Deep Water
Page 52
They jumped the chasm and proceeded to the inner cave, much smaller than the first, and lit only by the glowworms and the faint flicker of light from the first cave. Here, a small stream sprang from the wall and flowed across the floor of the cave, spreading itself into a shallow pool and then flowing out another crack in the rock to fall to the River below. The deer and squirrel took hold of Flax and made him lie down in the pool, his face just clear of the water. His teeth started chattering immediately. Ash remembered that sudden chill, the freezing water clinging to his skin.
“This is the third test,” Ash said. “Lie still and trust the River. Listen to her voice. Learn her. Love her. If you trust in her, you will be safe.”
That was all he could do for Flax. He had been told the same, the first time he came here, by an older boy who had not yet found his true shape. Now it was up to Flax. Ash walked toward the next passageway, where his father waited for him.
“Where are you going?” There was a note of panic in Flax’s voice.
“Not far,” Ash said. “But you must meet the River alone.”
Flax stared at him. Ash could barely see him in the dimness, but he could hear his breathing, fast and shallow.
“Trust her,” he said gently. “But don’t drink any water from anywhere in the Deep unless you have been given leave.”
He followed his father down the passageway, leaving most of the men behind with Flax. A wolf and a fox followed them: Vine and Skink. His excitement built further, and with it came apprehension. Was this the night when he would find his true shape? Outside the Deep you did not think about the Deep, but you couldn’t stop yourself from dreaming. After his first visits here, he had dreamed again and again about becoming truly himself, about finding his animal self. His dreams had ranged from the grandiose — wildcats, bears — to the ridiculous — moles, water-rats, shrews — to the disturbing. He didn’t want to be a weasel. Truly, he didn’t want that.
They took him ever deeper, through dark caves without a single green star, through passageways which were rough underfoot, down and further down until they came at last to a place with another small fire.
They were on a broad platform which ended in a cliff. Beyond was darkness. There was no way to tell how large the cavern was, but the river roared loudly and echoed through the darkness. There was a large pool to one side which reflected the light of the fire in a perfectly still surface.
A man came from behind the fire, and unlike every other man in this place, he wore a human face, and was clothed in leggings and tunic. Ash had never seen him before, and wondered why. He was very, very old, his skin hanging in wrinkles and folds, his hair so white that it was impossible to tell what color it might have been in his youth, although Ash felt sure it would have been jet black. He wore his hair in braids that reached past his shoulders, tied off with threads and feathers and beads. Immediately, Ash felt that his own short hair was out of place. He wondered how this old man managed in the world outside; only warlords’ men were allowed to wear their hair long. Any Traveler who did so risked a beating or worse from warlords’ men.
The man, surprisingly, had bright blue eyes, so his blood was not purely Traveler blood. This was a person with a complex past, a long and convoluted history that took in both Traveler and Acton’s people. Ash found that reassuring, somehow, although he didn’t know why. He put the thought away to examine later, and stared into the man’s bright eyes.
“Will you meet your true shape?” he asked Ash. His voice was beautiful, the voice of a singer born and trained.
Ash felt a sharp stab of envy, but pushed it down. He nodded. The small movement made his head spin. Fasting cleansed you, but it left you weak. “I will,” he said.
“Then climb, and drink, and know.”
The man led him to the edge of the cliff which descended into blackness, the small light from the fire making it seem even darker. Rowan came forward and placed both hands on his shoulders. He hissed. Ash could tell it was a blessing. He tried to smile at his father, but managed only a tight grimace. The fear was climbing up his stomach to his heart.
The old man came forward and placed a hand on his head. “Take our love to the River,” he said. “Climb, and drink, and know.”
Ash turned and backed over the cliff in the place the man pointed to. At least he was strong, and fit, thanks to training all winter with Mabry. He felt cautiously for toeholds and handholds. He didn’t like heights; had always felt a treacherous desire to throw himself off. The darkness made it a little better, but it was impossible to see where his hands and feet were. As his head went below the edge of the cliff, he closed his eyes. Better to trust to his sense of touch than strain his eyes uselessly.
He didn’t know how deep the cliff was. The last two years he had come with his father to the Deep, he had been brought to watch, as youths a little older than he was had made the climb. Not everyone survived the climb itself. Not everyone survived the knowledge of who they were. Some went mad. Some, when they returned up the cliff and were shown their true self in the reflecting pool, jumped off the cliff. Ash had seen it happen to a boy who found himself in a field-mouse shape.
As a watcher, the climb had always seemed a long time. Now it seemed endless. Fumbling in the dark, knowing one misstep, one bad handhold, could send him plummeting, screaming perhaps, into the dark, thundering river… He controlled his breathing as Doronit had taught him to, concentrating on only the next movement, the next shift of weight. This was a test of patience and self-control as much as skill and strength. Not to hurry, that was the main thing. Take it slow and sure, think of nothing else… He tired faster than he expected to and realized that strength wouldn’t get him through this, but determination might.
The wind from the water below dried the sweat on his bare skin and made him shiver. His fingers were bleeding and his feet were cut. Why did a stubbed toe hurt so much? He had never understood that. The thought worried him. He was becoming light-headed. When he next had a foothold which would bear his whole weight he stopped and breathed deeply for a few moments, calming down before starting again.
The noise of the river was getting louder. He began to feel splashes on his legs: small droplets of water hitting and tickling as they rolled down. Then larger splashes, small waves flung up from the surface over his feet. The rocks grew slippery and he moved more slowly. There was no bottom to the cliff, he realized. Nowhere to stand. He would have to cling precariously to the rock and lean down to drink.
He decided that the safest way was to keep climbing until his knees, at least, were under water. Although the current might tug at him, he wouldn’t have to bend so far down. He wasn’t sure if he was being brave or foolish, but perhaps the River favored fools, because as he carefully edged his feet down into the chilling water and waves slapped against his thighs, he found a ledge to stand on. The current was much faster and more turbulent than he had expected: he teetered and grabbed for a protruding knob of rock to steady himself. He could hold against it, just, but not for long.
He bent to the water, and then paused. It didn’t seem polite to just drink, as though he had a right. He didn’t know what to expect, but he felt he had to ask first.
“Lady,” he said quietly, “may I drink?”
Immediately the water began to flow more quietly; the current stopped tugging at him, the waves grew still. The River seemed to pause in its course.
“Lady, I thank you,” he said, and scooped a palmful of water to his mouth. It tasted of chalk and iron, sweet and harsh at once, strong. Dizziness swept over him and he clutched at the cliff face in a panic. Then he felt the power of the River reach up to him, steadying him.
Trust me, it said in a voice unlike any he’d ever heard; a woman’s voice, for certain, but with harmonies no human voice could carry, as though many voices spoke in rhythm with each other; and behind the voice was music so intricate, so complex, that it was almost unrecognizable as melody. He was ravished by it. His heart swelled with it u
ntil he felt it would burst with emotion. But there were no echoes from the voice and that was when he understood that she spoke inside his head.
“I do trust you,” he answered aloud, and it was true.
She laughed, bells and nightingales and waterfalls of laughter, and then was silent. He was left to climb the cliff again, his dizziness replaced by a wild curiosity. What had he become? He hadn’t felt his face change, but perhaps that moment of dizziness had been the shift to his true shape. He knew not to touch his head, and that it was forbidden to guess the shape before he saw it in the reflecting pool.
The climb up was quicker but just as physically demanding. The cold of the River had leached strength from his muscles and he had to force himself upward by sheer will. Eventually, he became aware of the light growing brighter, the flames flickering. His eyes were almost blinded as his head crested the cliff edge and he pulled himself up onto the platform.
His father was there, helping him over the lip and then standing back to stare at him, open-mouthed. Oh gods, Ash thought. I’m a vole. Or a weasel.
The old man was staring, too, and the fox and the wolf, all staring as though they’d never seen anything like him. What if I’m a snake? he thought wildly. Or a tame animal like a sheep? Please, not a sheep.
He walked forward, stiff-legged, to the reflecting pool, and the others followed behind him. He bent over its still surface, its perfect reflection, and saw himself.
Just himself. His own face, his normal face, a little pale but just the same as always.
A great grief rose in him and he hid his face from his father, from the other men. The River had rejected him. Why? Why? When it took squirrels and voles, yes, and even field-mice men, why would it reject him? He was worthless, he had always known it, useless for anything… No wonder his father hadn’t taught him all the songs. Not just because of tradition, they had said that to put him off. He was flawed deep inside. The River had probably told his father not to share the deep secrets with him. He fought back tears because he felt that if he started to cry he would never stop.
“Ah . . .” the old man let out a great sigh as he hid his face, and came forward. “My son, welcome. I have waited a long time for this.” He laughed a little. “You don’t know how long!”
He took hold of Ash’s hands and pulled them away from his face. Ash wanted to look away, but a last remnant of pride made him meet the man’s gaze, expecting scorn and derision. The blue eyes were full of joy and comradeship. The man put his arm around Ash’s shoulders and turned him to face the others. Ash looked away, down at the ground, anywhere but at his father.
“Rejoice with me,” the old man said. “The River has found another lover.”
Leof
THEGAN ARRIVED BEFORE sunset, with a small body of men — all sergeants, except for his personal groom. Leof smiled to himself. Any old campaigner knew that when you used oath men in battle, you’d better have some good sergeants keeping them in line and making sure they didn’t break and run for it.
“My lord,” Leof said as Thegan sprang down from his horse.
Thegan clapped him on the back and looked out over the landscape, which glowed golden and rose from the setting sun. It was a scene of perfect peace: dairy cattle wound their accustomed way to the milking sheds, birds settled to their nests, a sheepdog barked in warning at an errant ewe as it herded her into the fold for the night, and down the street mothers called their children in. Bonhill was full of the best possible reasons for resisting the enchanter.
“Where is he?” Thegan asked.
Leof pointed out the hill and described the work the enchanter was doing. “I’d say he’ll be there several days, if he wants to make sure he gets all the buried bones. It’s a big area for one man to cover.”
“The bones . . .” Thegan brooded. “You think that’s what he’s using to raise the ghosts?”
“What else would he want them for?”
Thegan nodded, his face dark. “Is it the enchanter you met?”
“No. He’s a young man, under thirty, I’d say. Not a warrior.”
“Hmph. If he were a warrior he wouldn’t have resorted to tricks and spells.” Thegan nodded in decision. “Well done. When will the Sendat troops arrive, do you think?”
“Depends if they march through the night. If they do, we might be in place before sunrise. If not, then midday.”
Thegan called his groom. “Sandy, take the road to Sendat and tell whatever officer you find leading my troops that I want them to take no more than two hours’ rest tonight. Tell them we have to be in position before it gets light.”
The groom nodded and ran for the stables.
“There’s no guarantee that the wind wraiths won’t smell us out anyway,” Leof cautioned.
“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” Thegan said. “Come, let’s eat and rest while we can.”
It was good advice, and Leof took it. He and the sergeants ate and lay on the inn benches, jackets under their heads for pillows. Thegan lay more comfortably in the innkeeper’s bedroom. They were all experienced men, so they slept, waking quickly as Thegan’s groom barged in through the inn doors.
“They’re almost here!” he called. “My lord! My lord! They’re coming!”
Leof sprang up and pulled his jacket on, feeling the familiar sense of tension and excitement he always felt before battle. This time, there was no unease. These were no innocents, like the Lake People; this was a monster aided by monsters, and he would hew the enchanter’s head off with great satisfaction, if Thegan didn’t get to him first.
Thegan appeared from the bedroom looking, as always, pristine. Leof retied the combination of leather thong and brown velvet ribbon that kept his hair back and pulled his jacket into shape over his hips, then followed Thegan out into the dark. On the eastern horizon, the sky was just beginning to gray.
The road leading to Bonhill curved around a series of hills, so that they could make out glimpses of movement and shadow, and hear the sound of horses hooves and harnesses clinking. Wil and Gard were at the head of the column, with Alston behind leading the first group.
“Privy break!” Alston called as they came to a halt two lengths away from the first village house, near an orchard. It was a well-practiced routine. The men swung down from their horses and helped their pillion passengers, the pikemen, off. Then three out of four riders handed their reins to the fourth and disappeared into the coppice, followed by their passengers. When they emerged the fourth man went, too. Then they stood by their horses, waiting for orders. Leof could smell the piss from the inn door, and the nervous sweat. Thegan always ordered a privy break before a battle; the men knew they would be fighting soon.
While the men relieved themselves, Wil and Gard dismounted and came for orders.
“The enchanter is on the hill, over there,” Thegan said. “There’s no chance that we will completely surround him before he hears us, but I want to get a small force up close and hidden before the main charge starts, so that if he sets a spell loose we have a surprise up our sleeve.” They nodded, nervous as the men. Neither of them liked the idea of fighting an enchanter.
Leof put an arm around Wil’s shoulders, and shook him slightly. “I’ve seen him. He’s a scrawny bastard, and he doesn’t look too brave to me. He’ll probably run when he sees us, and then we’ll have him!”
Thegan nodded approval at him. “Twenty pikemen, Leof, under your command. Take them to your observation post and keep them there until you get my order. Use your own judgment if he sees us and starts to fight. I’ll give you a count of three hundred to get into position before we move.”
Leof nodded. He went to Alston and relayed the order. Alston gathered the twenty men and gave them a brief speech about keeping low and staying silent. He had chosen experienced men, not the oath men. Leof paused. He knew Alston liked to pray before he went into battle, but this time he just motioned the men to start moving.
“No prayers?” Leof asked curiously.
The words sounded so unlike his normal sensible self that Leof was troubled. Could anyone forfeit their right to life or to rebirth? That was one of those questions that had never worried him before he knew Sorn. Her belief had made an impression on him without him realizing it, just as she had herself. He felt a quick, aching yearning for her; to be sitting calmly with her, gazing quietly at her beauty. Although he knew that if he were there, there would be no quiet inside him, only raging desire and desperation. He shook off the thought and concentrated on leading his men quietly through the convoluted path that led to the willow coppice.
They only just made it within the count of three hundred. Once there, Leof led the men under the trailing curtain of willow boughs, to the hard task of waiting. They heard nothing from the hill of bones except the wuthering of the wind, which might have been wind wraiths or might have been merely air. From beneath the trailing willow branches they could judge the quiet onset of day. The light grew brighter until they could see each other’s faces, then eyes. The men listened hard, pikes clutched in sweaty hands.
Leof alone peered out, trying to make out any movement from the hill. He fancied he could hear the soft noises of Thegan’s approach, but he knew how easily imagination magnified every sound before a battle. Thegan would not have had time to get everyone into position yet.
Then, as the highest leaves of the willow trees were lit into bright yellow green, they heard the wind wraiths crying, “Ware! Ware! Master, beware of men with iron!”
Leof looked out to see Thegan still some way away, and the enchanter springing up from sleep. Frantically, he grabbed the bags of bones and poured them out in a circle around him. Leof realized it was the first step in making a spell, and he charged out of the screen of leaves, yelling, “For Thegan!”