The Keeper's Shadow (17 page)

“S
TOWE
? A
RE YOU UP THERE
?” S
HE SEES HER BROTHER'S FACE AND SILENTLY GIGGLING, DROPS THE APPLE
. H
E MOVES JUST IN TIME TO AVOID IT AND YELLS UP AT HER,
“S
TOWE, YOU'RE IN FOR IT NOW
!” U
NABLE TO HOLD BACK ANY LONGER, SHE EXPLODES WITH LAUGHTER
.

“S
TOWE…
S
TOWE
?”

S
TOWE'S TERRACOTTA EYES OPEN
. I
T'S HER FATHER, TENDING HER
. “I
WAS DREAMING AGAIN
.”

“H
OW OLD WERE YOU THIS TIME
?”

“I
DON'T KNOW…SIX OR SEVEN
. I
WAS IN THE
H
OLLOW
F
OREST, UP IN
B
IG
E
MPTY
. R
OAN WAS THERE
.” S
TOWE SMILES
. “I
DROPPED AN APPLE ON HIS HEAD
!”

B
UT HER FATHER DOESN'T LAUGH
.

“W
HAT'S WRONG
?”

“N
OTHING
.”

“D
ON'T LIE,
”
SHE COMPLAINS.
“I
S THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY DREAMS
?”

“N
O
. O
F COURSE NOT
.” H
E PAUSES AS IF STRUGGLING TO FIND THE CORRECT WORDS
. “I
T'S ONLY…WE'D HOPED YOU WOULD HAVE RECOVERED MORE…BEFORE
…”

K
NOWING NOW THE REASON FOR HER FATHER'S SADNESS,
S
TOWE SHIVERS
. T
HE MEMORIES, THE DREAMS, THIS TIME SHE'S SHARED WITH HER PARENTS—IT HAS ALL BEEN PARADISE
. U
NDER THEIR CARE AND THE PROTECTION OF THE SOULS OF
L
ONGLIGHT, SHE'S HEALING, GROWING BACK WHAT WAS LOST WHEN—THE MERE THOUGHT OF IT FILLS HER WITH REVULSION
.

“I
DON'T WANT TO GO,
”
SHE WHISPERS.
“N
OT YET
.”

H
ER MOTHER JOINS THEM, EYES DARK AND DEEP.
“D
ARLING,
”
SHE SAYS, THEN PAUSES, POSTPONING THE INEVITABLE, IF ONLY FOR ONE LAST MOMENT
.

“M
OMMA,
I'
M NOT READY,
” S
TOWE BEGS
. “I'
M STILL SICK.
L
OOK AT ME
. I'
M STILL BROKEN.
”

H
ER FATHER MOVES CLOSER TO HER, RAISES HIS HAND AND TOUCHES HER BROW
. I
N THAT INSTANT, HER CLAY EXTERIOR FALLS AWAY AND
S
TOWE LOOKS WONDERING AT HER OWN BODY
. S
HE FEELS HERSELF, NOT QUITE BELIEVING THAT NOTHING'S MISSING
.

“T
HE HOLE THAT
F
ERRELL LEFT IS HERE,” HER FATHER SAYS, HIS HAND OVER HER HEART
. “Y
OU COULD STAY HERE AN ETERNITY, AND STILL IT MIGHT NEVER COMPLETELY HEAL
.”

S
TOWE FEELS THE AIR AROUND HER CHANGE
. S
ICK WITH FEAR, SHE CRIES,
“H
OW CAN
I
BE STRONG ENOUGH TO FIGHT, TO SURVIVE
D
ARIUS, WHEN
I
HAVE THIS GAPING NOTHINGNESS INSIDE
?”

H
ER PARENTS DO NOT SPEAK BUT THEIR EYES ARE INFINITELY ELOQUENT
. T
HERE IS NO QUESTION OF BARGAINING FOR TIME
. N
OTHING SHE SAYS WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE
. I
T IS NOT THEIR DECISION
.

“D
ARIUS WILL TORTURE ME,
”
SHE SAYS, TEARS ROLLING DOWN HER CHEEKS
. “H
E'LL USE ME AND THEN, WHEN HE'S DONE, HE'LL KILL ME AND THROW MY BODY TO THE DOGS
!”

“S
TOWE
!” H
ER MOTHER'S VOICE SLASHES HER LIKE A SLAP, BUT MOVING CLOSER, SHE PUTS HER ARMS AROUND
S
TOWE, AND STROKING HER HAIR, SHE SIGHS
. “D
ARIUS WILL NOT KILL YOU
. H
E WILL NOT
. Y
OU ARE TOO STRONG
.” S
TOWE FEELS HER MOTHER'S TEARS BLEND WITH HER OWN
. H
OLDING
S
TOWE'S HEAD SO THAT SHE CAN LOOK DEEPLY INTO HER DAUGHTER'S EYES, SHE ADDS,
“N
EVER, NEVER FORGET THAT
.”

“P
LEASE, KEEP ME WITH YOU
!” S
TOWE WHIMPERS
. S
HE CLINGS TO HER PARENTS DESPERATELY, BUT A GREAT GUST LIFTS HER, AND SHE FLIES UP, FINGERS FUTILELY REACHING FOR HER FATHER'S OUTSTRETCHED HAND
.

Willum hesitates outside the door but it opens instantly. Ende has always been especially sensitive to his presence and he has never been able to shield himself from her. She sits behind the one candle illuminating her chamber and its wavering light carves deep hollows in her aged face as she gestures for him to join her.

“Please, Willum. I would like to speak my mind with you, thoughts I cannot share with my warriors. You may refuse; you are not bound to this favor.”

But of course he is bound. By blood. By the deep pain of wounds never healed, impossible to heal, and left to fester. By the legacy of Darius and the Dirt. And sitting across from her in the dim light he says only, “I will listen.”

“Watching all the men of my family,” she begins, her voice heavy with grief, “all the men of my people, suffer through Darius's plague, has left me with memories I have never been able to dispel and of late they afflict my every waking moment. Leading meditation and training, conducting council, preparing food, teaching the young ones, these activities have always sustained me, but now nothing keeps the images of the past at bay. They wash over me as if they had only happened yesterday and not fifty years ago—blood seeping from the eyes and ears of our men and boys, the desperate unceasing coughing that ripped them apart from the inside, the blisters pooled under their flesh that burst at our slightest touch. There was no relief that we could give. No herb, no balm, no soothing caress. I was eighteen when I watched them all die, all those fathers and husbands and sons. My rage would not quiet and so I left to wander the Devastation. The man who became your grandfather found me. Zoun trained me in the way of the Wazya. I learned control, but control is not a cure. And now I dream increasingly of the knife I might hold to that monster Darius's throat.”

Though his grandmother holds her anguish at bay, Willum sees it in her blank stare, the way her fingers smooth the line of the wood grain on the table, the deep and even rhythm of her breath being strictly controlled.

“I am going to cede my position to Kira, Willum. The bloodlust is in me and it is strong. I will continue to advise, but only in consultation with Roan. That boy is determined that this be a bloodless conflict—impossible, of course, but it will keep my head clear and directed at the preservation of the individuals in my army, rather than the destruction of my enemy at any cost.

“Willum, I was always more skilled at soothing your sorrow than I was at helping Kira. I identified too strongly with her desperate anger and I did not prevent her from nurturing it. And so, Kira is a bit…impetuous—” at this, Willum could not help but smile, “as you know; so is Wolf. But again, we can be thankful that Roan considers everything before he acts, and so a balance is obtained.”

Pausing, Ende leans forward and places her hand over his
. One of his grandmother's most trusted lieutenants, Petra, eyes wide and lifeless, dropping from Ende's arms. A cry so piercing, death rides on it as surely as it directs its instrument. Ende's sword so quick, its passage is only determined by the blood that suspends against the sky in its wake until
—

Willum pulls his hand from hers so abruptly, hope of concealment is impossible; besides, Ende's stern gaze does not permit him to look away.

“My fate is written by my history, Willum. I have awaited it a long time. But Kira…Willum, do I make the right choice?”

Willum wants to say nothing. To
see
is a curse. He may have been given this vision because he has a part in determining the fate he has witnessed. But what did it mean, really? And what could he possibly say? If he told her what he had
seen
of Petra's death or of Kira suffering in the dungeons of the City, would it save them, or simply ensure their fate?

Since Willum feels there is no viable alternative to what Ende intends, he says, “Yes.” But he worries that this one word, this simple utterance spoken to relieve his grandmother's burden, might cost both Kira and Ende their lives.

A BROTHER RETURNS

THOUGH ROAN OF LONGLIGHT WAS ACKNOWLEDGED AS THE TITULAR HEAD OF THE BROTHERS, HIS TRUE ACCEPTANCE DID NOT OCCUR UNTIL HE HAD RECEIVED THE TOUCH OF FIRE AND COULD BE CALLED PROPHET OF THE FRIEND.

—ORIN'S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

T
HE LAST FIVE DAYS HAVE BEEN THE WORST
Roan's experienced in all his travels. Their troubles began right after he and Lumpy parted ways with Kamyar. As soon as the storyteller announced that there was no need to overdo a good thing by arriving at the Brothers' camp too early, the rain started pelting down. And when darkness arrived—hours before it should—the rain fell frozen, sticking to their cloaks and assaulting their horses. The intense cold made it especially difficult to stay awake, to keep watch, and the icy ground made morning travel treacherous.

But, blissfully, today has dawned with sunlight and a warm wind from the south. And, having spread their capes over their horses' rumps to dry as they ride, the two friends feel, if not comfortable, at least a little thawed.

The sun is high in the sky when they stop at a pebbled trail Roan remembers all too well. He'd traveled it on Saint's motorcycle, first as a prisoner, then as a friend. How easily he'd trusted him. Saint's betrayal was the first of Roan's life and it angers him that it has left such a scar. Not visible like the one on his chest, but much deeper and more damaging. Seeing his friend's enquiring face, he explains, “I feel like this is my last moment of freedom. Once we cross into that valley, everything changes.”

“Well, the horses could use a rest,” Lumpy offers, and without hesitation he dismounts from his piebald mare and leads her to water.

Giving me time, Roan thinks. A small moment of nothing but the warmth of the sun, the smell of the earth and the babble of water slowly smoothing pebbles in the stream. A brief respite, to be nothing but myself.

They linger at the edge of a long meadow that reaches down into the valley. Sheltered from the winds and icy rains, the last greens of autumn still thrive here. While the horses graze, Lumpy leans against an ancient gnarled tree still clinging to the gold-flecked crimson of its dying leaves, his nose in a small book he borrowed from the Apsara to practice his reading. Roan, for his part, spends the afternoon listening to the whisper of life all around him as if it were the most important activity in the world. But when the sunset casts its radiant hue over the mountain, he knows they can delay no longer. Still, Roan allows his horse a slow gait as they follow the stream that leads to the Brothers' camp.

Try as he might to extend this moment of serenity, it is not long before the gully of jagged rocks and tall trees at the camp's base comes into view and they are greeted by a deafening peal of bells.

“So much for downplaying our arrival!” yells Lumpy.

High in the trees Roan can see the platforms where Brothers armed with crossbows keep watch. Saint chose this place because the gully created a natural fortress. There's only one path into the Brothers' camp, and Roan and Lumpy urge their horses up it. Passing through a row of huge boulders, they reach the plateau and are confronted by some fifty armed warriors captained by Brothers Wolf and Stinger.

“Roan of Longlight!” shouts Stinger.

The Brothers raise their swords in salute. “Roan! Roan, Roan, Roan!” they cry, then stand at attention, silent.

Lumpy leans inconspicuously toward Roan. “I think they're waiting for you to say something,” he whispers.

As Roan scans the men's faces, the bull from his vision appears in his mind's eye. Craning its neck so that its dark eyes burrow into his, it speaks with Rat's voice:
The blood of the bull, you know it
.

Roan's hand touches his hook-sword. He immediately grips it, and swings it over his head. “The Friend!” he calls out.

The men pump their swords in the air, replying, “The Friend! The Friend! The Friend!”

Turning to dismount, Roan notes Lumpy's incredulous grin and shrugs. Trying to maintain some composure, the two studiously apply themselves to unbinding their rucksacks.

“Welcome, Roan of Longlight,” says Stinger, directing a novitiate toward their horses. But when the Brother-in-training sees Lumpy, he nervously backs away. By his third step, Wolf's grabbed him by the collar. “He is Roan of Longlight's Lieutenant! Take the horses and groom them well.” Stepping toward Lumpy, Wolf lowers his voice. “They have been advised, but their fears are old ones, ones of survival, and are not so easily shed.”

“As long as they don't start throwing stones,” Lumpy replies lightly, but Roan can hear in the tightness of his tone all the old injuries flaring up.

The novitiate, face flushed, gingerly takes the reins from Lumpy and leads the horses away.

“Roan of Longlight,” Wolf hesitates, looking uncomfortably at Stinger.

“Brother Wolf would like to conduct class before nightfall,” Stinger quickly interjects.

“Forgive me, Brother Wolf,” Roan apologizes. “Please, make no changes in your schedule on my account.”

Accepting Roan's leave, Wolf strides toward the center of camp. The power and economy in his every step remind Roan how much he'd loved Wolf's classes. He remembers the day Wolf gave him his hook-sword, one of two identical ones his father had made. “One was for me,” Wolf had said, “the other for my greatest pupil.”