The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “Wait here,” Rehtse said, and she ducked away into the night while Virginia stood in her constant darkness, wondering where “here” might be and hoping Rehtse would not be long.

  Something in the woods unnerved her. Something hung in the air—a rank scent; a heaviness. She wished to sense the presence of Llycharath, but the night was deathly still.

  Not far away, Rehtse peered through the trees at the single fire that burned in the midst of the Gypsy encampment, shining on the painted sides of the wagons. The wagons had been drawn close in a small clearing. Shadows on the other side of the camp betrayed the presence of watchmen. Satisfied that these were friends, Rehtse straightened and walked forward.

  “Stop there,” a voice called. She stood still. Two young Gypsies emerged from the trees, arrows pointed at her throat. Rehtse smiled and bowed, knees to the earth. “My lords,” she said.

  The foremost of the watchmen could not have been more than seventeen. He cleared his throat. “Rise,” he said. “Look, who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I am a friend,” Rehtse said, “of Pravik and of the Gypsies—a priestess of the Darkworld. I come seeking asylum from the soldiers in these mountains and safe passage to a western road.”

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” the second boy demanded. “How do we know you’re not really the w—”

  The first boy cut his companion off. “Peace, she’s not the witch. She’s a Darkworlder. I know the look of them.”

  The boys lowered their arrows. Rehtse arose and dusted off her skirt. “Better come with us,” the first boy said. His forehead was creased with care. His face was young, but his eyes were haunted—he had seen trouble in his young life. Rehtse’s heart moved with compassion for him, and for a moment she regretted bringing him still more trouble.

  But the path of the King had to be followed, no matter how it led.

  The young man held out his arm for Rehtse, a courtly gesture. She smiled and took it, then cocked her head. “Have I seen you before?” she asked.

  “Could be,” the lad answered. “I’m called Darne. I lived in Pravik before the men went to Athrom. I helped dig into the caverns when they found the Darkworld. I’d know your kind anywhere.”

  As Darne led Rehtse into the center of the camp, he let out a signal that was a cross between a whistle and a bird call. A wagon directly across from the fire burst open, and the lithe figure of a young man jumped out and stood in the firelight with his arms crossed.

  Rehtse caught her breath at the sight of him. There was something in him that stirred her spirit. Only as she drew near and knelt once more did she realize that his eyes were the colour of fire.

  “Who is this?” the Gypsy asked.

  “I am Rehtse of the Darkworld,” she said. “I come seeking shelter from the High Police, for myself and a companion.”

  The boys exchanged looks. They hadn’t know there was anyone else with her.

  “Why should we shelter you?” the young man demanded.

  “In the name of justice,” Rehtse said, “for it was my people who rescued yours in Athrom, and at the behest of my companion. And in the name of the King.”

  She felt the young man’s hand on hers, and he pulled her to her feet. His fiery eyes took her in with piercing rapidity, and then he bowed from the waist, firelight glinting from a ring of gold in his ear.

  “I am Nicolas Fisher,” he said. “Leader of this band. And we are all at your service, priestess.” He straightened. “Darne, Rolto, bring this woman’s companion here. Bring her with honour. If we were saved at her behest, then she is the Seer of Pravik.”

  Rehtse told them where to find Virginia. As the boys melted into the shadows, Rehtse and Nicolas were joined at the fire by a beautiful young woman with a tiny babe in her arms. The woman took Rehtse in with the same piercing gaze possessed by her husband.

  “My wife,” said Nicolas, “Marja. And our daughter.”

  Rehtse smiled at the sight of the baby nestled against her mother. Marja nodded in greeting but said nothing, querying Nicolas with a gaze he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked beyond the fire, searching the darkness until Virginia appeared. When she did, he rushed to take her hand. “Seer,” he said. “We are honoured.”

  “What are you doing here?” Marja asked, directing the question at both the newcomers.

  Virginia answered. “We are seeking the King,” she said. “But soldiers waylaid us, and we have escaped. The High Police fill these woods. They have surrounded Pravik.”

  Marja frowned. “How can this be? We have seen nothing of them.”

  “But we have not been looking,” Nicolas said. “Are you sure of this?”

  “Your own movements were reported to their commander earlier this night,” Virginia said. “That is how we knew how to find you. They seem inclined to let you pass without troubling you. But they are watching everything that happens in the city.”

  Nicolas and Marja exchanged a troubled glance. Marja spoke, her voice bitter. “So it begins again.”

  “Nothing has begun yet, so far as we can tell,” Virginia said. “Only watching. But there is more. The soldiers reported that a great evil lurks in these woods.”

  “That we do know,” Marja said. “The witch Evelyn. She met and cursed us on the road three days ago.”

  Virginia started. “Cursed you?”

  “Indeed,” Marja said with a sarcastic smile. “It is a miracle all our wheels have not fallen off and our hair still remains in our heads.”

  Rehtse smiled. “More luck?” she said softly. Virginia didn’t respond. Instead, she asked Nicolas and Marja, “Did she have a man with her?”

  “She did,” Nicolas said. “A tall fellow. Her slave, from the look of him.”

  Virginia nodded. Rehtse could see the pain etched across her face—the pain of memory, and perhaps of regret. “Why is Evelyn here?” Virginia asked. The question seemed directed at herself as much as anyone else.

  “For no good purpose,” Marja said. “She curses us in vain, for we are protected by my husband.” She laid a slender hand on Nicolas’s shoulder. “He is blessed of the King, and so no curse clings to us. But do not think we underestimate her.” Her voice lowered a little, and she addressed Virginia. “We know, Seer of Pravik, something of what you have suffered.”

  “But soldiers too,” Nicolas said. “Is it too much to think they have been working together?”

  “Not they,” Rehtse said. “The commander who took us captive said Evelyn had declared war on them.”

  Another voice, behind them, snorted. “Good. Let them all bash their brains out against each other. The witch versus the High Police. A fine match. May the contestants all equally fall.”

  “Amen,” Marja muttered. Amusement gleamed in Nicolas’s eyes. “Hiding in the shadows, Major? Come out and greet our guests.”

  From behind one of the wagons, the tall, broad-shouldered Gypsy leader called the Major peeled himself out the shadows. A dark form waited behind him—a great animal, Rehtse realized, black and powerful. The animal came snuffing out of the shadows and nosed Marja’s hand. She pushed it away impatiently.

  The Major took Virginia’s hand and kissed it. He nodded to Rehtse. “You are welcome, the both of you,” he said, “to the camp of Nicolas Fisher, for I no longer lead this ragged band. But your news is ill.”

  “I wish that it was otherwise, Major,” Virginia said.

  “As do we all,” Nicolas finished. “But enough regrets. We have a problem now. Advise me, friends, what shall we do?” He caught the worried look on Rehtse’s face and hastened to assure her. “Don’t be afraid—we will of course give you safe escort through the mountains. That is, some of us will. But we can’t just pass out of the mountains without sending word to Pravik.”

  “That is not all,” Virginia said softly. “A contingent has left Pravik for Athrom. They will be there already—I wish with all my heart we could have warned them first.”

  Darkness passed ove
r Nicolas’s face. “For Athrom? Why?”

  “The High Police came to the city five days ago,” Virginia said, “led by General Merlyn Cratus. They invited the Ploughman to Athrom to speak with the emperor about forming a peaceful alliance. He felt he had no choice but to go.”

  Marja burst out with a sound of mingled horror and outrage. “Ay,” she said, “have they lost their minds?”

  “I should have been with them,” Virginia said, “but Professor Huss sent me away to seek the King—unknown to the others.”

  “And the professor himself?” Nicolas asked.

  “Gone to Athrom,” Virginia said. “With the Ploughman, and Maggie and Pat… and several of his men, of course. Now I fear they’ve been betrayed.”

  “Did they truly expect anything less?” Marja spat. “They walk into a den of dragons and expect a gentle welcome?”

  “Peace, Marja,” Nicolas said.

  The Major took a pipe from his mouth and blew out a puff of smoke. “Are you sure you two weren’t seen?” he said.

  “As sure as we can be,” Rehtse answered. “They sounded no alarm at our escape, and the High Police cannot see in the dark.”

  “We won’t arouse their suspicions by setting out now,” Nicolas said. “Much as I’d like to be out of these mountains. Marja, will you take our guests and find them a safe place to sleep? New clothes, too. Especially the priestess. Those robes look like nothing anyone else in these mountains would wear.”

  Marja nodded, handed her baby to the Major, and linked her elbows through Virginia’s and Rehtse’s. Nicolas looked into the forests beyond them.

  “Then come back to me,” he said. “We’ve got plans to make, and I need your quick head.”

  Marja’s eyes sparkled, but she said nothing in reply—only turned her guests toward a garish purple wagon and led them quickly into hiding.

  * * *

  Chapter 6: City of Dragons

  When morning came, Pat crouched in front of Maggie and cocked an eyebrow, holding up a bar of soap. “Are you going to ready yourself to meet the emperor?” she asked.

  Maggie looked down at her travel clothes, dusty from the road. “I am ready.”

  “Cratus will not be pleased if you don’t at least try to make yourself presentable,” Pat said.

  “I am not concerned about pleasing Cratus,” Maggie countered. “But for my leader, I’ll put myself to the necessary pains. Ploughman?”

  He smiled. “If Libuse was here, she would say we should all look our best. We are the heralds of a new world, are we not?”

  “The new world is more often dusty than not,” Maggie said. “But you are right.”

  Obediently, Maggie and Pat took themselves to a washing room in the same wing of the palace, pulling rumpled dresses from their sacks—Pat’s dark purple, Maggie’s light green—washing their faces, and combing their hair. They did not, Maggie thought, look much better.

  Pat made a face at herself in the mirror. “Shabby excuses for ladies of the court,” she said. “But at least we tried.”

  Maggie smoothed out her dress. She thought of Libuse for a moment and wondered if the princess of Pravik was thinking of them.

  Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. The Ploughman was here. Of course Libuse’s thoughts were with them. Besides, they were here to decide the future of Libuse’s ancient city and people.

  Surely, nothing transpiring in the Eastern Lands was more pressing than that.

  A knock came at the door, and Pat took Maggie’s hand as she had so often when they were small girls and Maggie was too afraid to go into some mad exploration on her own. Pat had always been the confident one, the adventurer.

  “Ready, little friend?” Pat asked softly.

  Maggie smiled. She squeezed Pat’s hand. “As ready as you are,” she answered.

  They stepped into the hall where the men were gathering. The Ploughman wore a deep green cloak, and she recognized the skillful touches of Libuse’s embroidery in its gilt edging. A single silver thread woven into the lining by his throat glimmered, and for an instant Maggie thought she heard the strains of the night before once again.

  The air around the Ploughman seemed to shift with golden energy. They all felt it. Golden Warriors in waiting, their unseen presence pulsing around their human leader. Professor Huss, too, looked straight and regal. His red-grey beard was neatly combed, and he wore the long crimson robes of a teacher.

  Rivan bowed as he approached their leaders and held out a slender sword. “Professor,” he said. “Will you bear arms with us?”

  Jarin Huss chuckled as his fingers closed around the hilt and he gingerly lifted the sword. “I would hardly know how to use it.”

  “For ceremony,” Rivan said.

  “For ceremony,” Huss repeated, but the look on his face was grave as he buckled the sword onto his belt.

  Footsteps in the marble hall announced the approach of Harutek and his warriors, dressed in ceremonial armour—ceremonial like Huss’s sword, but still useful in a fight. Cratus’s men were nowhere to be seen; servants lingered at a distance.

  “We will keep together,” the Ploughman said, meeting Harutek’s eyes and then those of his men. “If anything goes amiss, gather round me. The High Police are only men; I can protect us, and we can break free from an attack, but only if we act as one.”

  “We hope for better things,” Harutek said.

  “Of course,” the Ploughman said. “There will be no attack. All will be well. We hope for that.”

  The Ploughman smiled and offered his arm to Pat. With a bow, Harutek held out his hand to Maggie. The farmers formed a loose line behind them. Cratus would have said they should stay behind. Who brought peasants into the presence of an emperor?

  We do, Maggie thought, her heart smiling. We of Pravik do.

  They passed down a long, polished hall, its marble floor and white pillars gleaming. The walls and ceiling were painted with ornate murals. Vases and statues sat in lit hollows in the walls. Ahead of them, two enormous, polished golden doors awaited.

  As they drew near, four servants took hold of rings in the doors and drew them open.

  Maggie caught her breath as the opulence of the throne room opened before her eyes. The sun streamed in through windows of translucent stone. Six massive marble pillars held up the high ceiling, so high that Maggie didn’t bother tipping her head to see it all. Chandeliers hung to half the room’s height, crystal suspended in gold frames. Paintings as high and narrow as the golden doors hung all around the room, depicting Bryllan, the Eastern Lands, Italyan vineyards, Fjordland in the North Country, the Green Isle, Galce, the distant islands, spacescapes, the wonders of the natural world.

  Ranks of High Police stood between the paintings, ringing the room like a second, living wall.

  On a dais at the focal point of the room, a high throne carved of ivory and adorned with gold sat empty.

  Before it, on the steps leading to the throne, hunched a man in soiled clothes of linen and gold.

  His hair was long and thick, curls an unruly mass around his head. His beard had grown untrimmed for some time, a second mass of curls around his face. He was too thin for his clothes, and his eyes darted back and forth with the air of a cornered animal.

  As they drew closer, Maggie could see the hunched man’s little fingers twitching, rapidly, with such violence that they shook his hands and threatened to put his entire body into tremours. He looked up suddenly, and Maggie caught her breath at the madness in his eyes.

  She looked past him to the empty throne as dread seized her. A familiar figure stepped out from behind it.

  Merlyn Cratus smiled down at them, but there was no friendliness in his eyes.

  “Cratus,” the Ploughman said, his voice low, “what is this?”

  “Did I not tell you,” Cratus said, “that much would be revealed in the presence of the emperor?”

  The madman shook at Cratus’s words. “Bow!” he shrieked. “Bow before me, the lord of the earth!” />
  Maggie’s mouth dropped as she turned incredulous eyes away from the Ploughman and looked again at the madman.

  “It can’t be,” she said.

  “What can’t?” Cratus asked. “Is it the emperor’s madness you doubt? Or that a soldier could rule in his place? Or perhaps it is your own foolishness that you find hard to grasp?”

  “You have brought us here on false pretenses, general,” the Ploughman said. The air around him was beginning to shift, to glitter as though full of gold dust. Pat let go of his arm, and Maggie saw her reaching for a dagger she had tucked into her sash. She took a step closer to them, her senses heightening as she recalled the Ploughman’s words. Keep close together. We can escape, if only—

  She stopped when she felt a sharp point in her back, and with a gasp she stood a little straighter.

  “Keep quiet,” Harutek murmured. “I am trying to help you.”

  “I suggest you calm yourself, Ploughman,” Cratus said. “You place great confidence in yourself, but think. More than one of your people will die if you attempt to use your… Gift… here.”

  Maggie cried out as the knife point dug into her back, and suddenly Harutek was dragging her forward, away from the others—away from the safety of the Ploughman’s protection. Great King, help me, she prayed.

  “Harutek!” the Ploughman roared, and in the same instant Professor Huss lurched forward with his sword in his gnarled hands, his eyes wild with fear for Maggie. Clumsy and uncertain, he attacked.

  “Stay back!” Maggie cried, but it was too late—wrenching her arm behind her back, Harutek defended himself by driving his knife into Professor Huss.

  The old man cried out and fell to the floor, blood seeping through his crimson robes. His eyes were fixed on Maggie’s face. She fought back a wild sob. Harutek pulled her closer and held his knife at her throat. He was breathing hard, his voice shaking.

  “Do not try to escape,” he said. “They will only kill us all.”