The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “I don’t think I can walk,” she said. She was shaking. Michael put his hand over hers. Her skin was damp and cold.

  “Then I’ll carry you,” Michael answered. Even as he said it, he knew it was impossible. There was not enough room below—she would have to crawl through the tunnel in her own strength. Unless he could find another way out.

  He stood and looked up at the window, high in the wall. It was barred and too small for anyone but the smallest child to fit through. Perhaps it could be enlarged from the outside.

  “Hide,” Miracle said. “Someone is coming.”

  Michael reached for his sword, but Miracle stretched out her bandaged hand to stop him.

  “No,” she said. “They will kill you.”

  “I will kill them first,” he said. He clenched his jaw as the sound of footsteps echoed on the stones outside the door.

  “You can’t!” she said, her voice nearly breaking with the effort.

  He looked down at her in surprise. Her face was earnest, her hands still shaking.

  “You cannot kill them,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re facing.”

  The footsteps were almost at the door. Michael sheathed his sword abruptly and threw himself down through the floor, drawing the trapdoor shut behind him.

  Straw had spilled from the top of it when Michael had come up, and that part of the floor was clean, clearly outlining the door. Miracle leaned heavily against the wall and hoped that no one would notice.

  A key turned in the lock.

  “In here, my lord,” said the guard. “But you must tell no one—no one must know that I—” The Nameless One interrupted. “Leave,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord.” The guard scurried away. There was silence in the corridor. Miracle closed her eyes as the door groaned on its heavy iron hinges, and he entered.

  The room seemed to pulse as he came through the door: a now-familiar pulse that burned in Miracle’s head and made her feel sick. She rubbed her arm with her uninjured hand and pushed herself harder against the wall. But she looked up at him, steadily, though she was shaking with weakness and with dread. The Nameless One’s skin was flushed. His eyes shone as he looked down at her.

  “Have you ever felt the fire in your veins?” he asked. “Felt it as we do? Do you know what power is in you?”

  She made no answer.

  “All you need do,” the Nameless One said, “is give yourself to the Blackness. Give them what they want—blood, worship, sacrifice. In return they will rouse the fire in you till you are greater than you can imagine.”

  The air quivered with a sound like hornets buzzing as the Nameless One crouched next to Miracle.

  “You felt their presence when the Master took power from you. Do you know what they are?” he asked. “They are the Blackness. They are the true lords of the world—the glorious darkness. And they are coming. With every sacrifice we make, we tear a hole in the Veil that keeps them back. One day soon we will tear a thousand holes in the Veil and rip it to shreds, and they will reclaim their domain.”

  Miracle shook her head, though the effort took more energy than she had. “We will stop them,” she said.

  The Nameless One laughed. “Who will?” he asked.

  He leaned close, so close that his breath touched her face. The buzzing in her ears grew louder. Dull pain, building up, threatened to overwhelm her again.

  “Who will stop us?” he asked. “You? Unless you join us, the Spider will feed on you till you are nothing but a shell. Master Skraetock uses your power to make himself stronger. You are fighting against yourself.”

  Miracle forced herself to look the Nameless One directly in the eyes. His expression was malevolent and terrifying, but she did not look away.

  “It does not matter,” she said, struggling for every word. “The King will return.”

  The Nameless One drew back as though Miracle had bitten him. “So you have heard that lie, have you?” he said. “It has been five hundred years, and still a few pathetic rebels cling to him. He was defeated in the Great War. The Blackness won. We won.”

  “He will come for us, as long as a single heart cries out to him,” Miracle said.

  “And how many hearts do?” the Nameless One asked. “It was people like you who demanded the King be exiled. Humanity has not learned faithfulness in five hundred years. They are as treacherous and greedy as they have ever been. They deserve to be slaves. As they will be, when the Blackness breaches the Veil. Only those of us who have allied ourselves with the lords of darkness will rule. It has been promised us. As for you, you will help us reach our goal. Do you think the King will hear you? Why should he save one who would rather strengthen her enemies than save herself?”

  The Nameless One drew close and hissed in her ear. “The Spider is hungry for Gifted fire. Master Skraetock will have all you possess, if he must drive you to the brink of death a thousand times over. He uses you to make himself strong.” He gripped her wrist as he spoke, tearing at her skin with his thumbnail. Warm blood seeped through the bandage.

  “Do you know why he hurts you?” he asked. “It is because if you could fight back, you would be too strong for him. The fire in you is so great that he could not steal it if you were not near death every time he does. But you are a fool who will not take control of her own power, and so others will. And when he has drained you at last, the Master will kill you.”

  She shrank back from him, from his touch. He was still holding her wrist. The Nameless One whispered now. “But I will not allow it,” he said. “I have asked for you, and you have been given to me. Give me all I desire, and I will save you.”

  “I would not be saved by you,” Miracle answered. “Not if the King was dead and all hope was gone from this world.”

  The Nameless One stood abruptly. The buzzing sound in Miracle’s ears abruptly ceased. She rested her hand against the wall, her head on her arm. The dungeon wall was cold against her skin; the bandage warm and wet around her wrist.

  In the Nameless One’s eyes, hunger and scorn mingled. He looked down on her for long minutes during which she wished she could melt into the stones.

  “Cling to your hope,” he said. “While you still can.”

  The prison door opened and shut. Miracle closed her eyes and ached: ached from cold, from pain, from the fear tightening around her heart. Hope—in this place? Her heart cried out for Michael.

  But the trapdoor remained closed. Michael did not come.

  * * *

  The air grew warmer as they journeyed south, and the air was heavily tinged with salt. There were more plants growing, and Bear disappeared on long forages, through fields and orchards and winter-brown vineyards.

  The brook grew until it became a small river. It ran west toward the sea. So Nicolas followed it, and Marja and Peter followed him, until they found themselves spending the night in a sea town, with ships in the harbour and sailors in the pubs.

  And there, in the sea, the river ended.

  Nicolas stood at the place where the river poured out into the wide expanse before it. The coastline was gentle. The land jutted up in rocky places, rough patches outnumbered by sand dunes, rock pools, and salt marshes. Nicolas stood, listened, and heard nothing. He knelt down by the flow of water and whispered to it, asked it to speak to him, to tell him what to do. No answer came.

  He had failed. And he did not understand why.

  Perhaps he had simply taken too long. He had veered off the path to help the captive Gypsies. The River-Daughter had meant for him to come sooner.

  Nicolas stood by the water for a long time. When he lifted up his eyes, he saw the ship coming to harbour.

  Marja and Peter saw it, too. Marja had climbed to the top of a dune and was looking out to sea with her hand shadowing her eyes. Peter was watching silently, smoking. Together they watched, wonderingly, as the ship drew closer. Then all together they left the dunes and ran to the town, where the whole harbour was asking what it meant.

  The sh
ip’s sails were black.

  It was driving relentlessly in. The fishermen began to jump into the small boats and head for the ship, seeking to find out what cargo black sails signified and whether or not they wished to let it in. They wasted little time. Fishing boats cast away from the shore every minute. Nicolas ran along a sunny deck and threw himself aboard one of them. The fisherman, a small fellow with a balding head, said nothing.

  As they neared the ship, Nicolas could see that its sides were battered, its sails patched. The fishermen together began to cry up to the deck. Nicolas joined in: “Throw down your anchor! Let us aboard!”

  There was no answer from the ship.

  The fishermen drew alongside the ship and called for ropes to be thrown down, but their only answer was the rocking of the waves and the cries of the gulls over the water.

  “Can you get closer?” Nicolas asked the fisherman in his whose boat he was sitting. The man nodded. He brought his tiny craft in so close that it nearly bumped the side of the ship. Nicolas stood unsteadily as the boat rose and fell under his feet. The shadow of the ship blocked out the sun, so he was able to raise his eyes and look over the wooden side carefully. It was pocked with cracks and holes. Nicolas put his foot into one and his hand into another and scrambled up the side of the ship until he dropped over the rail onto the deck.

  The salt air filled his senses, but another smell was mingled with it. At first he thought it was the smell of blood, but quickly realized it wasn’t. There was something else—something horrible—in the air.

  He looked up into the eyes of a dead man.

  The man was lashed to the helm. His hands still gripped the spokes, but his dark head was slumped over and his feet were slack on the deck beneath him. His eyes were open and rolled back so that they looked out at the deck even while his head was bent. There was no one else on deck—no one else on board at all, judging from the silence. It was obvious why this man had not answered the call to lower the ropes and welcome the fishermen of Italya on board.

  After a moment Nicolas realized that voices were filling the air again. The fishermen were shouting at him, calling to him to lower the ropes and let them up. He tore himself away from the dead man’s stare and grabbed coil after coil of rope, dropping the ends over the side. In minutes the fishermen had boarded the black-sailed ship.

  When the feet of the first one touched the wooden deck, Nicolas motioned to the helm and said, “There are no answers here. Only questions.”

  One man looked up at the black sails. “The wind is carrying us to harbour,” he said. He lifted his voice. “Drop anchor!”

  The fishermen rushed to obey. One of them shouted to Nicolas, “Boy, cut the man loose! We’ll bury him at sea.”

  Nicolas drew a knife from his waist and advanced on the corpse. To his surprise, the man’s skin was still warm. He has only just died, he thought, and then he heard a throaty rattle and realized that he was wrong. The man was not dead at all.

  He cut the ropes that bound the man and laid him gently on the deck. “Help!” he called. “This man is still alive! Bring help!”

  Nicolas stayed by the man, whispering comfort to him, though he suspected the man’s ears were useless. His eyes were jaundiced and glazed. They stared straight ahead without any glimmer of life. The ship rocked as the anchor was lowered. Down the deck, three men opened a hatch and lowered themselves into the hold. The peculiar stench of the ship grew stronger, and Nicolas’s stomach lurched. He could taste salt and feel the strong sun on his head and neck.

  Scarcely five minutes had passed before the men scrambled out of the hold again. Their faces were pale.

  “Burn the ship,” one of the men croaked.

  Another fisherman, a big, bronzed man with curly copper hair, heard him. He lifted up his voice and called for the men to return to land. Feet slapped the deck as men rushed past. Nicolas reached up and caught the sleeve of the copper-haired man.

  “This man is alive,” he said. “Help me get him into a boat.”

  The copper-haired man nodded. Together they picked up the sailor and carried him to the rail, where they set him down and looked over the side to the waiting boats.

  “Tie his hands around my neck,” said the copper-haired man. “I’ll carry him down.”

  He knelt on the deck, and Nicolas positioned the sailor on the man’s back and tied his wrists with a stout rope. The big fisherman stood and took hold of a rope that snaked over the edge of the ship to the boats beneath. He descended first, with Nicolas right behind him. When they had reached the fishing boat, Nicolas untied the half-dead sailor and laid him in the bottom.

  The big fisherman took up the oars and prepared to move out onto the water when a fourth man dropped into the boat and sat down without a word. Nicolas recognized him: the man who had called for the burning of the ship. Panic was in his eyes.

  They struck out on the water, a strong wind whipping their hair. Shouts lifted as torches were thrust through gaps in the ship’s siding. One landed in the sails and began to smoke.

  Nicolas watched the burning ship for a long minute. Gulls circled overhead, calling, although not to him. He thought of Maggie and the ship he had burned to save her. There had been death on board that ship also. He had not thought of Maggie in some time, he realized—somehow her memory had faded a little.

  He lowered his eyes from the spectacle as the copper-haired sailor demanded of the man across from him, “Well, what was it? Tell us. What was in the hold of the ship?”

  The man looked away. “They’re all dead. The whole crew.” He was silent for a moment and swallowed twice. “It stank,” he said.

  “What killed them?” Nicolas asked. The sailor at his feet still stared up out of unseeing eyes; the last vestiges of life still rattled in his throat. There was no wound on the man, no sign of violence at all.

  The fisherman answered at last. “Plague,” he said.

  The copper-haired man looked aghast at him. “Good stars,” he said. “And I’ve taken the man into my boat?”

  The sailor’s hair was touching Nicolas’s foot. Nicolas looked down at the near-corpse and pulled his foot away as a feeling of revulsion swelled up inside of him. The stink of death was in the man’s hair, in his clothing. It was in the yellow of his eyes and the breath that scraped from his lips.

  Yet there was something about the man that bound him to Nicolas, as strongly as the cords that had bound him to the helm of his black-sailed ship.

  The copper-haired fisherman leapt to his feet and grabbed the sailor under the arms, hauling him off the bottom of the boat. Nicolas caught his arm and held it, his eyes flashing.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Sending the plague into the sea,” the fishermen answered. With a strong jerk of his arm, he sent Nicolas sprawling backwards. Nicolas caught his breath as the plank seat caught him in the small of the back. His eyes widened as the man he had rescued was thrown over the side.

  He jumped up wildly. The copper-haired man struck out at him, catching him in the mouth. Nicolas dodged the man and dove off the side of the fishing boat. The salt water stung the cut at the corner of his mouth. He kicked his way to the sailor’s side and gripped him. In moments both their heads broke the surface, and together they gasped for air. Yellow eyes turned on their rescuer. The sailor was awake and aware. His eyes registered terror.

  Instinctively Nicolas struck out for the fishing boat, but a heavy keg landed in the water next his head. The fisherman’s shout filled his ears. “Keep away,” the man ordered, “or I’ll bust your head open, fool of a boy! Drown and be done with it!”

  Nicolas drew in a deep breath of air and began to swim toward the shore. It was a long way, much longer than it had seemed when he was safely resting in a boat with wooden planks under his feet and the smell of tar and fishing nets in his nostrils. He struck the water in desperation—aiming for the harbour, though in the back of his mind he knew that no welcome would await him there.

&nbs
p; The man in his arms dragged him down and back. His eyes had glazed over again; his limbs were loose in the water. It was a mercy, Nicolas thought, that the man could not struggle. Even if they drowned he would not struggle.

  By lengths they drew closer to the shore. Nicolas thought he could see hatred in the eyes of those waiting in the harbour, when a fierce current gripped him and bore them back out to sea. Nicolas closed his eyes and let his head fall into the water as the current carried him. He felt his grip on the sailor relaxing and willed himself to tighten it again. They would both drown, yes—but it would still be wrong to let go.

  And then he felt a change in the water, almost imperceptible at first. It had grown warm.

  A new smell came to him: the smell of fresh water mingling with salt. The water of the river had reached him. The current flowed in the wrong direction, back toward the shore. The river fought with the sea and won, and Nicolas and his unconscious companion were surrounded by warm water that flowed between their fingers and through the dark, curling hairs of their heads, pulling them closer and closer to the shore. The current bore them west of the harbour. Soon Nicolas lay on the murky ground of the salt marshes, where the river emptied into the sea.

  He knelt in the water and pulled the sailor up so that the sick man’s head rested against his shoulder, and for a moment he gave in to exhaustion and relief and let a tear fall. The moment was brief, and Nicolas struggled to his feet. He tried to lift the sailor in his arms, but his strength failed him.

  There was a shout and a splashing, and Nicolas turned to see Marja and Peter running through the marsh toward him. A long-necked bird, tall and graceful, burst from the reeds at their approach. It lifted into the air on magnificent wings, and Marja slowed for an instant to whistle a greeting. The bird dipped its wings to her and sailed on to the dunes.

  “Help me,” Nicolas gasped. “I can’t carry him alone.”

  Peter took the man’s feet while Nicolas took his shoulders. They lifted him from the water and carried him while the mud sucked at their feet. Nicolas stumbled, and Marja pushed him out of the way, taking the man from him.