The Keeper's Shadow

by Dennis Foon

  Mabatan rushes toward her friend. To her surprise, the other Hhroxhi turns on her, weapon raised: Qrixxis, one of the most rabid of the human-haters. Mhyzah moves herself between them and placing her open palm on Mabatan’s chest, hisses her thanks. Seeing Qrixxis back away into shadow, the friends turn and watch the approach of a dark-skinned man carrying a long bow.

  After acknowledging Mhyzah’s thanks, the man inclines his head toward Mabatan. “I am Brother Stinger. Friend to the Hhroxhi—at least those who will have human friends,” he says, casting a sidelong glance at the hostile Qrixxis. He holds up his wrist, showing the same mark Mabatan bears—the blood oath that summoned them both to this battle. “I was out on patrol and heard the call. You must be Mabatan.”

  Placing her palms together, Mabatan bows in formal greeting. “Your name is spoken with reverence throughout the Farlands and the mastery of your sand painting is renowned.”

  Stinger bows in response, murmuring, “You honor me.” Moving past Mhyzah to one of the fallen Hhroxhi, he picks up a silver shard and sniffs it. Turning back to her, he asks, “What happened here?”

  Mhyzah explains how she and her small hunting party were ambushed. The Clerics had a new weapon that killed instantly, invisibly. Her summons for help had brought a wave of Hhroxhi warriors but many were taken by the weapon before it was destroyed.

  Stinger moves among the fallen, searching for the cause of their deaths. But Mhyzah shakes her head, saying to Mabatan that the Brother will find nothing. It was as if the life force of the warriors fled willingly before the weapon. They have never before experienced so great a loss against so few.

  As Mabatan stares mournfully at the scores of dead, a stone rolls behind her and one after another Hhroxhi rise up from an underground passage. As each steps onto the frozen earth, they keen to the skies for their fallen sons and daughters, fathers and mothers.

  When Qrixxis steps forward, face pinched, fangs jutting from his thick jaws, Stinger rises to stand beside Mabatan. “Your human war kills our people,” Qrixxis hisses at them threateningly.

  “We stand against this enemy with you,” Mabatan clicks.

  “The Wazya do not join in battle. Why stand now?”

  “We stand at the end of time and join hands to cross the abyss—”

  “Prophecy nonsense!” Qrixxis spits on the crackling ice between them.

  “The prophecies are coming to pass whether you will or no, and those who do not stand will fall.”

  “Nothing you can say will sway me, Wazya witch!”

  Feeling a stirring against her skin, Mabatan extends her arm. Qrixxis backs away as her white cricket emerges from the cocoon of her cloak to climb out upon it. Other crickets fly out from the rock face. Mabatan watches as they settle on a paralyzed Qrixxis. Its pale aspect a mirror to their own, the white cricket is sacred to the Hhroxhi, central to their spiritual experience. And though Mabatan cannot hear their communication with Qrixxis, when his pink eyes roll back to look at her, she knows that they have commanded his attention in a way she could not.

  “The crickets say I must meet Roan, guardian of the Novakin, and his sister, whose cry is death, tomorrow at moonset on the slope of the Brothers’ valley. But I doubt that they will sway me any more than you have.”

  Turning away from Qrixxis, Mabatan places her open palm on her friend’s chest. “Mhyzah, we will tell Roan of this weapon and the toll it has taken on your people.”

  Shoulders stooped with grief and weariness, Mhyzah covers Mabatan’s hand with her own. “I must begin the rituals for our dead.”

  “May they walk freely in a better world.” Mabatan and Stinger intone the Hhroxhi words together, as Mhyzah draws her knife and strides over to lead the prayer for her fallen friends. At her cry, the attending warriors raise their knives and slice their open palms.

  “We must go,” says Stinger, gently touching Mabatan’s shoulder. “We have much to report to Roan before the gathering tomorrow.”

  As they walk silently over the frozen earth to retrieve their mounts, Mabatan wonders how a Brother of the Friend came to acquire the mark of the Hhroxhi. She knows that Stinger is a spiritual leader but still the Brothers are not renowned for acts of compassion. As she strokes her horse’s flank in greeting, she sneaks a glace at the mysterious Brother only to find him staring back at her.

  “You’re wondering how I came to be a friend to the Hhroxhi?”

  “Yes,” Mabatan admits.

  “I was a child, barely eleven, hiding from Clerics patrolling the river in their motorized boats. One of their boats had children in it, and the Clerics began tossing some of them out. The children flailed helplessly and, when they began to sink, the Clerics motored off laughing. I’d always been a strong swimmer; I knew what to do. But I could see that these children were different, so I hesitated. Only for a moment, but it was enough. I saved four but the fifth could not be revived. The four sat on the beach with me until a Hhroxhi elder came and pried the dead girl from me. Then she took me to a chamber deep in their tunnels. Several Hhroxhi drew their blades. I thought they were going to kill me but they gave me this instead,” he says, pointing at the mark on his wrist. “My blood was made one with the four Hhroxhi I saved. Over the years, they taught me their language and we remain friends to this day. I was grateful not to find them among the fallen.”

  “Did you see anything on the bodies that might help us understand the weapon?”

  “If I had I would have told Mhyzah. You heard the explosion?”

  “I heard.”

  “It appeared to have happened when the weapon was somehow toppled, which means that if one gets close enough, it can be destroyed. The metal shards had no special qualities—they were just debris from the destroyed weapon and not what killed the warriors. I was unable to determine what caused the Hhroxhi to die. Many had no wounds at all, Mabatan. Nothing. But…”

  “You sensed something?”

  “I cannot explain it. It was nothing more than a feeling. I was overcome with the sensation that the Hhroxhi had been devoured by a monstrous emptiness, which had spat out their bodies whole but devoid of any life, the way we would spit out bones.” Stinger looks away sharply. “But it matters not what I felt. It was a weapon fashioned by Darius that killed those warriors. Darius is the monster we must fight.”

  Mabatan waits for a moment but Stinger does not turn back to her. A tremor of dread courses up her spine. What has the Keeper of the City unleashed?

  Mabatan and Stinger arrive the next day to find the encampment bustling with new arrivals. The Brothers look harried and tensions are high.

  “Roan of Longlight has given us a great challenge. We are not used to visitors and have no skills at hospitality or diplomacy.” Stinger nods at a distinguished gentleman in black velvet robes and whispers, “There stands a perfect example. Governor Selig. He arrived with his entourage yesterday. It was the reason I was so far away from camp—I had to ensure his safe passage.”

  “Excuse me.” The Governor’s tone is imperious. The group of Brothers busily erecting a large tent is forced to stop in order to hear him. “My wife and attendants require hot water for bathing.”

  The Brothers peer up at Selig as if he’s speaking a foreign language and Mabatan raises her hand to conceal a laugh.

  “Hot water,” he repeats. “For our baths.”

  Seeing Stinger, the Brothers sigh with relief, obviously hoping he will take care of the demanding governor. But their leader only shrugs, leaving the men to their own devices.

  Shifting to follow Stinger as he continues into the camp, Mabatan notices a tall, sharp-eyed woman behind the Governor. His wife. She feigns a diminutive air, but Mabatan can see her for what she really is: Apsara.

  “I’ll have to ask someone else, darling,” Governor Selig calls out to his wife. “I don’t believe these ruffians have the slightest idea of what I’m talking about.”

  The Governor’s wife looks blithely at Mabatan and, almost imperceptibly, winks.
Clearly, she’s identified Mabatan, just as Mabatan recognized her, perhaps even because of it. Mabatan will have to take greater care to conceal what she knows.

  “Come,” says Stinger. “Before we speak with Roan, I’d like to show you something.”

  He leads her to a canopy where five Brothers are bent over a large flat stone, bringing a portrait of the Friend to life. Each holds a small tube-like funnel from which they pour, with unwavering concentration, different colors of sand. The process is mesmerizing, and Mabatan finds herself drawn in, so much so that she can see each grain falling, becoming part of a greater whole. But her meditation is interrupted by the sound of familiar voices.

  Roan stops just beyond the canopy, Kamyar, Lumpy, and Kira laughing round him, and Brother Wolf scowling at his side.

  “My grandmother should be here within the hour,” Kira says, but Mabatan can see Roan already knows. That must mean everything’s gone according to plan and Willum and Stowe are with her.

  “How many in Ende’s party?” Wolf asks irritably. He must find it annoying—all these unworthy visitors in the Brothers’ camp.

  “At least twelve,” says Kira, nonchalantly.

  Wolf stiffens, his patience clearly nearing its end, but Lumpy gently intervenes.

  “Why don’t we set up some tents on the east side of the camp for the new arrivals, Brother Wolf? Then they’d be guaranteed the necessary privacy.” Mabatan watches as Lumpy studies Wolf’s grim expression before adding cautiously, “Wouldn’t they?”

  Everyone’s holding their breath as Wolf stares curiously at Lumpy. Apparently not detecting any slight, Wolf visibly relaxes and turns back to Roan. “I’ll see to it,” he says, and bowing politely to Kira, he strides purposefully into the center of the camp.

  “Well done, Master Lump!” says Kamyar. “A diplomatic triumph! Well, it’s to be expected—you’re a born actor, and therefore devilishly politic. Bravo!”

  Mabatan rises as Kamyar congratulates Lumpy. But just as she’s about to call out a greeting to her friends, Roan’s attention is suddenly drawn away to the edge of the camp. Mabatan sighs, hand poised in midair.

  “Mabatan!” Lumpy reaches forward to grab her hand, a wide grin cracking across his scarred face. “We didn’t know you’d arrived.”

  Roan turns, relief spilling over his careworn features. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

  “I had an escort,” Mabatan says, indicating the Brother at her side.

  Leaning forward, Roan whispers, “Mabatan, Stowe’s almost here. I can feel her.”

  The hope radiating off Roan makes her pause, hesitant to take this moment from him; the last meeting he’d had with his sister had been brief and spoiled by violence. Still, her news cannot wait. “Roan, Brother Stinger and I must speak to you before the Apsara arrive. The shadow cast by Darius may be deeper than we thought.”

  BROTHER AND SISTER

  THE UNBROKEN PRAYER VIGIL FOR OUR STOWE’S SAFE RETURN CONTINUES AT THE PYRAMID. ANY CITIZEN HAVING INFORMATION ON HER WHEREABOUTS IS TO REPORT TO THE MASTER OF INCULCATION DIRECTLY. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL SHE IS RETURNED TO US AND THOSE RESPONSIBLE FOR HER ABDUCTION ARE EXECUTED.

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  WILLUM RIDES AT THE REAR OF THE APSARA COMPANY, some of the best and the brightest Ende has. Three talented young men, brought to continue training with Wolf, are positioned in a semi-circle around her. No more than fifteen years old, all showed potential far above what Willum had expected—younger versions of himself, all eager to take part in what is to come. A few weeks with them and he might have made a difference, increased their chances of survival. They do not deserve to die in this war.

  The six young women of varying ages, hand-picked by Ende to conceal but also to protect Stowe, are bursting with pride; it makes him smile to feel it. Stowe, he knows, must feel it too. It has been years since she’s been with girls of her own age. It was hard for her to leave the security of her parents’ love and return to the world; perhaps they will help ease the way.

  Last night, just as he was leaving his meeting with Ende, news had come that Stowe was awake and in distress. The instant the words escaped Petra’s lips, he had known that the healing was not complete.

  He had found Stowe curled into herself like an infant, shaking and sobbing, and though she allowed him to take her into his arms, he had known his care alone would not be enough to mend her sorrow. The Apsara would be leaving at dawn to see Roan, he had whispered, wiping her tears, knowing that her brother might provide her with some relief. But if she wanted to leave with them, she would need to eat and meditate.

  It had taken her only moments to regain her composure—at what cost, though, Willum could only guess. It would have been better for her to empty herself of grief, but Darius was walking an unforeseen path and Willum knew they could not delay their return any longer.

  Though his instincts cried out against being far from Stowe’s side, it was imperative to remain invisible to any spies Darius might have along the road. And so he had donned an Apsara cloak and positioned himself between Dai, Petra, and Veet at the rear of the company. These three women were Kira’s most trusted lieutenants. Warriors alone, they had refused to be paired with men of power and would not be induced into political intrigue of any kind. All three glow with strength. Confident in their abilities, they carry themselves with dignity and poise, and adopting the language of their bodies is a balm. It harnesses a little of the turmoil he himself is submerged in.

  Letting his horse drift easily amongst his Apsara camouflage, he turns onto the trail into the Brothers’ camp. He blends perfectly with the horsewomen, and observes from the rear as Roan formally greets Ende, flanked by an honor guard of Brethren.

  “Welcome, Ende of the Apsara. We are honored to share our home with you.”

  “It is our pleasure to visit the Brothers of the Friend. We have brought three of our sons to train with Brother Wolf should he find them worthy.”

  Willum searches Wolf’s face as he steps forward and says, “I am, as always, your student, and am honored to be chosen as their teacher.” There is only awe and respect in the man’s voice. Whatever else he may be, he owes a great deal of his skill as a warrior to Ende, and it is admirable that he does not try to hide this debt. But the man has a great weight on him; doubt and loyalty are at war inside that powerful frame. “The council convenes at sunset. Come, we will show you to your quarters.”

  Willum’s gaze shifts to Roan. But the young man is preoccupied with something other than the Brothers’ commander. He’s sensed Stowe, and Willum can hear the current of their silent conversation.

  I was so worried about you.

  Yes, I know. I nearly died.

  You should have stayed with the Apsara. You’d be safer—

  I am with the Apsara. And you are here. What could be safer?

  Stowe—

  Roan. We stand together against Darius or we run. There is no middle ground.

  Willum can see the twinge over Roan’s eyebrow; the distress he feels for his sister is an anxiety they both share. Ende nods to her people and they begin to dismount. And as Willum passes Roan, he opens his mind to him, offering what small comfort he can. She is alive, Roan, but wounded. She needs you.

  The Apsara are guided to a group of long, low tents that have been erected on the east side of the camp. Without consultation, the Apsara leave the tent beside Stowe’s for Willum. He enters and sits, waiting for her to send for him. He empties himself of all thought and allows his mind the freedom of nothingness. He knows that this is the last time he will be able to do so for a long while.

  After spending a frustrating few hours seeing to the final arrangements for that evening’s Council, Roan puts the old map of the Dreamfield under his arm and sets off briskly across the frosted ground to the opposite side of the camp. He does not need to be told which tent his sister is in; her presence is like a beacon, shining in his inner eye.

  The sev
eral Apsara lounging around her tent smile at him in greeting. Roan knows that their casual stance is all show, masking their role—anyone attempting to force his way through to the secret visitors would find himself very quickly compromised and, if he fought back, very likely dead.

  The tent’s small and unassuming, but standing before it, Willum, even concealed beneath an Apsara cloak, is an imposing presence. “She is waiting for you,” he whispers.

  “Thank you for finding her,” Roan says, grasping Willum’s arm.

  “That, Roan of Longlight, is my purpose. I can do nothing else,” replies Willum, echoing Roan’s gesture.

  “We found this in the Foresight Academy,” Roan says, handing him the cylinder with the map.

  “You’ve secured the Academy?” asks Willum, elated.

  “We’re making it our base of operations. That’s a map of the Dreamfield.”

  “If you found it there, it will need updating.”

  “I was hoping—”

  “I will start at once,” says Willum, and true to his word he turns and slips silently into the adjacent tent.

  Sensing his sister’s impatience, Roan pushes through the fabric threshold. Seeing her, he breathes deeply, trying to steady his racing heart. She’s such a little girl—no more than twelve, and yet the power she radiates seems ancient and dangerous.

  I was raised to be a sophisticated aristocrat, Brother. By my adopted father, the Archbishop of the Conurbation.

  The sadness welling up in Stowe’s chest almost brings tears to Roan’s eyes. She’d been happy once, a girl who played hide-and-go-seek and climbed trees. But no more.

  “I was with our parents,” she says softly. “They gave me my life back. I would have stayed forever if they’d let me.”