They'd have looked old-fashioned to Beltra the Great, founder of the New Empire.
"Hail," he said, as they halted, staring. They made him uneasily conscious of his own stocky build and the cosmopolitan looks of the Imperial troops behind him. "Ah… do you speak Tykissian?"
They leaned on their spears. "Of course," one said, scratching her head "Better than you." She pronounced it Beeta twun yoou with an umlaut on the final word. His skin crawled slightly; it had been a long half-millennium since anyone spoke like that.
A grizzled, middle-aged man spoke. Bren recognized a commanders tone: "Why do you come to the shores of the Rose Sea?"
Sea? he thought At last, an end, one way or another. "We seek…"A sudden feeling of icy certainty filled him. He could not lie. "We seek the Theophone of the gods, lost these six hundred years," he said.
A rustle and murmur as the strangers spoke among themselves. Bren tensed, ready to signal his musketeers to fire. The chief gasped, sweat starting out on his face.
"The Great Shaman took it," he said "He brought it far to the south." His voice had a singsong edge, like a man repeating a lesson memorized in youth. "Our forefathers guarded him. Without the talisman, the Yentrors could not oppress our people, the Children of Wolf and Falcon. He brought it to the Rose Sea and walked to the Holy Isle, and there he lies with the Theophone on his chest, waiting."
Karah leaned on her sword "Does this Great Shaman have sort of milky eyes, scrawny old bas—old man, wears a loincloth and sort of orangey tattoos?"
The leader of the native band reversed his spear and thrust the point into the earth, stepping close to peer into Bren's face, then into Karah's.
"It is the prophecy!" he shouted, turning to his folk. "The Broad-Shouldered War Chief and the Chieftainess with the Dark Hair! The Final Battle is at hand!"
He flung himself to his knees before Bren, seized his foot and placed the much-patched boot on his own neck in the ancient gesture of fealty. The strangers threw down their weapons and knelt in a single movement.
"Well," Bren said.
* * *
Feasted, rested, passed from village to village, the Imperials were still shocked when they crested the final ridge.
Dawn was breaking over the peaks to the east, leaving the western hills in shadow. The mountains shone white and crimson as the sun touched the snowcaps, sharp against the azure sky. Shadow rolled down the slopes, darkness bursting into electric green over copse and ravine and shore; a breath of green reached them, as if the wilderness woke and stretched to meet the day It was very quiet, though, not much in the way of birds or beasts calling. But they did not need to wait until the sunlight caught the water to see it, for the vast lake before them glowed from beneath. Glowed like a sea of rose crystal, glowed like the petals of the flowers that gave its name, a soft crimson. Not like blood; the very sight of it made him think of peace, of rest It throbbed as he watched, then flamed up to meet the light of the sun until he had to hide his eyes behind his hand.
When he looked again the glow had died down, but the waves still beat salmon-colored on beaches of purest silver sand. He could see islands in it now, small ones where the Tiram left the waters for its long journey northwards, and a larger one perhaps two miles from shore. Part of it was green with trees, but the rest was shining white and gold. The buildings there weren't ruined; they stood, column and tower and dome, metal and polished stone, as if the inhabitants had just walked away for an afternoon.
"There," the chieftain said, in his archaic Tykissian. "There the Great Shaman left the talisman. He set us to guard—our mothers' mothers' mothers' mothers. Have we done well, lord?"
Bren clapped him on his bare shoulder; it was like slapping an old oak "Very well," he said "Now, the question is—how do we get out there?"
His eyes turned speculatively on the tall pale-barked trees round about A raft wouldn't be difficult, even though the… well, not really natives…folk didn't seem to have boats or canoes.
The chief gaped. "Do you not know, lord? The Rose Sea is death to any but the chosen one. No boat will float upon it."
They went down the hill, on a roadway that was a hint of purpose under ages of erosion and growth. He wasn't particularly surprised that wild rosebushes coated the slopes, the scent heavy in the mild damp air. It felt heavy in his lungs. Towards the shore, his troops had to get their swords out and cut to clear the path. They walked out onto the beach, sand rutching up beneath their feet Closer to, the water seemed less reddish, more of a blue-green streaked with crimson. It hissed very slightly; he went to one knee and bent, to find the waves full of tiny bubbles rising from the seabed Intrigued, he bent closer and scooped up a handful, raising it to his lips.
It tasted like water, but fizzy. There were mineral springs back in the Empire that tasted so, and sometimes the water was packed in tight-corked bottles and sold for health's sake. He frowned and yawned. Yawned again and found his thoughts wandering. Then hands dragged him upright.
"I am sorry, lord," the local chieftain said. "Did you not know? Any who stay too long near the surface of the Rose Sea grow sleepy—and if they sleep here, they do not wake."
"Gas," Amourgin said, sniffing. "There's an odorless gas like that in some deep mines. It puts out lights and smothers."
He bent and lifted a section of log, heaving it out into the waters. The wood was light and sun-dried, but it sank like a stone.
The Imperials muttered in awe and touched the markings on cheeks and brow; the locals followed suit "Magic," someone said.
Father Solmin shook his head. "No."
Amourgin nodded "Not that I can detect, either." He frowned "Perhaps the bubbles? But I can see why nobody sails on this sea."
Karah snorted and drove the shape of her scabbarded sword into the sand "Well, sod this for a game of soldiers, as our glorious leader says. By the Wolf Mother's tits, how are we supposed to get out there?" She pointed to the island "Walk?'
The Imperials looked at each other. Silence fell for a moment, and they all yawned. Then came a sound they recognized, echoing from the hills and down the steep slopes to the waters edge. The dull flat thump of distant cannonfire.
"Sakers, falconets," Bren said automatically, his head cocked to one side. "Light pieces—the sort the Tseldenes had on those barges." The thought of hauling those around the falls and over four hundred miles of unroaded country, without draught beasts, made him shudder. But they did it.
A lighter crackling underlay the sound of the guns. "Muskets," he went on. Rifled muskets, Imperial issue.
His eyes met Karah's, with the same appalled speculation. Amourgin spoke it aloud.
"That orca bitch Willek's joined up with Darkist," he said "Long enough to wipe us out, at least."
How many of them could there be? Bren thought. The answer was unpleasant—too many. Perhaps a thousand Tseldenes, if two of the barges had survived. As many again of Willek's troops, Imperial regulars and well-trained. Certainly at least half that of each.
He looked around There were three hundred of the XIXth left; as fine a body of soldiers as he'd ever seen, but they were critically low on ammunition—no more than ten rounds left for every musket Perhaps a thousand of the locals, equipped with weaponry out of a museum or a historical pageant, not a helmet or breastplate among them. He had no idea if they'd ever fought anyone, and they certainly hadn't fought modern troops equipped with firearms.
Karah looked back at him, tense but confident. Confidence in me, Three preserve me, he realized. So were the others. The XIXths troopers pounded the butts of their pikes and muskets on the ground and growled a wordless cheer.
"Tell me," he said—to Karah, to the magicians. "If we get the Theophone, we sweep the table and take home our winnings, right?"
They all three nodded. "With the Theophone, you can call the gods to manifest directly," Father Solmin said. "There's no doubt the Three would—Darkist and Willek are both soul-pledged to the One."
"But if we don't
get it, the world comes to an end, effectively."
Or we go to the Home of the Three, he added. Everyone here was a soldier, and dying was one of the risks of the trade. But what would happen to the people they left behind…
"True," Amourgin said. "With the Theophone in the hands of Willek or Darkist… either of them would call on the One. This world would become an antechamber of hell."
Bren swung round in frustration. "We can stand them off for a while," he said. "We can't hold them forever. How are we supposed to get to that island?"
Willek and Darkist advanced. Black clouds and whipping winds moved forward with them—the One of a Thousand Faces presented the face of storm and the cover of darkness in the middle of the day.
Bren could see movement below and off to either side. The enemy set up its flanks. "However we're to do it,we won't be doing it now," he said. The bitterness he felt crept into his voice.
A soft voice whispered in Karah's ear, "Fateborn will walk four-legged on the water."
Karah, on her belly in the tall grass, holding a position to the back of the main line with the other archers, felt the lick of ice water along her spine. The voice was familiar—insanely familiar. She turned and saw, overlaying the archer to her left, the ghostly white outlines of the madman—the Shaman.
She turned her back on him.
"It is your time now, Fateborn, The crucible awaits to test you. Perhaps you will be found worthy."
She refused to look at him.
"You cannot deny your fate, child. You can only falter—and in faltering, die."
Karah felt ghostly fingers wrap around her wrist. Her people needed the Theophone—Bren needed it—and somehow, her gods had chosen her to go and get it She thought of her gods, chained in fiery torment, and of the ranch, which she might never see again.
And she thought of Bren. She loved him. It wasn't only the uncertainty of war, the passion that rose after a brush with death. She wanted him.
And he needed the Theophone.
She shook off the Shamans hand and stood. None of those around her paid the slightest attention to her. The sounds of the battlefield had vanished at the moment the white-eyed ghost spoke to her. Karah realized she existed outside the realm of the real world—for the moment Her battle was not this battle—it lay elsewhere, where she would fight alone.
"Lead me," she told the ghost "Tell me what I must do."
They walked down to the water's edge, and the ghost said, "You must go alone, and you must triumph or fail alone. I can tell you only this—that you are not the first Fateborn, nor are you the first hope I have led to the shores of the Rose Sea. But now these gods, the One and the Three, have wakened, and look with interest upon that which you seek. If you fail, you may be the last Fateborn."
He vanished, leaving Karah standing on the pebbled shore, while the wind whipped around her and overhead black clouds blotted out the sun. The wind slashed across the water, churning the smooth surface into a frenzy. The waves tossed and crashed, and lightning crackled over the surface.
"Three help me," Karah whispered She stepped into the water; the spray lashed her and soaked her to the skin. One step and she was in to her knees—the island was far, far away, and as she waded out, it seemed to float farther away. She was not a bad swimmer, at least not in regular water. This water was witched, though—no one could swim in it Boats wouldn't even float in it. Is this where they died? she wondered. Has anyone ever gotten beyond the Rose Sea? She wished she hadn't known about the other Fateborn. She wished she still thought she was the first.
Only a wizard could cross this sea. She took a second step and the water was to her waist. The waves splashed in her face and hit her in the back, and she staggered and nearly lost her footing. I'll drown in here, she thought She could not swim in the water, but she had to cross the sea. Without her, the people she loved would die.
She swallowed tears and got ready to take a third step.
Behind her, she heard a whinny and a snort. She backed carefully, then turned, and stared, and felt her mouth gape open. A grey horse stood on the shore, black-point dappled. He stood at the water's edge, watching her, his eyes dull, his coat lifeless and ugly.
She stepped up, out of the water, and stood beside him on the shore. Waves crashed at his feet, but he seemed not to notice. He simply stood there.
She reached out and touched his nose—it was cold, and the flesh felt stiff beneath her fingers. She looked at him closely. He bore the Grenlaarin brand on his left flank—and the number on his shoulder that identified him as Windrush. He didn't seem to her like Windrush, though. He was gaunt and marked with scars on belly and flanks and back as if he'd fought off a big cat or a pack of wolves. His hipbones stuck out, and his withers were knife-sharp. She ran a hand along his legs—his joints were hot and swollen. She lifted his hooves, and found the right front cracked, and the tender frog in the center swollen and full of pus. Little remained of the horse he had been.
She took out her knife, and traced the line of the crack along the bottom of the hoof, and began paring away at it. The horse stood patiently, his head hanging, his tail limp. "How did you ever find me?" she asked. "We've gone two thousand miles if we've gone one since we left you. I missed you, too. I felt sure something would have eaten you by now—I wish you seemed happier to see me." She carved at the tough horn until pus and blood spurted from the crack. Then she put the foot down.
"At least you'll feel better now. I can't do anything else for you," she told him. She patted his shoulder. "But at least you'll be able to walk." She turned away from him, back to the stormy sea, and clenched her fists.
Why was not the Fateborn a magician? A wizard, she thought, would surely be able to cross the sea. Why her? She couldn't do magic. She knew nothing but horses.
Beside her, Windrush whickered and knelt She stared at him. She'd trained him to do that so she could mount if ever she were injured. He'd never done the trick of his own accord. But he seemed to want her to mount.
He looked out over the water, and snorted—had he been human, she would have thought the snort sounded impatient.
She stared at him and at the raging surface of the sea.
"Fateborn will walk four-legged on the water…"
The Shaman had said that to her once, so long ago, so terribly far away.
"Drowning is no worse on foot than on horseback," she said, and slipped onto Windrush's back. She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and he lifted his forequarters in a lurch, then his hindquarters. Then, without her urging, he stepped out onto the sea.
Karah stared at his hooves. They struck the tossing, shifting surface of the water, and where they touched, rose light glimmered. Windrush broke into an uneven trot and headed toward the island. He picked his way over the shifting surface of the sea, keeping to the troughs, away from the swells and breakers. When a breaker rolled unavoidably toward him, he bunched himself and went over it, scrabbling down the smooth backside as if he were running on ice.
Every time Windrush reached the top of a wave, Karah tried to make out the details of the island toward which they rode. The sun still shone on it, golden and glorious—the clouds which blotted out the rest of the sky circled around it, held back as if by magic. As she rode closer, she could make out the tall spires of buildings, their dun-brown stone washed golden in the light. Small shapes dotted the shoreline, and the light sparkled off of them as if they had been carved of gemstones. The wind screamed around her, and the waves crashed beneath her horses hooves, and thunder cracked and rumbled—but the island sat, placid, sunlit, and safe.
A seabird shot past her, its shrill cry startlingly loud even against the sounds of the storm. It circled around her, flying low over the waves, and joined another. Those two shrieked and screeched—and then Karah made out, skimming the waves toward her in a thin line, a flock of them. Birds, in her experience, rarely flew in storms—yet these birds wheeled and dove, unhampered by the vicious winds that buffeted h
er and Windrush. Their circles around her grew tighter.
She tightened her thighs around the horse, and urged him into a canter. The birds slipped and flowed around her, staying dose.
Windrush came over the crest of a wave unaware, fell into the trough beneath it, and stumbled hard, going to his knees. He whinnied his fright—and Karah, unprepared, fell from his back and only managed to clutch his mane as she slid into the sea. Windrush panicked and began to spin, while Karah's legs dragged through the water and her grip loosened "Still!" she shouted, and the horse's eyes rolled and his nostrils flared. He tossed his head, and shifted nervously while the waves rolled beneath his feet.
The waves pulled Karah beneath his belly, though she maintained her grip on the horse's mane. I can't get back up, she thought She dangled, straight-armed If she told Windrush to kneel, that would only sink her deeper into the sea and give the pounding waves more of a purchase on her. None of his tricks, and none of hers, had been designed for the situation in which she found herself.
The birds circled low. They're waiting for me to fall, she thought. Waiting for me to drown, so they can feed on my body. Then one of the birds dove at Windrush's eyes, and the horse reared and plunged, and one of Karah's hands came away from his mane. So they didn't intend to wait—but to help her die instead Her pulse pounded in her fingertips, her wrist ached, and she scrabbled for purchase on his bony withers. Her terror gave her strength, and she lifted herself high enough out of the water that she was finally able to throw a leg over the horse's back and urge him on his way. She regained her seat, but felt unsteady. A trot was the fastest pace she dared No more cantering—another fall could easily unseat her again and throw her to her death.
The birds resumed their formation and sailed along beside her, watching her with their beady red eyes, waiting. Uneasy, she unslung her bow, felt with her fingertips for her arrows, and nocked one. She didn't have enough arrows to kill all of them—and she thought of the damage they could do her. Their beaks were sharp and hook-tipped, their webbed feet fiercely taloned, and they dove and wheeled in tight formation, disciplined.
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