by Dennis Foon
Kira must have made it to the City only to be captured. “Well, I couldn’t possibly attend such a glorious event in pale yellow. I must change—do you think it will last long?”
“No doubt, Our Stowe,” Kordan says, turning on his heels.
Stowe waits till he is out of sight before she runs. If they can’t do something to save her, Willum’s sister will suffer a slow and excruciating death.
THE FALL OF OASIS
VOLUME XXXVI, ARTICLE 22.0
ROAN OF LONGLIGHT HAS REQUESTED OASIS BE ASSESSED AS A POSSIBLE OPEN CENTER FOR EDUCATION, RESEARCH, AND DEVELOPMENT. WE HAVE AGREED TO INVENTORY THE LIBRARY, ACCESS HYDROPONICS, AND DETERMINE WHETHER THE ENERGY GRID CAN SUPPORT MANUFACTURE OF OUR FILO-MEMBRANE FLYING DEVICE. HHROXHI HAVE ASSURED TRANSIT.
—GUNTHER LOG
HERE ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE HILL, and masked by an overhang of rock, Roan can taste the chill in the air. The night is utterly still. Not even a breeze.
It was only three days since the explosion. Knowing where the Dirt Eaters live had been key. Mejan had helped Lumpy chart the three secret entrances into Oasis. Kamyar had taught the Apsara and Brothers how to open the stone doors and navigate the labyrinth into the underground community. And Talia had explained the workings of the ventilation system to Roan.
One day to strategize. Two nights and a day to travel. And now, they are here waiting for sunrise in the frozen gardens of Oasis.
Lumpy’s at Roan’s side worrying frost into ice with one foot. As they both eye the pale glow of approaching daybreak, Roan draws an arrow and notches it in his bow.
“You sure we’re doing the right thing?” Lumpy asks Roan nervously.
“Ask Seventy-Nine. And Dobbs,” Kamyar snarls, no trace of the light-hearted Storyteller in his manner.
“For us He raises the sun, for us He brings the dawn,” Roan intones as a Brother lights his arrow. Drawing back the string, he fires it into the sky. At Roan’s signal, the pyres are lit. To the east and the south, smoke soon rises. Torches are kindled and runners from all three pyres move to ignite sodden grasses set to collapse into Oasis’s ventilation system.
The day has begun and the declaration of war answered.
Wolf, hook-sword in hand, is positioned by the steep rock face that overlooks the field. He points to the bottom edge of the stone—smoke—then quickly recedes, concealing himself.
The rock shudders, then opens smoothly. Dozens of goats rush from the cave, bleating. Almost screened by billowing asphyxiating clouds, a handful of archers, arrows poised to fire, warily scan the shadowed landscape. Roan can see they are listening as much as looking, hoping for some clue of the threat’s origin. Clearly uneasy, they have no choice but to let the coughing residents of Oasis spill out of the cave onto the ledges that form a path along the precipice. Among the crowd, four stand out: Haron, the elder of the community; Orin, the librarian; Sari, their leader; and the withered shell of a man she’s supporting—Ferrell.
Making their slow descent into the field, the people whisper anxiously among themselves as the archers attempt to take a defensive posture around them.
As soon as they are all in the center of the first of the gardens, Roan calls out, “Lay down your weapons. We will accept nothing but complete surrender. Surrender and no harm will come to you.”
Roan hears the arrow before he sees it. He bends slightly, allowing it so close that the disturbance it creates in the air makes him blink. But before the archer can ready another, one of Kamyar’s knitting needles finds its way to her shoulder.
“Old friends,” Kamyar shouts, “I heartily recommend that you accept Roan’s offer.” And sixty battle-ready Brothers and Apsara slide out from behind the trees, fingers on the triggers of their crossbows.
With a sweep of his hand, Haron angrily motions his archers to put down their weapons; but when Roan steps from the shadows of the overhang, his eyes blaze with defiance.
Staring steadily at the old man, Roan speaks quietly into the tense silence. “You will be escorted to a remote village where you can threaten no one and you will be kept there in custody until the struggle with Darius has been concluded.”
“That is a death sentence, Roan. Outside the caves, we’ll age and die. It’s genocide.” Sari’s voice is strong and clear, filled with righteous indignation. Roan remembers the response she had for him when he’d complained of his friends’ deaths. “How unfortunate,” she’d said, dripping with condescension. The words echo in his mind, fueling his anger, and for a moment he’s rendered speechless.
“That’s a rather liberal usage of the term, Sari.” Roan’s thankful that Kamyar, at least, hasn’t lost his tongue. “Everybody dies and your lease on life has already been overlong. Fair’s fair. You should consider yourselves lucky Roan of Longlight does not subscribe to the ancient rule of an eye for an eye. If it was up to me, you’d find a needle in your chest for killing Dobbs.”
The Storytellers take careful note of the community’s reaction to Kamyar’s news. They are aware that not everyone in Oasis is culpable for the crimes of the Dirt Eaters. If not for that, Kamyar’s needle would have surely found the archer’s heart.
With a glance, Sari silences the outraged murmurs of the Oasis residents, and ignoring Kamyar’s accusation, she continues in her attempt to engage Roan’s attention. “You will be hard pressed to defeat Darius without our help. Let us make a truce and fight the Masters together.”
Wolf’s already in the field collecting the archers’ weapons and Roan waves in some Apsara to help him. “That would require trust, Sari,” he says, walking down to her, the circle of captives parting before him, “something that no longer exists between us.”
“All we have done, we have done in order to defeat Darius.” Her voice has taken on a pleading tone, playing to her audience, but it doesn’t fool Roan.
He can see Sari’s edging closer to Haron, many of the elders of the community gathering around them. He stops, trying to ascertain what form the attack will take, all the while answering her with apparent unconcern, “You and Darius are cut of the same cloth. He builds a Spiracal; you build a Wall. He seeks the Novakin; you feed them Dirt. He kidnaps Stowe; Ferrell invades her. You both share the same ambition, control of the Dreamfield.”
The crowd doesn’t like what it’s hearing and now the grumbling is not so easily silenced. Sari snaps back to Roan, no longer caring to hide her malevolent intent. The air around her and the elders shimmers. Everything is suddenly tinged with blue. The intensity of the color steadily increases. Not knowing what else to do before the onslaught, Roan concentrates on his half-ring. Each hair on his body rises as he’s enveloped in a pearl-like radiance. He tries not to stagger when the blast reaches him. His insides feel as if they’re being turned out, but the blue light shatters against his newly formed shield, its tiny shards exploding pinpoints of blood before his eyes. Still, whatever it was the ring drew from him has left him weak.
Hoping to buy time before the next assault, he uses the only weapon he’s sure of against them—words. “My great-grandfather told you to stop eating Dirt, to stop defiling the Dreamfield. But you, like Darius, ignored him.”
“If we’d listened to Roan of the Parting, we’d all be dead by now,” hisses Sari, “like your family and friends, like all the inhabitants of Longlight.”
As Wolf thrusts his way to Roan’s side, the atmosphere around the Dirt Eaters darkens menacingly.
“Get everyone back!” Roan orders. But Wolf doesn’t need to do anything, the crowd’s already pulling away. Only one person stumbles into the ever widening circle—Ferrell the architect, his vacant eyes lost in the past. “Roan, Roan, you are so wrong. Without Dirt, how can I build towers to touch heaven, walls to kiss eternity. Do not part from us, Roan, join us, help us fulfill our dreams.”
“Get out of the way!” Sari screams, but too late.
Reaching for Roan’s hand, the architect embraces him and the lethal blast of energy aimed at Roan strikes Ferrell, his
body sagging limply in Roan’s arms. Clutching the architect’s corpse, Roan falters, exhausted. Why is he doing this? Wouldn’t it be better to set it all aside? He’s only a boy, a boy shouldering a man’s burden. He should put the burden down. Put the burden down. Put—
You must prevail, Roan of Longlight.
A wash of radiant light pours over him as Orin the librarian steps forward to stand at his side. One by one, Dirt Eaters emerge from the crowd of onlookers to join him, channeling their life force in Roan’s defense.
No one moves. No one speaks. Sari raises a hand and the attack is terminated. But Roan can see she does not believe herself defeated. She is merely recognizing a stalemate, reserving her life and death assault to confront him another day. He knows with a certainty that she believes this possible. It is part of the madness the Dirt brings to those who use it: they forget that without it, they are only human; their powers, both real and imagined, gone.
As he steps close to Sari, Roan almost reels from the smell of Dirt on her. “Good luck with your cleansing, Mountain Lion. I know it will not be easy.”
At Roan’s nod, Apsara head over to separate Sari and her companions, and divest them of their Dirt. But before Roan walks away, Haron catches his eye. He’d been the first to talk to Roan about his great-grandfather; he claimed Roan of the Parting as friend. Roan knows now that it had all been lies.
Looking into the old man’s steely gray eyes, Roan whispers, “I consider this our first victory against Darius, an old betrayal finally answered.”
Two years ago the bitterness in Haron’s eyes would have crushed Roan; now it’s not even disappointing—there are some minds Roan knows he cannot change. So he turns his back on the old man and smiles at Orin—best to concentrate on the ones he can.
PRISONS
ONE OF THE WAZYA, THREE SINGERS ON EACH PALM, SHALL GUIDE THEM TO THE EASTERN EDGE OF THE EARTH’S DISGRACE. THERE, BENEATH THE CRATERS OF THE MOON’S TWO FACES, TO A CHOIR OF EARTH’S SONG, THE APSARA WILL BE FREED BY THE SON OF LONGLIGHT.
—THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT
FOR THE LAST FOUR DAYS, Mabatan has lain curled up on her bed. Though she drinks water and eats food, her mouth feels dry, her stomach empty. Ende keeps reminding her that she is not Kira, but how does that knowledge help when Kira’s suffering is her own?
Kira’s in a box. She cannot stand—Mabatan, are you there? Are you listening? —She cannot stretch. She curls, knees to her chest, swollen lips pressed over the pinholes that provide air, but it is not enough. Never enough. Her lungs ache. Her heart races. Races—Mab? Mab? —Time floats. Weeks pass. No. Not that long. She can tell because of the bruises. The bruises and the cuts are still fresh. The smell of her own blood nauseates her. If only she had air but there isn’t enough. —Help me breathe, Mab. Help. —She practices swordplay in her head. Lunge and thrust. Recover. Twist. Stab. Slide. Jab. Lunge. Recover. If only she could breathe. —Mabatan, you’ll teach me. When I get out. How to follow the path. The Way of the Wazya. I’ll get out. Willum will come. Maybe not. Mab, are you listening? Are you there? —Her tongue is fat. Thick. The smell of blood overwhelming. Her heart races. But time. Time moves slowly. Very slowly.
The crickets hum. Mabatan wants to tell them to take it out, take the enabler out. She wants to scream it. But then who will Kira have to talk to? There would be no witness to her suffering. It’s hard to breathe—Kira. Kira. I am here, Kira. I am listening. You will come back—Time floats. Her lungs ache—Willum will find a way and he will come. I will take you into the new forest and you will teach me the ways of the sword. Kira. Breathe. Breathe! I am here. I am here.
Ende is squeezing water over Mabatan’s swollen lips. Roan can’t make out anything she’s saying. “Is she alright?”
“What does it look like?” snaps Ende.
Roan and Lumpy had come here the instant they’d returned from Oasis, hoping desperately for good news. But things have obviously only gotten worse. Lumpy clutches Mabatan’s hand. Her sleeve slides back and he gasps. Her skin is livid with welts and bruises.
“Her body is covered in them,” Ende’s voice is tight with frustration. “It reacts to the trauma as if it were real. We need to use that Allayer.” Roan and Lumpy exchange an uncomfortable glance. The eruption from Ende is instantaneous. “What is wrong with you! It’s only a matter of time before they find Kira’s enabler. Do you want to lose them both?”
Mabatan begins to gasp, greedily gulping air. “I can breathe. I can breathe. But can’t stand. Oh. My knees. Can’t feel my legs. Falling. That hurt. But I can breathe.” Mabatan’s eyes open wide. “Hold my arms, Lumpy. Hold them!”
Roan rushes forward to help, but still they are hard pressed to hold her down, her screams so piercing Roan almost doesn’t hear Lumpy’s anguished refrain, “They’re breaking Kira’s arms, Roan. Roan, they’re…”
Water. It’s good. Maybe drugged. She’d know soon enough. Her eyes. She can barely open. A man. An ugly, ugly man with a half-smile. Well, I’m not smiling back.—Mab? I’m not smiling back. If my mouth wasn’t so dry, I’d spit in his face. Mab? Mab? I’m scared now. Blue needle claws on his fingers. They’re making me scared.
Watching Mabatan’s face swell while she howled in agony had made the decision easy. This had to be stopped. Now.
An acknowledgment passes between Roan, Lumpy, and Ende. But just as the Allayer is about to be activated, Mabatan grabs Roan, drawing him close.
“No,” she gasps in his ear. “Not yet. Please. I must not leave Kira. Must not. Please.”
“It will kill you, Mabatan.”
“No. Not yet. There is something…I’ve seen…I’m not sure…something important…please.”
Roan looks up at Ende and Lumpy.
“She’s delirious.” Ende’s furious, but Roan knows her anger is fueled by her fear for Kira and the weight of having to choose between her loyalty to her granddaughter and the life of a friend.
So Roan keeps his voice as calm as possible. “What if she’s right? She says there’s something she needs to hear. Am I not supposed to believe her?”
Ende’s glare is an indictment, accusing him of being numb to Mabatan’s pain, though Roan would like nothing more than to free her.
Lumpy frowns. “It’s Roan’s choice.” The bitter edge in his voice makes it clear what he’d do if the choice was his.
Mabatan tenses. Roan knows she’s suppressing a scream. One and then another and another. “Mabatan.”
“Not…yet…”
Mab. I can’t hear anymore. I can’t hear. Can you? Mab. Someone’s trying to get in my head. Is it you? I’m so tired. That can’t be you. Mab? Stop him, Mab. He’s in my head. Stop him. Stop him. He’s taking my mind, Mab. Mab! Please, Mab. Please. Stop him. Get out, Mab. Get out. Get out! Get out!!
“Now!” Mabatan wails and Lumpy initiates the Allayer. Her hand still clenching Roan’s shirt, Mabatan shakes violently, her wide eyes vacant. But when she slowly shifts her gaze to his face, Roan realizes she’s sobbing and gently takes her into his arms.
“Someone very powerful…took everything…she could not stop him. He took it all from her mind…Kira’s village…Ende…the Caldera…Willum. She could not stop him. Roan. She could not. He was too strong.”
Ende, ashen-faced, whispers, “Did he kill her?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
As Mabatan’s body convulses with grief, Roan holds her tighter, trying to absorb some of her pain. His own head is about to explode. What do they do? What do they do now?
Willum and Stowe have been training for hours. Every once in a while he staggers and she retreats. Then he insists that they go on. Days. It’s been days since she’d run in exhausted, demanding that they break Kira out, but Willum’s reaction had dampened her fury. It was obvious he’d considered this eventuality—how could she have imagined that he hadn’t? But he, who always had a dozen possible responses to every problem, had only one now: wait. They had no way of knowing what Kordan had disco
vered. He already has them under surveillance. To act might not only jeopardize Kira’s chances of survival, but the success of their entire enterprise.
Willum’s fist is plowing toward Stowe’s face and she watches it come, then at the last moment she jerks back, her chin nicked by his knuckles. Too slow. Find the rhythm of the attacker’s mind. Then dance with him.
Without warning, he twirls with a cross-kick. This time she gives full focus to the movement, echoes his body, and meets his twirl and kick with the same. He strikes again with his fist, and this time she matches him, blow for blow, drawing him closer and closer, till he’s almost in position. Her hand is perched above his face when he falls abruptly to his knees. He is perfectly still except for a solitary tear that traces a slow path down his cheek. Has Kira died? She dares not ask. But when she tries to retreat, unsure of what comfort she can offer, he holds onto her and his dry sobs shake her, until the dim winter light fades and darkness surrounds them.
A knock on the door thunders into their silence. Willum stands, composing himself.
Master Querin enters and light floods the room. Stowe’s blood freezes. Assuming her most irritated air, she snarls, “Yes?”
Taking a small box from his pocket, he places it in the center of the floor and flicks it on. “Spies, as you know, are everywhere. This will allow us to speak privately—at least for the moment.” With a terrifying smile, his gaze locks on Willum. “I’ve had the most interesting encounter with…your sister.”
Willum remains expressionless. Stowe works hard to harness her fear, her rage. She suppresses her desire to act, to scream, to kill. Extending her awareness beyond the room, she senses no Clerics outside. He’s come alone. Why? Though she desperately wants to catch Willum’s eye, she stares ahead, looking as surprised as possible.
“She is very strong, your sister. Her resistance was extraordinary.”