Carousel Sun

by Sharon Lee

  This wasn’t as easy you might think, for the simple reason that the land doesn’t do maps, or driving directions. Of course, the land could just walk me to anyplace I expressed an interest in, but I liked to think that I’d learned better than that.

  After my experience with Eltenfleur—especially the almost-getting-killed part—I wanted to have some idea of where I was going, and what I was likely to find there.

  Before I arrived.

  The rewards of practice were that I could, with concentration, sense the direction of a particular location, and . . . sometimes . . . bring the land’s perception into some kind of relationship with how I saw the world.

  What that meant in practical terms is that I’d been spending a lot of time flat on my back on the living room floor, feeling out the size and shape of one quiet zone at a time, the flavor of the land to all sides of it, then rolling over to stare at the map until, suddenly, something just . . . clicked, and I knew.

  Or, as was more often the case, I didn’t know and all I had for my trouble was a headache. At that point, I’d take a couple aspirin before hitting the guidebooks, and the local histories, again.

  Goosefare Brook had come through pretty clear: the first certain location, after Heron Marsh. Maybe I should have visited immediately, but early on I’d had the idea that I’d do better by pinpointing all the quiet zones first, nice and neat on the map, and see if there was—oh, a pattern, or a proximity, or a theme. But the truth was that my other fixes were still kind of . . . fuzzy.

  And it had finally come to me that I was shirking my duty, by withholding the Guardian’s aid, such as it might be.

  Since it was low tide, the marshside beach was at its widest, which suited my purpose perfectly. Assuming that the quiet tentativeness was a sign that there was something wrong or in need of repair, I’d have most of the problem area above water and open to observation.

  Which was why I was skinning down the side of an embankment, using various exposed roots for handholds, and startling a blue heron taller than I am, which was standing out near the center of the pool.

  The land was right with me, curious as a puppy dog, which is its usual mode of operation. In the land’s view, I was endlessly fascinating, and thought up so very many interesting things to do.

  I did feel a tingle of puzzlement regarding today’s adventure, and a certain wistfulness, which I took to mean that it was sorry Borgan hadn’t come along, too.

  The roots under my hand, and the embankment itself, hummed as I worked my way down, as things do. Generally, I wouldn’t experience them this clearly, as individual melodies; but as two strands of the ongoing symphony of the land that infused me, constantly. I’d gotten to the point where I didn’t consciously hear the racket, anymore.

  But I sure did miss it when it stopped.

  I dropped the last few inches to the little beach—landing inside a silence both absolute and terrifying. My knees buckled and I hit the sand hard, and there was nothing—so much nothing that for a wild second I thought I’d gone deaf.

  But no.

  Out beyond the broken pilings, I could hear the whisper of waves against sand, under the growing roar of a speedboat’s engine.

  But the land, the ongoing symphony of all’s well . . .

  Was gone, as if I’d never heard it.

  I took a hard breath, stilling a surge of panic. After all, I’d lived like this; lived like this for years, by my own choice. I could certainly bear a few minutes’ separation from the voice of the land while I looked around and tried to figure out just what the hell was going on here.

  Slowly, I got my feet under me and rose. I brushed the sand off my jeans, and walked forward until I was at the water’s edge. Out in the heart of the pool, the blue heron observed me with a critical golden eye.

  The sand on the little beach was orange in color and gritty in texture, same as the sand on the ocean side. Used to be the sand at Archers Beach was white, and fine as powder. That was before the Army Corps of Engineers built the jetty at Camp Ellis, in a effort to save the town. My friend Tarva, the selkie, had strongly disapproved of the Camp Ellis jetty—or as strongly as a selkie can disapprove of anything. They’re a fairly easygoing lot, and committed to their own comfort.

  In fact, Tarva’s disapproval had its roots in his comfort. Before the jetty, according to him, the Saco River and the sea had been free to comingle at Camp Ellis. This action of the waters coming together had produced that exceptionally fine sand—sand eminently suitable for a seal to cuddle into for a well-deserved nap.

  The Corps’ meddling had not only removed the refining process, so that the sand that now came onto the beach was two steps up from orange gravel, but too much of it passed up the coast, adding to the shelf, and producing dunes, destroying what had once been a wide, firm, glistening beach of white sand.

  The same high-handed meddling might also have produced a silted-up, choked, marsh pool, but that wasn’t what I was seeing. Even at low tide, the pool was wide and deep, almost up to the blue heron’s knobby knees.

  So, no Eltenfleur problem here, where the marsh had been cut off from the ocean’s healing touch.

  I walked from the front of the tiny apron of sand, around to the left, until I came to the bank I’d climbed down. Just for kicks, I put my hand on an exposed root.

  The song of the land soared into being, strongly laced with worry. I tried to be reassuring, but probably wasn’t all that successful, given that I let go of the root, instead of climbing back up to unity. Alone once again in silence, I moved along the bank to the right edge of the beach, and down to my forward starting point.

  The silence was absolute. The land was not present, and my land-attached powers were not available to me.

  Jikinap, however, was available to me. More, it was aware and, slowly, with what felt like a good deal of caution, it was uncoiling from its nestling place at the base of my spine.

  Two things interest jikinap—more of itself, and a vacuum that can be filled with itself. Either is dangerous.

  I exerted my will, firmly but gently, and stopped the rise of my power. Then, I stepped Sideways.

  Bars of light snapped into being around me—following the contour of the tiny sand beach. In Side-Sight, they coruscated slightly, as if the light were contained in tubes. I extended my will to embrace the one nearest to me, intending to give it a closer inspection . . .

  Except that my will slid off of it like the tubelike construct was greased. It stayed where it was, and my will rebounded to me—hard.

  It stung, but I’m nothing if not stubborn—get that from all sides of the family, as far as I can tell. I extended my will again, this time making sure that it was sticky with a light coating of jikinap.

  I got a firm, metaphysical grip on the tube this time, but it didn’t budge. It felt as if the thing was rooted in the land—hell, as if it was rooted in the rock. I tightened my grip, raised a little more juice—

  I heard a crack, saw a flash, then stars.

  When the stars had faded, I sat up, crossed my legs tailor-fashion, and considered the situation.

  “Ouch.”

  The blast that had blown me off my feet had also blown my sight back to the everyday world. From my cross-legged seat in the sand, I blinked Sideways again.

  There they were—bars of light, glittering at me coyly. This time, I managed to resist the temptation to get hold of one, and studied the big picture.

  In total, there were twelve bars, six on the left side of the beach, starting at the bank, and six on the right side. The colors were in prismatic order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, with the purple bars at the front of the beach, but twice as far apart as any of the others.

  A faint bell rang in the back of my abused head.

  Slowly, I stood up, staring around me at the bars of light, and at the space, ready to receive the thirteenth—white—bar, which would gather and focus the energy of all the bars, in order to open . . .

  A wi
ld gate.

  . . . which is to say, a Gate between one and another of the Six Worlds that has not been put into place, and registered, by the Wise.

  Mind, it’s not necessary to have any kind of Gate—sanctioned or not—in order to cross from one world to another. The old stories are full of Ozali and mages and just plain desperate persons of more power than sense singing themselves across the World Walls.

  The problem with that is that the environments and the societies of the Six Worlds tend to rub along about as equitably as you might imagine. You’ve only got to look at Joe Nemeier’s success here in the Changing Land—a success dependent upon a hefty magical assist from an Ozali of Sempeki, the Land of the Flowers—to see why free and easy commerce between the Worlds might not be . . . an unmixed blessing.

  The most puissant Ozali in all the Six Worlds hail from the Land of the Flowers; and the lives of the people of Sempeki are one long struggle not to be absorbed by someone stronger. The Ozali of Sempeki—call them the mid-list Ozali of Sempeki—had in fact begun to shop elsewhere for sources of jikinap to help even out the survival game . . .

  And it was then that the Wise acted to close most of the existing Gates, and to make it much harder—though obviously not impossible—to cross, except at the authorized Gates, with their authorized Gatekeepers and the ear of the Wise at least cocked in their direction.

  Gran, now . . .

  I froze in place, looking at the bars of light rooted down through the sand and, for all it had felt like when I’d tried to heft one, through the earth’s own heart.

  Gran.

  Among its other virtues, the Fantasy Menagerie Carousel is an Authorized-by-the-Wise Gate. The carousel-keeper, which for a long, long time had meant Ebony Pepperidge, Dryad and Ozali, was the designated Gatekeeper. Right now, being able and qualified, I was the Gatekeeper. Not that anybody had informed the Wise of the change in personnel. Most reasonable people tend to avoid the Wise. For good cause.

  Be that as was, and no matter the manner of her going, I didn’t for one minute believe that Gran had opened the Authorized Gate and strolled into the Land of the Flowers. The Gates are noisy—anybody who possessed jikinap or land-magic would hear it open—and Gran’s mission had been one of stealth.

  I’d never asked her how she’d crossed. If I’d thought about it at all, I’d just assumed she’d sung herself across, since that was how the business was handled when she’d been young and learning her spellcraft from the Abenaki wise women and medicine men who had once lived on this land.

  But I hadn’t asked. Gran did change with the times, after all. Hadn’t she gotten herself a cell phone?

  If this Gate was Gran’s . . .

  I rolled to my feet, blinking Sideways one more time, as I approached the leftmost red tube. My power stirred, and I gently pushed it back where it belonged. This wasn’t a frontal assault; it was a taste test. I wanted to know if this construct had been made by Gran.

  Every Ozali has a signature, a . . . magical scent that lingers in her workings. I knew Gran’s signature—green growing things, damp soil, and leaf mold. If she had . . . called this thing into being, then I would know.

  My nose damn’ near on the red bar, I breathed in.

  And smelled nothing.

  Not even salt.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  High Tide 4:36 P.M.

  Sunset 8:25 P.M. EDT

  Gray clouds were starting to gather as I climbed Heath Hill, and the Wood itself looked darker than was strictly necessary.

  Up on the height, Joe Nemeier’s house sat in its own pool of sunlight; the abode of a righteous man, picked out by God’s spotlight.

  Or not.

  I stepped into the Wood, took a deep breath, tasting pine, and announced myself: “It’s Kate.”

  Welcome, Kate, came the reply. A path opened at my feet.

  My mother was standing in the center of the clearing when I emerged, a thin woman in a short green shift, brown hair curling loose to her bare shoulders. Her long naked feet were half-hidden in the soft grass.

  “Katie,” she said, and walked forward, hands outstretched. “What’s wrong?”

  I slipped my hands into hers, and felt my power stir. My mother was of interest—I focused on her, and drew in my breath.

  My mother was of interest because she was an empty vessel.

  “Katie?”

  Nessa Pepperidge was a child of the Changing Land. That meant she had voysin and a soul as part of the standard package. Jikinap . . . she had been a member of Aeronymous’ household; patriarch that he was, he insisted that all of his people were capable of defending themselves. That meant, if she hadn’t possessed sufficient resources for self-defense when she arrived in the Land of the Flowers as Prince Nathan’s wife, she would have been given the means.

  “Katie?” my mother said again. Her fingers pressed mine and I felt my power stir more strongly.

  “I was looking for Gran,” I said, slipping my hands free with a smile. “I’ve got a question about Goosefare Brook.”

  My mother shook her head.

  “She’s in-tree,” she said, moving her head a little to indicate which tree, as if I wouldn’t know. “She’s—I’m afraid she took more harm than she’d admit, crossing over to rescue me.” She smiled slightly. “It was very brave, but not at all necessary.”

  “Not necessary?” I repeated, looking at her, wraith-thin and powerless. “You were—she must have thought that you were dying.”

  “She did—she told me that much. Ramendysis . . . Well. We all know what Ramendysis was.”

  Some of us—like the woman whose soul he had taken for his own—more than others.

  “But the fact of the matter is that, by the time he came to Mother with his bargain, I was . . . on the mend. The plants in our formal gardens remembered me kindly, and they each gave a little of themselves so that I would grow and . . . prosper. Yes, Ramendysis knew where I was, and he could have uprooted me. But time—the disparity of time between the Worlds was working against him. That, and his own power. He might easily have given some of it away . . . but he was so terribly afraid.”

  I stared at her, remembering Ramendysis the last time I’d seen him—triumphant, certain of victory, disdainful of those weaker than he.

  And, yet . . . the man had held her soul. She would know him . . . as well as she knew herself.

  “It might have been better for everybody,” I managed, “if he’d found other ways to handle his fear.”

  Mother laughed.

  “There’s no arguing with that. But, Katie, lacking Mother, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “A couple things, actually. I have it from a heeterskyte who has it from a nighthawk that there’s something on the Beach that doesn’t belong. Apparently a door opened up here, on the hill, a few nights back. The heeterskyte thought it might be something of Gran’s working, but his friend the nighthawk said he was up this way when the deal came down. He said he heard someone crying, after.”

  “It was nothing of ours, obviously,” Mother said. “I’m scraped dry and Mother’s hardly any better. Father . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t think Father would bring something across the Walls.” The look she gave me was ’way too earnest.

  “Unless it was of the utmost importance,” I agreed, dryly.

  “Well, of course; you couldn’t expect him to leave a princess in peril. But, no; if there was a disturbance here on the hill, it can probably be laid at the feet of our good neighbor.”

  “That,” I confessed, sending a glance toward the house I couldn’t see for the trees, “is what worries me. If he’s got another Ozali on the hook . . .”

  It was then that the penny dropped, and I swung my eyes back to her.

  Mother raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Gran says the trees will protect you, and they will, I know. But with Gran in-tree and you . . . not yet up to speed, I’d feel better if you had a little something in the arsenal. I’ve got plenty of
jikinap, and I will very happily make you a gift.”

  My mother shook her head.

  “I appreciate your concern, Katie, but I don’t dare.”

  “You handled jikinap at—in Grandfather’s house,” I pointed out. She’d had a mean way with a spell, too.

  “Yes, but then I had a robust soul, and a strong body. Right now, I have neither. You know as well as I do, that the power will fill any void, and seal any fracture.”

  She was right. I bowed my head.

  “I wish there was something,” I said. “I hate the two of you being . . .”

  “I know,” she said.

  I looked up. “At least I can reinforce the fireproofing.” Mr. Ignat’ had guided me through that spell, and it still hung over the Wood. It could probably use a little more juice—but Mother was shaking her head again.

  “If what you suspect is true—that our neighbor has another Ozali in his employ—then we’re better not to tempt them with more power. Your net is so subtle, and uses so little power, that it’s barely noticeable.”

  It was also twisty and inwoven with traps. An Ozali might dismantle it, with care, but he wasn’t just going to snack it down in one bite—not without getting a really nasty case of indigestion.

  “We’ll be fine, Katie,” my mother said, and smiled at me. “Really.”

  I didn’t like it, but her objections were reasonable, and I couldn’t think of anything else to . . .

  “Father sleeps here every night,” Mother continued, her smile deepening. “Not that the night is all that long during the Season. His winged friend graciously gives us his company during the times he’s away, so you see we’re not entirely without security.”

  “Right,” I said. “If you can think of anything I can do—”

  “I’ll call,” she promised. “Did you want me to ask Mother your question?”

  I considered that, then shook my head. “There’s somebody else I can ask. If I draw a blank there, I’ll be back.”

  “All right,” she said, and opened her arms. “Give me a hug.”