by Dennis Foon
Leaving Imin in Lumpy’s capable hands, Roan rushes ahead. Othard is a few steps past the third sprung trap. He doesn’t feel the loose stone beneath his foot, but Roan senses it instantly and dives forward. Pushing Othard out of the way, he’s barely able to throw himself forward before the gigantic slab of rock slams against the floor.
Othard, shaken, mumbles almost inaudibly. “You have extraordinary reflexes.”
Trying not to sound too angry, Roan addresses the doctor firmly. “I know you’re excited, but as we agreed at the beginning of this trip, it really would be better if you follow my lead.” Turning back to Lumpy, Roan cautions, “The triggers are on the ground, walk in my footsteps.”
Squeezing past the new obstruction, Lumpy and Imin cautiously follow, their torches animating the passage with flickering light. When the narrow crevice opens up into the larger cavern, Imin gasps and pushes forward, reaching toward one of the few books scattered there.
Roan whirls, grabbing the physician’s cloak. “You don’t want to do that,” he says, pointing at the ceiling.
The company follows his finger to the withered corpse swinging above them. “Pick up one of these books and it might be your last.”
Appraising the corpse and then Roan, Imin grimaces skeptically but does not, thankfully, reach again for the book.
By the time Roan exposes all the other traps and leads them to the concealed door, both doctors are openly expressing their discontent. Ignoring their indignant grumblings, Roan runs his fingers up and around the end of the cave, feeling for a small protrusion. As he pushes on it, the door slides open.
“That was a little too easy,” Imin comments testily.
“And don’t say you came upon it meditating,” insists Othard.
Roan gives Lumpy a weary look, not at all pleased to be divulging his methods. “I project a part of myself outside my body, not into the Dreamfield, but here in the world.”
“Astral projection,” Imin asserts, obviously relieved.
Othard nods his shaggy head beside him. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Nothing mysterious in that!”
Roan stares at the doctors. “Can you…astral project?”
“No,” says Imin. “Of course not.”
“But we know about it.”
“And, after all, you are Roan of Longlight...”
A bit taken aback, Roan looks at his friend, but Lumpy merely shrugs, obviously amused, as the physicians push their way into what must have once been an impressive foyer.
“We’re looking for a clever hiding spot,” Roan says, studiously ignoring Lumpy’s wide grin. “A concealed entrance, much like the door we just saw. When the clerics invaded this place, they missed it.”
“We won’t,” Othard snaps.
“We know how the Dirt Eaters hide things...”
“…Their tricky little doors...”
“…False panels...”
“…Shifting walls.”
Lumpy joins Roan to search the perimeter, their hands tracing over every inch of the stone surface. “Walking through that cave, seeing those bones, took me back,” he shudders.
“The labyrinth at Oasis,” remembers Roan.
“Yeah. Making company into corpses seems like a Dirt Eater specialty.”
“Somehow I don’t think the Dirt Eaters are responsible for these bones.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Asp said the Dirt Eaters who came here trying to find a way in were never seen again. They’d know how to avoid their own traps. Besides, I have a feeling.”
Lumpy snorts. “Well, then, say no more.”
After hours of fruitless searching, the group gathers in the first chamber, weary and frustrated.
“There’s nothing here,” Imin laments.
“We were so sure,” Othard adds dejectedly.
“We must have missed something,” says Lumpy. “We’ll just have to start again.”
“If there was a door in here, we would have found it,” Othard states emphatically.
Roan strides over to the entrance of the Academy, mumbling to himself. “The door was left open—not only so that it would appear nothing of value had been left…but also to divert the Clerics…from the real hiding place.”
Stepping out of the chamber, Roan studies the cave wall across the threshold. After a moment, he sees the barely discernible bulge in the granite. Reaching up, he locates the locking mechanism. Searching with his fingers, he remembers what he learned in the tunnels of Oasis, and gently trips the lock. With a satisfied grin, he watches as the wall glides open.
“You’ve found it,” gasps Imin.
Roan walks onto a platform overlooking a massive room forged out of rock. Transparent green tourmaline covers the walls, causing an unearthly light to be cast over the entire chamber. The doctors and Lumpy crowd behind him on the landing, gaping at the majesty of this gigantic atrium: its graceful pillars, wide marble tables, long couches. Hundreds of people must have studied and read and meditated here.
“Where are the books?” Othard moans, despairing.
“Let’s have a look around,” replies Roan, and with an encouraging glance at the physician, he steps down the narrow stairs. But when he reaches the bottom, he stops short and, raising an arm, captures the group’s attention. Putting a finger to his lips, he motions them closer. “There’s someone here.”
Eyes darting everywhere, the doctors tiptoe alongside Roan and Lumpy as they proceed toward an archway on the opposite side of the atrium. There are gasps all around when they see that it opens onto another chamber containing a well-tended hydroponic garden.
“People are living here,” whispers Imin.
“What did they do with all the books?” asks Othard, noticeably piqued.
Moving through the chamber, Roan pauses at a large wooden door, sword raised. Inhaling deeply, he opens it, sighs, then gestures the physician forward. “Othard, we’ve found the books.”
The library is beyond anything Roan could have imagined. It dwarfs the huge collection at Oasis and the holdings of the Gunthers. Chamber reaches back onto chamber, and each, from ceiling to floor, is crammed with books. All saved from the burnings ordered by Darius.
Running along the stacks, Othard shouts, “Agriculture! Physiology! Astronomy! Psychology! Physics! Chemistry…”
Placing a hand none too gently over the physician’s mouth, Lumpy whispers, “Shh.”
Grabbing a fistful of each physician’s cloak, Roan shepherds Othard and Imin amid the stacks. “Stay here and be quiet,” he whispers. Chastened, the doctors remain perfectly still. Shaking his head wearily, Roan mutters, “You can look at the books, just don’t get too rambunctious.”
As one room opens onto another and then another in a seemingly endless collection of knowledge, Roan glances at Lumpy, awestruck. “There must be tens of thousands of books here. Maybe hundreds of thousands.”
Lumpy nods, his face filled with the wonder and joy of discovering hidden treasure. “Before I met you, I’d never even seen a book. Now I’m surrounded by more books than I could ever read. It’s—what?”
“He’s over there,” Roan says quietly. “Around that tower of books.” The two friends cautiously round the stack, only to find yet another wooden door.
Roan shifts his hook-sword from hand to hand nervously. “Whoever’s on the other side of that door must already know we’re here.”
Lumpy shrugs. “So I guess we storm in and hope for the best.”
At Roan’s signal, they burst through the doors. Books and papers lie scattered everywhere in the already cluttered room. Plates of half-eaten food sit moldering on the floor, clothes are flung over the chairs. And in the farthest corner, huddled over a desk, is an old man with scraggly white hair and beard. He scribbles something onto a scroll, then goes on reading the worn and tattered notebook he’s hunched over. Roan approaches the old man slowly. As he moves closer, he sees that the man’s face is wet with tears.
�
��Have you come to finish what was once started?” Though the old man’s voice creaks and croaks as if rusty from disuse, it manages to convey a great sadness.
“No,” Roan says gently. “We’ve come to read. To learn.”
Blinking up at him, the old man asks, “Where did you learn to read?”
“Longlight,” answers Roan.
The old man smiles, then squints curiously at Roan’s companion. “Come forward, come.” As Lumpy edges toward him, he laughs. “One of the Shunned!” Ignoring Lumpy’s consternation, he turns back to Roan and shakes his head. “And you. You must be Roan of Longlight.”
“How do you know this?” asks Roan a little coldly, upset at the insult to his friend.
“I’ve only deciphered the first chapter, but it’s all here,” the old man says, patting the notebook.
As Roan scans the arcane code, his heartbeat quickens, his breath becomes shallow, he feels lightheaded. The room seems transparent, as if the present were a shimmering pliable substance he might grasp and remold with different possibilities, undamaged by war and greed, free of despair and pain. What he’s feeling, he realizes, is the essence of this book. The hope of it. Eyes glued to its mysterious ciphers, he asks the old man, “What is this?”
“What I’ve spent the last forty years searching for. Your great-grandfather’s notebook. The Journal of Roan of the Parting. He wrote it for you.”
THE CURATRIX
THE SYZYGY MAY BE USED TO POOL OUR STRENGTH IN TIMES OF DANGER. BUT BE WARNED: THE SHARING MUST BE RESPECTFULLY HELD IN BALANCE; ANYTHING LESS WILL COST YOU YOUR MIND.
—THE WAY OF THE WAZYA
THE SMELL IS INTOLERABLE. Try as she might, Mabatan cannot get the healer to hand over her clothes, and the tiny chamber is redolent with the acid stench of Dirt-tainted sweat.
“I won’t!” the healer cries petulantly, throwing her bowl across the room. Shattering against the wall, it joins the fragments of the two plates and pitcher she’d smashed that morning.
“Sit,” Mabatan orders in her sternest tone, but Alandra continues pacing. Her eyes clouded with craving, she sees nothing, hears nothing. So Mabatan throws out a leg, tripping her.
Tumbling to the floor, Alandra snarls, then rolls her body upright inches away from Mabatan.
“You must focus your attention,” Mabatan asserts coolly as she holds out another bowl of infused water.
Alandra takes it and squeezes her eyes together, as if debating whether or not to smash it in her tormentor’s face. But in the end, she puts it calmly to her lips and whispers, “Tell me why you hate the Dirt so much and I’ll do it.”
Mabatan begins with only a hint of the fatigue she feels. “Like all Wazya, I have walked in many places and witnessed the results of the war between Darius and Roan of the Parting—”
“Deserts where once forests and cities flourished, the animals and men that live there now twisted and deformed. Yes. I understood that the last time you told me. That is what you think, but it is not what you feel. Why you hate is what interests me.”
Returning the healer’s furious gaze, Mabatan quiets her breath. What the girl wants is irrelevant. Mabatan is not here to share of herself, certainly not with a Dirt Eater. “You claim you love the children, feel their difference, their specialness. You say you can sense they are our only hope. If these words have any truth in them, then sit and focus. Do not waste time on useless questions.”
“If I cannot understand why you are here, how can I trust what you say, what you do?”
Mabatan knows these questions are meant to keep her from her purpose. She will not be so easily distracted. “You do not need to trust me. Roan tried to warn you, you trusted him once. You know what Dirt has done to you. Believe in the truth of what you feel and know.”
“And you, Mabatan, Wazya, what do you believe in?”
How long does she have to remain buried in this suffocating room with this bullheaded healer? Frustration burns in her throat and squeezes at her heart. Reaching forward, she takes the healer’s hands into her own. “Alandra.” The healer tries to twist from her grasp but Mabatan is the stronger. “I, Mabatan, Wazya, believe that Darius must be killed, the Dirt destroyed, and the children freed from the abyss. If Willum is wrong and there is no chance that you will agree to stand with us in this fight, then release me from my duty to you, Alandra. Release me and I will go and leave you to choose some other fate.”
A shock courses from the healer’s hands into Mabatan. White crickets emerge from cracks in the floor and ceiling. Dozens, hundreds, until the room quivers with them. What Dirt Eater power is this?
“What are you doing?” whispers Alandra. Her hushed voice and wide eyes make it clear to Mabatan that the healer is as shocked as she.
“I’m not sure,” Mabatan says, trying to remain calm. But her chest feels about to explode and as the crickets begin to sing, her life force shoots out of it, binding her heart to Alandra’s. Alandra’s terrified eyes latch onto Mabatan’s as the song becomes so powerful it creates a sonic vortex that encloses them. Drawn out of their flesh as one, they are swept up into a whirlwind, out of body, out of control, out of this world.
MABATAN FEELS STRANGE, SWOLLEN, HER EYES SEEING IN EVERY DIRECTION AT ONCE. THERE’S A POUNDING IN HER HEAD—DEAFENING AND FAST—SLUSHING IN AND OUT LIKE THE TIDE. CLOUDS CHURN ABOVE, THE GROUND RIPS BELOW, AND ALL AROUND A STORM RAGES. SHE SQUEEZES HER EYES TOGETHER, TRYING TO STOP ALL THE IMAGES.
SCREAMS BECOME A GREAT ROAR THAT TWISTS AND GRINDS ACROSS HER SKIN AS COLD, OILY FIRES TURN THE TEMPEST INTO A RANK STEAM, CHOKING HER. OPENING HER EYES, SHE SEES THE HEAD OF A GARGANTUAN VIPER, FANGS BARED. SHE TRIES TO DIVE AWAY FROM THE BEHEMOTH, BUT THE DIRECTION SHE IS MOVING IN IS THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT SHE INTENDS. HER ANXIETY MOUNTS AS SHE FINDS HERSELF LURCHING CLOSER TO A GREAT FISSURE.
IN THE DISTANCE, SHE SEES THE NOVAKIN STRETCHED ACROSS THE CREVICE, RAIN LASHING THEIR RUSTING BODIES. SHE CANNOT LET THE BEAST NEAR THEM. HER PANIC AND TERROR ARE INSTANTLY REPLACED WITH A WASH OF SADNESS AND JOY. THESE ARE NOT HER FEELINGS.
THE CHILDREN ARE HERE! HERE! MABATAN TOLD THE TRUTH!
THE SOUND OF THE HEART, THE FEELING OF RELIEF, THE THOUGHTS SPRINGING VIVIDLY INTO MABATAN’S MIND…THEY’RE ALANDRA’S!
HER FATHER SPOKE OF THIS. IN TIMES OF GREAT NEED, BEINGS COULD LINK, BRIDGE IN HARMONIOUS BALANCE. THE SYZYGY. IT MUST BE THE SYZYGY.
THE CRICKETS OFTEN PROTECTED THE PEOPLE OF THE PROPHECIES. THEY HAD SAVED LUMPY. KEPT COMPANY WITH ROAN. WATCHED OVER WILLUM IN THE DEVASTATION. THEY HAD OFTEN SPOKEN TO MABATAN ABOUT THE NOVAKIN, THEIR IMPORTANCE TO THE FUTURE OF HUMANKIND. THE CHILDREN MUST NEED SOMEONE TO CARE FOR THEM, SOMEONE WHO COULD BE SPARED FROM THE STRUGGLE AHEAD. SO THE CRICKETS CONNECTED HER LIFE FORCE WITH THE HEALER’S, MAKING IT POSSIBLE TO DRAW ALANDRA HERE. BUT NOW THAT THAT’S BEEN ACCOMPLISHED, MABATAN KNOWS SHE SHOULD BREAK THE SYZYGY AT ONCE, BECAUSE BALANCE IS NOT POSSIBLE BETWEEN THEM.
SLOWLY COLLAPSING THE REACH OF HER AWARENESS, MABATAN ALLOWS THE FORCE OF ALANDRA’S PRESENCE TO GROW. LITTLE MORE THAN A MOTE FLOATING ON A MOLECULE OF GAS, MABATAN ENTERS THE LUNGS OF THE CREATURE ALANDRA’S BECOME AND IS EXPELLED VIOLENTLY INTO THE STORM WITH ITS BREATH. AS THE MOLECULE DRIFTS DOWN TO THE GROUND, MABATAN ALLOWS HER DREAMFIELD FORM TO EXPAND AND LOOKS UP.
NOT ONE HEAD, BUT NINE, BOB ON LONG NECKS, THEIR FORKED TONGUES FLICKING ACROSS SCALY MOUTHS. SHRIEKS OF AGONY SLASH THE AIR AS ONE LASHES OUT AT ANOTHER, TIPPING THE BEAST PRECARIOUSLY. CLAWING THE ROCKY SOIL TO RIGHT ITSELF, IT STUMBLES, CAUSING THE GROUND TO QUAKE BENEATH THE TINY BLUE RABBIT.
MABATAN CRIES OUT, “ALANDRA!” STARTLED BY THE SOUND OF THE NAME, ALL NINE HEADS SNAP AROUND WITH FRIGHTENING PRECISION TO OBSERVE THE AZURE RABBIT WITH THEIR BLACK, ALMOND-SHAPED EYES. IT WOULD BE EASY TO LOSE ONESELF IN THAT OVERWHELMING WELL OF POWER. BUT THE CRICKETS HAVE TAUGHT HER THAT IN THE DREAMFIELD, POWER IS NOT RELATIVE TO SIZE AND APPEARANCE.
PROJECTING CALM AND CONFIDENCE, SHE CALLS OUT, “ALANDRA! IT’S MABATAN! YOU KNOW MY VOICE. YOU HAVE BEEN
GIVEN THE FORM OF THE HYDRA! YOU ARE THE BEAST YOU SEE. STOP FIGHTING YOURSELF.”
ALL NINE HEADS WAVE AND SPIT FIRE.
“LISTEN TO ME, ALANDRA! THE HYDRA IS A POWERFUL GUARDIAN BUT TO HELP THE CHILDREN, YOU MUST MASTER IT.”
BLACK EYES PULSATING, THE HYDRA’S NECKS WRITHE AS IF TRYING TO WRENCH THEMSELVES FROM THE BODY THEY SHARE. WORRIED THAT THE HEALER WILL TEAR HERSELF APART, MABATAN LETS OUT A HIGH, SHRILL WHISTLE. THE TWINING NECKS FREEZE, THE HEADS SLOWLY TURNING BACK TO THE RABBIT.
MABATAN HOLDS HER GROUND AS THE NINE HEADS STRETCH DANGEROUSLY CLOSE, MOUTHS WIDE, TEETH GLISTENING. “IT IS HARD TO SEE THROUGH NINE PAIRS OF EYES. BUT IF YOU GO TO YOUR CORE—THE PART THAT WAS YOU WHEN YOU USED TO ENTER THE DREAMFIELD—YOU WILL FIND THE STRENGTH TO GAIN CONTROL.”
NOSTRILS FLARING, THE HYDRA’S HEADS SWERVE TO SNAP THEIR JAWS AT MABATAN. THE FOUR TALONED LEGS SWIPE THE AIR AND SCRATCH THE EARTH IN FRONT OF HER BUT THE BLUE RABBIT REMAINS RESOLUTELY STILL AND WAITS, SURROUNDING HERSELF WITH MEMORY.
THERE WAS ONCE A PARADISE IN THIS SPOT WHERE IN TIMES LONG PAST, THE CHOSEN CARRIER OF HER PEOPLE’S TRADITIONS WOULD BE TAUGHT THE WAY OF THE DREAMFIELD. HER GREAT-GRANDMOTHER, AITHUNA, HAD WATCHED IT PASS FROM WHAT IT WAS ONCE INTO WHAT IT IS NOW, A DESOLATE AND BROKEN WASTELAND. THE DEPTH OF THAT LOSS HAD BEEN PASSED DOWN THROUGH FOUR GENERATIONS AND WITH IT DESPAIR FOR THE FUTURE. BUT MABATAN CAN FEEL THE STRENGTH IN THE HEARTS OF THE NOVAKIN AND, AWASH WITH THEIR UNFLAGGING HOPE, SHE ALLOWS POSSIBILITY BACK INTO HER BEING.
HOW LONG SHE HAS WAITED, SHE CANNOT TELL. BUT THE HYDRA IS CALMED AND IN ITS EYES SHE SENSES THE ONE WHO CALLS HERSELF ALANDRA.
“GO TO THE CHILDREN, ALANDRA. GO!”
THE HYDRA LEAPS TO WHERE THE NOVAKIN ARE BRIDGED ACROSS THE CREVICE, AND WAILS. WHEN THE FOURTEEN IRON CHILDREN SEE THE GHASTLY CREATURE, THEY ARE NOT FRIGHTENED BUT SMILE IN RECOGNITION. THEIR METAL SHELLS CREAK FROM THE PRESSURE; EVEN THIS SLIGHT MOVEMENT THREATENS TO REND THEM APART.
CLINGING TO THE EDGES OF THE RAVINE WITH CORRODED, CRACKING FINGERS, THEY SLOWLY PIVOT THEIR NECKS, CALLING OUT: “ALANDRA!” “WE MISSED YOU!” “YOU’RE FINALLY HERE!”
