“I frightened you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“You’ve been gone a while,” Michael said. “I was about to go looking for you.”
She smiled. “No need. I wasn’t lost.”
Michael looked at her curiously, but didn’t pry. She was looking at the camp, not at him, and he followed her gaze.
“It is good that they sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow will be a long day in the midst of long days.”
“You should also sleep,” Miracle said.
He smiled. “It is my watch. And who gives you the right to wake in the middle of the night if I should sleep? Who do you think is the chieftain of this family?”
His smile disappeared when he saw the look on her face. “You’re crying,” he said. “What’s wrong? Did I say something to…”
“Of course not,” she said.
He moved close to her. She backed away—one step and no further, turning her back to him. Hesitantly he moved closer and put his arms around her. She stiffened, but then she relaxed and leaned against him, leaned into the protection of his arms.
“I wish you didn’t ever have to let go,” she said.
“I don’t,” he whispered.
“Yes, you do,” she said. She pulled away and turned her tear-stained face to him. He moved toward her again, desperation written across his face.
“I don’t,” he said. “Tell me that you want me to stay with you, and I’ll never leave you. I’ll never let go. I love you, Miracle.”
She closed her eyes and commanded her breathing to be still. “Oh, Michael,” she said.
“Yes?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You should never have fallen in love with me.”
And that was all. She turned and walked away. Michael was left empty-handed, staring after her. A sob broke loose from his chest and came out in a strangled cry. He turned to the fire and his sleeping people.
“I told her, Shannon,” he whispered. “I finally got up my courage and told her. Aren’t you proud of me?” His face twisted. He staggered away from the camp in search of a place where he could be completely, bitterly, alone.
When Michael O’Roarke awoke with dew on his skin, his head hurt and his fingers were clenched in a fist. He stretched them out and winced. Around him, the Clann O’Roarke prepared to leave for the city of Athrom.
Patrick pulled his tall boots on his feet and looked over at Michael’s strained face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find them.”
“I know,” Michael said, but he was unable to smile.
Shannon approached and set a bucket full of creek water on the ground. “Where’s Miracle got off to this morning?” she asked.
Michael started. “Isn’t she here?” he said.
“No,” Shannon said. “Don’t look so frightened, Michael. She’s gone off to be alone, I expect. She’ll be back.”
* * *
“You’re a liar, little brother.” The Nameless One spoke the words inches from Christopher’s ear. Christopher’s skin crawled as he turned to face his fellow. Around them, crumbling stone walls cast a deathly pall over the tiny corridor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Christopher said.
The Nameless One smiled. “The healer,” he said. “You told Master Skraetock that she had left the Green Isle. The truth is, she’s coming here.”
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know any such thing,” he said.
“I do know it,” the Nameless One said. “I saw her.”
“You used a Seeing Spell,” Christopher said. “The Master forbids anyone but himself from—”
“The Master,” the Nameless One crooned. “The Master, the Master. The Master is fallen, little brother. He is only an acolyte now, and I am the Master of the Order of the Spider.”
Christopher jerked away. “You are speaking treason,” Christopher said. “You could die for those words.”
“Who would kill me?” the Nameless One demanded. “Skraetock may pretend to control the Order. He pretends to control the Blackness itself. But he is an old fool, isn’t he? Isn’t he? Say it!”
“I want nothing to do with you,” Christopher said. “Or your rantings.”
The Nameless One tilted his head. “I am the Master now,” he said. “I am the Master now. I am the Spider. I will suck them all dry, and bring all the Blackness into myself.”
“You’re mad,” Christopher said.
The Nameless One grinned. His handsome face was hideous. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Christopher turned away and walked down the stone corridor. His footsteps echoed in the darkness as he climbed the twisting stairs to the room at the top of the tower. When he burst the door open, Moll gave a little shriek.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” he said. His stomach twisted as he said it. “It’s only me.”
“Have you come to make us ready?” Archer asked. His golden hair was dull in the grey light that came in through the tower windows. The salt air seemed to coat his eyes so that they stared like wax. One of his arms was around Seamus’s shoulders; the other held Moll to him.
“Yes,” Christopher said. “Calling up the fire for the first time can be dangerous. We can protect you with a spell, but you must be willing to receive it.”
“We are willing,” Archer said.
“Good boy,” Christopher said. He knelt and put his hand on Archer’s head. His tone was bitter. “And you will serve the Master faithfully, won’t you? He has been good to you.”
Archer’s dull eyes filled with an expression Christopher could not decipher, but it seemed as though it might take form in tears. “He can make me a man,” he said. “That is all that matters.”
* * *
A foul wind wafted up the stairs of the tower through cracks in the door of the Master’s study. Adhemar Skraetock shivered and stood. He did not turn to see who stood behind him. He did not need to. “You have been in the Pit,” he said.
The Nameless One’s voice came from the open door behind him. “Yes,” he said.
“The Pit is forbidden without my permission,” Skraetock said. “You have no right to commune with the Blackness without my knowledge and involvement.”
“Your knowledge,” the Nameless One mocked. “You knew I was there. You were too afraid to stop me.”
“The Blackness will not commune with you again,” Skraetock said. “I have spoken with the great powers beyond the Veil. They are displeased with you, for I am displeased with you.” He turned now.
“They have betrayed you,” the Nameless One said. “They are overcome by the smell of blood.”
“What are you talking about?” Skraetock said.
“You are a hypocrite,” the Nameless One said. “All your life you have worked to guard the supremacy of the Blackness. Why? So that, as our Oath says, ‘they may one day tear the Veil and take their place in the world.’ And here you are, terrified that it will happen soon. Frightened to death that your masters might come and displace you.”
“You do not understand the nature of the Blackness,” Skraetock spat.
“I understand it far better than you do,” the Nameless One said. “You hold it at bay. It has consumed me.”
“What do you plan to do?” Skraetock said.
“I will kill all the Gypsies,” the Nameless One said. “One great sacrifice.”
Skraetock paled. “That will tear the Veil.”
“Yes,” the Nameless One answered. “It will.”
“You cannot,” Skraetock said. He took a menacing step forward.
“In three nights’ time the smell of my sacrifice will rend the heavens,” the Nameless One said. He laughed. “Did you really think it was the Emperor who brought all the Gypsies to Athrom? Did you really think he did it out of spite?”
Skraetock had gone white with anger. Though he tried to answer, nothing came out of his mouth.
“I told him to do it,” the Namel
ess One said. “He doesn’t know it, but I told him.”
“You will not remain supreme long,” Skraetock said. “The children of Thomas O’Roarke are strong. When they have joined me, I will destroy you.”
“Do you think so?” the Nameless One said. He smiled, a long, purple, insane smile. “I told the Emperor to bring the Gypsies,” he said, sing-song. “I told you to bring the children. And you did it. You both obeyed me.”
“Why?” Skraetock said, his long fingers clenched.
“I want the girl,” the Nameless One said. “And she’s coming for them. The whole world dances when I sing.”
“Not anymore,” Skraetock said. He lunged at the Nameless One. His long fingers closed around the younger man’s throat—and the Master’s eyes widened with shock as the Nameless One closed one hand around his elder’s neck and lifted him high in the air. The Master’s eyes bulged as the Nameless One tightened his grip.
“Now give to me,” the Nameless One said. The Nameless One closed his eyes and opened his mouth to breathe great gasps of air as life drained from the one-time Master of the Order. Skraetock groaned and tried to cry out as he felt power flow out of him, sucked out by the Nameless One’s grasp. He knew now, too late, what his acolyte had been doing in the Pit. He had enacted the Rite of the Spider. Only one man had ever possessed that power—the power to drain another, to claim another’s life force for his own. That man was Adhemar Skraetock.
That man died in the grasp of his former student. The Nameless One loosened his grip and let Skraetock’s body fall to the floor. He took a step backward, reeling with the shock of energy and life.
“He was strong,” the Nameless One said. “I didn’t know—” He began to laugh. “He was right,” he said, laughing hysterically. “He could have killed me. He was that strong, but I didn’t believe him.”
He stopped laughing abruptly. His chest heaved as he sucked in great breaths of air. The power he had taken even now threatened to overwhelm him: to slay him even after the Master himself had been slain. For a moment the Nameless One teetered on the edge of death, but the moment passed. He stood straight.
“Now I only am strong,” he said.
He moved to the window of the study and looked out on the swampland that surrounded the tower. The sky was grey; the air salty.
“Dance, world,” he said. “The Nameless One is singing.”
* * *
“There must be some way out,” Nicolas said.
“You must want escape badly enough,” Caspin the Cripple told him. They stood at the high extreme of the coliseum, at the very top of the wall.
“Has no one escaped?” Nicolas asked.
“Some,” Caspin said. He motioned to the city below them, its lights beginning to glimmer as the night drew near. “They jumped.”
“Then they died,” Nicolas said. “No one could survive that fall.”
Caspin shrugged. “They wanted escape. They took it as they found it.”
“Death is not an option for me,” Nicolas said.
“Why not?” Caspin asked.
Nicolas looked down. “There was a time I didn’t care if I lived or died,” he said. “I lived because it was more interesting. That’s changed now—and you of all people should know why.”
Caspin smiled, a sad, thoughtful smile. “I lost my wife here, you know,” he said. “She died of illness contracted on the road to Athrom.”
“I’m sorry,” Nicolas said. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to keep emotion back. “I never thought I’d want so badly for there to be another tomorrow.”
“Family has a way of doing that to a man,” Caspin said.
“This is no place for a family,” Nicolas said. “For any family, even one as small as mine. Marja is weak—weaker than she ought to be. I think she has deprived herself to feed me.”
Caspin cast a glance at Nicolas’s thin, still faintly bruised frame. “You needed it.”
“And besides that,” Nicolas said. “There is something I must do. Something I never finished.”
“Then find a way out,” Caspin said.
“There is no way out,” Nicolas said. He brought his fist down on the wall. The stone scraped his skin.
“If you need a way badly enough, you’ll find one,” Caspin said. He winked. “That’s all the wisdom I have left.”
The Cripple took his crutch and hobbled away. Nicolas slid down with his back against the wall. The stone felt cool on his back; the air heavy and hot. He looked down at the arena, the floor of the coliseum where his people had formed circles and danced for him not long ago. Marja was down there now, with the older women fussing over her. She was not well.
She had given him so much, he thought. She had given him love and joy—together they had given joy to the whole colony of refugees, if only for a night. She would have come with him to find the River-Daughter. She would have stayed with him till they changed the world.
He had to find a way out.
Had to.
He closed his eyes, and his lips formed words.
King of the World, he prayed. You, who Maggie believes in. You, who my own wife tells stories about—Sun-King, and Moon-King, and All-the-Stars-King. If you can hear, listen to me! Surely your hearing cannot be worse than mine. I am Gifted, they say; and you are the Giver of gifts. So if I can hear, can you not hear me?
He swallowed hard and continued. Can you not hear all of us? We need you! We need help! They say you’re coming back. Why not now?
There was no answer but silence. He put his head on his knees and began to cry, racking sobs that ached and tore at him. He was so helpless, and this trap where he lived was so without hope.
It’s your song, isn’t it? The Song of the Burning Light. You are the Father who sings the Father-Song. Then why don’t you save us? Aren’t we your children? And if you are the Lover of the Lover-Song, then why do you leave us alone?
When he opened his eyes, a man was sitting across from him. He was a young man, Nicolas thought—but then, no—he was not old, but he was somehow ancient. Nicolas blinked. The man—a young man, he decided—wore a homespun robe, and his feet were bare. His face was grave, but something about it spoke of a great shouting gladness just below his solemnity.
“You have never been alone,” he said.
“You heard me?” Nicolas asked. Something inside him was swelling, as though his spirit would burst through its shell to meet this man.
“Did you think I couldn’t?” the young man asked. “You should know better.”
“Will you get us out of here?” Nicolas asked. “Save us?”
“Yes,” the young man said. “Through you.”
“What must I do?” Nicolas asked.
“Finish your task. Free the River-Daughter.”
“From here?” Nicolas asked. “I am trapped here. I cannot even reach the river.”
“Have you not learned yet?” the young man asked. “The true path is often hidden until the time comes to take it. You have been called, Nicolas Fisher. We have not released you from that call.”
“Where are you going?” Nicolas asked, alarmed. Before his eyes, the young man was beginning to fade.
“Away,” he answered, “and not away. I will see you soon. You are never alone, Nicolas Fisher.”
He was gone in the next instant. Nicolas shook his head in wonder and frustration.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered.
“Nicolas?” It was Marja. She looked amused as she climbed up to the level where Nicolas sat. “Is there some reason you’re talking to yourself?”
Nicolas jumped up. He took her in his arms and kissed her suddenly. “I’m leaving,” he said.
She looked down and nodded. “Where?” she asked.
“I’m going to find a way out,” he said.
“Is that even possible?” Marja asked.
“He didn’t tell me,” Nicolas said, looking up.
“Who?”
Nicolas knew the answer. “T
he King,” he said.
“You spoke with him?”
Nicolas looked in her eyes and smiled. “I think I did.”
Marja smiled back and stepped away. “Hurry back,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
The sun was beginning to set, and Nicolas felt a sudden urgency. He took Marja’s arm. Together they descended the side of the coliseum to the floor, where Nicolas found Caspin the Cripple and pulled him aside.
“I am leaving,” he said. “Take care of her.”
Caspin nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“Find what you are looking for, Nicolas Fisher,” Caspin said. “We have no hope left but you.”
Nicolas turned away, tearing his eyes from the old man and the woman he loved. He climbed back to the top of the wall, stood on the edge, and looked out on the city of Athrom. A breeze blew from the purple, sun-streaked west. Nicolas’s legs shook. He imagined the hopelessness of those who had found escape by jumping. From this very height. Perhaps from this very spot.
Far away in the west was a break in the clouds. Nicolas watched the edge of the dark orange sun dip below the horizon. It was gone, and the air smelled of dusk. The purple in the skies blended with the dark of the coming night.
The air shifted and changed, and a heavy-silk voice spoke in Nicolas’s ear.
Close your eyes, Nicolas Fisher.
Nicolas obeyed. For a moment he wondered if he had lost his balance—if he was not now falling from the height of the wall—escaping, but escaping alone. Through closed eyes he saw a flash of rainbow colours and what might have been the sorrowful faces of the Shearim. Then the voice spoke with a hundred other, quieter voices, all of them sounding at once in his ears—Open your eyes and see.
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