The Keeper's Shadow (11 page)

How the Dirt Eater is to aid the children is a mystery to Mabatan. Even in the best of conditions, years of training are required to travel to the Dreamfield on the needle's song. So she ignores the question and holds a bowl to the healer's lips. “Drink as much as you are able. The water is infused with purgatives.”

Mabatan waits as the Dirt Eater struggles between thirst and anger. For the moment thirst wins.

As the healer drinks, Mabatan's white cricket crawls out from her pocket and onto her arm. She smiles, listening to it. She has always lived in the company of crickets and enjoyed the aura of protection and friendship they bestow. After her mother had disappeared and her grandmother died, the crickets had soothed her to sleep, opening her eyes to the things her ancestors had loved and cared for. They had guided her
wichumin
, the journey each Wazya must take at the age of thirteen. Since that time, if her father needed her, the crickets had been the ones to let her know. Of all her teachers, friends, and family, they'd always been the most constant.

“I must go,” she says, putting down the bowl. “I am needed.”

But as she rises, the Dirt Eater kicks over the bowl and clutches at her arm. “You understand the crickets?”

Suppressing her urge to thrust the healer aside, Mabatan answers patiently, “They speak to me. I hear them.”

“What do they say?”

“That I must go.” Mabatan recognizes the desperation that colors the healer's voice, the fear of being alone in her pain and the feelings of self-destruction that are hidden in its wake. “I won't be far. Keep chewing the leaves, drinking the water. You are strong. Use your strength to fight your enemy.” But the Dirt Eater will not let go of her arm.

“Who are you?”

“I am Mabatan.”

“That is not an answer!”

The healer's grip on Mabatan's arm is tightening. “Release my arm.”

“The Wazya are a myth. Who are you really? Are you from the City? Your friend, he looked like a Master. What do they want from me? Why don't you kill me and have it over with?”

Mabatan twists, bringing her free elbow down hard just above the Dirt Eater's heart. As the healer collapses forward, her grip slackens. Pulling herself free, Mabatan swings round to sit on her fallen charge.

“I do not blame you for distrusting me, but you must understand I will not allow myself to be harmed by you, Dirt Eater.”

“My name is Alandra,” the healer spits out defiantly.

“I know your name, Dirt Eater. I know the name of your old teacher as well. And, despite your protests, I have no reason to believe you are not also capable of his actions. You were thrust in my path and I help you because it seems that I must. But until you prove yourself otherwise, you are my enemy, and I will name you as such.”

“Why do you hate the Dirt Eaters so much?”

Ah. Mabatan must not forget that this one is a healer. “Is it not enough that their actions are destroying the Dreamfield? That they think only to use the children you tried to save as weapons?”

The healer looks up at Mabatan defiantly. Her lips widen into a venomous smile and the air in the room becomes thick with her desire to hurt Mabatan. “Liar,” she whispers.

Suddenly aware of the frantic pounding of her heart, Mabatan stands and knocks on the door, never taking her eyes off the Dirt Eater. The healer laughs contemptuously and Mabatan does not breathe easily until Resa shuts the door behind her.

“How's it going in there? Sounded a bit noisy,” Resa comments knowingly.

Mabatan scowls, then looks urgently at the Apsara warrior. “Resa, there is something I must do. I will be in my room. I cannot be disturbed.”

Resa nods. “I understand.”

“Do not let her sleep.”

The warrior shifts uneasily from foot to foot. “How strong will she become when the sickness leaves her?”

“You think her capable of overcoming you?” smiles Mabatan.

Lips pursing, Resa stands a little taller. “No one knows the limits of Dirt Eater power. Even the bravest warriors fear what they do not comprehend.”

“Yes, you are wise to fear her,” says Mabatan, the healer's dry laughter echoing in her mind. “Take appropriate precautions.”

Willum gazes out at the shifting mist that masks the top of the volcano. The Caldera itself is still as he remembers it: black stone, warmth rising from deep inside the earth, green fields, swaying bamboo. But the Apsara community has grown: there are more children than when he last visited, many more buildings and paintings, swirling kaleidoscopes of color, pleasing to eye and heart. So much changes in fifteen years. And though Ende is still strong and fit, the lines in her face are deeper when she smiles, partly the ravages of age, partly those of worry. Willum feels her burden. Apsara are sure to perish in the battles to come, and she loves each as a mother loves a child.

Footsteps, almost silent. The right leg is favored, ever so slightly. No one else would notice, he is sure. Always ready to attack with the left. This is how their mother's death marked her. “Kira.”

“Grandmother is ready.”

“When is she not?” He never understood why Ende chose Kira to take on the challenge of Saint, but there is no doubt Kira is the stronger for it. She has grown into the warrior she was destined to become; the only residue of the terror she experienced as a child is the battle readiness she carries even in her most relaxed moments. “Did I tell you how good it is to see you again?”

Kira grins at him. “Yes, when you first arrived, then again at breakfast, and last night as well.”

“The City has made me clumsy at sharing my heart.”

“I'm teasing,” Kira says dryly. “I'm sure I've told you just as many times how awfully good it is to have
you
back. I've missed you terribly.” Then, putting her arm through his, she leads him toward Ende's quarters.

With her touch comes a surge, a vision: her face distorted in pain. How or why he cannot tell. Only that it will be death she faces, death. But as hard as he tries, he cannot reach further, cannot see the outcome.

“What is it? You sensed something, didn't you?”

“Yes.” Willum knows better than to lie to his sister.

Kira elbows him in the ribs. “Fifteen years of fooling Darius and the Masters and you still couldn't try to pull the wool over my eyes?” she grins.

“Kira…”

“No. It's all right. I don't want to know. I have no illusions about what's to come, Willum. Darius is ancient, his power vast and insidious. I fight for the children. Whether or not I'm to be part of their future, only fate can decide.”

Kira stops and, placing a hand on his cheek, she kisses Willum gently. “You think the girl will help us? She was pretty angry when we told her Roan had gone.”

Touching his forehead to his sister's, Willum whispers, “If there is enough of her left, yes, she will.”

Moving again toward Ende's threshold, they are greeted by the aromatic scent of burning herbs. Through the misty doorway, Willum can see Stowe lying eyes open, breath shallow.

“Come,” Ende calls out.

Stowe reaches up a hand to Willum. “What took you so long?”

Squeezing her hand comfortingly, Willum observes with concern that Stowe's eyes are stained with blood. The strain of keeping Ferrell in control is rupturing her blood vessels.

Ende places a hand on Stowe's shoulder. “Stowe has many questions. Not the least of which concern our motives in this situation. I have striven to assure her that what she is about to undergo is in her best interests as well as ours. I have asked her to seek this truth within herself.”

“This could kill me and you know it,” Stowe snaps.

“
Could
is a great distance from
will
,” Ende replies, her tone gracious. “The exorcism is not without danger, but if you allow Ferrell to continue to possess you he will terminate your life. This is certain.”

“You are Apsara. I cannot trust you.”

“Is there anyone you trust?”

As realization of this harsh truth hardens Stowe's delicate features, Willum fights to retain his composure. She is his charge and he has failed her. He acted too slowly. Saw the truth too late. It is no wonder she has lost her confidence in him.

“I will not let you face this alone, Stowe. I will be with you,” he says, gently encouraging her. Though she will not look at him, her small hand grips his more tightly.

“Remain still,” Ende warns Stowe. “Find your breath.” She stabs the floor with a long needle and flicks it with her finger. It emits a sound, soft yet penetrating, sweet but unyielding. Dozens of white crickets emerge from Willum's pockets, from under Stowe's blankets, from behind the candles, from the cracks in the walls.

“Ferrell,” Stowe gasps.

“He must wake. We cannot purge him if he sleeps. I stand with you, Stowe. Can you feel the vibration of the needle? How the crickets sing with it? We must join their song. It will take us where we need to go. I will see to Ferrell.” And as Stowe beings to sing, Willum gently crosses the threshold of her mind.

What are you up to, my little house?

You will stay back
, Willum commands.

Dodging him, Ferrell seeps up Stowe's spine.
Trading one master for another, are we?

But Willum quickly adds his song to Stowe's and, together with the tone of the needle and the singing of the crickets, their energy swells. It bursts out of their chests, a great sonic wave that sweeps Ferrell mercilessly in its wake.

B
OULDERS OF FLAMING ROCK CRASH INTO THE PROTECTIVE BARRIER ABOVE THEM
. A
CRIMSON LIZARD EMERGES FROM
S
TOWE'S RIGHT SIDE AND LUNGES AT HER THROAT
. W
ITH A CRY OF TERROR,
S
TOWE SLASHES AT THE ATTACKING REPTILE
. S
TUMBLING, SHE FALLS HARD ONTO THE UNYIELDING GRANITE FLOOR
. T
HE LIZARD DIGS ITS TEETH INTO HER SHOULDER, AND THEY BOTH HOWL WITH PAIN—THEIR BODIES ARE FUSED, THEIR SENSES ONE
.

W
ILLUM'S HAWK EYES GLEAM; THERE IS NOTHING HE WOULD LIKE MORE THAN AN OPPORTUNITY TO SNAP OFF THIS ONE'S HEAD, BUT HURTING
F
ERRELL NOW MEANS HARMING
S
TOWE
.

“I
THINK
I
WILL KILL YOU, MY LITTLE HOUSE,
”
THE LIZARD HISSES
. “B
ETTER THAT WE BOTH DIE NOW
.”

“I
N THAT,
F
ERRELL, YOU WILL FAIL.
” T
HE WARNING COMES FROM BEHIND THE LIZARD AND HE TWISTS TO IDENTIFY THE VOICE
. W
ILLUM WATCHES, CONTENT TO SEE
F
ERRELL FLINCH NOTICEABLY AT THE SIGHT OF
R
AT
. N
OW, AT LAST, THIS MONSTER CAN BE DISPENSED WITH
.

“Y
OU CANNOT KILL ME,
”
THE LIZARD SCREAMS, JAWS SNAPPING
. “I
HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HEARD
!”

“Y
OU HAVE A RIGHT TO NOTHING
.” T
HE RAT'S LIPS PEEL BACK TO REVEAL ITS TEETH
. “Y
OU GAVE UP THE HIGH GROUND WHEN YOU INVADED ANOTHER HUMAN
.”

“T
HE MASTERS MUST BE DEFEATED
—”

“Y
OU DEFEAT NO ONE BUT YOURSELVES
.”

“W
E FIGHT FOR THE SURVIVAL OF ALL
.”

“W
E HAVE NOT COME TO LISTEN TO YOUR JUSTIFICATIONS, BUT TO SEPARATE YOU FROM THE ONE YOU HAVE DEFILED AND RETURN YOU TO THOSE WHO SHARE YOUR DELUSIONS
.”

“B
UT YOU CAN'T—YOU'RE NOT A MURDERER AND I WILL SURELY DIE,
” F
ERRELL WHINES, TWISTING DESPERATELY IN
S
TOWE'S SIDE
.

H
IS EFFORTS HAVE NO RESULT, HOWEVER; THE RAT ONLY CONTINUES TO STARE AT HIM UNBLINKING AND DELIVERS THE SENTENCE FOR
F
ERRELL'S CRIME
. “T
HE PROCESS OF SEPARATION WILL ERASE YOUR MEMORY
. Y
OU WILL BE AS A CHILD, EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE YOU ONCE KNEW YOU WILL MEET AS IF FOR THE FIRST TIME
. P
ERHAPS THE ONES WHO SUPPORTED THIS ABOMINATION WILL FIND IT IN THEIR HEARTS TO ASSIST YOUR RECOVERY
. P
ERHAPS NOT
. A
ND,
F
ERRELL, YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO TREAD IN THE
D
REAMFIELD AGAIN
.”

A
S THE
L
IZARD JERKS VIOLENTLY,
R
AT ASKS,
“S
TOWE, WILL YOU HAVE THIS THING UNDONE
?”

“Y
ES
.” S
TOWE'S VOICE RISES BRAVELY OVER
F
ERRELL'S PROTESTATIONS
.

A
BLUE RABBIT BOUNDS IN FROM THE SHADOWS TO JOIN THEM
. M
ABATAN
. A
S SHE LETS OUT A LONG, PIERCING NOTE, A THUNDEROUS CACOPHONY ECHOES ALL AROUND THEM
. D
OZENS OF WHITE CRICKETS, EACH ONE AS LARGE AS A MAN, APPEAR IN THE SHELTER AND A CASCADE OF SOUND ENCLOSES THE GATHERING
.

H
UNDREDS OF REFLECTIONS STARE BACK AT
S
TOWE FROM THE CRICKETS' MULTIFACETED EYES
. T
HEY ARE ALL OF A PERSON SHE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE—LONG BLACK HAIR OVER A PALE, NARROW FACE—UNTIL THE EYES, GREEN AND COLD, MEET HERS:
F
ERRELL
. A
S SOON AS SHE KNOWS IT IS HIM, THE IMAGES SHIFT TO A LIZARD, THEN A CLAY GIRL
. A
ND AFTER THAT, HERSELF, IN HUMAN FORM
. T
HE CRICKETS' EYES SPIN FASTER AND FASTER, BREAKING THEIR LIKENESSES APART AND MIXING THEM UP: LIZARDS WITH CHILDLIKE HANDS, GIRLS WITH LIZARDS' HEADS
. T
HOUSANDS OF DIFFERENT COMBINATIONS FLASH RELENTLESSLY BEFORE HER UNTIL THE PRESSURE IS UNBEARABLE
. A
S IT CRUSHES HER AGAINST THE HARD GROUND, SHE IS RIPPED IN TWO
. S
HE TRIES TO SCREAM, BUT SHE HAS NO VOICE
. H
ER HAND REACHES BUT THERE IS NOTHING, NOTHING ON HER RIGHT SIDE
. N
OTHING
. J
UST A HOLE WHERE SHE ONCE HAD HALF HER BODY
. H
ER EYES SEE ONLY RED, AS IF THE WORLD WERE SWIMMING IN BLOOD
. B
LOOD AND SILENCE
. S
HE CANNOT EVEN HEAR HER HEARTBEAT
.