by David Walton
The colonists were cutting up several large, recently-felled trees for their wood. Instead of using saws, however, they were using their hands. One would drive his hand into the trunk as easily as if it were air, tracing out the desired shape, and then remove the wood, cut with an edge as smooth as if it had been carefully sanded. The stone was quarried using the same method. Ramos had experience with matter passing through other matter, of course, but it had not realized it could be used to separate the atoms making up a material, and to see people doing it in so casual and efficient a manner took his breath away. The other men in his party seemed unimpressed, and Ramos marveled at how easily miracles could become commonplace when you saw them every day.
The work stopped as the colonists noticed them. Bishop Marcheford strode confidently into their midst, and Ramos followed in his wake with the others. "Where is Ferguson?" Marcheford bellowed. His face was thunderous, and Ramos had to admit he could put on an intimidating show. He spoke like a preacher, with the force of Scripture and the threat of brimstone rumbling under the words.
A tall man with such a weak chin that his face seemed to slide straight into his neck without interruption ducked into view from behind a stack of cut stone. "I thought I told you never to come back," he said. He tried to match Marcheford's tone, but he didn't have the voice for it, and he just came off sounding petulant.
"James Ferguson, you are hereby deposed as governor of Horizon," Marcheford pronounced. "By order of the rightful queen of England and this colony."
"Queen?" Ferguson said. He sneered as he advanced on Marcheford. "You have no salt, no friends, and nothing to offer these people. Even if you were here to apologize, I would run you off. As it is, you and your son and . . ." Ferguson trailed off as he saw Ramos. His eyes traveled up and down his body, and Ramos was conscious of his dark hair and Mediterranean features, not to mention the clerical garb he was still wearing. He was clearly Spanish, and a priest besides. "You didn't," Ferguson said.
Now other people were taking notice, and their eyes darted to the edges of the clearing.
"He sold us out!" Ferguson yelled. "He told the Spanish where we are."
Everyone came to their feet now, abandoning their building materials and scanning the trees for signs of attack. This was not going well.
"Listen, you young idiot," Marcheford said, his tone of confident command slipping. "I'm a bishop of the Anglican church. Do you think I would go running to a pack of papists?"
Ramos felt a surge of irritation, but he let it pass. He was, after all, throwing his lot in with exiles and heretics. He couldn't expect them to speak well of the Roman Church.
"Who's he, then? And why are you ordering us about in the name of Queen Mary?" Ferguson said.
"Not Mary," Marcheford said, exasperated. He made an attempt to bring the stentorian tone back to his voice. "I mean Her Majesty, trueborn daughter of King Henry the Eighth, Queen Elizabeth!"
At this pronouncement, a light blazed from the other side of the clearing. Every head turned in time to see Elizabeth striding out of the forest, aglow with quintessence light. It was a trick anyone in the colony could do, with quintessence water in their veins and enough salt to fuel it, but Elizabeth pulled it off with a ceremonial majesty that left no doubt as to her identity. The light streamed over her bare scalp, giving the impression of flowing, red-blond hair. Behind her, Blanca and Joan Parris walked, as if holding her train.
Elizabeth glided into the center of the stunned gathering, as poised as if she were arriving at a ball. Ramos knew she must still be terrified, not just of these people, but of the strangeness of the quintessence light streaming out of her body. But she gave no sign of it. She had slipped on majesty like a mask at a costume ball, and she radiated strength and purpose. "I am Elizabeth," she said. "I command your allegiance."
Ferguson opened and closed his mouth, unequal to the moment. Ramos watched him, knowing that the spell could be broken with a word. But Ferguson seemed entranced. He walked forward like a man in a dream, his eyes only on Elizabeth. She beamed at him, her beautiful face radiant despite the dirt still smudged there. He kneeled, rapt, and kissed her outstretched hand.
The other colonists rushed forward, kneeling in the dirt in front of her and reaching out to touch her hand or dress. Ramos remembered that these were Protestant refugees who had been forced to flee their homeland for their beliefs. To them, Elizabeth was a heroine, a saint, the savior they dreamed would take the throne someday and turn their nation back to Protestantism. And suddenly, here she was, the Protestant princess, impossibly materialized on this island. Most of them knew her face, but even those who had never seen her before recognized royalty in every graceful gesture and angle of her body.
"I will be as good to you as ever a queen was to her people," Elizabeth said. "Follow me, and I will lead you with all my will and power. And be persuaded that, at need for your safety, I will not hesitate to spend my blood."
Ramos already knew she was a remarkable woman, but he was amazed once again. She had done the impossible, simply by walking in and speaking it into being. Never mind that scant hours ago, she had stood on a scaffold, about to lose her head, and then had been thrown into this bizarre land with no preparation, a step ahead of death. She was now the undisputed queen of this colony. Whatever quarrels these people had harbored, they were forgotten, at least for this moment, swept aside in their united devotion to her. Ramos realized that he, too, was in love with her—not the everyday attraction a man might have for a woman, but the veneration of a mortal man for a goddess.
"I require shelter and refreshment, and then I will hold council," Elizabeth said. "We have much to discuss."
CHAPTER 23
FROM Antonia's description of her experiences, Catherine began to piece together an understanding of what had happened.
"So you were all born at the end of May?" Catherine said.
"The first group of us," Antonia said. "Everyone I asked, anyway. The second group that came was born in early February."
Catherine and Maasha Kaatra were sitting in the sheltered overhang where the manticores had left them, while Antonia flitted above them.
"Their souls must have been linked to the part of the sky that corresponds to your birth," Catherine said. "Maybe even with a normal quintessence thread, like we use all the time. When Maasha Kaatra drew the energy out of the sky, it drew the threads with it. Literally yanking your souls out of your bodies and bringing them here."
Antonia circled closer in lazy spirals. "I don't understand. The stars rotate around the Earth. If our souls were tied to the stars, wouldn't they be pulled out of our bodies every day as the heavens moved in their courses?"
Catherine was amazed. This girl, alone among all these roaming spirits, had been able to evaluate her situation and deduce what was happening to her. She had gathered enough information from talking with the others to realize that they all had similar birthdays, and that those birthdays corresponded to the appearance of the novas. What fourteen-year-old girl had the education to know so much about astronomy? And now she was asking difficult questions about the structure of the universe. She reminded Catherine of herself at that age, but Catherine had benefitted from her father's example. Who had taught Antonia to think of the natural world in so logical a way?
"Quintessence connections stretch as far as they need to. They're not like physical threads; they can stretch across the world," Catherine said.
"Then why were our souls pulled away at all?"
Another good question. Catherine remembered the experiment in Sinclair's house when he had successfully brought a bird back from the dead. The bird's spirit had leaped up out of the void along a quintessence thread and into the bird's body. If it were possible for a spirit to be transmitted along a quintessence thread . . .
"Maybe the connection is still there, between your body and the stars. Perhaps what Maasha Kaatra did just pulled your soul along that connection to Horizon."
Antonia's l
ight bobbed more vigorously. "So there might be a way to send us back?"
Catherine nodded slowly. "We'll do everything we can to make that happen."
It was a compelling thought, that all the souls on Earth were connected to the quintessence generated by the stars. It implied that life itself was a product of quintessence. Which was no surprise, given what had happened when Sinclair had brought Catherine back from the dead, causing such an imbalance that the entire island had started to be dragged over the Edge.
Or maybe it wasn't an imbalance at all. They had assumed it was the weight of her soul that had pulled the island, speculating that in quintessence terms, a single human soul weighed more than the entire landmass of the island. But what if it wasn't the weight of her soul, but its connection to the sky that caused the problem. When her soul was drawn out of the void without the benefit of a flexible quintessence thread connecting Earth to sky, perhaps it was the sky itself that was dragging the island over the Edge, as it continued along its normal rotation.
She had no way of testing the hypothesis experimentally, at least not yet, but it was an intriguing idea.
"Catherine Parris," said a strained voice. She knew it instantly as a manticore voice, from the unnatural way it pronounced the English syllables, but it wasn't until she looked up that she recognized him.
She jumped to her feet. "Tanalabrinu!" She pulled the manticore into an embrace. The gesture was odd to manticores, but they understood its intended meaning. Tanalabrinu had not always approved of her, particularly when she had bonded with his uncle, Chichirico. He understood how much she had valued Chichirico, however, and so he had always treated her respectfully. She wouldn't normally have hugged him, but she was so glad to see a face that she recognized, one who could speak the same language and would have word from home, that she couldn't help herself.
His news, however, was not good. He told her of the burning of the human settlement, the arrival of the Spanish, the attempt by Rinchirith to unite the tribes into a single nation, and more recently, his alliance with the Spanish. Catherine reeled with each new revelation, hardly able to accept them. She had been gone mere days, hadn't she? But no, according to Tanalabrinu, several weeks had passed since her trek into the forest. It didn't seem possible. Had she lost time? Or was it just that hard to judge the passage of days when deep underground?
"What of my parents?" she said. "What of Matthew?"
"Your father and Matthew are alive. I have bonded your father and promised them alliance. Through that bond, I know that your mother is also alive, as is your friend Blanca."
"But where are they living? What are they doing?"
"I will show you. First you must know that all the tribes that did not follow Rinchirith have allied themselves to me, and through me, to you. I fear there will be war. What shall I say to them?"
"Thank them for me, for their friendship. But please let me go now, and join Matthew and my parents."
"You do not understand. The tribes expect you to lead them. To defend us against Rinchirith and the Spanish both."
"What? They expect me to lead them?"
"The lords of the earth have spoken. You have been judged, and found worthy for the single, great task that is set before you. What greater task than to restore peace among our people?"
"But I know nothing of war. I'm no strategist; I'm a eighteen-year-old girl. I can't inspire confidence or urge bravery. Any decision I made would be a disaster."
Maasha Kaatra spoke up for the first time from his position on the ground with chin resting on knees. "I don't think he wants you to make any decisions."
Catherine looked between them. "I see. You want me to be your talisman. The star-bird, fallen to the depths and risen again, pointing the way towards victory and a happy future."
"They will see you alive," Tanalabrinu said. "They will know that the earth snakes did not devour you."
"And if I'm killed in battle? Am I just a martyr to further the cause?"
Tanalabrinu lashed one of tails like a whip, a gesture of irritation. "This is your cause, too. Rinchirith wishes to massacre all the humans on the island."
Dry laughter from Maasha Kaatra. "I wonder if he mentioned that to the Spanish."
"I'm not a good luck charm," Catherine said. "I want to see Matthew and my parents again."
The ground shook again, and a loud crack sounded from the direction of the Gorge. Catherine leaned around the edge of the rock to see what was happening. She jumped back, startled, as a thousand spirit lights blazed past her head in whining buzz. One of them circled back and hovered near Antonia. "Flee!" it screamed.
It dashed off after delivering its warning, but it was too late. An enormous salamander, ten feet long and heavier than any three people, leaped over the rock behind which Catherine and Maasha Kaatra were sheltering and snapped its wet jaws around the fleeing light. It crashed down onto the mountain with bone-shaking force, fissuring the rock.
Its head swiveled, and it saw Antonia. Its muscles bunched to leap again, even as Antonia flew upward.
"No!" Catherine shouted. With quintessence speed and strength, she snatched up a log and smashed it into the salamander's head just as it jumped. The blow was enough to save Antonia, but not enough to stop the beast's momentum. It launched itself into the air, mouth closing just short of Antonia's fleeing light, but its giant tail sent Catherine sprawling. It landed half on top of her, smothering her with its slimy, glutinous body. She fought to breathe, unable to shift its bulk, until it moved again, trampling downhill after the other lights. Catherine lay on her back, coughing and panting, damp with slime. Maasha Kaatra stood over her, intent, feeling her arms and legs for broken bones. Tanalabrinu was pressed against the rock, eyes wide with evident terror.
Catherine clambered up, bruised but unharmed, and looked down the hill after the salamander. The lights were getting away, apparently unable to float high enough to be completely out of reach, but able to move slightly faster than the salamander could run, at least on this uneven terrain.
Then the ground rumbled again, and a shower of dirt and rock exploded ahead of the lights. A hole opened in the earth, and a second salamander wriggled out of it. The lights tried to veer, but it snatched a huge mouthful of them. The rest whirled left to evade it, but a third salamander burst out of the ground, and then a fourth.
Catherine started running down the hill, heedless of Maasha Kaatra's cries. "Quick!" she said. "Or they'll all be dead."
The salamanders were effective predators. They knew how to corral their prey, creating an ever tighter clump of lights that allowed them to fill their jaws with each lunging mouthful. Catherine threw rocks at them as she ran, but if any of them struck home, the salamanders were not diverted.
Even with quintessence, her options were limited. She could produce light, bright enough to start a fire that could burn just about any substance. It was a powerful weapon, but not a very focused one, and it might hurt the spirits more than the salamanders. Besides that, she could make her body light, jump high in the air, move incredibly fast, and walk through solid objects—all useful skills, but not very helpful for driving off massive predators.
If she did nothing, however, all the spirits would be dead. She reached inside for the quintessence power and blazed out with it, just as she had done a year ago to drive the manticores away from the settlement. The salamanders stopped immediately, sliding to a halt with their legs splayed. Then all four salamanders turned toward her, eyes intent and huge mouths dripping.
Dirt sprayed from their hind legs as they charged at her, churning up the ground. In panic, she increased the intensity of the light, and nearby trees burst into white flame. The fire gave off no heat, but it devoured the wood quickly, shooting up the trunk and into the leaves.
The salamanders didn't pause. When they came into range, they ignited, but they kept coming. Catherine scrambled backward and tripped on a root. The lead salamander lunged at her, but then Maasha Kaatra was there, scooping her
up in his huge arms and dragging her away.
"Turn it off!" he shouted at her. "It just attracts them!"
She obeyed, quenching the light. As soon as she did so, the salamanders stopped chasing her as if she had disappeared or ceased to exist. Instead, they leapt on each other, all of them still on fire, licking and gnawing at each other's skin, crushing bushes and felling small trees as they rolled and wrestled. The fire didn't consume them like it did the trees. In fact, it seemed to make them larger.
By this time, a crowd of manticores had gathered, watching the spectacle. Tanalabrinu stood next to Catherine. "The deeps are rising," he said. "The tribes are choosing sides for war, and the earth snakes are walking beneath the sky. It is the chithra. The end of the world."
Catherine turned to him. "I will help you," she said. "But first, take me to Matthew and my parents. They need to hear what's happening, and they need to know I'm alive."
"I have already told your father I have found you safe."
"Please, just take me to them."
TORRES hated these manticores already, and he suspected the feeling was mutual. Rinchirith wanted only one thing from the Spanish: as many matchlock rifles as could be provided. He insisted that Torres's men train the manticores on proper loading and firing techniques. Given the number of creatures that Rinchirith commanded, it was hard to strike a fair bargain, but Torres had resisted actually handing over any quantity of weapons. He had also concealed from the creature the superior wheellock rifles he had onboard. Before he gave Rinchirith anything of real value, the manticore would have to fulfill his side of the bargain.
When it came down to it, the manticores could probably massacre them all and take the weapons, permission or no. Torres knew the trick of covering the bullets with wax; that information had been passed along through Juan Barrosa, from the last group of Spaniards who had come to this island, before they died. Even so, they would only be able to kill a fraction of the manticore force before they were overwhelmed. But Torres wasn't willing to simply give Rinchirith everything he wanted. He hadn't become Capitán-General without the ability to bluff. He had a mission to fulfill, and superior force or no, the manticores were just a tool for that purpose.