by Dennis Foon
“You are dismissed, Governor.” Darius’s voice sends an icy chill up Stowe’s spine. Had he been listening after all? She casts her eyes down.
As soon as Pollard is gone, she turns back to the monster at her side and asks as if nothing had happened in between, “But Father, why do we have Governors? Why not just send a Master to manage the Farlands?”
Darius blinks. She’s actually taken him off guard. At least for an instant. Then his eyes narrow.
“Smart girl like you and you haven’t guessed,” he hisses.
“But Father, why should I have given it any thought?”
“Precisely the question I’m asking myself.”
Stowe giggles girlishly. There it is again, only a flicker this time, but he’s genuinely surprised. “The man was such an idiot, Father. Unworthy to be in your presence. And so I was struck by how unnecessary he was, really. Am I wrong to think that? Was there more to him than I saw?”
Darius seems suddenly exhausted. He believes her and is maybe…disappointed. It is very difficult to keep her glee at bay. As if warning her against overconfidence, the ring begins to throb in her palm. Something’s changed. Not in a good way, she’s sure of it.
“No, Daughter, you are not wrong. If I could send Masters to control the Farlands, I would, but we are tied to the City in more ways than I am willing to explain right at the moment. I am weary and have yet to give myself over to deliberation on tomorrow’s challenges. What about you? What will you do with the rest of this evening, Daughter?”
“Whatever I do, Father, I shall do it with you in mind,” Stowe says, gently caressing the thickly veined hands. His skin has a sickeningly unnatural smell that makes her want to retch. The ring has become hot, a burning heat that she can only identify as a threat. It is all she can do not to bolt from the room, but that wouldn’t be wise, not at all. Power has a laziness to it, an inertia; it’s important never to be the first one to make a move. So she waits for Darius to wave her away, then smiling sweetly, she turns and sweeps out of the room as if he were not capable of throwing a knife into her back and piercing her heart.
Rushing down the corridor, Stowe sees an empty wheelchair. With a flick of her wrist, she twirls it so that it rushes ahead of her. She can see the light from Willum’s room spilling into the dim corridor. Bursting in, she cannot believe her eyes. Chest bared, Willum is thrashing on the bed. Metal cuffs have been snapped around his wrists and ankles, and metal bars cross his shoulders and hips. His head is completely contained within a metal cylinder. One doctor is poised, scalpel in hand, but all heads are now twisted toward Stowe.
“Our Stowe,” they mumble, all bowing their heads but not moving. Not yet.
“Why, Doctors, you have revived my Primary!” She grants them each a benevolent smile, then fixes on Willum, trying to ascertain the damage. There is a line drawn from his collarbone all the way down his torso…the proposed path of the scalpel still poised to slice. “Could you remove the restraints now?” She’s happy to see the doctors recognize a command when they hear one.
Behind her veneer of twittering pleasure, she’s wondering if Darius ordered this, and prays her attempt at guilelessness is convincing.
As they remove the helmet, Willum smiles at her weakly. “Oh, look! He’s smiling. Isn’t that sweet?” she says as if speaking of a favorite pet. “I was so hoping he’d be well enough for a ride.”
Waving the remaining doctors aside, she holds Willum’s arm and helps him into the wheelchair. She catches his eye without speaking, without thought. She knows exactly where she must take him, and grinning a gracious goodbye to the doctors, whisks him from the room, down the long corridors, and through a transparent passage into the adjacent building. Negotiating a maze of halls, she finally arrives at one of the smaller, less conspicuous Travel Rooms.
“I fear I lack the strength, Stowe,” Willum whispers.
“Believe me, Willum, it is just what you need.”
Securing the door behind her, she helps Willum onto one of the glass recliners. Cautiously, she touches a pinpoint of blood seeping through his hastily thrown-on shirt.
“I’ll recover. But I am weak.”
“The Dirt Eaters’ Wall helped me, Willum. I know it will do the same for you. Will you need Dirt?”
Willum laughs. “No. If you give me your hand, that will be enough.” He lays his head back. He’s so tired. They’d drawn him out of wherever he was too soon.
Grasping his hand, Stowe reaches for his mind. Willum.
I am here, Stowe. And in an instant, they are gone.
WHEN STOWE HEARS THE FAMILIAR THRUM OF THE WALL, SHE DRAWS THE HAWK CLOSER TO HER CHEST. WILLUM’S FEATHERS ARE DULL AND HIS TALON’S GRIP ON HER WRIST DISTURBINGLY WEAK. PLUNGING INTO THE GREAT SHIMMERING CURTAIN, THEY ARE BOMBARDED BY A CASCADE OF EFFERVESCENT COLOR. CAREFULLY EXTENDING THE HAWK AT ARM’S LENGTH, SHE WATCHES AS HE IS BATHED IN THE FULL SPECTRUM OF THE WALL’S LIGHT. ARCING BACK, SHE MARVELS AT HOW BEAUTIFUL HE LOOKS, RE-ENERGIZED, THE SHEEN RETURNING TO HIS FEATHERS, HIS EYES BECOMING KEEN AND BRIGHT.
“WE HAVE GOTTEN WHAT WE HAVE COME FOR,” HE SAYS. “I’D RATHER NOT ENCOUNTER THE DIRT EATERS TODAY.”
“WE SHOULD GO CHECK UNDER THE SPIRACAL. SEE THE OVERSHADOWER FOR OURSELVES. I COULD SAY THAT MY SEARCH FOR ROAN AND THE CHILDREN DREW ME THERE.”
WILLUM HESITATES, BUT ONLY FOR A MOMENT. “ALRIGHT. ENVISION THE SPIRACAL.”
AND WITH A THOUGHT THEY ARE AT THE CONSTRUCTION’S RAPIDLY CHURNING CLOUD. THE PROBLEM IS THEY HAVE TO KEEP THEIR DISTANCE. GET TOO CLOSE AND YOUR DREAMFORM IS ABSORBED IN A BURST OF FLAME; DARIUS HAS EXECUTED MANY A MASTER HERE.
STOWE SHUDDERS. “I SENSE…HUNGER. THE OVERSHADOWER?”
“YES.” WILLUM’S HAWK EYE GLINTS RED.
“SO…HOW DO WE GET TO IT?”
“WE MUST SEND SOMETHING DOWN.” THE HAWK TURNS HIS HEAD, AND DIGGING HIS BEAK INTO HIS BREAST, PULLS OUT A FEATHER. “ENDOW IT WITH YOUR BEING. I SHALL DO THE SAME. THEN CRYSTALLIZE IT SO IT WILL NOT BURST INTO FLAME. IT WILL BE OUR EYES.”
THE CRYSTALLINE FEATHER FLOATS FOR AN INSTANT BEFORE BEING SUCKED INTO THE SPIRACAL. IT SPINS IN A STEADILY DECREASING SPIRAL UNTIL IT IS HURLED INTO THE MUCK OF A HUGE BLACK PIT. CLINGING TO ITS SLIMY WALLS ARE VAPORS, HUMAN-SHAPED LIKE THE ONE SHE SAW DRAWN FROM THE ENABLER, THEIR FACES CLENCHED IN TORMENT. LONG SCABROUS ARMS SWIPE AT THEM WITH CLAWED HANDS, UNTIL TUMBLING HELPLESS, THEY ARE INHALED BY A MONSTROUS MOUTH THAT SPANS THE BASE OF THE PIT. TWO UNBLINKING GREEN EYES SWIM IN THE POOLS OF GORE AROUND IT AND SHIFT ASYMMETRICALLY, SCANNING THEIR DANK EMPIRE.
IT’S LIKE MY DREAM, WILLUM. THE NIGHTMARE I HAD IN KIRA’S VILLAGE.
YES. I RECOGNIZE IT TOO, THE FEEL OF IT.
ONE OF THE DEMON’S CLAWS STRIKES THE FEATHER AND STOWE’S MOUTH FILLS WITH MUD. CHOKING, SHE TRIES TO COUGH AND SPIT THE MUCK OUT AS THE BEAST’S WARTED LIPS CUP TOGETHER, SUCKING THE QUILL CLOSER.
AS IF FROM A GREAT DISTANCE, SHE HEARS WILLUM CRY OUT URGENTLY, “PULL YOUR ESSENCE FROM IT, STOWE! NOW!”
HER BODY OOZING MUD FROM EVERY PORE, STOWE FEELS HER ESSENCE SLIP ALONG WITH THE OTHER WAILING SPIRITS INTO THE OVERSHADOWER’S CAVERNOUS MAW. FIRE LICKS HER SLIME-COVERED SURFACE AND IT TIGHTENS, THE HEAT AND THE PRESSURE THREATENING TO SUFFOCATE HER.
THE HAWK’S TALONS DIG INTO HER SHOULDER. HIS VOICE SCREAMS IN HER MIND. AS SHE LIFTS HER HAND TO PULL HIM IN A PROTECTIVE EMBRACE, HER HALF-RING BEGINS TO GLOW. A PEARL-LIKE RADIANCE ENCOMPASSES THE FEATHER AND THE OVERSHADOWER INSTANTLY BELCHES IT OUT. RIDING THE WAKE OF THE THWARTED DEMON’S INFURIATED SCREECH, THE QUILL ERUPTS OUT OF THE SPIRACAL AND CRACKS THE SUFFOCATING SHELL ENCASING STOWE.
THINKING ONLY OF DISTANCING HERSELF FROM THE DEMON, SHE IS SLOW TO SEE THE SHADOW CAST ON THEM FROM ABOVE.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” CRIES THE ONE-EYED VULTURE AS IT CIRCLES MENACINGLY TO MEET THEM.
“MASTER KORDAN, WHAT A SURPRISE!”
“OUR STOWE. YOU…YOUR FORM…”
“YES. ISN’T IT WONDERFUL? YOU CAN IMAGINE HOW S
HOCKED AND PLEASED I WAS TO FIND MYSELF FREE OF THE CLAY. MY PRIMARY SAYS IT IS BECAUSE I AM ABOUT TO REACH THE FULL POTENCY OF MY POWERS. BUT YOU ASKED A QUESTION,” STOWE LOOKS TRIUMPHANTLY INTO THE VULTURE’S TWITCHING EYE. “I’M HERE ON MY FATHER’S COMMAND. I AM ON A QUEST TO SEEK OUT MY BROTHER AND THE FOURTEEN DARIUS SO DESIRES.”
KORDAN’S MANGLED HEAD REDDENS. HE WOULD HAVE TO BE VERY SURE OF HIMSELF BEFORE HE WOULD RISK LOSING HIS REMAINING EYE TO THE ARCHBISHOP. INSTEAD, HE GLARES AT WILLUM. “YOU STARTLE ME, PRIMARY, OUR STOWE IN THIS FORM IS UNDEFENDED. TO EXPOSE HER IN THIS VULNERABLE STATE TO SOMETHING AS DANGEROUS AS THE SPIRACAL IS UNCONSCIONABLE.”
“IN FUTURE I WILL REMEMBER TO BE MORE CAUTIOUS,” SAYS WILLUM RESPECTFULLY.
“YOU’RE LUCKY I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT WORK TO ATTEND TO. BUT YOU CAN BE SURE I WILL FILE A REPORT ON THIS INCIDENT.” KORDAN SNIFFS IMPORTANTLY, AND THEN SWOOPS AWAY.
STILL WATCHFUL OF HER OLD ENEMY STEADILY DWINDLING IN THE DISTANCE, STOWE WHISPERS, “I THINK WE CAN ELIMINATE TALKING TO THE OVERSHADOWER AS AN OPTION.”
THE HAWK TILTS ITS HEAD. “YES. IT SEEMED FAIRLY INTENT ON A SINGLE ENDEAVOR.”
“SO HOW DO WE FIND A WAY TO KILL IT?”
“STOWE…IN QUERIN’S SANCTUARY, AMONG THE DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE FIRST INNER CIRCLE, I NOTICED THE NAMES VALERIA, KRISPIN, AND BARTHOLD. THE MAD MASTERS. HAVE YOU HEARD OF THEM?”
“CAUTIONARY TALES, MOSTLY. THEY WERE INVOLVED IN AN ACCIDENT, WEREN’T THEY?”
“BUILDING THE SPIRACAL. IT IS SAID THAT AFTERWARD THEY POSSESSED SOME KIND OF DEADLY POWER AND HAD TO BE DESTROYED OR IMPRISONED, NO ONE KNOWS.”
“YOU THINK THEY SAW THE OVERSHADOWER?”
“IT SEEMS MORE THAN MERE COINCIDENCE. WHEN WE GET BACK, KORDAN IS SURE TO HAVE US WATCHED. I MUST FIND A WAY TO LEAVE THE PYRAMID WITHOUT HIS KNOWLEDGE. I HAVE TO SEE GUNTHER NUMBER SIX.”
“WHY?”
“IF THE MAD MASTERS ARE IMPRISONED, THE GUNTHERS WILL KNOW OF IT.”
“YOU WANT TO TALK TO THEM?”
“STOWE. IF THEY FOUGHT THE OVERSHADOWER AND SURVIVED, WE NEED TO KNOW HOW THEY DID IT.”
SABOTEURS
TECHNOLOGY BINDS THE MASTERS TO THE CITY, THE DIRT EATERS’ HIDDEN CAVERNS KEEP THEM UNDERGROUND. THUS BOTH REQUIRE SERVANTS. SOME LIVE IN FEAR OF THEIR LORDS, OTHERS HAVE IDEAS OF THEIR OWN, AND SOME SERVE GLADLY.
—THE WAY OF THE WAZYA
GRIEF-STRICKEN AND FURIOUS, Roan scans the wreckage.
“So much for hiding from Darius here,” growls Wolf.
Lumpy turns to Roan questioningly. “You think this was Darius’s work?”
“If it was Darius, you’d all be dead.”
“Who then?” demands Wolf, barely able to contain his frustration and rage.
Roan looks at the Brothers’ commander with a certain amount of empathy. The senselessness of the attack is making his blood boil too. “Find the perpetrator and we’ll have our answer.”
Apsara and Brother labor together, bracing the destroyed walls, removing rubble and damaged furniture. Roan drifts over to them, saying nothing, not even looking into their eyes. He simply focuses on each one as he passes, sensing their being.
“The explosion destroyed the kitchen and blew through these two barrack walls,” says Lumpy, following behind.
Amongst the workers in the most interior portion of the damage, Roan senses an emotion different from the rest, annoyance laced with bitter triumph. In an instant, Roan throws the Brother to the floor, his hands collaring the traitor’s throat.
“Naj!” cries Wolf.
As the Brother smirks, his livid scar twists across his face. “Nothing personal, Brother Wolf.”
“You killed two innocents. Why?” Roan’s thumbs rest under the man’s Adam’s apple. He could end his life so easily. “Why?” Roan squeezes Naj’s neck a little tighter.
“Accident. Pity really. I quite liked them both. The timer buggered up. It was meant for you.”
“Who gave you your orders?” Roan’s never heard Lumpy’s voice so filled with rage.
Naj snorts. Roan can see the image of the mountain lion as clear as if it were reflected in his eyes.
“He takes his orders from the Dirt Eaters,” Roan answers. “Why do they want me dead?”
“You declare an intention to destroy the Dirt and then think they will sit idly by waiting for you to do it?”
Roan casts his mind back to that night at the Council…the Brothers in the tent...he remembers this Brother’s scarred face. Yes. Naj had been there.
The traitor laughs. “Fool.”
Stepping in front of Lumpy, Wolf glowers down at the Brother, then lifts his gaze sharply to Roan. “Are you going to interrogate him?”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Then…Prophet…” Wolf murmurs, eyeing Roan’s undignified position over his prisoner.
Roan slowly picks himself up, wary of the slightest movement from Naj. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wolf lift his hook-sword. Roan cries out, but too late to stop the downward arc that cleaves the treacherous Brother in two.
Though Lumpy is shaking, he doesn’t turn away. He’d helped gather what was left of Dobbs and Seventy-Nine, and Roan can only guess at the emotions boiling beneath his surface.
Wolf stands solemnly before Lumpy. “It is our way, Lieutenant. He confessed his crime and received the Friend’s justice. His body will not be burned, but left in the open air for carrion.”
“We are not executioners,” Roan says, stepping between them.
Turning abruptly back to Roan, Wolf speaks through gritted teeth. “Might I ask, Prophet, what you intend to do with Darius when you have him in your grasp?”
His face on fire, Roan stands his ground. “That, Brother Wolf, is between me and the Friend.”
Wolf’s eyes narrow but he acquiesces. Then, looking past Roan, he addresses Lumpy. “I will see to the removal of the traitor.”
Roan stares at his hands. He’s spattered with Naj’s blood. He had so wanted to squeeze the life from the man. Seventy-Nine’s curious face, Dobbs’s laugh. Everything crowds in on him like a long agonized scream.
“Roan.” Lumpy’s voice is heavy with grief. A grief Roan’s not ready to succumb to.
“I’m going to talk to the Dirt Eaters.”
Almost blinded by his rage, Roan whirls to move around his friend, but Lumpy blocks his path.
“Roan, stop, think. That’s exactly what they want you to do. In the Dreamfield, you’ll be exposed. And outnumbered.”
“Lumpy, I have to face them. Then I’ll know what to do.”
MULTICOLORED FISH FLIT OUT OF HIS WAY AS HE JETS UNDERWATER THROUGH AN IMMENSE CORAL JUNGLE. BUT HE PAYS LITTLE REGARD TO THE EXTRAORDINARY SUBMARINE LANDSCAPE, HIS MIND SET ON ONE SOLITARY GOAL THAT CONSUMES HIS ATTENTION THROUGH THE COUNTLESS LEAGUES IN THIS ABUNDANT SEA.
FINALLY, AT THE LUMINESCENT CURTAIN BARRICADING THE WATER, HE BREAKS THE SURFACE. NONE COULD TOUCH THE SPEED AT WHICH HE HURTLES INTO FERRELL’S GREAT WALL. LIGHT FLARES AND COLOR DANCES AROUND HIM, AND HIS WHOLE BEING SCINTILLATES WITH ITS ENERGY AS HE BLASTS INTO THE DIRT EATER TERRITORY ON THE OTHER SIDE.
THE SEA BEGINS TO BOIL AND A MOUNTAIN LION, A WOLVERINE, AND A JACKAL RISE OUT OF THE FROTH TO CONFRONT HIM.
“WHAT ARROGANCE!” SNARLS THE MOUNTAIN LION. “TO HAVE COME HERE, ALONE.”
“SARI. I HAVE COME IN PEACE TO SPEAK WITH YOU. YOU ONCE BEFRIENDED ME AT OASIS.”
“YOU DESERTED US, ROAN. NO PEACE OR FRIENDSHIP REMAINS BETWEEN US.”
“YOU ORDERED AN ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE. TWO OF MY FRIENDS HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF IT.”
“HOW UNFORTUNATE.”
“WHAT DO YOU STAND TO GAIN FROM MY DEATH?”
SARI’S COLD BLACK EYES LOCK ON HIS. “ARE YOU TRULY SO NAÏVE? WE WAITED NEARLY A CENTURY FOR YOUR COMING. ALL OF OUR HOPE WAS INVESTED IN YOU. YOU WERE TO TOPPLE DARIUS, USE THE NOVAKIN TO SECURE THE DREAMFIELD, AND STABILIZE THE SUPPLY OF DIRT. BUT INSTEAD YOU HAVE TURNED OUR OWN PEOPLE AGAINST US AND, WE ARE TOLD, ARE
INTENT ON DESTROYING THE DIRT. YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN YOUR NAMESAKE AND MUCH, MUCH MORE DANGEROUS. WE SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM. WE WON’T MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE TWICE.”
“YOU ARE DESTROYING THE DREAMFIELD.”
“NONSENSE. THE DREAMFIELD CANNOT BE DESTROYED.”
“I’VE SEEN IT.”
“YOU LIE. AND IT IS AN OLD LIE. YOUR GREAT-GRANDFATHER SAID THE SAME AND HERE WE ARE A HUNDRED YEARS LATER, MORE POWERFUL THAN EVER.”
“THE DIRT IS A POISON. IT IS AFFECTING YOUR JUDGMENT.”
THE LION’S MUSCLES TENSE, ITS TEETH BARE. “BE WARNED, ROAN OF LONGLIGHT. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE ACADEMY IS JUST A TASTE OF WHAT WE CAN DO.” PADDING CLOSER TO ROAN, SHE SAYS GENTLY, “UNDERSTAND, WE WILL NOT ALLOW DARIUS TO DEFEAT US.”
“I WILL STOP YOU,” SAYS ROAN UNEQUIVOCALLY.
THE THREE CREATURES LOOK AT EACH OTHER GRIMLY. THE JACKAL’S SHARP TEETH CLICK TOGETHER, “THEN WE ARE AT WAR.” AS SHE SNAPS AT ROAN’S HAND, THE MOUNTAIN LION LEAPS, BUT ROAN EVADES THEM AND, STILL RAGING, HE DISAPPEARS INTO THE FOAMING SEA.
Lumpy’s waiting at his side, looking at him expectantly. His face falls at the sight of Roan’s expression. “I guess it didn’t go so well.”
“They’ve declared war on us.”
An Apsara appears at their door. “Ende requests your presence. Kira is in the Quarry.”
As she reports to Roan, Ende mops the sweat from Mabatan’s brow. “The Gunther has taken Kira to the main storage area. She’s fully described all the entryways and security bypasses. They’ve just gone down a long elevator shaft and opened some kind of steel wall.”
“There’s glass,” Mabatan mumbles. “Behind it…Dirt. Mountains of Dirt. Eleven is looking into his glasses. Cleric! Not supposed to be here.”
“Get out, Kira, get out!” Ende pleads under her breath.