by Kate Elliott
As the dragons rose, their brilliant figures dwindling, dusk came. Stars winked free of cloud. A cool wind swept in from the north. The dragons had driven the clouds away, and now the sorcerers could weave starlight in the loom.
Shaking, Alain clambered to his feet. His exposed skin hurt like fire.
Adica turned to examine him. “You should have waited until we called you.” The brush of her fingers stung his raw skin.
He flinched away. “I can go on,” he rasped. “You know I will never leave you.”
Her expression softened. She stepped past him and spoke in a low voice to Falling-down. Alain swayed, dizzy, still stunned by what he had seen. He had never imagined creatures of such vast power and terrible indifference. The life of the middle world, the fleeting span of human years, was as nothing to them, who could slumber for a hundred years as though it were one night. He sank down cross-legged onto the hard ground. Rage and Sorrow flopped down beside him. The eagle-cloaked woman bustled up beside him to rub a soothing ointment onto his stinging skin.
The mallet wielders ceased their hammering. Evidently their voluminous skin cloaks and hoods had protected them rather better than his traveling clothes had protected Alain, or else they, too, wore an invisible mantle of magic. Chattering in low voices, they lifted Spits-last’s litter from the center of the stone circle and carried him outside to a patch of ground covered with chalk.
Though his crippled body was weak, his spirit was strong. He was alert, and all at once he looked directly at Alain. His gaze was no less brilliant than the passage of the dragons. Alain met his gaze boldly. All Spits-last’s strength lay in his eyes. Even his arms were so withered that they were as thin as sticks. He had little compassion; perhaps he was too racked by pain all the time to feel sympathy for those whose pain was temporary. But he called to Alain with his expression. His eyes were a fathomless brown, set under thick eyebrows, the only robust thing about him. Secrets lay veiled in that face. It seemed to Alain that Spits-last could see all the way through him, all the things Alain had ever done right and all the things he had ever done wrong, a vision that pierced without passing judgment. Because the worst judgment is the one you pass on yourself.
Then Spits-last looked away. Alain sagged forward, all the breath knocked out of him.
With great effort, Spits-last lifted an obsidian mirror. His mirror was narrow, etched with triangles and circles to help guide his sight. He caught the yellowish light of the Guivre’s Eye, in the northeast, where she skated above the horizon, always watchful. He drew her gleaming thread across the warp of the stones to the southwest, to weave her in among the threads of the Serpent, who slides across the sands of the desert.
A brilliant portal plaited out of starlight wove into being.
“May fortune walk with you,” said Falling-down from far away.
The eagle-cloaked woman thrust a pack into Alain’s hand. Staggering, he got to his feet just as Laoina caught hold of his elbow to steady him. Where had she come from?
“Quick!” She dragged him forward until he got his feet under him.
Behind, Falling-down shouted after them. “Beware of the lion queens!”
“Where is Adica?” he gasped.
“I’m here!” she called behind him. The hounds’ nails clacked on the pebbly ground. The gateway of light arched before them. He shook free of Laoina’s supporting hand and stepped through into a heat as blasting as that of the dragons. The sun hit like a hammer. Everywhere lay desolation, nothing but sand.
The shock of the transition, the weight of uncounted days lost as they passed through the gateway, struck him as hard as the sun did. The world, the light, the heaving and endless hills of sand, all shuddered around him as though someone was shaking them. But perhaps it was only him, stumbling. He hit the ground hard, and where his palms slammed into the sand, he felt fire. Everything burned.
Laoina and Adica stumbled out of the stone circle. The glittering archway flashed, and vanished. Adica fell forward onto the hot sands in a faint. He caught hold of her and with an effort got her slung over his shoulders.
“Where are we?” he gasped. Around them lay desolation, nothing but a wasteland of sand, no sign of life except for the stone circle. Hills of featureless sand rose on all sides.
Laoina used her spear to measure an angle between two stones, seeking a direction. She pointed. “Come now.” Grabbing Adica’s pack, she started walking.
Alain groaned, but he followed her. It took an eternity to get to the top of the hill while the sun’s heat and light hammered them. Thank God the ground was hard-packed rather than drifts of sand. A boulder stood at the top of the rise, and by the time he reached it, sweat was pouring down his back, and his hands, trying to keep hold of Adica’s wrists, had gotten slick.
In the distance, down the far side of the hill and beyond a parched flat of cracked ground made hazy by heat, a lush garden of green blossomed out of the sandy wasteland. He smelled water and thought he might die of wanting. His mouth was so dry. He simply could not go one step farther. Sinking down into such shade as the boulder granted them, he eased Adica down to the sands and collapsed beside her, shaking too hard even to get a grip on his water pouch. The ground quivered beneath him, and at first he thought it was just his trembling, but that vibration came from the earth itself, which shuddered as though a huge beast tramped past.
A huff of hot wind stirred his hair. The normally imperturbable Laoina cried out. He leaped up and spun around just as Rage and Sorrow erupted in a frenzy of barking.
She stalked the sands like a queen, powerful and swift. The fluidity and dignity of her movements made her both beautiful and frightening. Four-footed like a lion, her massive paws splayed over the sand so that they didn’t sink in. She resembled a lion in most ways, with a tawny coat and a sleek body twice the size of a bull, but she also had wings, bristling with feathers the color of wax, and above her broad shoulders she wore the head of a woman, more vain than proud, fierce in aspect and with a silken mane of gold flowing down her massive shoulders.
“Maoisinu,” whispered Laoina. “The lion queen.”
He knew in that moment that he had traveled far from Osna village, farther than he had ever believed possible. Maybe this was the afterlife. Maybe he had wandered into the realm of legend. Or maybe he was just in a place so incomprehensible, without iron, without turnips, without decent ploughs or ships or even the God of Unities, that he had passed beyond anything known in the lands of his birth.
XII
DEEP WATERS
1
THE emporium of Sliesby boasted a network of sturdy plank walkways, wrapping the town like stout vines, so that the busy merchants on their way from dock to warehouse would not wet their feet in bad weather. Stronghand admired their industriousness even as the town elders quivered before him. Like a trading network, the walkways linked harbor to town, workshop to storage shed to drinking hall. Even on such a day as today, early in spring with a hard rain blowing down over the town and the streets whipped into muck, merchants could walk unimpeded as long as they had good cloaks to cover themselves.
The rain battered Stronghand’s back as he examined the folk huddled before him, most of them coughing and shuddering as the storm broke over the town. They stank of terror. Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter had spearheaded the early season strike, abetted by the fisherfolk, who’d had a dispute with the human community at Sliesby last season over the herring catch.
Out in the lowlands on the landward side of the town’s palisade, a levy of disarmed soldiers was digging a mass grave for their fallen comrades. He smelled the distant stench of blood and offal, picked out of the souse of rain. Although the fight had been short, the Sliesby militia hadn’t gone down easily.
Behind him lay the bay. Many islets and larger islands crowded the sound, all of them newly brought into the sphere of human cultivation. Rain made a sheet over them, although he saw lighter sky to the south.
According to the tribal histo
ry, two generations ago these lands had lain uninhabited by all but the animals and the occasional visit of one of the fisherfolk, seeking rushes or hemp for basketry and netting. Once, deeper inland in a district known for its lakes, the farthest eastern tribe of the RockChildren had built its OldMother’s hall. That tribe, called Sviar, had not been heard of since two Sviar ships had been sighted raiding southward in the time of Bloodheart’s father’s chieftainship. With the recent incursion of human tribes, well armed, vigilant, and only slightly less belligerent than the RockChildren themselves, none among the RockChildren had gone to investigate their absent brethren.
But he might. At last, goaded by the long silence, one woman stepped out from under the porch that gave his prisoners scant shelter and into the beating rain. Unlike most human women, she wore a light veil that concealed her features. Her cloak glistened with raindrops.
“Chieftain,” she said in the common language used by all traders, a melange of Wendish, Salian, and old Dariyan, “what is your will with us, who have harmed none but only seek to trade?”
The others shrank back against the wall of the town hall. The gap widened between them and their colleague, as if they hoped to escape the punishment sure to be inflicted upon her for her rash speech.
“What are you called?” asked Stronghand. “What nation among humankind do you call your mother?”
She had expressive hands, spread wide now as she gestured to two darkly-featured and nervous men standing among the crowd who wore peaked hats and ornamented sleeves, whose ends they twisted at this very moment. “We are children of the people called Hessi in the language of the Wendish folk and Essit among ourselves. I am known as Riavka, daughter of Sarenha. I act as Holy Mother to those of my people who live and visit in this port. I come before you as a supplicant, for I know well what stories are told and indignities suffered by those who have fallen under the fierce attack of your people.”
He grinned so that his audience could see the many jewels that studded his teeth. She alone did not flinch. “I do not intend to attack, only to safeguard this port. A fair tithe paid to me by every merchant for each shipload will assure that no further disturbances plague you. Does that not seem fair?”
The others murmured among themselves and then, remembering that he could understand them, fell silent. They were as taut as snared rabbits, waiting for the ax to fall. The rain slackened as the storm moved through.
“What tithe will you demand?” Either she had taken his measure and decided that he respected most those who did not cringe before him, or else she simply did not fear death. “This port was founded by those on whom tithes laid heavy in the southern lands. If you lay your hand upon us too harshly, who is to say we won’t rise up against you in rebellion?”
“Then you will all die.”
Brows were wiped, sweat-drenched despite the cold. Several of the merchants glanced back toward the distant palisade, half concealed by buildings. They knew what grim work went on out of their sight, burying the dead in a mass grave. A portly man staggered forward to the edge of the porch’s shelter to whisper into her ear, but she did not respond to him as she continued speaking.
“Then who is to say we won’t simply abandon this town, sail away come summer, and seek another site from which to trade?”
He regarded her with curiosity. “Are you not afraid that I might kill you for your presumptuousness?”
Her damp fingers flicked the lower edge of her veil, and he caught a glimpse of the hollow of her throat before the veil swayed back into place. “Had you wished to kill us outright or break us down into slave pens, surely those of your soldiers who attacked us yesterday would already have done so. You are meeting with us now because you have another plan in mind.”
“What tithe would you consider a fair one, Riavka, daughter of Sarenha?”
She did not hesitate. “One part in ten.”
“One in six,” he replied as quickly, “and you will create a council among you of six elders to oversee the tithing. A governor of my own people will remain here with a garrison.”
“So be it.” She inclined her head to show her assent. Behind her, the others hurriedly agreed.
“That is not all,” he went on. “I wish to establish another trading port, like this one, along the coast where my own people dwell. I have already chosen a harbor, in Moerin country, in the southern part of my people’s lands. It is sheltered, and there is easy passage from there to sea-lanes that lead as far west as Alba, south to Salia, and eastward to these countries. Do any among you care to build such a port under my protection?”
The portly man had found his tongue, and he stammered out a anxious question. “It is a long and sorry voyage at this time of year, my lord. The lands of the Eika are known to us by report as a rugged, inhospitable country. Few will wish to settle there.”
“Then, truly, I will pick some from among you.” The gathered merchants reacted with such comical expressions of dismay that Stronghand had to suppress an odd urge to laugh, something learned from Alain, who had not been afraid to find pleasure in the foibles of humankind.
Riavka gestured toward the younger of the two Hessi men. “I will send my son and his household.” In the same way water builds up behind flotsam jamming a narrow channel and then breaks through, her words released the others from their paralysis. They began speaking at once, a clamor that irritated Stronghand. The sound of a horn rose high over their noise.
He lifted a hand, unsheathing his claws. At once, the elders stuttered and gasped into silence.
The alert rose again over the waters, made gray by misting rain and tendrils of cloud hugging the distant watery isles. A crimson flag whipped into life on one of the outermost ships, waving once, twice.
He paced to the edge of the quay. Water lapped at the wooden pilings, shushing and slurping to the rhythm of unseen waves. Rain spattered the waters and stilled. Wide-bellied knarrs laden with cargo lay along the quay. Farther out on the bay, the sleek outlines of his own warships rested on unquiet waters, wreathed with fingers of mist.
The surface of the bay eddied in a spot where neither ship nor reef had its place, the wake made by an unseen pod of merfolk, come to call.
He turned to Tenth Son. “Had you any warning of this?” Tenth Son gave a sharp lift of his chin, to signify “no.”
A pair of glittering, ridged backs snaked above the water and vanished. Tails slapped down. The townsfolk yelped and skittered back, all but the veiled woman, who, amazingly, took a step closer in order to see better. She made a noise, unintelligible through her veil, and extended a hand, palm out, as if she could taste their essence through her skin.
Without warning, a big body heaved up out of the water not a body’s length from him, high out of the water like a whale breaching. The flat face took them in, although what it could actually see with those hard, red eyes he could not be sure. The eels that were its hair writhed wildly, eyeless snouts snapping mindlessly at the empty air. It spun with a half turn backward and hit the water with such weight that water sprayed everywhere, a new shower of rain, salty and tasting of the waste that humans so thoughtlessly dumped into their harbors.
He laughed sharply and shook off the water. The Hessi woman took a startled step backward, hastily brushing herself off, but did not otherwise retreat. Her colleagues spilled backward onto the town walkways in fright. Their voices rose like those of startled crows.
A visage rose from the water, pale and stretched, hoisted by the razor-tipped hands of the merfolk. The object resolved itself into a spar, water-logged, wreathed by vinelike leaves tangled around something that resembled a face. Stronghand leaped backward as, with a final heave, the great spar clattered down onto the wooden quay and came to rest at his feet.
The spar was the remains of the mast of one of the living ships of the tree sorcerers. Caught in its leafy spire rested an object so bloated and pale that at first he did not recognize it.
“Ai, Lord have mercy!” cried the portly m
erchant, voice cracking. “It’s a man’s head.”
Sea worms writhed in and out of the decaying eye sockets. In places the skin had peeled away to reveal the gleam of skull beneath.
“One of the Alban ships did not escape our allies,” observed Tenth Son.
Stronghand stepped over the spar and its rotting centerpiece. The water eddied in cool circles below him. The rain had stopped, and the clouds above the islets lightened perceptibly as the sun tried to beat through.
“This was unexpected. I have not forgotten that Alba awaits.” Truly, he did not understand his mysterious allies. At first, he thought they wanted only the flesh of his enemies to sustain them, but there was a greater purpose beneath their movements, something that spoke of intelligence and a slow-moving, cetacean plan, something swallowed into the depths of the sea, shuddering on tides known only in the deep waters.
What did the merfolk want?
Negotiations remained difficult, for they didn’t share a common language. Indeed, they seemed to know what he wanted more than he knew what they desired out of this alliance. Yet surely it must be something they thought he alone could help them obtain. He couldn’t ask. He dared not show his ignorance, because ignorance signaled weakness.
Stronghand could never betray weakness. Too many knives waited to plunge into his back.
The waters roiled. A dozen tails flicked out of the muddy bay and slapped down, in tribute, in command, in question, or simply in answer. He did not know. Ridged backs cut the water as they sped bayward. With their wake spreading behind them, they vanished beyond the outermost ships, plunging into the deep channel, and were gone.
2
A SINGLE lamp burned in the chapel of St. Thecla the Witnesser, not enough light to illuminate the magnificent frescoes depicting the life of the blessed saint for which the chapel was justly famous. Nor, really, could Antonia see clearly each distinctive pillar, carved with the visage of one of the seven disciplas, that ringed the inner sanctum. The marble columns breathed quietly in shadow. The dim light granted only a glimpse of each carved face: Matthias, Mark, and Johanna to the left, and Lucia, Marian, and Peter to the right. Back by the main door the column depicting St. Thecla herself took the honored place, directly facing the eighth pillar, which stood behind the altar but had no representation carved into it, nothing but a circle of rosettes at the base and the capital.