The Keeper's Shadow (37 page)

“The explosion was in the barracks…the others are…in the library…with the wounded.”

“Losses?” asks Wolf.

Lumpy, trembling, takes a deep breath, his eyes welling. “Two. They were making tea in…in the kitchen, they…” Lumpy stares at Roan. “Gunther Number Seventy-Nine…”

Gwendolen? Roan shakes his head, not wanting to believe it. Of all the Gunthers, she was the most curious, the gentlest; she even let herself smile. His breath stops when Mejan and Talia walk toward him, holding each other, weeping.

“…and Dobbs,” says Lumpy. “Dobbs...”

THE OVERSHADOWER

EVERY CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTIVELY CREATES THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. BUT EVERY CONSCIOUSNESS CARRIES A SHADOW AND IF THOSE SHADOWS GATHER, THEY CAN SPAWN A GREAT DARKNESS. A DARKNESS CAPABLE OF SNUFFING OUT ALL LIGHT.

—THE JOURNAL OF ROAN OF THE PARTING

A
S IF DINNER HAD NOT BEEN INTERMINABLE ENOUGH,
Darius has been toying with this groveling Governor Pollard for an hour, like a bored cat with a squeaking mouse. The Governor apparently has felt her brother's sting, assaults on his supply caravans a daily event, or so it would seem from the way he whines on. The Keeper, naturally, parries every complaint with an accusation. The City requires oil to run smoothly. Oil is a necessity. To withhold it is treachery. Stowe's attempting to concentrate, for Roan's sake, sure something of value is being said. But the sniveler's numerous justifications and proofs are no competition for her worry about Willum.

Those greedy little butchers had hovered over his body like flies over a corpse. She'd had to confront them in her most imperious tone for them not to begin gutting him on the spot. Eyes flitting constantly in her direction for approval, the doctors had tentatively begun attaching electrodes to Willum's head when she'd seen it: a blue tendril of iridescent flame curling around the pad and up the wire. Claiming a headache, she'd demanded that the lights be lowered, so that she might see more clearly. A haze of firelike light covered him like a second skin, like…armor. She'd reached out in as supercilious a manner as possible—it would not do to have any of them think she really cared—and penetrated the shield.

Her hand had instantly been bathed in blue flame; it had prickled her skin, but almost instantly receded, one of Willum's fingers twitching under her own. She'd felt a warmth she'd not realized was absent return to her. He was in there, somewhere deep, had descended into an unreachable place even Darius could not probe, for protection. This halo of light had to be a warning system, a protective layer that, if breached by something it recognized as life-threatening, would wake him.

Was she right? How could she be sure? Those doctors could not be trusted; she'd seen the hunger in their eyes. But the iridescent flame had curled over her finger, like a ring binding her to him. A ring. She'd reached into her pocket to stealthily withdraw her half of the badger ring and slip it over the curl of flame. A thread had raced from her forehead through her throat, and piercing her heart, had traveled down her arm to join the now glowing ring. Its rich crimson had floated through Willum's opalescent flame like blood. Blending into a deep purple, it had hovered for an instant over the badger's eye before being pulled into it. She could feel their combined power contained in the ring, throbbing like a pulse. And, for the past four days, she's clutched it, sensitive to any alteration in its steady beat.

“Are we boring you, my sweet?”

Startled, Stowe adopts her most daringly disaffected persona. Tilting her face so only Darius can see it, she says sweetly, “Of course not, Father. I was only wondering what on earth we need Governors for?”

Darius cackles and a burst of smalt green energy shoots from his mouth in a jagged bolt of light. The wretched Governor twitches. Blood spurts over the man's brow. His eyes dart back and forth as he feels a drip rolling down his nose. Touching it, he sees the blood. He's so terrified, it's difficult not to feel sorry for him. But Stowe's heard enough to know this one is no innocent. He's cut from the same cloth as Brack, the Governor that she'd—“Didn't you send Raven to kill one of them awhile ago?” she asks, mischievously.

“Where did you hear that, Daughter?”

“Is it only a rumor, then?”

“Rumors always have some basis in fact.” Darius stands, the full weight of his presence bearing down on the Governor. “Betrayals demand justice, do they not, Pollard?”

“Yes, Archbishop. Yes. Of course,” Pollard stammers, dabbing his handkerchief to his nose. Stowe could see he was concentrating on getting out of the room alive. Still, the man's mouth was opening and closing like a fish choking on air.

“Have you something to add, Governor?” Darius demands impatiently.

“I have been asked to deliver a prayer to Our Stowe.”

“Oh?” Stowe feigns an excited interest and offering her most condescending smile, she waits.

Pollard looks nervously from Darius to Stowe. “May I…?”

Stowe turns to Darius. Ah. It is he who is bored now, his mind has moved onto more interesting intrigues. Just as well.

“Please, Governor,” she says, her voice encouraging.

“Our Stowe. Your children awake screaming. A demon comes in the night to swallow our dreams. We sleep but are not rested. We eat but are not made strong. Our thoughts scatter on the wind and our work lies undone. Our Stowe, daughter of light, turn your merciful eye upon us that we may be blessed again under your protection.”

Stowe thinks about the memory Roan had shared with her. Throughout the entire Dreamfield, pulsing amorphous forms moved through a veinlike grid, all headed for the Spiracal. Most of them coming from areas far beyond the Masters' control. Was Darius's Throne leaving the Overshadower so hungry that it was reaching out to some other power source? Could it steal people's dreams? It might be that the Governor's demon was one and the same as their own.

“You are dismissed, Governor.” Darius's voice sends an icy chill up Stowe's spine. Had he been listening after all? She casts her eyes down.

As soon as Pollard is gone, she turns back to the monster at her side and asks as if nothing had happened in between, “But Father, why
do
we have Governors? Why not just send a Master to manage the Farlands?”

Darius blinks. She's actually taken him off guard. At least for an instant. Then his eyes narrow.

“Smart girl like you and you haven't guessed,” he hisses.

“But Father, why should I have given it any thought?”

“Precisely the question I'm asking myself.”

Stowe giggles girlishly. There it is again, only a flicker this time, but he's genuinely surprised. “The man was such an idiot, Father. Unworthy to be in your presence. And so I was struck by how unnecessary he was, really. Am I wrong to think that? Was there more to him than I saw?”

Darius seems suddenly exhausted. He believes her and is maybe…disappointed. It is very difficult to keep her glee at bay. As if warning her against overconfidence, the ring begins to throb in her palm. Something's changed. Not in a good way, she's sure of it.

“No, Daughter, you are not wrong. If I could send Masters to control the Farlands, I would, but we are tied to the City in more ways than I am willing to explain right at the moment. I am weary and have yet to give myself over to deliberation on tomorrow's challenges. What about you? What will you do with the rest of this evening, Daughter?”

“Whatever I do, Father, I shall do it with you in mind,” Stowe says, gently caressing the thickly veined hands. His skin has a sickeningly unnatural smell that makes her want to retch. The ring has become hot, a burning heat that she can only identify as a threat. It is all she can do not to bolt from the room, but that wouldn't be wise, not at all. Power has a laziness to it, an inertia; it's important never to be the first one to make a move. So she waits for Darius to wave her away, then smiling sweetly, she turns and sweeps out of the room as if he were not capable of throwing a knife into her back and piercing her heart.

Rushing down the corridor, Stowe sees an empty wheelchair. With a flick of her wrist, she twirls it so that it rushes ahead of her. She can see the light from Willum's room spilling into the dim corridor. Bursting in, she cannot believe her eyes. Chest bared, Willum is thrashing on the bed. Metal cuffs have been snapped around his wrists and ankles, and metal bars cross his shoulders and hips. His head is completely contained within a metal cylinder. One doctor is poised, scalpel in hand, but all heads are now twisted toward Stowe.

“Our Stowe,” they mumble, all bowing their heads but not moving. Not yet.

“Why, Doctors, you have revived my Primary!” She grants them each a benevolent smile, then fixes on Willum, trying to ascertain the damage. There is a line drawn from his collarbone all the way down his torso…the proposed path of the scalpel still poised to slice. “Could you remove the restraints now?” She's happy to see the doctors recognize a command when they hear one.

Behind her veneer of twittering pleasure, she's wondering if Darius ordered this, and prays her attempt at guilelessness is convincing.

As they remove the helmet, Willum smiles at her weakly. “Oh, look! He's smiling. Isn't that sweet?” she says as if speaking of a favorite pet. “I was so hoping he'd be well enough for a ride.”

Waving the remaining doctors aside, she holds Willum's arm and helps him into the wheelchair. She catches his eye without speaking, without thought. She knows exactly where she must take him, and grinning a gracious goodbye to the doctors, whisks him from the room, down the long corridors, and through a transparent passage into the adjacent building. Negotiating a maze of halls, she finally arrives at one of the smaller, less conspicuous Travel Rooms.

“I fear I lack the strength, Stowe,” Willum whispers.

“Believe me, Willum, it is just what you need.”

Securing the door behind her, she helps Willum onto one of the glass recliners. Cautiously, she touches a pinpoint of blood seeping through his hastily thrown-on shirt.

“I'll recover. But I am weak.”

“The Dirt Eaters' Wall helped me, Willum. I know it will do the same for you. Will you need Dirt?”

Willum laughs. “No. If you give me your hand, that will be enough.” He lays his head back. He's so tired. They'd drawn him out of wherever he was too soon.

Grasping his hand, Stowe reaches for his mind.
Willum
.

I am here, Stowe.
And in an instant, they are gone.

W
HEN
S
TOWE HEARS THE FAMILIAR THRUM OF THE
W
ALL, SHE DRAWS THE HAWK CLOSER TO HER CHEST
. W
ILLUM'S FEATHERS ARE DULL AND HIS TALON'S GRIP ON HER WRIST DISTURBINGLY WEAK
. P
LUNGING INTO THE GREAT SHIMMERING CURTAIN, THEY ARE BOMBARDED BY A CASCADE OF EFFERVESCENT COLOR
. C
AREFULLY EXTENDING THE HAWK AT ARM'S LENGTH, SHE WATCHES AS HE IS BATHED IN THE FULL SPECTRUM OF THE
W
ALL'S LIGHT
. A
RCING BACK, SHE MARVELS AT HOW BEAUTIFUL HE LOOKS, RE-ENERGIZED, THE SHEEN RETURNING TO HIS FEATHERS, HIS EYES BECOMING KEEN AND BRIGHT
.

“W
E HAVE GOTTEN WHAT WE HAVE COME FOR,
”
HE SAYS.
“I'
D RATHER NOT ENCOUNTER THE
D
IRT
E
ATERS TODAY
.”

“W
E SHOULD GO CHECK UNDER THE
S
PIRACAL
. S
EE THE
O
VERSHADOWER FOR OURSELVES
. I
COULD SAY THAT MY SEARCH FOR
R
OAN AND THE CHILDREN DREW ME THERE
.”

W
ILLUM HESITATES, BUT ONLY FOR A MOMENT
. “A
LRIGHT
. E
NVISION THE
S
PIRACAL
.”

A
ND WITH A THOUGHT THEY ARE AT THE
C
ONSTRUCTION'S RAPIDLY CHURNING CLOUD
. T
HE PROBLEM IS THEY HAVE TO KEEP THEIR DISTANCE
. G
ET TOO CLOSE AND YOUR
D
REAMFORM IS ABSORBED IN A BURST OF FLAME;
D
ARIUS HAS EXECUTED MANY A
M
ASTER HERE
.

S
TOWE SHUDDERS
. “I
SENSE…HUNGER
. T
HE
O
VERSHADOWER
?”

“Y
ES
.” W
ILLUM'S HAWK EYE GLINTS RED
.

“S
O…HOW DO WE GET TO IT
?”

“W
E MUST SEND SOMETHING DOWN
.” T
HE HAWK TURNS HIS HEAD, AND DIGGING HIS BEAK INTO HIS BREAST, PULLS OUT A FEATHER
. “E
NDOW IT WITH YOUR BEING
. I
SHALL DO THE SAME
. T
HEN CRYSTALLIZE IT SO IT WILL NOT BURST INTO FLAME
. I
T WILL BE OUR EYES
.”

T
HE CRYSTALLINE FEATHER FLOATS FOR AN INSTANT BEFORE BEING SUCKED INTO THE
S
PIRACAL
. I
T SPINS IN A STEADILY DECREASING SPIRAL UNTIL IT IS HURLED INTO THE MUCK OF A HUGE BLACK PIT
. C
LINGING TO ITS SLIMY WALLS ARE VAPORS, HUMAN-SHAPED LIKE THE ONE SHE SAW DRAWN FROM THE ENABLER, THEIR FACES CLENCHED IN TORMENT
. L
ONG SCABROUS ARMS SWIPE AT THEM WITH CLAWED HANDS, UNTIL TUMBLING HELPLESS, THEY ARE INHALED BY A MONSTROUS MOUTH THAT SPANS THE BASE OF THE PIT
. T
WO UNBLINKING GREEN EYES SWIM IN THE POOLS OF GORE AROUND IT AND SHIFT ASYMMETRICALLY, SCANNING THEIR DANK EMPIRE
.

I
T'S LIKE MY DREAM,
W
ILLUM
. T
HE NIGHTMARE
I
HAD IN
K
IRA'S VILLAGE
.