The notes fall like embers igniting invisible waves that weave a subtle magic around him. His music has never sounded so beautiful, and it is unmistakably tugging one way, urging him forward.
As he resumes his journey, Roan of the Parting’s words return to him. “…it was the awesome power of every farmer, manufacturer, student, teacher, child, and adult alike to manifest visions and dreams.” Whatever his ancestor’s culpability was regarding enablers—something Roan found really unpleasant to think about—if the Friend existed because people believed in him, then how they believed could change him. Maybe. Or maybe that was where the muddle-headedness that hunger and lack of sleep brought on could lead you.
Roan wakes, suddenly realizing he’d dozed off. Not knowing how long he’s been walking in a stupor, he stops bleary-eyed at a dense thicket, overgrown with a forbidding mass of black woody vines and tangled bramble. Sitting down to rest, he hears the whisper of a rivulet of water. With great difficulty, he cuts a narrow swath at the base of the thicket and exposes a clear running stream. As he eagerly dips his face to the frigid water for a drink, he glimpses an opening. In an instant his cricket has leapt from his shoulder and is scrambling through it. Without a thought, Roan follows. The sharp brambles tear at his skin but his hands can feel a strong pulse beneath them, as if he were above the very heart of the earth. Following the cricket, Roan inches painfully forward until the thicket opens up at last.
As the white cricket hops back onto his shoulder, Roan rises and feels his heartbeat synchronize with the pulse beneath his feet. The trickle of water winds through what he now recognizes is a labyrinth. To free his mind of fear and expectation, he begins a walking meditation. Proceeding this way, he loses all track of time, but eventually he reaches the labyrinth’s heart—a perfect circle about fifteen strides in circumference, mysteriously clear of all roots and bramble.
The cricket leaps into its center and Roan sits beside it. No longer aware of any hunger or thirst or weariness, his senses attune to the scent of the bramble, the fluttering of the cricket’s antennae, the cold hardness of the clay. The crackling sound of dead leaves shifting on the ground makes him start. He feels no wind, yet he can see the leaves are being blown this way and that. Then, as suddenly as they began, they stop.
Directly in front of him, a thin mist rises from the ground, a wispy thread ribboning out in Roan’s direction. Like a viper striking, it hurtles toward him and wraps around his throat, his arms, his face. He rolls on the ground as it blocks his nose and mouth, suffocating him. Realizing the futility of struggle, Roan retreats into himself, consciously slowing his heart rate.
What are you?
The response comes instantly. The vapor squeezes around his chest, pulsating with a red glow. At first the sensation is pleasantly warm, but in moments he is on fire. Screaming in pain, he watches his torso bubble and blister until all the water has exploded from his chest and nothing remains but his organs aflame within his charred ribcage. Through the blinding agony, Roan realizes the damage must be an illusion. How else could he still be conscious? The fog makes every inch of his skin a blazing inferno, but to survive he must ignore the sensation. Though it takes all his willpower, he is able to endure by submerging himself in the impenetrable essence of his etherbody.
As Roan’s pain subsides, the mist swirls and swells until it towers over him, a huge undulating mass that, twisting in on itself, evolves into a pair of horns. White eyes streaked with blood appear and around them a gigantic head takes shape. The head of a bull. The loose skin of its neck falls and folds into flesh. Then a human torso appears. Rippling with muscle, its thick blue veins threaten to burst the confines of its skin. The being exudes a strength far beyond anything Roan has ever encountered. It smells of the earth, its breath a gust of wind.
Sweat steams off the newly formed being like dew rising in a spring dawn. As its elevated spine curves down into the hips and hind legs of a bull, the creature’s nostrils flare.
Taking care to be still, Roan reaches with his mind. Are you the Friend?
The minotaur’s jowl does not move, but a strange melodious voice resonates in Roan’s skull. Do you doubt it?
The red streaks in the Friend’s white eyes look like gouges, jagged and chaotic, as if something or someone had slashed them. No. It’s just that…I thought you were a man. The man who slew the bull.
The Slayer and the Slain are one.
I killed a bull. In a vision.
The veins in the Friend’s muzzle pulsate with emotion. Yes, and my blood healed the Novakin. But for that to happen, you will have to fulfill my request.
Every fiber of Roan’s being is charged with explosive rage. This is the god who inspired the brutal rituals that culminated in the m
assacre of Longlight. Still, it is Roan who has sought the monster out. Pushing back his anger, he confronts the god with as much reason as he can muster. I won’t agree to anything without knowing what it is.
A buoyant laughter echoes painfully in Roan’s head. You are brave. I will make my request, and you will choose. If you refuse, never seek me again. I do not ask for much. Just one life…one life that you alone can take.
Roan remains silent. It seems ridiculous that he has come all this way for this. It just can’t be. It can’t.
Do this thing for me, and you will gain much of what you seek.
And who is it you want me to kill?
The Friend shakes his head in fury. Blood sprays from his lacerated eyes in beaded wisps that slash across Roan’s chest, burning holes into his cloak. Me. You must kill me.
It’s impossible. How could I—
You will understand when the time comes.
Why do you want me to do this?
The minotaur stands so still that, for a moment, Roan wonders if he’s staring at a statue. But as the beast’s warm breath blasts over Roan like heat off a smelting fire, he knows the Friend is deliberating.
I will show you. The air between them vibrates and Roan gasps as the energy hits him like a skillfully delivered punch. With both hands, the Friend digs deep into his own chest, and rips it open. Cracking his ribs apart, he pulls the two sides of his torso wide, exposing a giant beating heart, lungs swelling with air, arteries pulsating. Roan’s ether body is pulled from him and drawn through the Friend’s gaping wound, and into the Dreamfield.
ROAN STARES AWESTRUCK AS AN OPAQUE VERSION OF THE ENTIRE DREAMFIELD SPREADS OUT BEFORE HIM. LINES LIKE VEINS CRACKLE BACK AND FORTH ACROSS IT, A GRID OF PULSING AMORPHOUS FORMS ALL HEADING FOR ONE PLACE—THE AREA CONTAINING DARIUS’S CONSTRUCTIONS. HELD FIRMLY IN THE FRIEND’S MIGHTY GRIP, ROAN CAREFULLY FOLLOWS THE PATH OF THE SHADES PAST THE TOWERING RAMPARTS, THE GIGANTIC SPIRALING GYRE, THE OCELLUS’S GLEAMING DISKS AND THE EERILY PHOSPHORESCENT UNDULATIONS OF THE TENTACLED ANTLIA. BUT AS SOON AS THE GHOSTLIKE FORMS CONVERGE ON THE IMMENSE, WHIRLING CLOUD THAT IS THE SPIRACAL, THEY VANISH.