The Keeper's Shadow

by Dennis Foon

Roan signals to Imin. “Imin’s brought you a present. It’s not much use on stairs, though.”

  “Not like the ones they have in the City,” Othard demurs as Imin rolls a wheelchair over to Kira. “Still, it works.”

  “Thank you.” But as Kira leans forward, she cries out in pain.

  Roan tries to catch her eyes but she avoids his gaze. “May I?” he asks cautiously.

  The Apsara warrior hesitates and for a moment he worries he’s insulted her irreparably. But then she murmurs, almost beneath her breath, “Please.”

  Arms circled round her waist, he slides her into the makeshift chair. She’s lost so much weight since her imprisonment that she feels wraithlike in his grasp. Before he can let her go, she whispers, “Roan. Roan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Roan sighs, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Kira. Nothing I can say will repay your sacrifice. But you are here and you are alive and in this fight your contribution has been great and I thank you. We all do.”

  Raising her head to look him in the eye, Kira smiles. “Go. I’ll be right there.” But when he stands, Kira stops him. “Saint was right about you, Roan of Longlight. You will be a great leader.”

  “You honor me, Kira of the Apsara.” And with a bow, he stops up his grief and strides away.

  Roan’s eyes cast about the room. “The beginning of the eclipse will be the signal for all to act. The Hhroxhi have offered us safe passage. The Storytellers, as you know, have already taken advantage of this and should be plying their trade in the City as we speak. Lumpy.”

  “Mhyzah’s sending an escort; they should be here within the hour. Ende has designated groups of Apsara for each target and will coordinate methods of sabotage with the Gunthers.” Lumpy pauses for a moment, then looks intently at Roan. “We need to discuss what we do if the worst happens. If our plan fails. If you don’t make it to the City.”

  Before Roan can protest, Ende concurs. “Your Lieutenant is right. To plan an attack without addressing the threat of the Masters is foolhardy.”

  “If Darius is killed,” says Roan, “it won’t be a problem.”

  “The if is exactly what is being discussed.”

  “You need a failsafe,” Kira says, so quietly she is almost not heard, yet everyone stops at the sound of her voice and listens. “Something that will ensure the destruction of the Masters.”

  Number Fifty-One gapes open-mouthed at Kira. “But…to do that, you would have to destroy the Pyramid.”

  Eyeing him coolly, Kira simply asks, “How?”

  Everyone waits. The Gunther looks down at his hands. Roan understands his dilemma—the Gunthers have steadfastly refused to become directly involved in any violence, but that didn’t prevent their persecution in the City or Gwendolen’s death. Fifty-One takes out a small cloth and carefully polishes his glasses. “That I cannot say. The Pyramid was built to endure. Its central pylon goes deep into the earth, providing support for the entire structure.” Then, putting on his glasses, he says, “Now. If you’ll excuse me, I still have some work I need to complete on the Allayer before the Hhroxhi arrive.”

  The moment the Gunther’s left, Lumpy says, “So we have to destroy the central pylon.”

  “Explosives laid from top to bottom,” Kira agrees. “But it would have to be manually detonated, by someone strategically placed, able to tell if and when it has to be done.”

  “I’ll do it,” Lumpy says emphatically. And before Roan can object, he cuts him off. “I’m your Lieutenant. I’m the one who should do it.”

  “I will go with Lumpy.”

  Roan gasps, stunned, but Mabatan speaks with a cool clarity, as if what she is saying were the most reasonable thing in the world. “If all else fails, there should be someone with him in case he is attacked. Someone to give him the time he needs to ensure the Pyramid’s destruction.”

  Ende reaches for the Wazya’s hand, “Mabatan, I will send one of my warriors. They would be better suited to such a—”

  “It’s her decision.” Kira doesn’t look at Ende, but keeps her eyes locked on Mabatan. “The least you can do is respect it.”

  In the awkward silence that follows, Roan’s gaze drifts anxiously between his two friends, terrified at the prospect of losing them both.

  As if reading his thoughts, Mabatan speaks quietly into the stillness. “If we reach the point where this must be done, the future we have reaped is one I can no longer be part of.”

  Roan doesn’t want to understand what she’s saying. The bruises on her face are fading, the swelling gone down. There’s no hint of accusation or even sadness in her eyes or voice. But there’s a cold hardness, like what he’s seen in Stowe, that speaks to something permanently broken, something that can never be given back.

  “Prophet, we must return to the business at hand.”

  As Roan’s gaze falls away from Mabatan, he nods. It takes a great effort, though, to thrust his emotions to the side and look Wolf in the eye. “Querin is set to reveal our decoy location. My sister says we can expect a full division of Clerics.”

  The Brothers’ commander pauses, scrutinizing Roan, and to his surprise, in the empty space Wolf provides, Roan finds the anticipation he felt an hour ago returning, his energy flooding back to focus on the battle ahead.

  Having seen what he’s been waiting for, Wolf continues. “The physicians have made the drug, the Gunthers constructed blowguns—both to Mabatan’s specifications. Brother Stinger and a contingent of brethren are readying the site. But,” Wolf scowls, “if I may, Prophet—Our Stowe is certain of her information?”

  “Believe it or not, Brother Wolf, faith is a powerful force in the City as well.” Roan looks around the table for further questions but there are none. The next few days will decide their future and it may very well be that this is the last time they will see each other. Still, they must all believe they will succeed.

  And so he smiles warmly, and speaks with a heartfelt conviction, “We all meet again, then, when the sun returns to the sky.”

  The Keeper of the City’s brow, normally so taut, is noticeably furrowed. Stowe has no idea why she’s been summoned but whatever it is, it can’t be good—the Eldest is tilting his head, almost coyly, an early warning of impending doom. “I am about to announce your Coronation,” he says.

  It’s no effort being genuine—Stowe is honestly stunned.

  “Did I not promise, my love? I am weary of this world, bored with ambition and appetite. You are young and beloved and ready to rule in my stead.”

  “Father,” Stowe chuckles, but stops abruptly under Darius’s suddenly angry stare. “You cannot be serious.” She’s oddly flustered—but that’s appropriate, isn’t it?

  “Daughter, I know you too well for you to deny that you have dreamt of this moment. Do not weary me with polite protestations.”

  “But, Father, in the midst of all this turmoil?” Is this the moment she’s been waiting for? Or did Querin slip somehow? Kordan spot something?

  Darius’s fury rolls over her like a hot iron. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “No, Eldest, but your expertise is—”

  Darius’s eyelids have almost closed, but even so his eyes are locked on hers. “If you are not willing to embrace this privilege, perhaps I should choose another.”

  “Father—”

  “Do you accept?” A scintillating smalt green smoke escapes from his eyes, reaching, reaching toward her.

  “Of course, I accept, Father, since you desire it.”

  “A Coronation. In two days’ time I shall unveil my Dreamfield Throne, and then you shall take your place at the center of the Pyramid.”

  “Who will I go to for help, Father? Who can I trust?” She hopes Willum has good news when he returns. If everything went as planned, the timing couldn’t be better.

  “You have always known the answer to that, Daughter: trust no one. Everywhere I turn, I hear them sharpening their knives. All clamoring for advancement. You must keep them occupied fi
ghting each other; that way the fools will not see the true threat.”

  “And what is that, Father?”

  Darius stares blankly beyond her.

  “Father?”

  His eyes glide with sickening slowness back to her. “Yes, my pet?”

  “What is the true threat, Father?”

  “My apologies, Daughter. My mind is restless with dreaming. You see why it is time for me to leave everything to you.”

  “Father—”

  Darius rises and kisses Stowe on the forehead with his desiccated lips. “You will discern it soon enough, my love.” Turning from her, he shouts to the unseen Cleric beyond the door. “Yes?”

  The door opens and the Cleric bows. “It is done, Eldest.”

  Darius’s lips pinch into a smile. “Oh, good. And it was well received?”

  “The Absent pray before it as we speak, Archbishop, many hundreds, perhaps thousands.”

  “You may go.” Darius waves the Cleric away. There is almost a jauntiness to his step. “We’ve created a new monument to you, my daughter, in honor of your Coronation. Pure silver with your image engraved upon on its surface.”

  “A monument?” Stowe asks, dumbfounded. What is Darius up to? “For the Absent?”

  “Precisely. They’re starving down there, poor souls, it should bolster their spirits. Now you must see to your wardrobe. I’ve taken the liberty—” Darius glowers suddenly, looking down at her feet. A white cricket rubs its wings together, beginning its song. “Vermin. Second one I’ve seen today,” he hisses, then stepping so close that her cheek grazes his robe, he squashes it under his heel.

  While Stowe is with the Keeper, Willum moves covertly toward the ghetto of the Absent. Querin’s scheme to divert Clerics to a battle in the Farlands has had great effect. Their numbers are remarkably reduced; it will be much easier now for the Apsara to pass unnoticed into the City. He makes his way toward a massive gathering.

  People are bowing in supplication to a great silver cylinder, twenty feet high. Etched upon its face is a portrait of Our Stowe, her fingers raised in blessing. This is no ordinary monument. Willum recognizes it at once as an Apogee. He would like to get closer—but it is not possible. Clerics hover around the perimeter, ready to act if things get out of control, and he needs to move unseen.

  Gliding past the throng into an alley, he quickens his pace. It is not long before he’s arrived at the decrepit stucco wall. Entering the courtyard, he steps over to the windowless concrete cube and touches it in an elaborate configuration. A small door slides open and Willum steps in.

  Gunther Number Six is there to meet him. “Willum, your friends are about to arrive.” The floor they are standing on descends.

  “Your cooperation is much—”

  “Did you know? The Dirt Eaters have taken Seventy-Nine’s life.”

  “Seventy-Nine?” He remembers her face as he last saw her, proud but etched with tears, forever marked by the abuse she’d experienced in the square that day.

  “I see you were not informed. So many disquieting events. Seventeen of us have been lost, murdered by the Conurbation. It is clear now that many of those who were returned to us from prison are damaged beyond hope of repair.”

  “Perhaps we are wrong to involve you—”

  “At first I was upset by the request. But it is our contribution, Willum, to this cause. Your sister put the life of Eleven before her own and we know the price she paid. We will not fight, but we do not have to sit quietly before this injustice.”

  “Thank you, Number Six.”

  “The devices are ready. And you were correct about the Hhroxhi. Their language and culture are fascinating.”

  Willum smiles. “They also share many of your aversions.”

  “Yes. And yet they stand with you as well.”

  The elevator passes the library and Number Six clears his throat. “The explosion that killed Seventy-Nine took our friend Dobbs too. I thought you…should know.”

  Number Six pushes his glasses against his nose and as the elevator shudders to a halt on the lowest floor, he scurries away.

  “Well,” a jocular voice calls out, “old friend. Close calls on all sides.”

  “I’m sorry, Kamyar, Number Six just told me—”

  “Willum. There will be time enough for that after. Sorrow cannot ride at the warrior’s side.”

  “You’ve begun?”

  “Of course, we’ve been at it for days, telling tales of renewal and insurrection to whoever will listen. We’ve been trying to convince the Absent to stay in their homes, but that shiny eyesore Darius erected has attracted them like ants to honey.”

  “It’s an Apogee. It must be destroyed, Kamyar.”

  “Final deployment’s being discussed tonight. I’ll add it to our agenda.”

  “Quickly, they are here!” announces Number Six, who is standing beside a large, open duct. One by one, they climb over its edge—Mabatan, Lumpy, Mhyzah, with dozens of Apsara behind.

  Mabatan spots Willum instantly. The echo of Kira’s suffering still marks her cheek and eye, and the loss he feels when she presses herself into his arms is almost beyond bearing.

  “Much has happened since I saw you last,” she says, pulling away from the embrace, her voice burdened but her old pragmatism shining through. She has survived the ordeal and will, in time, be stronger for it.

  “And more is still to come,” mutters Ende, emerging from behind her warriors.

  The memory of his vision slams over the sight of her, blood flecking the air like the first heavy raindrops in a downpour. “What are you doing here, Grandmother?”

  “I’m Kira’s replacement.” Ende pauses, squaring her jaw defiantly. “There was no other choice, Willum. I do only what I must.”

  Any frustration he may have had with the Apsara matriarch dissipates instantly. It is an obvious truth she speaks and he needs no special power to sense her personal anguish and the effort it is taking for her to conceal it. “I know,” he whispers, and wraps her, one last time, in his arms. Looking over her shoulder he sees Petra, and her cocky smile of greeting is like a spear piercing his side.

  With a sigh, he draws back and scans the faces of all the friends around him. “I cannot stay. I just needed to ensure you had all arrived safely. When the moon bites the sun, it will begin. May we survive these days.”

  The sounds around him muffled by his own heartbeat, he memorizes tiny details—Dai tossing her hair and laughing, Lumpy’s concerned but confident nod, Mhyzah’s fist tapping her heart—then he pries himself away, and strides quickly to the elevator.

  Stretching an arm around his shoulder, Kamyar joins him for the ride. They stand silently together, deeply immersed in their own thoughts, until the floor settles with a jolt at the top.

  “What say, Willum, after this is over,” Kamyar says with a sidelong glance, his usual bluster muted, “we sit together in the open air of Conurbation Park, and share an ale or two or three and speak of old friends?” They had both long ago accepted the inevitability of this moment; now their faith must endure the ultimate test—and Kamyar was never one to acknowledge the possibility of failure.

  “Agreed,” Willum accepts with a smile, and with Kamyar’s firm slap still stinging his back, he crouches through the door. His head has barely cleared the concrete wall when he spots them—three Clerics in the courtyard. Well-armed.

  “So. What do we have here?” one of them crows arrogantly. “A strange place for Our Stowe’s Primary to be lurking about.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Master Kordan’s business is our business. And, it seems, his doubts about you were justified.”

  These three are so full of swagger and self-importance, they should be easy to take.

  The Cleric smirks at Willum as he motions his cohorts to enter the concrete cube. “How kind of you to open this door. We’ve been at it since we saw you go in.” Brandishing a flare, he continues, “Master Kordan says you’re dangerous, so I
’m not taking any—” Mouth gaping, the Cleric stares down at his chest. A knitting needle is protruding from his heart.

  As the dead man falls into Willum’s arms, Kamyar slips out from between the two Clerics at his feet and whispers, “Always glad to be of assistance.”

  THE GORGE

  PRESUPPOSING THE KEEPER’S FORTIFIED BIOFIELD IS FED BY THE THRONE CONSTRUCTION, I HAVE DETERMINED THAT A TIMED CEASE-FUNCTION WILL WEAKEN HIM AT A CRITICAL JUNCTURE, IF SUFFICIENT NUMBERS OF ENABLERS ARE AFFECTED.

  —Algernon’s Enabler File Report 7.4

  EVERYONE IS IN POSITION AND READY. Roan hopes they won’t have to wait long. It’s hard to keep focused in the cold and even he finds his attention wandering.

  The Caldera is barely visible against the eastern horizon. Alandra must already be there. His falling out with her in Newlight seems a lifetime ago. And yet, that was where so much began. If he comes out of this battle alive, he’ll go see her. Even if she’s unable to hear him or even know that he’s there.

  Far in the distance, glints of silver reflect the sun. “They’re coming,” reports Stinger, peering through a spyglass. “Twenty-five troop carriers, all equipped with Apogees.”

  “Glad to see Querin went all-out,” Wolf comments dryly.

  “How much fuel do they have stockpiled?”

  The awe in Stinger’s voice is echoed in Wolf’s face, as he turns to Roan. “We’re lucky the embargo was successful or he’d be sending air machines, like he did during the Consolidation.”

  The quickest way here had been through the Devastation. One hundred years hadn’t lessened the reek of death, and visions of Darius’s bombs exterminating rebel armies are fresh in everyone’s minds.

  “Still,” Wolf mutters, shifting uneasily, “we’d better hope the Master of Inculcation hasn’t cooked up any nasty surprises.”

  Roan can understand his reservations. He’d had his doubts as well. But when he arrived he knew they couldn’t have found a better place for an ambush. The oncoming Clerics would see nothing but a forbidding cliff face running for miles on either side of the gorge. In reality, though, there were many avenues of descent, and numerous small corridors wide enough to hide horses and through which they could ride to attack their enemy.