Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  “Well, that’s kindly said. Still, we’re not the ones to stint a neighbor. Call on us, if you come to have need.”

  Good God. That was damn’ near unprecedented. I managed a nod, and a grave, “Thank you, Heeterskyte.”

  “Nothin’ to it. Goodnight now, deah.”

  “Goodnight,” I said, but it had darted away, chasing the dark waves.

  I shook my head and continued across dry sand, looking homeward. The light was on in Tupelo House, shining out from the open French doors. My heart clenched, then stuttered into its normal rhythm. Mr. Ignat’ had a key, of course. Always had. I stretched my legs, moving as quickly as I could through the dry sand.

  My cell phone whistled, so unexpected and unlikely a sound that I jumped and damn’ near fell. I clawed it out of my pocket and flipped it up, glancing at caller ID—

  “Hello?” I said cautiously, my pulse pounding in my temples. Easy Kate, I told myself. It could be a trick. Probably is a trick . . .

  Static filled my ear, the shadow of a voice beneath it.

  “I can’t hear you,” I yelled, putting my free hand over my open ear. “There’s too much—”

  “I said,” my grandmother’s voice snapped, as clear as if she was standing next to me, “we’re on the way home. Open the Gate.”

  The connection went dead.

  Not possible, I thought. On the other hand, it was hard to see how it could’ve been a joke.

  I turned and ran back the way I’d come, slipping and sliding until I was all at once on firm sand and running hell for leather back toward Fun Country.

  * * *

  According to the tales that were being told long before the first Archer set foot on the land and so found his destiny and his doom, anybody with a pinch of magic can sing themselves down a hole, or up a tree, or into the sky, in order to visit neighboring worlds. You can do it that way, even now, though it’s risky—and unregulated. Which is why the Wise created the Gates.

  In Archers Beach, the Gate is the carousel, and if Gran was on her way, whatever that meant in terms of the mismatch of time and geography between the Land of the Flowers and the Changing Land, I’d better open it ASAP.

  Under the Pier I went, running across light-striped sand, between the shrouded pilings. I was almost through when a shadow lunged out of the greater darkness, grabbing my arm in a grip that threatened to break bone.

  I kicked, making solid contact with something yielding; the bruising fingers relaxed just a little and I twisted, my free hand snaking under the jacket to yank the knife free.

  Before me, in a haze of dèjá vu, stood Joe Nemeier’s errand boy. This time he was holding a gun.

  I sighed. “I so do not have time for you,” I said.

  He smiled. “That’s good, because you don’t have any time left.”

  I saw his finger tighten, and reached out to the land. The beach trembled under my feet and I threw myself sideways, rolling until I was on dry sand, coming up onto my knees—and looking back.

  Joe Nemeier’s boy screamed as he struggled in knee deep sand, his voice lost in the greater uproar from the Pier above. As I watched, he sank to his waist, and then to his shoulders. His head went under and I was on my feet, running full speed for the carousel.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, April 27

  Low Tide 5:06 a.m. EDT

  New Moon

  For the second time in slightly less than a day, I raised power in order to manipulate a Major Working. The seal on Googin Rock had been complex and tricksy. Damned impressive, too—for the naive work of unlettered savages.

  The Gates, though, had been built by the Wise. Not only did that mean it required a mage of a certain level of talent and control to even see them; it meant their construction was elegant, balanced, and—if mishandled only a little—deadly.

  They were also, truth be told, noisy. There wasn’t any question of stealth when opening a Gate. Presumably the Wise had wanted it that way, to ensure that the comings and goings between the Worlds were public and aboveboard. Not that everybody cared to use them—witness Ramendysis.

  Whatever the reasoning of my betters, as soon as I opened our Gate, every mage, and a good many of the more sophisticated trenvay, were going to know it.

  And if I screwed up—well, they’d know that, too, along with the entire mundane population of Archers Beach, just as soon as the Rescue was called out to hose down the smoking crater where the carousel used to be.

  High Magic: not for the fainthearted. Or the sane.

  I stood at the center of the carousel—the center of the circle—the jikinap flickering along my nerve endings, hungry, like it’s always hungry. My hands glowed faintly blue in the illumination of the safety lights, and sparks dripped from my fingertips, snapping when they met the sea air. No doubt I had the power. The talent and, more importantly, the control? Well, we’d see now, wouldn’t we?

  I closed my eyes, took a breath, held it, and breathed out. In Beautiful Theory, along with that breath went all my worries and everyday cares: The imminent destruction of the universe as we know it; the Wood smoldering on the Hill; vandals and condominium developers poised to rape and ravin the land. Gran on the road and the Gate sealed against her . . .

  Breath two—in and out. I felt slightly dislocated, but calmer. Good.

  Breath three. I opened my eyes and stepped Sideways.

  The Gate hung before me, a thing of grace and beauty, the forces absolutely aligned, subdued and elegant; a mosaic of High Magery, perfect— Well, no. Not quite perfect.

  A single tile was missing from the mosaic. A tile bearing exactly the correct load of magic, bound and elucidated in precisely the correct manner.

  Cautiously, not daring to hurry, I did the math, brought the power between my palms and painstakingly formed a tile. I weighed it, tasted it, and fired it in the crucible of my will.

  Then I gingerly slid it into the place that had been left to receive it.

  The world blew apart into brilliant ribbons of lacy nonsense, rippling in a hot, driving wind. I threw a hand up to shield my eyes, squinting into the confusion. Beyond the gusting ribbons of reality, I could see the pennant-crowned spires of a Great House soaring bold against a cloudless green sky; the breeze brought me the nerve-wracking tinkle of merrybells; and the ululating howl of a hunting hound.

  I flinched, and the Gate shivered in response, teetering on the edge of implosion—then stabilizing as I flexed a little magical muscle, holding it open between two mutually incompatible worlds. Around it all, the carousel spun, disorienting as it passed through the spires and the pennants; the strains of the “Too Fat Polka” mixing weirdly with the high nattering of the bells.

  Excepting that single howl, there was no sign of life beyond the Gate. The spires, the pennants, the sky—where the hell was Gran? Had I missed her? The time, the damnable mismatch of times, what if— There.

  Something moved in the gauzy distance; moved with purpose and against the whim of the wind. Slow . . . agonizingly slow. I strained to see better through the blowing tatters of reality—and my heart sank. For it was only a dust devil moving along the road, glittering with the crystalline particles that passed for soil in the Land of the Flowers.

  The Gate shuddered, sensing weakness in my disappointment, shrinking dangerously.

  Be stern, Keeper, the batwing murmured snidely between my ears. Be strong and bold of heart! Waver and you destroy not only your unworthy self, but the great experiment of the Wise!

  I ground my teeth.

  “Shut up,” I gasped and thrust the voice out of my head, narrowing my focus to encompass the Gate, the road beyond, and nothing else. I pushed, forcing the opening wide by brute force—and held, though I tasted blood at the back of my mouth, and felt the sear that came of channeling too much power.

  I wasn’t going to be able to dominate the forces much longer, and the question became—how long should I hold the Gate? The Wise had never meant for us to just prop the damn’ thing
open like a screen door and leave it. Soon or late, it would close—and if I tried to oppose it—well, let’s just say that’s one of those things it’s better not to think about.

  Carefully, I took a breath, tasting not the wholesome tang of ocean air, but the cloying sweetness of ambrosia. I sneezed, the Gate shook—and the dust devil was suddenly nearer, spinning against the current of the wind, and it seemed to me that I saw a glint of green among the glittering swirls.

  Behind it, moving much more rapidly, came a brace of the great hunting hounds of the Ozali, their tongues running scarlet; their eyes molten gold.

  “Gran!” I shouted. “Hurry!”

  A hand fell on my shoulder, jikinap flickered along my nerves, and a quiet voice said, “Hold the Gate, Katie. I’ll bring them in.”

  He stepped past me, walking tall into the wind, hair streaming and coat snapping. Down he went to meet the dust devil. I lost him momentarily among the glittering motes, then found him again, a shadow against the walls of the twister. Then he, and it, were gone.

  The hounds howled and leapt forward, teeth bared now. Far back, but fast gaining, I saw horsemen—the hunters, following the hounds. I couldn’t see their weapons, but I didn’t have to; I remembered too well the great black bows, and the burn of Elfshot . . .

  I shook the memory of agony away, bit my lip, and held the Gate, my lungs burning with effort.

  The whirlwind touched down on the threshold of the Gate. Crystalline dust blasted everywhere, opening a thousand tiny cuts in my face—then it was gone, and they were through, past me. Safe.

  I stepped back, withdrawing my will with a vengeance as the first hound leapt for the Gate.

  Air displacement knocked me off my feet; I fell messily, whacking my head a good one on the edge of the orchestrion, stars chewing the edges of my vision. A howl escaped the closing of the Gate and I whimpered, untangled myself, and pushed upright with arms that shook, blinking to clear my sight—

  “Gran—” I started, and stopped.

  She turned. Her face showed every one of her years; the front of her dark hair had gone silver to the width of my hand; her skin was bloodied and streaked with grime; her clothes scarcely more than rags. Her eyes, though—her eyes blazed with triumph.

  I got my feet under me and walked across the carousel to her side, taking her hand between both of mine. She was cold; I could feel the fragile bones beneath her skin as she tugged me forward to where Mr. Ignat’ knelt on the floor, cradling a twisted, brittle stick in his arms like a child.

  “Your mother’s alive,” Gran whispered. “My Nessa.” She bent abruptly, her free hand fisted in her mouth, tears cutting the silver dust masking her face.

  There wasn’t anything to say, and only one thing I could think to do. I gathered her in my arms and held her while she cried.

  * * *

  “Six months?” she asked some while later, in a tone of dizzy disbelief. “It didn’t seem any longer than two weeks.” She took a breath. “Two weeks from Hell, mind . . .”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I sighed and shook my head. I’d dragged the stool out from the control booth and gotten her to sit on it, then lowered myself to the cold concrete floor, so that the three of us formed an awkward triangle. My nerves were a-twitter; I expected that the Gate would at any moment open from the other side, admitting an outraged Sempeki Gatekeeper, flanked by two of the Wise, all of them after blood.

  “We’ll need to go to the Wood,” Gran said. “My Nessa needs healing.”

  Right. I frowned at the dry stick still cradled in Mr. Ignat’s arms. It didn’t look to be in good shape. At all.

  “You should know,” he said softly, “that there was an attempt to burn the Wood earlier today.”

  Gran paled beneath the grime; I saw her shoulders rise as she took a breath.

  “The trees still stand.” Not a question.

  “They do,” he agreed.

  “And those responsible? Their names are known?”

  “I know who they are,” I said. “Unfortunately, they’re under the protection of Ramendysis—” I looked over to Mr. Ignat’. “—who’s seen fit to increase the wardings over the house by an order of magnitude since this morning.”

  He smiled.

  “I . . . see.” Gran bent her head, hands knotted on her lap; thinking or recruiting her strength, or both . . .

  I sighed, quietly, and turned my attention again to the stick. Unlike Gran, my mother’d been only half a dryad. I’d thought—and Gran had never seen fit to correct me—that she’d been born of a liaison with an ordinary citizen of the Changing Land.

  My own private guess had been that my paternal grandfather was an Emerson—say, Henry’s great-great-grandfather. The possibility that my mother’s father was Ozali—and a Fire Ozali, at that—had never crossed my mind.

  Regardless of who or how, Nessa’s state of half-dryadness meant that her fate and her life weren’t tied to a tree like Gran’s was. She had been, however, remarkably attuned to growing things. Her smile could bring a rosebush into full bloom, the touch of her hand brought forth lilacs, no matter the season. All growing things loved her, and wanted only to please her.

  That said, the idea that my mother had somehow transformed herself into this spare, drying twiglet, with scarcely a leaf to bless itself with—made my head hurt.

  I queried the land, but the land was as baffled as I was. Carefully, I extended a tendril of jikinap, questing toward the twig—

  “Stop that,” Gran snapped, without lifting her head. “You’ll have the round tale in good time.”

  I took a breath, and slid a glance over to Mr. Ignat’. He was watching Gran with an expression of intent interest that I’d never before seen on his face.

  Gran sat up straighter on the stool, lifted her head and looked at us, one after the other.

  “Bel, you’re scarcely a candle to Kate’s bonfire.”

  “True. But I have age and guile on my side, while Katie is an innocent, black-hearted and ruthless though she be.”

  “Innocent,” I repeated, too tired to get mad.

  “Indeed. And I am remiss, Katie—my apologies. Young Borgan asks that you call him, when you have a moment free.”

  “Right.” Borgan would’ve heard the Gate open, just like Mr. Ignat’ had. However, being the bright laddie that he was, he’d chosen not to come rushing down to watch the fun. I didn’t blame him in the least; in my book, it’s always best to view explosions and mayhem from a safe distance.

  Joints creaking, I stood, fishing my cell out of my pocket. Mr. Ignat’ rose as I wandered a few paces away, and bent to place the rickety little bush into Gran’s arms.

  I stopped by the utility pole, pulled Borgan’s number up on the phone, and hit “send.”

  “Kate, where are you?” He sounded worried, which was gratifying.

  “The carousel,” I said. “Gran’s back, with . . . my mother. It looks like we’ll be going up to the Wood to do some planting. Where are you?”

  “I’m to home. Thought I’d best be on the sea, in case there was—”

  Arm yourself! the batwing shouted, while the land shrieked bloody murder, and the storm gate directly across from me went to mist. The blast of hot wind knocked me backward. I snatched at the pole for balance and the cell flew out of my hand. The wind caught it and spun it away beneath the carousel.

  Mr. Ignat’ whirled between Gran and the breach as a blue-black storm-beast cleared it, Ramendysis on its back.

  Flames burst on the busy air: blue, orange, and yellow. The storm-beast swirled them away, and Ramendysis launched a handful of lightning and sleet. Mr. Ignat’ parried the bad weather as coolly as if he were playing a casual game of badminton. Behind him, Gran and my mother vanished inside the leaf-green swirl of a protection spell.

  I blinked Sideways, noting the thinness of the protective walls of power. If one of those bolts got past Mr. Ignat’, Gran’s shield would crumple like so much wet tissue.

  I touched the land,
formed my request, and felt it rush to do my bidding. Around Gran’s position a grove of ancient trees snapped into being, trunk to trunk and impenetrable, drawing their strength from the soul of the land itself.

  That taken care of, I turned back to the main battle.

  In Sideways sight, the Ozaliflame burned like a hearth fire; competent, clever—and small. His opponent, on the other hand, was rogue-crazy, ’way too hot, and looking to destroy everything in his path. Ozali Belignatious was as crazy as Mr. Ignat’ had been, if he thought he had a snowball’s chance of surviving so unequal a contest.

  Ramendysis launched another attack—a net woven of pure jikinap, cast from his hand as if he were trawling for herring.

  The spell was heavy, the strands over-coated with jikinap. It was ugly, unsubtle, out of balance—and good enough to do the job.

  But Ramendysis—and I—had reckoned without the Ozaliflame’s superior knowledge of spellcraft. The working began to settle, wobbling a little, and abruptly stiffened, frozen in place, locked by a sliver of jikinap no longer than my least finger.

  It seemed to me that Ramendysis laughed. He dismounted and the storm-beast dispersed, flowing back through the misty wall. A hand wave and it was solid again, ordinary and everyday.

  “So, you were in the Rock,” he said, conversationally, and cast another net, every bit as heavy and unsubtle as the first.

  Once again, Mr. Ignat’ caught and locked it.

  But the orientation of the two frozen nets formed a right angle; and I could see where Ramendysis was going with this.

  If a net wouldn’t do the job, then a cage would serve just as well.

  “Come, Belignatious!” Ramendysis said. “We aren’t savages; we are Ozali. There is no need for me to destroy you. Only tell me where the Opal has been hidden, and you may go your way unmolested—and your low-fae doxy, too.”

  “What Opal is that?” Mr. Ignat’ asked. “Old friend.”

  Ramendysis threw another net, and four more in such rapid succession I could barely track them.

  Four froze as they unfurled, laying inert atop the others, dripping malice. The fifth, though, very nearly did the job, and I couldn’t help but notice that the spike that immobilized it was less substantial than the others.