Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

  Leof

  LEOF WAITED IN the cold before dawn for the signal to attack, hidden in the trees, calming his horse with a pat now and then. The still water of the Lake hid nothing, as Lord Thegan had said. Leof was sure that his lord must be right. The tales were nothing more than Lake people subterfuge.

  “Perhaps there is a tricksy spirit,” Thegan had told his men the night before. “Or perhaps the Lake People have some slight enchantment to call up illusions to frighten the cowardly. But remember, it is no more than illusion. It cannot be that the Lake has any real power.”

  He was reassured remembering those words, spoken with the confidence which inspired others. It was no wonder his men had followed Thegan here to the Lake so willingly. They believed everything Thegan said: that the people of Baluchston were strangling trade between the Domains by charging exorbitant prices for ferrying goods and people across. And there was no real reason a bridge couldn’t be built, that Baluchston was just using old stories about the Lake so it could keep its monopoly. Old stories, and their mysterious alliance with the Lake People. An alliance which needed to be broken, so Baluchston could be taught a lesson.

  The fact that, if Thegan took over Baluchston — a free town, for Swith’s sake! — he would hold the entire center of the Domains, from Cliff to Carlion’s borders, was never mentioned, but the men weren’t fools. They knew and they approved. Their lord should be the most powerful in the Domains. They were sure he deserved it, and so did they. His power would be their power, and they would swagger and bask in it.

  Leof checked the horizon again, but there were only whispering reeds and, far off, the sky starting to pale as dawn approached.

  Thistle moved restlessly and Leof murmured softly to her. A good horse, Thistle, though not a chaser. He had left his chaser mare, Arrow, back at the fort.

  Thoughts of Arrow inevitably made him think about Bramble; about their first race against each other, he and Arrow against her and her roan gelding; about the night that followed in his bed at the inn. That led him to memories of losing her, and losing her twice, when he had set her free to find her own way out of Thegan’s territory, against the express orders of his lord. His unease over his disloyalty made Thistle shift beneath him, and he thought again of Arrow, burying memories of Bramble as deeply as he could.

  When foot soldiers went against horsemen, they aimed to bring the horse down first, then deal with the rider. He had no mind to lose Arrow to a stray arrow or a spear thrust. His lord had scolded him about leaving her behind, but in that friendly, jovial way that meant he should not take it seriously. Leof had almost brought her, even so. Anything to show Thegan that he was loyal.

  As though the thought had triggered it, the signal to advance rang out, a long horn call that echoed strangely through the pine trees. Leof urged Thistle forward, followed by the small squad of horsemen and the much larger group of archers and pikemen that Thegan had put under his command. Their task was simple: the horsemen were to secure the shore of the Lake so that the archers could shoot flaming arrows into the reeds. Then the whole troop would protect the area until the reeds had burned down to the waterline and the Lake was exposed. Thegan had placed bands all around the perimeter of the Lake, in both Central and Cliff Domains. His aim was to lay bare the secret lairs of the Lake People, the hidden islands where they were protected from attack. With the reed beds empty, Thegan would be able to see right across the Lake, into the heart of its mystery.

  Leof gave his men hand signals, but they weren’t really needed. These were experienced men, at least half of them from the Cliff Domain, most of whom had fought with him on past campaigns. Thegan had mixed the Cliff men up with the Centralites, putting battle-hardened men side-by-side with those who had never fought, “to make sure no one panics when the arrows start flying,” he said, and Leof had nodded. That had been the moment when Thegan had forgiven him and started treating him again as a trusted officer. Thegan had smiled at him for the first time since he had stopped Thegan’s archer from shooting Bramble in the back as she escaped from Sendat and said, “Just as well I have experienced officers, too,” and clapped him on the back. The relief had been enormous.

  Leof put the thought away from him and concentrated on getting this sortie right for his lord. The archers lined up a short distance back from the shoreline and set arrows to their bows. Broc, a boy barely old enough to fight, ran along the line with a blazing torch, setting each arrow alight, then stood well back from the horses so that none would be spooked by the flames.

  Leof raised his hand and dropped it again, and the arrows flew, bright as shooting stars, into the air and onto the reed beds. It was a beautiful sight, the bright flame against the still-dark sky. They waited with all senses fully alert for response, waited for the reeds to catch, waited for the flames to rise, licking, into the sky.

  At first it seemed that nothing was happening. The fire arrows burnt among the reeds, throwing writhing shadows over them. Then slowly, slowly, the reeds began to catch. Leof braced himself for the Lake’s response. Lord Thegan had warned him that they had to stand firm against illusion. He had warned his men likewise and they were ready.

  A deep vibration came from the Lake and the still water between the reeds began to whisper as though it were a quickly moving current. Leof felt the ground shake beneath him. His horse reared and only his long experience in chasing allowed him to anticipate the movement and jump off safely. Thistle tore the reins from his hand and bolted. Behind him, the other horsemen were falling as their mounts reared and then raced away to the forest. The archers, confused, stepped back, away from the Lake. Then, from beyond the reeds, there was a rushing sound, loud, sibilant, like wind through trees, like breath through giant lungs. It was moving closer, and it was nothing human. The archers broke and fled into the trees, followed by the horsemen, some limping, leaving only Leof standing firm; and Broc, behind him, clutching his torch.

  “What is it, lord?” he asked.

  The sound grew too loud to make a reply. Illusion, Leof thought, to make us run away. I trust my lord. It’s only illusion. Before him, out of the darkness, roared a wave mounting higher than a house, higher than a tree, a hill of a wave that loomed above them. Broc screamed and ran, dropping the torch.

  Illusion, Leof told himself, just before the wave hit.

  Bramble

  THE CEILING WAS dark green, with wooden beams. Bramble had never seen a green ceiling before. She was more tired and more hungry than she had ever felt in her life, and she was disoriented by waking in a room with a green ceiling.

  Then she remembered, and her body of its own accord curled into a tight ball of misery, head on knees, trying to shut out the world. Maryrose. Maryrose was dead.

  She lay and shook for a while, remembering. She had died again, only this time it was her body that had died. She remembered lying on the Well of Secret’s table, body in flames, arm hurting almost past her ability to bear it. Then she had — fainted? Died.

  But instead of being in the Well of Secret’s house she had been in Maryrose’s front room, and Maryrose was lying dead, with Merrick next to her, dead, and she knew it wasn’t a dream. She had been glad she herself was dead, and she called out, “Wait for me!” to Maryrose, so they could go on together to rebirth. She was glad to be out of it all, glad to be set free of whatever destiny the gods had planned for her.

  She called out again, “Wait for me, Maryrose!” in exactly the same way she had called out to her big sister when she was tiny and Maryrose walked too fast on her longer legs.

  And just like then, Maryrose heard her and came back for her. She — her spirit — appeared somehow, as though she had walked in from another room through a door that wasn’t there, and stood looking at Bramble with the same loving annoyance as when they were children.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Bramble felt a moment of surprise. Ghosts weren’t supposed to be able to talk. “I’m dead,” Bramble said.

&nbs
p; “Nonsense.”

  “I am so!”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. Not yet. You’ve got work to do.” She pointed to her own body, lying limp on the floor. “You’re supposed to stop all this.”

  She put out her hands and turned Bramble so that she was facing the door, although ghosts were not supposed to be able to touch anything, not even each other. “Go on, then. Get back there.”

  Bramble hesitated, looking back to her. “Mam and Da? Granda?”

  “They’re fine. They went back to Wooding for Widow Farli’s wedding to the smith. They missed all this.”

  “Mare —”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Maryrose said, the exasperated big sister. “I’ll wait for you. We both will.” Bramble smiled and she smiled back, exasperation melting into love. “You do what you’re told and go back.”

  Then Maryrose pushed her between the shoulder blades and she took two steps and was through the doorway before she had finished saying, protestingly, “Oh, Maryro-ose.” Then — nothing, until she had woken here, under this green ceiling.

  She forced herself to uncurl. Maryrose was dead. Someone had killed her. It was Bramble’s job to stop whoever it was. So. If that was the destiny the gods had in mind for her, she would embrace it. She would find the murderers, and disembowel them.

  She lay for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, and then lifted her left hand, gingerly, to touch her shoulder. Her mind remembered the pressure, the pain, the burning and nausea and sheer wrongness of that swollen arm. But her body didn’t. It was all gone. Cautiously, her head spinning, she sat up and examined her body. Not even a scar. She was starving, her body clamoring to replace the energy she had lost.

  Suddenly, her hunger was gone, replaced by awe. What kind of person could do that, heal without leaving a scar? To heal was one thing, but to knit the flesh back to a state where it did not even remember being injured… that was tinkering with powers deeper even than the local gods.

  The room had three beds, covered with green blankets matching the light color of the walls. It was like being inside a forest. She should find that comforting. She should be happy to be alive. Again. Twice she’d been pulled back from death by the power of the gods; and this time, by Maryrose.

  The first time, when the roan had saved her in the wild jump across the chasm outside Wooding, she had entered a living death, her spirit split from her body, her senses dull, her heart empty except for love for the roan. It had only ended when she became the Kill Reborn, truly reborn by some power in the running of the Spring Chase.

  Would she go back to that death in life again? It didn’t feel like it. All her senses were sharp. She could hear footsteps outside, climbing the stairs. She felt the bed linen under her thighs, the warmth of the late afternoon sun that slanted through high windows to fall across her shoulders. Saw each individual dust mote as it danced in the sunbeam. Each beautiful detail of the day filled her with grief and anger that Maryrose had been cut off from the world so viciously.

  She was so weak she couldn’t even stand up. And she stank with old sweat. At that realization, her mouth twisted with amusement. At least the Well of Secrets couldn’t bespell that away — she stank of the last few days and was glad of it.

  Martine put her head around the door and smiled at her. “Hungry?”

  Bramble nodded. If she was going to live, and find out what had happened to Maryrose, she had to eat. Martine came in with a laden tray, followed by Ash who carried a basin and ewer, the water steaming from the top.

  Bramble sniffed. “It’s true, I need that. One thing she couldn’t take away was the stink.”

  Martine’s eyes crinkled with laughter and understanding as though she, too, found the Well of Secrets daunting and was glad to make a little joke about her.

  “Food first, though,” she said, handing Bramble a warm roll dripping with butter. It disappeared in two bites.

  “That was the best thing I ever tasted,” Bramble said, wondering, feeling guilty that she could enjoy food knowing that Maryrose was… she couldn’t think about that now. Her body was ravenous, demanding food, and she had to feed it. She had work to do.

  “Near death lends spice to living,” Martine replied.

  “Not always.”

  The young man, Ash, was busying himself tidying the two other beds. Bramble realized he was trying not to look at her in her breast-bands. That was both endearing and a bit worrying. The last thing she needed was a youngling yearning after her. She pulled the sheet up to cover herself. He had, after all, saved her life. Both of them had.

  “I have to thank you,” Bramble said, pausing before devouring a mug of soup. It was hard to pause, she was so hungry. She took a tiny sip. Asparagus and cream. Wonderful. “I owe you my life.”

  Ash turned at that and Martine shrugged. “That’s what happens when you travel with a safeguarder,” she said, waving her hand at Ash. “People get safeguarded.”

  Bramble looked at Ash with new eyes and he flushed. Under his shaggy black hair, he was a bit older than she had thought, and strong with trained muscle. He smiled at her tentatively and she realized that he was unsure of himself despite his strength and agility. She smiled back.

  “Thank the gods, then, that you came at the right time.” And the Lake, she thought, that sent me there right then. She remembered leaving the Lake and being transported through time, late autumn becoming spring in a heartbeat. She shivered with remembered awe. That was true power.

  “Mmm,” Ash said. “It was their fault, all right.”

  Ah, Bramble thought, so it’s not just me the gods have been ordering about. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

  “After you’ve washed,” Martine suggested, “we should go to see Safred. The Well of Secrets.”

  “The Well of Secrets,” Bramble echoed. “Yes. I suppose we must. After I’ve seen the horses.”

  Fed, washed, dressed in clean clothes and with her horses well cared for in the rooming-house stables, Bramble walked around the corner of an ordinary looking street to meet the Well of Secrets. She didn’t pause, or knock. If this Safred was a prophet, she should be expecting them.

  As she pushed open the big double doors, they were met by a tall, good-looking older man.

  “Ah, you’re on your feet!” he said. “Good, good.”

  It was odd to meet someone who clearly knew her but of whom she had no recollection. Bramble forced a smile. “Thank you for your help.”

  He waved that away and moved back from the door. “Come in, come in. I’m Cael, Safred’s uncle. They’re waiting for you.”

  Sitting at a table were two women and a boy of about fifteen. The younger of the women, a girl really, had the dark, lean looks of the Traveler and the flexible body of a tumbler or dancer. She sat with her legs drawn up on the chair, one arm around a raised knee. She reminded Bramble of Osyth, though Osyth would never have sat so casually. Pless, where she had worked for Osyth’s husband Gorham the Horsespeller, seemed a very long time ago.

  The boy had light brown hair and was taller, gangly with the swift growth of youth.

  Then there was the other woman. Red-headed, older than her, around forty, stout but not fat. Bramble forced herself to look Safred in the eyes. Oddly, where she had expected to find something strange, something foreign, she found someone much like herself. Not an ordinary woman, but a woman nonetheless, beset by the gods and carrying a destiny unasked for. There was humor in the folds of her mouth and the lines around her intense eyes.

  Bramble had no time for humor. “My sister’s dead,” she said. “Who killed her?”

  Safred sat up straight, astonished. “How do you —” she began to ask.

  Bramble cut across her. “Never mind how I know. Who killed her?”

  Safred’s face sharpened with interest; with a kind of hunger. “Tell me how you know,” she asked again.

  “Tell me who killed her.”

  The Well of Secrets wasn’t used to being resisted. She swallowed and
sat back in her chair, mouth tight. “His name is Saker.”

  “Saker?” Martine asked. Bramble had almost forgotten she and Ash were there.

  “That is his name, the enchanter, the one who raises ghosts. Saker. A bird of prey. He has a flock of falcons at his command. Last night, he loosed them onto new victims. In Carlion.”

  Martine and Ash looked shocked.

  “Ghosts?” Bramble asked. “Maryrose wasn’t killed by ghosts. She was almost cut in two. Ghosts can’t do that sort of thing.”

  “These can.” Safred looked at Martine and Ash. “Tell her.”

  Martine described the attack on Spritford. The maimings, the deaths, ordinary people cut down in their homes and on the street by ghosts who could hold a weapon and use it against the living. An unstoppable force, because they could not be killed themselves.

  The young man and woman listened with appalled interest, but it was clearly old news to the big man, Cael, although he asked several questions about the ghosts and the way they had looked and spoken. Bramble was astonished that anyone could make ghosts speak. Ash looked fixedly at the table at that point, as though he were not proud of the ability.

  Bramble sat for a moment after Martine finished. “What does he want?” she asked finally.

  “He wants the Domains,” Safred said.

  “Why?”

  Safred picked up a jug of cha and began pouring out cups and handing them around. She gestured to Bramble and Martine and Ash to sit down, and they did.

  “We don’t know,” she said reluctantly. “Yet. All we know is that the ghosts are those who have been dispossessed and are still angry. Perhaps they are taking back what was theirs before the invasion.”

  “Do we know where he is, so I can go and kill him?” Bramble asked. There was silence. She looked around the table at the mixture of surprise and shock in the others’ faces. “What? It’s the simplest solution.”

  Ash nodded agreement, and then looked unsure. He took the cup of cha and sipped, staring at the tabletop.