The Keeper's Shadow

by Dennis Foon

  But his gaze shifts away from her. Onto Willum.

  “Fortin’s concerns, though, seem mostly to center around your Primary.”

  Willum looks back at him guilelessly. “How might I best respond to them, Eldest?”

  “I’m not sure, Willum. Fortin seemed to wonder whether you might not be abusing your position.”

  “I have always been your servant, Archbishop.”

  “Have you really?” Darius’s eyes narrow and Stowe is almost blinded by the stream of smalt green light that slices from them directly into Willum’s chest.

  Willum’s knees buckle and he falls to the floor. Stowe wants to cry out, hurl a scream at the ancient man, but she feels pressure around her, holding her back. Who is stopping her, Willum or Darius? She concentrates on the barrier. Willum. It’s Willum. Keeping her from exposing herself. Dutifully she relaxes, and attempts to watch with appropriate detachment.

  Stowe’s amazed that Willum is doing nothing to defend himself. His body convulses again and again as Darius scythes through his mind. Unable to sit back and watch, she rides the intense beam of light, following Darius on his search into Willum’s memory.

  Master Fortin’s agitated face comes into view. Is Darius planning to retire? To hand over the Conurbation to that girl?

  Our Stowe is his daughter.

  Some of us have served the Conurbation for three-quarters of a century.

  Yes, but we are, none of us, indispensable.

  Darius abruptly releases Willum, leaving him an unconscious heap on the floor.

  “He is lucky his mind is weak. Had he the skill to resist me, there would be nothing left of him.” Darius sneers. Rising to place his withered hand on Stowe’s shoulder, he laughs. “Come, come, Darling, don’t pout. He’s a mere Primary, easily replaced. Besides, you’re becoming too old and too strong to be attached to playthings.”

  Stowe has to tighten every muscle in her chest and abdomen to keep from throwing herself on Willum. She wants to listen to his pulse, cry out to whatever life may remain inside him. “You are the only person in my world who truly matters, Father. Still, he was a useful toy. So helpful. I was hoping he’d facilitate my search for Roan and the children.”

  Darius’s pale eyes look dully at the crumpled man lying at his feet. “A point, my love. But, I promise you, should he not survive, we’ll find you another able companion.” Smiling venomously, he cups his skeletal hand under her chin. “Would that satisfy you?”

  “Yes, Father,” she says, forcing her eyes to smile, the corners of her lips to curl upward. “That will do.”

  “Come!” Darius calls out and a Cleric promptly opens the door and awaits his command. “Take Stowe’s Primary to the hospital. See if he can be resuscitated. If not, instruct them to salvage every part. He’s an excellent specimen.” The Eldest pulls the intravenous drip closer. “I suppose I shouldn’t have exerted myself. I must rest now, Daughter, but I’d like you to dine with me four days hence. I’ll see to it your favorites are on the menu. After dessert we will receive a visit from Governor Pollard. I’m interested in what you might think of him.”

  “Me? I haven’t any experience with Farlands politicians,” Stowe says humbly.

  “Exactly my point. It’s time you took an interest in matters of state, my sweet. I need you to accept more responsibility in these areas.”

  Anxious to leave, Stowe stands up and bows. “Of course. I am always delighted to have the opportunity to share time with you, Father.”

  No sooner has she closed the door than she rushes down the corridor, doing her utmost not to stumble, not to betray herself. She has to stay with Willum’s body, stop the doctors from jumping to conclusions, until she’s had time to think. How could he let this happen? How? It seems so impossible. If Willum dies, she will kill Darius. Kill him. And then she will kill herself.

  MASKS

  IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE PLAGUE ENDE VOWED THAT THE APSARA WOULD NEVER AGAIN BE TAKEN BY SURPRISE. AND SO SHE BEGAN THE PRACTICE OF STRATEGIC MARRIAGES. NONE WERE FORCED BUT FEW REFUSED THE CALL AND BY THE TIME OF HER DEATH, THE APSARA HAD BECOME A GREAT, IF SECRET, POWER.

  —ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE APSARA

  “LAY HER BACK DOWN!” orders Ende, putting one hand under Mabatan’s head and another on her forehead.

  Mabatan gasps, “Can’t breathe…tunnels!”

  “Mabatan. The fear is Kira’s. Kira’s mother saved her by hiding her in a crawlspace under the floor. She has a fear of enclosed spaces. That is Kira. You are Mabatan. You have no such fear. Smell the earth. Let your own blood speak to you. Mabatan. The fear is Kira’s…”

  Roan watches Mabatan breathe deeply, steadying her pounding heart. For the whole day he’s drifted in and out of this room, waiting for her ordeal to end. Lumpy’s guess is that Mhyzah is taking Kira right into the City. Roan’s sure the physical demands of pulling herself along the thrusalls of the Hhroxhi are helping Kira manage her fear. Mabatan, on the other hand, is blinded by Kira’s nightmarish memories and has no option but to wait the experience out.

  As sweat pours down Mabatan’s face, a weight settles behind Roan’s eyes. The Roan who’d traveled with Mabatan through a jungle of Skree would’ve ordered her enabler removed in a second, but the Roan who’s seeking a way to defeat the City can’t. All day long he’s stood at a distance despairing over her pain and hating himself for not stopping it.

  He forces himself to step forward and as he does, his cricket leaps from the edge of his pocket onto Mabatan’s cot, almost as if it’s been waiting for Roan to take that step. He stares in amazement as, one after another, crickets appear until they blanket his endangered friend, singing.

  Ende reaches up, touching his arm. “Look to what we can change. You listen well, Roan of Longlight.” She motions for Roan to take her place at Mabatan’s side.

  Mabatan draws him so close he can feel the warmth of her breath. “It’s over. We’ve arrived.”

  Kira raises her arms over her head and stretches. They seem to be in some kind of massive ventilation system, and it’s good to feel the wind and the space. Mhyzah’s placed her earhole against a metal circle in the wall. Slipping her hands through a pair of handles, she rotates the disk and pushes it open. As a bright light spills into the chamber she signals Kira to pass through.

  A dozen Gunthers, all dressed in bright orange work clothes, are standing behind a wall of glass. There is an egg-shaped object on the floor in front of Kira. A tall, scrawny Gunther, one arm in a sling, is pointing something at the egg.

  Kira smiles disarmingly at him. “I am Kira of the Apsara. I know you weren’t expecting me to come this way, but there were complications.”

  For a moment, the Gunther appears to relax, and lowers his hand. “According to the message, you were to be brought by a smuggler to the safe house, not to the air purification facility.”

  “I was attacked. The smuggler...died. The Hhroxhi brought me here instead.”

  “Hhroxhi?” The Gunther quickly raises his hand again as Mhyzah appears.

  “Wait, wait!” Kira shouts. “Don’t do anything rash.”

  The Gunther peers at Mhyzah through his thick lenses. “How do you know about this place? How did you get in?”

  Mhyzah clicks and hisses. The Gunther’s eyes flick back and forth rapidly behind his lenses. “Her name is…Mm…Mzaza. I think. She says, that the Hhroxhi…are offering help…with…the war? Is there going to be a war? Now?”

  The Gunthers behind the wall of glass tap anxiously on its surface, then bend their heads together in agitated conversation. A few moments later the youngest of the Gunthers approaches them. “I am Gunther Number Eleven. Due to the alteration in your plan, I have been appointed your liaison.”

  Following closely behind him, the Hhroxhi interpreter makes some tentative clicks. Mhyzah replies, and he announces, “She has agreed.”

  The Gunthers behind the glass chatter excitedly: “A new lexicon.” “Such a complex grammatical structure.” “Greater com
prehension might illuminate some of the histories.”

  Clearing his throat to get their attention, the Hhroxhi interpreter adds, “At some future date.”

  Kira suppresses a smile as the Gunthers grumble. Standing beside her, Mhyzah says, “Friend.” Holding up four fingers, she hisses something further to the Gunther.

  “She says she’ll come back to this spot for you in four days.”

  Kira smiles at the Hhroxhi. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  Mhyzah puts her open palm on Kira’s sternum. “Friend,” she says, and vanishes into the hole.

  The Gunthers quickly seal it and Number Eleven turns to Kira. “Have you ever worn glasses?”

  When Roan and Lumpy burst into Algernon’s office, Number Seventy-Nine and Dobbs look up blearily from the blueprints they’ve been working on.

  “Are they ready?” Roan asks.

  “Kira is almost at the munitions factory,” Lumpy adds urgently.

  As he rolls up the schematics in front of him, Dobbs takes a sidelong glance at Number Seventy-Nine, who’s nodding vigorously. “Ah…is it alright if Gwendolen—”

  Number Seventy-Nine turns bright red.

  “Oh, sorry, I’m an idiot!” Dobbs sputters, smacking himself on the head.

  Algernon walks over to the young girl and puts an arm around her shoulder. “Her delightful new name is a secret. Please don’t let the other Gunthers know.”

  Smiling broadly, Roan and Lumpy nod in agreement.

  Still blushing, Number Seventy-Nine pats awkwardly at the Storyteller’s large back. “Do not worry, Dobbs. I think Roan of Longlight and his Lieutenant can be trusted.”

  “If you say so, Seventy-Nine,” Dobbs says, looking at her shyly. Then turning to Roan, he continues, “Anyway, as I was about to ask…can Gwendolen join us? These blueprints are still a little confusing to me.”

  Lumpy looks at Seventy-Nine, concerned. “Gwendolen, are you sure? I don’t want to get you in trouble with the other Gunthers. If they see you there, they might be angry that you’re helping us.”

  “There, there, not to fret,” Algernon places a folded-up piece of paper in Gwendolen’s hands. “Take this—if you’re caught by surprise in there, just say you’re carrying a message from me.”

  “Alright?” asks Roan anxiously. “Come on, we’d better hurry.”

  Kira pushes a cart down a busy walkway, Number Eleven beside her. Her orange overalls are comfortable, if a little bright. The glasses, though, obscure her vision and make her feel irrationally vulnerable. As they move down the street, people give them a wide berth and Kira does not miss the sneers of the passersby. “I thought Stowe ordered your acceptance.”

  “Things have improved greatly,” Number Eleven replies congenially. “We have all been released from prison, hardly anyone drops heavy objects on us from windows, and I have not been spat upon in over two days.”

  “Terrific.”

  “And we have been given these practical uniforms to wear so that our ongoing contribution to the Conurbation is better recognized.”

  “We do stand out,” Kira acknowledges wryly.

  “Stare at the back of your glasses. Let me answer the questions.”

  They hold up their security passes, and once they’re scanned, the gate opens. But when Kira pushes her cart through, one of the Clerics stops her.

  “I haven’t seen you before.”

  Kira stares at the back of her glasses as instructed.

  “Gunther Number Forty-Eight has been reassigned from Sewage.”

  “Well, that’s a step up,” says the Cleric, leering. “I’ve never seen a Gunther grow so…large.”

  Kira bites her tongue, determined to be well behaved. There are, she supposes, certain advantages to knowing Mabatan is reporting on her every action.

  “We have great variation in height, weight, color—” Number Eleven seems all too eager to expound on Gunther statistics.

  “Yes. Yes. Move along,” orders one of the less interested Clerics, shoving Kira’s interrogator aside.

  But Kira can feel him eyeing her from behind. He makes no attempt to hide his sniggering. She grips the handles of her cart more tightly. She’d like to teach that bottom feeder a thing or two, but she has bigger fish to fry and silently scuffles forward.

  “Fourth floor,” Mabatan reports. “Two guards: enabled. Workers: enabled. Twelve guards watching from a catwalk. Apogee. Situation much like Stowe described at the enabler factory. Lots of men and women in laboratory coats. Kira thinks this disguise would be the best way to gain access.”

  “Where’s the power source?” Ende asks, scanning the blueprints.

  “Here,” says Seventy-Nine, tracing the path for Ende.

  “Eleven is taking her to a utility room. Accompanied by two Clerics.”

  “Clerics armed with deadly weapons, accompanying you everywhere. How do we overcome that kind of obstacle?” asks Lumpy glumly.

  “I know a few who would jump at the chance.” Ende sounds almost gleeful.

  “Kira thinks seven Apsara will be enough.”

  Roan edges alongside Ende to look at the blueprint. “It would be nice to minimize the risk, though.”

  “Of course, Roan of Longlight,” Ende says with a smile. “If only your Lieutenant would speed along that Allayer.”

  “We’re almost there,” Lumpy says, shaking off his gloom. “In fact, we should be getting a report any—”

  As if on cue, Gunther Number Fifty-One rushes in, making way for Sixty-Seven and Thirty-Three. “We have a prototype,” he announces proudly as Number Thirty-Three arranges what appears to be a large shoe on the table and starts fiddling with the wires inside it. “The Allayer!”

  “It looks like a shoe,” says Lumpy.

  “It was a shoe,” says Thirty-Three, as it begins to hum.

  Fifty-One glares at Gwendolen. “What are you doing here, Number Seventy-Nine?”

  Gwendolen flashes the piece of paper Algie gave her. “Making a delivery.”

  “Well, deliver it then, and return to your work.” Having dismissed her, Fifty-One signals Thirty-Three to continue.

  “The Allayer emits a limbic frequency that will disrupt the Apogee’s transmission with a range of—”

  Mabatan gasps.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Roan, rushing to her.

  Shaking her head, Mabatan shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve lost contact with Kira.”

  “Turn it off!” orders Roan.

  Thirty-Three quickly obeys, and Mabatan smiles. “I am with her once more.”

  The Gunthers crowd around Mabatan, closely examining the enabler behind her ear. “It would seem,” says Fifty-One, “that we may have discovered an ancillary use for our device.”

  After gently shooing them away from Mabatan, Ende takes a closer look at the Allayer. “You mean this thing can also disrupt enablers?”

  Thirty-Three, already scratching notes on the edges of one of Dobbs’s blueprints, mutters excitedly, “Hypothetically. Of course, Mabatan’s enabler has been modified. But we might be able to design something to specifically target Conurbation enablers.”

  Joining the crowd behind the Gunther, Roan examines Thirty-Three’s diagram and equations. The potential of the device is evident—the question is how to use it.

  Roan shares an optimistic silence with Lumpy and Ende as the Gunthers chatter away all at once: “An interesting problem.” “We will have to pursue it.” “We doubt the effect would be permanent.” “But for a short duration.” “During which they could be modified.” “We think maybe, yes.”

  Eager to set to work on this new possibility, the Gunthers carefully gather up their Allayer as Thirty-Three and Lumpy try to separate the Gunther’s newly made diagram and equations from Dobbs’s grid with the least amount of damage to both.

  Roan turns, thinking to sit by Mabatan. But Dobbs is already there, taking notes on Kira’s path with one hand, while his other wraps encouragingly around both of Mabatan’s.

 
; Roan’s spent the last couple of days with Wolf and Ende, devising strategies that would use the Allayer—presuming it would work in all the ways the Gunthers have promised—and it’s getting harder and harder to keep his mind from wandering. Kamyar, true to his word, has been drumming up support throughout the Farlands and Roan is desperate to get out and see all the new recruits Stinger’s training. He’d settle for a workout with the Apsara…even shoveling horse dung in the stables would be a welcome break.

  As if sitting cooped up for two days in a stuffy chamber having to do nothing but talk isn’t frustrating enough, Wolf has taken to calling him Prophet. As Roan listens to his Captain’s plan for the final assault on the City, he’s wondering if there’s a polite way to get Wolf to stop being so…reverent.

  “Prophet, our greatest obstacle is synchronizing our actions with the Apsara’s sabotages in the City.”

  Catching a glint of the warrior’s hook-sword, Roan suddenly recalls the vision he had of Wolf, as a young man, watching his father fashion their crescent moon blades. Just that morning, Dobbs announced that an eclipse of the sun was coming. In an eclipse, the moon would diminish the sun until all that was left before darkness would be a...crescent. That was it.

  “A crescent, Brother Wolf, that will be the signal. The Friend will pull the sun behind the moon until all that is left is a crescent of light. When even that disappears, we move under the cover of the Friend’s darkness.”

  Wolf hangs his head awestruck. “Blessed be the hand of the Friend.”

  Roan bows his head as well, hoping the warrior will not ask when the Friend imparted this information. Just as Wolf’s about to speak, Lumpy sticks his head round the doorway. “It works.”

  “The one for the enablers as well?”

  “That’s so small it’ll fit in your hand. And they’re finishing your Allayer as we speak.”

  “So,” Roan says eagerly. “We ride out at dawn tomorrow. And put them both to the test.”

  “Yes,” Wolf agrees. “And pray for all our sakes that the Gunthers are as clever as your Lieutenant believes them to be.”

  The cold winter air biting his face, Roan heads into the rising sun, a small group of Brothers led by Wolf at his side.