The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “Why?” Archer said. He heard his own voice quaver.

  Skraetock smiled again. “Come now,” he said. “No secrets. We all know that you are not normal children.” Something under Skraetock’s cloak moved and yowled. He reached inside and drew out a black cat. Moll and Seamus smiled and exclaimed despite themselves, ignoring Archer’s fierce scowls in their direction.

  “This is Nowl,” Skraetock said. “I brought him to keep you company—I had almost forgotten, can you imagine that? I must be getting very old indeed.”

  Skraetock set the cat down. It padded across the floor to the children, holding its long black tail in the air. It jumped up on the seat and looked around it with green eyes, suffering in silence while Seamus petted it and scratched its ears.

  Moll pulled free from Archer and leaned over to pet the cat. Archer reached out to stop her. He touched her shoulder. The cloth of her shirt felt like smooth stone. There was no warmth, no sign of life. Archer blinked in astonishment. The children, the cat—even the smells and noises of life in the train—had become as wax, frozen and silent. Only the sound of the train wheels still met his ears.

  And then the voice of Master Skraetock.

  “They are children,” he said. “Young and innocent. You are nearly a man. It is with you that I must speak, so I have taken this moment of privacy. You do not mind, I know.”

  Archer turned his head slowly and looked at the black-robed man. Skraetock had leaned forward. His thin hands were clasped in front of him.

  “I should have come to you a long time ago,” Skraetock said. “I should have made myself known so you would not fear me now. I am not taking you from your family, Archer O’Roarke, whatever you may think. They will come after you. I am taking you all home.”

  “Our home is in the Green Isle,” Archer said. An image of the little homestead filled his mind, and to his shame he found himself fighting back tears.

  “Do you remember Thomas O’Roarke?” Skraetock asked. “Your uncle and chieftain.”

  “I was little when he died,” Archer said.

  “He was a good man,” Skraetock said. “A great man. The first of the Gifted.”

  Archer was silent.

  “I see you know what I mean by that word,” Skraetock said. “Of course you do. You are also Gifted. I am guardian of all who are like you. They come to me for protection and training. Your uncle did not. He wished to remain in the Green Isle. I urged him to reconsider but did not beg him—how since his death have I repented of that! The shadows of death are gathering around your family again, boy. I have come to keep my promise of guardianship over you. It is time you learned all that you are.”

  “Where are we going?” Archer asked.

  “To a secret place,” Skraetock said. “Where you must fulfill your destiny.”

  Archer’s stomach fluttered. His headache pulsed to the rhythm of the train, to the pounding of grey-green waves. Destiny. The word echoed in his mind. His eyes moved desperately to the wax-figure images of his cousins, but they gave him no help. He turned his gaze back to Master Skraetock. One of the old man’s hands slowly opened.

  “Do you see this, boy?” he asked.

  Archer shuddered at the sight of the black spider. “It is a symbol,” Master Skraetock continued. “The symbol of great power. I am more than just the guardian of the Gifted. I am the guardian of all the Seventh World. I am head of the Order of the Spider. We alone keep the people of this world safe from powers that would enslave them—great powers which the Gifted alone can stand against.”

  The spider was so ugly. Archer felt that Skraetock’s words must be lies. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Michael and Shannon, Grandmother and Lilac, Jack and Stocky. Miracle. They would not listen to this man. They would not sit and talk with him. They were strong and good, and he was something black and terrible.

  But he could not hold their images in his mind. The rushing of the train drowned all else out, and then the voice of Master Skraetock again, drawing him.

  “You must join us,” the Master whispered.

  A moment later the wax melted. The scene was alive again. When Archer looked up, Master Skraetock was gone.

  * * *

  “It’s too late,” Christopher told them. He had appeared at the mouth of the caves, as promised. “They’re gone.”

  “But they can’t have left the island!” Shannon exclaimed. “In a storm like this?”

  “It makes little difference,” Christopher answered. “There are powers greater than any storm.”

  “Why have they left you behind?” Michael asked.

  Christopher looked up at him with a face devoid of friendship. “To wrap up a few little details,” he said. “Like burning your homestead down.”

  “You didn’t!” Shannon said.

  Christopher looked away from her. “I can’t blatantly disobey orders.”

  “But the rain…” Stocky said.

  Christopher’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Rain cannot put out Covenant Fire,” he said.

  Miracle looked at Christopher’s hands. The tips of his fingers were grey as with soot. The spider tattoo had grown blacker than ever. She shuddered.

  “Where have they gone?” Michael asked, his voice tightly controlled.

  “Athrom,” Christopher answered. “They will take a train once they reach the mainland. They should be in the capitol in three days.”

  Michael stood. “Then there is no time to lose,” he said. “We’ll salvage what we can from the ruins and then head for the mainland ourselves. Christopher—” he stopped. Christopher’s place by the fire was empty.

  “He left when you stood,” Miracle said.

  “Thank the stars,” Shannon muttered.

  “How could he leave?” Michael demanded. “We still need his help. He could tell us—”

  “We cannot count on him,” Miracle said. “If he would renounce the Order, we could trust him completely. But he is still ruled by evil. You must have seen it in his eyes, Michael. In his hands.”

  “Aye,” Michael said.

  Kris stood and laid a massive hand on Michael’s shoulder. “If our enemies have crossed the sea already, we don’t have time to lose,” he said.

  “The longship is not big enough for all of us,” Michael said.

  “No matter,” Lilac told him. “There is a ship in the harbour that will take us.”

  “On a night like this?” Michael asked.

  “On any night,” Lilac answered. “I know the boatman. He will ferry us across.”

  Michael looked at Lilac long and hard, and she met his gaze. The slightest of smiles twitched in the corner of Michael’s eyes. Lilac dropped her eyes and blushed. She turned and busied herself with putting out the fire.

  “Let’s go then,” she said.

  Thunder and surf roared in their ears as the Clann O’Roarke followed the coast to a harbour nestled in a tight valley some miles away. The ships in the harbour danced on the water as wind and rain lashed at them. Lilac strained her eyes in the darkness.

  “There!” she called, pointing to a small ferry that strained at its moorings. “The Lady Chance. That’s her.”

  They clambered over the slippery dock but found no way to enter the ship. Lilac began to shout the name of the boatman, and the others of the clann joined in, their voices swamped under the swell of the storm.

  “He’s not here,” Michael said. “He’s wetting his throat with something other than rain, if I know anything about sailors. Stocky, Jack, Kris—come with me. The rest of you wait for us here. What is the rogue’s name, Lilac?”

  “Jonathan Flynn,” Lilac answered.

  Michael and his small party turned and disappeared through the pelting sheets of rain, following the wet glimmer of tavern lights. The others made their way off the docks, which were bucking underfoot, and stood waiting on solid ground.

  Michael burst through the doors of the first tavern he reached. It was a low-roofed, orange-lit place that smelled of bee
r and mutton stew. The men inside turned as one to face the newcomers. Jack glowered at them, and Kris folded his arms so his muscles bulged, but the men were not threatening, only curious. The clann men relaxed.

  “We’re looking for Jonathan Flynn,” Michael said. “Can you tell me—”

  He hadn’t time to finish before the bartender interrupted. “It’s Jonny Flynn you’re wanting, is it? Well, he’s not hard to find. He’s sitting there, plain as the nose on your face.”

  The bartender pointed his mutton knife to a table in a corner, where a man was slowly rising to his feet. Jonathan Flynn was a young man, but battle-scarred from his lifelong war with the sea. A long scar snaked from his right ear down his cheek, across his chin and down his neck. He wore a patch over one eye.

  “What do you want with me, eh?” Flynn asked.

  “We need the services of your boat,” Michael said.

  “What?” hooted a man from Flynn’s table. “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight,” Michael said. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  Jonathan Flynn drew himself up. “I’m no more afraid of the sea than she is afraid of me,” he said. “But we both know who’s the stronger. Respect, that’s what she needs.”

  Michael reached into a pouch at his waist and drew out a bag of coins. He threw them to Flynn, who opened the bag and examined its contents. He looked up and handed the bag back.

  “Very nice,” he said. “But I don’t care much for money except as it buys me comfort, and no amount of silver can calm that storm.”

  “Even so, we hoped you’d help us,” Michael said. “We were told you would not refuse.”

  Flynn raised an eyebrow. “And who told you that?”

  “My cousin,” Michael said. “Lilac O’Roarke.”

  Michael nearly laughed at the look that jumped into Flynn’s scarred face. “And would you be Michael O’Roarke?” he asked.

  “The same,” Michael said.

  “And do I ferry you, or Lilac?” he asked.

  “Both,” Michael said.

  “You’re mad to take her out on a night like this,” Flynn said. “You’ll risk her life.”

  “It’s risked,” Michael said. “If I could tell you everything, I would—but this is not the place.”

  Flynn stepped forward and took Michael’s arm confidingly. Michael noticed that the sailor’s left ring finger was missing. “Then let’s go find us a place where you can talk,” he said. “My ferry’s like to be noisy tonight, but there will be no unwanted ears to listen.”

  A clap of thunder broke over them the instant they stepped out of the tavern door, and the rain came down in renewed fury. Jonathan Flynn shouted to his new companions as they made their way to the dock, but no one could make out his words. They found the rest of the clann waiting for them, and Flynn led them all down the dock to the ferry.

  It was a struggle, but in the space of an hour they were all sitting on board. Most of the young men stayed on the broad deck while the women entered the small cabin.

  No one heard what Michael said to Jonathan Flynn, or what Flynn said back to Michael, but before long they were away from the dock, headed into a raging sea. Lilac emerged from the cabin long enough to stand by Flynn at the helm and say something in his ear. He looked back on her sternly.

  “Don’t tell me that,” he said. “I can see enough that things here aren’t canny—I’m helping you for my own curiosity’s sake. I may not come back alive, but if I do I’ll tell this tale for the rest of my life!”

  The tale told by Jonathan Flynn in later time was a strange one indeed. He spoke of the waves that threatened but did not kill; the storm that raged but stopped short of murdering those who ventured out in it. He told of the northern girl who left the cabin to stand on the deck and let the wind tear through her long pale hair, and of the men of the clann who fought the storm valiantly with him, but most of all he told of the strange giant he had somehow missed seeing before—a great man who stood with his long hair streaming, who threw back his head in the midst of the storm and howled like a wolf.

  They reached Galce in the thick of darkness. The wind had blown them farther south than they had planned. Jonathan Flynn refused the money Michael offered him, and he stood on deck for a long time and watched the soaked figures of his passengers disappear in the shadows of the continent.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Visions of Darkness and Light

  There was something wrong about Nowl the cat. No, there was nothing wrong with it—it could see, hear, and yowl as well as any other cat. It treated the children with legendary feline disdain. But there was something wrong about it. Something that made Kieran cry when it came near him and prickled Archer’s skin when it curled around his feet. So Archer watched with deep displeasure as Moll scooped the cat up and carried it off to play with her, under a shelf in the baggage car.

  Archer wandered through the train cars, stopping now and then to watch the beautiful Galcic forests rush past the windows. He wondered again how badly it would hurt if he threw himself off—but he couldn’t go without the little ones, and who knew what would happen if they tried to jump? Moll might catch her skirt on the train and drag—Kieran might cripple himself worse—they might be killed.

  He would not admit to himself that something else held him back. Destiny. You must join us… join us… join us.

  He didn’t look up as he pushed his way into a nearly-empty passenger car—not until he heard voices. The man called the Nameless One was talking to Seamus. His hand was full of blue fire.

  “Touch it,” he purred. “Hold out your hand. It won’t burn you.”

  Seamus stretched out his fingers and let the flames lick at his hands. The tips of his fingers turned black, but he did not pull away. His eyes widened in amazement, and deep within them hunger kindled.

  “It is a very hot fire,” the Nameless One said. “The hottest fire in the world. It does not burn you because I do not let it. I am the master of the flame. You also carry fire within you, Seamus O’Roarke. You can learn to master it. You are special.”

  “Don’t touch it, Seamus,” Archer said.

  The Nameless One looked up. His eyes narrowed. The lines of his face—a handsome face—were sharp and cruel. “Why shouldn’t he?” he hissed.

  Archer wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they stumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Master Skraetock wouldn’t like it,” he said. “He wants to teach us first.”

  The Nameless One stood. “Master Skraetock is an expert at creating puppets.” He looked down at Seamus. “Is that what you want to be? A puppet on a string? Yes, boy, Master Skraetock would teach you. He would teach you rules. He would tell you what is forbidden. But nothing is forbidden to me. I have embraced freedom.”

  He held out his hand, and the flame kindled again. Seamus reached his fingers out. Archer stepped forward swiftly and knocked the Nameless One’s hand away. “Stay away from us!” he shouted.

  The Nameless One’s face twisted with anger. He struck Archer, knocking him to the ground. He turned back to Seamus. “Give me your hand,” he commanded.

  Seamus looked down at his blackened fingers and cast a glance at Archer, who was still stunned. A look of shame passed over Seamus’s face. He hid his hands behind his back.

  “No,” he said.

  The Nameless One seemed very close to striking Seamus as well, but he restrained himself. Instead, he turned and glared at Archer. “Idiot boy,” he said. “What does the Master tell you? That you are powerful and great? Already you dance on the end of a string. Dance, boy, dance!” His voice grew dangerously quiet. “The dance will soon be over. I will speak with you”—he looked at Seamus—“later.”

  Seamus knelt by Archer and tried to help him up, but as Archer regained his senses, anger flooded through him. He jumped to his feet and ran for the back of the car, pushing aside door after door until he reached the car where Nowl the cat was purring, purring. The cat soun
ded like the Nameless One when he talked to Seamus.

  Archer grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and yanked it from Moll’s arms, ignoring her cry of protest. He held the cat against him as Moll pounded his back with her fists. He stepped out of the car onto the platform at the end of the train, where the rain still pelted down, and he lifted Nowl and threw him from the edge.

  The cat screamed, but not a cat-scream. It turned itself in the air and flew back at Archer, flapping ragged wings. Claws raked Archer’s face, and blood ran in his eyes and over his cheeks. He heard Moll screaming and crying, and he crumpled on the platform and forgot everything.

  * * *

  The Clann O’Roarke battled through the darkness and rain until Michael realized that he could hardly see the hand in front of his face.

  “Stop!” he called, letting the others pick up the call so it would carry through the lashing storm. “Stop. We’ll never find them this way.”

  Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating thick forest across the cold, soaked sand of the shore. Kris pointed to the dark mass. “Take shelter there!” he roared.

  With the white wolf at his heels, Michael forged through the wind and rain. The ancient trees kept some of the water out, though their branches lashed in the storm. In another flash of lightning, Michael spotted a dark hole beneath the roots of an enormous oak. The white wolf beat him to it, turning to look up at him with eyes that summoned him to come.

  Michael slid into the shelter, relieved to find it mostly dry. The others were likewise finding places to hide from the fury of the night. Michael watched them with his head half-out of the hole, making sure no one was left behind. Miracle was passing, and Michael reached up and grabbed her hand.

  “Here,” he said. “There is room.”

  Gratefully, she slid into the shelter. The wolf sat up, pushing its head up so that Miracle’s arms surrounded its neck. She closed her eyes, soaking up the wolf’s warmth and presence. Michael watched her with a deep pleasure he could not express, even to himself.