Pravik, he knew, was not much farther up the mountains. And Pravik was calling him, drawing him inexorably in a way that even he did not entirely grasp, because for the moment he was too small to grasp something so powerful and significant.
Stray knew who he was, and he knew that in Pravik significance would break out and nothing would be able to hold it back. But for now, he kept some things at bay so that he could enter more fully into others. He could feel Pravik like a shadow on the road, putting a chill and a silence into the air. He wasn’t afraid of the shadow. But for now, he wasn’t rushing into it either.
He pushed open the door of the dressmaker’s shop and drifted into the smell and vivid colours of cloth and thread and leather, wandering in and out of bolts of fabric and finished pieces of clothing hanging on racks. He let fine cloaks brush his face and breathed them deeply.
“You there!” a sharp voice called. He turned and smiled up at the dressmaker, who returned his smile with a frown. “What do you think you’re about?” she asked.
“Just looking, ma’am,” Stray said.
“Well, get out,” the woman said. “I don’t want your kind here.”
Stray frowned, his small brow wrinkling appealingly. “What kind?” he asked.
“Strays,” the woman snapped. “Vagabonds and thieves.” She looked him up and down, and she shook herself as though to rid herself of some unearthly impression. “And not entirely normal, either. Have you come from Pravik, child?”
“No,” Stray said. “I’m going there.”
Something in her countenance momentarily faltered. Motherly instinct pricked at her, and she lowered her voice. “Where’s your mother, boy?”
Stray looked at her for a moment and then said, “You could be my mother.”
“Shame,” the woman said. “What are you trying to say?”
Stray leaned forward, his face entirely earnest. “If you’ll do what’s right,” he said, “I’ll call you mother.”
The woman laughed, a laugh that was both mocking and insecure. “What’s right,” she said.
“Everything is changing,” Stray said. “The Blackness is coming here, and so is the King. And if you do what’s right, I’ll call you mother.” He leaned forward and patted her hand. “And then everything will be all right.”
She was clearly shaken now, and she looked at him in disbelief. He went on. “Do you remember my Seer?” he asked. “And my Singer? From Pravik?”
A memory of two young women, one red-haired and timid, the other dark-haired and blind, came to the woman’s mind. She nodded.
“They’re coming here,” Stray said. “Take care of them when they get here. They have to go to Pravik too, and they will be hungry. Give them food and something to drink.” He looked down and shifted his weight. The floor was smudged red where he had been standing. He looked up apologetically. “And give me something to wrap my feet?” he asked.
* * *
Many hours later, the sun was sinking over the mountains, and Stray shivered in the night air. Pravik was just above, its walls visible from here, black against the fading light. He gathered sticks and twigs and arranged them as Roland had shown him to make a fire, and then, looking around as though feeling guilty, he held his hands over the twigs and waited until a fire flickered in the heart of them.
Satisfied, he sat down and closed his eyes against the aching in his feet. He soaked up the warmth of the fire and listened to it crackling.
Clouds had gathered across the sky, blocking the stars and the moon as they rose to replace the sun, but Stray did not sleep. The fire flickered. The night felt full of menace. Even the usual sounds of the forest had stilled.
Stray did not know how much time had passed when he heard the sound. A rustling, a flapping of wings. He searched the forest around the clearing and was startled to find the source of movement closer to hand—in the clearing with him.
Just beyond the edges of the dim firelight, something was materializing out of the dark. Something glowing amber. He saw two golden lights, burning lamps in the dark.
No, not lamps. Eyes.
It was watching him.
Stray tried to count the minutes as they slipped by, but the night was too full of things that last an eternity. Strangeness. Threat.
And then the night began to lighten to grey as the moon slipped out from the clouds, and the watcher’s shape took form. It seemed to be made of black rags—or perhaps feathers—it seemed to crawl on all fours, but then it seemed to be a man, hunched over and spindle-legged.
It ambled over the ground toward the campfire, and Stray looked straight at it. They were not human eyes that looked back at him: they were pupil-less, the colour of liquid amber, and they smoldered. Stray described them to himself as he looked at him—it—because nothing else about it could be described. The creature was a mess of impressions knit together. Man, bird, fire, amber; not human, not animal; too physical to be spirit and too ethereal to be physical.
It made Stray sad.
It crept closer until it was nearly touching him. The creature’s face was only inches away.
“Hello, Undred,” Stray said.
The creature cocked its head with a jerky, bird-like movement.
“Who art thou?” the creature asked. It reached out a golden hand and smoothed a strand of hair away from Stray’s eyes. “I have seen thine eyes before.”
“You have to take sides, Undred,” Stray said seriously. “There is no more time.”
A shiver passed through the creature. The amber in its eyes was swirling with thought. Then another convulsion; all the black feathers of the thing stood on end.
“What are you doing here?” Stray asked.
“Waiting for the Seer,” the creature said. It ducked its head. “Dangerous things are tearing through the Veil. I will take care of her.” Its voice lowered, and it crooned the words. “I will keep her safe until he comes.”
Stray shook his head. “That’s not true,” he said. “You want her so you can protect yourself. You think you can trade her because the witch wants her and the King loves her.” The frown lines on his small face deepened. “You are waiting to kidnap her. It is wrong, Undred. If you do it you are choosing sides, even though you think you’re just waiting to see which side will win.”
His little-boy voice softened, its childlikeness belying his understanding of this inhuman thing before him—this being frayed and unraveled, a shadow of what it had once been.
“I remember you, Undred,” he said. “It was so long ago. When all the armies were forming and fighting, and you just hid around the edges and stole things and waited to see who would win. That’s why you’re still here, don’t you know that? The King didn’t take you with him, and the Order of the Spider didn’t know about you. So you’re still here, waiting to see what side is going to win. But it’s not like that. You have to choose sides first, or neither one will take you.”
The amber eyes throbbed, and understanding dawned in them—understanding at first accompanied by terror and then by craftiness. The words escaped Undred in a wheeze, as though he had not meant them to: “Art thou… ?”
Stray bent his head to one side, looking gently at Undred’s indefinable face. He nodded, and then, dismissing Undred without another word, he curled up on the ground next to the campfire and closed his eyes to sleep.
The frayed figure looked down on the child, frozen in indecision.
* * *
On foot, the journey into the Eastern Mountains was frustratingly slow—far slower than the supernatural journey across Galce had been. Nicolas led them, leaping when the others were dragging their feet, matched in energy only by the Ploughman. But while the Ploughman lingered to make sure the others were able to keep up, Nicolas constantly outpaced them, only to double back in silent frustration.
Virginia brought up the rear, leaning on Rehtse’s arm. She could not rush who could not see.
Mid-afternoon came, and they found themselves picking their way do
wn a steep slope toward a valley where a village lay. Recognition dawned on Maggie slowly. Morvo—the town which, a lifetime ago, had refused to trade with the Ploughman and thus had increased Pravik’s vulnerability to Athrom. She felt cold as they approached, as though the dank air of Athrom’s prison was clinging to her.
Though she knew they ought to go around the village and avoid trouble, Maggie found herself scanning the thatched roofs of Morvo and wishing for an inn. It would take the rest of the day before they could reach Pravik on foot—and what good would they be if they reached it only to collapse from exhaustion?
As they neared a low stone wall that skirted the nearest edge of the town, a figure caught Maggie’s eye. “Ploughman,” she said.
He stopped and looked ahead. It was a woman, walking along the wall as though she was waiting for something. To their surprise, the woman raised her hand and waved at them, then began to trudge in their direction. She carried a large basket on her back.
Maggie nearly gasped in surprise when the figure came close enough to recognize: the dressmaker. She pulled the basket from her back, and the scent of bread and ale drifted out.
“I’ve food and drink for you,” she said. “The lot of you look as though you could use it.”
“You knew we were coming,” the Ploughman said. “How?”
The woman glared at him. “Is that any way to receive a gift?”
“We thank you,” Virginia said hastily, intruding on the conversation. She had only just recognized the woman’s voice. “But the question is important, and we mean no rudeness by it. How did you know we were on our way? And needing this?”
“A child told me,” the woman said, slowly as though begrudging the information. “He passed through hours ago.”
The dressmaker could hardly miss the exchanged glances among the travelers as she handed out loaves and flasks from the basket. She looked shrewdly at each member of the party and pursed her lips. “Best you don’t pass through the town,” she said. “The people won’t be any the friendlier to you now than they were last you came here. Though I wish you well. I hope you’ll catch up to that child and take him away from here before he reaches Pravik. What devilry stirs there is nothing any child should see.”
“What do you know of Pravik?” the Ploughman asked.
“The witch has overtaken it,” the woman said. “High Police too—working together. They come here and take from us, with far less courtesy than you showed. But mostly they keep to themselves. Still, things are brewing there. I can feel it. We can all feel it. The witch does not mean to sit in the city forever. Rumours are she means to make war on the emperor.”
“Do you know what has become of those who were there before?” the Ploughman asked.
“Of your lady, you mean?” the dressmaker asked. “Still alive, rumour says. Alive and opposed to the witch. But beyond that I know nothing.”
“Thank you,” the Ploughman said. “That is enough to give hope.”
The dressmaker looked each member of the group over again. “Well,” she said. “Seems you could use that. You’re a sore and weary bunch.” She narrowed her eyes and fixed them on the Ploughman and Virginia. “You two—” she said. “Some say you’ve come to bring us hope. I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything anymore. But I hope you can do something against what’s in Pravik, if only stay alive in the face of it.”
“Oh, we mean to do that,” Virginia said, a slight smile playing on her face. “That and more.”
Once they’d eaten and drunk, they bade the dressmaker farewell and rounded the town, climbing partway up yet another slope and pushing through thistles and purple weeds. Nicolas was waiting for them on the other side.
Dusk fell as they kept on, resolute and strengthened. The night was dark—clouds hid the moon and stars. Still they stumbled forward. No one suggested they stop for the night. Rehtse took the lead now, her keen eyes searching out the shadows. The others were forced to move as slowly as Virginia.
Pravik was close, and its closeness propelled them on.
A movement in the shadows ahead made Maggie jump. Even recognizing the figure as Nicolas, doubling back once more, wasn’t enough to calm her heartbeat quickly.
Throughout the day, Nicolas’s sudden appearances had been silent or accompanied by a few questions as to the others’ well-being. This time was different. Maggie could feel it in the air. He had something to say and was held back only by hesitation to voice it. The others felt it too, and they slowed in their walk and waited.
“You had best come this way,” he said at last. “Something has happened.”
The moon had come out by now, and in the silvery light it wasn’t too difficult to follow Nicolas’s lead. Maggie caught her breath as she recognized a looming shadow ahead as the walls of Pravik. But it wasn’t to the city that Nicolas led them. It was to a cold campfire in the shadow of the walls.
They fanned out around it, and Rehtse knelt and touched a place where the weeds were bent around the campfire. “Someone slept here,” she said. “Someone small.”
“Stray?” Roland asked.
“The child, yes,” Nicolas said. “But that is not all. Someone else was here. There are tracks all around the fire—scratches in the dirt, made by claws and something else. Perhaps wings.”
Virginia closed her eyes. Rehtse looked at her. “Virginia?”
“The one who was here leaves a mark in the air,” Virginia said. “I can see it. I have seen it before. He is unlike any other.”
“Who was it?” Nicolas asked.
“He is called Undred the Undecided,” Virginia said. “He came among us once disguised as a man who called himself Asa. I exposed him for what he is—a creature from the old world, very old and very conflicted.”
“Is he a threat?” Nicolas asked. “The child is gone. Has this creature hurt him?”
Virginia appeared shaken. “I do not know,” she said. “But is he a threat? Yes.”
The Ploughman was kneeling. He drew a branch from the fire and stirred it, uncovering a flicker of flame. He lit the end of the branch and lifted it as a torch, inspecting the scratches on the ground. The others watched him, his face deepened by the light and shadows. At last he stood.
“I can see no sign of a struggle,” he said. “Yet the tracks lead away, and there are no markings I can see to show where the child has gone. The creature must have taken him.”
A new voice spoke. “A creature left here some time ago,” the voice said. “I’m not sure if anyone was with him.” The speaker stepped into the light of the Ploughman’s torch: a brown-haired Gypsy. “Hello, Nicolas,” he said.
“Peter!” Nicolas said. “Tell me—”
“Marja is all right,” Peter said. “The witch has made sure she’s tended to. Your children too.” Despite his good news, there was no gladness in Peter’s expression. “That is the one good thing the witch has done. You will try to rescue them now?”
“Of course,” Nicolas said.
“Be careful,” Peter said. His voice shook. “You don’t know how evil she is.”
* * *
Libuse had not slept all night. It had been a particularly hot night; beneath her, the flagstones of the old throne room felt warm and sticky. Blood had spattered the stone dais and even the base of the throne, and though it had dried, it stank in the heat. Libuse knew it was staining her clothes where she leaned against the base of the throne, held in a cramped position by chains on her ankles and wrists, kept where visitors could see how the balance of power had shifted.
The throne was vacant for the moment. Evelyn had gone to attend to some business outside the throne room, or perhaps just to breathe fresh air after a long night of pacing and muttering while the Highland renegade hovered over the blue stone and watched the witch with piercing blue eyes that shook Libuse to her core.
It had not been an eventful night, as nights went: no killings, no displays of power. But the heat in the air was restless, Evelyn was restless, and Libuse sa
t tucked up against the throne and let herself feel the depth of the restlessness. She had decided the feeling was good. It meant that something was stirring, change was stirring—and while that was true, she could not give up hope.
No matter how many reasons to do so presented themselves.
She was alone in the throne room now, and she jumped when the doors banged open and two lines of six High Police entered and tramped into position along the walls, standing erect with their arms folded against their chests. Evelyn followed, talking to Link, who walked after her with his ever-present burden bound to his arms. Her voice was sharp and agitated, but Libuse found she couldn’t catch the gist of the words. She was more tired than she’d thought.
Evelyn ignored her completely as she swept up the steps and took her place on the throne, resting her chin on her hand in brooding. Link began to follow her up the stairs, but she waved him back with an impatient hand.
“Not now!” she said. “Give me room to think, for stars’ sake.”
Her voice quiet and low, Libuse said, “Having trouble?”
Evelyn glared down at her. “Keep your mouth shut. You do not wish me to tire of you.”
Libuse smiled to herself. She knew full well that Evelyn was already tired of her—at least as tired as Libuse was of the witch. But she kept her alive, and kept those with any skill tending Marja in her slow healing, and made sure that Mrs. Cook and a few others were kept well, if not comfortable. Despite all her vaunted power, Evelyn still feared the Gifted. She was keeping her best trading cards alive and useful.
The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus Page 80