Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

  The first day went slowly. At sunset, the men disappeared into the caves and reappeared a little while later in their true shapes. Individually, the boys were chosen and led away. Flax was last. Rowan came for him, with Skink, whose true shape was a fox. Flax made a nervous face at Ash and stood, half-unwillingly, and began to strip off his clothes. He seemed both attracted to and uneasy with the Deep, which was not a bad thing, necessarily. Ash just hoped he was trustworthy. Tonight he would have the demon warnings, the threats about keeping silent, the solemn vows of secrecy. They made an impression, as they were meant to.

  Once Flax was naked, the demons led him to join Ash at the mouth of the cave. Ash patted his shoulder reassuringly. Rowan the badger led them forward, around the leaping fire, to the first of the chasms, a split in the rock that blocked the exit from the cave. Black as pitch, it was a couple of paces wide. From below the sound of water thundered up. Rowan gestured to Ash. He nodded, remembering. This warning was usually given in daylight, when the men could talk. The youngest boys were shown this cave on their third day in the Deep, to prepare them for the night, which was hard.

  “This is the beginning of the Deep,” Ash said, echoing what he had been told precisely. “This is your first glimpse of the River. This is not the Hidden River, which flows from the Lake for all to see. This is the Dancing River, the Lake’s little sister. She flows throughout the land, underground, never seen except by us, here, where she reveals herself to us that we might know who we truly are. She flows from cliff to cove, from sand to snow, binding the Domains as no man ever could, making this all one country. Our country, given to us by water and fire and never taken away, no matter what the fair-haired ones think. But beware! The River is not the Lake. She is wild, not tame; she is joyous and terrible; she is lover and she is Death herself. Beware. Do not betray her, or her punishment will be unthinkable. Do you swear allegiance to the River, to finding your truth?” Gently, he added, “You don’t have to, but if you don’t you can’t go any further. You’ll just have to wait in the clearing until morning.”

  Flax gulped and glanced back to where the demons waited in the shadows made by the leaping fire. “With them?” He shook his head and opened his mouth. “I —”

  Ash cut in quickly. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. This is for life, Flax. There’s no going back.”

  Flax met his eyes, uncertain. “Doesn’t everyone want to know who they truly are?” he asked.

  “No. Not everyone,” Ash said. “Some are afraid. Some are so happy in themselves they don’t need it. And some… some think they already know, and don’t want it confirmed in front of others. Not everyone comes to the true Deep.”

  Around them, the men waited patiently. No one moved. Ash could feel the pull of the River, feel its power flowing up from the slit in the rock. It was a different power to the gods; wilder, happier, more grief-stricken. It felt more, as humans feel. The River desired them to go forward. He sensed that desire, the desire to know and be known, to accept and be accepted, which lay at the heart of the River mysteries. He had always found it irresistible, but Flax was not him.

  Flax stared down into the dark, listening. “I swear,” he said suddenly.

  As one, the men took in a deep breath and howled triumph to the roof of the cave. It was the sound they had heard the first night, but this time it buoyed them up instead of chilling them. Ash felt himself grin, and Flax smiled widely, puffing his breath out in a long sigh.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Ash flicked him a glance full of mischief, and backed away. “Now you jump,” he said.

  “Over that?”

  Ash nodded. The howling grew louder and Rowan ran and leaped, high and long, over the black chasm, over the pounding waters, landing in a crouch and waiting there for Flax.

  “You next,” Ash said. “Come on.”

  Flax blew out his breath again and then backed up as far as he could go, until the fire was almost licking at his legs. Then he ran forward and leapt.

  It wasn’t a high leap, and for a moment Ash had a terrible fear that he would fall, and he would be left to explain his death to Zel. I promised to look after him, he thought in a quick panic, but then Flax was over safely and half-collapsed at Rowan’s feet, panting much harder than he should have been from the jump. Yes, Ash thought, we learn about fear here. Rowan helped Flax to his feet and thumped him on the back in congratulations.

  They went down the passageway and Ash returned to the clearing and settled down to wait. Tomorrow Flax would be taken to within touch of the River for the first time. The night after that, she would touch him. That was the night that Ash would climb.

  All night he tended the fire and tried to ignore his rumbling stomach. The hunger would get worse, he knew. He had seen other young men go to the climb stumbling, light-headed with hunger. Fasting made the climb more dangerous, but cleansed the spirit and opened the heart to the River. It was necessary.

  As he fed the fire, Ash realized that there was music building in his mind; a complex kind of music which he had no words for, no way of describing to anyone. He brooded over Skink’s words after he had sung. He had been on pitch. His voice was true, even if it was horrible. If he could find someone willing to listen, he could share his music at last. But he doubted, as intertwined patterns of flute and drum and harp and voice ran through his mind, that simple singing could convey what he wanted. Perhaps this music simply wasn’t meant to be heard by others. Perhaps it was only for the gods.

  He resisted the temptation to take out the casting stones and ask. Casting for oneself was notoriously unreliable. But he decided to ask Martine, the first chance he got.

  Because he was determined that there would be a future; that they would defeat this Saker; and he would not be a safeguarder in that future. Returning to the Deep had rekindled his love of music. He thought about Flax and the beauty of his voice. But it was the song that displayed that voice, and Flax was only a singer, not a maker of songs. Ash felt that, perhaps, he might be able to make songs that could rival the beauty of The Distant Hills. If he could find a way to teach the songs to others.

  The young men came back just before dawn, exhausted, and ate cold meat and greengages and cheese. Ash sat away from them so he couldn’t smell the food. Then the dawn lit the red rock walls as though drenching them with blood, the men came back from the caves in their true shape, ate breakfast, and all of them, Ash included, fell asleep in the early morning light.

  He dreamt of water, running, endlessly running; of waves that took and carried him away; of Bramble smiling at someone out of sight; of fountains. Underneath the constant water sounds was music.

  Leof

  OVER THE POST and rail fence, around the big willow tree and splashing across the stream, up the slope beyond, around the herd of dairy cows. The bull took objection to their appearance and put his head down to charge, bellowing defiance. Arrow scrambled out of the way and leaped over the dry-stone fence beyond. Leof leaned low over Arrow’s neck and grinned. It was like the best of chases — he felt like he was out alone, leading the field, the way Bramble used to do on Thorn.

  Ahead of him the Kill raced, but this was one Kill he didn’t want to catch. He shivered at what might happen if the wind wraiths realized he was following them. Then he grinned again and urged Arrow on. She was tiring, but her heart was so big that whenever he asked her for more she gave it.

  Leof thanked the gods that he had spent so much time at chases when he first arrived from Cliff Domain. He knew most of this countryside, had ridden over a great deal of it. It was a mixture of pasture and crops, intercut with many, many streams and small rivers. One of the most fertile areas of the country, this farmland was the reason Thegan had wanted Central Domain so badly. Leof thought ruefully of the crops he had trampled since he left Carlion, but it would have wasted too much time to avoid them. The mixture of animals and crops meant that the fences were frequent and sturdy, and that the ground beyond them was usually fir
m and reasonably level — perfect chasing country.

  In the next field, Arrow soared over the post and rail fence, took long low jumps over three streams that divided the field, cantered for a moment to catch her breath, then gathered speed again across the pasture, scattering ewes and lambs as she went. Leof stood in the stirrups to ease her back for a while.

  The wraiths were following a winding route among villages and small towns. They had stopped twice to investigate something, the second time for so long that Leof had a chance to spell Arrow. Without that respite, she would have foundered. He might have been able to catch them, but that wasn’t his task. He had to let them lead him to the enchanter.

  He would very much have liked to see what had interested them so. They had swooped close to the ground, over and over, and seemed to be smelling it. But they had taken off so fast afterward that he had no time to look. He had to take the straight line after them. He noted the locations and left them for another day. Right now, all he had to do was chase.

  It was a glorious chase: over walls and streams, under shade trees and around coppices, over logs and through new hay that brushed his boots and smelt of summer. He felt vaguely guilty about enjoying it so much, when the safety of the Domains was at stake.

  By the time the sun was overhead, out of his eyes, Arrow was tiring badly. He cast about for somewhere where he might get a change of horse, but the last village had been tiny and would have no messenger horses stabled there. He eased Arrow to a walk, watching the wraiths streak ahead of them, knowing he had probably failed, but clinging to the hope that they would keep going in that straight line and he would be able to find them again.

  Then they stopped, in midair, hovering like hawks before a kill. And like hawks they stooped, shrieking. Leof wasn’t close enough to see exactly what they had found. They were over a small grassy hill just outside the next village — Bonhill, that was it — and when they stooped they disappeared behind the hill.

  He dismounted and walked Arrow slowly toward them, hoping that they would give her time to recover before speeding off again. Then he got close enough to hear a man’s voice, speaking to them, and realized he had found the enchanter.

  Saker

  ROWAN’S SONGS HAD been so precise. Saker gave thanks for the musician who had taught him all the old songs, the invasion songs which told how many of the old blood were killed in each place, and where they were buried. He wondered, briefly, where Rowan was now, and Swallow his wife, and Cedar their drummer. He had Traveled with them for months, learning the songs, and it had been the happiest time of his life.

  Until now. Saker smiled as he turned over the ground and the spade revealed the graves. They had been shallow when made, but the centuries had covered them with layer after layer of dirt. He had had to dig deep. These bones were not in such good condition as others he had found. They were much browner, and soft, crumbling as he touched them. It was the damp. Water was a great destroyer of bones. The grave here was in a hollow which must have collected rainwater for untold years, making a lush patch in an otherwise scrubby field. Fed by the blood of his ancestors, Saker thought, and watered by the friendly rains of their home.

  This was the fourth site he had excavated since Carlion, and it was almost routine. He sorted through the bones until he had taken fingerbones from each skeleton. Sometimes it was hard to decide which bone belonged to which body, and then he took extras just to be sure. After he had the fingerbones he laid them out on a piece of cloth and called to them, going over his litany of names. When he felt the twitch in his mind that told him the spirit had not gone on to rebirth, he placed that bone into the sack with the rest of his collection, and made a note of the name on his scroll. He had amassed quite a collection of names, now. He felt both triumphant and sad to read them over. So many, ready to fight. So many lost to Acton’s greed.

  He had sorted through almost two-thirds of the bones from this site and had gathered another dozen names when he heard the shrieking. He froze, immediately remembering the sound from terrible nights with Freite, the enchantress who had trained him. Wind wraiths. He began to shake with fear, as though he were still a child.

  She had used the horrible spirits to cow him into obedience — had threatened to give him to them to be eaten, or worse. She never said what the worse was, but she didn’t have to. The sight of them, their long, clawed fingers, their sharp teeth and, most frightening of all, their hungry eyes, filled him with terror. He had given up his strength to her, holding nothing back, rather than be delivered into their hands. She had lived so many extra years because of that, but he had been much older when he had discovered what she was doing with his power.

  They came over the hill and swooped down into the pasture, crying out, crying triumph. He had never seen them in daylight before. They were barely visible, merely a suggestion of movement in the sky, like a ripple in water. But their harsh voices were as strong as ever, and he shook at the sound.

  Then he set his mouth. No. He was not a child to be terrorized anymore. Never again. He was an adult, and more powerful than any sorcerer had ever been, even Freite. He had seen her tame them. He could do the same.

  Except that Freite had tamed them with music, with whistling and fluting, and Saker was as deaf to music as he was indifferent to dancing. He could not use her spell, the five repeating notes. But if he could find the right words, the right sounds, that would work as well. He thought frantically, quicker than he had ever thought in his life, while they swooped and jeered above his head.

  “Feed us, enchanter!” they screamed. “Feed us flesh and spirit!”

  Saker paused. Feed them? That was what they had asked of Freite, and she had fed them, he knew, on vagrants and unwanted children. He had been excluded from those ceremonies as part of her obsessive desire to keep her secrets safe, but he could guess what had happened there. Perhaps he did not need to fear them after all.

  She had told him, once, that they could not take what was not given. “At least, it’s so in the settled lands,” she had said. “A prohibition was put on them by an enchantress. My tradition says it was done by a woman named Tern, but where she lived and how long ago I don’t know.” She had smiled, the smile that she used to terrify him. “They cannot take, but they can be fed. Beware, child.”

  He shook off the unease of memory.

  “Not yet,” he answered the wraiths.

  “When? Whennnn?” they screeched.

  “Soon,” he said, “soon.”

  He was disturbed, and unsure. Flesh he could give them in abundance. They could have all they could eat of Acton’s people’s flesh. But spirit? Now he realized what the “worse” was that Freite had threatened. To have the spirit eaten . . .

  Should he set them loose on the warlord’s men? Should even justice go so far? He did not know. He did not know how to decide.

  But if he wanted to restrain them, he had better find a spell that would work. Or they would turn on him and his ghosts, too. The ghosts’ bodies might be unassailable, but what of their spirits? It might be that they were even more vulnerable to the wind wraiths than the living. He could not risk it. The warlord’s men would have to lose their chance at rebirth as well as their lives. Unless he could find the right spell.

  Martine

  THEY LEFT THE Valuer’s Plantation early. Apple rousted them out of bed before dawn and they set off as soon as they had eaten breakfast.

  Travel with a warlord was easy, Martine discovered. No one looked sideways at a dark-haired woman in the warlord’s party. Food just appeared out of inns as they stopped to water the horses; carts pulled to the side of the road to let them go past. Even with Arvid, who was probably as good as warlords got, there was still the forelock-tugging and the curtseys and the obsequiousness that all sensible people show to anyone who travels with a party of armed guards. She got angrier as the day went on, and noticed Zel felt the same.

  Martine maneuvered her horse next to Zel’s chestnut, and they dropped back a lit
tle so they could talk. Trine came up next to them, still on a leading rein, but to Martine’s surprise she didn’t try to bite or kick. Perhaps she was beginning to accept Zel.

  “It puts a bad taste in my mouth,” Zel said, nodding to where a goose girl was bending double, she was curtseying so hard. Martine discovered a desire in herself to defend Arvid. Which was ridiculous. She had to change the course of this conversation. “The Valuers want to do away with warlords,” Martine said. “Will you join them?”

  That silenced her. Zel wasn’t a joiner by nature, that was clear. She leaned over to pat Trine, perhaps taking as well as giving reassurance. Trine snorted at the touch, but didn’t bite. It might do her good to be with Zel, someone else she could learn to trust. Martine thought they were all having a lesson in trust, herself included.

  It was two long days’ ride to Foreverfroze, so they stopped overnight at an inn which did nothing but service the traffic to the port. There was barely a village surrounding it, and the countryside around was pure forest. The road here was only a cart’s width, although the ground on either side had been cleared for a bow-shot by Arvid’s orders to prevent bandits ambushing trading parties.

  They ate in the inn parlour. Martine sat as far from Arvid as she could, but the fire was still disturbing her, still churning at her every time she looked at him, every time she heard his voice. Her hand shook with desire as she poured cider into her cup, and she put the jug down abruptly to conceal it. This was worse than her infatuation with Cob, when she’d had the excuse of youth. The fire was taking a difficult revenge. She went to her room early, ignoring Arvid’s attempt to catch her eye.