Worlds Unseen

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  She did not understand anything that had just happened, but she was acutely aware of several things. For one thing, she was alone. There was no Nicolas with her to poke fun at her and tell her which way to go and keep her from getting lost in this strange territory, or to find her a Gypsy wagon with feather pillows to sleep in. Huss had given her something terrifying and incredible in the truth which he had revealed to her, and now he was gone. Nor was Mrs. Cook there to pat her hand and assure her that everything would be fine after a cup of tea, and Pat was not there to look bold and ferocious and more than a match for anything that came along. Mary was not there to sing to her, and somehow Mary’s song had hurt her. Its strains had gone deeply into her and come up as something wild, something she couldn’t control, something that was at once beautiful and so foreign it frightened her.

  And Jerome—she loved him. She knew that now, just as she was sure that he loved her. She could not say how or when it had happened, much less why. She wanted him so badly, and he was separated from her by thick, cold stone and the unforgiving eyes of the High Police. All of her aloneness washed over her in waves, dragging her heart out bit by bit to drown in the deep.

  The worst of it was that she no longer knew herself. She could not take comfort in the familiarity of her feelings and reactions. The old Maggie, predictable and timid, had disappeared, piece by piece, on the roads of the continent. She was someone else now—someone who fought battles and roamed with Gypsies and knew ancient secrets; someone who knew what it meant to love fiercely and to sing miracles. Mary’s song had completed the change in her. Maggie did not even know what she had sung; the words and the melody had left her without so much as a memory of their form. She was left with the bitter loneliness of a young woman who did not know her own soul.

  In time the thought of Jerome and Huss brought Maggie back to herself. She stood unsteadily, lightheaded from crying. With miserable clarity she realized that she had no idea how to find the Ploughman. The High Police would be on her trail soon—and in their shadow, the black-robed Order of the Spider would follow. The scroll inside her coat felt heavy.

  Maggie drew a deep breath and staggered down the hill to the farms and country roads below. Perhaps a rebel who went by the name of the Ploughman could be found among the farmers of the Eastern Lands. She wandered down the road about a mile, past recently harvested fields where flocks of birds gleaned from the remaining stubble. Now and then the birds would rise up together, calling and cackling, and swoop down over the road on their way to a new picking field. Maggie would stop and watch the birds diving and soaring all around her, and would stand still until every last little straggler went fleeting past.

  The road was rough and worn with deep wagon ruts. Maggie’s feet slipped on the dry earth and the sun beat down on her head. Still she walked, until the bright world around her had become something of a blur. Fragmented thoughts drifted through her mind.

  After a mile or two the farmland gave way to wooded hills. The trees sent sparsely-clothed branches out to offer the road what shade they could. The shadows cooled Maggie’s eyes, and she lifted her head as her mind troubled over the problem of where the road was taking her and what she was going to do when she got there.

  The road narrowed and Maggie became faintly aware of the distant sound of a train—then, suddenly, there was a noise of metal grinding against metal, a dreadful squeal and whine, and a cloud of birds burst from the trees a small distance away. Distinctly human sounds followed the flutter of birds’ wings on the wind.

  Maggie stood undecided for a moment, and dashed into the woods, trusting her ears to lead her to the source of the noise. The sounds of confusion came closer and she slowed instinctively in case danger lay beyond the forest tangle. She could see the place where bright sunlight lit a clearing just beyond a row of trees.

  As she neared the clearing, a sound like the call of an owl fell on her ears. She stopped and looked all around her. There was something afoot in the woods, she could feel it. Every shadow seemed to be hiding something. But no, there was nothing there—she looked again, and again her eyes found nothing. Maggie tore her eyes away from the surrounding forest and looked back out to the place where the trees ended.

  Low, yellow-leafed branches blocked her path, and she ducked and pushed her way through until she stepped abruptly out onto the edge of a ridge. Below it lay the scene of a train wreck. The iron serpent was long, its cars stretching out of sight around a bend. Its first ten cars had been derailed, and it lay twisted in the hollow.

  Men, rail workers from the look of their uniforms, walked the length of the train inspecting the damage. Most of them stood in front of the dragon’s head engine, where an enormous man-made wall of brush had caused the train to go off of its tracks.

  Maggie began to pick her way gingerly down the slope when one of the figures standing in the clearing turned and looked straight at her, and she found herself looking into the face of Patricia Black. Pat’s face was surprised, then elated, and she shouted Maggie’s name and ran to her.

  Maggie was nearly at the bottom of the slope when Pat reached her, but she was not smiling. She knew it, and was sorry for it, especially as Pat’s face clouded. But if she could not smile—not in the face of all that had happened and all she was trying to do—she could yet look, with eyes that shone welcome and need.

  Pat shook off whatever had clouded her face. She beamed and caught Maggie in an embrace. Maggie held her friend as if she would never let her go. Fierce gladness burned in her heart.

  She did let go at last, and Pat stepped back and looked Maggie over with thinly veiled curiosity.

  “You’re not in Pravik,” Pat said, and laughed slightly. “Bless this wreck, then. Without it we would have gone all the way to Pravik in search of you and been cheated at the last.” Maggie finally managed a weak smile as she sought words, and Pat continued, “Mrs. Cook is with me. And we’ve got so much to tell you!”

  She linked her arm with Maggie and dragged her off to a train car where Mrs. Cook anxiously awaited Pat’s return.

  “You go in first,” Pat said. “Mrs. Cook won’t know what to do with herself!”

  Pat shoved Maggie gently. Maggie smiled at her and went through the door of the compartment. She did not see the way Pat watched her go, with her dark eyebrows knotted in perplexity. Maggie was different, Pat thought—she looked as though she’d been living too close to the stars, and now all their light and solemnity was shining through her eyes.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Cook said when Maggie entered the little room, and her hand flew to her mouth. Then her arms opened wide and Maggie stepped into the warmth of the elderly woman’s love. Mrs. Cook burst promptly and sobbingly into tears.

  “My dear girl,” she cried, while Pat hovered over them both, grinning like a child who has played a clever trick. When Maggie stepped back, her face was flushed and her eyes were bright with very deep love, and even Mrs. Cook noticed that there was something deeper there than she had seen in Maggie before.

  “It is so good to see you,” Maggie said, feeling suddenly as though words could flow out of her in an unending torrent, but before she could say anything more she was cut off by the call of a bugle. The sound wavered in the air and slowly died. Maggie moved to the window. Her eyes opened wide as she caught sight of something dark moving in the trees.

  Then they appeared, out from the darkness of the forest, spilling down the hill to the train. It seemed as though there were hundreds of them, men in dark clothing, brandishing swords and clubs and whooping like boys on a holiday. They descended on the men of the train, whose courage failed them at the sight. Almost as one the men turned and ran for the safety of the train cars. Pat’s long knife was drawn in a flash, and she was nearly out the door when Maggie reached out and caught her arm.

  “Wait,” she commanded. Pat put up the knife even as she stared at Maggie in surprise.

  Maggie’s eyes were drawn to one lone figure, who was even now emerging from the woods.
He was on horseback, unlike the others, and he wore a long, navy blue cloak with a hood that had fallen back from a dark, handsome face. His hair was black and thick, and even on horseback he looked tall. Maggie recognized him almost instantly.

  The Ploughman.

  He shouted orders to his men and they swarmed around the train, boarding the cars with wild shouts. From their compartment, Maggie and Pat could see them begin to stream back out, carrying crates and rolling barrels ahead of them.

  “What sort of cargo was on this train?” Maggie asked.

  “Food,” Pat answered. “Bound for the Overlord’s storehouses. And weapons.”

  “I need to talk to that man,” Maggie said, pointing to the Ploughman.

  “All in good time,” Pat said, one eyebrow raised. “I’m sure they’ll drag out the hostages sooner or later.”

  “They don’t want prisoners,” Maggie said. “These men aren’t bandits.”

  “Oh no?” Pat asked. “It looks to me as though we’re being robbed.”

  “They’re farmers,” Maggie said. “I left Pravik to find them.”

  “Oh,” Pat said, “I see. We’re being robbed by friends of yours.”

  “Come with me,” Maggie said. Pat and Mrs. Cook crowded out of the compartment behind her. They picked their way to the door of the car and lowered themselves down to the ground. The rebels were everywhere. One man saw them and shouted.

  “You there!” he said, pointing a thick finger. “Back on the train!”

  “I wish to speak with the Ploughman!” Maggie called back as the man moved in front of them. “I am a friend of his.”

  The man looked at her incredulously. “Come along, then, miss,” he said. “We’ll see if your friend the Ploughman recognizes you!”

  There was laughter from the surrounding rebels, and the men formed a wall of bodies around and behind them, escorting them to their leader. Maggie approached the tall man on his horse and dropped to one knee.

  “I am a friend of Libuse,” she said. “And of Jarin Huss.”

  “Stand up, then,” the Ploughman said. His deep voice sounded amused. When Maggie looked up into his face she saw that he was smiling slightly. “You look familiar,” he continued. “I have seen you somewhere, though I don’t know your name.”

  “Maggie Sheffield,” she told him. “Professor Huss and Jerome need your help.”

  The Ploughman silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I see by your face that you do not bring good news,” he said. His eyes left Maggie, going to the train and his men at work emptying it. “We will speak later, after this carcass has been cleaned and we are away. Stay here.” He pointed to the place next to his horse. “My men will be your escort.”

  So saying, the Ploughman rode away. His men moved in closer to the three women.

  “He’s a well-spoken bandit, that friend of yours,” Pat said in a low voice.

  “Are we really going to go with them?” Mrs. Cook asked nervously.

  “I am,” said Maggie. She put her hand on Mrs. Cook’s arm suddenly. “You should go home. Get back on the train. Help will come soon and take you to the city. You shouldn’t be here.”

  Mrs. Cook drew herself up to her full, plump height. “My girl,” she said, “you are here, and I will not leave you alone again. Something has happened to you, that’s plain enough, but I won’t have you making a stranger of me.”

  She smiled, and her tone of voice changed. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. “I’ve been through some adventures of my own, Maggie. I’m not afraid of them.”

  When the rebels were finished they loaded every last parcel from the train onto their backs and the few horses and pack animals that were hidden in the woods. The bugle sounded, and the company melted back into the woods from whence it had come, bearing Maggie, Pat, and Mrs. Cook away with it.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Dreams and War

  Hear the call of the Huntsman’s horn;

  The stars all sing when the chase is on;

  Over the sky fields and cross the moon;

  The darkness meets its downfall soon.”

  Heed the song of the Huntsman’s soul;

  He sings of battles fought and won;

  He sings of love and stars aglow;

  Of a King, a Heart, that all hearts know.

  Hear the call of the Huntsman’s horn;

  Dawn will come though night is long;

  Sing with triumph, sons of men,

  Know your King will come again.

  In ancient days before the world was born, the King spoke the Huntsman’s name; and in that moment, he came into being. The Horn of the Huntsman has ever sent fear into the hearts of all things black; it is the sound of righteousness at war. The Great Star-Rider was born to persecute the Blackness, and though he has gone from this world along with the King, his wrath echoes still in the heavens.

  I, the Poet, have heard the call of the Huntsman. This night it rang in the tops of the trees and shimmered among the stars. No, he has not yet returned—not for many long years of the moon will the Huntsman return to sound his call. But I have heard the spirit of that call echoing back from a future day, and I have felt the Blackness quiver.

  * * *

  The Ploughman and his men rode up into the woods, following hidden paths through the forest. They rode through the falling of darkness and into the night, and the band of men slowly thinned out as individuals broke away and took much of the plunder with them. When at last they left the forest and began to ride through a stubbled field toward a small farmhouse that glowed in welcome, the band had dwindled to five men, the Ploughman, and the three women.

  The men dismounted onto the hard packed earth outside the little house, leading their horses and that of the Ploughman away to the nearby outbuildings. Maggie, Pat, and Mrs. Cook swung down from their saddles, and young boys appeared from the farmyard shadows to take their mounts away. A shadow momentarily blocked the golden light that spilled from the door, and Maggie recognized Libuse standing in the doorway, dressed in peasant clothes.

  The princess went to the Ploughman and they whispered together for a moment. Libuse turned and approached Maggie.

  “It is good to see you here,” the princess said, smiling. She was breathtakingly beautiful as the light of the house played on her face and drew all the gold out of her hair. She caught Maggie’s hand tightly. “Your friends are welcome as well. Come! There is supper waiting.”

  The princess led the eight newcomers inside, where a long wooden table had been set with bread and soup, cheese and butter. The men sat at one end and dove into the food. Maggie, Pat, and Mrs. Cook sat with the Ploughman and the princess at the other end.

  A large farmwife with a permanently fixed scowl set a steaming bowl of soup in front of Maggie. She picked up a spoon and stirred the broth in circles, watching flecks of spice whirl into the center around chunks of potato. The others were waiting for her. She set the spoon down and looked up at Libuse.

  “Professor Huss has been arrested,” she said. Her voice caught. “And Jerome.”

  Libuse looked at her in stunned silence. She cleared her throat and asked, “Why?”

  “They say the professor murdered you,” Maggie said.

  The Ploughman placed his hand on Libuse’s arm, but she pulled away. She stood, her face flushed. “How could they?” she said. “How dare they?”

  “There will be a trial,” the Ploughman said.

  “I don’t know when,” Maggie said.

  “Soon,” the Ploughman said. His face was stern, almost angry. “Why did you come here?”

  Maggie did not look at his face. Instead, she looked up at Libuse again, her face pleading. “I thought if you went back, they would have to release them.”

  “No!” the Ploughman said. He stood, towering head and shoulders above his lady. He took her shoulders. “They want you back. They’ll find a way to kill you and not spare the professor for it. You can’t go.”

  “I mu
st,” Libuse said. Her face was pale, but she slipped away from the Ploughman and sat back down. She picked up her spoon and took a swallow of soup, though her hand shook as she raised it to her mouth. She looked up at the Ploughman. “I will go back,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” Maggie said. “If Libuse comes back to Pravik alive, it will prove that the professor is innocent!”

  “They already know that he’s innocent,” the Ploughman said. “If he really had killed Libuse they’d congratulate him for it. It’s not murder they’re concerned with.”

  “Then…” Maggie said.

  The Ploughman sighed heavily. “Zarras wishes to stamp out resistance to himself. He suspected Libuse’s connection to us; that’s why she was arrested. When she disappeared it provided a good excuse to go after those responsible for unrest in the university.”

  “Professor Huss and Jerome,” Maggie said.

  “No matter,” Libuse said. “Professor Huss is like a father to me. I can stop his execution. If I go back they will have to let him go, if only for a little while—but it will be time enough for him to leave Pravik.”

  “No!” the Ploughman said again, thumping the table. “You are not going back.”

  “I can’t leave them to die,” Libuse said.

  “If you go back, I will come for you,” the Ploughman said. “I will ride into the city and free you myself.”

  They looked at each other in silence, their faces golden in the warm firelight. Something seemed to shift in the air between them, filling the room with a strange sense of power and danger. The men at the other end of the table had stopped eating and were staring down at their leader and his lady. Pat and Mrs. Cook looked at each other uneasily. Maggie kept her eyes on Libuse.

  The princess shifted in her seat, picked up her spoon, and took another sip of the steaming broth. “Well,” she said, and the men at the other end strained forward to hear her. “Why don’t you?”

  The Ploughman dropped into his seat. “How can I?”

  “Your men would follow you to the gates of death, you know that.”