"You promised!" John held out his hand, pleading to her. "You promised not to hurt him."
"And I'm not going to," she said quietly as Blue leapt at her. She spun, caught Blue in mid-air with her left hand. As his weight spun her around, she sliced the hover bike's spell chain. The engine's power diverted into the lift and the hoverbike soared upwards on maximum lift. She continued the turn, slamming Blue against the ground and pinned him there.
Blue thrashed in her hold. "You murdering whore! I'm going to kill you!"
"Blue, she didn't hurt me." John's head was clearing, his balls ached, and he felt like vomiting, but he was basically unhurt. "Shut up before you make her mad."
Blue went still in surprise, and then squeaked, "John!"
Stormsong let Blue go. The boy scrambled to him. John hugged him tightly, relieved that he hadn't self-destructed. The sekasha looked on with sadness in her eyes.
"Why the hell did you do that?" John asked her.
"We protect those we love," Stormsong said.
Meaning she knew that Blue would come to John's protection. John supposed this was what she meant by solving all problems with violence.
****
Blue kept himself between John and Stormsong as they pulled down her floating hoverbike, maneuvered it to his pickup and killed the power. After they strapped the bike down, they drove back to Poppymeadows enclave in silence. Blue huddled in the middle, a small ball of hurt. Stormsong cleared them through check points. Thunderclouds gathered, threatening a downpour.
The same servant opened the gate at Poppymeadows, letting them in. "Domi is sleeping in the garden room."
"Again?" Blue sneered.
Stormsong cuffed Blue on the back of the head. "Tinker domi moved heaven and earth to save all the people of this city. She is a good and just leader. But until her injuries are fully healed, she will have to sleep often."
Apparently they were now considered trustworthy as they weren't searched, nor escorted through the enclave. The garden room turned out to be a small conservatory filled with a riot of blooming flowers. Tinker slept curled on a chaise with only Pony in attendance. Stormsong knelt beside Tinker, and kissed her forehead to wake her. "We're back, domi. We found the child and brought him back."
"Hm?" Tinker opened her eyes sleepily. "Oh, good." She yawned and reached out for a hand up. "I was worried. Thank you for keeping him safe."
Tinker hugged the female sekasha. The depth of Stormsong's affection showed on her face.
We protect those we love.
The sekasha weren't standing guard over Wolf Who Rule's wife—they were protecting their beloved domi. She had won their hearts. Nor was the fact all that surprising. Blue had always bordered on puppy love for Tinker. She was courageous in a fight, fiercely loyal, never lied, and kept all her promises.
John supposed that if Blue had to go to someone else, at least it was someone he knew he could trust. "Tinker, I've thought about this, and I'm willing to do whatever is best for Blue Sky. I ask that he stays in Pittsburgh and I want to be able to see him."
"You don't want me?" Blue fought to stay stoic in the face of news.
"This isn't about wanting you, or not wanting you. This is about what's best for you. They're right. You've probably would have been better off with your father from the start."
Tears filled Blue's eyes and he bowed his head to keep them hidden. "Why does everyone want me to be an elf?"
"Because you are an elf." John tapped him on his pointed ear tips to remind him. "And without meaning to, I've poisoned you against yourself. I know this hurts, but I really think you should come and live with Tinker."
Blue bowed his head lower, shaking it. "If I become one of them, you'll be afraid of me. You will hate me."
"Blue, I swear to you, nothing you can do or say or be will ever make me hate you."
"I don't want to lose you!" Blue whispered.
Tinker put her arms around Blue. "When I was thirteen, and Oilcan was seventeen, he moved out. I felt like I was losing him, but I wasn't. We're even closer now, because we don't have to fight over all those little annoying things that come with living with someone. What to watch on the TV and whose turn it is to take out the trash. He's still there for me anytime I need him. You're not losing John. You're gaining a very large family."
Blue scoffed. "Just what I need, a dozen more people to tell me what to do." But he turned and hugged Tinker tightly.
****
The elves had said that Blue was free to come and go as he pleased. John expected that Blue would put it to the test. He didn't expect that it would be so soon. Close to midnight, Blue sulked into the shop.
"What are you doing here?" John moved his bowl of popcorn so Blue could sprawl on the couch beside him.
Blue made a sound of disgust. "Do you know that Stormsong is the only elf in Tinker's household that speaks English?"
"You're fluent in Elvish."
"It's a pain to have to speak it all the time. And besides, there's so many things in Pittsburgh that Elvish doesn't have a word for!"
"True."
"What are you watching?"
"Something Oilcan loaned me." John suspected the loan had been an excuse to make sure he was coping with Blue being gone. "It's a season of a reality TV show called American Chopper. This family custom-builds motorcycles."
Blue usually disliked gearhead shows, so John was surprised when he exclaimed, "Oh, cool," and settled in to watch, apparently contented. Two handfuls of popcorn later, Blue added, "You know, the enclaves don't have TVs, CD players, flush toilets, or electricity."
"Barbaric," John said.
"And get this! No showers! You suppose to bathe in this big heated swimming pool with everyone else. Male and females together!"
John laughed at the disgust in Blue's voice. "Was there anything you liked?"
"I got to watch them sparring with practice swords. It was really cool." Blue gave a sigh of happiness. "You should see how they can move. They say I'll be able to fight like them someday. And they gave me this cool bow. I can't wait until you see it. You should come eat breakfast with me tomorrow. The food is amazing."
"Sure, sounds good." John mussed Blue's hair. "So, are you going to be backup ride for Team Tinker instead of main ride for Team Big Sky? Or is racing totally beneath a holy one like you?" Blue's scowl was answer enough, and the cold knot in John's stomach dissolved. John was pretty sure that as his brother aged, the sekasha would come to regret their decision, as often as not. Which, so far as he was concerned, was all to the good.
****
Wen Spencer is the author of many books and stories.
To see this author's works sold through Amazon, click here
What Sleeps in the Shallows Belongs to the Depths
Author: Julie Czerneda
Illustrated by Kevin Wasden
And so it came to pass, in the third age of the world, that those from the mainland sought once more to conquer the ocean realm. They gathered powerful sorcerers and built ships beyond numbering to carry them. Unstoppable, they sank fleet after fleet, razed island after island of the archipelago until they threatened Circle Cove itself, the very heart of our Blessed Kingdom. All seemed lost.
Until a willing sacrifice of Magic, Innocence, and Hope aroused Her Quiet God from Her Depths. The Three revealed to Him our enemies, and He did swallow them whole. Those few who survived fled back to the tree-infested lands of their birth, knowing the water forever cursed for their kind.
To ensure the safety of the ocean folk for all time, the Quiet God left Her Depths and came to dwell within the arms of Circle Cove, where He will sleep until called upon at our darkest hou~~~
"May barnacles crust your stinking hull," Agnon cursed as latest gentle tremor jarred his table enough so the nib of his pen broke, splattering octopus ink over the rest of what had been pristine parchment, imported, pristine parchment. He looked around quickly to see if he'd been heard. Master Scribe Caienthe was a gentle soul, bu
t even he might be as quick with the back of his hand as any quartermaster if he heard bilge talk in his workroom. But he was alone. The rest of the apprentices had finished their stacks and left for supper. Agnon, the newest arrival, wondered how long it would be before his hand was as swift. Or as accurate.
Maybe he could wipe it. Agnon tried the edge of his sleeve, already spotted from his morning's task of refilling inkwells. The result was more artistic, but the parchment was still ruined. With a sigh, Agnon dropped it to join two others on the floor. At least his stack of perfect copies was shoulder-high. Not that anyone would read them or admire his elegant script. No, each would be rolled and secured with golden thread, by those who could afford it, or clean linen picked from a hem, by those who couldn't. Rare orchids from the Outer Islands would be affixed to each roll, or daisies, for those reliant on the charity of priests. Regardless of presentation, the result would be an offering, to be floated on tiny candle-lit rafts by pious and atheist alike on the upcoming anniversary of the Islanders' supposed salvation.
Agnon stretched and gazed out the broad window that spilled sunlight on his table. The Scribe Hall held a privileged location, a third up one of the elaborate towers carved from the living black stone. The stone itself formed a mountain, curled like a mother's embrace around the deep blue waters of Circle Cove. Its outer surface was composed of bleak, ragged cliffs—clawed by the sea and home only to seabirds. But the mountain's inner surface had been worked and reworked by artisans for generations beyond memory. The result was a city overlooking the cove, footed in gleaming black sand and busy docks, rising in towers terraced with gardens aburst with the flowers its residents loved so well.
The cove itself was an almost perfect circle, its waters rippled only by the traffic of traders and fishers, and the kiss of gulls. The great fleet rested at anchor, its magnificent ships like begemmed toys from this height.
In the distance, Agnon could make out the mist-filled entrance to Circle Cove, wide enough for three galleons abreast and hemmed by cliffs extending out into the ocean like welcoming arms. Or protecting ones. For those cliffs were hollowed as well, home to warrior-priests and their weapons. Rocks were not the least of what they could unleash on any who ventured without permission into the cove.
Or out. Woe betide the merchant who thought to sneak by without paying due tax, or the smuggler attempting to leave with stolen cargo. Not that the spells of dir-priests were lightly used—but the threat of a magical blight on one's ship or crew was usually enough.
Agnon shook his head and pulled another parchment into position, dipping his pen into the inkwell with care. There was more demand than usual this year for copies of the reassuring "Legend of the Summoning." The recent quakes, perhaps. They were more nuisance than anything else—except to his pen nib—but several nights of being shaken awake had begun taking its toll on even the good-natured.
Then, there were the latest rumors, though Agnon put little stock into word that traveled from fisher to dock hand to rock scrubber. Those were prone to embellish a tale with each retelling, loving the sound of their own voices, until what might have been real news was as unreliable as the legend he penned so carefully, over and over again.
The peace-loving P'okukii, who never ventured on the open sea, had somehow built themselves a secret fleet? A race who relied on soothsayers and foreign traders for news of the world, had somehow invented metal hulls and weapons of magical fire? All so they could invade Circle Cove—a place no P'okukii had ever seen in person?
And he, Agnon, was really a prince of noble blood, orphaned by a cruel twist of fate, doomed to apprentice in this craft hall until a raven-haired princess with warm brown eyes and a laugh like the chiming of telltales on a mast fell in love with him from afar . . .
"Agnon!"
The bellow rattled quills in their pots. The young man cringed inwardly, but fixed a pleasant smile on his face before he turned on his stool. "Yes, Master Rathe?"
The master armorer was larger than life in every way, from the unruly mass of black hair sprouting from his squared head to his temper. A temper that hadn't sweetened with Agnon's refusal to apprentice in his hall. Fathers had aspirations for their sons. "Aren't you finished scribbling yet?" Rathe scowled at the parchments so fiercely Agnon half-expected them to shrivel up and burn. "If you've no time to spare for the forge, there's other work waiting."
There always was, Agnon sighed to himself. Those in charge of the craft halls were not merchant princes or of the ten Noble Houses, entitled to servants. And the Quiet God forbid, his father pry loose coin to hire one while he, Agnon, lived at home. "I'll be finished in an hour."
Somehow, Rathe managed to create sufficient wind with his leaving to dislodge the legends carefully stacked beside his son, a minor disaster timed perfectly with Master Caienthe's return. He exclaimed in soft dismay: "Oh, Agnon. Can't you be more careful?"
****
Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with flower petals, twirling downward. At night, the stars were doubled by closer, smaller flames, floating above us to outline the dark hulls of ships.
We had been content thus, to gaze upward through the great lens of our eye into the living magic of this place and see that which belonged here. The great flocks came, silver-sided and swift, seeking the richness of the reef, dancing in the light. Others swam among them, taking as was their need, sometimes just to dance.
But time measures itself in tide and change. They came more rarely, the great flocks and the others. Among the flower petals rained wood and metal, offal and ash. The clarity above our eye diminished. We grew restless and trembled.
If we dream the world, we sometimes wondered, surprised by bursts of fire, or touched by lifeless hands, do dreams end?
****
Two hours, not one, later, Agnon grumbled to himself as he hurried home through the corridors leading deep into the mountain. "Next year," he muttered out loud, "I'll be old enough to move to the men's hall. See if he finds a servant who works half as hard." An urgent low growl from the rock on either side seemed to agree. Agnon waited for the tremor to end, one hand on a nearby tapestry to steady himself.
For some reason, his eyes were drawn to what he touched. Agnon usually ignored the tapestries. The ancient, faded weavings lined all of the inner stone walls, relieving the black and muting echoes, if doing little to add warmth. Living in a cave was living in a cave. Having windows and terraces overlooking the cove was for the privileged—or for those whose work required sunlight and convenient access to both harbor and nobles. Another good reason he'd apprenticed as scribe. His father's armory was located so far inside the hollowed-out mountain only ensorcelled light could be used.
This tapestry, like many others, depicted both those of the land and those of the sea. The Landers. The P'okukii. Their pale skin and paler eyes seemed to glow against a backdrop of storm cloud and wave-wracked ocean. This must be one of the oldest, Agnon decided, carefully lifting his hand from its dusty surface. Then he frowned. The image—it was all wrong. The P'okukii didn't venture on to the sea, yet these were shown on ships. Ships of war. That was wrong, too. Despite their differences, not least the Islanders' amused contempt for anyone afraid of open water, there had always been peaceful commerce between their people. Lumber and metal for fish and rare pearls, grain and fruits for the feathers of island birds and the oil of whales. Agnon couldn't imagine otherwise.
But this? There was nothing peaceful here. The ships in the tapestry were heavily armed, their pale crews grim-faced and ready for combat. Red and silver threads shot across every open space, lines of battle magic, spells of wasting, spells of blindness.
Agnon took a step back, the better to study the strange scene. The legends spoke of a long-ago conflict with those from the mainland, but everyone knew it had been with a mysterious, overwhelming Enemy, beings with the heads and habits of beasts, arms longer than his father's. Teeth filed to points! Not the P'okukii. Yet it was them stand
ing in those ships, so many ships they filled the entire horizon. It was as if an entire people had gone to war. Why?
In the foreground, so low Agnon had missed it at first glance, was the lone ship in opposition to the mammoth fleet, riding sideways up a wave. No warship or galley, this was a sturdy little fishing vessel, better suited to chasing baskers. On her prow stood three figures, dir-priests by their robes, a woman and two men. Their faces were so well-rendered Agnon would have been able to recognize each in real life. Ah yes. He nodded to himself. "The Legend of the Summoning." These must be the ones who cast the Spell.
He leaned closer, amazed by the weavers' skill. One man wore armor, a warrior-priest. Rathe.
Agnon started at the name. He glanced around for who had spoken, but he was alone. Wait. It hadn't been a voice. He'd just . . . known.
He couldn't help looking back at the tapestry. The second man was smaller, rounder, with the stooped shoulders of a scholar or scribe. Agnon. Not his own name, but that of this long-dead priest. And the woman . . . "Skalda," Agnon said out loud.
And the woman in the tapestry turned to look right at him. The faded threads that were her mouth parted in shreds, as if she shouted without sound. Words floated Agnon's mind: What sleeps in the shallows belongs to Her Depths.
Gasping, Agnon stumbled away, then ran for home as fast as his legs could carry him.
****
"Master Caienthe. Master, please. A moment." Agnon followed the old scribe as he wound his way among tables loaded with parchments and scrolls, barely able to resist plucking at his robe to stop him. "I must speak with you."
Caienthe paused and looked down, his expression kind, if harried. "Can it not wait until tomorrow, young Agnon?" His hands fluttered in the air, as if he were a dir-priest able to command the elements. "This is the busiest day of the year. We're so behind. I really don't know how we'll make quota before tomorrow's celebration—"
"Master. Please. It can't wait . . ." Agnon's voice faltered and he swallowed hard. "I need your wisdom. It's about tomorrow—the meaning of the ceremony. The Legend . . ."
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