The Keeper's Shadow (40 page)

“Don't be weak, Willum. Speak. Speak.” The Mad Masters sigh, the sound so chilling it makes Willum shiver. Still, it is only a pale shadow of what they are truly projecting.

“So you know why I have come?”

“Darius. What lies beneath the Spiracal. You want what we know. What we have seen. What we can do.”

“Yes.”

“We were the Master Builders. Roan said: Stop eating the Dirt. Share the River of Time. But no one wanted to do that. Darius said: Use the Well of Oblivion. It will make you stronger. Haaa. We chose the wrong side. We capped the Well and the river that ran into it dried up. Darius said: Eat more Dirt. Drown in it. It will provide what the river cannot. So we did. And in our Dirt-addled haze, we built and we built. But one after another, great crevices opened up. Ohh, we sealed them all, but it was only a matter of time before one opened up right under our feet and we fell. We fell and at the bottom of that crevice we found a monster. You know the one. It lies now, ever hungry, beneath the Spiracal.

“We had ‘seen' our fall, and so we had planned for it. We were able to fight. Able to escape. But we did not defeat it. And Willum, we know no way of defeating it. But we can help with Darius.”

The three Masters shudder, their bodies tense. “You will release us. Yes. We know you will. We know what you have in your pocket.”

Willum's hand touches the Dirt hidden in his robe. From this decision there will be no return.

“You have much to fear, Willum. But not from us. No. We are alive—do you know why?”

“No.”

“Can you not guess?”

“You fear death.”

“Not quite. We fear
it
. The monster—you know its name. We do not wish to be consumed in its gaping nothingness. We want to walk into the Well of Oblivion and join with the Dreamfield. So we will do this last thing. Give us what is in your pocket and we will help destroy what we created. We will stand by Roan's namesake—yes, we know the prophecy—in the hope that he will accomplish what his great-grandfather could not.”

Willum takes out the Dirt and as the Mad Masters turn their hands over to accept it, their voices thread a haunting path around the boundaries of his defensive barrier.

“We know you, Willum. Yes. We have had visions of the hawk. The hawk that is you. Trying to fly. But he can't get away. His wings are clipped. Clipped by the one he cherishes most. He cannot fly. No. He screams and cries out, begs and pleads, but she prefers his cries to the vast emptiness she carries without him. We understand her well. Oh, yes. We do.”

Careful not to touch them, Willum places a small mound of Dirt in each of the Mad Masters' palms, then turns and walks to the exit. But he cannot walk away from the voices echoing painfully at the borders of his awareness.

“Wants to run, doesn't he? Yes. But time will run faster.”

Stowe pauses in the foyer of the Induction Offices. Kordan's looking stranded at the end of the hallway. Completely bewildered. Well. She's bored now. Willum
must
have accomplished all he needed. Just as Kordan's about to continue his search in the opposite direction, she steps in front of an oncoming Cleric. Startled, the man clasps his hands together in supplication, and bows to her. “Our Stowe.”

She smiles beneficently at her supplicant, touches his forehead with her index finger and he stumbles away, directly past Kordan.

“Master Kordan?” Stowe calls out in greeting. “Why, I did not know you haunted administrative corridors.”

“Of course not. And neither do you. First I find you exploring the most dangerous site in the Dreamfield, and then I notice you skulking around here. Whatever can she be up to, I ask myself.”

“You are no longer my mentor. What possible concern is it of yours?”

Kordan's one functioning eye gives him an anxious, rabid look. “It's only that I am concerned you have lost your direction. Willum's fear of Dirt will waste your potential. Do not let his prejudices limit you.”

Stowe widens her eyes, pretending to be intrigued. “But Master Kordan, I want nothing more than to be all that I can be.”

Half of Kordan's face is animated with excitement. And although the paralyzed half is horrifying, Stowe thinks she prefers it. Watching his lips twist in preparation for his next words, she's quite relieved when a Cleric rushes between them.

“Not now, fool, can't you see who I'm talking to?”

“Master, you asked that—”

“Yes. Yes. Alright. Excuse me, Our Stowe.” He offers the Cleric his ear, and as the underling whispers, Kordan's eye gleams with delight. Waving off the messenger, he turns back to Stowe. “Forgive me, Our Stowe, but I am called away on urgent business.”

“And what could be more urgent than me?”

“Spies.” Kordan's mouth writhes like a slithering worm. “Enemies of the Conurbation.”

“Really? May I come along?”

Kordan's eye shifts anxiously in confusion, wondering no doubt if he has the authority to refuse her. “Our Stowe's presence might preclude…your compassionate nature might be wounded by…”

“Surely not.” This was worrisome. For a moment Stowe fears Willum has been discovered. But no. She would feel it; they are still linked through the ring and there's been nothing but a steady pulse.

“It may be dangerous. Over the years, we've heard intermittent reports that some of the rebels we thought exterminated long ago by the Keeper may have survived. Their descendants are said to be ferocious female warriors. It is believed this spy may be one.” Kordan beams at Stowe, bursting with anticipation.

Kira must have made it to the City only to be captured. “Well, I couldn't possibly attend such a glorious event in pale yellow. I must change—do you think it will last long?”

“No doubt, Our Stowe,” Kordan says, turning on his heels.

Stowe waits till he is out of sight before she runs. If they can't do something to save her, Willum's sister will suffer a slow and excruciating death.

THE FALL OF OASIS

VOLUME XXXVI, ARTICLE 22.0
ROAN OF LONGLIGHT HAS REQUESTED OASIS BE ASSESSED AS A POSSIBLE OPEN CENTER FOR EDUCATION, RESEARCH, AND DEVELOPMENT. WE HAVE AGREED TO INVENTORY THE LIBRARY, ACCESS HYDROPONICS, AND DETERMINE WHETHER THE ENERGY GRID CAN SUPPORT MANUFACTURE OF OUR FILO-MEMBRANE FLYING DEVICE. HHROXHI HAVE ASSURED TRANSIT.

—GUNTHER LOG

H
ERE ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE HILL,
and masked by an overhang of rock, Roan can taste the chill in the air. The night is utterly still. Not even a breeze.

It was only three days since the explosion. Knowing where the Dirt Eaters live had been key. Mejan had helped Lumpy chart the three secret entrances into Oasis. Kamyar had taught the Apsara and Brothers how to open the stone doors and navigate the labyrinth into the underground community. And Talia had explained the workings of the ventilation system to Roan.

One day to strategize. Two nights and a day to travel. And now, they are here waiting for sunrise in the frozen gardens of Oasis.

Lumpy's at Roan's side worrying frost into ice with one foot. As they both eye the pale glow of approaching daybreak, Roan draws an arrow and notches it in his bow.

“You sure we're doing the right thing?” Lumpy asks Roan nervously.

“Ask Seventy-Nine. And Dobbs,” Kamyar snarls, no trace of the light-hearted Storyteller in his manner.

“For us He raises the sun, for us He brings the dawn,” Roan intones as a Brother lights his arrow. Drawing back the string, he fires it into the sky. At Roan's signal, the pyres are lit. To the east and the south, smoke soon rises. Torches are kindled and runners from all three pyres move to ignite sodden grasses set to collapse into Oasis's ventilation system.

The day has begun and the declaration of war answered.

Wolf, hook-sword in hand, is positioned by the steep rock face that overlooks the field. He points to the bottom edge of the stone—smoke—then quickly recedes, concealing himself.

The rock shudders, then opens smoothly. Dozens of goats rush from the cave, bleating. Almost screened by billowing asphyxiating clouds, a handful of archers, arrows poised to fire, warily scan the shadowed landscape. Roan can see they are listening as much as looking, hoping for some clue of the threat's origin. Clearly uneasy, they have no choice but to let the coughing residents of Oasis spill out of the cave onto the ledges that form a path along the precipice. Among the crowd, four stand out: Haron, the elder of the community; Orin, the librarian; Sari, their leader; and the withered shell of a man she's supporting—Ferrell.

Making their slow descent into the field, the people whisper anxiously among themselves as the archers attempt to take a defensive posture around them.

As soon as they are all in the center of the first of the gardens, Roan calls out, “Lay down your weapons. We will accept nothing but complete surrender. Surrender and no harm will come to you.”

Roan hears the arrow before he sees it. He bends slightly, allowing it so close that the disturbance it creates in the air makes him blink. But before the archer can ready another, one of Kamyar's knitting needles finds its way to her shoulder.

“Old friends,” Kamyar shouts, “I heartily recommend that you accept Roan's offer.” And sixty battle-ready Brothers and Apsara slide out from behind the trees, fingers on the triggers of their crossbows.

With a sweep of his hand, Haron angrily motions his archers to put down their weapons; but when Roan steps from the shadows of the overhang, his eyes blaze with defiance.

Staring steadily at the old man, Roan speaks quietly into the tense silence. “You will be escorted to a remote village where you can threaten no one and you will be kept there in custody until the struggle with Darius has been concluded.”

“That is a death sentence, Roan. Outside the caves, we'll age and die. It's genocide.” Sari's voice is strong and clear, filled with righteous indignation. Roan remembers the response she had for him when he'd complained of his friends' deaths. “How unfortunate,” she'd said, dripping with condescension. The words echo in his mind, fueling his anger, and for a moment he's rendered speechless.

“That's a rather liberal usage of the term, Sari.” Roan's thankful that Kamyar, at least, hasn't lost his tongue. “Everybody dies and your lease on life has already been overlong. Fair's fair. You should consider yourselves lucky Roan of Longlight does not subscribe to the ancient rule of an eye for an eye. If it was up to me, you'd find a needle in your chest for killing Dobbs.”

The Storytellers take careful note of the community's reaction to Kamyar's news. They are aware that not everyone in Oasis is culpable for the crimes of the Dirt Eaters. If not for that, Kamyar's needle would have surely found the archer's heart.

With a glance, Sari silences the outraged murmurs of the Oasis residents, and ignoring Kamyar's accusation, she continues in her attempt to engage Roan's attention. “You will be hard pressed to defeat Darius without our help. Let us make a truce and fight the Masters together.”

Wolf's already in the field collecting the archers' weapons and Roan waves in some Apsara to help him. “That would require trust, Sari,” he says, walking down to her, the circle of captives parting before him, “something that no longer exists between us.”

“All we have done, we have done in order to defeat Darius.” Her voice has taken on a pleading tone, playing to her audience, but it doesn't fool Roan.

He can see Sari's edging closer to Haron, many of the elders of the community gathering around them. He stops, trying to ascertain what form the attack will take, all the while answering her with apparent unconcern, “You and Darius are cut of the same cloth. He builds a Spiracal; you build a Wall. He seeks the Novakin; you feed them Dirt. He kidnaps Stowe; Ferrell invades her. You both share the same ambition, control of the Dreamfield.”

The crowd doesn't like what it's hearing and now the grumbling is not so easily silenced. Sari snaps back to Roan, no longer caring to hide her malevolent intent. The air around her and the elders shimmers. Everything is suddenly tinged with blue. The intensity of the color steadily increases. Not knowing what else to do before the onslaught, Roan concentrates on his half-ring. Each hair on his body rises as he's enveloped in a pearl-like radiance. He tries not to stagger when the blast reaches him. His insides feel as if they're being turned out, but the blue light shatters against his newly formed shield, its tiny shards exploding pinpoints of blood before his eyes. Still, whatever it was the ring drew from him has left him weak.

Hoping to buy time before the next assault, he uses the only weapon he's sure of against them—words. “My great-grandfather told you to stop eating Dirt, to stop defiling the Dreamfield. But you, like Darius, ignored him.”

“If we'd listened to Roan of the Parting, we'd all be dead by now,” hisses Sari, “like your family and friends, like all the inhabitants of Longlight.”

As Wolf thrusts his way to Roan's side, the atmosphere around the Dirt Eaters darkens menacingly.

“Get everyone back!” Roan orders. But Wolf doesn't need to do anything, the crowd's already pulling away. Only one person stumbles into the ever widening circle—Ferrell the architect, his vacant eyes lost in the past. “Roan, Roan, you are so wrong. Without Dirt, how can I build towers to touch heaven, walls to kiss eternity. Do not part from us, Roan, join us, help us fulfill our dreams.”

“Get out of the way!” Sari screams, but too late.

Reaching for Roan's hand, the architect embraces him and the lethal blast of energy aimed at Roan strikes Ferrell, his body sagging limply in Roan's arms. Clutching the architect's corpse, Roan falters, exhausted. Why is he doing this? Wouldn't it be better to set it all aside? He's only a boy, a boy shouldering a man's burden. He should put the burden down. Put the burden down. Put—