The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  The Ploughman dropped his sword as other members of the man’s strange race stepped into the ring of lantern light, pointing double-pronged short spears at the line of intruders. The light did not reach far enough to show Maggie what was behind or beside her, but she knew from the scuffle of feet and the whisper of voices that she and her companions were surrounded.

  The Ploughman looked above him as though expecting salvation to drop from the cavern roof. “I led in the wrong direction,” he said, half to himself. “We took the west passage…”

  “You will come with us,” said the lantern-bearer. “All will come with us.”

  “Why?” asked the Ploughman. “We mean you no harm. Why not let us go?”

  “You are the leader,” said the man. “We have watched you. We know. You will lead your people right into our homes if we do not stop you.” Air escaped through his teeth in a long hiss. “You are trespassers.”

  “We only seek shelter,” the Ploughman said. “We did not know anyone was here.”

  “Do not tell me your excuses,” the lantern-bearer said. “You will tell them to the Majesty.”

  The Ploughman bowed his head in submission and asked quietly, “May I know who takes us captive?”

  The lantern-bearer seemed pleased. “I am Harutek, Sixteenth Son of the Majesty.”

  The Ploughman motioned to the sword that lay at his feet. “I have laid down my weapon,” he said. “I will go with you willingly, Harutek, son of the Majesty. Only tell your men to lower their spears. Neither I nor my people are a threat to you until you show plainly that you are a threat to us.”

  Harutek nodded. The men beside him pulled the forked ends of their spears up to their shoulders in one swift motion. Maggie heard the rush of air as the men all around did the same. She had not realized that she was holding her breath, but she let it out now.

  Harutek held his lantern higher, and his lips curved in a smile. “Follow,” he said, and turned his back.

  As he did so, other dim lamps flickered to life on every side. Maggie clearly saw the pale, expressionless faces of the men who flanked their prisoners. She could see the cave better now, too. They were in a high-roofed passage. Ledges on either side provided plenty of space for guards to sit above and watch those who passed below. Her eyes widened, and she nudged the professor; he looked up and quickly saw what she had seen. The edges of the passage were intricately carved with strange letters and shapes. The writing was unintelligible to Maggie, but amidst the carvings she recognized stylized pictures of fish, spears, rivers, and people, often surrounded by twisting braids. For a moment Maggie allowed her eyes to drift up to the ceiling of the passage, and there she saw carvings of another sort, flickering in the shadows of blue lantern light: here were carvings of the sun, moon, and stars, of trees, and horses, and mountains.

  The walls of the passage swept out to either side, and the ceiling rose higher. They began to descend a twisting staircase carved in the rock, down into an immense cavern lit by hundreds of fires and lanterns—on the floor, in caves, and on ledges all down the sides. The cavern smelled like fish and smoke and oil, and in the dim light Maggie could see the forms of people, some still, some busy. The voices of the colony echoed in the cavern, mingling in fleeting whispers. The voices were too quiet, the accents too strange, and the echoes too jumbled for Maggie to understand anything said, but she whispered an exclamation herself. Darne, Pat, and the professor all did the same. Their voices joined the echoes.

  The staircase took them past dwellings in the side of the cavern, and large eyes peered at them from the dark holes. A half-naked child—head completely shaved—darted out of a small cave below and stared up at them until the procession had nearly reached it. Then he dove back into the shelter of the cave again.

  When they reached the floor of the cavern, silent forms watched them from every side. Led by Harutek, they tramped down a street through the middle of the colony. Women carrying baskets stopped their work to watch the strangers pass by; old grandmothers looked up from their fires. Children ran alongside them and then huddled behind the legs of their elders. Men sharpened forked spears as they watched, bowing their heads to Harutek.

  The people of the colony were alike in a few particulars. Their skin was pale and their eyes large. They were small of build, and their hair—what little of it there was—was dark. The men were dressed after the fashion of Harutek. The women’s attire was much the same, except that instead of tunics, they wore sleeveless dresses that brushed the tops of their bare feet. And men, women, and children were all shaved, but for a single braid worn by the women. In the younger women this braid was short; in some of the older, grey-haired women, it reached the ground. Harutek’s one lock of hair was unique among the men.

  The shadow-licked street led them through the colony to the far side of the cavern, where a high arched door, lined by carvings of stars and twining rivers, led into another cave. At the highest point of the arch was a carving of a man wearing long robes, whose crown was made of seven stars.

  They passed through the doorway and entered a long, low-roofed cavern. Lanterns hung from hooks down the length of the cavern, casting a blue, flickering light over the white stone floor. Between the lanterns, guards stood immobile, double-pronged spears at their sides. The guards bowed their heads as Harutek passed and did not lift their eyes again until the procession had gone by.

  At the end of this cavern, three smooth steps led up to platform of rock. A man stood at the top of the platform. He wore a helmet and wristbands of fish scales. As the procession approached, he raised his hand in salute.

  “Hail Harutek, Sixteenth Son of the Majesty,” he said.

  Harutek saluted in return. “Hail Ytac, Captain of the Guard.”

  “Your father will see you now,” Ytac said. He turned, and his braided cape swished behind him, and put strong hands to a pair of white doors. They swung open, revealing the throne room of the Majesty.

  It was a round, white room, draped with tapestries of the same dark and gold cloth that formed the underground people’s clothing, with here and there a weaving of dark red or fiery orange. When these colours occurred, they were almost invariably woven in the shape of a burning sun. In one tapestry, dark red cloth formed hundreds of tiny red flowers on a golden background. In the center of the tapestry was a crown, woven in black, with seven white stars over it.

  Below this tapestry stood a dais, and on the dais a throne, carved of black stone and adorned with jewels. An old man sat on it, his single lock of hair snowy white and his dark eyes still bright and sharp. Twelve lampstands glowed along the back of the dais, six on either side of the throne.

  Four men and two women sat on the dais around the throne. Their appearance contrasted sharply with everyone Maggie had yet seen. They wore long robes. Their wrists, ankles, waists, and necks were encircled by dark red braid. Most striking of all, their hair was long and full. The hair of the men was bound with a single cord at the neck and fell past their waists; the hair of the women was worn long and reached nearly to their ankles.

  Harutek ascended the steps of the dais and fell on one knee before the throne. The white-haired Majesty laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “Rise, Sixteenth Son,” he said.

  “My father,” said Harutek as he stood. “The leader of the intruders has come to speak with you.”

  The Ploughman stepped forward and bowed low. “Majesty,” he said. “I am honoured.”

  “The tongue of the intruder is gentler than his chisel, that carves a home out of realms that belong to others,” said the Majesty. “Gentler than the tramp of boots he leads down into my earth.”

  “Majesty,” the Ploughman answered, “we meant no intrusion. Today we have learned of your existence for the first time. We only sought shelter.”

  “Yes,” the Majesty said. “As others sought shelter below the ground, long ago, and found it. My forefathers carved a refuge from this rock. If you have come to take it from us, we will
fight.”

  “We have not,” the Ploughman said. “I do not mean to make the underground a permanent home, nor do any of my people. When the time comes that we may go above safely, we are more than willing to leave your possession to you.”

  “He says he will leave it,” the Majesty said, half-whispering the words. “He will leave it as he found it. Doesn’t he know the damage he has already done?”

  The old king stood, revealing a back and shoulders bent with age. He straightened himself as far as he could and said, “I am the Majesty, Lord of the Darkworld: Nahtano, son of Tebazil, son of Haiso; Sire of Seventeen Sons; Keeper of the Black River; Guardian of the Holy Priesthood. My forefathers carved this kingdom far away from the Sunworld. And now, in my day, the Sunworld has come down to us. How can I believe that things will ever be the same?”

  He remained standing for a moment, his eyes looking away: to the past, perhaps, or to the future. Then he shuffled back a step and sat down in his throne of black rock. With a white hand he gestured to his left.

  “Come, my son, Harutek,” he said. “Sit with me.”

  Harutek moved to the place beside his father and sat down.

  Once more the Majesty indicated a place beside him, this time on his right. “And you, leader of the Sunworlders, come.”

  The Ploughman bowed his head again and stood. He mounted the smooth steps of the dais and sat on his cloak beside the king.

  For the first time the Majesty seemed to see the others. “These,” he said, motioning toward them. “What shall we do with these?”

  One of the long-haired men, who was taller than most of his people and whose hair was black as the Vltava River, bowed his head near the old king’s ear.

  “If you will, Revered Guardian,” he said, “allow my brethren and myself to minister to our guests.”

  “It is well, Divad,” said the Majesty. “Do with them as seems best to you.”

  Divad bowed again and gracefully descended the steps of the dais. His five companions followed him, seeming to hover over the ground rather than walk on it.

  Divad approached the Sunworlders, who had broken their line to huddle together. He bowed with his hands spread apart, the dark red braid around each of his wrists glinting in the lantern light. When he looked up, his eyes were calm and welcoming.

  “Come with me,” he said. “The Holy Priesthood will do all we can to comfort your spirits while our leaders commune.”

  “Thank you,” Professor Huss answered. “I think I should like a chance to speak with you.”

  Divad smiled. “And I with you,” he said.

  The long-haired priests now gently broke up the huddle formed by their guests. Divad stepped close to Professor Huss and began to lead him away, while the other priests each chose a particular guest to make their own. A young priestess, whose ankle-length hair was bound in hundreds of tiny braids, took Maggie’s arm.

  “I am Rehtse,” she said in a low voice. “Welcome to the Darkworld.”

  Maggie smiled and murmured her thanks. She could hear the others giving their own names in equally low, calm voices. “Nahtan.” “Haras.” “Hazrit.” “Annan.”

  The small company glided out of the throne room and through the long, lantern-lit chamber, but they did not reenter the enormous cavern. Instead, Divad led them through a narrow doorway and up a steep flight of stairs. At the top, they entered a round room with a low ceiling. A blue fire burned in the very center of the room. Smoke rose through a cylindrical hole above the fire.

  Maggie looked around her with a keen sense of wonder. The chamber was carved—floor, walls, and ceiling—with thousands of intricate scenes and symbols. Firelight deepened the carvings and made them stand out starkly against the pale stone. There were all the symbols and pictures that Maggie had already come to recognize as somehow sacred to these underground people: suns and moons and stars, mountains and trees and flowers, and the crown with seven stars. There were also the symbols of fish, rivers, and two-pronged spears. Braided strands twined all around the other carvings.

  Rehtse led Maggie to a cushion by a low table near a fire. “Sit,” the priestess said. “You are tired. Sit and be at ease.”

  Maggie sank onto one of the cushions. Her legs were shaking. Perhaps Rehtse was right: the strange ordeal had exhausted her more than she realized. Pat dropped down onto a cushion on one side of Maggie, and Darne took his seat on the other. The professor was seated across the table with Asa beside him.

  The priests made sure each of their guests was comfortable before sweeping from the room, leaving the Sunworlders alone.

  “Fascinating,” Professor Huss said, his eyes dancing along the shadowed carvings. “Even when the Ploughman first found carvings beneath the city, I never dreamed that anything like this could exist.”

  “I have known many things in my lifetime,” said Asa. “But this—no, this I did not know.”

  Darne spoke up hesitantly. “Are we—do you think—are we safe here?”

  “I have known Divad for less than ten minutes,” the professor declared, “but I feel I would trust him with my life.”

  “You are, you know,” Pat said. “Trusting him with your life. If his Majesty wishes to dispose of his guests, how better to do it? Make them comfortable, welcome them with open arms—”

  “Hush, Pat,” Maggie said, unable to resist smiling a little. “You’re going to frighten Darne.”

  “He’s already frightened.”

  “Well, you don’t have to make it worse. Besides, I think Professor Huss is right. I don’t know about the Majesty, but I think we can trust the priests.”

  “The Holy Priesthood,” Pat said, looking up. “Who live in absolute darkness and surround themselves with pictures of the sun.”

  “Yes,” Professor Huss said. “And more significant still: the seven-starred crown.”

  Maggie lowered her voice. “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “Suppose we ask them,” Professor Huss answered, motioning toward a low door through which the members of the priesthood were already returning. They held steaming platters of fish and flat bread in their hands, and these they lay before their guests, along with stone mugs full of clear liquid.

  Maggie raised a mug to her lips and took a swallow. The drink was cold, but it burned in her throat. Rehtse smiled and nodded, and Maggie took another swallow. When the burning subsided, the liquid made her feel stronger.

  Divad sat down at the head of the table. His four companions stood behind him, their hands folded, calmly attentive. The black-haired priest raised his cup and smiled before drinking.

  A few minutes passed in relative silence as the hungry company devoured their food. The appetites of Darne and Pat especially seemed enhanced by their surroundings. But Professor Huss only picked at the platter before him. Long before the others were finished eating, he pushed his food away and looked eagerly to Divad.

  “We thank you for your hospitality,” he said.

  “We are only too pleased to give it,” Divad answered. “In the throne room you indicated that you would like an audience with me. Please, the hour is yours. Say whatever you like.”

  “With an invitation like that,” Huss said, “how can I refuse? Tell me who you are. You are a priest…”

  Divad nodded. “I am the High Priest of the Holy Priesthood of the Darkworld. These are my brothers and sisters in the faith. In the past there were more of us. The people of our cavern world do not esteem faith so highly as they did in years gone by.”

  “And what faith?” Huss asked. “What faith do you minister, here under the ground? In the world above, only one faith is allowed—faith in the Emperor’s ability to do what is best, even if he kills us.”

  Divad cocked his head. “Does the Empire still rule?” he asked. “The Empire of Lucius Morel?”

  “Indeed it does,” Huss said, “though Lucius himself has been dead half a millennium. Lucien Morel is ruler now.”

  Divad shook his head. “To think both our
civilizations have existed so long.” He stopped himself. “But I am a poor host, and a poor priest. You asked what we believe.”

  The four long-haired priests behind Divad bowed their heads as he spoke. “Many long years ago,” he said, “the Great War was fought between the King of the Seven-Starred Crown and a rebel who called himself mankind’s friend and salvation. Morning Star was his name; long and bloody the conflict. Many turned to Morning Star, but our fathers stood with the King and fought faithfully beside him.”

  As Divad spoke, the markings on the walls seemed to come to life. It was all there, etched into the rock—the story of the Great War, of the final battle. It seemed to Maggie that she could hear swords clashing, voices breaking, horses pounding over the earth. Even the smells of the fight seemed to reach her. She realized that she was studying her hands and looked up, into Asa’s face—but his face was so dark and clouded that she had to look away again.

  “The day came,” Divad said, “when it was clear the King would lose the war. Mankind had sided against him. Few remained true to their allegiance. In that day, our fathers sent messages to Morning Star, offering their service to him. They pretended loyalty and rode into battle with the King once more, and there on the slopes of the Eastern Land they turned and slaughtered their old comrades.

  “They were right. The King lost the war. He sent himself into exile. But something happened. Even our oldest stories cannot explain what. The Blackness—Morning Star and his warriors—disappeared. A barrier came between them and mankind, as though a curtain had fallen through the world. Left to themselves, the people of the Seventh World formed tribes and bands, killing, stealing, and burning in a desperate attempt to keep themselves alive. Our fathers among them. But unlike the others, who grabbed power joyfully, our fathers mourned. Some were driven mad with grief. With guilt.