by Tim Lebbon
“Your loss tears my heart and tortures my soul. But I wish you to hear these words, because Komadia suffers also. It is a land cursed with uncertainty. The periods between our shifting from one place and being deposited elsewhere can be a few moons, or sometimes many, many years. I have lived through five shiftings. My mother, still alive back on the island, has seen twelve.
“History has hazed the reason for such a curse, or who or what caused it. But as with any facts lost to the vagueness of time, there are stories. Some tell of a storm that came in across the sea from the north, driven by an insane water-god. The god was doomed to eternal drowning, and it craved life on land. But it could not breathe the air, and the touch of soil on its flesh was a torture. So it coveted what we had, and drove waves at the island that were so tall that they almost touched our highest hills. When the tempest abated, the island was moved into the middle of an endless ocean. Komadia’s survivors sailed out, and those that found their way back had traveled a moon in every direction without seeing land. Our people felt exiled, banished by the land, and they developed a very strong sense of community in order to survive.
“Other tales tell of an ancient magician who tried to tap in to the land, many centuries before the Year of the Black gave true magic to Noreela. He opened doorways that should have remained closed, and—”
“Your machines aren’t driven by magic!” someone called. Kel saw Mygrette stepping forward, her tatty robes muddied where they dragged along in the silt. “And I see no magic in you, Emissary.”
“That’s true. And if you’ll let me finish my story, lady witch, more will become clear.” A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd and Mygrette turned away. Kel was amazed at how easily Kashoomie was playing her audience.
“Back then, so it’s said, this magician practiced magichala with things from the sea: creatures, spices, rock salts and toxins from some of the more poisonous inhabitants found in the waters around The Spine. He suspected a great power in the land, and he yearned to learn its language. But when he tried to speak that language, the land reacted. Komadia was cursed by magic even before magic showed itself to Noreela.”
“Cursed by magic!” Mygrette spat.
“There is no magic on Komadia, you’re right,” Kashoomie said. “At least not as you know it. We cannot speak Noreela’s language; it remains silent to us. Instead, there is technology that our engineers have developed over time, and the heat of steam drives much of what we use.”
“The heat of steam?” Mygrette said. “Sheebok shit! How do you even know of magic if you’ve been cursed to live without it for so long?”
“Because we travel,” Keera said, and her voice dropped so low that the audience had to hold their breaths to hear. Her words appeared between the hush of waves, as though singing a song in concert with the sea. “Komadia has seen many parts of Noreela down though its long history. And it has also been beyond.”
She trailed off, leaving those last scintillating words hanging in the air.
Beyond, Kel thought. Where the Strangers come from? He shook his head. She was fabricating these tales, blinding Pavmouth Breaks to her island’s real aims… and yet, if that were the case, why attempt to do so with such outlandish stories? Some would believe, because incredible legends had the power of entrancing many who saw or knew of them. But many more would go to their beds that night even more suspicious of the visitors.
Maybe it was because the truth was even more incredible.
“What’s beyond?” someone asked.
Keera Kashoomie sighed. “Sea,” she said. “Oceans so wide that they cannot be crossed in a lifetime. Places where islands of living creatures are the only things breaking the watery monotony. Sea, sea and more sea. You should remember, the history that I’m relaying to you can never be known for sure. Each shifting seems to distort the past, as it twists the geography of our place in the world. All but two of the shiftings I have lived through have found Noreela’s coast within a moon’s sailing of our own. Those remaining two … just water.”
“And why would that be?” Kel called out. He stepped around the wall, exposing himself to the stares of hundreds of people, yet remaining focused on Keera. He saw Namior turn to face him but he did not acknowledge her, not yet.
“Ah, the admirer of my clothes,” the emissary said.
“Why, when there is endless ocean for you to be shifted to, is Noreela more often than not so close by?”
“We can’t know the reasons for sure,” she said. “But our belief is that the curse is finally fading. With every shifting that happens, we begin to hope it may be the last one.”
The last one, Kel thought. And if that’s the case, and any of this is true, they’ll want to ensure their safety out there. Make sure there’s no competition from the mainland. He looked at Namior and returned her unsteady smile. He nodded gently, and mouthed, Soon.
“So we might be neighbors for a long time?” someone said.
Keera nodded. “We hope forever.”
“And our dead?” someone else said. “What of our dead? Who will be their neighbors, lost in the Black?”
Keera’s face fell and she clasped her hands together before her chest. “We suffer every death with you,” she said earnestly. “And we’ve already started helping. You’ve seen our machines, and we promised you a share of our technology. This I will ensure comes to pass. If you will permit, more of our people can come across from Komadia with larger machines, able to dig faster and move more. And as well as technology, we have knowledge that can help. Ways to find those buried who might still be alive.”
“What ways?” Kel asked.
“Tame creatures, trained to smell out trapped people.”
“Because this happens a lot?” Chief Eildan asked.
Keera nodded. “We have experience and knowledge of such things, because this happens too much.” She slipped down from the back of the machine, holding up her hand to fend off the press of people and the rush of questions that filled the air.
She’s leaving? Kel ran forward, still carrying the blanket-covered carving beneath his arm. But he saw the emissary’s guards, the women with long swords, and their eyes were on him. He had threatened Kashoomie already that day, and they would not let him close again.
“Let us visit!” he shouted. “Let some of us come to the island if you’ve nothing to hide.” And even in the commotion, his question was heard by the crowd, and by Keera herself. Some of the villagers gathered there shouted their agreement. The emissary paused, held up her hand and looked directly at Kel.
“That cannot yet happen,” she said. “Not until we’re sure it’s safe. We have no wish to share our curse.” She walked away then, Chief Eildan strolling quickly behind her. They headed back toward the mole, and the combination of militia and visitors’ guards held the crowd back.
Kel watched the emissary go. She seemed a sad figure, a woman of sorrow dressed in fine clothes.
“Kel!” Namior called. She shouldered her way through the crowd to him, Mell following, and he hugged her in with his right arm. “Kel, I wondered where you’d gone.”
“Up to my rooms to fetch some things.”
“That?” she asked, touching the blanket.
“For you. But later. Now, I want to see what happens next.” He smiled at Mell, then looked around at the crowd, trying to assess their mood, their fears, their beliefs.
An island from The Spine? He supposed it was possible. He had once traveled as far as Rockfield during the long pursuit of a Stranger, and if he looked out at Komadia, he could see similarities in geography; a craggy coast, low hills. But an enraged water-god? A magician who had preempted the Year of the Black and magic’s introduction into Noreela, sixteen centuries before?
An island that moved itself?
“What do you think?” Namior asked. Kel heard excitement in her voice, as well as fear.
“I think her story is so unbelievable that many will believe.” And he hugged Namior tight to him,
enjoying the feel of having someone so close.
MELL TOLD HIM her story, and the three of them spoke some sad words about Trakis, shared memories, remembering their friend beneath the heat of the sinking sun. This most terrible day in Pavmouth Breaks’ history was drawing to a close.
“Dusk soon,” Kel said. “The tide’s coming in. We can’t dig through the night.”
“They’ll help,” Mell said. “If there’s anyone left buried alive, their animals will smell them out. Maybe even Trakis, somewhere under the Rettaro Market. They’re here to make amends.” Kel saw an almost zealous glow in his friend’s eyes, and he wondered how much of that was restrained tears over Trakis’s loss.
“We need to judge on actions, not words,” Kel said.
“So now you come here with your sword and you’re a hard man, wood-carver?” Mell said, but there was affection in her voice.
“Cautious.” Kel turned to Namior, huddled beside him and starting to shiver now that the sun was dipping toward the sea. “You’re cold. And your eyes… you need rest, Namior.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I want to think about what they’ve said.” He had watched the visitors and Chief Eildan conversing out along the mole. They had both glanced back at the harbor, as though trying to weigh how her words had been received, and the sight of everyone returning to their rescue efforts seemed to relax them both. Eildan handed his harpoon to his militia captain Vek to hold, and Keera Kashoomie climbed back down to her docked craft.
Namior leaned into him again. “And let’s not forget our little talk.”
Kel grunted. Maybe. Or maybe I should keep my past to myself, as always.
“What are they doing?” Mell asked.
“Perhaps they’re—” But an explosion stole Namior’s words away. A blazing light rose on a column of smoke from the emissary’s boat, powering high into the sky, exploding in a shower of green sparks that continued burning as they started a slow float back down.
Kel gasped, looking around at those distracted from their search once more. While they stared up at the guttering explosion, he looked past the mole to the island that was even then being sent a sign. So here it comes, he thought. Aid, or invasion. We’ll know soon enough.
The weight of the communicators in his jacket pocket was a comfort, and a terror.
MELL GAVE THEM both a hug and went back toward Drakeman’s Hill. She needed to return to her parents, she said, and tell them what had happened with Emissary Kashoomie. Though exhausted by what the night and day had brought, there was an enthusiasm to her voice that troubled Kel greatly. Mell was never quick to judge, and trust came slow to her, perhaps the result of being born and brought up in such a small place. It had taken her a long time to take to Kel. But here she was, keen to spread the words of the visitor to her loved ones, and apparently willing to accept what Kashoomie had said.
Kel told her to take care, and she nodded with a soft smile. “You too, wood-carver.”
Namior was almost asleep standing up. Her hands were as cold as winter storms, and Kel pressed them together and covered them with his own.
“Kel,” she said, “I need to see my family.”
He nodded and hugged her tight. Every instinct told him that he should stay and help; though some people were drifting away, many more were still searching and digging, working beneath the bluish glow of floating fireballs raised by the visitors. Machines flowed here and there, both Noreelan and Komadian, and he saw Mygrette the doubter still directing her own machine against a mound of rubble, dirt and seaweed.
But he was one man with only two hands, while back with Namior’s mother and great-grandmother, perhaps he could find out more about what was happening. They must have been in their home all day, aiding wounded who were brought by, and her mother attempting to scry for what might come. And while he had doubts about the magic of their land, the fact that the visitors seemed lacking in that magic hopefully put Pavmouth Breaks at an advantage. He would grasp that advantage and make sure he was prepared for whatever might happen next.
They’ll sail in, help us rebuild and we’ll live peacefully forevermore, he thought. That would be nice. That’s what everyone wants.
“Then let’s go back over,” he said, starting to lead Namior toward the damaged bridge. He could see that the visitors had already repaired it adequately enough to make it safe, and two of them were still there, their machines venting steam at the dusk.
“I’m not sleeping yet, though,” Namior said. “When we get there, you need to show me what’s under the blanket.”
“A gift for you.” But it felt so pointless, so indulgent, in the face of what had happened. Can I still ask her to wed me, after all this?
“That’s nice,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “And after that, you need to tell me why you have a sword on your belt and other things hidden away beneath your jacket.” Her voice went quieter, and when she looked up at him her eyes were as sharp as ever. “I’m not sure what they are. But I think they’re weapons.”
They started for the bridge, and Namior led the way.
NAMIOR WAS BEYOND exhaustion. She had practiced her healing more that day than ever before, struggling with a temperamental magic; and the emotional impact of what had happened to her village was circling and waiting to strike. She was wary of that, and she was wary of Kel Boon as well. I still love him, she thought. But I no longer know him. Piled on to the changes wrought over Pavmouth Breaks, the changes in him were almost unbearable.
She talked briefly to the raven-haired Komadian who was still repairing the bridge. One of the floating machines had moved on, but the restored span was easily negotiable now that shaped blocks had been laid across the metal struts. She sensed Kel’s unease when she talked to the visitor. She wanted to ask about the machines, exactly how they worked, what the steam meant, what powered them, and the metal the visitors had used to bridge the washed-out gap. Where it was visible beside the stone blocks, the dusky light colored it gray, not the blue she had seen earlier. But tiredness made her vision hazy and dulled her senses, and the desire to see her family was stronger than ever. Perhaps it was familiarity she needed most.
They crossed the bridge and walked up toward her home, avoiding the route through the Moon Temple gardens. Neither of them had any wish to see the dead again.
Namior stumbled as they approached her home, and Kel’s arms were around her, steadying and enfolding her with a warmth she could not help welcoming.
“Come inside,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. I want to know what my gift might be.” She smiled at him, shocked at the way the rising life moon reflected in his eyes. He held a deep sadness that she had never noticed before. “What is it, Kel?”
“I’m lost,” he said. “Lost and confused.”
She touched his face and felt stubble, grit and tears. “Come inside.”
Namior went first, opening the door and sighing as the usual smells of cooking washed over her. Her mother was at the rear of the main room, stirring several pots where they hung over the fire pit. When she turned and saw Namior, her smile was wide and welcoming.
“Namior!” she said. “Been a busy girl, so I hear.”
“So many hurt,” Namior said, and she thought to add, So many dead. But it did not need to be said. “How’s great-grandmother?”
Her mother’s smile slipped a little, and she nodded at the door leading to the staircase. “Up there. She’s very tired. I’ve not seen her this bad since …”
“Ever,” Namior said.
“Yes.” Her mother sighed. “This craze is a strong one, and she picks at her eye, rubs her ear. As if she’s trying to blind and deafen herself against what’s happening.”
“She’ll come through. She’s strong. But Mother, can I smell fishtail bakkett? Can Kel stay for some?”
“Assumed he would. Enough for everyone.”
“Thank you,” Kel said. The woman looked at him and off
ered a brief smile.
“What else is wrong?” Namior asked.
Her mother waved one hand as though at a worrisome fly, but this time she did not turn away from her cooking. “Hard day. Lots of pain around today, plenty of grief, and the wraiths of people we know waiting to be chanted down. Many died in their sleep … don’t know they’re dead.”
“That’s not fair,” Namior said. She sat on a large cushion, and Kel knelt beside her, leaning in until their shoulders touched.
“We’ll lead Mourner Kanthia to them, once she’s chanted down the ones she knows about.”
“And what else?” Kel asked. “What did the groundstone show you today?”
“Taking an interest in our old magic now, Kel?”
“The visitors have told us their version of where they came from, what’s happened to them, why they’re here. I’m just curious if it’s the truth.”
“Curious.” She stopped stirring and looked Kel in the eye. “Just curious?”
“It’s a terrible day,” he said.
“And why would I know the truth or lie of it?” She sounded suddenly defensive, and Namior started to rise. Her mother sighed and waved her down. “Rest, girl. It was difficult to scry today, that’s all. Hazed. Lots of interference.”
“You think maybe the visitors—?”
“The land’s suffered an injury. That island …”
“They call it Komadia,” Namior said.
“Whatever they name it, it’s bruised our land, wounded it. And it’ll take time for it to recover.”
“You talk as though it’s a living thing,” Kel said.
Namior touched his arm and squeezed, and her mother glared at him. “You think it isn’t, wood-carver? You cut the limbs from trees and make fancies from them, and you tell me the land isn’t alive?”
Kel did not respond, and for that Namior was grateful. She was too tired to witness an argument.
The woman stirred her fish stew, testing it and dropping in a minute pinch of some herb or spice from a pouch on the wall. “So, we’ve had visitors all day long, and we’ve seen and heard much of what’s happening. Did you see any more boats coming in as you came home?”