The Keeper's Shadow

by Dennis Foon

  Roan looks encouragingly at his friend. “I think I will, Lumpy. I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t. But if for some reason I’m wrong, then you’ve got to find a way. You and Mabatan and Kira. To keep going. If I’m not back before the next full moon, contact Willum. You’re not alone in this.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Right now. If I’m going to do this, it can’t wait.” It’s been a long time since Roan’s traveled anywhere without Lumpy and it’s not easy standing up to go. “Get some rest. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  Roan smiles. “Too much. I know.”

  “Now I know why Darius burned all those books,” Lumpy grumbles.

  Roan strides through a beehive of activity, passing both Brothers and Apsara fixing broken furniture, cleaning, setting up an infirmary. But as he nears the entranceway of the former school, he hears shouting. The clamor grows louder as a slew of bloody Apsara, led by Ende, burst in with four bound and blindfolded Clerics in tow.

  Seeing Roan, Ende approaches him and reports. “We encountered them on patrol, a group of ten on horseback.”

  “And the other six?” asks Roan.

  “Casualties,” Ende says bluntly.

  Imin and Othard rush breathlessly up to Roan, the two men dwarfed by the huge Apsara. “Shall we disengage them?” asks Imin.

  “He means dis-enable them,” explains Othard.

  Roan’s taken aback by the physicians’ enthusiasm. “Can you do it without killing them?”

  “…Oh, yes…”

  “…Once you’ve seen how they’re connected…”

  “…And of course, the more specimens we have, the better the chance of unlocking their secrets…”

  “…And finding new uses for them,” says Imin.

  “New uses? Like what?” asks Roan.

  “Not uses, really, it’s an untested theory…” corrects Othard.

  “…Algernon’s helped us with the principles of it.”

  “In certain cases…”

  “…we might be able to use these enablers…”

  “…as a form of…ah…”

  “…communication device.”

  “But it’s just a theory, you know,” adds Othard. “We…”

  “…still need to test it,” concludes Imin.

  Looking askance at the two doctors, Roan demands, “What certain cases? Testing on whom?”

  “Well…umm…” The doctors shift uncomfortably, trading sheepish glances.

  “…it involves Mabatan…”

  “…and Kira…”

  “…with their full consent, of course…”

  Furious, Roan turns abruptly from the physicians and strides out of the Academy and into the great library. Quickly determining where his two cousins can be found, he heads for the small room where he first discovered Algie.

  Mabatan and Kira are sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing each other, eyes closed. Roan clears his throat, loudly. “What are you doing?”

  “We are trying to touch each other’s minds,” explains Mabatan. “To find the places where they meet.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Imin and Othard and their little experiment?”

  Kira sighs heavily as she stands. “I don’t have the gift, Roan. I can’t travel in the Dreamfield or do any of the fancy mind-talking the four of you can. But I do know how to meditate, and I can clear a place in my mind for Mab. Algie and the doctors figure that with the help of an enabler, Mab might be able to see what I’m seeing. Roan, when I’m doing reconnaissance in the City, you’d have the information I’m gathering instantly, instead of having to wait for me to get back. It might give us a crucial advantage. This could be a life-saver.”

  “Or taker.” Trying to keep a reasoning tone, Roan continues, “We don’t know anything about these enablers.”

  “Yeah. But they won’t be those enablers. They’ll be our enablers,” says Kira. “The old guy, Algie, says they can be rewired, ‘reconfigured.’ Come on, Roan, he helped invent the things.”

  “That was over forty years ago!”

  “The principles are the same,” Mabatan interjects calmly, attempting to divert the volatile path of the conversation.

  Roan urgently searches Mabatan’s dark, unblinking eyes. “I’m surprised you agreed to this. You know the dangers.”

  “I know what it is to share someone’s mind,” Mabatan respectfully replies. “You are right, it is not easy. But there is no danger here of one taking over the other. With Kira, I am only a listener. Roan, the advantages outweigh the deterrents.”

  “It isn’t safe. I don’t want the two of you taking this kind of risk.”

  Planting her hands firmly on her hips, Kira smiles defiantly. “So, Roan, tell me how can we hope to win this war without laying our lives on the line?”

  Roan stares long and hard at his cousins. Their strength relaxes his apprehensions. They all face the same peril; each has taken on a share. Besides, Mabatan and Kira probably feel surer of where they’re headed than he is. Roan smiles. “You’re right…and in that spirit, I’m here to tell you I’ll be leaving for maybe a week or two.”

  “Not without adequate protection,” Kira says, feigning shock.

  “Ah…in fact, I go alone and take nothing. That’s the way it has to be done.”

  “Seems a little long to be away,” she chides.

  “We’re in a holding pattern. I do it now or never.”

  Mabatan takes Roan’s hand. “You go to find the Friend?”

  Roan nods.

  “Whoa! Meeting a god! That is pretty risky. If I were you, I’d bring a change of pants,” chuckles Kira.

  Ignoring Kira’s smart remark, Roan pulls Mabatan up. “Mabatan, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about ley lines, would you?”

  Roan finds the Storytellers in a reading room, huddled around huge piles of books.

  “Dew drops—how better wash away the world’s dust?” reads Dobbs.

  “Basho, the great Japanese poet,” cries Mejan, obviously excited.

  “Right again,” sighs Dobbs.

  Holding a thick volume behind her towering column, Mejan recites, “The dream was marvelous, but the terror was great: we must treasure the dream, whatever the terror, for the dream has shown that the end of life is sorrow.”

  Scrunching up their faces, Dobbs and Talia look grumpily at each other.

  “She’s got us again,” Dobbs mutters, irritated.

  “No doubt about it,” Talia says, resigned.

  But Roan knows this story. His father read it to him when he was a boy. It had been one of his favorites. “The Epic of Gilgamesh. Enkidu says it to his friend, Gilgamesh, when he realizes he’s about to die.”

  “Roan! Are you joining the game?” Mejan asks eagerly.

  “I’d like to, but I can’t. Sorry,” says Roan. “Actually, I was hoping you’d help me with a disguise.”

  The Storytellers’ faces brighten with devilish glee.

  After an hour playing mannequin to the threesome’s creative flurry, Roan sits in the kitchen, blissfully alone, stuffing down the last meal he’ll have for a while. But his moment of solitude is quickly disrupted by the appearance of Algernon.

  “Thank goodness. Lumpy said I might find you here.”

  Roan smiles at the old man. “Got some exciting news for me, Algie?”

  “Enabler this, enabler that—if those blasted physicians hadn’t been pestering me every five seconds, I would have had this deciphered sooner. But then, oh, see where this has all ended up!”

  “Another section of the book?” Roan asks hopefully.

  Algie takes a roll of paper from his pocket and unfurls it. Then, holding the sheet between both hands like a town crier, he peers closely at the words he’s written. “Blast!” he utters unhappily. “Can’t read my own writing!”

  After a moment of squinting at the page, Algernon clears his throat and reads: “My optimism was unbounded
as I reveled in the potency of my discoveries in the Dreamfield. I had found evidence for what I had previously only surmised: that it was the awesome power of every farmer, manufacturer, student, teacher, child, and adult alike to manifest visions and dreams. If a device could be made to harness that ability, there would be no limit to what we could do. I did not stop to think before revealing all this to Darius. My trust in our friendship had not yet been betrayed. But I often wonder, if only I had waited and given my idea the weight of thought it deserved, I might have foreseen how my concept for an enabler would lead directly to Darius’s desire to make himself a god.”

  Roan can’t believe what he’s hearing. His great-grandfather not only discovered the Dirt but thought up enablers as well. Algie gives him a sympathetic look. “It’s quite possible I’ve made a mistake. It seems to be what the word is. Enabler. Hmm. Enabler. Darius. God. Linked somehow. Unpleasant idea.”

  “Not just an idea, Algie. It’s exactly what Darius is up to—we just don’t know how he’s doing it. But we’re going to find out, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “How could my great-grandfather be so…so stupid?”

  “He was excited, Roan. Of course he was. The way he speaks of the concept…is the exact opposite of how Darius utilizes it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Umm, let’s see…hmm…here, he mentions dreams. Everyone dreams. And when we do we must somehow become part of the Dreamfield. Of course. Visions, obviously, are more rare but similar. I think your great-grandfather was saying that if enough people have the same dream, or believe in the same vision, then it becomes real—it manifests. I think he hoped to boost people’s ability to…share their dreams…make them come true. What Darius does is the opposite. His enablers sap life-force, they drain a person’s biofield. I’m sure you’ve noticed that. The lifelessness. It was one of the reasons I left the City, as you know. That monster’s motives were quite apparent. Control. Domination. Hrumph! Had to take a stand. Oh, but I suppose none of this is of any help where you’re going.”

  “You never know. Have you told Lumpy about this? He’ll be overseeing everything while I’m away. The part about dreams will interest him too.”

  “I shall do that then. Immediately. And dreams, eh? Why?”

  “Seems some people have lost the ability to dream. I can’t help feeling it’s related in some way.” Smiling at the old Gunther, Roan slips on the ragged cloak of a poor farmer. “Thanks, Algie. For everything.”

  Nodding shyly, the old Gunther backs away. “Good luck on your journey, Roan of Longlight.”

  As Roan makes his way out of the Academy, his father’s voice resounds in his mind: Treasure the dream, whatever the terror. Maybe that’s what Ende meant when she spoke of faith and belief. Treasure the dream, whatever the terror. He finds the words oddly encouraging, something to bolster his resolve in the days ahead. Although he hates to admit it, this search for the Friend is terrifying—and not just because of his lack of ideas should it fail. The whole notion of coming face to face with something he finds difficult to believe in, something that, if it exists, must be unimaginably powerful, is…chilling.

  His father couldn’t have known when he read Gilgamesh to Roan how a few of its words might one day carry such meaning for his son. Or could he? Maybe nothing his parents did was spontaneous, maybe it was all preparing him for this. He doesn’t suppose he’ll ever know but, right now, he’s quite glad to have their wisdom accompany him as he becomes an old farmer in search of an ancient god.

  THE EXECUTION

  LET IT BE KNOWN: OUR GLORIOUS STOWE HAS RETURNED TO US AND JUSTICE SHALL AT LAST BE SERVED. SHE WILL APPEAR AT CONURBATION PARK TOMORROW AFTERNOON TO OVERSEE THE EXECUTION OF FOUR GUNTHERS FOUND GUILTY OF SINS AGAINST THE CONURBATION.

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  WILLUM’S JOURNEY DOWN INTO THE LOWER LEVELS of the Pyramid has proved uneventful. Darius’s gratitude to him for having brought Our Stowe safely home has been widely proclaimed and his freedom to roam the inner sanctums of power, at least for the moment, remains unquestioned.

  Moving soundlessly down the narrow passage, Willum touches the east wall. He senses two life forms just beyond the sealed entrance that leads to the cellblock. Now he must wait for the Gunthers to do their part.

  Breathing slowly, he calms his body and mind until, with a sound like an exhalation, the door beside him slides open and the lights are extinguished. Amid the pandemonium of panicking Clerics, Willum easily slips through the receiving area unnoticed.

  Striding down the long corridor of cells, he’s overwhelmed by a barrage of sadness and confusion. This wing holds dozens and dozens of political prisoners. All declared criminals by virtue of Master Querin’s Proclamations, they are here for no better reason than that they failed to conform to the City’s dictates.

  After screening out the random emotions of despair, Willum is drawn to an oasis of hope. The imprisoned Gunthers know there can be only one reason for this blackout and their anticipation is like a lantern lighting his way. Feeling for the small slit in the polished door of their cell, Willum slips in an envelope. He hears all four Gunthers move simultaneously to the package. Good. Once they open it, they will understand.

  Quickly retracing his steps, he has only to avoid one pool of muted candlelight to be through the exit. Within five breaths the door slides shut and Willum is free to ascend the staircase in darkness. Putting his palm on the steel banister, he is jolted by a powerful consciousness. Someone touching this same banister, just a floor above. Querin.

  Questions about the Master have been nagging at Willum since Stowe recounted her meeting with Darius. She’d said that Querin seemed genuinely excited to hear about the Novakin—but in the prophecies the rise of the Novakin foretells the Keeper’s fall. The logical explanation is that Querin must have designs to set himself in Darius’s place. Even more troubling is the prophecy he quoted: Fourteen will keep watch and bless the land where they lay with their innocence. Where does it come from? It is not one Willum has ever heard.

  Mulling over his suspicions, Willum glides up flight after flight, following the mysterious Master. By the time he arrives at the seventh floor, the lights have flickered back on. He was supposed to be out of the building by now. As the Blue Robes scan the ceiling chattering excitedly, he places his palm on a keypad. Detecting the pattern that has been pressed there innumerable times, he enters the code. The maintenance closets are accessed only by the Gunthers; he should be safe here. Locking the door behind him, Willum sits on the floor and with one quick inhalation parts from his body.

  High above the activity in the main room, his ether self spots Querin watching a trainer instruct a score of Clerics on their sword technique. They’re clumsy, obviously new recruits. The look on Querin’s face is inscrutable, though Willum can sense he is not pleased. Abruptly leaving the scene, the Master pushes through a set of ornate doors into a small chapel where several dozen Clerics kneel, offering reverential prayers to a glowing portrait of Our Stowe. Querin bows to the image, then slips behind the dais. Entering another corridor, he stops at a bare wall, and taps it in six different places. The wall separates, and as he sweeps through, the panels realign, making the entrance again imperceptible.

  Passing through the wall, Willum pulls up short, startled by the sight before him. Images of Stowe, hundreds of them, large and small, cover every inch of the tiny room into which the Master steps. Photographs of her giving speeches, standing on the steps of the Pyramid, smiling and waving to the crowds. As the man responsible for shaping her public image, Querin would have a large collection of photos—but why here? Spread all over the walls like this? Over in one corner, at standing height, are six sketches. Composite drawings, as if an artist was trying to identify a person based on a verbal description, no doubt Raven’s. Although inaccurate in many small ways, they are unquestionably of Roan. The most complete of the drawings shows his intense eyes. His palm is extended an
d on it sits a white cricket. Below this picture, on a small table, is a series of books. Querin kneels before the table and opens one. Handwriting. Journals, then? On the cover of one of the books Willum can see a name. Steppe.

  Could it be? One by one, he examines the spines. Haron. Roan. Darius. Yana. The fabled lost journals of the First Inner Circle. How did they come into Querin’s possession? And more: Barthold, Valeria, and Krispin—the three known as the Mad Masters. Willum searches his memory. What had he heard of them? Killed or imprisoned by Darius. Imprisoned. Could they still be alive? Where would Darius be keeping them?

  Before Willum can shift closer to see what Querin’s reading, he’s abruptly snapped back. His ether self jets through walls and doorways to fall battle-ready into his body. Gunther Number Six is peering questioningly at him through the crack of the open door. Relieved, Willum puts a finger to his lips. The Gunther nods and points to a metal box at Willum’s right. Willum slides the box over and Number Six tips its contents onto the floor. He winks at Willum and wailing, “Oh, oh, oh!” chases the ball bearings as they skitter across the tile floors and under the feet of suddenly careening Clerics.

  Surreptitiously sliding out of the closet and down the stairs, Willum puzzles over what he’s observed. One thing is certain: Querin is not at all what he seems.

  Stifling in fila-armor again! True, it succeeds in keeping assassins’ sharp objects out, but unfortunately, it also keeps perspiration in, and right now Stowe’s swimming in it. She chose this miserable dress to please Darius; still, it offers no consolation whatsoever when he turns to smile approvingly at her.

  “It is good to have you back,” Darius purrs, patting her hand, positioned ever so delicately on the leather armrest between them. It is a little like being licked by a poisonous snake.

  “I missed you terribly, Father.” Turning her palm up to join his, Stowe squeezes his ice-cold hand. His circulation is failing again. Must be time for another vein replacement.