Pazel looked at Thasha for a long time. “I wonder,” he said at last.
Neeps extended a hand to help Pazel up. But just then Ramachni appeared, scurrying up the last steps, nimble again. He sat down on the stone before the tarboys and bared his teeth.
“A fine night’s work,” he said. “Thanks to you we are still on the path we chose together, so long ago. And it is clear to me now that you will let no fear or pain turn you from it. Hold your heads high, dearest friends.”
“Ramachni,” said Ensyl, “what was the thing that leaped from the river? Was it what Arunis was seeking before we attacked?”
“Yes,” said Pazel, before Ramachni could answer. “It was the Swarm. All along he’s wanted to release it. And he managed to, with the help of the Nilstone, just before he died.”
Ramachni’s black eyes closed a moment. “I thought,” he said, “to give you some time to savor this victory, to regain your feet, as it were. But I will not deceive you. Pazel is quite correct. The Swarm of Night has entered Alifros. Only a tiny piece of it, a little clot of darkness. But it does not belong in this world. It exists to guard the borders of the world of the dead, to stop the deceased from returning. Death makes it grow stronger, larger, and to death it will be drawn. But it was never meant to enter the living world, and I fear it will destroy any life it touches. Plants, or animals, or woken souls.”
“Like the Nilstone?” said Ensyl.
“More or less,” said Ramachni. “But don’t you see the danger? The Swarm both kills and feeds on death. The more it kills, the larger it will grow; the larger it grows, the more it will be able to kill, until at last it becomes a black wildfire no power can contain. Arunis may have perished, but his dream of a dead world is closer than ever to coming true.”
The others just looked at him, too exhausted to respond. Pazel was only dimly aware of his aching bruises, his trickling wounds. And the deeper aching of his mind: that he was numb to as well. Neeps sank to his knees with a deep sigh. Ensyl placed her palms on Pazel’s leg and leaned into them, arms outstretched, like a runner propping herself up at the end of a race. But it wasn’t the end, not yet.
Ramachni looked from one to another. “Death has gained an advantage,” he said at last. “But take heart, for we have gained two. Arunis is gone, and Erithusmé has returned. The one you called Thasha has made her choice, and opened herself to the mage’s memories and powers.”
“She told you that?” asked Neeps.
“No, she has not spoken. I simply cannot account for our deliverance in any other way.” He looked down at the young woman slumped on the grass. “In the days ahead she will show you the meaning of magic. And you who care for her must give as well. Give her your faith, and your aid. Without my mistress we cannot prevail—that is true beyond all doubt. But with her we stand a fighting chance.”
“I don’t have any more fight in me, Ramachni,” said Neeps.
“Then sleep,” said Ramachni, “and fear no evil tonight. Dream of your Marila, and the child you will one day hold.”
“Ramachni,” said Pazel, “I saw the Swarm in the temple of Vasparhaven, in a nuhzat dream. It was huge, like a cyclone. How long do we have before it grows so large?”
“That will depend on how much death it finds to feed on.”
Ensyl looked down on the bloody earth. “And that, perhaps, is why Arunis has labored so long to plunge this world into war.”
A silence. Neeps and Pazel were struggling to do as Ramachni wanted, to hold up their chins, to have faith. Ramachni for his part was watching Thasha intently, as though waiting for a sign. “Death will feed the Swarm, and war and hatred will feed Death,” he said at last. “But there is another force in Alifros, a healing force, and it falls like rain upon the wildfire.” He turned and fixed his black eyes on Pazel. “Get to your feet now, lad,” he said.
She sat in the grass and watched them descending. Ramachni scrambling ahead, then Neeps with Ensyl on his shoulder. Pazel took his time, but still she dropped her eyes after a moment, because the fool was seeking them, rather than a safe path down the broken stairs. That would be Pazel. He’d pass alive through the Nine Pits, and in the end still trip on his shoelaces. If he had any.
Cayer Vispek sang her a praise-song in Mzithrini, and Neda knelt and said that they were sisters, that their love for Pazel had made them so, that Thasha’s children would have a godmother when they came. Thasha kept her eyes on the grass. There is hope downriver, Ramachni was saying; there is a place no evil has ever touched. Echoing words he hadn’t read, giving her and the others a direction, a way out if they could find it. She felt the touch of his paw, the searing love he had for her, frozen in a being who could never love the way she thought of it, the senseless joys, the private laughter, the smell of sweat and cedarwood and the tree’s rough bark against her back.
A firefly winked on like a lamp beside her foot. She reached out: the light was gone. She heard Ramachni telling the others that she just needed a little time, and that was true. She had not been around very long, after all. Not centuries, not millennia.
Birds were chattering, somewhere. Neeps came and went and smelled of lemons. Hercól was away at the edge of the forest, seeking something, seeking always and forever. Big Skip began to talk of building a raft. And Pazel came eventually, nervous and awkward and afraid to sit down. He didn’t speak, he was terrified, and she thought he understood more than any of them. But not the main thing, so when she was ready she touched his leg and looked up at him, and smiled. Hey, she said, it’s just me.
HERE ENDS BOOK III OF
THE CHATHRAND VOYAGE QUARTET
THE STORY IS CONTINUED IN
The Night of the Swarm
COMING FROM DEL REY
Acknowledgments
Each book is a wrestling match with human frailty, clocked by a merciless timekeeper, in a ring surrounded by an infinity of other rings, where different, often larger, struggles go on day and night. I’m keenly aware that those who helped with The River of Shadows had to slip out of their own rings, bruises and all, and step into my own.
My partner, Kiran Asher, read the novel before anyone, and kept me in food, health, good humor and at least minimal contact with the outside world: the latter was the hardest task, no doubt. Along with her insights, my mother Jan Redick, Stephen Klink, Holly Hanson and Edmund Zavada all read early drafts of this book, and provided marvelous feedback.
Sincere thanks also to my agent, John Jarrold; and editor, Simon Spanton, for their immense dedication, hard work and critical reflections at every stage. Likewise to Betsy Mitchell and Tricia Pasternak of Del Rey, and Kaitlin Heller for her brilliant thoughts on the first draft.
I thank my father, John Redick; and sister, Katie Pugh, for their love and support. In addition, I also would like to thank Veena Asher, Lisa Rogers, Bénédicte Lombardo, Bruce Hemmer, Brendan Plapp, Adam Shannon, Amy Heflin, Charlie Panayiotou, Paul Park, Tracy Winn, Michel Pagel and (last but never least) all my dear fellow writers at the Cushman club.
About the Author
ROBERT V. S. REDICK’S The Red Wolf Conspiracy was a Locus-recommended read, and, according to SFX magazine, one of the top ten science fiction and fantasy releases of 2008. Book II of the series, The Ruling Sea, was rated the number two fantasy of 2009 by Fantasy Book Critic. A former international development researcher, Redick worked most recently for the antipoverty organization Oxfam. He lives in western Massachusetts.
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