Shadowheart Part 18

One of Silvergleam's tiles, the Fireflower whispered. A mirror that opens a hole to the dreaming lands . . . A mirror that opens a hole to the dreaming lands . . .

Saqri shook her head. "I dare not. I fear to expose myself to those strong currents just now. In any case, what thoughts I have about the future I would keep secret-I fear what others might learn from me if I opened my thoughts to the Scale here, so far from the seat of my power."

Gulda nodded. "It is true that the currents are strong and times are strange. Just last night the great G.o.d spoke to us. He sent a dream to me and my sister that heaven's children were coming back to Shadowmarch-that is what we call the great house across the water from Egye-Var's Shoulder," she explained to Barrick. "Our great ocean father dreamed that one of the immortals will walk the earth again and the world will be covered in darkness."

"Darkness," intoned the smaller, frailer sister.

Gulda folded leathery hands on the breast of her simple, homespun robe. "It was a good dream, despite the fearful things of which Egye-Var spoke. He seemed as he used to be when we were children just learning to hear his voice-not angry, not strange, as he has been of late."

"Late," Meve echoed.

"He told us he would have been content to sleep," Gulda continued, "but something had woken him. Someone is trying to fit the key into the door."

Barrick did not know what to make of any of this. Talk of the G.o.ds woke a cloud of Fireflower shadows in his mind, thick as bats taking flight after being startled in their roost, confused, echoing, and contradictory. The memory of the Qar contained the time when the G.o.ds still walked the earth, but even the Fireflower was only the People's own wisdom-it could not explain the G.o.ds and their secrets. "I don't understand," he said out loud.

"Nor will you," said Gulda. "Not yet. But our lord Egye-Var said this-"Do not despair. I will not desert my children, old or new."

"Old," Meve said quietly.

"That is all we have to say, Mistress," her sister said, then bowed toward Saqri. "All the Exiles will do their part. We were wrong in our fear to side with Pyarin the Thunderer and the rest of his G.o.dly brood-even the Sea Lord came to regret that division. We were wrong to turn our back on our own tribe. But now we will at least die together, as allies and kin." And Gulda smiled, a wide, almost toothless grin. "Or, who knows? Perhaps despite everything, we will live!"

Meve laughed. "Live."

Barrick wasn't exactly certain what was happening. "Are they saying the Skimmers will fight with us? Do they have the power to decide that?"

"We do not," said Gulda. "But our lord Egye-Var, the lord of the green waters, does. Our people will fight beside our family once more."

"Once more," echoed Meve.

Saqri stepped forward until she stood before Gulda and Meve, her pale, dark-eyed face serene and kind. At such moments Barrick thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "Even if these moments are the only victories given us by the Long Defeat, still we have triumphed." Saqri reached out her hand and touched both of the Skimmer women on their foreheads; Meve sighed loudly at the contact. "Farewell, sisters."

Barrick heard a gentle plash of waters and turned. As if summoned by Saqri's words the fishing boat had appeared and slid toward them across the water, Rafe plying the oars. A large box of some kind sat in the bow of the boat behind him. As the little boat slid closer, Barrick was overwhelmed by a haze of echoes and shreds of meaning from the Fireflower voices ...

Even the G.o.ds regret the G.o.dwar . . . . . .

. . . The ocean bears no grudges The ocean bears no grudges . . . . . .

Then why did the lord of the green waters change his song?

. . . But also with the sudden realization that he was going home to Southmarch.

But is it really my home? Except for the times with Briony, I was never happy. I never felt it in my bones the way I felt in Qul-na-Qar . . .

Beating heart of the People.

Rebuilt on the bones of Silvergleam and the ashes of the Dawnflower's heart . . .

Our ancient house the People may never see again . . . whispered the chorus. whispered the chorus.

. . . Still, Southmarch was always my home, Barrick thought. How could it seem so foreign now How could it seem so foreign now . . . ? . . . ?

It was not until he felt Saqri's cool fingers touch his arm that he realized the old Skimmer women had vanished back into the Drying Shed. Rafe had tied the boat up at the end of the dock and was waiting for Barrick and Saqri to come aboard.

When they reached the bottom of the ladder, Barrick saw that the box in the bow of the fishing boat was a sort of carriage for Duke Kettlehouse and his people-the whole population of Rooftop-over-Sea, apparently, perhaps a hundred of the tiny folk in all, seated on low strips of wood which served them as benches, their children in their arms and their belongings piled around their feet.

Saqri once again allowed Rafe to steady her arm as she got in, which seemed to make Rafe very proud. Barrick clambered down beside her and settled in, a little awed by the queen's nearness. He could smell her delicate and quite individual scent, flowers and cinnamon and some darker, stronger note, piney and bitter as temple resin.

They slipped quietly out of the cavern, Rafe rowing easily and strongly and the anxious Rooftoppers doing their best not to be thrown around by the movement of the boat. The sun had fallen very low in the sky and Barrick wondered how they could have been so long in that place when it had seemed less than an hour. By the time they reached the northern-most end of M'Helan's Rock the last of the sun was sliding down behind the hills west of Southmarch. They waited in a shallow cove until the day had dwindled to a last bright glow behind the hilltops, then they slid out into open water.

Darkness billowed over them like a cloak. For a moment the jagged ruin of Wolfstooth Spire gleamed in the last light, then it too dropped into shadow.

The Last Hour of the Ancestor, a voice whispered to him above the murmur of the Fireflower chorus. I have never seen it since the day of my pilgrimage-except in dreams. I have never seen it since the day of my pilgrimage-except in dreams.

King Ynnir? Is that truly you?

The voice came to him, distant as the far side of the water. You called me back, manchild. I could only You called me back, manchild. I could only . . . Barrick had a momentary feeling of something being rea.s.sembled, piece by piece-something that had been happier in pieces. . . . Barrick had a momentary feeling of something being rea.s.sembled, piece by piece-something that had been happier in pieces. I am here. I am here.

And he was, stronger than any of the other voices, more coherent. The king was there, part of Barrick's own blood and bones now.

"And now we return at long last, my love," Saqri said out loud, startling Barrick, until he realized it was not him she was speaking to-not directly, in any case. "At long last, and at the end."

"The ending of one thing is the beginning of another," Barrick found himself saying, but even though it was the dead king speaking, it didn't feel like a usurpation of his voice, only a prompting to say something he would have liked to say himself had he found the words. Barrick found himself saying, but even though it was the dead king speaking, it didn't feel like a usurpation of his voice, only a prompting to say something he would have liked to say himself had he found the words.

The Fireflower voices fell silent. Even the crowded Rooftoppers in their box spoke only in inaudible whispers. For a long time Barrick heard only the steady, gentle splash of the oars, and he began to feel himself slipping into a sort of between-place, neither here and now nor any other time, as though they traveled between worlds-which in a way was true, Barrick thought. Everything that had gone before was done and behind him. Everything that would be lay ahead. Would it be the end of the world, as many around him seemed to think?

Perhaps. That was all he knew.

A quiet sound rose, so soft at first that he thought it only another note in the music of the bay and their pa.s.sage upon it. It was no simple sound of water, though, but a sinuous, exotic melody. Then he heard words, or felt them in his head-at this moment there seemed no difference between the two.

"I am all my mothers.

I am perilous! I am beautiful!

I am all my daughters, too . . ." . . ."

It was Saqri, he realized, singing in a small, clear voice that rang like beaten silver. The melody ran around and around and began again without ever ending, like a snake with its tail in its mouth.

"I am the swan of the hither sh.o.r.e!

I am the lamp that lights the way!

I am the iron bird that ends what should not be!

Give me my crown!

Give me my crown!

Give me my crown!"

Her voice was sweet and low, but not soothing-this was no lullaby. It was rather a song so old Barrick could almost feel it sounding in his bones, each note a century, each century different, yet also much the same as the one before it, with cycles that came and went, came and went, until that time itself was all circles. And it was a woman's song, a song of pride in survival, a chant of triumph at the survival of life despite all dangers, all obstacles . . .

"When days have wound down When nights have flickered into gray When all stands before the nameless and are afraid to speak I am all my mothers!

I am all my daughters!

I am the singer of the song.

I am the fox who stops the den.

I am she who can catch and hold every breath Until Time itself turns and runs."

After a while, Barrick Eddon could no longer remember what it had been like when Saqri was not singing-it seemed as though he had always rocked on these waves, in this darkness, while the words of this song coiled around him, touched him, whispered to him.

"I am the swan of the hither sh.o.r.e!

Perilous! Beautiful!

I am the lamp that lights the way!

Fiery eater-of-shadows!

I am the iron bird that ends what should not be!

Fear me when you have wronged me.

I am all my mothers.

I am every one.

I am the dead.

I am the living yet unborn.

I am the one the moon loves And fears . . ."

He had become something that had never been before, he realized, and he was returning to a home that was no longer his, if it ever had been. They were all doomed, but darkness was only the thing that gave light shape. He was going home, and the Mother of All was singing beneath the rising moon, a song that went on and on and round and round....

"I am all my mothers.

I am perilous! I am beautiful!

I am all my daughters too . . ." . . ."

PART TWO.

THE TORTOISE.

15.

Heresies.

Aristas showed him kindness and taught him of the true G.o.ds, the Three Brothers, and they became fast friends. When the ship on which Three Brothers, and they became fast friends. When the ship on which they were both prisoners sank during a storm in Lake Strivothos, the they were both prisoners sank during a storm in Lake Strivothos, the Orphan helped Aristas to reach safety. Orphan helped Aristas to reach safety.

-from "A Child's Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven"

THE VILLAGE LOOKED as though it had been abandoned at least a year earlier, but as Theron the Pilgrimer soon learned, that was not entirely true.

It stood by itself in a bend of the river he had been following because the roads were faint and overgrown here, as though they hadn't been used in a very long time. Perhaps a few dozen people had once lived in the small settlement but they were clearly long gone: brambles had grown up the sides of the houses, most of which were only collections of cut branches and mud daubing. The gra.s.ses had moved in across the paths and animal trails that had once led to the village's main road, so that the ramshackle cottages seemed to have grown directly out of the ground without human intervention, like mushrooms.

The weather had been gray and oppressive all day, with spatters of rain, but it was the horizon that worried Theron. The wind was rising-already the trees were beginning to bend-and in the north clouds had piled up in purple-black mounds, ready to roll down across the hills and drench the valley through which they had been traveling since they crossed the Southmarch border two days earlier.

"Boy," he said to Lorgan, "go and see if any of these huts would shelter us. It's been raining, so if you find one with a dry floor that should do for us."

The boy looked to his hooded master, but the man with the bandaged hands was sitting on a stump, taking the opportunity to rest. Theron thought it nearly a miracle that a fellow so weak and unwell could walk so far each day, but something was clearly driving the bandaged stranger to reach Southmarch-not that Theron thought for a moment they would get anywhere near that far. In fact, the increasing strangeness and emptiness of these lands had nearly convinced him that their journey would have to come to an end in one of the towns along the coast of Brenn's Bay, which they should reach in another few days. If he truly wanted to enter a castle at war, Theron's odd companion would have to manage that himself.

"Go on, then," Theron said to the boy. "Find us a place to shelter."

Lorgan still hesitated. "What are those lumpy things under the eaves?"

Theron squinted at the nearest of the deserted houses. "That? Wasps' nests, perhaps, but I see no wasps, do you? In any case, if you don't poke at them they'll do you no harm-that is well known. Now go and turn up something dry enough to give us shelter."

The child went forward on tiptoe, which irritated Theron. It was bad enough traveling through such empty, G.o.dsforsaken territories with the disturbing evidence of human desertion all around; the boy skulking as if some terrible beast or ogre might step out of the trees at any moment only made things worse. Now Theron was feeling unsettled, too. "For the love of the oracles, would you get on with it?"

Lorgan leaned into the nearest house without touching anything, as though the very wood might be poisonous. He straightened up quickly and shook his head, then went on to the next, stopping only to peer anxiously up at the odd, grayish shapes hanging like curds beneath the eaves on either side of the open doorway. Again the boy did his best to avoid any contact with the house itself, and again he quickly withdrew, shaking his head.

"Muddy," Lorgan said quietly, but with an air of defiance, as though Theron seemed about to argue, which he wasn't-the pilgrimer was only weary and hoping they could stop here for the day and build a proper fire to chase the damp cold out of his bones. All he had to do was deliver this hooded fool to someplace as near Southmarch as possible, then take his money and go home. Never again would he have to spend a night in the rainy woods. Never again would he have to hear the sound of a wolf howling and wonder whether he dared to sleep or not. He had an entire sack full of the madman's money, enough to buy livestock and a fine manor house in south Summerfield along the Brennish border. In fact, with all that gold he could maybe purchase a magistracy-or even a minor t.i.tle! Theron, Baron of the Stefanian Hills-that was worth a little discomfort, surely . . . !

His musings were interrupted by a sudden shriek from the boy, who danced back from the door of one of the houses waving his hands, and then to Theron's utter astonishment began to rise into the air rise into the air. The pilgrim-master had only an instant to stare, then he felt a sudden sting on his own cheek, another at the back of his head, a third on his arm.

Wasps ... ! was his confused thought-confused because he knew even as he reeled back, flailing his arms and trying to drive the invisible creatures away, that no wasps in the G.o.ds' creation had the power to jerk a boy several handbreadths into the air. After that he scarcely had any time to think of anything. was his confused thought-confused because he knew even as he reeled back, flailing his arms and trying to drive the invisible creatures away, that no wasps in the G.o.ds' creation had the power to jerk a boy several handbreadths into the air. After that he scarcely had any time to think of anything.

Something wrapped around his arm as he tried to drive the stinging insects away. Could it be spiders that had attacked them? But the strands were tougher than any cobweb Theron had ever felt. As he snapped one, he felt another wrap around him, then another and another. Still, there was no sign of whatever had attacked him except more stings blossoming painfully on his legs and arms. Theron roared in pain, trying desperately to break free from whatever was binding him. He could hear the boy screeching only a short distance away, and it encouraged him to fight harder. He managed to break through several of the clinging strands long enough to stumble out into the middle of the clearing, away from any of the houses. His employer, the hooded pilgrim, was nowhere to be seen. Theron swiped at his own stinging, aching face and wasted a moment cursing the fellow's cowardice. Something came off in his hand as he rubbed at himself. He looked down to see, not a dying insect, but a tiny arrow or an even tinier spear, its sharp tip still bloodied, lying broken in his palm.

Theron looked up in wonderment and saw the eaves beneath the nearest house boiling with tiny manlike creatures. The boy had managed to snap the cords that had caught him and had fallen to the ground, but from his shrieking and writhing he was still clearly badly beset. Theron could not even curse now-his superst.i.tious terror was too great. He hesitated for a moment, knowing that this might be his only chance to run and make his own escape from the demonic little creatures that were even now swarming by the dozens down tiny ropes, climbing over the boy to wind him with heavier cords and bind him for good. Only the G.o.ds could guess what they would do with the poor child when they had him . . . !

Theron glimpsed the depths of his own cowardice but could not go there, could not leave the boy to such a fate. Shouting, he ran barehanded toward Lorgan and tried to pick him up. Tiny men stabbed at his hands as he rolled the boy over, flinging many of them off and crushing others. An attack of sudden pinp.r.i.c.ks up and down his neck and the side of his face made Theron shriek in pain. As he slapped at the wounds, several of the invisible strands wrapped around him, binding his hand to the side of his head so that the sudden imbalance made him wobble and then fall across the boy. For a moment, as he lay helpless in the gra.s.s, he could see the tiny men come leaping through the undergrowth toward him, little horrors with grotesque faces like festival masks, squealing and buzzing in a tongue almost too high-pitched to hear. Then they were on him, dozens at first, then hundreds. He tried to swat them away as they swarmed over him, but he had only one hand free, and a moment later they had wrapped his other wrist with their bindings as well. Lorgan whimpered and squirmed helplessly beneath him.