W
AVES SPLASH AGAINST THE SHORE OF THE SANDSWEPT ISLAND.
N
O MORE THAN A LEAGUE AWAY, THE VAULTING BEAMS OF THE
R
AMPARTS RISE FROM THE SEA.
T
HE FIRST OF THE SIX
C
ONSTRUCTIONS, IT IS AN IMPENETRABLE BARRIER DEMARCATING THEIR EASTERN BOUNDARY FROM THE
E
ATERS.
A
FALCON PERCHED ON
S
TOWE'S TERRA-COTTA SHOULDER WHISPERS,
“B
EGIN THE PROCESS NOW.
”
S
TOWE FINDS THE TONE AND NURTURES IT LIKE A TINY FLAME, LETTING IT RISE AND BUILD INSIDE HER, DIRECTING THE VIBRATION.
A
TERRIBLE PAIN STABS INTO THE SOLES OF HER FEET AS DIAMOND ERUPTS OVER THEIR SURFACE.
S
HE CRIES OUT, AND THE TRANSFORMATION STOPS.
T
HE VULTURE LOOMS OVER HER.
“T
HERE, YOU SEE!
I
T IS BEYOND HER ABILITY,” SNEERS
K
ORDAN.
W
ILLUM, THE FALCON, GENTLY ENCOURAGES HER.
“J
UST A LITTLE AT A TIME.
M
AKE THE PAIN SERVE YOU.
F
ORCE IT TO DRIVE THE CHANGE.
”
S
HE RETRIEVES THE TONE AND RECALIBRATES HER ANKLES, HER CALVES, HER KNEES TO ITS RESONANCE.
B
ENDING HER LEFT LEG SLIGHTLY, AN EXPLOSION OF PAIN SENDS HER REELING TO THE SAND.
“R
IDICULOUS
!”
MUTTERS THE VULTURE, BLACK EYES MOCKING.
B
UT THE FALCON'S CLAWS, STEADY ON
S
TOWE'S SHOULDER, REMIND HER TO SWALLOW THE PAIN, USE IT AS FUEL.
S
HE COAXES ANOTHER SERIES OF ERUPTIONS, CRYSTALS FORMING THROUGH HER THIGHS.
W
HEN THEY REACH HER HIPS,
W
ILLUM ORDERS HER TO STOP.
“G
OOD, THAT IS ENOUGH FOR TODAY.
”
S
TOWE SIGHS, THE AGONY ABATING, AND FOCUSES ON THE TASK AHEAD.
“W
E'LL SEE IF SHE'S ABLE TO MAINTAIN THE DENSITY IN HER LEGS WHEN SHE RISES,
”
THE VULTURE SAYS DISPARAGINGLY, THEN SWOOPS AHEAD, LEADING THE WAY TO THE
R
AMPARTS.
“R
EMEMBER YOUR PROTECTION IS ONLY PARTIAL.
E
MPLOY YOUR ARMS IN YOUR DEFENSE AND YOU MAY LOSE THEM,
” W
ILLUM WARNS, THEN DIVES TOWARD THE ISLAND.
A
CCELERATING RAPIDLY, SHE CALLS UP ALL SHE KNOWS ABOUT THE
R
AMPARTS.
I
T WAS ON THIS BORDER THAT THE
E
ATERS ONCE ATTEMPTED TO EXTEND THEIR TERRITORY.
T
HE COLUMNS THEMSELVES ARE ALL THAT REMAINS OF A PREVIOUS STRUCTURE THAT PRE-DATED THE DISCOVERY OF
D
IRT.
D
ARIUS SECRETLY REFURBISHED THEM, CREATING AN IMPENETRABLE BARRIER THAT PUSHED THE
E
ATERS BACK AND HAS CONTINUED TO PREVENT FURTHER INCURSIONS.
S
TOWE FLIPS OVER SO THAT HER DIAMOND LEGS ARE WHAT PASS BETWEEN THE COLUMNS.
S
PIKES BURST OUT, BUT WITH A FLURRY OF KICKS THE PROJECTILES SHATTER.
T
HE MORE SHE DESTROYS, THE FASTER THEY COME UNTIL SHE IS A BLUR OF MOVEMENT, SHARDS OF METAL AFLAME ALL AROUND HER.
C
ONSUMED WITH THIS ORGY OF DESTRUCTION, SHE ALMOST MISSES THE SCREECH OF THE VULTURE.
S
HE BACK-FLIPS AWAY FROM THE GIANT PILLARS, REJOINING HER TEACHERS.
“W
ELL DONE,
”
SAYS
W
ILLUM.
T
HERE IS NO MISTAKING THE SWELL OF PRIDE IN HIS VOICE.
“I
T WILL BE A GREATER CHALLENGE WITH FULL ARMOR.
W
E'LL SEE HOW YOU MANAGE TOMORROW,
”
SNAPS
K
ORDAN.
Stowe rises from the glass chair and looks at her two instructors. “What is the mission I am training for?”
Willum is silent. Kordan grins, relishing the hint of pleading in her voice. “As you've been told, only Darius has the authority to discuss this with you. And Darius will do so when he pleases.”
Kordan's tempting her to strike out, but she will not lose her discipline again, certainly not on account of him. No, all will come if she is patient.
How she hates patience.
THE FRIEND COMMANDED THE PROPHET TO LEAVE THE WORLD AND PREPARE A WAY FOR THE ONE. AND SAINT SPOKE THE FRIEND'S WORD TO BROTHER WOLF SO THAT HE MIGHT CONTINUE TO PRESERVE AND ENFORCE IT IN THE PROPHET'S STEAD.
âORIN'S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND
A
T
R
OAN'S SIGNAL,
Lumpy tosses in the packs, then delicately steps into the craft, careful not to capsize it. Once he's seated, Lumpy turns to the boy. “I may look it, but don't worry, I don't have Mor-Ticks.”
The boy looks at him curiously.
“I mean, I did, but not anymore.”
The boy shrugs, unconcerned.
Lumpy smiles. “I'm Lumpy, by the way. And that's Roan.”
Roan puts one foot in the bow and pushes them off the shore with the other. Hook-sword in hand, he sits warily, unwilling to put all his trust in the musky smoke.
“I am Mabatan. We travel until the sun sets.” Seeming to respond to an unspoken command, the boy turns the boat around, adroitly maneuvering through the narrow passageway between the plants. As the boy paddles, Roan admires the workmanship of the craft. Its skin is made of thin tree bark strips lashed to a wooden frame, so it's light in the water, perfect for a shallow swamp. He moves his fingers along the craft's smoothed edges, and takes a long look at the boy. The child of the visions, certainly, but much younger in appearance than Roan imagined. No more than eleven or twelve years old, he guesses. The boy's dark hair is long and tied back, his tawny pants and shirt woven from rough fiber. His paddling is stronger and smoother than it should be for a child of his age. This is someone who fends for himself, Roan thinks, who probably spends all of his time alone.
Emerging from the plant-infested waters, they're welcomed by the glow of late morning sunlight. Roan lifts his head, enjoying the warmth on his face, and finally feels free to speak.
“How did you find us?”
“I followed the Skree.”
“Is that what you call those plants?” asks Lumpy.
“They are not plants. They are Skree.”
“How long have Skree been in this swamp?”
“They were here before my father,” the boy replies. “But they were smaller then. They had only begun to wake.”
Roan stares at him. “Sentient beings?”
The boy nods.
Hanging his head, Roan murmurs, “I killed dozens of them.”
“How were you supposed to know?” says Lumpy.
“You did not kill any Skree. What was cut will grow back.”
“That's a relief,” Lumpy sighs, with half-concealed sarcasm.
“You should know that your friend had won their respect.”
“By hacking their heads off?”
“By cleansing his mind. An attack on the Skree is impossible otherwise. Thoughts are what draw the Skree.”
Lumpy mutters, “Those must've been pretty deep-thinking frogs.”
“They are not drawn to frogs. They harvest frogs. But they like eating larger game better. Especially strong-smelling ones like you. The reek of dragonweed alone would have been enough to track you.”
Lumpy laughs. “Do you have an extra paddle?”
“You must rest. You have not slept. You have much more traveling to do.”
“Not before we wash up, I hope,” says Lumpy. “Wouldn't want to tempt any other creatures looking for an overripe lunch.” Then he opens his pack, takes out some bean sticks, passes one to Roan and offers one to Mabatan.
The boy sniffs it. “Good,” he says, and starts chewing. He reaches down and lifts the lid of a basket. Inside are dozens of small, charred globes. “Eat.”
Lumpy takes one and examines it. “Is it a larva?” he asks hopefully. Roan's never shared Lumpy's appetite for eating bugs and fervently hopes this food does not have legs that wriggle.
“No, an egg,” replies Mabatan.
Lumpy hands it to Roan, who happily pops the whole egg, shell and all, into his mouth. A couple of quick chews and he swallows. “Better than grubs,” he says, and with that pronouncement, Lumpy grabs a few and gulps them down. Stomachs soon full, their lack of sleep quickly catches up with them, and it isn't long before the glare of the noonday sun reflecting off the water lulls them to sleep.
A scraping on the keel wakes them. Roan's eyes open as Lumpy groggily sits up. To their surprise, the western horizon already glows with the pale green haze that anticipates darkness.
Lumpy gives Mabatan a suspicious look. “Did you put something in those eggs?”
“Just eggs. The Skree made you tired. They always do. It's in their dust.”
“I sensed it,” says Roan, getting out of the craft and carefully stepping over the mossy rocks. “But I didn't realize what it was.”
“You were not meant to.”
Lumpy grins at Roan. “Wow, he doesn't just know what they are, he knows what they're thinking.”
Mabatan smiles. “He?”
“Lumpy's talking about you,” says Roan.
Mabatan laughs, a sound like the tinkling of bells.
Both Roan and Lumpy take another, closer look. “You're a girl,” says Lumpy, astonished by their mistake.
“I am a girl.” With an amused smile, she pulls the boat onto the shore.
Seeming to not quite believe her, Lumpy leans in closer, then turning to Roan wide-eyed, he exclaims, “Look!”
There, perched contentedly on Mabatan's shoulders, are both of their crickets.
“Remarkable,” Roan says, his voice filled with awe. There's rarely been a time when Roan's cricket has gone near another person, and he's certain Lumpy's shares that shyness.
“They tell me they are fond of you both,” Mabatan says. “That is good.” Her face grows suddenly somber. “I have seen the little ones.”
“Little crickets?” asks Lumpy.
“The children,” she replies.
“In Newlight?” asks Roan, barely able to contain himself.
“Only their bodies remain there.”
“What do you mean?” demands Lumpy.
“Please explain,” Roan urges.
“I can do more than that, Roan. I will take you to them.”
“Are they with the Turned? In the Dreamfield?”
“They are not where those who eat Dirt can go.”
It's much more than Roan had hoped for. But his excitement is tempered by just the slightest of doubts. Can he truly believe what she is telling him?
As if reading his mind, Lumpy stares at the crickets on Mabatan's shoulders. “The crickets wouldn't go near her if she couldn't be trusted.”
“I am just a guide. Nothing more.”
“That's good enough for me,” smiles Roan.
“I'd go in a second, too, if I could,” says Lumpy mournfully.
“Whether you could or not, we would need you to stay here,” she says, patting her chest, “to look after our shells.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Good. Thank you, Lumpy.” Mabatan grins widely as she says his name, but when she turns to Roan her tone is more pressing. “We must make haste.”
Mabatan leads them to a grove of huge, ancient red cedar and sits beneath the giants on the mossy ground.
Lumpy looks up, admiringly. “Must be five hundred years old.”
“Older,” says Mabatan.
Roan and Lumpy stand quietly for a moment, appreciating the grandeur of the trees, breathing in their sweet fragrance.
“This area, there's something about it,” says Roan.
“You can feel it. Good. This is an earth place,” says Mabatan. “Very special.” She reaches into the leather pouch dangling from her neck. Between her thumb and forefinger, she draws out a silver needle. Roan leans over for a closer look. Miniscule symbols are etched into the head. “Do those mean something?”
“It's the old language. It says, the earth remembers.”
“What does the earth remember?”
“Everything.”
“What's the needle for?” asks Lumpy.
“It sings the path. Are you ready?”
“Yesâwhere is your Dirt?”
Mabatan's eyes darken and she spits with a contempt that startles both Roan and Lumpy. “I eat no Dirt. I follow the call.”
Roan has never met anyone else who can travel without Dirt. He watches Mabatan, fascinated as she pushes her needle's sharp tip into the exposed edge of a thick tree root. Kneeling before the tree, she touches her forehead to its barkâalmost as though she's asking a favor of it. Then, drawing herself up, she strums the needle's exposed end. A very quiet but clear tone slips into the silence. The tiny sound is penetrating; it echoes through Roan's head, peals through his bones, and his whole body begins resonating, ringing, vibrating. It's a feeling completely unlike anything he's ever experienced.
The reverberation suddenly thrusts forward out of his chest, generating a blistering heat that collapses him into a blinding flash of light.
T
HE GROUND IS CHARRED AS FAR AS THE HORIZON.
D
UST, GRAVEL, GIANT STONES, ALL BLACK.
R
OAN'S EYES BLINK AT THE DARK EXPANSE AND HE ATTEMPTS TO TURN HIS HEAD FOR A LOOK IN THE OTHER DIRECTION, BUT HE CANNOT.
H
E CANNOT MOVE AT ALL.
I
T SEEMS HE'S CAUGHT IN ONE OF THE STONES.
A
SINEWY RABBIT WITH AZURE FUR JUMPS BEFORE HIM, NOSE QUIVERING.
“H
OW DO
I
GET OUT
?”
“D
IDN'T YOUR FATHER TEACH YOU
?”
“N
O.
”