The Keeper's Shadow (10 page)

Kamyar props himself up on his elbow and eyes Roan sympathetically, if a little sternly. “Well, we all feel that way at times, my boy, if we bother to think about it. Truth be told, though, all those prophecies are pretty vague about
how
things will happen. It's a script, yes, but with a lot of room for improvisation. Which, make no mistake, is never easy, but I'm sure you're up to the challenge.” Kamyar's head drops on his blanket and as if in afterthought, he adds blearily, “Oh, yes. About your request earlier. Being a bit of a leader-type myself, I think I can safely speak for we Storytellers as a group. You can rely on us to assist in whatever way we can. I may even have a few ideas, if you care to…” And with a snore, Kamyar calls a halt to the evening's discussion.

Roan leans back to take in the waxing moon as Lumpy tucks in for the night. Their crickets sing, wings glowing in the firelight. “A story to change the world,” Lumpy murmurs drowsily. “What a story that will be.”

When Roan wakes, there's a thread of silver moonlight in the west, and a firelike glow announcing dawn in the east. Kamyar's already gone, no doubt hoping to be quick enough to head them off at Othard and Imin's.

At the crest of the hill silhouetted against dawn's corona are two figures. Moving closer, Roan can see that it's Lumpy in an animated conversation with the Blood Drinker, Mhyzah—that should make him happy. Roan joins them, bowing courteously to the young Hhroxhi. She bares her fangs and hisses. Though Roan can tell from her intonation it's only a greeting, he keeps his distance. The scar on his chest burns a little. Despite his attempt to make peace with Mhyzah and her people, Roan feels the blood of Mhyzah's father will always stand between them.

“Any chance of the Hhroxhi joining our cause?” Roan asks.

With a glance at his red-eyed friend, Lumpy shakes his head. “Her people are split. Some believe they should act in support of the prophecies about you and the Novakin and the downfall of the City but others are against it, violently against it. It's very close to erupting into civil war. Mhyzah still hopes some of them will be able to help. They're trying to establish a secret network.” Lumpy's distress is obvious, his pocked brow creased with worry. “It's dangerous, Roan, what she's doing. I told her we'd be grateful but not at the expense of the lives of her own people.”

Roan shares his friend's uneasiness. He certainly doesn't want more Hhroxhi blood on his hands.

Mhyzah touches Lumpy's arm and as she speaks, Lumpy translates. “She says Xxisos is working to persuade their people that this struggle belongs to both Hhroxhi and human. That we share a common enemy. She's sure she will have secured passage through enough of the tunnels by the time we need them. You are defender of the Novakin and she will not dishonor her people with failure.”

Roan's eyes meet Mhyzah's in acknowledgment. He can detect nothing but friendship, trust, hope. She believes in him. He watches as Lumpy extends his thanks to her. When Mhyzah places her hands on his chest, Lumpy does not hesitate to cup his over hers affectionately. It's such an easy gesture, but so far from possible for Roan that it makes his heart ache. Roan's always admired Lumpy's ability to get close to people. He makes people feel comfortable—at least those who know enough to look beyond the Mor-Tick scars.

As quietly as Mhyzah appeared, she's gone.

“She seems to like you.”

“It's the oozing Mor-Tick pits. She knows looking hideous and potentially fatal separates me from the rest of humanity. Sort of the way fangs and blood drinking set her apart.” Lumpy grins. “Don't look so glum. Mhyzah knows how to take care of herself. What we're trying to do, it's just as important to her. She wants to help.”

“Even though I killed her father?”

“Because you came forward and admitted to killing her father,” Lumpy says emphatically. “If you hadn't, they would never have known who to fight with in the struggle ahead. That scar you were given, it's a bond. A bond between Mhyzah and you, a bond between you and the Hhroxhi.”

Clear skies have made the morning's ride easy, but the landscape has cast a pall over Roan and Lumpy. Charred stumps spread before them like a sea of ancient tombstones. This is all that remains of a forest that grew here long ago, a bleak reminder of Darius's destructive capabilities. Still, Roan wonders why no one has settled in this part of the Farlands. Some of the land around Longlight had once looked like this, but seeds had been planted and it had been made fruitful again. He cannot feel the Wazya's presence in this place at all. How do they choose to reclaim one spot over another?

Interrupting Roan's thoughts, Lumpy says, “Don't like the look of that.”

A massive bank of storm clouds is rapidly moving in from the northwest. “Will we get there before it hits us?” Roan asks gloomily.

With a disgruntled snort, Lumpy pulls out a makeshift map and examines it closely. “They live somewhere in those woods,” he says, pointing to a wavering band of green on the horizon. “We should be there by mid-afternoon. But those clouds will be on top of us in an hour.”

As lightning streaks across the barren landscape, Roan looks longingly at the forest ahead. The Apsara provided them with winter cloaks, but Roan knows they will be soaked through by the oncoming storm. As if simultaneously having the same thought, both he and Lumpy raise their hoods and urge their horses forward at greater speed.

By the time they reach the woodland, the rain has turned to sleet and the sky is so dark it's difficult to see. Signaling Lumpy, Roan slips under the cover of the tall conifers and dismounts. “Maybe we should walk the horses. Don't want to scare anyone off.”

Shaking the ice from their cloaks, the friends set off through the trees with quiet precision. But after only a few moments in the lush forest, Lumpy stops, awestruck. “They've been here. The Wazya. You can feel it.”

Roan's been so preoccupied with thoughts of Darius and his apparent omnipotence that he hadn't noticed the forest around him. Under the canopy of dense foliage, there's a rich verdant smell that makes him want to join Lumpy and breathe deeply. The only ones who seemed to be having any real success against Darius are the Wazya, growing forests like these, ensuring life still thrives under the Keeper's thumb. The contrast with the morning's landscape is startling.

Roan suddenly realizes that Darius never stopped waging his war. He had scattered the rebels and devastated the countryside but that hadn't been enough. He'd wanted the Farlands under his control. So he demoralized the people by stealing their children and taking the fruits of their labor. Or he tried to exterminate them—like the Apsara…like Longlight. A slow burning rage warms the pit of Roan's stomach. Even if it kills him, he's going to put an end to the war Darius began long ago.

Lumpy's cricket is perched on his shoulder and Roan looks down to see his own leaping onto his hand. Soon their song is answered by dozens of unseen others. The friends stand mesmerized listening to this secret language until it quiets abruptly.

“That sounded a lot like talking.”

“Well, at least it seemed friendly.”

“Lumpy, can you understand why the Wazya reclaimed this land and not where we were this morning?”

“I've been thinking about that too. Remember how after we'd sailed about four days out on the lake at Fairview, it started to change? The life in the water was slowly detoxifying it. Maybe what the Wazya try to do is find the best spot to start from and then the renewal spreads from that place. They must have planted these trees right after the wars.” As Lumpy scans the forest, he stops abruptly, pointing. “Look.”

Following the direction of Lumpy's finger through the needle-leafed trees, Roan sees a pair of horses grazing in a small corral.

“This is the spot,” Lumpy confirms, checking his map.

“But there's no sign of a dwelling.”

With a grin, Lumpy casually points a finger up. Roan peers into the dense foliage. “Are you sure?”

Lumpy shrugs. “According to Asp.”

“Give me a minute.”

Leaning against a tree, Roan takes a few deep breaths and in a very short time, his ether body follows his exhalation up through the leaves. When he comes to a structure made of woven branches he knows his search is over. Past the cleverly camouflaged walls is a rustic laboratory. Two middle-aged men in shabby robes sit at a table intently pouring liquids from one vial into another. Roan inspects every shelf and container of the rough-hewn room. There's no sign of Dirt. Or weapons.

Satisfied, Roan falls back into his body. “Found it,” he mouths to Lumpy with a grin, and locating the correct tree, begins his ascent.

“Don't forget this,” Lumpy whispers, holding out Roan's hook-sword.

But Roan shakes his head. “Won't need it,” he says, and reaching to the next branch, he pulls himself up and away.

Secure foot and handholds make the ascent as simple as climbing a ladder. Finding an opening at the base of the treehouse, he quietly lets himself in. The two men continue their work as Roan does something with his real body that his ether form cannot: to his relief, there is not the slightest scent of Dirt.

Roan clears his throat, but the men, utterly engrossed in their work, ignore him. “Excuse me,” he says, quite loudly, worried they might be hard of hearing. “Would you happen to be Othard and Imin?”

Both are visibly startled, but only one peers over his test tube to acknowledge the visitor. “I am Othard. Who are you?”

“My name is Roan of Longlight.”

Both physicians freeze as if confronted by some fantastic apparition.

“Roan? Of Longlight?” asks the other physician.

Roan nods. They stare at him quizzically, then at each other. Imin, presumably, stands up and pumps Roan's hand. “Forgive us. There is a virus in Farlands we are trying to defeat. It's become a rather absorbing obsession.”

“Brother Asp told me you might know how to find a place I'm looking for,” Roan says, wanting to get straight to the point.

“And what might that be?” Othard asks.

“The Foresight Academy,” Roan answers, almost causing Othard to tip his test tube over in its stand.

Imin leans against the table for support. “You planning on traveling there alone?”

“No,” admits Roan, “I've a friend.”

Othard and Imin share a worried look, before Imin asks: “Is he strong?”

“He's a Mor-Tick survivor.”

“That'd do it.”

Nodding in agreement, Othard bravely steps forward. “May we come along?”

The doctors wait, eyes wide, not breathing.

“I was hoping you'd ask,” Roan replies.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” they shout, embracing each other.

“You have no idea how long we've dreamed of going there,” says Imin, taking Roan's hand in his.

“But our responsibilities were huge, and the dangers in going to the Academy great,” Othard adds.

“We are not warriors like you...”

“…or as frightening in our countenance as a Mor-Tick survivor…”

“…so we dared not take the risk...”

“…but we did the calculations...”

“…and there's a good chance it's survived.” Imin stops, suddenly unsure, and peers at Roan. “The library. That's why you're going, isn't it? For the library?”

As Roan nods an assent to Imin, Othard reaches inside a cabinet and removes a false wall from the back. Inside is a rolled-up parchment. Withdrawing it, Othard explains, “It has taken years to piece this map together. Questioning the Dirt Eaters was not an option. It would have only increased their already growing suspicions of us. But there were clues. Clues in the library at Oasis, here and there.”

“Here and there,” Imin echoes, “in journals.”

“And letters,” Othard adds. “Duty rosters. Memorandum.”

“Doctors,” Roan interrupts. “The map?”

“This is it,” says Othard, tapping the roll in his hand.

“Did we mention,” interjects Imin, “the place is booby-trapped?”

“How do you know?” Roan asks.

“Rumors…”

“…Reports…”

“…Accounts...”

“…No one who's gone there has ever—”

“Yes! I understand. Thank you. Maybe you'd like to pack a few things for the trip?” says Roan, attempting to stem the tide.

“Oh! Are we going now?” asks Othard.

“Yes. Right now.”

“This is a great day, Roan of Longlight,” exclaims Imin, quickly throwing some clothes and notebooks into a pack.

As the two physicians charge toward the hatch and collide with each other, Roan can't help but wonder if he's made a mistake in inviting them along.

THE EXORCISM

MABATAN INTERVIEW 2.4.
WE WALKED FOR MANY YEARS WITH THE WHITE CRICKETS BEFORE WE KNEW THE LANGUAGE OF THEIR SONG. THEN WE UNDERSTOOD THAT THE EARTH SPOKE TO THEM, AND THROUGH THEM, ITS MESSAGE CAME TO US.

—GWENDOLEN'S CRICKET FILE

T
HE ROOM IS TOO SMALL.
The healer needs to writhe and scream and run—exhaustion might soothe and dampen her senses. Watching her claw the walls, Mabatan yearns for the quiet wetlands she called home. She can feel the paddle in her hand, the boat slipping through the current, smell the new growth all around her. Perhaps she will never see them again. The thought flits around her like a hungry fly, ready to land and bite the instant she weakens her guard.

The Dirt Eater's hair is limp with sweat; her eyes gleam with the rage that the craving brings. Mabatan dips a towel into a pail of cold water and offers it to the healer. “Keep chewing the leaf, it will help with the pangs.”

The healer twists the towel in her hands, panting. “You say the children are in the Dreamfield. You say I am to help them. How? You lie to me, Wazya. You lie. How can I help them if you deprive me of Dirt?”