The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

Libuse began to protest, but he stopped her. “Huss and Virginia are right, with all their mystic dreams. We need the King. He must come again.”

  Libuse hesitated. “Are you sure that he exists?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a long time, the gentle love in his eyes making his worry-lined face less severe. “I am not sure of anything,” he said at last. “Only of our need.”

  * * *

  Maggie walked alone through the underground passageways. Her feet passed over lit stone and stone plunged in darkness, but she hardly noticed the difference. She walked through tunnels where the walls glistened with water and the roar of the river could be heard close by. The black waters of the Vltava flowed on the other side of the rock walls. The lights of fifteen bridges sparkled on it. The longing to see it was nearly overpowering, and Maggie leaned up against the wet wall for support.

  “You’re a long way from the others,” said a voice. Maggie looked up in surprise. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out the form of Virginia Ramsey a few feet away, her green eyes looking out at nothing.

  “So are you,” Maggie said.

  “I am often alone,” Virginia pointed out. “You are not.” She took an unsteady step forward, her hand on the wall. Her other hand reached out for Maggie. Maggie took it in her own.

  “What are you doing here?” Maggie asked.

  “Dreaming,” Virginia said. “As you are.”

  “Yes,” Maggie said with a rueful smile. “Why else would I seek out the darkness?”

  “Is it dark here? More than other places?” Virginia asked. “I suppose it must be.”

  Virginia took Maggie’s arm, and they walked back through the passage, away from the rush of the river. Maggie watched the Highlander at her side, wondering about her. Everyone wondered about Virginia Ramsey, for no one really knew her—not even Mrs. Cook, who held the blind girl in a sort of affectionate awe. Virginia’s wrists were still scarred from the iron of the High Police. Her bearing was still haunted by ghosts and visions no one else could even begin to imagine. And her dark hair still smelled of the wind.

  Maggie thought of the day she had first met the blind seer of the Highlands. On that day, they had buried Jerome.

  She drew a deep breath, and Virginia stopped walking.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “When is the King coming?” Maggie asked. “Have you seen that? How long until the Seventh World is free?”

  “Soon,” Virginia said.

  “Yes,” Maggie said. “That’s what the professor says. When people ask me, it’s what I say. But the truth is I don’t know. When I heard the horn of the Huntsman over Pravik, and the Golden Riders came and fought our enemies, I thought the King would come then. But he didn’t.”

  Pain lay stark in Virginia’s face. She laid her hand on Maggie’s, and the touch was achingly gentle. “What are you afraid of, Maggie?” Virginia asked.

  Maggie bit her lip. “Have we done something?” she asked. “Is he waiting for us to—to do more, to bring him back somehow? I fear that he no longer desires to come. We are all discouraged. Even the professor doubts. I’ve seen it. Yours are the only clear eyes in this new world of ours, Virginia. Can you tell me the truth?”

  Virginia hesitated. Slowly, she said, “My eyes are not as clear as they once were. You cannot rely on me, Maggie. You must not. I may not always see.”

  Maggie stared at the seer. “But—Virginia, you are our eyes. Professor Huss says so. Without you we are blind!”

  “No,” Virginia said. “Without me you have to trust. Trust is not blindness. It is the truest sight. Trust disregards illusion and holds fast to truth. What do you know, Maggie Sheffield? What have you seen?”

  Maggie swallowed. “I saw the Huntsman begin his chase. Begin to rout evil. I saw the King’s deliverance in the battle.”

  “Cling to that,” Virginia said. She smiled. “We all must cling to something, and what you have seen is no small thing.”

  “I wish that Nicolas was here,” Maggie said. “Or at least that he had come to believe before he left.”

  “Do not fear for him,” Virginia said. “I think—I think I have seen that he is well.”

  “You think?” Maggie asked.

  Virginia nodded slowly. She began to walk again. They moved silently through the dripping corridor. Torchlight fell on their path as they entered more commonly traveled paths.

  “The King has not forgotten us,” Virginia said suddenly. “He has not forgotten you, or any who have been faithful. The earth is awakening even now. That much I know I have seen.”

  And Maggie felt a chill in her spine, for as she listened to the words it seemed to her that the wild scent of the wind was stronger about Virginia than ever before.

  * * *

  Marja stood slowly. Her dark eyes flashed as she turned. There were five men; too many to fight. Her fingers itched to draw the jeweled dagger from beneath her skirt, but wisdom prevailed. She could not overcome the men now, and the dagger would be needed later.

  The men were rough in appearance and dripping from the rain. There was not a single soldier among them.

  “By what right do you pretend to arrest me?” Marja demanded.

  “By the right to reward,” said one of the men, a short stocky fellow with two days’ stubble on his chin. “A silver coin for every Gypsy brought in.”

  Marja arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?” she asked. “Life is cheap these days.”

  Peter groaned and raised himself to his knees beside Marja, holding the back of his head with one hand. Behind them, neither Nicolas nor the stranger stirred.

  The man who had spoken gestured to his fellows, and they moved forward. Two hauled Peter off the ground and held his arms while another grabbed Marja’s wrist. She wrenched it free with a quick motion, and the man flushed.

  “Don’t touch me,” she snapped.

  The fifth man had approached Nicolas and the sailor, and now he stood up with a pale face. “Something’s wrong with this ‘un,” he said.

  “Right you are,” Peter said, his voice groggy. “He’s sick.”

  “What do you mean, sick?” said the leader of the men.

  Marja smiled and sidestepped the man who lunged for her arm again. “Plague,” she said.

  The men holding Peter looked at each other nervously. The man who had attempted to grab Marja took a step away from her. “You ain’t sick, are you?” he asked.

  She sidled closer and breathed in his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

  The feverish sailor groaned. Marja turned to see that Nicolas had risen to his hands and knees. He looked somehow smaller than usual; frailer. He crawled forward and fell with his face to the ground, inches from the men who held Peter. Both men let go and scurried away.

  The leader cleared his throat. “Enough of this,” he said. “No more foolery. You’re coming with us.”

  One of the men, the one who had tried to take Marja captive, shook his head. “They ain’t worth it,” he said. “Count me out.” He turned and ran from the pier.

  The two men who had held Peter inched closer to their leader. Suddenly, Nicolas rose to his knees again and launched himself at one of them. He caught the man by the ankles and began to kiss his sandy feet.

  “Please help me,” he groaned. “Doctor… take me with you!”

  The man tried to jerk his feet away, but Nicolas held tight. His companion looked wild-eyed at their leader.

  “Let’s go!” he said.

  “Four silver pieces!” said the leader.

  “And we’ll all die!” said the man who had just succeeded in wrenching free of Nicolas.

  Marja’s eyes glinted. “Life is cheap,” she said.

  The men looked at each other, and the two subordinates bolted away. The leader looked back, his face angry and red, and his eyes widened to see the dagger Marja now held in her hand. She twirled the blade through her fingers. The man stood for a moment longer before he turned and
chased after his companions.

  Marja threw herself into a cross-legged position on the ground and applauded.

  “Magnificent performance,” she said.

  Nicolas grinned and bowed his head, spitting a bit of sand from his mouth. “It was nothing,” he said.

  Peter was still standing, watching the horizon where the men had disappeared. “That was close,” he said. “Why would they look for us here?”

  Marja shrugged. “Likely they only wanted shelter from the rain. They must have felt lucky.”

  Peter smiled and stuck his pipe in his mouth, frowning when he remembered it was still full of wet sand. “Until they found out we had pestilence on our side.”

  Peter sat down, and they grew quiet.

  “Do we?” Marja said finally. “Or will that be us in a few days?” She gestured at the sick man. “If it is plague, the odds are…”

  “Maybe we should leave him.” Nicolas spoke the words abruptly. “He’s going to die, that much is obvious. Perhaps it’s best we leave him here. The tide will usher him out of this world with more courtesy than the plague will.”

  “Could you leave him?” Marja asked.

  Nicolas shook his head and looked down. “No.”

  “Then maybe we should start digging our own graves,” Peter said.

  “We’re practically dead already,” Marja said. “A piece of silver each—stars, what a world we live in!”

  “Don’t tell me you’re ready to give up on it,” Nicolas said. “You haven’t saved your people yet.”

  “It will take something far greater than me to save our people,” Marja said.

  Nicolas closed his eyes. That song was in his head again—vague and faint and tantalizing. “It would take the King,” he said.

  Marja was drawing circles in the sand. “He is the sun-king, the moon-king, all-the-stars-king,” she said in a sing-song voice. “And he shines like them all together.”

  “That’s from one of your old stories, isn’t it?” Peter asked.

  “Mmm,” Marja said. “The one about the birds.”

  “You know,” Nicolas said, opening his eyes, “some people think the ‘all-the-stars-king’ is more than a myth.”

  Marja gave him a long look. “I hope he is,” she said. “Because we could use his help.”

  “Maggie thinks he’s real,” Nicolas said. “She thinks he’s coming back.”

  “Do you think so?” Marja asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nicolas said.

  Marja shook her head. “You astound me,” she said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The sick man suddenly cried out and twisted in pain, and in the midst of his groaning they all heard the words.

  “My son, my son. Nicolas, my son.”

  * * *

  When the rain stopped, Nicolas left the little group under the pier and went into the town. He skulked in shadows and hovered in doorways, listening, and watched with great satisfaction as a wagon driver sat in a tavern and drank himself into a stupor. His wagon, roofed and sided, was full of hay. Nicolas rushed back to the pier and gathered up the others. Peter tied the sick man’s arms around Nicolas’s neck, and they crept through the scant afternoon population in the town and into the hay wagon.

  It took only a short time for Marja and Peter to unload much of the wagon’s cargo into the feeding troughs in the nearby stable. The horses which would draw the boxed wagon were happy to help dispose of it. Once they had made room for themselves, Nicolas and his little band burrowed toward the back of the wagon and heaped up hay next to the door. If the wagoner opened the door to check on his cargo, he would see nothing amiss.

  It was hot and stuffy in the wagon. Hay dust settled in their noses and irritated their skin. Marja took off her head scarf and covered the sick man’s mouth with it so he wouldn’t breathe too much dust. Peter lay back in the hay with a sigh and went to work cleaning his pipe. Nicolas drew his knees to his chest and looked up at the wagon’s dusty ceiling, through the cracks where a few rays of sun managed to shine.

  “Where are we going?” Marja asked. She cleared her throat from the dust.

  “Further south,” Nicolas said. “Into vineyard country.”

  “What do you hope to find there?” Marja asked.

  “Shelter,” Nicolas answered. “It’s winter; the vineyards must have outbuildings that aren’t occupied in the off-season. We’ll find one and stay in it.”

  The sick man groaned and stirred, displacing the scarf from his mouth. Marja repositioned it.

  “He’s becoming very active,” she said.

  “Maybe he’ll wake up soon,” Peter said.

  “Maybe he’ll die soon,” said Nicolas.

  They heard the sound of muffled voices and so fell silent. The wagon rolled forward slightly as the horses were put into the harness, and the companions relaxed into the hay as the wagoner shouted a command and they moved out.

  They didn’t speak as they journeyed. There was little risk of the driver hearing them; the clatter of the wheels and the muffling of the hay would drown out their voices. Still, they did not wish to take a chance. So they went in silence. The faint sunlight through the cracks painted golden stripes on the hay and on the passengers; it illuminated the dust that never quite settled. Peter finally managed to light his pipe, and he lay in the hay smoking it thoughtfully. Nicolas watched the sick man as they went, and Marja watched Nicolas; and not once did their eyes meet.

  Nicolas wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but there in the closeness of the wagon he began to dream. In his dream he saw men and women, but they were unlike any human beings he had ever seen. The beauty of their faces made Nicolas want to cry. The grace of their movements was like the grace of the stars, tracing their dances in the sky. They wore clothing of all the colours of the rainbow: long, flowing, shimmering gowns and robes; and in their faces was a golden joy, a peace and innocence that brought Nicolas’s heart to its knees, although he did not physically kneel—he was asleep, unable to wake himself up and unwilling to do so.

  When they spoke, he knew their voices. He had heard them before: the dying, mourning voices of the Veil. Only now, in his dream, they were not dying. They were strong and beautiful as they had been long ago. He watched them as they moved together in a sort of dance, their robes flowing a rainbow behind them. They spoke to each other, and he understood the words, but could not hold them—one moment they were in his ears, and he knew what they meant, and the next minute the words were gone and he could not recall them.

  But then they turned to him, and one of them, a man with long silver hair and eyes like crystal, with a thousand glimmering colours held within his gaze, spoke.

  “You must learn the Song of the Burning Light, child of man,” he said.

  “I can’t hear it,” Nicolas heard himself answer. “It is too far away.”

  “It grows closer,” said the man. “Open your heart to it. Let the song fill you.”

  “I can’t,” said Nicolas.

  A woman spoke, the grandest lady Nicolas had ever seen, with shining black hair and a long shimmering gown of white. “The enemy wants you,” she said. “You must learn the song before they reach you.”

  Nicolas wanted to speak, but words stuck in his throat. The man spoke again.

  “You have a task to finish,” he said.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Nicolas said. “I looked for her, but I could not find her. I have already failed in the task.”

  “You have not failed,” the man answered. “The River-Daughter is kept in a far, deep place. She will not be freed until the Song of the Burning Light calls to her. You must be cleansed by fire and brought to the water.”

  “I don’t even know what you mean,” Nicolas said. “Please, I cannot do this.”

  “The River-Daughter has led you wisely thus far,” the woman said. “Now you must use the gifts she has given you. They will awaken the song in you.”

  “Will you help me?” Nicolas cried.
>
  The beautiful ones looked at one another. Infinite sadness marked their faces.

  “We can no longer be of any help to the children of men,” they said. “Our last sacrifice wanes even now.”

  “You are dying,” Nicolas said. “I have heard it.”

  “We are fading away,” said the woman. “We are no longer as you see us—we are not what we once were.”

  “What were you?” Nicolas asked.

  “We were called the Shearim,” said the man.

  And Nicolas woke up.

  Marja was asleep. Her black hair cascaded down to touch the face of the sick man.

  There was a song, terribly faint, in Nicolas’s ears. He strained to hear it, but it only seemed to move farther away. Open your heart, they had said. Use the gifts you have been given.

  “How?” he asked aloud. “What gifts?”

  But there was no answer.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Choosing Sides

  Kris of the Mountains awoke with a start when a boot prodded his stomach. He reached for his sword, swallowing a shout at the sound of Michael’s impatient voice.

  “Hush,” Michael said. “I need your help.”

  Kris sat up. Stocky was already awake, blinking away sleep and fingering his sword hilts. The lame grey wolf lay with its head on its paws and its eyes wide open, seemingly listening to Michael.

  “There’s a tunnel into the dungeon,” Michael said. “Miracle is there. I’ve seen her.”

  “How did you find it?” Kris asked.

  “The white wolf led me,” Michael said. “I am not sure what happened—but he did. They’ve done something to Miracle. She’s too weak to get out through the tunnel. We can go in that way, but we’re going to have to find another way out.”

  Kris rubbed his bearded chin. “Perhaps if we disguise ourselves,” he said.

  “As what?” Stocky asked. “Traveling tinkers?”

  “Soldiers,” Kris said. “We could ambush a few and take their uniforms.”