by Sharon Lee
Borgan made a soft sound of interest, his eyes on mine. It seemed like he was drawing the story out of me, word by word . . . but that was probably only the painkillers.
“Ramendysis was a—a great Ozali. He’d been a hero, my grandfather told me, in the war against Daknowyth, and had just oodles of jikinap. The problem is that controlling lots of jikinap means that you want to control more, so Ramendysis began to challenge other Ozali to duels. He’d win—he always won—and his opponent’s power would be added to his . . .” My voice faded out.
“Which only made him want more,” Borgan said softly.
“Right.” I cleared my throat. “Came a time when he had so much, he started absorbing whole households. Aeronymous—my grandfather—our House was strong, and our people were rich in power. But Ramendysis broke us like a twig, and he killed everybody, drank their power . . . everybody . . . except my mother. And me.”
I closed my eyes, breaking the contact with Borgan, but the story had its own momentum now, and I knew I couldn’t stop.
“Me—I was a toy. He liked to . . . to subsume my will—but not all the way. No fun in that. He’d let me stay aware, just enough so I could try to fight him while he walked me up to the top of the watchtower. He’d let me think I’d won for a second before he made me jump. He liked the taste of terror, I guess . . .”
And later, I added silently, he had liked my passionate hope that this time he would let me fall and shatter against the rocks at the tower’s base. He’d especially liked my self-disgust when he used me to masturbate . . .
“He didn’t really care about me, except as a hold on my mother. My power was . . . less than insignificant, my voysin . . . uninteresting—being quarter-bred, you see. No, my mother was his prey; he wanted her—her voysin and her soul. But he wanted her to give it willingly. . . .”
My voice ran out again. I took a deep breath, seeing the couch, seeing my hands part his robes, caressing him; feeling my body move itself over him; hating myself, hating what I was doing, while he looked into my eyes—and smiled.
“So,” Borgan prodded gently, “your mother finally gave him what he wanted?”
I cleared my throat. “A trade, like I said. Her soul, freely given, for my freedom and Zephyr’s escort to my grandmother.
“Ramendysis agreed to the terms, and had Zephyr fetched. But he didn’t go so far as to actually let us go. We were his guests, see, and subject to his . . . hospitality.
“Finally, Zephyr took . . . desperate measures. She bribed a guard—bribed him with a gift of her own jikinap. We saddled our horses . . .”
Cold fingers fumbling the straps, and Zephyr’s voice hissing out of the darkness, “Quickly, as you love your life! Follow me close, young Kaederon, and whatever happens, keep your seat.”
“We rode cross-country,” I told Borgan. “It—I’d never ridden like that before. We were at the edge of the country Ramendysis claimed for his own, when a rider—came out of the trees. She let Zephyr go by—and . . . He’d sent her—my mother, or what was left of her. To destroy me.”
I closed my eyes, memory too vivid for words.
“She didn’t do it,” Borgan said softly. “I’m guessing.”
I swallowed, seeing the power swirling between her hands . . .
“She . . . I screamed. Not even a Word. How could I? But she—she raised her hand, and the bolt went into the sky, and Sinbar—she let us past . . .”
I was shaking, chest cramped, my hand fisted under my head . . .
Borgan put his palm against my cheek. Warmth flowed through me, gracious as the incoming tide; the shaking eased and the pain in my chest faded. I sighed and stared down the rest of my memory.
The road wound out before us. I was flat on Sinbar’s neck, as we ran, shoulder to shoulder with Zephyr’s wind-footed steed. Behind—not far behind—the Great Hounds bayed. Ramendysis had a backup plan, of course: Hounds, and with them, hunters, armed with elfshot.
A black arrow hissed past my ear, and I ducked to one side, using Sinbar’s neck as a living shield. Ahead of us, the Gate shimmered, the Keeper leaping to her post.
More elfshot rained around us. I felt a burning agony in my back . . .
“Hold on!” Zephyr screamed, as my fingers slipped on the reins. “Kaederon! Hold on!”
Hold on I did, though to this day I don’t know how, and we thundered past the gawping Keeper, our horses leaping—up, into the Gate, over and—
. . . out into Fun Country.
“We outran them,” I told Borgan shakily. “Just barely outran them. Zephyr delivered me and the news to Gran. I was elfshot, and even Gran says she doesn’t know why I didn’t die of it. Sinbar . . .” I swallowed. “Zephyr went back to the Land of the Flowers. I always wondered what happened to her.”
I took a deep breath, and another one, and opened my eyes.
“Happy now?” I asked.
“Happy?” Borgan sighed. “That’s a strong story, Kate. It needs a strong woman to bear it.”
* * *
Borgan got up and went over to the truck. I stayed huddled beneath my blanket, listening to the contented murmur of the land.
“Water?” His voice was hardly any louder than the land’s. I opened my eyes and sat up, clumsy because of my arm, which still hurt, dammit, and took the offered bottle.
“Thanks.”
“No problem at all.” He sat down next to me and had a swig from his own bottle. “What happened to him?” he asked. “Ramendysis?”
I shrugged. “I hope to God his head exploded. He was overdue.”
“Hmm.”
We drank our water in companionable silence. I looked down the hill, to the ocean, moving lazily under the stars.
Borgan finished his bottle and lay down on his back again, right arm crossed under his head.
“Beautiful morning,” he said, softly.
“It is,” I agreed. I finished my water, and put the empty bottle on the blanket near my ankle.
“So,” I said, still looking down over the ocean. “Your turn for a story.”
“It is, isn’t it?” he said placidly, and then didn’t say anything else for such a long time that I thought he’d gone to sleep.
I was just about ready to curl up and try the sleep thing myself, when I heard the sound of a deep, deliberate breath.
“I come to this place,” Borgan said, quiet and slow. I turned and looked down at him, braced on my right arm.
“I come to this place and I see a thing. What is this thing that I see?” He paused, as if peering beyond the stars. “Ah.” He sighed. “I’ll tell you.
“Jikinap, the First Person, is making Worlds. He’s making Cheobaug, the Land of Wave and Water. He’s making Daknowyth, the Midnight Land. He’s making the Land of the Flowers, Sempeki. He’s using all of his power, and Five Worlds are what he makes. He tries to make a Sixth World, but his power is almost all used up.”
I took a careful breath, listening to the ritual cadence, watching the still side of his face.
“It’s hard work, making Worlds,” Borgan told the stars, “and Jikinap’s tired. He lies down to sleep in the Place Between the Worlds. When he wakes, there’s a man sleeping beside him.
“ ‘Wake up,’ says Jikinap, ‘and tell me your name.’
“The man wakes. He sits up and he says, ‘My name’s Glooskap. Glooskap, the Changer.’ ”
Power moved on the star-breeze, pebbling my skin. I don’t dare move, though, for fear of interrupting the story, or the teller.
“Jikinap looks deep inside this Person,” Borgan continued. “He looks deep inside this Glooskap, and sees that he carries the seeds of the Sixth World in his belly. Seeds only, because Jikinap’s power is almost used up. He didn’t have enough power to make the last World, the Sixth World. He only had enough power to make a man.
“ ‘Well,’ he says to Glooskap. ‘You were supposed to have been a World, to balance out the other Five. But my power’s almost gone, so you’ll have to make the Sixth World yourself.’
“ ‘All right,’ says Glooskap, and a hot wind blows through the Place Between the Worlds, blows right through that place. The wind blows Jikinap away, and scatters what’s left of his power through the Five Worlds.
“ ‘Well,’ says Glooskap, and he stands up. He’s sorry Jikinap is gone, because he’s got some questions to ask. But he guesses he’ll have to do the best he can.
“First, he looks inside himself. He sees the seeds of the world there, the Sixth World that Jikinap didn’t make. The world he has to make himself.
“Then, he looks outside himself. He sees the Five Worlds that Jikinap made, all different.
“Glooskap says to himself, ‘To make a world is a very big thing. I’ll need world-stuff to work with. But where will I find it? Jikinap’s power was all used up, and my only power is Change.’
“Glooskap thinks, and he looks again at those Five Worlds that Jikinap made. Rich worlds they are, and wide. And Glooskap thinks he knows where to get the world-stuff he needs to make the sixth.
“The worlds Jikinap made are big. There are people there. But those worlds are so big Glooskap thinks that the people won’t miss a little corner out of each.
“So Glooskap calls out. He calls out for the Wind That Goes Between the Worlds.
“ ‘What do you want?’ asks the Wind.
“ ‘I want you to take me on your back. I want you to blow through each of the Five Worlds,’ Glooskap says.
“ ‘If you can keep your seat, I’ll take you,’ says the Wind. ‘But if you fall off, don’t expect me to stop for you.’
“ ‘All right,’ says Glooskap, and he mounts that Wind. He has a firm hold of it with his left hand, and in his right hand is his knife.”
I eased closer to Borgan across the blanket, and looked down into his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing soft and regular, like he really was asleep.
“That Wind,” he said, taking up his story, “that Wind Between the Worlds, it blows. It blows fast and it blows in all directions at once. Glooskap hangs on with his left hand and with his right hand he uses his knife, and he slices a piece from the Five Worlds that Jikinap made, the same size slice from each.
“Then the Wind blows back through the Place Between the Worlds.
“ ‘Stop!’ Glooskap yells, but that Wind, it keeps on blowing. It won’t stop. That Wind, it carries the stars on its back. It blows between the Five Worlds that Jikinap made. It won’t stop for Glooskap.
“So, Glooskap lets go of the Wind with his left hand, and he falls. He falls a long way, and the knife jumps out of his hand. Still, he falls, until he falls all the way back to the Place Between the Worlds.
“Then Glooskap looks at the world-stuff he gathered, and he looks at the seeds of the Sixth World in his belly. He sees how the worlds that Jikinap made are all different, and he knows that the Sixth World will be different from them all. He thinks. Then he takes those cut-off pieces of the Five Worlds, he rolls them up and he pops them into his mouth.
“He chews, and chews, and chews, until those world pieces are all mixed up together. Then he spits out the wad of mixed up world-stuff, and he spits the seeds of the Sixth World into it.
“And then he waits.
“The seeds begin to grow, nourished by the world-stuff Glooskap stole. Those seeds grow, and grow, until they become this place here. This place where we live.
“This place, our place, is made, not as Jikinap had intended to make it, but by a Person whose only Power is Change. That Power is in the land. That Power is in every plant and every animal. It’s in every stone and every person. That Power is in the sea. It makes us what we are. It makes us different from the people of Cheobaug, and the people of Daknowyth. It makes us different from the people of Sempeki. We are the Children of the Changer.
“Each of us is Change. Each of us can Change.
“That is our power.”
Silence.
Carefully, I reached out and put my hand against his cheek. His chest moved with a deeper breath; he opened his eyes, and smiled at me.
My heart expanded, aching with joy, and I didn’t care one jot if it was glamor or if it was not.
“Was that a good story, then?” he asked.
I moved, curling next to him and putting my head on his shoulder. The land heaved a huge sigh, like a dog settling down by the hearth.
“It was a good story,” I said and sighed, the land content inside my head. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.” He shifted slightly. His arm came ’round my waist, and he put his cheek against my hair.
I closed my eyes, listening to the steady drum of his heart.
“ ’Night, Kate,” he said, the words rumbling against my ear.
Eyes closed, I smiled. “Good night, Borgan.”
THIRTY
Tuesday, April 25
High Tide 9:36 a.m.
Sunrise 5:43 a.m. EDT
“Kate.” My left ear heard it soft-voiced; my right ear heard it as a rumble. I sighed, not willing to give up the feeling of warm and sleepy well-being, and snuggled closer against his chest.
“Kate.” A little louder, and accompanied by a touch as light as moth wings at the corner of my eye.
I sighed again, with resignation this time, and said, “What?” without opening my eyes.
“How d’you feel?”
“Are you seriously waking me up to find out how I feel?”
“No,” Borgan said, and I felt amusement ripple through him. “I’m waking you up because dawn’s nigh and we don’t want to risk some early riser calling the cops on the two vagrants asleep in the park.”
“Oh,” I said. With an effort, I uncurled, and twisted clumsily into a sitting position; opening my eyes to a sky so light that all but the hardiest stars had already faded. “Damn.”
Next to me, Borgan sat up. “How d’you feel?” he asked again.
In fact, I felt . . . “Good,” I said positively.
I raised my left arm experimentally, fingers pointing toward the pale stars. “Better than good.”
“Then it’s time for me to take you down to the house,” he said. He rose effortlessly, and held a hand down to me. I didn’t need the help, but I took it anyway.
We gathered up the blankets and carried them to the truck, stowing them in the box in the back. Then I got in the passenger’s side and he got in the driver’s side. We strapped in, he turned the key in the ignition and we pulled away from the curb, heading down Seavey Street, to Elm, up Grand to Dube, and so to Tupelo House.
I released the seatbelt, reached for the door—and stopped, turning in my seat to face him.
He looked at me, eyebrows up, black eyes noncommittal.
“The land likes you,” I said, slowly.
Borgan’s face got still.
“That’s right,” he said, carefully. “Me and the land, we go ’way back.”
I nodded. Selkies can live a long time; many times the life span of a normal seal.
“Thank you,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time I slept so well.” A smile pulled at the side of my mouth. “Or had such a good story.”
“We’ll do it again sometime,” he said. “In the meanwhile, it’s time for breakfast—yours and mine. I’m going to be talking over last night with Nerazi; see if she’s got anything to add to the big pile of puzzle pieces.”
“Come by the merry-go-round, after, and let me know what she says.”
“Will do.”
“Okay.” I hesitated, then popped the door and slid to the ground.
“ ’Morning,” I said, looking up at him from the ground.
He grinned. “ ’Mornin’, Kate. I’ll see you later.”
“Good,” I said, meaning it. And closed the door.
* * *
Showered and feeling positively bouyant, I carried my second cup of coffee to the summer parlor, leaned my elbows on the rail and looked out to sea. Stafford Island and Blunt shone like marble in the sunlight; the sea sparkled like diamond
s. Tide going out. I took a deep breath, suddenly and simply aware that I was glad to be home. I’d missed this view, these smells, this air.
The day was shaping up to be a fine one, according to the guy on the radio. That was good—pretty weather keeps the tourists happy.
If there still were tourists after last night’s fun and games on the Pier. Armed men in a crowded bar, shooting at an example of our precious coastal wildlife—not the way to make Archers Beach a must-visit vacation resort.
I hoped that none of our rescuers had taken harm from their prompt action against Mr. Nemeier’s kiddies. Which brought me around again to the theory the various spells protecting the bunch of them were tuned to ward out magical beings.
Lame on the face of it, Kate. There was no reason for any Ozali to suppose that magical devices commissioned for use in the Changing Land would come into contact with anything—or anyone—remotely magical. Even those of us who work in power aren’t all that good at jikinap-fed magic and intricate spellcraft. The trenvay fell beneath the radar of most Ozali, land-based magic not enjoying a very good reputation throughout the other Five Worlds.
And yet—not only could ordinary human beings, Changing Land style, lay hands on the very folks the trenvay couldn’t—stipulating there was no invisibility spell in play—but so could the product of the union between a dryad’s daughter and the son of a human woman and an Ozali of the Sea.
Who was herself definitely, as Borgan had pointed out, a magical being. Of some sort.
I sipped coffee, and watched the gulls play over the waves.
I’d learned basic spellcraft, of course; that was in the core curriculum for any child of House Aeronymous, and double for Princess Kaederon, first born of Prince Nathan.
You should’ve taken the time to study those workings, I chided myself, and shook my head at the gulls and the waves. Down on the beach, Gaby was raiding the trash barrel at the head of the dune trail, which had to be slim pickings this early, even with a mob in town.
I sighed, and drank some more coffee. Damn it, could it just be that the spells were being altered by the constant assault of change against their structure? Custom work, like the invincibility-and-comehome spell worn by yesterday morning’s assailant, were finicky, delicately balanced things. One wrong syllable, too much power—or too little—in the working, and the whole thing went wonky on you.
