Earth Logic
( Elemental Logic - 2 )
J. Laurie Marks
With Earth Logic, Laurie J. Marks continues the epic of her stunningly imagined world of Shaftal, which she first introduced in Fire Logic.Shaftal has a ruler again, a woman with enough power to heal the war-torn land and expel the invading Sainnites from Shaftal. Or it would have a ruler if the earth witch Karis G'deon consented to rule. Instead, she lives in obscurity with the fractious family of elemental talents who gathered around her in Fire Logic. She is waiting for some sign, but no one, least of all Karis herself, knows what it is.Then the Sainnite garrison at Watford is attacked by a troop of zealots claiming to speak for the Lost G'deon, and a mysterious and deadly plague attacks the land, killing both Sainnites and Shaftali. Karis must act or watch her beloved country fall into famine and chaos. And when Karis acts, the very stones of the earth sit up and take notice.
EARTH LOGIC
A sweeping drama of war, intrigue, magic, and love…
With Earth Logic,Laurie J. Marks continues the epic of her stunningly imagined world of Shaftal, which she first introduced in Fire Logic.
Shaftal has a ruler again, a woman with enough power to heal the war-torn land and expel the invading Sainnites from Shaftal. Or it would have a ruler if the earth witch Karis G’deon consented to rule. Instead, she lives in obscurity with the fractious family of elemental talents who gathered around her in Fire Logic.She is waiting for some sign, but no one, least of all Karis herself, knows what it is.
Then the Sainnite garrison at Watfield is attacked by a troop of zealots claiming to speak for the Lost G’deon, and a mysterious and deadly plague attacks the land, killing both Sainnites and Shaftali. Karis must act or watch her beloved country fall into famine and chaos. And when Karis acts, the very stones of the earth sit up and take notice.
Praise for Fire Logic, Elemental Logic
“Marks has created a work that is filled with an intelligence that zings off the page…This beautifully written novel includes enough blood and adventure to satisfy the most quest-driven readers.”
— Publishers Weekly(starred review)
“Laurie Marks brings skill, passion, and wisdom to her new novel. Fire Logicis entertaining and engaging—an excellent read!”
—Kate Elliott
“Marks is an absolute master of fantasy in this book. Her characters are beautifully drawn, showing tremendous emotional depth and strength as they endure the unendurable and strive to do the right thing, and her unusual use of the elemental forces central to her characters’ lives gives the book a big boost. This is a read-it-straight-through adventure!”
— Booklist(starred review)
“Fire Logicis a deftly painted story of both cultures and magics in conflict. Marks avoids the black-and-white conflicts of generic fantasy to offer a window on a complex world of unique cultures and elemental magic.”
—Robin Hobb
By Laurie J. Marks from Tom Doherty Associates
Earth Logic
Fire Logic
EARTH LOGIC
Elemental Logic
Book Two
Laurie J. Marks
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
EARTH LOGIC: ELEMENTAL LOGIC: BOOK 2
Copyright © 2004 by Laurie J. Marks
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Marks, Laurie J.
Earth logic / Laurie J. Marks.
p. cm. — (Elemental logic ; bk. 2) “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-765-30952-1
I. Title.
PS3613.A765E37 2004
813‘.54—dc22
2003061223
First Edition: March 2004
Printed in the United States of America
0987654321
CONTENTS
Map
Part 1: Raven’s Joke
1 2 3 4 5 6 7
Part 2: How Raven Became a God
8 9 10 11 12 13
Part 3: The Walk-Around
14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
Part 4: What’s Inside the Buffalo
23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31
Part 5: How Tortoise Woman Saved the World
32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39
For the people of Melrose, Massachusetts— especially the baristas, poets, counselors, babies, delivery people, firemen, illegal parkers, students, parents, photographers, coffee drinkers, jaywalkers, and neighbors. And also for the people who love snow, plant flowers, hang Christmas lights, and refuseto put vinyl siding on their beautiful Victorian houses. And for their dogs and cats, and for the crabby snapping turtle I rescued from the middle of the road one afternoon, and for the flocks of geese that fly by overhead.
Acknowledgments
For four or more hours a day, for more than a year, I sat writing in the front window of a downtown coffee shop, in sun and snow, warmth and chill. The people of Melrose came and went before and around me— and gradually they began waving hello, chatting, and inquiring about my progress. I am grateful to them— and I am equally grateful to the smiling young baristas who concocted my lattes, visited my table to see if I needed a refill, and stayed to ask questions about writing, language, and education. Thanks also to the friends who suffered through my incoherent first draft, the members of my writing group, the Genrettes— Delia Sherman, Rosemary Kirstein, and Didi Stewart. And, when this book had—with their help—moved beyond its early confusion, even more people read the manuscript and helped me to see how to finish it: Amy Axt Hanson, Diane Silver, Jeanne Gomol, Debbie Notkin, Deb Manning, my agent, Donald Maass, and my beloved Deb Mensinger. As my life is so filled with kind, intelligent, generous friends, it’s no surprise this book is filled with them as well.
Part 1
Raven’s Joke
One day, Raven was bored. He left his home in the cliff that can be found at the end of the world and went flying back and forth over the forest, until he noticed a woman sneaking through the trees. The woman was trying to shoot a deer to cook for her three daughters, who had big appetites.
Raven flew up ahead of the hunter until he saw the deer, which was lying in the cool shade waiting for sunset. Raven shouted, “Run away, deer, as fast as you can, for there is a hunter’s arrow aimed at your heart!” The deer jumped up and ran into the forest. Then the hunter was very angry and cried, “You are an evil bird, for because of you my daughters will go hungry!”
Raven was ashamed of himself and said, “You are right to be angry with me. So take your bow and arrow and shoot me, and take me home for your daughters’ supper.” So that is what the hunter did. She killed the Raven and cooked him in a soup.
Even though the girls ate the soup, they were still hungry, and no matter how much they ate, they stayed hungry. And the hunter, their mother, who was tired because she had been hunting all day, stayed tired no matter how much she rested. And their neighbor, who was very old and sick, never died. And the summer never turned to autumn. And the harvest never ripened. And nothing ever broke, but the things that already were broken could not be mended.
One day everyone in the world came to visit the tired hunter and her three hungry daughters.
“Did Raven trick you into killing him?” they asked. The tired hunter told them exactly what had happened. Everyone became very upset with her and said, “Didn’t you know that Raven is the one who decides everything? He may be mischievous and hard-hearted, but without him we cannot go forward with our lives. You should have thought of what you were doing. Now we will never see our children grow up, and whatever we are now, that is what we will always be, and nothing will ever change.”
They all thought and thought, and then the hunter’s youngest and hungriest daughter said, “I know where Raven’s bones are.” So they dug all Raven’s bones out of the ashes of the fire. The middle daughter took some string and glue and put all the bones together the way they were supposed to be. Then, the oldest daughter found all the Raven’s wing and tail feathers and glued them on the bones. Finally, the hunter took the arrow that had killed the Raven and smeared the bones with the blood that was still wet on the arrowhead. And then, all the people of the world began to laugh. “Hey, Raven,” they said, “that was a pretty good joke!” Raven, of course, could never resist a good laugh, so began to laugh too. “Ha! Ha!” he said. “That was a good joke!” And then he flew on his bone wings to the river to eat frogs and snails until he got fat and looked like himself again. The hunter shot a deer and her daughters were no longer hungry. The harvest ripened, the old neighbor died, and the world continued its journey as it should, from summer to winter, from life to death, and from foolishness to wisdom.
Chapter One
The woman who was the hope of Shaftal walked in solitude through a snow-muffled woodland.
Dressed in three shirts of threadbare wool and an ancient sheepskin jerkin, she carried an ax in a sling across her back, and dragged a sledge behind her, in which to pile firewood. She might have been any woodcutter setting out between storms to replenish the woodpile.
The season of starvation had brought down another deer. It was frozen in a bed of churned-up scarlet snow, and the torn skin now lay in stiff rags. Rib bones gleamed with frost, the belly was a hollowed cavern, and a gnawed leg bone lay at a distance. The woodcutter scarcely glanced at this gruesome mess as she strode past, breaking through the snow’s crust and sinking knee-deep with every step. But the ravens that followed behind her uttered hoarse shouts of discovery and swooped eagerly down to the feast of carrion. They stalked up to the deer’s remains, sprang nervously up into the air, and landed again. After this silly ritual of caution they began to bicker over the best pieces.
The woodcutter, having selected a tree, unslung her ax. As the sharp blade bit into the trunk, clots of snow were shaken loose from above. The ravens paid no heed, not even when the tree fell with a spectacular crash.
The woodcutter gazed with satisfaction at the fallen trunk. Her cut had revealed the tree’s sick center, the rot that would have soon killed it. Breathing heavily, she took off her bright knit cap to cool herself, and her wild hair sprang up like the tangled branches of a thicket. “It’s cold enough to freeze snot,” she said.
The ravens, apparently easily amused, cackled loudly.
The woodcutter let her gaze wander upwards, across the treetops, toward a distant smear of smoke, nearly invisible against the heavy clouds. “Scholars! They’d die of cold before they noticed they were out of firewood.”
“Ark!” protested a raven, as another stole a tidbit right out of his mouth. They scuffled like street children; feathers flew.
“Uncivilized birds!” The woodcutter struck her ax into the stump.
The birds looked up at her hopefully as she approached the dead deer. Using a knife that had been inside her coat, she trimmed back the deer’s stiff skin and sliced off strips of meat, which she fed to the importunate ravens. The birds were not yet sated when she abruptly rose out of her squat and turned toward the northeast.
She was tall: a giant among the Midlanders. Still, she could not see over the treetops, yet she seemed to see something, and her forehead creased. A raven flew up to her shoulder. “Another storm is coming,” the raven said.
“Of course,” she replied. “But there’s something else. Something strange. And terrible.”
“In the village,” said the raven, as though he knew her mind.
“Something has come,” she said.
“No, it has always been.”
“Not always. But a long time. Longer than I’ve been alive.”
“Waiting?” croaked the raven. “Why?”
She shrugged. “Because some things wait.”
“The Sainnites came thirty-five years ago. Is this thing theirs?”
“Yes, they brought it with them.”
After this firm declaration, raven and woman both were silent. Then, she took a deep breath and added heavily, “It is my problem now.”
“Ark!” exclaimed the raven with mocking surprise.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Coward,” he retorted.
With a sweep of the hand she flung the bird off her shoulder. He landed in the snow, squawking with laughter.
“Tell Emil what I am doing,” she told him.
She left her ax and strode off through the snow, between the crowded trees. She could see the storm coming: a looming black above, trailing a hazy scarf of snowfall. She walked toward it.
In the attic of the nearby stone cottage, Medric the seer dreamed of Raven, the god of death. “I will tell you a story, but you must write the story down,” said Raven. Medric went to his battered desk and found there a fresh candle burning and a newly trimmed pen, which he dipped into an inkwell. “What shall I title this story?” he asked.
“Call it ‘The Raven’s Joke,’” said the god, and began: “One day, Raven was bored …”
Downstairs from the seer’s book-filled attic, a little girl was very busy. She had been induced to take a bath that morning, but now had smudges of dirt on her wool smock, and a spider web, complete with dead bug, tangled in her hair. The woman who sat on the hearth studying a book paid no attention as the girl rummaged through cupboards and closets, while conversing with the battered stuffed rabbit whose head poked out of her shirt pocket.
A man came into the parlor, looked vaguely around, and said to the woman on the hearth, “You’re letting the fire go out.”
The woman reached for a log and put it onto the coals without taking her eyes off the stained page of the ancient book. Her dark skin, hair, and eyes; her narrow, sharp features; and her long, complexly braided hair identified her as a katrimof the otherwise extinct Ashawala’i people. The book she studied was written entirely in glyphs; few could have made sense of the arcane text.
“Leeba, why have you taken my ink?” the man asked the little girl.
“I need it,” she declared.
“I need it also. What do you need it for? You have neither paper nor pen.”
“I need it for my journey. When I reach a place, I’ll ask the people there if they need anything. And if they need some ink, I’ll sell it to them. By the time I come home, I’ll have a hundred pennies.”
“A hundred pennies? Well, let’s see. How much were you going to charge for this lovely bottle of ink?”
There followed an impromptu numbers lesson. The woman on the floor rubbed her eyes, for the fireplace was smoking. Finally, she looked up from her book to push the split log further into the fireplace, and to blow on it vigorously until the flames caught. The man went out, and came back in with a sheet of paper and a pen. He said to his daughter, “Loan me some ink, I’ll make some pennies to pay you with.”
The woman studied the page, frowning—or, perhaps, scowling— with concentration. A few of the numerous slender plaits of her hair had slipped over her shoulder and looped across the page like lengths of black yarn.
The man paid for his bottle of ink with fifteen paper pennies. “Zanja,” he said.
“Don’t bother me,” the woman said.
He bent over to examine the symbol at which she glared. “My land! What are you reading?”
“
Koles.”
“The poet? No wonder you’re surly. The poetry students at Kisha University used to swear he had randomly copied glyphs out of a lexicon.”
“There’s always a pattern. Even if the poet himself didn’t believe he had a reason, or didn’t know what his reason was.” Her voice trailed off into abstraction, and she abruptly reached for something that she expected to find dangling from her belt. “My glyph cards!”
“Leeba!” said J’han, horrified.
Leeba interrupted her cheerful humming. “Thirty pennies,” she demanded.
“Oh, dear,” said J’han, as Zanja uncoiled upward from her seat on the hearth.
But the little girl looked up fearlessly as Zanja plucked a pack of cards from her collected goods. “Your daughter is a thief,” said Zanja to J’han.
“I’m your daughter too,” Leeba protested.
A smile began to do battle with Zanja’s glare. “You are? How long have I had a daughter? How did it happen?”
Leeba clasped her by the knees, grinning up at her. “Thirty pennies!” she demanded.
“Extortion!”
“I’ll buy them for you,” said J’han hastily. “In gratitude. For not strangling her. Thirty pennies, Leeba?” He began counting paper pennies.
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