Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (15 page)

From that point on, Wren’s entire perspective shifted. The fog burned away and he started noticing more of his surroundings than he ever had, even when they’d first started out. Everything took on a clarity and sharpness that he’d never seen before. Each blown-out foundation and collapsed structure revealed their unique nature as he passed them. The ash and concrete dust under his feet was no longer a single blanket, it was a sea of individual grains beyond counting. All the world seemed to have fallen into a rhythm that matched his own; his breathing, his footsteps, his heartbeat, connected with the world at large.

The Strand lost its dreadful oppressiveness and Wren’s eyes opened to the expanse as it truly was rather than as he had first perceived it to be. There was no threat here. The location wasn’t evil in its own right. It was a melancholy place, certainly. A monument to the worst that had befallen the old world. But that world was one Wren had never known; he was aware of the weight of history that lay over the Strand, yet it didn’t stir any memories of what had been before. And with the fear removed by his inexplicable euphoria, he discovered the peace that the Strand offered as well. Though the air had a powdery scent from the dust he’d kicked up, there was an underlying freshness to it that had previously escaped his notice. The sun was bright, the sky clear. Wren was likely only one of two people for miles around and that thought brought with it a sense of unexpected freedom.

Then again, maybe in his current state he was just imagining it all. Maybe this bizarre sense of well-being that had come upon him was what happened to people right before they died. If so, dying didn’t seem quite as bad as he’d imagined. There probably wasn’t a better place to do it. At least it was quiet here.

Wren settled into a matched pace with Haiku just a few feet ahead of him. He had a vague notion to say something to the man, but on second thought it seemed unnecessary. Mere words could only detract from the action that had already spoken for itself. And he didn’t really care where they were headed anymore.

Over the next hour or so – Wren couldn’t be sure because he’d lost all sense of time – the terrain began to change again. The buildings stood a little higher, the ruins clustered a little more tightly. One structure in particular stood out prominently ahead; it was still distant but to Wren’s surprise it almost looked like it was intact. It was wider than it was tall and rounded where Wren had expected corners. Some kind of squat plug of a tower, just a couple of stories high. Whatever it was, the building struck such a contrast with its surroundings that Wren knew immediately that it was their destination. It wasn’t that far off, and they still had plenty of daylight left, but Haiku maintained the same pace.

They continued on and Wren lost and regained sight of the tower several times as they wound their way through the tumbledown structures that dotted the landscape. Most of the Strand was soft and rolling, covered in that fine, shifting dust and ash that blew and whirled and made walking wearisome. But here the land took on a jagged brokenness; rusting girders jutting at odd angles, like broken finger bones clawing up from their giant’s grave below. And once the image fixed in his mind, Wren couldn’t escape the feeling that he was walking through a city’s skeleton.

It took a lot longer to reach the tower than he’d anticipated, and as they drew nearer, it became clear why. In the absence of familiar landmarks, Wren had judged the building to be three or four stories high at the most. Now he realized he’d horribly misjudged the size. The tower was immense. It was the width that had deceived him; most of the tall buildings he’d seen in his life had been proportioned much differently. This one was half again as wide as it was tall, and now, closer to it, Wren guessed it must have been nearly twelve stories high. There was a thickness to it, too, a massive solidity, like someone had started sculpting it from a single block of steel and lost interest before they’d even gotten halfway done.

The whole thing was a dull, steel grey, somehow duller than the concrete-sand that swirled all around it. There were no windows that Wren could see, though it seemed to have many protrusions and vents all around. As he was studying these things, the world opened up before him into a wide plain. Haiku halted and Wren came to a stop beside him. At first, Wren thought Haiku was scouting out the area ahead. They’d reached a border of some kind, and the next two or three hundred yards were mostly flat and ominously empty. Whether the buildings that once stood there had all been completely destroyed or had never been built in the first place, it was impossible to tell. But there was nothing except open land between them and their destination. Wren scanned the plain, wide and grey. Little eddies of dust swirled up and chased themselves into oblivion. After a moment, something else drew Wren’s eye. About a third of the way down from the top of the building, there was a narrow platform or walkway with a thin line of a guardrail.

And there was someone standing at the rail.

It was small and difficult to make out against the mercury-grey backdrop, but once Wren had spotted it, there was no mistaking it for anything else. The figure was just standing there, hands on the rail.

Haiku raised a hand high above his head to signal the figure, or maybe in greeting. The figure made no apparent movement in response.

“Is that the person you’re taking me to meet?” Wren asked.

“It is,” Haiku said. The figure still hadn’t moved.

“Maybe he doesn’t see us,” Wren said.

“He does,” Haiku said as he lowered his hand. “He just doesn’t care.” He readjusted his pack and resumed walking.

Crossing that final stretch seemed to take three times as long as it should have. Wren’s euphoria burned off and anxiety grew as they made their way through the dead space. Some of it came from the natural fear of uncertainty; the journey had so commanded Wren’s thoughts that he’d hardly thought about what would happen when they actually reached the end. But walking across that wide open space brought on the uncanny feeling of being watched, not just from the structure but from all around. Wren couldn’t stop himself from frequently glancing up at the walkway. And always, the lone figure was there, unmoved.

And then, when they were fifty yards or so away, he looked up and the figure was nowhere to be seen.

From that distance, Wren could see the structure wasn’t like any kind of building he’d seen before. The whole thing seemed to be made entirely of metal. It was smooth with no sign of seams or cracks, which gave the impression that it really had been formed from a single, massive block of steel.

When they finally reached the structure, Haiku led Wren around the base to a single, heavy door. It was the same flat grey color as the rest of the building and heavily riveted. To Wren’s surprise, it was also opened inward an inch or two.

Haiku stopped just outside with his hand on the door and looked at Wren.

“If everything goes well, Wren, this is the true beginning of your journey,” he said. “All that has come before, all that you’ve been through to get here will seem small in comparison.”

“Do you mean small like, a small price to pay?” Wren asked. “Or small like it was nothing compared to how hard it’s about to get?”

Haiku gave him a tired smile. “Both,” he said. And then added, “If everything goes well.”

He turned back to the door and paused for a long moment, his head dipped. Like he was gathering his thoughts. Or maybe steeling himself.

Finally, Haiku pushed the door inward and motioned Wren inside. It was dark and Wren hesitated at the threshold, testing the air. It was pleasantly warm and though there was an underlying industrial smell, it wasn’t stale or moldy or damp. Not at all like he’d expected. The scent was clean and healthy. Maintained. Lived in. This was someone’s home.

Haiku closed the door behind them; Wren heard the squeaking crackle of the rubberized seal squeezing into place, followed by a weighty
thunk
of heavy bolts sliding home. Whatever else might happen, there was obviously no reason to worry about the Weir getting in. Or anything else, for that matter. The governor’s compound had had its high walls and strong gates, but even that hadn’t felt as secure as this place. It was like being
inside
a wall.

Something clicked behind him and a moment later, small red-orange lights like bright embers flicked on along either side of the floor, illuminating a path down a short corridor.

“This way,” Haiku said, and he led Wren through the corridor. There was a set of stairs at the end, leading both up and down. They went up, but Wren looked over the railing into the deep darkness below and wondered just how far down the building went.

Three flights up, they left the stairs and after passing through another short hallway, came out into a wide room, bright with natural sunlight. Wren had to squint at first. Apparently there were windows after all. He saw now that there were indeed large windows set in the exterior wall, made of thick flexiglass. Typically that would have made them nearly indestructible on their own, but Wren saw on the outside there were also slats of half-inch thick steel. They’d been opened like blinds to let the light in, but if closed, they would make a shield of overlapping plates. These were probably what Wren had taken to be vents at first.

The room itself was not at all what he’d expected. There was a pair of comfortable-looking chairs in one corner, sitting atop a colorful and intricately woven rug. On the opposite side was a small kitchenette; counter, sink, small cooking surface. Another doorway was there on the left, though there was no door. It just led to another short hall, as far as Wren could tell. In the center of the room, an oval table sat with six chairs arrayed around it. There was a teapot in the middle of the table and next to it sat four round bowl-like cups, each on its own saucer. Two of them steamed with tea freshly made and recently poured. A plate held what appeared to be a large, round loaf of bread along with a few other items of food Wren didn’t immediately recognize. The whole thing was bizarrely out of place, like walking into a refinery and finding someone’s living room. The fact that someone had apparently laid out a light meal for them just made it all the more peculiar.

Haiku removed his pack and laid it aside by the door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “He’ll be along in his own time. Could be a while.” He walked over to the sink and started washing his hands and face.

Wren took off his pack and set it next to Haiku’s, but remained by the door. He was lightheaded, coming down from the last bits of his miraculous second wind and on his way, he feared, to a hard crash-landing.

“How many people live here?” he asked.

Haiku dried his face on a towel from the counter.

“Just one,” he answered. He walked over and took a seat at the table, tore a hunk off the bread. “You should wash all the road-grime off.”

Wren nodded and followed Haiku’s example. The water came from the faucet already heated and as it splashed over his hands, the warmth crawled its way up from his palms into his forearms, soothing. He lost himself for a time, letting the water warm him to his core and watching it spill through his fingers as he turned his hands over and back again.

“The tea’s better when it’s hot,” Haiku said from behind him. Wren took the hint, splashed some water on his face, and dried off. He took a seat at the table leaving one chair between Haiku and himself. Haiku pushed the other cup of tea over to him. The cup was white with a simple green line around the top, slightly smaller than the typical tea cup, and it had no handle. It reminded Wren of the ones Mr Sun had had in his teahouse back in Morningside.

He took a sip of the tea, happy to find that it was still hot enough to warm him without being too hot to drink. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d been until he’d started washing his hands, and the tea reinforced the point. It was a strong tea with an earthy quality, slightly sweet. He considered the fullness of the flavor; it was stronger, yes, but smoother, rounder somehow, than what he was used to. Briefly he wondered if maybe it was
real
tea instead of synthetic. Wren looked down at the deep ruby-red liquid in the cup, stared into it as he took another, longer sip. There was something deeply satisfying about the drink, restorative.

When he lowered the cup, there was an old man standing in the doorway. Very, very old, from the looks of him. He was holding a thin vase with a few flowers in it; striking, vibrant red with white accents, simply but dynamically arranged. They gave Wren the impression of sudden movement, like an animal pouncing or the slash of a sword. Haiku stood up, and Wren followed his cue.

“Hello, Haiku,” the man said. His voice had a dry quality to it, sharp-edged though he’d spoken softly.

“Father,” Haiku answered, bowing as he did so.

The man entered the room without even glancing at Wren, and set the vase on the counter as he passed. He was mostly bald except for the long, thin white wisps that ringed his head; he had a white, patchy beard and eyebrows to match. Taken together, they gave the impression that his face was enshrouded in its own personal fog. He was short, maybe shorter even than Mama, and thin, nearly to the point of frailty. But he moved with effortless grace and confidence, with none of the stiffness or trembling that often accompanied the elderly. The effect was magnified by the simple clothes he wore: baggy pants and a long shirt, both pale blue and made of a light, flowing fabric. At the far end of the table, he drew out a chair and then stood in front of it while he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot. This done, he sat down and took a drink while watching Haiku from over the top of the cup. He set the cup back on its saucer in front of him.

“Please,” he said, holding out a hand and inviting them to take their seats again. Haiku sat first and nodded for Wren to do the same. The man still hadn’t looked at Wren, or acknowledged him in any way.

“You look tired, son,” the man said. Haiku had called him father, and now he’d called Haiku son, but there was a formality to the tone that suggested there was something else to the relationship. Whether it was something more or something less, Wren couldn’t tell.