both.
The voracious plants, however, do not disperse despite hours of Roanâs soulful playing. In fact, quite the opposite.
âThe good news is the numbness is gone in my hand,â says Lumpy. âThe bad news is those plants really like your playing. Heyâtheyâre shifting position.â
Roan looks up to see a mass of tendrils swooping toward them. âLift your legs!â he shouts. The plants smash against the tree, and Roan senses a fine powder drift past his face.
âDo you feel that?â
âWhat?â
âSomething... Iâm not sure.â Keeping all his senses attuned to the plants, Roan tries to shake off the sluggishness folding over him.
âYouâre sure this isnât a trap, right? No chance at all the Turned might have stuck the image of the boy in your mind to draw you here.â
âNo. Iâve felt some of their tricks before. This is different.â Roan holds out the recorder. âYour turn. At least it kept them at bay.â
âIâd try, only, well... youâve heard me. I donât want to make them angry.â
âI need a break, my fingers are aching. Play Jawâs song,â says Roan, pushing the instrument into Lumpyâs hand.
Lumpy takes a breath and blows, picking out the notes of a tune he and Jaw wrote together. The only one he knows really well, the one he and his little friend played so often. Eyes closed, lost in thoughts of brighter days, he repeats the simple melody again and again. The attacks soon abate. The stalks weave and nod. Crimson tendrils wave in the wind, creating a hypnotic vista, the echo of a rhythm to sleep by, a rhythm to die by. Whenever Lumpy pauses, the stalks strike, surrounding them in a cloud of powder. In a short time, Lumpy too is played out and the worried look he shares with Roan speaks volumes. They know in a matter of hours they will succumb to exhaustion and the plants will have them.
When dissonant thumps, not unlike the call of a wild bird, echo through the marshlands, the sound seems an eerie prelude to their demise.
âWhat was that?â
Roan signals Lumpy to be quiet. Breathing very slowly, he releases all fear, thought, and self-awareness. When his mind is completely clear, he reaches for his hook-sword.
âRoan!â Lumpy whispers, but Roanâs feet are already on the ground.
âGrab the packs and follow me.â
Tendrils swoop down, but Roan can see a pattern, like a moving tapestry. He anticipates every assault, slicing the carnivorous plants off at the head, slowly clearing the way to the water.
âThere!â Lumpy gasps, and Roan stops.
The stalks are parting. A sleek, low boat is coming toward them. A box is fastened to the bow, thick smoke billowing out of it. The stalks edge away from the smoke. Itâs oddly comforting to know that the sword is not the only way to manage this threat. The paddler draws in, close enough for Roan to see his face.
âGet in,â the boy says.
PERFECT BODY AND MIND
OH, TO BE A DOCTOR IN THE CITY
YOUâD BE RICH, WELL FED AND WITTY
BUT TO KEEP THE MASTERS PRETTY
IS A JOB SOME WOULD DEEM... GRITTY
AND THATâS THE ENDING TO MY DITTY
âLORE OF THE STORYTELLERS
A MASS OF WIRES extends from every part of Stowe. Each wire connects to a machine where technicians hover anxiously over dials. Dr. Arcanthas has been testing her for hours, scanning, monitoring, probing.
âI want to see Darius.â The imperiousness in Stoweâs voice causes the doctorâs tiny eyebrows to lift.
âPardon me?â
Stowe shoots him a rabid glare. âI want to speak with Darius.â
His face tics nervously, his cheek lifting. âI relayed a message, as you requested, one hour ago, Our Stowe, and every hour before that.â
âDo it again,â she snarls.
Dr. Arcanthas freezes, as do the three technicians. They cannot leave their posts, but it is clear they wish they could be anywhere