“Is there no one in this entire place who can perform a wedding?” he demanded of a greying old leader.
“No one who will,” returned the Gypsy. He looked on Nicolas and Marja, who was propping Nicolas up, with scorn. “To marry now is to mock us all. We’re dying, can’t you see that?”
“I can see that you’ve chosen to roll over like dogs in the dirt and give up on life,” Nicolas said. “You are your own murderers.”
“We are trapped here!” said the man.
“Your bodies are trapped here!” Nicolas said. “But you kill your own spirits.”
“Now there, boy, calm yourself,” said another voice. Nicolas spun around. He found himself looking into the smiling eyes of a small, middle-aged Gypsy on crutches. The Gypsy’s green stocking cap was perched oddly on his head, and he looked up with a crooked smile. “I’ll marry the two of you,” he said.
“You can perform a wedding?” Nicolas asked.
“You’ve never heard of Caspin the Cripple, have you?” the Gypsy said. “I am the pride and fame of my Gypsy band—most of which is here, scattered around the fires.”
“I have not heard of you,” Nicolas said. “But I think perhaps I’ve missed out.”
“Indeed,” the cripple said, laughing to himself. “But if you want a wedding, boy, there’ll be a wedding.”
Nicolas smiled, and relief washed over him. He felt suddenly dizzy and nearly fell, but Marja’s arm under him held him up. “I’m much obliged,” he said.
* * *
The summons came unexpectedly, born by two guards in gleaming fish-scale armour: the Ploughman was called before the Majesty. He went at once, descending into the strange world below with a sense that he was passing through time. He took only a small entourage with him; some of his oldest farmer friends. The guards took him straight to the throne room.
He entered to find the Majesty seated at a long table spread with maps. Harutek, Caasi, and four of the Majesty’s other sons were arrayed on either side of him. They all looked up, and the Majesty raised a regal hand in greeting. His eyes were accusing as he said, “Welcome, Sunworlder, beloved of my sons.”
The Ploughman bowed. “I thank you, Majesty.”
To his surprise, the Majesty withdrew, seating himself on his throne. The priests were silently seated in their usual places, and they looked to their king as he sat amongst them. He waved a hand. “My sons will speak with you now.”
The Ploughman looked to Harutek and Caasi. “Word has reached us that your men will go with you,” Caasi said. “They show courage and spirit. May it never be said that the Darkworlders were not equal to their guests.”
The Ploughman tilted his head.
“Yes,” Caasi said. “My brother and I will lead a contingent into battle alongside you.”
“Now,” Harutek said. “What do you plan to do?”
The Ploughman cleared his throat. “We will leave the city in small bands, under cover of night,” he said. “The High Police are arrayed around the city, but we know paths they do not. We will reconvene once we are beyond their reach and march to the city, entering it secretly if we can. We mean to find the coliseum and find a way to get the Gypsies out.”
“Without the Emperor noticing?” Caasi asked.
“We are not eager for a battle,” the Ploughman said. “This is a matter of rescue, not of aggression.”
“Indeed,” Harutek said. “But your plans will not work. You cannot take a large enough force into Athrom without being noticed, nor can you spirit the Gypsies out.”
“We have to try,” the Ploughman said.
“Undoubtedly,” Harutek answered. He tapped his pale finger on the map before him. “If the maps we have are accurate, you will never reach Athrom on foot before your enemies come to you, in greater force than you can withstand. Even if you manage to get past the troops outside of Pravik, you will be discovered and slaughtered before you reach Italya.”
“What do you suggest?” the Ploughman asked.
Harutek looked down suddenly, and Caasi spoke. “Go underland,” he said. “Take the rivers. You and your people will sail to Athrom. You will come up in the middle of the city like a volcanic fire, unlooked for and great in force.”
The Ploughman looked to the Majesty, seeking some confirmation from the king of the Darkworld. But it was Divad, the high priest, who spoke.
“It must be as the princes say,” he said. “The Darkworlders will lead you. We know our way in the darkest of places. You can bring the Gypsies back the same way, into the hidden paths you have prepared for them.”
“And if the Emperor sends his men after us?” the Ploughman asked. “Will not the rivers lead them to your doorstep?”
Here the Majesty smiled. “You underestimate us, Sunworlder,” he said. “Do not assume we are so easy to find. Without my sons to guide you, you would never find your way to Athrom. Nor would you ever come back.”
The Ploughman turned back to the princes, aware suddenly of the enormity of the trust he was being asked to place in them. He found that he could give it. In Harutek was wisdom and knowledge; in Caasi a fire that burned as truly as any in the Ploughman himself.
* * *
Virginia Ramsey passed through the corridors of underground Pravik, listening to the sounds of men preparing for battle. She could hear water lapping against boats, the clink of swords and armour, the calls of men who worked together to ready themselves. A sense of urgency filled the sounds. There was no time to waste.
She wandered alone, the sounds growing more distant and bouncing off the corridors in disorienting echoes. Alone, but not without purpose. She smiled as she heard the voices of the two she was seeking. The young voice of Caasi, seventeenth son of the Majesty, Darkworld prince. And the eerie, disinterested voice of Undred the Undecided.
She stopped, hidden in the shadows, and listened as they spoke to one another. Caasi pleaded with the man he called “friend,” seeking out some understanding. But Asa would give no explanation. His voice was human again, but Virginia knew its tones were deceptive.
“Let me out,” Asa said suddenly.
Silence answered him. Then, “Are you mad? Asa, if you would prove your allegiance, I would let you out in a heartbeat. But I am no traitor.”
“You don’t know,” Asa said. “You don’t know what lies under Athrom. I do.”
“What are you talking about?” Caasi’s voice held a growing edge of frustration. “Tell me, man.”
“Take me with you,” Asa said.
Boots scraped against rock as Caasi stood. “You will not be moved? Has nothing I have said changed your mind?”
“I am no fool,” Asa answered. “The Ploughman is not strong enough. You are not strong enough.”
“We have the right on our side,” Caasi said. “The King’s right. That is strength enough.”
Asa only laughed bitterly. Virginia listened as Caasi’s footsteps moved away in the darkness. She stayed where she was, unmoving, until Asa called out, “Who is there?”
Still she did not move. “What lies under Athrom, Undred?” she asked.
He chuckled, a desperate, empty laugh. “Death.”
“And why are you so eager to face it?” she asked.
“I do not die,” Asa said. “I am only set free.”
Virginia nodded. She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and pulled out a key from her sleeve. Without a word, she unlocked the door. She felt him move past her with a sensation of hot wind brushing by. He hissed his thanks.
She said nothing.
* * *
The Emperor Lucien Morel, Lord of the Seventh World, bid the newcomers enter. The Grand Master of the Order of the Spider bowed before the Emperor, and the Emperor inclined his head in return. Adhemar Skraetock presented a boy before him. The Emperor laid his hand on the boy’s head and blessed him, though inwardly he disdained anything so marred—the boy’s face was slashed with white scars.
Lucien Morel nodded his head to the man Christo
pher Ens, and to the un-man, the Nameless One. The Emperor watched them leave his throne room. His eyes fixed on the back of the Nameless One, and his little finger twitched.
Just before the doors of the throne room closed, the Nameless One turned his head. His eyes met the Emperor’s, and he smiled.
The Emperor’s finger jerked. Why did the Nameless One’s smile make him think of voices, of hauntings in the night? The rushing water of a nearby fountain made him suddenly nervous.
Adhemar Skraetock and his party slipped unseen through the city of Athrom. In late afternoon they stopped to drink from a clear spring, and a bird flew down and landed on a branch in front of Archer.
The boy looked at the bird and studied its feathers and its dark eyes. The bird lifted its wings, and Archer’s heart leaped. So small, so frail, the bird—and yet so free. No traps held the tiny creature. It had no power and no fear.
Archer felt other eyes on him. He turned his head and saw Master Skraetock watching him. The Master lifted a hand and moved his fingers. The bird fell dead into the stream.
* * *
Dusk fell as the Gypsies gathered and formed circles within circles. Nicolas stood in the center and looked up. He smiled, because for the first time since he had come to the coliseum, stars were shining.
And the women began to sing, a soft, lilting song; sung for hundreds of years by the Wandering Race whenever two of their people made the ancient promise of fidelity—that they would wander together, not apart, forever until the end.
* * *
Black water lapped black rock under flickering torchlight, and the men of two worlds bowed their heads as Divad raised his hands and spoke.
“Blessed be the King of the World, who teacheth our hands to war,” he intoned. “Blessed be those who lay down their lives for the right.”
The Ploughman listened with his eyes fixed on the cavern ceiling, searching beyond the rock for a glimmer of light. Golden light. He was not alone. He knew that now.
In a boat behind him, a tall man sat with his limbs pulled in, his face shadowed by the hood of his cloak. His eyes were fixed on the leader of Pravik, the one who had tried to force him to choose allegiance. Asa had chosen his allegiance, though no other knew it. He listened to the words of the high priest with distaste, feeling only the slightest of pangs as he remembered what it felt like to believe in something greater than himself.
* * *
The lilting song ended and the circle parted. Marja entered. An old woman held her left hand and another old woman held her right, and a tiny child stepped solemnly before them. Nicolas lifted his own hands and stretched them out to her.
The old women let go and stepped back, and Marja put her hands in Nicolas’s.
* * *
“Blessed be those who hope for the King’s return,” Divad said.
“May he come soon,” said his five attendant priests. “And may he look kindly on us.”
“May he forget our betrayals and remember this day,” Divad said. “May he look kindly on the warriors of the Darkworld who go forth to join his army.”
* * *
Marja spoke with all the warmth of her race in her voice, her eyes lately marked by suffering but alive despite it all. “This promise I make to thee, Nicolas Fisher, that where you wander I will go; that where you fly I will follow.”
He spoke with the same warmth back to her, aware that every word was his choice. His choice to love. His choice to run no longer. “And this promise I return to you, Marja of the Sky, that where I wander I will shelter you, and where I fly I will soar with you.”
* * *
“The journey is nearly over,” Kris of the Mountains said.
“We failed to catch them,” Michael said. “They are already in Athrom.”
“Have you thought what we will do when we reach them?” Kris asked.
“We will get our children back,” Michael answered.
“And we will make the spider tremble!” Gwyrion said, and his eyes flashed like the lightning in a wolf’s eyes.
* * *
“In the sight of these many witnesses are these hands joined,” said Caspin the Cripple. His voice dropped as the ceremony ended, and he smiled. “Hope lives!” he shouted. “There is yet a future for the Wandering Race! Do not stand there in silence, cousins. Rejoice!”
* * *
“Go forth with courage, my sons,” said the Majesty. “My people. Let the Sunworld know the valour of those who have lived hidden lives.”
“And my people,” said the Ploughman, standing in his boat. “You who have fought well and hard with me. I see you now, and I am grateful to be one of you.”
All but Asa’s eyes looked back to the Ploughman with a quiet solidarity that took their leader’s breath away. Pravik had chosen—to follow him. To do right.
The water stirred as the long river boats pushed away toward the south, and the current caught them and swept them forward.
* * *
The Gypsies joined hands and danced in circles within circles. They sang, and the crippled hearts took flight once more.
Archer closed his eyes and concentrated on the burning inside him, and the iron serpent journeyed ever farther south.
The darkness rushed past a hundred river boats in the deepness of the earth.
The Nameless One smiled over his own secrets.
A full moon rose, and Gwyrion threw back his head and howled.
* * *
Chapter 14
Through the Veil
Iron wheels ground against the track in a sparking screech. The train lurched to a stop and settled, hissing. The Clann O’Roarke descended from the train cars and gathered around the still-smoking engine.
“This is far as she takes us,” Michael said. Below them, city lights glowed in the night. “Athrom. The end of our line.”
Miracle drew her cloak around her shoulders and shivered in the night air. A dove fluttered down from the train and came to rest on her shoulder.
“All those lights,” Jack said. “I never knew a city could be so big.”
“How will we ever find them?” Jenna echoed.
“We will,” Stocky said. “They are there. Somewhere.”
Shannon shook her head. “Are they?” she asked. “How do we know? Those men could have taken them anywhere, and we wouldn’t know it.”
“No,” Miracle said. “They have gone to the city. I am sure of it.” Her voice was faint. Kris put his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you well?” he asked.
Miracle nodded and attempted to smile. “As well as I can be, Kris of the Mountains,” she said. The look on his face said that he didn’t believe her, but he stepped ahead to join Michael and left Miracle by herself.
“Kris of the Mountains,” Miracle repeated quietly. “Will I ever see those mountains again?” The white wolf appeared at her side and pushed his head up under her hand. She stroked his silvery fur and looked to the horizon again.
“As well as I can be,” she whispered. “Better. I know now what I must do.”
Half an hour’s debate yielded the decision to camp for the night. Michael sat with Kris and the young men around the fire, making plans. Shannon and the younger girls leaned against each other and tried to sleep, and no one noticed when Miracle left the camp with a tread so light it would not have wakened a mouse. Nor did anyone notice when the white wolf raised its great head to look after her, and then stood and glided into the darkness behind her.
Two miles from the camp was a stand of birch trees, much like those that grew in the north. Miracle stopped beneath their rustling leaves, letting herself imagine for a moment that she was at home again. She felt rather than heard the footsteps approaching behind her.
“Do I do right, Spirit of the Wild Things?” she asked.
The answer was a deep growl that changed timbre until it became a rich voice. “Only you can know.”
“Then yes,” she said. She turned so her eyes could take in the strong form beh
ind her. “There is no other way.”
“There is one,” Gwyrion answered.
“And I want to take it,” Miracle said. “But I cannot allow myself to run. What sort of person would I be if I could allow them to sacrifice themselves when I can prevent it?”
“You would be a weak human being,” Gwyrion said.
“I am a weak human being,” Miracle answered. “But I withstood the Order once, though they nearly killed me—and they may kill me yet. I believe it was the King who gave me strength.”
Gwyrion looked up through the break in the trees. His eyes reflected the moonlight. “The King is the great giver of strength,” he said. “I have been called the bounding step of the deer, the running strength of the wolf, the leaping power of the salmon. I exult in strength. I rejoice in power. But all that I am, I am because the King lives. He is the heart of the world.”
“You speak the truth,” Miracle said. “Of that I am sure.”
“It is not really strength you need,” Gwyrion said. “That you have in abundance, for I will go with you. What you need is love.”
Miracle turned and looked in the direction of the camp. “I have that,” she whispered.
“Then you will not fail,” Gwyrion said. “Love holds fast and never fails.”
She couldn’t go on just then. She walked the two miles back to camp in the moonlight. Gwyrion stayed near, but he did not show himself again. Miracle walked until she reached the crest of a little hill looking down on the dying campfire and the clann clustered around it. Her eyes searched the faces of the sleepers, traced the suffering and determination in their expressions. She smiled sadly. And then a twig cracked. Her heart jumped and pounded in her throat, and she turned to face Michael.
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