The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Maggie’s recollection of the evening was fuzzy, made so by the blurring of her eyes and the lurch of her stomach, which she supposed was caused by drinking a little too much of the cold liquid at the feast. The only thing she felt clearly—and still felt clearly, sharply, the next day—was the heady sense of freedom in knowing there was nothing above her but sky and stars and the glorious moon. The moon was not to be seen, and the stars were blocked by clouds, but it hardly mattered.

  Maggie was in tears when the tide of humanity carried her back underground; she was silent and morose when a young man—it might have been Caasi—carried her down the ladders to the lair of the priests. She hardly heard the low voice of Rehtse as she conferred with Maggie’s benefactor—now she was certain, it had to be Caasi—and she was asleep before Rehtse made her comfortable in a simple bed in the priestess’s own chambers.

  Her dreams were invaded by music, the song she had sung for the priests mingling with the dream-shout of voices, the clash of swords, and the high, thin, haunting sound of flutes.

  Maggie woke up sometime the next day and staggered down a familiar corridor toward the sound of water. She found herself in the waterfall chamber and availed herself of the soap and water before putting her own clothes back on. They had been washed and dried and hung over a rock in the waterfall room. Maggie’s head ached as she dressed, and there was a taste like silver in her mouth.

  Hazrit appeared in the door of the chamber once Maggie was dressed. She smiled gently. “Breakfast,” she said. “This way.”

  Maggie followed her down the corridors to the circular room where the priests had first led their guests the night before. The others were there, all except Darne, and all were dressed in their own clothing again. Pat seemed glad to be back in trousers, though Maggie caught the looks on the faces of Rehtse and Hazrit that said they did not entirely approve.

  Maggie eased onto a cushion next to Pat and took a bite of hot bread. Pat was stripping a last bit of fish off its bones.

  “Try the fish, Maggie,” she said. “It’s fresh today.”

  “Did it happen?” Maggie asked, obediently taking a piece of fish. “All the—celebrations… and did we really go outside?”

  Pat nodded. “Imagine,” she said. “These people have been going out to the river once every year for five centuries, and no one has caught onto their existence yet.”

  Maggie mumbled something about it being amazing, but she felt a pang when she talked of the world above that hurt too much to aggravate it by continuing the conversation. Darne staggered in and to the table, led by an amused Haras. He sat down and slurred an apology for being late. He ate very little. Maggie noticed that only water was poured at the breakfast table.

  They returned to the court of the Majesty when they were finished eating. The Darkworld king and his sons, who were all in attendance, welcomed them warmly, presented them with gifts—Maggie was given a necklace with a woven image of the sun for a pendant—and bade them farewell.

  They did not go alone. The young priest Haras accompanied them, along with Ytac, the captain of the guard, and the prince Harutek.

  * * *

  Lucien Morel, the man who ruled the world, stared at the ceiling of his ornate bedroom and trembled. Sweat poured down his face, drenching his feather pillows and lately-clean sheets. He pointed a shaky finger at the shadows, punctuating his speech with it.

  “I told you to go! I told you I would take care of things. They are a plague, I know; but I will stamp it out.”

  Nothing moved or spoke in the darkness. Yet the Emperor’s fear refused to abate. He had awakened, sweating and terrified, from a dream in which the river had flooded the world. He had tried to sit up, to calm his pounding heart. Images from the dream kept flashing at him. Gypsies dancing on the water over him, even as he drowned. A great red dragon wrapping its long tail around his waist and dragging him down, its eyes gleaming like jewels. And the Gypsies laughing.

  His finger twitched violently. He had tried to calm his pounding heart upon awakening, but that was before he felt it.

  The Presence.

  He had never told anyone about the Presence. They thought he was mad, after all. He was not mad. He was haunted.

  The Presence swathed his heart like grave clothes. Instead of pounding, it nearly stopped. The Emperor gasped for breath.

  “I told you!” he screamed into the shadows. “I’ve done it! My soldiers are everywhere, rounding them up. I bring them here; they’re caged like rats!” He stuck his finger in the air again, trying to find the eyes whose glare he could feel but never see. “You… you leave me alone. I’m doing it.”

  In the shadows, words impressed themselves on the Emperor of the Seventh World.

  It is not enough.

  Lucien Morel’s whole body shook with fear, laced with a desperate rage that alone kept him breathing. All he wanted was to rule his Empire in peace. He had not slept through the night in months—sometimes it seemed like years.

  “It will be,” he said. “I will do enough. I will do all that is needed.”

  The Presence faded. He felt its warning as it left. It would return. It would not trust him. It would haunt him till the promise was fulfilled. Till he had done everything in his power to rid the world of the plague called Gypsies.

  Lucien Morel tried to sleep, but he feared too much what might lie on the other side of his eyelids. Somewhere in the palace he could hear water running. Nightmarish sound. He rose instead, and passed the night in pacing.

  * * *

  As the weeks passed, the persecution of the Gypsies resumed in full force. Those bands which had before escaped were rounded up, decimated, herded toward Athrom. But now a counter-fear dwelt in the roads, striking the hearts of the High Police. The Gypsies were fighting back. The dirt of the roads covered over deep stains of blood.

  The name of the Major was whispered among the refugees and captives. Many waited for him to rescue them, and the Major and his small band did. Others grew tired of waiting and struck back at their captors themselves. In some cases they won their freedom. In other cases they won their deaths.

  The High Police began to devote larger troops to the cause of rounding up the Wandering Race. They tramped the roads, heavily armed and watchful. The renegade bands of Gypsies who attacked the police—for others took up the example of the Major and his young allies, forming vigilante groups themselves—risked more and more every time they fought for their freedom.

  But they kept fighting. And everywhere, carved on rocks and tree trunks and fence posts, the markings of the Gypsy race told tales of battles and suffering. They promised vengeance and encouraged hope. The weary captives who passed by the writing felt their blood quicken at the knowledge that great things had been done where they stood.

  It was a bright day, full of flower-perfume, when a young scout brought the message to the Major and his fighting band of fifteen Gypsies. “Captives driving over the fields, half a mile west of the north road,” he reported. “They look to be in bad shape, and there aren’t many guards.”

  “Aren’t many?” the Major repeated. “That’s not how I’ve taught you to scout, boy.”

  The scout coloured. “There’s not much cover in the fields,” he said. “I couldn’t get close. But I counted four guards, sir. No more.”

  The Major smiled through his thick black beard. “Good boy,” he said. “Well, Nicolas: and how are we to handle these four guards in the open fields where there is no cover?”

  Nicolas smiled. “I say we walk up and reason with them,” he said.

  The Major nodded, and the scout’s jaw dropped. “But—” he started to say.

  Nicolas stood and knocked the scout’s cap down so it covered his eyes. “Never question your elders,” he said. “Now, look up and see what I mean.”

  The scout took the cap from his head, exposing a head of wild curls, and his jaw dropped for a second time. He nearly shouted the alarm, but the soldier in black and green who now stood bef
ore him removed his pipe from his mouth and grinned.

  “The Pipe-Smoker,” the boy stuttered.

  “In the flesh,” Nicolas said. “We captured a few uniforms in the last skirmish down by the vineyards. Now, exactly which way are our friends heading?”

  The scout described their course in detail. Nicolas and the Major nodded with satisfaction. The police and their captives would soon be within eyeshot of a dilapidated old barn.

  The Major’s band moved fast. In less than twenty minutes, Marja had led most of the fighters to the barn. The Major, Nicolas, Peter, and the young scout dressed themselves in the stolen uniforms and went out to meet the enemy. They removed their earrings and head scarves, preferring the decoration of thickly smeared mud and red berries, crushed and smeared on their faces. From all appearances, they’d lately had the worst of a fight.

  They had barely reached the field when they saw the captives. It was a large group, some thirty of them, in bad shape as the scout had said. Most were men, but they staggered as they walked, and some fell. Nicolas’s face burned as he heard the shouts of the High Police and saw the butt of a spear fall on the head and shoulders of a Gypsy too weak to resist.

  Swallowing his rage, Nicolas tore the sleeve of his uniform a little more and began to run, limping slightly as he went. “Stop!” he shouted. “There is danger!”

  Two soldiers were leading the procession. They reined in their horses as Nicolas approached. Nicolas grabbed the bridle of one of the horses and gasped for breath.

  “What is it?” one of the High Police said. “Speak, man!”

  “Treachery,” Nicolas gasped out. “The Gypsy murderers are on the road close by. They attacked us as we brought captives to Italya. They have scouts everywhere—they will set upon you when you least expect it.”

  “Indeed,” said the rider whose horse Nicolas had latched onto. “How big is this band?”

  “There are twenty at least,” Nicolas answered. “All armed and healthy. You are no match for them—not here in the open.”

  “Then what shall we do?” asked the other front rider.

  “There is a barn back that way,” Nicolas said, pointing in the direction indicated. “Take your prisoners there. Then you can fight with the barn wall to your back. And if things turn to the worse for you, you may fire the barn and keep the prisoners from escaping.” Nicolas’s eyes glinted as he said this. The memory of a past fight was still fresh in his mind.

  The lead soldier nodded. “You are right,” he said. “And can we count on your sword and that of your friends?”

  Nicolas nodded. “Of course,” he said.

  Half an hour later, the barn door creaked and groaned as Nicolas pushed it open, and the soldiers herded their captives in.

  “Quickly,” Nicolas said, even as the Major, Peter, and the scout slipped in through the door. The soldiers had just finished herding their prisoners together when the Major slammed the barn door shut. The only light came in through cracks in the door and the walls, painting dusty streaks in the dirt and hay and casting shadows on an overturned wagon.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the lead soldier demanded, drawing his sword.

  “Three guesses,” Nicolas said. “One, you’re caught. Two, you’re too dull to recognize an enemy when he’s staring you in the face. Or three, you’re caught.”

  Marja and the other members of the Major’s band appeared from behind the wagon and out from under the straw. A few jumped down from the loft overhead and landed on the packed earth. All had their swords drawn and waiting.

  “You can surrender now,” Nicolas said softly.

  The soldier lowered the tip of his sword. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think so.”

  There was a sudden cry from above as one of the Major’s Gypsies hurtled down from the loft. He landed on one of the captives with a shout of “Fake!” The next instant he was dead—killed by a long knife drawn from beneath the clothes of a blood-smeared Gypsy.

  The soldier lunged forward. Nicolas barely had enough time to jump out of the way. Their swords clashed, but Nicolas proved faster than his adversary. He cut the man down with one swift thrust. In the next moment his sword rang again, this time crossed with that of a man dressed in the colourful, dirty rags of the Wandering Race. The man’s sword slashed Nicolas’s uniform but missed his flesh.

  The barn rang with the battle. Nicolas’s compatriots, outnumbered two to one, fought like cornered wildcats. Bear roared out of a stall and knocked the enemy over with his furious strength. But the men in disguise—mercenaries or High Police, whichever they were—had the advantages of training and surprise.

  Nicolas had defeated two more men, one with Peter’s help, when he found himself battling a giant. A quick flip of his wrist at just the right time wrenched the huge man’s sword from him, but Nicolas dropped his own in the action. A moment later the wind was knocked out of him as the giant charged into him. They burst through the barn door and into the dusty field.

  The man’s hands closed around Nicolas’s throat, and he fought for breath. Spots danced across his vision as he pulled his legs up and rammed his feet into the giant’s stomach. The man’s hands loosened as he let out a startled puff of air. Nicolas dragged air into his lungs and choked on the dust. The man’s hands tightened around his throat again, and a massive knee drove into his stomach.

  Strains of music passed wildly through Nicolas’s mind as his eyes lost sight. He heard the Father-Song, loud and furious, and behind it the harmonies—the two other strains needed to make up the Song of the Burning Light. Voices danced through the music. He heard the lament of the Shearim, dying their long death in the air all around him; the River-Daughter calling him; Marja screaming his name. Then the Major’s voice: “Marja, come back!”

  His eyes had grown dark. He heard the grass growing, the thoughts-that-were-not-thoughts of the worms in the dirt under his head, the dirt that was soaking up his life.

  Help me, he thought. Or maybe he said it—though how a plea could escape his lips now he did not know.

  He woke up, and he was not dead. Marja was with him. Marja was cradling his head in her lap, and her hair was falling over his face. His body jolted. He heard the clatter of wheels. They were passing over the ruts in a road.

  “Where are we?” he asked, but the words did not come out as words, only as a groan.

  “Hush,” Marja said. He heard tears in her voice and felt them on his face.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. This time, half the words came out the way they were supposed to.

  “To join our brethren,” she said.

  “Where are—” he started to ask.

  “Oh, would you hush?” she answered.

  “No,” he said. “Where—”

  “The Major and Peter are safe,” she said, sobbing as she said it. “They got away. No one else.”

  “We didn’t?”

  “No, Nicolas, we didn’t. We were taken.”

  “Bear…”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She bent her face close to his so their foreheads touched and her tears ran over his face. “I’m so sorry.”

  Nicolas was still fighting for comprehension. His whole body hurt—his throat when he talked screamed at him to stop. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

  “You came back for me?” he asked. “I heard the Major call to you.” His words were coming out almost normally now, even though Marja could barely talk from crying.

  “Yes, I came back,” she said. “What if I did?”

  He closed his eyes and remembered her telling him,“Love is a choice. Love is the decision to be there when you’re needed.”

  He opened his eyes again and surveyed her face. She had stopped crying, and the look on her face was as brave as it could be, defensive against him. He smiled a little. Of course, he knew now—the river had led him to her, just as surely as it had brought him to his father.

  Marja was a part of the song, too.

  “You came back bec
ause you love me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Will you marry me?” he asked.

  She sobbed with her face next to his. “Yes.”

  He kissed her forehead gently. And he heard it then: the second strain of the Song of the Burning Light. He heard it clearly and beautifully there in the prison wagon, as they bumped over the ruts in the road. The bruises on his neck hurt, and he could smell Marja’s hair. It was the Lover-Song, and it was beautiful.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Gifted

  It was mid-spring, and the Green Isle was living up to its name. Shannon O’Roarke balanced a shepherd’s crook across her knees as she watched the play of children and lambs on the mountain pastureland that swept down to the sea. The air smelled sweet with new green shoots, and a coquettish breeze blew the sounds of surf and laughter up the mountainside to the stone where she sat, absently tearing pieces of grass into her skirt.

  She had gone with the four clann children, who had abandoned their task of sheep watching in favor of romping in the grass. Two black and white dogs played with them, and the white wolf—whose presence Shannon had at last come to accept, as she accepted Miracle’s, without question or fear.

  Miracle returned from wandering higher on the pastureland and sat down in the grass. Hours in the rose garden had perfumed her hair and skin. Shannon couldn’t help breathing a little more deeply when Miracle was beside her.