The Keeper's Shadow (26 page)

“Are you familiar with these?” asks Imin.

“Well, it was a long time ago,” the old man says, tapping his nose. “And this one is definitely a different kettle of fish.” He pulls out a magnifying glass and gently probes the area around the subcutaneous device. “Look at this…it's a masterpiece. A horrid one, of course, but nevertheless...”

Roan eyes the old Gunther with renewed hope. “Do you know how to get it out?”

“Well, I…it's possible, of course, but…”

Algie bends forward to look at the Cleric's wounds and then at the two doctors huddled beside him. Imin and Othard solemnly shake their heads. “Ah. Since there is no hope for the fellow. Yes. Yes. I think there might be a way.”

DAUGHTER OF THE CITY

FOURTEEN WILL KEEP WATCH AND BLESS THE LAND WHERE THEY LAY WITH THEIR INNOCENCE. FOURTEEN TO BE BORNE BY A DRAGON UNTIL SHE WHO WAS LOST IS FOUND AND WHAT HAS BEEN BROKEN IS MADE WHOLE AGAIN.

—STEPPE,
VISION #78, YEAR 5 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE

W
ILLUM TELLS
S
TOWE STORIES.
All the happy stories he remembers about his childhood escapades with Torin, Resa, and of course, Kira. And Stowe is laughing. He glimpses in her wide grin and crinkled, sparkling eyes the girl she would have been in other circumstances. He wishes he could keep her laughing and joyful forever, but with a sinking heart he sees that they've arrived at the ancient road that leads into the City.

“What's wrong, Willum?” Stowe asks, her smile gone, her brow furrowed.

“It will not be long now,” he replies, reining in his mount.

Stopping alongside him, Stowe looks at him wistfully. They have grown familiar, the warmth between them a comfort. They will have to abandon that now.

“I'm afraid, Willum.”

“You must make your fear serve you, Stowe.”

“I know, it's just…” She trails off, staring down the road ahead, her mind closed to him.

“You have doubts.”

“Questions. Questions I'm not sure you can answer, or will want to answer.”

Willum waits, his silence the only encouragement he can offer.

Stowe sighs, frustrated. “I hate it when you do that.”

Willum smiles.

“And that,” she says pointedly. “Why did our great-grandfather take on this responsibility? Why did he feel it was his fault? I know he discovered the Dirt and what it could do, but Darius was the one who abused it. He was the one who built the Constructions that are destroying the Dreamfield. Him and the Dirt Eaters.”

“He accepted responsibility because the other Masters would not.”

“That's it?” Stowe exclaims in disbelief.

“Roan of the Parting discovered the Dirt and how to use it. He found an opening into the world that is the source of all life, then invited in a group of plunderers. He allowed himself to overuse the Dirt and realized too late that his obsession had impaired his judgment.”

“So we have to pay, possibly with our lives, for our great-grandfather's addiction?”

Willum sighs. “Stowe, you know it is not that simple.”

“Oh? You certainly make it sound that way.”

Willum breathes deeply.

“You're doing it again,” Stowe snips. Willum waits for her mounting frustration to turn in on itself. Like a powerful undertow, it scrapes his surface but ultimately it withdraws.

“And what about our great-grandmother—what was her name again?”

“Aithuna.”

“Why did she help? The Wazya weren't responsible. Why take that on? You and Kira, I understand. Your people were decimated by Darius. Your parents killed by Clerics. You have reasons.”

“The Wazya view themselves as guardians, Stowe. If they see a hurt child, they do not wait for the person responsible to be brought to justice. They help the child. If they see a forest destroyed, they do not wait to petition those who destroyed it. They go out themselves and work to purify the soil. They collect and plant the seeds.”

“What do hurt children and planting seeds have to do with us?”

“Stowe. The Novakin represent all the hurt children. And we are the seeds…the seeds of Darius's destruction.”

Willum watches Stowe determine the implications of what he's said, the key events of their histories flashing across the curtain of her memory: the plague unleashed on the Apsara, the killing of his parents, and then hers, the destruction of her home, her corruption by Darius, her brother's weathered face, the warm glow that radiates from his heart despite all that has happened. Willum sees her eyes shift in the desperate struggle between the fragility of her love and the power of her hate. It is not long before she does as she must and the petulant, angry child is gone as surely as the joyful one. It is almost as if her skin has changed and she's become hard, an infanta of steel. When her gaze shifts to meet his, its watery veil reflects only light and it too seems armored.

“It's all very clear to me now. Thank you, my Primary.” Spurring her horse forward, she rides with her back straight, the way she's seen Ende ride. Regally. Like a queen. Like…Our Stowe.

Stowe can finally see the towers of the City in the distance. Dust rises from the ruins littering the landscape. The City once stretched this far in the time before the meteor fell and the great wars destroyed the land. Now all that is left is the core, much of it rebuilt by her adopted father, the Keeper of the City.

On this exposed road, it hadn't taken long for her nose and hands to become so chilled that she had to disappear into her cloak. It was irrational, she knew, but she also felt more comfortable physically hidden from Willum. He'd respected her silence, of course; she was glad of that—and angry at the same time. But if he'd spoken, she might—just might—have started to cry. And that was a luxury she could not allow herself. Not now. Not ever. This seed had blossomed into a Nethervine flower and she wanted Darius to come and smell her. Oh, yes. Close. Very close. And then he'd feel her thorns.

Pulling up alongside her, Willum can't help but add one last piece of advice. “Whatever happens, Stowe, never doubt the power of the people's faith in you. And in the prophecies. Remember: we must slide very carefully on the edge of that blade until it settles against our enemy's throat.”

She looks into her teacher's guarded face and dispenses with all her regrets.
Cousin
, she says, reaching into his mind.
Cousin, goodbye
.

Goodbye, cousin
—the words melt over her like a father's hug, and she buries them deep so that even she might never find them again.

“Do you see?” Willum points. A cloud of dust is rapidly approaching. As it draws closer, Stowe identifies the vehicles and shiny weapons. Clerics—perimeter guards, a touchy lot.

Remember our plan, Stowe.

I will not forget, my Primary.
The thoughts she sends him are confident. She knows it is possible Darius will see through the alibi she and Willum have concocted—the Eldest has eyes behind his eyes. But she has knowledge, secrets, powerful ones that have put Darius in perspective. He's still scary, all right, but more for the damage he can do than the person that he is—that person has weaknesses, many weaknesses, and she will exploit them all.

As the Clerics screech to a halt, Willum places a hand on his horse's neck to calm it. He looks on blithely as the perimeter guards point their weapons, anxious for any excuse to fire.

Their captain scowls. “Who are you, and where do you think you're going?”

“I have been away, but now I have returned,” says Stowe, her voice warm and reaching none too subtly for the man's heart.

“Have you…papers?” the captain says haltingly.

Lowering her hood, Stowe reveals her face.

The Clerics can only stare, stunned. Then they gasp, falling to their knees. “Our Stowe!”

Stowe allows herself a smile, a benevolent one, as she directs her horse to move past them.

With Willum riding close on her left, they slip inconspicuously through the City gates. Instantly confronted by a gigantic billboard of herself shrouded in black cloth, Stowe whispers, “They're making quite a show of my absence.”

“Master Querin has always had a genius for the telling image.”

“Master Querin makes my hair stand on end.” Stowe shivers dramatically, turning to smile at Willum. But he is looking ahead, unresponsive.

Giddy to be back, for a moment she forgot to be careful. Not good. Everything she says, every gesture, every expression will be scrutinized by Darius. She must not let down her guard.

As they approach the Pyramid, more and more people rush into the streets. Hundreds, thousands of citizens pour out of their offices and homes, desperate for a glimpse of Our Stowe. People rush up to touch her feet and press their tear-stained faces against her cloak, but they never push or pressure her in any way. Willum's surrounded her with a shimmering golden light. Gold is the strongest of all colors, so strong most people cannot tolerate it, even though they cannot see it. She notices the faces of the crowd when they touch it. Awe. Coupled with fear. They reach, but not for long and not too close. She's learnt a lot from Willum on the journey here, about the light, its different colors and their meanings. With practice, she too will be able to control it like he can.

A feverish chant begins: “Our Stowe! Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”

Inching closer to their destination, she feels bathed in an icy stare. There, on the landing, framed by the grand entrance of the Pyramid, is Darius. At his side stands Master Querin. What Darius does not see, Querin will. Willum's teachings echo through these thoughts, dispelling her fears: Listen to the people. Use them.

Stowe and Willum dismount at the foot of the Pyramid. A path has been forged through the frantic crowd that leads straight up to the Keeper of the City. She ascends the stairs, head held high, counting each step to maintain her calm. One…two…by the fiftieth step, she can see that Darius's face is frozen, his eyes cold. Querin is more skilled at deception; the smile on his face seems genuine. Perhaps it is—he's no doubt already translating her arrival into grist for his propaganda mill.

When Stowe finally glides onto the landing, Darius holds open his arms and without hesitation, Stowe runs into them. The screams of the citizens are deafening. Then, keeping one of his withered arms around her waist, he turns to the crowd and holds up a hand. Silence.

This entire level is an amplification platform and Darius needs only to whisper for his voice to boom over invisible speakers, giving him the illusion of omnipotence. “Did I not promise? Has she not been delivered? Yes! Our angel of mercy has returned! Back into the loving arms of the Conurbation. She has come to care for her people. We stand on the threshold of a new age. Our Stowe will lead us across it!”

“Our Stowe, Our Stowe, Our Stowe!”

She looks down at the masses who eagerly await a word from her, any word. For a moment she stands silently, projecting vulnerability and sweetness and unconditional love. Then, just as the crowd's muted anticipation has been pushed to its limit, her voice reaches out to each and every individual, as if her words were meant for each one alone. “I left the City hoping to discover the future promised by the prophecies. I walked long in the wilderness. I searched the Devastation. Listened in the towns. But always the City called to me. The City is my home. It is my destiny. I am back and I will never leave you again.”

“Our Stowe! Our Stowe!” Arms flail in the air as the people shriek out her name. They push against the Clerics who line up, forcing them back. It is not long before the throng breaks through the cordon, people trampling each other in their desperation to get closer to Our Stowe. Quickly opening the doors behind them, Master Querin gently guides Stowe and the others safely into the Pyramid.

“Go to your rooms and rest,” Darius coolly commands. “I will summon you shortly.”

With her sweetest smile and most open look, and allowing a quiet tearfulness to color her words, Stowe says, “How I've missed you, Father.”

There is the slightest twitch in the corner of Darius's left eye as she keeps her gaze locked on his. Only a detail, she will not allow herself to make too much of it. Then she uses Willum's most effective tool and waits. She allows a polite amount of yearning to address her features. As if she were longing for him to say the same, call her Daughter, as if she has come back only for this. She knows she's won when he turns on his heel, Querin trailing behind him.

Darius has just been dismissed.

Stowe barely had time to change before the Cleric came knocking. Now, as he escorts her down the corridor, she takes in the marble floors, the glass hallways, even the claws on the shining doorknob that grants entrance to Darius's quarters. All the same. The only change she noticed during the interminable walk down the corridor is in her. Now she stands balanced, not trembling in fear. She and Willum determined her best hope would be to open herself completely to Darius, to speak only the truth, but to parcel it out, as if recalling it by accident. He must have no reason to suspect her—if he probes into the recesses of her mind where the whole truth lies hidden, all will be lost.

“Enter.” Darius's voice is gentle, a ploy, she knows, to put her off her guard. Stepping into the room, Stowe bows to Master Querin. He stands in a dark corner, the better to intimidate her. The Eldest, however, sits apparently relaxed behind his chrome and crystal desk, positioned below two portraits: one of himself in his most splendid robes, and another of Stowe at her most beatific, the way he likes her. In the dim light, she can see the glimmer around both men.

Stowe lowers her head in shame and deference to Darius.

“So. You were not abducted?” Querin's amused tone strikes her as irritably condescending. Luckily she is past being affected by such simplistic gambits.