The Keeper's Shadow

by Dennis Foon

  A series of whistles from the Brother riding point puts them instantly on guard.

  “One vehicle, one Apogee, nine Clerics—six on horseback,” says Wolf. “Perfect.”

  Roan signals the Brother with the Allayer while Wolf directs a three-point assault. Coming up over the rise, the Brothers gallop straight for the approaching vehicle. Confident in their weapon, the Clerics don’t even bother to counter the approaching warriors. Two Blue Robes aim the Apogee. Not only does their instrument of death have no effect, but the men controlling it are looking confused and disoriented. The remaining Clerics charge at the Brothers, but too late. The Brothers are already upon them, taking them captive.

  Wolf had asked “the Prophet” to stay back, but when one of the Clerics manages to escape the fray, Roan feels compelled to act. If news of the Allayer were to reach Darius, they could lose their advantage. Driving his mount alongside his opponent’s, he slides his body to one side of his saddle and kicks the man off his horse. To his surprise, the Cleric does not turn to face him but runs. Riding behind, Roan leaps on top of him and pins him to the ground. Taking the cloth Ende gave him, Roan presses it over the squirming Cleric’s mouth and nose.

  Dragging his captive over to the others, Roan ignores Wolf’s disapproving frown and activates his device. The hand-sized box has two purposes: to erase all memory of the Brothers’ attack and to stop the Clerics’ enablers at a prearranged time—Dobbs’s eclipse.

  The confusion suffered by the Clerics within the Allayer’s range confirms that if they can modify enough enablers, they might be able to incapacitate the Clerics long enough to even up the odds. It had been difficult to convince Wolf that they should not kill all the Clerics that fell into their hands, but Roan did not hesitate to press his advantage as “Prophet.”

  Finished with the final Cleric, Roan heads over to the Apogee. Within moments of making the adjustments taught to him by Fifty-One, the weapon starts to smoke, then bursts into flames.

  Wolf shakes his head. “A weapon of that power would greatly help our cause.”

  “We’ve stopped it, that’s enough.”

  For a moment, the look on Wolf’s face is not so reverent, but the Brothers’ Captain soon recovers. “I’ll send someone back to let your Lieutenant and Ende know of the Allayer’s success and that they can proceed as planned. Then…” Wolf pauses. He hasn’t been enthusiastic about this part of the plan, but traveling across the Farlands quickly and invisibly is difficult to argue against. “…through the Hhroxhi tunnels to Governor Selig.”

  And his mysterious wife, thinks Roan, as Wolf strides away with a grunt. He hopes she’s able to accomplish all that Ende promised. Though, remembering the woman’s firm grip on the Governor’s shoulder, he doesn’t know why he has any doubts.

  By sunset, they are looking out at Armstrong, capital of the southern territory. Surrounded by high rock walls with towers crenellated like the fortresses of long ago, it is impressive indeed. Governor Selig is much more powerful than he appeared at the Council. No army of raiders to protect him, but by Ende’s account, a number of his courtiers are well trained in arms—many unknowingly wed to Apsara warriors—all ready to act if necessary.

  As the Governor had expected, as soon as the Brothers started raiding the caravans, Darius had sent out Clerics—armies of them. Selig had arranged for a gathering of them here tonight, in honor of the Archbishop’s generosity and the return of our Stowe.

  The Brothers, disguised as a modest contingent of her acolytes, draw up their hoods and make their way through the fortress’s front gates. Welcomed in, they glide, heads bowed, in slow procession, surreptitiously counting the numerous Clerics stalking the streets. Roan knocks twice at the scullery door of the Governor’s palace and it soon opens. After bowing reverentially, a maid whisks them inside where preparations for a huge banquet are taking place. Seated in a far recess of the enormous kitchen, the “monks” are fed and in exchange, pictures of Our Stowe are doled out to the kitchen staff.

  When the Governor’s wife comes down to check on the chef’s progress, she is accompanied by a Cleric who observes carefully as each dish is smelled and tasted. After one of the cooks directs her mistress’s attention to the monks, the incognito Apsara sweeps over gracefully to greet the acolytes, Cleric in tow.

  Placing a hand on Roan’s shoulder, she takes her measure of the table. “How fortunate we are to be graced with your presence at such an opportune time.”

  “All times are opportune for the celebration of Our Stowe.”

  “Of course. We are always prepared to be guided by her love. Perhaps tonight? Might I convince you to lead our guests in prayer?”

  “We live in the service of Our Stowe.”

  Just then, an elderly man, clearly pushed to the limit, struggles through the bustling kitchen to bow before the Governor’s wife. “Your Excellency, I have received word that another fifty of the Archbishop’s men are arriving from the northern territory.”

  “Wonderful! In time for our celebration?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Dona! Patino!” she calls out to the cooks. “Make preparations for an extra fifty guests!” Obviously impatient to continue her supervision of the banquet room, she addresses the Cleric at her side. “Father Mathias, shall we? There is still much to—”

  But Father Mathias, having somehow managed to single out Wolf, interrupts her. “Why do these monks hide their faces even in your kitchens?”

  Roan’s eyes dart to the Governor’s wife but she appears devoid of any trace of unease. “Why, Father Mathias, I do not concern myself with the devotions of monks.”

  “Perhaps this one might cough me up an answer,” the Cleric snarls, both hands coming down heavily on Wolf’s shoulders.

  Roan is about to intervene when Wolf reaches up—and slips off his hood. Eyes lowered to the Cleric, he answers. “We hide nothing, Father. The clamor of the kitchen distracts us from prayer.”

  “What? Are all of you so poorly trained that a little noise distracts you?” The Cleric scrutinizes Wolf’s dark eyes, bald pate and grizzled face. “You seem awfully robust for a holy man.”

  “I was a farmer. Then Our Stowe cast her light upon me.”

  The Cleric smiles. “As she has done to us all. All love to Our Stowe.”

  “All love,” the monks humbly reply.

  “Farlands converts. We should have sent to the City, Excellency, for a more elevated group. I doubt that these have great skill with prayers. Their voices—”

  “Father Mathias,” the Governor’s wife says, leading the Cleric out the door, “we are all inglorious before Our Stowe. I am sure the humility of these monks will prove illuminating.”

  Roan can see Wolf release his grip on his hook-sword. “Thanks be to Our Stowe,” he growls.

  “She watches over us all,” Roan agrees with a relieved smile.

  When they finally find themselves at a small table in a corner of the banquet room, Roan is startled by what Governor Selig has achieved. The hall is packed with Clerics—by Roan’s count, two hundred and fourteen.

  As the servers bring platters of meat and vegetables to the tables, the Governor rises to make a toast. “As you all well know, these are perilous times. Attacks from those despicable renegades, the Brothers, have decimated three of my most heavily laden caravans. We are indebted to you all for coming so quickly to our aid. This disruption in trade threatens the City itself and it must be stopped. Provinces come and go but the City must always stand!”

  “To the City! To the Archbishop! To Our Stowe!” thunder the Clerics.

  The Governor raises his glass and drinks. As do all of his guests—apart from the monks, who are sworn to abstinence.

  “Your courage and devotion will secure the trade routes and keep the scourge in check. Our caravans will run again, thanks to your watchful presence and,” he pauses with twinkling eyes, “that fabulous new weapon of yours. The Brothers bow before it—literally!” He snorts, and the Cleric
s erupt in laughter. But just as quickly they fall silent, every Cleric looking forward, a blank expression on each face.

  The Governor’s wife tilts her head slightly. “Will the monks come forward for the blessing?”

  As she rises to escort the monks, the old man at her side directs the reluctant staff. Roan can hear him whispering, “Won’t be the first blessing you’ve missed. They’ll have this polished off in no time. And who’s to answer if the dessert’s not ready and waiting? Me. So out! Out!”

  “I suggest you work quickly,” the Apsara whispers as she reaches Roan. “The hypnotic I administered will last a half hour, no more.”

  “Secure the doors,” Wolf orders as Roan and four other Brothers throw back their hoods and begin methodically modifying the Clerics’ enablers.

  Halfway into the room, Roan comes to the Cleric who questioned them in the kitchen. Roan can’t help but smile as he presses the box against Father Mathias’s neck. His wrist, however, is almost wrenched out of its socket when the Cleric bolts up and puts a knife to his throat.

  Wolf reaches for his blade, but the Cleric presses the knife hard into Roan’s skin, drawing blood, and the Brothers all stand back.

  “One move and he’s dead. What is this machine?”

  “Let me go and I’ll show you,” Roan says calmly.

  But Father Mathias is not about to loosen his grip. “Darius shall be pleased to find his suspicions of the Governor justified, Excellencies. You, in particular, my lady, he will enjoy to make suffer.”

  The Governor’s wife, a picture of grace and calm, sips from her glass of wine. “You are very arrogant, Father Mathias. You are alone, and these monks are many.”

  “They value this one, though. Didn’t you see them cringe when I made this little nick in his pretty neck?”

  Father Mathias directs his attention to the knife at Roan’s throat and the Governor’s wife, with lightning speed, throws her glass of wine in the Cleric’s face. Roan quickly shifts his weight and, twisting his captor’s hand, leans forward and flips him over his back. The Cleric crashes hard onto the floor but is quickly up again, knife poised as Roan charges toward him. But just as Roan is about to deliver a kick to the chest, the Cleric crumples, a steak knife neatly planted just below his enabler.

  The Governor’s wife takes a linen napkin and wipes her hands. “Roan of Longlight, forgive the interruption. When you have finished, my man will lead you to the stables. Mounts and weapons have been arranged for you all. We will make a suitable excuse for the good Father’s absence when the others awake. Please, continue. This interruption has wasted too much of our time.”

  Turning away from Roan, she rings a bell and the old man slips in again. After a few hushed words from her, he leaves quickly. When he returns, it is with three women Roan recognizes at once as Apsara. Within moments, they’ve whisked the body away, leaving no trace of a confrontation.

  His labor finally completed, Roan looks back in the direction of the head table. The Governor’s wife is kneeling before her husband, head bowed, her body shaking with sobs. Even more surprising is the fact that Selig is reaching down, drawing her toward him, stroking her hair. Roan remembers the strength of Saint’s feelings for Kira. She was the last thing he spoke of before he died. How much of that love did the women return? Would the Governor ever know the truth about his wife? Maybe it’s enough that she makes him more than he might have been otherwise.

  Roan had asked Ende for the Governor’s wife’s name before he left. Isodel. He will always remember the woman who’d killed for him this night.

  In their time away from the Academy, they have adjusted a total of three hundred and forty-seven enablers and destroyed three Apogees without sustaining any casualties. Spirits are high. Roan will be happy if the other two teams have done half as well.

  For the first time since he watched the Brothers emerge over the lip of the Caldera, Roan feels genuinely optimistic. But as they reach the plain that takes them to the Academy, his eyes narrow—a thin plume of smoke is rising from the hidden entrance of the cave. Without a word, the troop gallops straight for the hideaway, all hoping, Roan is sure, that they are not too late to make a difference.

  Arriving at the entrance, Roan sees several Brothers and Apsara, coughing. Soot-covered Gunthers drift around, confused, in shock. But alive. Alive. With a sigh of relief, Roan leaps from his horse and greets Lumpy. “What happened?”

  “Sabotage.”

  “Where’s Mabatan? Ende?”

  “The explosion was in the barracks…the others are…in the library…with the wounded.”

  “Losses?” asks Wolf.

  Lumpy, trembling, takes a deep breath, his eyes welling. “Two. They were making tea in…in the kitchen, they…” Lumpy stares at Roan. “Gunther Number Seventy-Nine…”

  Gwendolen? Roan shakes his head, not wanting to believe it. Of all the Gunthers, she was the most curious, the gentlest; she even let herself smile. His breath stops when Mejan and Talia walk toward him, holding each other, weeping.

  “…and Dobbs,” says Lumpy. “Dobbs...”

  THE OVERSHADOWER

  EVERY CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTIVELY CREATES THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. BUT EVERY CONSCIOUSNESS CARRIES A SHADOW AND IF THOSE SHADOWS GATHER, THEY CAN SPAWN A GREAT DARKNESS. A DARKNESS CAPABLE OF SNUFFING OUT ALL LIGHT.

  —THE JOURNAL OF ROAN OF THE PARTING

  AS IF DINNER HAD NOT BEEN INTERMINABLE ENOUGH, Darius has been toying with this groveling Governor Pollard for an hour, like a bored cat with a squeaking mouse. The Governor apparently has felt her brother’s sting, assaults on his supply caravans a daily event, or so it would seem from the way he whines on. The Keeper, naturally, parries every complaint with an accusation. The City requires oil to run smoothly. Oil is a necessity. To withhold it is treachery. Stowe’s attempting to concentrate, for Roan’s sake, sure something of value is being said. But the sniveler’s numerous justifications and proofs are no competition for her worry about Willum.

  Those greedy little butchers had hovered over his body like flies over a corpse. She’d had to confront them in her most imperious tone for them not to begin gutting him on the spot. Eyes flitting constantly in her direction for approval, the doctors had tentatively begun attaching electrodes to Willum’s head when she’d seen it: a blue tendril of iridescent flame curling around the pad and up the wire. Claiming a headache, she’d demanded that the lights be lowered, so that she might see more clearly. A haze of firelike light covered him like a second skin, like…armor. She’d reached out in as supercilious a manner as possible—it would not do to have any of them think she really cared—and penetrated the shield.

  Her hand had instantly been bathed in blue flame; it had prickled her skin, but almost instantly receded, one of Willum’s fingers twitching under her own. She’d felt a warmth she’d not realized was absent return to her. He was in there, somewhere deep, had descended into an unreachable place even Darius could not probe, for protection. This halo of light had to be a warning system, a protective layer that, if breached by something it recognized as life-threatening, would wake him.

  Was she right? How could she be sure? Those doctors could not be trusted; she’d seen the hunger in their eyes. But the iridescent flame had curled over her finger, like a ring binding her to him. A ring. She’d reached into her pocket to stealthily withdraw her half of the badger ring and slip it over the curl of flame. A thread had raced from her forehead through her throat, and piercing her heart, had traveled down her arm to join the now glowing ring. Its rich crimson had floated through Willum’s opalescent flame like blood. Blending into a deep purple, it had hovered for an instant over the badger’s eye before being pulled into it. She could feel their combined power contained in the ring, throbbing like a pulse. And, for the past four days, she’s clutched it, sensitive to any alteration in its steady beat.

  “Are we boring you, my sweet?”

  Startled, Stowe adopts her most daringly disaffected persona. Tilting her fac
e so only Darius can see it, she says sweetly, “Of course not, Father. I was only wondering what on earth we need Governors for?”

  Darius cackles and a burst of smalt green energy shoots from his mouth in a jagged bolt of light. The wretched Governor twitches. Blood spurts over the man’s brow. His eyes dart back and forth as he feels a drip rolling down his nose. Touching it, he sees the blood. He’s so terrified, it’s difficult not to feel sorry for him. But Stowe’s heard enough to know this one is no innocent. He’s cut from the same cloth as Brack, the Governor that she’d—“Didn’t you send Raven to kill one of them awhile ago?” she asks, mischievously.

  “Where did you hear that, Daughter?”

  “Is it only a rumor, then?”

  “Rumors always have some basis in fact.” Darius stands, the full weight of his presence bearing down on the Governor. “Betrayals demand justice, do they not, Pollard?”

  “Yes, Archbishop. Yes. Of course,” Pollard stammers, dabbing his handkerchief to his nose. Stowe could see he was concentrating on getting out of the room alive. Still, the man’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish choking on air.

  “Have you something to add, Governor?” Darius demands impatiently.

  “I have been asked to deliver a prayer to Our Stowe.”

  “Oh?” Stowe feigns an excited interest and offering her most condescending smile, she waits.

  Pollard looks nervously from Darius to Stowe. “May I…?”

  Stowe turns to Darius. Ah. It is he who is bored now, his mind has moved onto more interesting intrigues. Just as well.

  “Please, Governor,” she says, her voice encouraging.

  “Our Stowe. Your children awake screaming. A demon comes in the night to swallow our dreams. We sleep but are not rested. We eat but are not made strong. Our thoughts scatter on the wind and our work lies undone. Our Stowe, daughter of light, turn your merciful eye upon us that we may be blessed again under your protection.”

  Stowe thinks about the memory Roan had shared with her. Throughout the entire Dreamfield, pulsing amorphous forms moved through a veinlike grid, all headed for the Spiracal. Most of them coming from areas far beyond the Masters’ control. Was Darius’s Throne leaving the Overshadower so hungry that it was reaching out to some other power source? Could it steal people’s dreams? It might be that the Governor’s demon was one and the same as their own.