Freewalker (35 page)

Roan's eyes drift to a recess in the stone wall where two skulls now lie. “Are they really your mother, and the man who killed her?”

“I'm not best known as a liar,” says Kira.

Roan repeats the words she spoke to him almost two years before. “The day you execute your parents' killers, that day the pain that strangles you will lose its grip.”

Kira smiles ruefully. “You took that advice to heart.”

“I share in the responsibility for Saint's death, but I did not deal the killing blow.”

“Oh? How did he die then?”

“He had mortally wounded my friend Lelbit, and was about to kill me. She slew him with an arrow before she died.”

“He did not suffer. A good death, then.”

“He suffers now.”

Her face pale, Kira gasps, “He walks in death? You saw him?”

“Briefly.”

“What did he say?”

The expectation in her eyes makes Roan feel ashamed. “I... had to leave.”

Kira leans her head against the stone wall and sighs, clearly disappointed.

“Kira, it was terrifying, more than I could stand. It took a long time to recover, but I want to go back, I have to.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was told you might be able to help me.”

Kira scrutinizes Roan, then asks, “Do you still have the ring Saint gave you?”

Reaching into his pack, Roan finds the deep pocket where he keeps the badger-shaped ring. “Saint told me it symbolized resurrection.”

“According to the original owner.”

“And who was that?”

Kira smiles. “Your great-grandfather.”

AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND

WHEN FOG ROLLS OFF THE LAKE AND INTO FAIRVIEW,
BEWARE.
THE GHOSTS OF A THOUSAND MURDERED ENEMIES
ARE THERE
DESPAIR IN THEIR HEARTS, REVENGE IN THEIR EYES
FOR THE SMELL THEY'VE ENDURED
EVER SINCE THEIR DEMISE

—LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

T
HE
B
IRD
M
AN TAKES OFF HIS BEAKED MASK
and smiles. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Our Stowe. I am Raven, always your loyal servant.” His thin yellow hair hangs straight and oily down to his shoulders, and red blotches spot his face.

“You don't look well, my dear. Are you ill?”

Wait. Do not speak.

How stupid do you think I am?

“We have no real doctor with us. Perhaps some water?” Nearly losing his balance as the truck accelerates, he braces himself against the cabinet. After quickly locating a shallow bowl, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a water skin. He takes his time removing the cap, observing her as closely as he dares, then judiciously tips some water into the makeshift cup.

It's obvious he knows this truck and its contents well. Stowe sips the water slowly, never taking her eyes off the repulsive man, though he keeps a respectful distance. Ha! She may look weak but clearly he's heard the stories. Not a complete fool.

“The Masters are very unhappy. The City is under martial law, shut down tight. Word from on high is that you've been abducted. But, if I may be so bold, judging from what I see, it's more a case of flight, is it not?”

Stowe remains silent, reading his every gesture.

“Running away is something I know a lot about. Of course, I may be mistaken, overstepping my bounds. If so, I offer my most humble apologies. Whatever you wish is my command, Our Stowe. If you desire safe passage back to the City, I'm more than happy to comply.” Raven fairly glows with anticipation.

As Stowe suspected would happen, the absence of a response provides the gloating freak sufficient answer.

“I see, I see. Well, in that case, I would be happy to order our escort to offer you transport to a safe haven. Darius has, of course, put up a significant reward for your return. Naturally, you will have guessed that. Shocking, that I should go against his command. Yet you are, after all, not only his Stowe but Our Stowe and since you are known to have eased the suffering of so many, you deserve to choose.”

Stowe finally breaks her silence. “Why should I trust you?”

“You mean why would I take such a huge risk when returning you to the City would win me the favor of Darius?” Raven opens the flask on his belt and takes a long drink. “Our Stowe, you ask me this question because you do not know what I owe you. I spent a good year in Darius's dungeons only because I knew a saint who harbored a mutual friend of ours. This friend, your... brother, was such a sad case, so obviously not wanting to be found, how could I reveal his whereabouts? But after Roan escaped and his sojourn with the Brothers was revealed, well... I was punished. Oh, yes! I'm sure you, of all people, can imagine what I went through. It takes something special to survive that kind of torture. A faith to sustain the spirit. You were my guiding light in that darkness.” Raven hangs his head as if this will convince her of the sincerity of his words.

Fool. I've been lied to by far cleverer men than you.

“So,” Raven continues, looking up meekly at Stowe, “if you require my assistance, I will give it. Consider me your servant and friend.”

“Where would you take me?”

“A town, large and comfortable, where I can assure your anonymity. In the meantime, may I offer you some fruit?” Rummaging in his bag, he makes a show of withdrawing two bright yellow apples and a bunch of purple grapes. “Beautiful, aren't they? I do love fresh fruit. The farmers here are incredibly generous. Go ahead. These are the best of the season.”

Stowe cannot resist one sweet grape. He's right, it's heavenly. “You knew my brother well?”

He's trying to trap you. Don't rise to the bait.

You will stop assuming I am a fool and be quiet or I will find the closest knife and use it to dislodge you from my chest.

Stowe almost sighs audibly as Ferrell's presence seems to shrink to a mere dot at the base of her heart. She is not unaware of the first rule of combat: turn your enemy's weapon upon him.

“Why yes, I knew him very well indeed,” says Raven. He settles back into his seat, takes another long swig of his flask, then bites into an apple, letting its juice dribble down his chin. “He was very lonely in his early days with the Brothers. Oh, he suffered horrible nightmares. I gave him what solace I could. He certainly loved apples. Do you?” Raven says, trying to entice Stowe with one.

What a coincidence that it is the same variety cultivated in Longlight. She and Roan had fought over yellow apples like this one: Roan had run off with the apples Mother'd given her. She'd chased him up Big Empty. She was furious at the thought he'd eaten them all, but it had only been pretend, a ruse to tease her.

Ignoring the proffered apple, she whispers dangerously, “I remember you, Raven.”

“Well, I thought you might, Our Stowe. But as you can see, I have taken every opportunity to make amends,” he says sadly. “I was given my directive by Darius, did you know? To bring all of the children to the City. He had a particular interest in you and your brother. If you'd been handed over peacefully, the tragedy could have been avoided.

“I begged Saint just to ride in and give your village a glimpse of the threat, then let me come back and try again from a stronger negotiating position. But those Brothers are animals. They massacred everyone. I was heartbroken. So I took Roan under my wing. It was the least I could do. And I'll help you now, too, for the same reason.”

“Do you hear that?” Stowe asks innocently. Beyond the clatter of the truck and galloping of the Fandor guard, she can hear ten, maybe twelve men approaching on horseback. To her ears, it's like thunder. But this man has the sensory perception of a gnat. Why had they ever dreamed he could become a Master? But it's clear he's finally understood, because his face blanches considerably.

“The Brothers,” he whispers hoarsely. Raven's sword is on a nearby seat, but he doesn't reach for it. Coward. “Down, down!” he cries, sliding onto the floor.

Stowe eyes him contemptuously. Does he think she will grovel down there, beside him? From what she's heard, the Brothers are moving against the City. They might be the allies she requires. She's overheard Darius's conversations: the Fandor cannot match the Brothers' skill or courage. Outnumbered as they are, the Fandor guard will be mercilessly cut down.

The truck begins to careen wildly. Wheeling precariously on a steep incline, it jolts and bounces on uneven ground. There's a sickening squeal, and for a moment Stowe feels weightless. Thrown off her seat, she tumbles until the ceiling becomes the floor and her head hits something hard. She finds herself pinned under the body of Raven, and as the truck crashes to a stop she loses consciousness.

Blood drips into her swollen eye. Forcing it open, she peers into a blue haze. Blankets—they're suffocating her. With a free arm, Stowe pushes them away. Breathing more easily, she directs her senses outside. It's quiet. The others are gone, or dead. Feeling that it's safe to move, she tries to squirm out from under the Bird Man. The sickly sweet scent that taints his breath is nauseating.

Inch by inch, she manages to pull one leg out, then another, all the time waiting for Ferrell to assert himself. But he remains tucked away in his little corner, cowering from her last threat against him—or perhaps he doesn't want her to know what he's thinking... Could she? Invade his mind as he's invaded hers? Why has the thought not occurred to her before? She's prevented from pursuing this intriguing notion, however. When one last tug finally sets her free, Raven groans and slowly lifts his head.

“Oh, Our Stowe, you're alright, thank heaven!” he exclaims, then catching himself, whispers, “Are the Brothers gone?”

“Yes. And your troops seem to be gone as well.”

Raven growls. “Blasted Fandor, ill-trained, ill-mannered louts. You're injured, Our Stowe,” he says, reaching out to the cut above her eye.

She quickly steps away. “It's only a scratch.”

Sitting up unsteadily, he carefully squeezes his arms and legs, rotating his neck, bending this way and that to check his spine. His examination complete, he cackles with relief. “All in one piece!”

For now.

“Come, let's have a look outside and see about our prospects.”

He walks to the rear, avoiding the seats that now hang above him. Reaching up, Raven twists the handle of the back door. “My Lady,” he snivels, holding out his interlaced palms to boost her up. “You have only to push it open.”

As if you couldn't, you stinking sycophant. I know what's on your mind: if some ugly surprise is waiting, it'll eat me first. Fortunately, her safety depends on her senses, not his, and without a second thought, she lodges her foot firmly in his hands and allows him to lift her, her head emerging for a clear look. The truck's catastrophic path is evident from the mess of earth and broken brush it left in its wake.

“What do you make of it?” asks the trembling wretch.

“Apart from a few field mice, it's clear. Are you afraid of mice?”

“Not at all, dear lady,” Raven trumpets as they both scramble out into the daylight.

The truck lies like a dead animal: on its back, wheels in the air. The windshield is splattered with blood, the driver's head inclined against it.

Raven sniffs. “Dead, very dead.”

But something very alive is grazing at the edge of the slope leading up to the road. Raven scurries over to it, gingerly stepping over the corpse of a fallen Fandor. The horse does not acknowledge him, just keeps chewing. “You are blessed, Our Stowe, as your brother once was. The Brothers seldom leave dead rider or horse behind.”

Unobservant fool. They are at the bottom of a ravine. And it's obvious the body fell from a great height. Following the scent of its rider, the horse must have found a path down—which means there's an easy way out.

After gathering some food from the truck, Stowe climbs onto the animal and holds out the reins to Raven. “Do you need these to lead the horse?” she inquires in her most regal tone.

Unsuccessfully trying to mask a scowl, Raven straps his precious bird suit behind the saddle and accepts the menial duty.

Darius must be offering a pretty high price.

I'm sure he is. But this disgusting apple-polisher might have something altogether different in mind.

I wouldn't overestimate this one.

“I think we're very close to that route I spoke of.” The fear that spurs Raven's uncertainty is painful in its intensity. Has he no self-control whatsoever?

“I believe the horse entered the ravine from over there,” Stowe smiles sweetly, pointing to a narrow path that cuts through a stand of red stick trees.

“I agree.” The poor Raven heaves a great sigh of relief. “Well... we should have no trouble reaching our destination by sunset.”

He has some skills at least, for, true to his word, the sun is still visible when the town comes into view. And with it comes a stench as foul as any Stowe has ever had the misfortune of encountering.

Raven points to a lake in the distance as the source. “It eats whatever it touches, My Lady. They say your brother died traveling it.”

Suddenly nauseated, she retches. If Roan had found a way to convince the Masters that he was dead, why had he risked coming to the City?

“My Lady...”

Waving him back, Stowe heaves and heaves until she is nothing but a hollow shell, unable to contain anything, not even feeling. Certainly not that.

“It would be wise to raise your hood, My Lady,” says Raven, indicating the approaching walls of the town.

She presses her head far back into the apprentice's cowl, as Raven waves to the guard in the watchtower and the gates swing open. Leading the horse into the main square, Raven whispers, “Welcome to Fairview, Our Stowe.”

Stowe's never seen anything so painfully quaint. Little houses decorated with bright ceramic tiles line streets of gleaming slate. Flowers are in bloom everywhere. Daisies, roses, snapdragons, marigolds—all an attempt to mask that stink, no doubt.