The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  Minn laughed loudly, eyebrows widening in surprise. "Doesn't that describe all of life?"

  "When you put it like that, it's easier to believe. And is much more depressing."

  She pursed her lips. "Anyway, if no one believes it is possible, no one will try. Leaving only the chosen. The lie's been repeated so much it's become the truth."

  "That makes more sense yet." He rubbed his face. "I would ask what's next on the agenda, but I think I know the answer."

  "Do you? Getting cocky?"

  "Far from it! Next, I practice Summer until I've got it down pat."

  She grinned. "Let me know when you're ready to move on."

  As excited as he was to take the next step, to go from learning how to access the nether to learning how to wield it, he found himself in stock of a surprising amount of patience. Maybe it had arrived with his latest epiphany about keeping himself open. Or maybe he was simply that pleased with himself. In any event, he found it no trouble to go back to his studies as if nothing had happened, crouching beside the tide pools and calling the nether to his hands. Within four days, he had it and he knew it. Even so, he spent three more days honing his technique. Putting in the time now would minimize his stumbles when he took the next step.

  "Ready," he told Minn once he was sure it was so.

  She gave him a brief test, watching as he brought the nether oozing from the sands and swimming from the pools. She noted he couldn't draw very much of it yet, but expected his reach would expand as he learned to put the shadows to use.

  He smiled. "How exactly do I do that?"

  "We'll start with something simple, keeping the nether close to its natural form. Did you ever see Dante conjure a shadowsphere?"

  "I was there when he did it. It was the very first thing he did."

  "That's because a shadowsphere, in essence, is nothing more than making the nether visible to those who can't see it."

  "And turning it into a shapely sphere."

  She eyed him for signs of mockery, then shrugged. "That's true. It requires shaping the nether, too, though a sphere is one of its favorite forms. That's where we'll start: show me a sphere."

  Blays brought the nether to his hands. Based on past experience, he knew that when he focused very, very hard, he was capable of summoning a glob the size of a walnut. But that would take all the strength he had. This time, he called forth enough to pack into a modest grape. It pooled in his palm like black mercury, formless. He willed it to become a ball.

  It sat there. Very placid about it, too. Blays' brow tensed. He concentrated harder. After a couple minutes of fruitless mental poking and prodding, he extended his index finger and jabbed at it.

  Minn laughed. "Think that's dough you've got there?"

  "I wouldn't have any idea, would I?"

  "Nether's more like a liquid than a solid."

  "In that case, I'll just do the same thing I do when I want water to form a perfect sphere."

  "Don't get snippy," she said with infuriating mildness. "I'm trying to help."

  Blays breathed in and out and nodded. "What should I be doing instead?"

  "First of all, it doesn't fall to earth like everything else."

  "What a rebel."

  "Second, it stays in motion when any other substance would stop."

  Bearing these somewhat vague tips in mind, he tried again. But the nether was content to sit in his palm exactly as if it were gravity's slave. And a very tired one at that.

  "It's all right," Minn said when he stepped back to take a breather. "Don't expect this to proceed any faster than the Seasons."

  "I'm starting to think I shouldn't have any expectations at all."

  "You use a lot of breathing techniques, don't you? Pay close enough attention, and you'll see the nether seems to breathe, too. It's very subtle. One of our training methods is to focus on its cycle. When it 'breathes out,' try to make it shrink even more. When it 'breathes in,' see if you can expand it further. Learn to give it shape through its natural movements."

  This made a lot of sense. Grateful to have a concrete technique to follow for once, Blays spent days huddled over the rocks, working away on the nether, sustaining himself by munching dried kelp flakes the People harvested from farmpools on the southern curve of the beach. It took him a full day to determine the nether did indeed "breathe," slowly pulsing outward, contracting, and repeating.

  It took much longer to figure out how to get inside it, but he did that too. As the bubble of nether breathed in, expanding, he imagined a tiny little Blays inside it pushing up on the ceiling with all his strength. When it contracted, the mini-Blays pulled the ceiling down instead.

  "That's it," Minn said when he showed her. "Now every time it expands, push out—but when it contracts, don't touch it. Soon you'll have a sphere. Keep pushing and expanding, one breath at a time, and you'll form a shadowsphere."

  "Just like inflating a cow's bladder."

  She wrinkled her nose. "Do you spend a lot of time breathing into bladders?"

  "You have to entertain the kids somehow."

  Feeling pretty good about himself, he resumed practice. Within a day, he was able to shape the blob of nether in his hand into a walnut-sized sphere. But try as he might, he couldn't get it to grow any bigger. Each time it breathed out, it shrank to its original size.

  He spent a week tinkering with his approach. Though he didn't admit this to Minn, sometimes he did visualize it as a bladder that he was inflating with his own lungs; other times, he tried moving his focus to the outside of the dark sphere and pulling from there. But nothing worked. And while persistence was a virtue, so too was recognizing when your efforts were futile.

  "Let me see," Minn told him. "Try everything you've tried so far. Maybe it's working, but it's too minute for you to see."

  He ran through everything he'd attempted. Even the bladder-blowing. He spent several minutes on each method, and displaying them all took the better part of an hour. By the time he finished, he had a bastard of a headache.

  "You're right," she said. "A big fat nothing."

  He sighed. "I'm starting to understand why people would rather believe it's a special talent handed down by the gods. Better to believe it's not possible than to admit you don't have it in you to keep trying."

  Minn played with the clasp of her cloak. "Would you like to leave Pocket Cove?"

  "Are my efforts that disgraceful?"

  "Just for a few days. To the south lies an island called Ko-o, home to a volcano of the same name."

  He rubbed his chin. "Think it's time for a live sacrifice?"

  "The volcano is dead—but its reefs thrive. Within them is a species of snail known as the kellevurt."

  "The 'grim-slug'? Is this your idea of a vacation?"

  She glared at him until his expression promised he'd quit interrupting. "Kellevurts are exceedingly rare, and the People of the Pocket are partly to blame. Because their shells have the unique property of helping those in their first Seasons find their way."

  Blays glanced upshore to the cave. "So why not skip the trip and give me one of your old ones?"

  "They wear out with age. And a shell seems to perform best for the person who found it."

  "No," he decided. "I don't want a crutch."

  "No one wants a crutch," she said with such hot vehemence Blays knew her patience with him was thinly veiled. "But if that's what it takes to get you back on your feet, then your only choice is to swallow your pride and put it to use."

  He nodded once. "If you think it will help."

  "Anyway," she said, softening her tone, "it's something of a rite of passage among new People of the Pocket. Didn't you want to go through the same challenges as everyone else?"

  "I'd welcome it." He jerked his thumb at the winds and clouds. "But do your people always go slug-hunting when it's so cold the ocean itself is looking around for blankets?"

  "Prepare yourself. I'll secure permission from Ro."

  He didn't exactly have mu
ch to pack, so he wound up sitting in his room in the caves for hours while Minn conducted business in the inner tunnels. He was in the middle of an impromptu nap when she returned with the news they'd leave in four days.

  He yawned. "I thought you told me to get ready."

  "They've decided to come with us."

  "Oh dear. Don't tell me this is becoming an Event."

  "Didn't I warn you it's a rite of passage?"

  "What exactly does this rite involve?"

  She smiled more than a little smugly. "You'll have to wait and see."

  On the day in question, Minn rousted him from bed, gave him a few minutes to take care of his business, then marched him outside. First light was breaking from the cliffs, but a boat was already waiting beyond the surf. Silhouettes moved about its deck, fighting with the rigging.

  "Boy," he said. "Once you people get moving, you don't waste time, do you?"

  "You can sleep on the boat." She strode across the sand.

  A rowboat waited just beyond the surf. He nearly froze to death helping to push it into the tossing waves. Fighting the tide got him warmed up, at least. They rowed to the waiting vessel. Ro was there along with five other women, three of whom Blays recognized. Months after his arrival and he still had no idea how many people lived in Pocket Cove. The place was so quiet he could believe it was no more than a couple dozen, yet strange faces kept popping out of the woodwork. For all he knew the tunnels secretly housed thousands.

  Minn guided the rowboat between the boat and its outrigger. They threw ropes to the crew, who secured the lines and tossed down a rope ladder. Minn scrambled up it and helped pass their few possessions up to the deck. Once she and Blays were aboard, the crew went to work on two winches. The rowboat creaked, lifted clear of the waves by a loose net that had been lurking below the surface.

  "Welcome to the Outcast," Ro said.

  Before Blays had a chance to answer, the crew flew into motion, hauling on ropes and trimming sails. The Outcast lurched forward and curved to the southwest. The water was so choppy Blays staggered to a bench and planted himself before it was able to fling him overboard. Rope handles were secured to the bench and he hung on tight. By the time the sun cleared the eastern cliffs, the waves calmed enough for him to stand and move around.

  They were headed what appeared to be west-southwest. Straight ahead, a conical, bluish lump sat on the edge of the ocean. He'd seen it a hundred times before, though it disappeared on hazier days, but had never given it much thought. It was just one more item in the vast set of Places That Weren't Pocket Cove.

  As the ship sped through the waves, powered by a fierce eastern wind, he got a better look at Ko-o. It appeared to be little more than a volcano, steep and silent. The side of its peak appeared to have been scooped out by a hungry god, creating a slanted bowl at its top. The rubble of this event may also have been responsible for the flat plain that extended a half mile from its southern slope. Trees and greenery coated the volcano, but its upper heights remained clear, lending it the look of a dented tonsure.

  If he'd had to guess, he'd say Ko-o lay a solid twenty miles from Pocket Cove, yet they reached it before noon, navigating around a spur of rock and swinging into a sheltered bay with a flat, sandy beach. Rather than anchoring and rowing in, Ro guided the Outcast right up to the shore. It slid over sand and ground to a stop. Grass fringed the beach, with a forest sprouting behind it where the soil got better.

  Half the crew hopped out while the other half handed down sacks, some of which strained with the weight of the wood clunking inside them. Blays pitched in. Once they finished, they waded ashore and set to digging a shallow pit in the sand. A couple women emptied logs from the sacks. Ro stacked them into an elegant triangle of kindling that mirrored the volcano. As soon as she finished, she called up the nether and set her work ablaze.

  Dry smoke plumed into the air, smelling like pepper and the incense they burned back at the tunnels. A woman with short black hair erected a grill. Another woman brought Ro a pouch. She withdrew skewered strips of red meat, which Blays hadn't seen since coming to the cove, and lay them over the grill. The meat sizzled. Ro stood over it, flecks of nether dancing between her hands and the strips. It was all very strange to Blays, but he'd traveled enough to know that when it involved rituals and food, strangeness was customary.

  Minn had been gone for all this; she returned then, pants soaked to the thighs, carrying a wriggling fish as long as her forearm. She brained it with a rock and cleaned it expertly, then flensed the meat from its ribs and set it on a hammered copper plate.

  Ro pulled charred meat from the grill, let it cool for a minute, then removed it from the skewers and piled it on a second plate. Crouched in the sandy grass, she ate a strip, fat greasing her lips, and passed one to each of the women, who ate their share as soon as they got it. She concluded with Blays.

  "Not everything outside the Pocket is to be shunned," she said. "Taste for yourself."

  He ate. It was venison, gamey and succulent, perfectly cooked. As much as he made fun of their repetitive fare, he actually found their stews pretty good, but this was something else.

  "But we don't need it." Ro kicked sand over the fire, knocking down what remained of the fancy pyre. Sparks spiraled in the wind. "The cove has all we need."

  She took the copper plate from Minn and passed around hunks of raw fish. Each woman chewed and swallowed. The plate was held beneath Blays' nose. The meat felt oily and smelled fishy, but Blays wasn't one to complain. Well, he was, but not under these circumstances. He lit into his portion. Somehow he'd gone all his life without being forced to eat raw fish—he'd seen too many worms squiggling around inside fresh catches to think that was a good idea—but it tasted simple and clean and was firmer that he'd expected.

  "Do what you must while you're away from the cove." Ro held his gaze. "But don't forget that whatever you do, you do it for your People."

  Blays nodded. "I won't forget."

  She began to return the plates to a sack. "We'll be back in two weeks."

  "You're not staying?"

  Ro's eyes flashed with laughter. "I've got more important things to do than help you chase snails."

  The others grabbed the shovels and the grill and followed her to the boat. Minn stayed beside him. The women pushed the Outcast free of the sand, poled it past the low breakers, then tacked against the uncooperative wind.

  "Will it really take two weeks to catch a snail?" Blays said. "I thought they were supposed to be slow."

  Minn gathered up the bags her people had left behind and sorted through them. Dried fish, flaked kelp, water. Not enough to last the duration, but enough so they could get their feet under them. There was also a lot of fishing line, a handful of hooks, some blankets, and four flat objects a foot and a half long, flared at one end and visibly narrower at the other. Leather straps danged from the narrow ends. They might have been shields. Except the straps were on the wrong part. And they really weren't that big. And they were made of a springy, bamboo-like wood that wouldn't protect the bearer against a yawn.

  "Fishfeet," Minn said. "I'll show you the rest of the gear later. Right now, we need to find the stream, follow it to shelter, and collect firewood."

  Standard operating procedure when you found yourself lost in the middle of nowhere and didn't expect to leave soon. There was no one around to steal anything, so they picked up the food, piled the rest of their stuff in the grass, and walked into the woods.

  Minn seemed to be familiar with this part of the island, leading them to a stream, then following it volcano-ward until it opened into a small clearing. A fieldstone house sat on the side of a low hill. Blays loosened his sword in its scabbard. Minn opened the door. The single room was empty. Of people, anyway. Quite a lot of leaves, dirt, and shredded grass had been dragged inside by winds and animals. A broom stood in the corner. Blays went to work.

  That left finding firewood. No great task, given they were in the middle of a deciduous forest.
There was even a rusty axe inside the house, but they hardly needed it. By the time the sun was getting low, they'd carried a sizable pile of fallen branches back to the shack. As Blays stoked the fireplace, Minn went to the stream to fish with a line. She brought back three trout and fried them in a pan on the stove. Not quite enough for dinner, not after the work they'd put in on the day, but supplemented with their dried food, it filled their bellies.

  After, they sat beside the fire, digesting. Drafts snaked in through the chinks in the walls, but it was a large fire in a small space and Blays was able to shed his cloak.

  Minn got up and brought one of the sacks over. She extracted its contents: the springy fishfeet, two cane-shaped pieces of bamboo, and two oblong, transparent bowls. Like the fishfeet, these had leather straps as well.

  "Time to learn your equipment." She pulled off her boots and socks, stepped on top of one of the fishfeet, and strapped it on like a sandal. "One for each foot. The closest we can come to imitating the seals. Strap them on tight or you'll lose them in the water. This is so we can drift all day without getting tired."

  She handed him one of the fins. He began the laborious process of lacing it to his ankle, heel, and toes. Once he had it tight, she picked up one of the oblong bowls and fitted it around her eyes.

  "And this is so we can see in the water without our eyes getting stung."

  He accepted it when offered and placed it around his eyes. Pressure mounted. He tried to pull it away and it held fast. To get it off, he had to slip one of his fingers between his skin and the sticky seal on the rim of the bowl.

  He turned the object over in his hand, tapping the tacky substance on its rim. "What the heck is that?"

  "The sap of a tree that grows in the Carlons." She reached for the cane-shaped bamboo stick and fit it to her mouth like a flute. "And this is so we can observe the seabed without ever coming up for air."

  Blays stuck the curved end in his mouth, bit down, and sealed his lips. Air whooshed out the other end of the stick. He groped for its tip and felt his warm breath flowing out.

  "This is quite a setup for a snail hunt," he said. "Do you guys come out here often?"