Sword and Song

by Kate Story

  Nothing good.

  “Where is she?” yells Ari over the waves and wind.

  So it’s true, then. Ophelia should be here with him. “How?”

  “How what?”

  Rowan raises his voice; it cracks, he doesn’t care. “How am I supposed to bring her, goddamn it?”

  Ari shrugs. “Not my expertise. You’re the lover. I’m the fighter.” The smile he gives Rowan is not entirely pleasant.

  The grey cliffs inch past, coming ever nearer.

  “I believe we will make it,” Ari says. “I can see the headland.”

  “Make it where?”

  Ari doesn’t answer.

  Rowan thinks that maybe he can see, inside the low clouds, a looming black shadow that ends, lightens. Suddenly the cloud base rises. He sees thousands upon thousands of seabirds, pouring out from the cliffs in waves, wheeling and turning, swooping and dipping. And with that, the boat comes around the headland.

  A wide bay opens out before them.

  Ari drags on the tiller like a madman, and finally the boat sails before the wind, the way she was built to do, surging like a racehorse when the gate opens up.

  The steep sides of the great fjord—in whose throat nestles the city of Kalmar—rise up toward the clouds, funnelling the wind into a full gale. The rigging screams, the sea swirls by. Ari struggles to keep the boat running straight.

  Rowan watches for the pursuers to come around the headland behind them. One, two. Sinister black boats with dirty white sails. They are close enough that he can make out figures on board.

  “Ease the sheets. Spill the wind,” Ari calls to Rowan.

  Rowan drags himself around the boat. The loosened ropes snap and crack like bullwhips. Ari weaves the boat from side to side, trying to spill wind from the bulging sails. But it is not enough. A fierce gust strikes. The mainsail screams, goes taut. It rips in an instant, with one continuous crackle of its breaking lashings—a dozen lengths of stout line bursting one after another as if they are threads of cotton. Rowan throws himself down to the bottom of the boat.

  The scarlet mainsail is rags within seconds.

  Simultaneously, the fjord turns slightly. They are out of the wind.

  It is almost quiet here.

  “Now they will have us.” Ari slides down to the bottom of the boat and lies like a rag doll, staring up at the grey sky.

  Rowan looks behind again. The first two boats are near enough that he can hear orders being called out. Another boat comes into sight around the headland.

  Three. That’s it. Only three boats seem to have made it into the bay.

  Ari sits up, loosening his sword in its leather scabbard. The clouds break and pale gold sunlight illumines his face. He looks so tired.

  “How much time has passed since I last left you?”

  “Two, maybe three hours.”

  Rowan knows time flows differently here. It’s not always proportionate, either. In his world he trances out for mere minutes, while days can go by here.

  “You survived that wave.”

  “Yes. But as I said, it took me out of my way.”

  The lead boat comes closer. “You will surrender!” calls a voice.

  “What’s the plan here, Ari?”

  “I will kill as many of them as I can.”

  “And then?”

  Ari looks up into the sky for a long time. He meets Rowan’s anxious gaze, smiling, but it’s like the rictus grin of a skull. “It would be good if you went home soon.”

  Rowan feels his head spinning. “I . . . can’t. Can’t make it happen. You know that.”

  Two of the pursuing boats surround them. The third makes its way past them, to the city at the head of the harbour.

  Despite his fear, Rowan gazes with wonder at the city. It never fails to fill him with joy. Tier after tier of old grey stone buildings rise up into the matching sky, houses and towers and walls. A sense of ancientness comes off this place with its steep red roofs swooping down and curving slightly at the ends like houses in Chinese paintings.

  There’s a stone quay. On it stands a crowd of people all wrapped in cloaks, like wet wraiths.

  The ship which sailed past them reaches the quay, and men spill off it, disturbed ants from a nest. Rowan hears shouts, sees men pushing through the crowd and into the gates of the city.

  Ari leans forward like a greyhound about to be released. His body coils with excitement. “It seems our arrival is being announced.” He puts his hands on Rowan’s shoulders, hard black eyes staring into him. “Listen, Rowan. These people suspect who I am. They want to kill us. But those people, there—” and he gestures to the huddled crowd on the quay “—some of them still remember the old ways. They will make it difficult for the Council to simply do away with us.”

  Council? Old ways?

  His confusion must show in his face, because Ari says, “I should have told you all this long ago! But the Render said no, to bring you to him, and he would take care of your education. And now I have failed, and it is too late.”

  Someone from one of the ships flanking them throws a tow rope; it hits their boat with a thud.

  “I will tell them who you are. You must look strong.”

  “But . . .”

  “No! No time. This is our only chance. Just . . . try and stand up straight.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  But what he remembers is Ophelia at that coffee joint. Looking at him with those beautiful eyes. You sit like a question mark. Like this. Curving her body forward like she was protecting something.

  For that girl, Rowan would stand any way she told him to.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  We Live Outside Time

  As Ari and Rowan are towed in, the quay fills with more and more people.

  The rowers work silently, and there is no chatter from the other boats. The rowers lean and pull, lean and pull.

  Rowan trails his hand in the water. It feels warmer than out at sea. It tingles pleasantly as it rushes through his fingers, like a living thing.

  “They’re here for you.”

  “The people on the quay?”

  They are almost there now. The crowd is a collection of robes, cloaks, and hats pulled down against the weather. Rowan notes a few people with light skin and hair like himself, but also lots of people who look maybe Chinese, and black people, and people who look like Ari. They are oddly quiet. Some children’s voices, muted, and repressed murmuring are all he can hear. Most people stand still, watching as they come in.

  “Why is everyone so quiet?”

  “They are afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “It’s not every day a new Chosen one drops out of the sky.”

  “I’m not a Chosen one. I’m a stupid kid from Toronto.”

  Ari looks ahead at the quay; they are swinging alongside. “I must get you to the Render,” he mutters, reaching out to take hold of a wooden bumper.

  “Ari, who is this Render? Sounds sinister.”

  “He will tell you all. Only—the man in charge of this city, Rowan, he is an imposter, pretending to be the Render. He lies.”

  “So, the real Render’s not in Kalmar?”

  “No, but I will take you to him. If we survive this.”

  They have arrived, and there is no time for more questions. Men pour off the lead boat, rattling weapons and looking threatening. People on the quay step back, silent.

  “I get the feeling we’re not too popular.”

  Ari doesn’t reply. He ties off the boat. The armed guards loom, hesitant. Ari springs up onto the quay and holds out his hand to help Rowan up.

  Rowan manages to get onto the quay fairly smoothly, to his relief, but the solid stone heaves beneath him. “I feel like I’m still moving.”

  “The ground is shaking,” Ari says into his ear.

  Rowan gazes up at the towers soaring into grey rain, and then looks at the faces of the people nearest. Eyes drop, a woman hisses, a man pushes back agains
t those bodies pressing behind him.

  This isn’t how he’s ever imagined things. The beautiful city, thousands of years old, Ari’s told him—the people of Antilia—they are supposed to be friendly. That’s how things work in one’s imaginary world. Right?

  Ari turns to the crowd and flings his arms out.

  “He is here!” he shouts. “As foretold, when the mountain speaks: the Chosen one, from the other place!”

  “There are no Chosen,” a voice replies.

  The crowd contracts, knots, then opens. A slightly stout, middle-aged man in white robes pushes onto the quay. He is breathing fast, as if he had to run to get here. He doesn’t come too close, but gives Rowan a once-over with flat, grey eyes.

  “We need no other place.”

  He leans forward and carefully, contemptuously, spits on the stone.

  Ari speaks loud enough for the crowd to hear him. “We request an interview with your leader. The imposter who calls himself the Render.”

  There’s a hiss from a crowd.

  “The Render,” the man emphasizes, “has ordered that you be punished for your dissidence.”

  Ari puts his hand on his sword hilt. “Your leader is no Render. He has stolen that name. And he can come to us, if he wants to meet the Chosen.”

  “Take him to the stone!” someone calls out.

  “Yes! Take him to the stone!”

  Murmurs, mutterings from the crowd.

  They’re talking about Rowan.

  He tries to stand up straight.

  The robed man mops his brow. Rowan can see his fear of the crowd, palpable despite the armed guards.

  “The Render is a merciful man. He has already anticipated your request.” The man turns. “Follow me.”

  The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and the man walks up, into the city.

  A guard gestures at Ari and Rowan with a short sword, trying to herd them after the robed man. He seems afraid to come too close.

  “Come on,” Ari says. And, raising his voice, adds, “And all of you, come! Witness the new Chosen bring justice back to the land!”

  “Shut up now,” says the first guard. “Just go, you . . . renegade.”

  Ari gives a mocking bow.

  He and Rowan turn and walk into the crowd.

  Rowan hears people spitting on the ground behind him. He looks back and a woman, caught in the act, opens her eyes wide, sinks back into the crowd.

  But he also hears murmurs of wonder. Chosen, Chosen. And some people reach out and brush him with their hands. Many of them bow slightly in something like a greeting, while grasping their opposite elbows; then they drag down their arms with their hands like they are peeling off arm warmers. It’s obviously a formal gesture.

  He wishes he knew what the hell was going on.

  He and Ari keep moving, following the white robe as he leads them up into the city. The crowd is closing, following them at a distance. The rain has stopped, the sun is trying to come out. The tremors that were shaking the land when they docked seem to have subsided, so that’s one good thing.

  The music from Deliverance twangs in Rowan’s head. Hysterical laughter builds in his chest like a bubble.

  But then they come to the stone wall, and the gates are open. They walk into the city of Kalmar.

  “This is fortunate,” Ari says.

  “Being surrounded by a hostile crowd?”

  “Their leader is clever. He knows he cannot outright arrest you, now that the people know who you are.”

  “What if you’d been alone?”

  Ari almost smiles. “I say nothing.”

  There’s a winding street paved with cobblestones, stone buildings leaning close. The cobblestones are heaved and cracked in many places; footing is treacherous. Some of the buildings are in ruins. As they pass through the town, Rowan sees faces looking out of windows, hears footsteps on wet stone. A growing crowd follows them through the city.

  As they climb, the streets widen, and the buildings get bigger. They’re almost at the top of the hill now. Breath comes faster. They pass a huge domed building, magnificent, but some of its walls have fallen in, and one of the great studded wooden doors at its entrance hangs crooked on twisted hinges. Through the gap Rowan sees light; the ceiling, far above, must have holes in it.

  “It used to be the gathering place,” Ari says. “Before the imposter took over. Now there are no more gatherings. Everything is decided by the Council now.” His voice, again, is pitched to be heard.

  “Everyone used to decide things together?” Rowan asks.

  “Yes.”

  “When did this guy take over, as you say?”

  Ari’s eyebrow goes up. “Seventeen years ago, of course.”

  Seventeen years: Rowan’s age. Again he feels it, the terrible sense of responsibility, the way in which his life and this place are intertwined.

  “And who is he?”

  Ari laughs mirthlessly. “A former lover of someone from your world. Had a bad influence on him. Gave him too many ideas from hell.”

  Others have come here before? This is so astounding, Rowan’s feet stop moving. Others, from his own world. Are they still here?

  And again, the question rings in his heart like a bell: could Ophelia be here?

  They have come to the top of the winding street, and the land drops suddenly before their feet. Wind buffets their backs.

  At the base of the cliff, the land opens, flat and green. A river winds across it like a gleaming pewter serpent. And there, far off across the plain, is the great mountain. As Rowan watches, it spews ash, billowing up into the sky.

  “This is a special place,” Ari says. “Here, the land is being pulled apart, a handspan or so a year, they say. People who like to measure such things.”

  “We must be on a fault line. Like Iceland.”

  “I do not know that land.”

  There’s a rough stone staircase cut into the living rock. The white robed man is already halfway down it. He looks back, once. Ari begins the descent.

  As little as Rowan likes the idea of going down a stone staircase slick with rain and without a railing while the ground irregularly shakes, even less does he like the idea of remaining alone at the top of a dizzying cliff with a silent and hostile crowd at his back. With a glance behind him—the guards have their short swords drawn, and the street is packed with people, swaying, silent—he turns and follows Ari down the face of the cliff.

  The staircase is so old that the middle is worn by centuries of feet climbing and descending. Rainwater pools in the hollows. It does not help to look over the edge as they descend, turning on landings, descend some more. Rowan looks down once; after that, he keeps his eyes on Ari.

  The feeling of the guards following behind him, so close he can hear them breathing, is anything but reassuring. On a landing he looks back, and sees that the crowd follows, too.

  Some of those people want him here. Chosen. He wishes he knew why.

  At last, they reach the base of the cliff. The land is not the smooth green carpet it appeared to be from above. Cracks open in the land, covered with green moss and grass. Small waterfalls chatter down the cliff face, creeks wind toward the great river. They follow the path, twisting through fingers and pillars of rough stone that point at the sky.

  The cliff bellies out and the path skirts its very foot. The river makes a great loop here, coming almost to the cliff face, pulling out again, and curving back in. In this flat green place almost surrounded by water stands a mass, a boulder. It must have dropped from the sky, for it is an entirely different stone than the dark grey of the cliffs and the buildings. It is white, a great white stone, and running through it is a vein of glittering quartz.

  People are gathered here. Men, watching as he and Ari approach. The pale-robed man joins them. They stare.

  Ari strides forward. “I bring the Chosen.” His voice rings against the cliffs, across the plain.

  “You must be Ari.” A man steps forward. He has a pale robe and
long, dark hair, grey at the temples. A small straight nose like Brad Pitt— he’s almost too pretty. “You have led my men a merry chase.”

  The staircase is full of people. More press in from behind.

  “It is time. The prophecies will be fulfilled.”

  “We live outside prophecies now.” Like Ari’s, the man’s voice is pitched to carry. His eyes keep sliding between Rowan and back to Ari. “We live outside time.”

  Ari laughs. “That is impossible, and you know it.”

  The man spreads his arms. “I am the Render.”

  “You are an imposter.”

  “What proof do you have? It is sad, Ari. You are a deluded criminal!”

  Rowan’s head moves back and forth between the two men like he’s at a tennis game. He has so many questions.

  “Everyone here knows what I am.” Ari raises his arms. Just at that moment, perfect, pale golden light pierces the clouds and shines across the plain. The tattoos on Ari’s arms are green now. Two identical green swords run the length of each forearm. “I speak for the true Render!”

  The ground trembles and the world shakes. Big one, this time. There are cries from the crowd. Rowan almost reaches out to hold onto Ari’s shoulder, stopping himself just in time.

  “You see?” The man still addresses the crowd. “Antilia shakes because of you and all the other rebels.”

  “The world shakes because it is time for the world to shake. It has always been so. You cannot lade the tremors with meaning simply to suit your politics.”

  “Never before has Antilia been repaired only to have the tremors continue. For seventeen years, the ground has shaken.”

  “Do you not know your history? The last Chosen healed Antilia, but they only partially succeeded. Antilia did not split, but neither are we at peace. And now a new Chosen is here. There is hope to heal Antilia again. As has happened from time immemorial!”

  Shit, Rowan thinks. I am Antilia’s hope?

  “You lie.” The man’s voice cuts through Rowan’s tumbling whirl of thought. “You renegades always lie to undermine our Council.”

  “Never before has someone broken all the laws of human decency. As you have.” Ari faces the crowd, his voice rings out. “With the slaughter of innocents and the iron hand of your regime.”