Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

  For the first time, she wondered if perhaps she could change history. If Acton died now, the Domains would never be invaded. The original inhabitants would be safe. Perhaps Acton’s people would die instead, she thought. They are both my people. At that thought, the pressure from the gods increased, as though they were agreeing with her. She relaxed. I will make no changes, she promised them. I will merely watch, and discover what we need to know. The pressure diminished immediately, but didn’t disappear.

  Bramble concentrated on what Gris and Asa were saying.

  They were speaking a language she did not know. Some of the words were almost familiar, but pronounced oddly. The pressure of the gods increased in her mind, sending the voices fuzzy and warbling, then they steadied and she could understand what was being said. The gods had given her the ancient language as though it were her own.

  “It’s all ready,” Gris said. “There’s enough food to get you home. Do you have the things?”

  From beneath her shawl, Asa produced some clothing and swaddling bands.

  “Will they believe it?” she asked with intensity.

  He nodded. “The cliff is an ancient sacrifice place. If they find your clothes and the baby’s swaddling there, they’ll assume you readied yourself for sacrifice and jumped.”

  “Naked?” she said doubtfully.

  Gris smiled. Bramble could feel the face muscles moving, but she couldn’t tell what kind of smile it was. It didn’t feel happy.

  “That is the way for sacrifices. They won’t question it once I tell them about our conversation. How you couldn’t bear to live with Hard-hand anymore. How the baby reminded you too much of him. And how I suggested you make a sacrifice to the gods in reparation for his murder.”

  She looked doubtful. “Make sure they don’t blame you.”

  His mouth set firmly. The cheek muscles clenched. “I will,” he said. Bramble could hear the determination in his voice. So could Asa. She nodded, then looked down at the covered baby. She drew the shawl away from his face and Bramble saw that he had inherited his mother’s gold hair. He was not very old; no more than a month, maybe younger. Gris touched the baby’s cheek softly with the back of one finger.

  “Look after Acton,” he said. “He is my heir.”

  She smiled then, a sweet smile, and nodded. Bramble tried to get a better glimpse of the baby’s face, but Gris was looking at Asa.

  “I will see you some other day,” she said, and kissed his cheek. Bramble felt a flush creep up his face, but there was no response in his loins. He boosted Asa into the saddle and held the door open for her. She and the baby rode out into a windy, cloudless night and waters rose up around Bramble, as they had at the altar. This time she didn’t fight them, but it was still unpleasantly gut-wrenching, the sensation of being overwhelmed, of actually dying, as strong as it had been the first time. She could easily be afraid, she thought, though she had given herself to the gods and had to trust in them. But it was hard to trust when the waves seemed intent on drowning her, on thrusting her down into darkness.

  The sensation of goose bumps on her skin woke her. She was cold. She could tell she was thickly clothed, but she was still cold. She badly wanted to shiver, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Vision came slowly. She was in a big hall, with a fire in a circular fireplace in the middle of the room. There was no chimney. The smoke from the fire streamed upward to a hole in the roof. There were shuttered windows without any chinks of light. Either they were wadded against the cold or it was night.

  Bramble noticed all this with difficulty, as though the person whose body she now observed from saw dimly. The body felt vaguely unwell and sluggish. But at least it was a woman. She was sitting at a table on a backless bench or stool.

  The fire was too small to heat more than a tiny circle around it, but the people in the hall didn’t seem to notice. There were twenty or so men sitting at long tables and eating from bowls. They were full-bearded and long-haired; their blond hair tied in plaits on either side of their face or loose down their back. They were dressed in leather and homespun and boots with the fleece left on the inside. Some women were sitting with them but more were serving. They wore long dresses, to the ground. That must make it hard to get around, Bramble thought. Although she habitually wore breeches herself, most women in the Domains wore loose trousers under a full knee- or calf-length skirt. It was a good combination of modesty and practicality, she’d always thought, though she didn’t bother much about modesty herself. Those long dresses were an invitation to trip.

  The women carried bowls and spoons and bread on wooden plates from another room. The kitchen, Bramble supposed. There were children of all ages everywhere, the older ones sitting at the table, the younger ones running around and shrieking as they chased each other. Bramble had an impression of metal glinting above her head, but the woman she inhabited was too used to this room to look at the roof.

  Then a woman with gold hair in two thick plaits came into view, carrying a bowl which she put down in front of the woman. It was soup and it smelled good, of lamb and barley.

  “Here you are, Ragni,” she said.

  “Thanks, lass,” Ragni replied. Out of the corner of her eye Bramble could just see the golden-haired woman. Yes, it was Asa. She looked much happier now. Then a toddler with her own bright gold hair ran up to her and grasped her by the legs. Ragni looked at him and her face creased in a smile.

  “May the gods bless him, he’s getting so tall!” she said. Her voice was quavery and when she reached out a hand to touch the child’s cheek, it was wrinkled and spotted with age. Bramble was again conscious of how weak she felt. I should remember how this feels, she thought. I should have been more patient with Swith and his cronies when they complained about getting old.

  “He’s getting so cheeky!” Asa said, but she smiled as she swung the little boy up into her arms.

  “Food!” he demanded. “More!”

  “You’ve had your dinner, Acton, and there’s no more until the men have finished eating,” Asa said firmly.

  “Acton man!”

  Ragni, Asa and a couple of men sitting nearby laughed.

  “Aye,” one of them said, “you’re a little man already, aren’t you? Here, have some of ours.”

  Asa smiled at the man, the only red-head in the room. He held another toddler on his knee — an even paler blond than Acton — and was feeding him soup from his own bowl.

  Asa put Acton down on the bench and the little boy on the man’s lap wriggled down happily to sit next to him. Acton grabbed the piece of bread the young man held out. The other child held out his own hand for some.

  “Share with Baluch, Acton,” Asa said. Acton stuck his lip out and shook his head. Elric laughed and handed another piece of bread to Baluch.

  “You’re too soft on him, Elric Elricsson,” Asa said with mock severity. Elric ducked his head and smiled and continued to share his soup with both boys. Acton swung his legs and grabbed for the spoon.

  “No, Act’n,” Elric’s child said. “Da’s spoon!”

  “That’s right, Baluch!” Asa said, and made Acton give it back to Elric.

  “Let me know when you’ve had enough of him,” she said to Elric, and went back to the kitchen.

  “Wooing the babe so you can woo the mother, eh?” Ragni chuckled. “Well, your own wife’s been in her grave long enough, I’ll grant you. It’s not a bad idea, lad, but you’ll have to do more than share some soup. She’s still the chieftain’s daughter, and she’s covered herself in glory these past years.”

  Elric was bright red with embarrassment. “Aye,” he said. “I know. That’s why I’m off in the spring.”

  “Trying to cover yourself in glory, too? Make sure you don’t cover yourself in your own blood and guts instead. Glory costs too much, sometimes.”

  “I don’t care what it costs,” Elric said, looking toward the kitchen. “Whatever it costs will be worth it.” Bramble felt the shiver that meant the gods were listening and grie
ved for the young man. Nothing good ever came of an oath like that.

  Then the waters rose again and washed away the sight of the little gold-haired boy putting his face down into the soup bowl and slurping loudly. Somehow, although she was not conscious of having a body of her own, she felt herself smiling. It was hard to believe that this little scamp would grow up into the murderer and despoiler she knew him to be. The man who would slaughter thousands, and laugh while he did it, and then set up the whole system of warlordship which still tyrannized her country. Bramble felt her smile begin to fade, and then all sensation was swamped, as wave after wave broke over her until she felt nothing, saw nothing but the black of bottomless water.

  Hearing came first. Panting, the thud of feet on the earth, and a swishing sound Bramble couldn’t identify. She was moving, fast, shifting from side to side. The panting was her own breath, loud in her ears. She was holding something.

  Her sight cleared as a sword came down toward her head, just like the sword that Thegan’s man had aimed at her, but there was no Ash here now to save her. She had no time to feel anything, not even fear. Before she could react, her body swung its arms up and blocked the stroke with its own sword. Wooden, not steel. It was not a warlord’s man attacking her, but a boy, aged eight or nine years old. A boy with shoulder-length golden hair caught in two plaits at the front.

  “Hah!” he shouted, and lunged forward. The tip of his sword hit Bramble — hit the boy Bramble was inhabiting — just under the chest bone. He was wearing a padded jacket, but even so it hurt. She felt the pained exclamation making its way up his throat, and felt him bite it back. She understood that. Show no fear. Show no reaction to those trying to hurt you. Don’t let Acton the bully scare you.

  Then Acton grinned and clasped his opponent around the shoulders. Although he was not much taller, he seemed far sturdier.

  “Baluch, that was a great match!”

  The boy smiled, widely. Bramble became aware that they were surrounded by an audience of other boys and a few men, who were all stamping their feet and clapping with enthusiasm.

  Baluch raised his hand in acknowledgment.

  “How long did I last, Da?” he asked one of the men. Elric Elricsson, a few years older — and with only one arm. The right sleeve hung empty. So glory had had a high price, Bramble thought. I wonder if it got him what he wanted?

  “A count of ninety,” Elric said, smiling. “Well done, lad.”

  “That’s better by fifteen than anyone else,” another older man said approvingly. All the other men were graying or bald. Old men. Where were the young ones?

  The old man turned to Acton. “You’d better watch yourself, little rooster, he might knock you off your perch.”

  Acton laughed heartily, but not in mockery. It was simple enthusiasm, Bramble saw. He was brightly, vividly alive and everyone there seemed to turn toward him, to angle themselves so they could see him. The other boys began a scuffle, looking out of the corner of their eyes to see if Acton was watching. Showing off for him. He didn’t notice.

  “Baluch could be better than me, I think,” he said. “He thinks faster. He just needs to practice more.”

  Elric nodded. “That’s what I keep telling him.” He cuffed Baluch lightly on the back of the head. “Practice. That’s the secret. But he’s always off with his harp and his drum.”

  His voice was both faintly accusatory and proud. Bramble knew that tone. Her mother had used it whenever she talked about the food that Bramble brought home from the forest.

  Acton let go of Baluch’s shoulders and slapped him on the back.

  “He makes the best songs,” he said with admiration. Elric laughed.

  “Maybe so, maybe so. But songs are for after battle, and you won’t survive to get to the songs unless —”

  “Unless I practice more. Yes, Da,” Baluch said, with humor and resignation.

  It still felt very odd to Bramble, to have someone else use her mouth and her tongue, to feel her body move and speak, it seemed, without her volition. But she was becoming accustomed to it, to distancing herself from the sensations so she could study Acton and her surroundings.

  The group of boys was breaking up, allowing Bramble to see past them to the horse yard and the countryside beyond. Despite the summer-gold grass which covered its bones, it seemed barren to her, devoid of trees except for a few birches on the leeward side of hollows and small ridges. It was easy to tell which way the wind blew here — always from the snow-covered mountains, stunting and bending the trees until their top branches almost swept the ground. The mountains curved around, setting a barrier against the sky, the snow glowing orange and pink with the sunset. She had never seen mountains like these before — in comparison, the peaks near Golden Valley were mere foothills. She wanted Baluch to stand and stare at them, but he turned and followed Acton and the others toward a long building which she supposed was the hall she had been in earlier.

  There were outbuildings beyond it — stables and byres, houses and animal enclosures. As she meshed her senses more fully with Baluch’s, Bramble could smell the animals — horses, pigs, the wet-wool reek of sheep. She heard cows in the distance, saw hides stretching on drying frames. The frames were made from bones lashed together with leather strips. Timber was scarce, then. Valuable. As Baluch’s eyes skimmed across the darkening grasslands, Bramble longed for the trees of home.

  Baluch pulled a small wooden pipe from his belt and put it to his lips as he walked. He played a quick, flickering melody which made everyone increase their pace until they were striding along fast. Bramble wished that she could make music like this. She could feel his delight at the effect the tune was having. Then Acton halted, suddenly, and turned to look sideways at Baluch. It was a glance full of mischief and amusement and it made him seem older than he was.

  “Stop it!” he ordered, half-laughing. “I’m not marching to anyone’s tune!”

  Baluch smiled. Bramble was beginning to get a sense of this boy’s feelings. He was half sorry that his trick had been recognized, but also pleased that Acton was asserting his independence. He didn’t really want to control people. Or at least, he didn’t want to control Acton. Bramble knew that feeling, too. It was how she had felt about Acton the stallion, back in Pless. Famed for his wild strength and impossible to ride, the stallion had been a symbol to her of something she felt in herself. She had been glad every time she looked at him that something, some fellow creature, had refused to be tamed, as though that was a promise of equal wildness for herself.

  Baluch stared at Acton, smiling, and Bramble stared too. He didn’t look like a mad killer. He looked like a friendly, energetic boy who was used to being very, very good at things, better than anyone else, with a touch of the arrogance that that brought. He’s a chieftain’s grandson, Bramble thought, remembering the old woman’s words to Elric Elricsson. Her resentment at warlords rose up in her at the thought, but it was hard to sustain when Acton punched Baluch lightly in the arm and said, “Race you to the hall.”

  They sprinted off together, Acton in the lead, while the waters rose up and covered Bramble once again.

  Saker

  THE NEXT DAY, Saker turned north from Three Rivers Domain and headed upriver toward Pless, into Central Domain. He had consulted his scrolls at length the night before, and had mapped out a wandering course that would let him visit all the massacre sites in the songs Rowan had shared with him. It would take him weeks, but that was all right. He had time.

  He would not mention to anyone that he had come from Carlion. He was just a stonecaster, traveling the roads looking for customers, as he had been so many times before.

  He considered raising the ghost of his father, Alder, to tell him the good news about Carlion, but he was so tired. Too much blood had been needed for Carlion. He would raise his father next time, so Alder could watch the invaders die, and be proud of him.

  It was a fine day, and Central Domain was pretty country. Saker hummed as his horse ambled along t
he dusty roads, and did not admit to himself that he was glad there would be weeks before the next deaths.

  Martine

  “DO WE MOVE her?” Martine asked Safred.

  Bramble lay sprawled across the rock at the base of the altar, her face scowling in concentration although her eyes were closed. She moved, twitched, frowned again.

  The mist surrounded them still, spreading the moonlight into a blanket of silver around them. Martine didn’t trust it, even if it did come from the gods.

  Ever since Bramble had cried out in some kind of warning and collapsed at their feet, Martine had been fighting a sense of outrage, a feeling that no human should go through what Bramble was enduring. Her Sight told her that it violated more than time and space; it hacked at Bramble’s identity and the center of who she was. Who knew what this experience would do to her?

  “I think we must,” Safred said, with the look on her face that meant she was listening to the gods. Martine listened, too, but although she could sense their presence they had never talked to her except through the stones. She was not like her daughter Elva, whose mind was taken over by the gods as casually as she might slip on a coat. She sent a prayer to whatever gods were listening for Elva’s safety, and the safety of her husband Mabry and the baby Ash, back in Hidden Valley. Their home there had seemed a bastion of warmth and security, but nowhere was secure when ghosts carried weapons and used them for dark revenge.

  As they stood, trying to decide what to do, the mist vanished as rapidly as it had come, leaving Martine feeling defenseless and exposed. It was growing dark rapidly, and the moon went behind the clouds. Martine dreaded the journey back across the sharp-edged rings of rock that were the only stepping-stones. She wasn’t even sure it was possible.