The Keeper's Shadow (5 page)

“Y
OU RESEMBLE MY FRIEND,
M
ABATAN
.”

“I
AM HER FATHER
.” A
SHADOW PASSES OVER THE MAN'S SMILING FACE
. “T
HE PEOPLE OF
L
ONGLIGHT LIVE WITHIN YOU,
R
OAN
. F
EEL THEM IN YOUR BLOOD, HEAR THEM IN YOUR MIND
. Y
OU WILL NEED THEIR WISDOM IN THE DAYS TO COME.
” T
HEN IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE, THE FACE OF
R
AT VANISHES
.

You desire a solution without violence but…violence will come whether we will it or no—Rat's words resound in Roan's skull like a bell tolling in a watchtower.

When he opens his eyes, Ende is still across from him. “Drink,” she says, gesturing to his cup.

Roan takes a gulp of steaming tea, hoping it will steady him. “No matter what I do, people will be hurt, they will die. How do I accept that?”

Ende smiles sympathetically. “All life exacts a price, Roan, and there is no denying the unfairness of mortality.”

“If it was only me…”

“I know well the burden of leadership, and the only relief I have found from it is in action.

“Consider the distracted child who looks carelessly behind her. She does not see the edge of the cliff. In the plunge to her death, there is no forethought, no hand of evil. Yet with this single unconscious act, she tragically alters the lives of her entire family. Goodness, innocence, they do not exempt us from grief. We weep over the fate of the distracted child and her family but it is beyond our reckoning. There are other fates, though, that we can change. As leaders we must recognize that they are more needful of our attention.”

Kira, her long red hair severely tied back, appears at the door. She bows her head respectfully to her grandmother.

“Rise, Roan of Longlight,” Ende commands, and taking his arm she effortlessly pulls him to his feet. “Our guests await you.”

Plan for war, envision peace, Roan tells himself as he follows Kira and Ende out of the tranquil chamber. He knows the caution behind Ende's tale. In their world, the children aren't carelessly tumbling off a cliff, they're being pushed, and it's up to him to cut off the hand that's pushing them.

HOMECOMING

MABATAN INTERVIEW 1.3.
MOR-TICKS SPREAD LIKE PLAGUE AND WE WERE ALMOST OVERCOME BY THEM. BUT THE WHITE CRICKETS HEALED US AND SHARED THE POWER IN THEIR SONG. WE HAVE WALKED WITH THEM EVER SINCE.

—GWENDOLEN'S CRICKET FILE

H
ISS, CLICK.
H
ISS, CLICK.
Insect-like and menacing, the sound forces an unwilling Stowe out of her comfortable dreams and into a low-ceilinged room illuminated by noxious blue gas. The light is so eerie, she thinks she might not be awake at all, but in some unknown corner of the Dreamfield. She identifies the source of the sound: two albinos, in a mad frenzy, fangs bared, fighting over…a meal? Could the meal be her?

But there is Willum; clever Willum, he found her. He seems concerned, though not for his life. Stowe does not recognize the fair-haired woman behind him—
she
is terrified out of her wits. The boy, though—or is it a girl—those dark eyes, Stowe's seen them before, but she can't place where. Willum and the boy-girl are listening with such keen interest, she's sure they can actually understand what those monsters are saying.

Suddenly, one of the albinos pulls out a short but very sharp-looking knife and waves it threateningly. The other takes a step back, but its hand shoots out and the knife goes clattering on the hard clay floor. That was good. That albino radiates a brilliant crimson. What could it be? The glowing red wisps spiral into deep violet as they bend and twist in the blue light. Beautiful.

Willum's picking up the knife and smiling grimly at the growling monster. Stowe watches it consider for a second, then lean back and vanish. Smart monster to have recognized Willum's power. Smarter than that other monster, Darius. Darius. How is she going to kill him now? She must find a way. She must…but it hurts her head to think of Darius, so she focuses on the walls instead. She sees holes, several of them. Where do they all go?

“Willum?” Stowe says weakly. Her throat is raw; it hurts. Willum is at her side in an instant, his hand enclosing hers.

“Do not worry, we are safe. But the Hhroxhi are divided, and we will have to go another way.”

“Hhroxhi?”

Willum points. The color around the remaining albino is muted now, steadily fading. “Mhyzah here is Hhroxhi. I will explain the situation later. You must rest.”

Suddenly her body spasms and she begins to shake with rage and fear. Brack. Raven. They were going to hurt her. And Ferrell—“Ferrell? Ferrell!”

Raising his hand to her brow, with a gentle pressure Willum relaxes the tension that's seized Stowe. “Stowe,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

Stowe breathes deeply. Willum's here. Willum will keep her safe.

“Stowe, for the moment, Ferrell sleeps.”

“Asleep—for how long?”

“You must rest. Rest.”

Stowe's about to protest but her eyes are heavy, and as Willum gathers her up in his arms, his breath's steady pulse drags her back into sleep.

Stowe hurts everywhere. Fingers poke at her neck and she bats them away angrily.

“Be careful, the wound needs tending.”

It's the fair-haired woman who'd been cowering behind Willum. Her tone is imperious, her touch invasive, and Stowe dislikes her instantly.

“This is Alandra,” Willum says, towering over the woman at her neck. “She gave you the tonic that has temporarily immobilized Ferrell.”

And she should be grateful? Well, at least they're out of that horrid tunnel—Stowe can feel fresh air on her face. Peering past the people around her, she sees light and smells the forest beyond it. This must be the mouth of a cave.

Alandra…the name is so familiar. Alandra! An Eater, no less!

“Alandra,” Stowe says sweetly. “Raven told me about you. You knew my brother.”

“Yes.”

The Eater's startled. Good. But just then a third face hovers into view, distracting her. Irritated, Stowe blurts, “And who exactly are
you
?”

“I am Mabatan.”

Looking at the dark-skinned imp's dancing eyes, Stowe instantly remembers. “You were the young girl in that theatre troupe. With the drum.”

“The day you saw your brother. I promised him I would help find you.”

Stowe raises an eyebrow—as if Willum needed a waif to guide him! But Willum nods with such seriousness that Stowe forces a smile and squeezes out a very quiet thank you.

“This looks like a knife cut. Is it?” asks the Eater.

Stowe stares unabashedly at Alandra. She doesn't understand why an Eater would be helping them, but if Willum doesn't consider her a threat, Stowe can't see much harm in recounting the facts. “Raven was trying to perform a little operation on me. The gift of an enabler. They were going to make me their slave so they could use me as a weapon. I think I may have hurt them.” She looks from one set of downcast eyes to another. “Are they dead?” she says innocently, but she already knows the answer, she knew it the moment she screamed.

Willum looks back at her, obviously unconvinced by her guileless act, but before he can speak, Stowe shifts her attention back to the healer and asks, “Eater, do you know Ferrell?”

“He was one of my teachers,” Alandra replies.

“Oh?” Stowe's lips curve into a knowing smile. “Aren't you finished?” she says, careful to inject as much menace in her words as possible. She wants this healer's hands off her now—a student of Ferrell's will have to earn her trust.

“We must go,” Mabatan urges, and striding to the mouth of the cave she climbs onto the biggest black steed Stowe has ever seen. Shadowed against a haze of light, she extends her hand to the Eater.

After one last look at Stowe, the healer closes her bag and rises to take the elf's proffered hand. Mabatan's revulsion at her touch is palpable. So she does not trust Alandra either.

Stowe cries out as Willum lifts her. Her battle with Ferrell has left her so bruised and battered, there is barely an inch of her that does not scream with pain. He raises her onto a chestnut stallion and winds straps from the saddle around her legs and over her hips. “You are not strong enough to sit on your own. I will hold you but you need to be secured, in case there are any…events.”

“Where did we get the horses?” she asks. There certainly were no large animals in that dark cramped chamber with those fanged ghosts.

“The Hhroxhi have loaned them to us,” Willum says, settling himself on the horse behind Stowe. “The tunnels would be safer but our friend, Mhyzah, was unable to secure our passage.”

“The fight we witnessed.”

“Yes. All the Hhroxhi once believed in the prophecies, the ones that told of a boy and his sister, and how they would open the way. But now they are divided. Many do not believe. They see themselves as separate and want nothing to do with humans and this human story.”

Joining Mabatan and Alandra, they ride into a forest of serpentine trees. The slow canter of the horses and the lilt of Willum's voice take Stowe back to the comfort of her childhood, her father rocking her, telling her stories. Perhaps traveling in dank tunnels with fanged albinos seems to carry less risk to Willum, but from Stowe's perspective it's much nicer to be rocked by a horse's steady gait, nestled against a warm body, and have a heartbeat, strong and steady in her ear, to reassure her. Nothing can disturb her now that Willum is here. Even the tree trunks, winding around each other like crazed vipers, do not discomfit her. But they remind her. Yes. They remind her of the Keeper of the City, his reptilian eyes peering out of that translucent face, so like a living skull…no, better not to think about Darius.

“Where are we going?” she asks Willum, hopeful that his answer will distract her.

“To your brother.”

“Is he angry with me for running away?”

“Roan loves you and wants you well. We will see that he gets his wish.”

With a gasp, Stowe stiffens, her body racked by spasm after spasm. Ferrell is scratching and grating his way up from her stomach into her throat. “You can't hold me!” he screeches. Against her will, Stowe's arms reach out and grab the reins from Willum. But the bindings he's placed on her constrict her movements and Willum's arm swiftly draws her back.

“Hello, Ferrell,” Willum says calmly.

Ferrell wraps his mind around Stowe's, smothering her, suffocating her. “I'll make her scream. I'll kill you all.”

“Stowe, resist him. Breathe.”

As Stowe struggles against the murderous cry rising in her, a creaking, whistling music slides over Ferrell like liquid. It's as if the entire world is whispering, and that whisper is putting up a wall between her and Ferrell, separating his consciousness from hers. It drags him down into the darkest corner of her being and there he is still. Perfectly still.

Dozens of white crickets perch on her shoulders, her arms, her heart. The largest of the crickets, nearly the size of her thumb, climbs up her chest. Its multi-faceted eyes lock on hers, commanding her to rest, to sleep. They spin, iridescent like jewels, the entire world whispering it loves her, and finally she feels secure.

Stowe's jarred awake. They're galloping. Through bleary eyes she sees a fast-running stream before them. The horse, gathering speed, is about to leap over it.

With a suddenness that winds her, Willum pushes her forward, the side of her face hugging the horse's neck as it lands heavily on the other bank. An arrow passes a finger's width from her scalp.

“Fandor riders,” Willum whispers. “Keep your body close to the horse.”

Stowe does not need to move to see half a dozen riders, brandishing swords and bows, the stream behind them. She burns with a desire to strike at them with her voice. “Let me.”

“No.”

But she can see Alandra and Mabatan's horse is already starting to tire, its mouth foaming from exertion.

“Do not move. Do not speak.” Willum stops the horse and swings to the ground. Without taking his eyes off the Fandor, he presses his palms to the earth.

Stowe senses a power, potent like nothing she's ever felt from him before. The Fandor's horses sense it too, and slow to a canter despite being brutally whipped across their flanks by their riders. The Fandor, however, seem immune. When they come to a halt only a few paces from Willum, they spring from their horses' backs, swords ready to slash him to pieces.

Do not move, do not speak—that is what Willum said. She has to trust him. She has to. She will not; she will not scream. But how can she stop herself? She so wants to make them sprawl on the ground, blood bursting from their ears. Willum must not die. Stowe feels…tears? Tears! How can she bear this helplessness?

His movement is so swift she does not see exactly how he gets close enough to touch them. But deftly evading their slashes and jabs, he makes contact with each Fandor. His hand covers each face like a claw until they all stand looking benignly at him, like simpletons.

“Sleep,” Willum orders.

And without hesitation, every Fandor lies down on the ground and sleeps.

This display of Willum's has aroused the Eater's suspicions. Like a bony scavenger, she scurries over to examine the snoring men. “What did you do to them?” she demands.

How dare she! If Stowe could stop crying, she would hurt her. From a corner of her consciousness, she hears Willum respond calmly, “I've simplified their minds. Tomorrow they will wake up feeling entirely refreshed, with no memory of today's event. Perhaps you would like to forget it also?”

Stowe laughs at the sight of the Eater's stunned expression. She laughs and laughs, gulping for air, unable to stop. Willum's mind, ever so gently, touches hers.
A time of grieving will come but it is not now. Now you must rest.
And then there is nothing but the sound of his voice repeating over and over,
Soon, though. Soon you will be home
.