by Jenna Rhodes
She supposed her sister might have a Dweller’s tale of the birth of these serpentine trails.
She had wanted to stay with Meg, Gods knew that she did, but events wouldn’t allow it. She knew that the pregnancy was difficult and that, although Nutmeg grumbled about hers, it was probably far more difficult than she’d allowed. Dweller babes were stubborn and oft did what they willed, and as for Vaelinar children . . . well, they were fey. What else could they be?
Rivergrace stumbled heavily over an unseen obstacle, going to one knee, landing on her hands in the gravel. She smothered a curse she had learned in Bistane’s great army. It sounded harsh the moment it escaped her, and echoed like a stone thrown against quarry slates before its noise passed. There are some words that should never be said, particularly in the dark, and she regretted it the second it passed her lips. She held her breath as if it might bring some retort back to her, but heard nothing.
She got up, dusting her palms. She never thought she’d be wishing for a gown, although she dressed plainly, compared to the gowns that elegant Tiiva and Lariel wore about the manor and grounds, but she often resented even the plain dress she had adopted. Better to have the homespun pants she and Nutmeg used to run about in, the better to scale ladders and carts and apple trees. She narrowed her eyes and took a look at what had tripped her. A half-buried ivory dome caught the light. Either a water-polished stone or a skull sunk deep in the tunnel’s floor, and she shied away from it, leaving its mystery unsolved. It gleamed at her, a fallen star in the tunnel, catching her eye. Then she saw, clumped not far beyond it, unusual ripples in the dusty floor.
Bending, she ran her fingers through the dust and touched cloth. She lifted the garments and shook them out, turning her head to avoid the clouds unsuccessfully, sneezing loudly as she tried to see what it was she held. Kernan country garb, a woman. Grace buried a fist in the fabric. Still good, not rotting, although the skull had seemed polished by age. Dubious fortune she could not overlook, she pulled the clothing on, shuddering as the grit slid over her bare skin, finding the blouse a bit too big, and the divided skirt could have used a belt. There were herbs in the pockets. A Kernan wisewoman, then, out herbing on the fertile ridges just above Larandaril. Boots would have been perfect. Grace dragged her toes along the cave floor, shuddering when she kicked aside more bones, and then found the rugged shoes the woman had died in. She turned the bone fragments out, shaking them down to rattle among the stones and pebbles before they finally quieted.
She had to sit to put the shoes on. Sturdy leather creaked as she tried her feet in them, found them adequate, if too wide. She had Vaelinar bones, after all, and when she stood, her skirt would be several hands too short. Sliding her left hand into her pocket, her fingers touched upon iron and traced its curvature and length. A wicked blade, a pruning knife, sharp and hooked. A long pocket on the right hip held a short sword. An errant sting in her fingers told her that it had retained its sharpness over the years. Rivergrace breathed deeply. Dressed and armed, by the ill-fortune of another. Had the wisewoman, Kernan witch born, also heeded the call of the water? Had she drunk from it, caught thirsty in this dry and dusty tunnel? Grace pushed her hair back from her brow. She would remember not to.
She moved on, every now and then catching the smell of the water, and then finally hearing it, faintly, pooled and yet dripping within the depths ahead of her. If the water did not sing her out as it had sung her in, she might be lost and wandering for quite a long time, her fate not much different than that of the skeleton she’d stumbled over. As she walked, the echo of her steps changed, and she became aware the ceiling grew higher and higher still until she could look up and see splinters of sky and cloud. That eased her a bit. She could feel her dread of closed-in places lift a little, even as dirt and pebbles skidded down from the roof opening to shower her. Grace eyed the roof carefully. She might not be able to climb out, but that did not mean something could not fall in. Moving cautiously, she started forward again.
The tunnel began to curve to her left, and the sound of water became clearer with every step until split rock overhead let in waning rays to cast a wavering light upon a pool in front of her, where the entry widened into a small cavern and she could feel the dampness in the air. She knelt upon the slick stones that formed a lip at her end, and stretched her fingers out to the pool. As soon as she broke its cool, wet surface, sparks of light green seemed to emanate and mist off the water and a voice intoned, “Welcome.” It came from everywhere and nowhere.
Drops trailed from her fingertips as she sat back, craning her neck to look about her, shadows draping close and revealing little. The stone beneath her knees vibrated still, as if it had been struck to produce the sound, and she wondered if she had truly heard it or simply felt its resonance throughout her body. She watched as the last droplets of pool water fell from her hand, each sending up a glowing splash and a ripple as it hit. If she were a wee creature, with soaring antennae from her brows and wings buzzing on her back, would she feel the striking of the drop on the water just as she, human, had felt the shock of speech against the very rocks? Rivergrace frowned. She dashed the last of the dampness from her hand and scrubbed it dry against her skirts vigorously before she became lost in thoughts she seldom thought or had time to dwell upon. The philosophical lassitude which had enveloped her immediately faded. Bespelled. She had nearly fallen headfirst into its net. The corner of her mouth twitched wryly. Nutmeg would never have succumbed to such a trap. Ever practical, ever in motion, the Dweller in her sister did not lend itself to windy platitudes. Do and be done with it! Then tell a colorful tale describing the deed. That would be the Dweller way.
She looked down at the cavern’s lake. It pooled power. It reeked of power and because it did, she knew she had to be circumspect. She could not charge at it like some child with a bully stick and hope to beat it into submission. Like water itself, it would be fluid and slippery and damn near uncatchable.
She tilted her head. “You called, I have answered.”
“Many are called. So few answer.”
The sound this time came faintly, scarcely audible and far short of the power available, leaving her unable to decide if the remark queried or complained of her. The contact felt like nothing she had ever experienced before. This was not the River Goddess she’d sheltered once only to lose to the insanity of Cerat the Souldrinker. Another God? She didn’t think so. The only power she knew of, inside these tunnels, was that of the Mageborn, and they had not been alive to touch the peoples of Kerith in a thousand years or more. So what had called to her, and how, and did they call to her or just to anyone? Had there been magic in the long gone rockeaters which had carved these tunnels? That, in the few tales that Rufus had told her from early Bolger days, had never even been hinted at. It was the venom and spittle of the rockeater serpents, and the rough scales of their hides as they bored, that ate through this stone, not magic. Not power. She could not call herself a true judge of magic, however, for even among the Vaelinars she was untrained and knew little. From what she did know, Vaelinars did not work magic. The effects were the same, but they saw the world with eyes of varied and remarkable colors, a seeing of the threads and strands which comprised the many elements of the world and which could be plucked, strung and unstrung, knotted and severed, rewoven and cast aside, like an instrumentalist with their instrument. It was not magic. It was the seeing and touching of what they saw which gave them their myriad powers. Not that they meddled more than by the merest of touches. Most had not the capability to do what they might dream of with what they perceived. Only once in a while was a great reworking accomplished, a Way, which might establish the fortune of a Vaelinar bloodline for generations to come. Mostly, Vaelinar magic consisted of a small pluck here or a faint strum there. A larger effect would come from a strike or a hammer upon the elements. And then, there were those unspoken disasters, those attempts to alter reality, which exploded upon the world and for
which an entire bloodline could be sentenced to death. Vaelinar justice. Reach for power, but suffer the consequences if you fail.
A small chill ran across the back of Rivergrace’s neck. There were whispers that such a happening had sentenced her own family to termination and that her father had fled to an even harsher taskmaster who had promised him hiding and given him enslavement. Did she believe that Fyrvae now named Narskap had come from such a background? She did not know. She hardly knew herself, let alone a father and mother she had lost when very young. It could be true. It equally could not be true, and used to mislead her. If the Vaelinars were experts in the weaving of the elements of the world, they were even more masterful at weaving the emotions and thoughts of those who lived upon it. Her Dweller upbringing had hardly prepared her for the insinuations of the Vaelinars. Her first lessons had been hard given and harder to receive, but she was learning. It did not mean that she had no friends among her own people, but that her people held a different code for the world and how it was meant to work. If you asked Tolby Farbranch how the world should work, he would tell you of seasons, seasons of planting and nurturing and harvest and storage for the seasons of want. He would tell you of teamwork and family and trust and love and courage. He would tell you of unwanted rain and the fury of wind untold and the gentle touch of a spring sun. If you asked the Vaelinar, they would tell you of Houses and Strongholds and Fortresses, of warlords and Warrior Queens and cunning craftsmen, of heralded Ways and fouled pools of failure where no man could hope to live, of a heritage torn away by a mysterious enchantment, and of a heritage returned by an even more mysterious Ferryman. They might tell you of their superiority and the yoke that this world placed upon them, and of their eternal longing to return to that which birthed them. They might tell you of the burden of living centuries in a lifetime, anchored to a land of commoners, dreaming of uncommon abilities. Every once in a while, you could find a rare one who would speak to you of family, friends, honor, and love. Such a man she loved.
Rivergrace waited a few more heartbeats before standing.
As if suddenly remembering her, the lake woke. “Look,” the power whispered. “And see.”
She dropped her gaze to the still waters of the deep pool, its surface barely lit by the light which trickled down from above, a thin and wavering orange illumination that smudged more than it delineated. If she saw more than herself, it was only as a shadow in the deep dark pool. Rivergrace saw a ripple across the pool, and felt her whole body tense as something she could not describe or hear filled her senses. A mist rose from the edges of the water, ringing the area, giving it a border as if it were a dark and foreboding mirror. The air grew deadly cold. She could feel the frost without seeing it, yet her skin burned with the icy touch.
Without her willingness, her gaze was drawn to the dark water. Rivergrace knew that she would see what was going to be shown to her without her approval. She feared for her soul as the power stripped away the very permission she had fought throughout her adult life to gain for every action. She saw Sevryn and images that made little or no sense to her in their savagery. It caught her breath in her throat and she gritted her teeth against her reaction, not wanting to give the images more power than they already had. She watched and did not understand, and feared. Would she remember later or would the visions disappear into her very soul, forgotten but infusing their power into everything she thought and did? She bent her head to watch more closely, willing herself never to forget. Understanding would come later.
Visions faded. She knelt down, hand out, chasing them. “More.”
“More?” The power shivered about her.
“I have to know.”
“And if knowing unmakes you, unravels you again?”
“Then it’s my willing, not yours. Not theirs. Mine.”
“You asked,” said the voice of the dark water. “I grant.”
Silver glinted off the water pool mirror. It seemed to splash off the ceiling and walls of the small cavern, dancing sparks that spit and shimmered over the dirt and stone. They did not fade but held wherever they touched, small stars drawn down and pinned to the earth, giving off an aura of being untouchable for all their closeness. She became the silver among the inky darkness, and her thoughts raced away.
She felt the coursing halt and she tried to pull back, feeling herself fall into another flesh, captured, possessed, and she fought, rearing up in fear. Dark magic coiled about her strongly. Wait. Watch. Know. Rivergrace laced her fingers close and prayed it would be anchor enough and let her mind stay where it had been sent, and she became another.
A STRANGE SKIN HELD HER. The smell of the sea enveloped her, as did this other, this one who thought of herself as Roanne. Rivergrace let herself slide deeper into the other’s thoughts and hoped not to be perceived. She stood upon weathered planks. The dock shifted uneasily upon the harbor’s tide, the ship tied to its side rolling with it, dockworkers cursing as their footing unbalanced on the plank ramps and their loads grew unsteady. The edifice had not been made to be permanent or hold adamant against the tug of the ocean. It had been built hastily, and illegally, and would be torn down the moment the ship shoved off, its boards dried and fed into fireplaces scattered throughout the small port. No sign of their leaving would remain other than a wake upon the waves which would, as in the way of all ocean’s faring, last but a moment or two. No trace of their mooring, no track of their leaving, no sign of their traitorous plans would remain behind save for people who knew that a trading ship had put up its sails and nothing more than that.
A morning wind rose up, stiff and cold and brisk, a few drops of rain slanting upon it. Roanne drew her cloak close about her in a futile effort to stave off the cold uneasiness that tugged at her. All passengers were already aboard, and her parents had yet to come to the docks. She had come from her dorms, with what items and books she had carried with her into her apprenticeship, and they were coming from the family’s country home with their things. She had seen little enough of them over the past few seasons, except to make this plan, and now she fretted.
Captain Galbert’s first, Nethen, shouted down. “Make ready to cast off! The Tide Caller waits for no man!” His voice softened a bit as he added to her, “Lady Marant. We can hold no longer. All our informants, all our omens, say that now is the time, if we are to follow the Tide Caller.”
The Tide Caller. Black phantom. A God or Demon? No one knew. Only that he had appeared, tearing a hole in their ensorcelled world, and the philosophers of magic held that he would disappear through that same hole . . . and beyond him, perhaps, freedom. He rode a tide that Queen Trevilara could not control, could not block, could not send a plague against. His was a singular magic, which the old tyrant did not hold and should be unable to counter. Or so they prayed. So thin a grasp to believe upon, just as she held now. Something flickered down a long alleyway. “I see a carriage. Please.” She shaded her eyes to look across the morning fog and haze where, amid the smoke of the plague bonfires, she could indeed see the carriage, the two-in-hand approaching. The crest on the doors had been draped over, but she knew the horses, knew them well. One of them she had helped birth and then wean before the horse master took over to train it to harness as it grew. Roanne held her breath. The carriage halted a cautious length away, horses restive, and her father leaped from inside. He did not wait to help another occupant out, and her heart quailed inside of her.
“Mother?”
“She’s not coming.” Her father drew close enough that their voices would carry only between the two of them, the din of the dockworkers readying to shove off and the thin wail of the sea wind cloaking their words.
Roanne’s hand went up in entreaty. “Go back! Convince her. Tell her this is our only chance. Tell her she has to come with us! I can beg the captain to wait a little longer. Please. We can’t leave her behind.”
“I’m not coming either.”
Cold pierced her chest. “No.”
“She came down with a fever last night. We can’t take a chance, Roanne, on infecting you or the other passengers. A ship is close quarters.” He turned his face away for a moment. “It’s better this way.”
The coldness in her chest spread outward, infected all of her limbs. “It doesn’t have to be the plague. We’ve been resistant. Let me go to her. It could be any one of a handful of spring fevers. The alphistol bloomed early, she always gets wheezes and hives from them. It could be something minor. Father, I can help!”
“No.” He cut the air between them with his hand, his gloved hand, and she realized he wouldn’t touch her. Not truly. “This isn’t a chance we’re willing to take, and Captain Galbert would be the first to agree. You have to go for us, Roanne. Follow the Tide Caller. Do the House of Marant proud, as you have always done. When it comes to it, I—I admit I haven’t the courage. You sail to a rift in the very fabric of the world itself. Who can hope to survive that? I can’t. I know you do, and I pray you will, but I can’t go with you or even follow after. Your mother is sick, but her reason becomes my excuse. Forgive me.”
“Father.”
He shook his head. She saw the track of tears down his cheek.