Book Read Free

Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 39

by Edited by Eric Flint


  Skalda con­cen­t­ra­ted on set­ting one san­da­led fo­ot ahe­ad of the ot­her: step, pa­use, step, the rhythm li­ke that of a bri­de’s pro­ces­si­on. Ahe­ad wa­ited the soft dar­k­ness of an eye lar­ger than her­self, a dar­k­ness she knew was her fu­tu­re, one fi­nal pay­ment for her pe­op­le’s res­cue.

  The end of the plank, and the world she knew. Skal­da had tra­ve­led from her body in ma­gi­cal le­ar­nings, had swum be­yond light’s re­ach in the oce­an, and known the dre­am pla­in. This gre­at eye was anot­her do­or­way, she told her­self, dis­mis­sing the na­tu­ral fe­ars of her body. She step­ped thro­ugh its dark disc, in­to the warm, black co­re.

  Welcome, Sum­mo­ner, throb­bed re­ality.

  ****

  Expansion. I flo­wed aro­und in­s­tincts and pas­si­ons, ex­p­lo­red ter­rors and lusts, se­ar­c­hing for the com­mon pur­po­se of the Sum­mons. The­re.

  Destruction.

  Was that all?

  ****

  Her hands and to­uch, her mo­uth and bre­ath we­re no mo­re; al­most wor­se, her legs pric­k­led as tho­ugh as­le­ep. Skal­da ga­ined then lost her sen­se of self re­pe­atedly. Fi­nal­ly, she re­fu­sed the ef­fort and fo­cu­sed on what was he­re-sight.

  And such sight. As part of the Qu­i­et God’s eye she co­uld see the reg­ro­uping of the Enemy fle­et; at a tho­ught that vi­si­on shar­pe­ned so she co­uld see the fo­re­ign sha­pe of the­ir sa­ils and swords, the exo­tic pal­lor of the­ir skin. Ot­her­wi­se, they we­re men and wo­men li­ke any ot­hers she had known. The re­ali­za­ti­on was dis­qu­i­eting. Ne­ver had she con­si­de­red them so.

  If she re­la­xed her vi­si­on, glints ap­pe­ared on the pe­rip­hery of the im­men­se lens: Rat­he and Ag­non, she knew wit­ho­ut un­der­s­tan­ding how. She con­cen­t­ra­ted, trying to ig­no­re fe­ar and won­der-ne­it­her we­re hel­p­ful-and fo­cu­sed on ut­te­ring a spell wit­ho­ut a ton­gue.

  The ef­fort dra­ined her but was not for­bid­den. A link was for­ged bet­we­en the dir-pri­ests, as well as the­ir host.

  Skalda… she felt her na­me, wrap­ped in vib­ra­ti­ons that iden­ti­fi­ed the so­ur­ce as Ag­non. What are we? Are we de­ad?

  We are the Aim, Rat­he sta­ted, less vo­ice than a pres­su­re on what on­ce was skin.

  YOU ARE THE AIM, ag­re­ed so­me vas­t­ness. I HA­VE BE­EN SUM­MO­NED. WHE­RE MUST I GO?

  The minds of the dir-pri­ests fo­cu­sed in an in­s­tant. The­re was no sen­se of mo­ti­on, yet the Enemy fle­et se­emed to le­ap clo­ser.

  Skalda’s vi­ew al­so in­c­lu­ded the Pri­de as a co­ral-crus­ted flip­per tos­sed it asi­de, the long planks of her hull scat­te­ring over the wa­ter li­ke so many sticks.

  ****

  I ac­cep­ted the­ir gu­idan­ce, al­most blind in this dri­er, brig­h­ter world. The­ir ra­ge had a co­lor, ha­te anot­her. Fe­ar for self was the­re. As was reg­ret. I’d felt all of this be­fo­re.

  They aimed me at fra­il craft fil­led with men and I obe­yed, my pas­sa­ge sen­ding mo­re to the Depths, car­ri­ed down by the­ir ar­mor, limbs gi­ven gra­ce by the wa­ter, to en­rich the gre­at flocks be­low.

  ****

  WHERE DO I GO? bo­omed that in­ces­sant vo­ice, not im­pa­ti­ent, Skal­da co­uld tell, but rat­her a plea li­ke a pla­in­ti­ve cry from a child. She still shud­de­red over the ease with which the P’oku­kii fle­et had be­en wi­ped from the oce­an. The­ir ma­gic, the­ir we­apons, and the­ir num­bers had ava­iled them not­hing.

  Almost. The­re’d be­en one at­tempt at de­fen­se and one loss. A har­po­on had pe­net­ra­ted one gre­at eye. Ag­non’s pre­sen­ce was go­ne.

  There’d be­en no pa­in along the­ir link. Only a ske­wed vi­ew of the har­po­oner, lips drawn back in a ric­tus, his skin so whi­te his fa­ce was al­re­ady a skull, the des­pe­ra­te eyes black pits.

  She co­uld scar­cely be­li­eve they’d won the bat­tle. What she co­uld be­li­eve was how many we­re now in the Depths. It was as if she’d had to lo­ok in­to each and every fa­ce as they di­ed, sha­re the­ir fe­ar and hor­ror. No­ne so­ught the sea wil­lingly. Was it wor­se for the P’oku­kii to die he­re, away from the­ir be­lo­ved earth?

  No mat­ter the cost. It was do­ne and they had sa­ved the­ir pe­op­le. But what now?

  She had tri­ed the Spell of De­par­ting; they’d not be­en fo­ols to sum­mon un­k­nown ma­gic wit­ho­ut be­ing ab­le to dis­pel it aga­in. But Ag­non wasn’t the­re to sup­port her. And Rat­he had fo­und a ho­me for his ha­te.

  WHERE DO I GO? wa­iled the God.

  She co­uldn’t ke­ep out the pu­nis­hing de­mand. Rat­he’s res­pon­se was a mat­c­hing cres­cen­do of tor­ment. To the­ir ports! Crush the­ir ho­mes as they crus­hed mi­ne. Kill them all!

  No, Skal­da obj­ec­ted, hor­ri­fi­ed. The Enemy is de­fe­ated. The Co­ve is sa­fe.

  SAFE?

  Almost in­s­tantly, her me­mo­ri­es of her ho­me we­re ex­po­sed li­ke shells on a be­ach, car­ved free from sand by the icy winds of win­ter. She co­uld so­me­how see each one as it was torn from her: vi­ews of mo­on thro­ugh the ar­c­hed win­dows of her bed­ro­om, tall to the child she’d be­en; bre­at­h­less glim­p­ses of the ro­yal bar­ges from a hi­ding pla­ce high on her aunt’s bal­cony; the co­ol, musty dar­k­ness of the un­der­g­ro­und pas­sa­ges in­ter­rup­ted only by spells of light; the pris­med be­a­uty of fi­re­works over­he­ad as she swam in the warmth of the co­ve.

  Then, as ab­ruptly, not­hing. Skal­da wept wit­ho­ut te­ars or eyes, fe­eling the loss of her ho­me mo­re in­ti­ma­tely than the loss of her physi­cal form, the lon­ging to re­turn so in­ten­se she knew with hor­ror it wasn’t hers alo­ne. The Qu­i­et God felt it too.

  It was a fe­eling and in­ten­ti­on Rat­he didn’t sha­re. To the­ir ports, he in­sis­ted, ra­ge co­lo­ring his pre­sen­ce so Skal­da felt she lo­oked thro­ugh he­at shim­mers as she wat­c­hed the empty oce­an ahe­ad.

  This, she re­ali­zed sud­denly, was why the­re had to be three to Sum­mon and Aim. With just two of them left, the­re was no con­sen­sus, no cle­ar vo­ice to gu­ide the God. She won­de­red how long it wo­uld ta­ke them to dri­ve the God in­sa­ne.

  ****

  The pa­in was new, a no­velty I wo­uld as so­on ex­ci­se from my body. All I co­uld do was clo­se the da­ma­ged eye. My flip­pers dro­ve in­to the wa­ter on eit­her si­de, the­re be­ing no re­ason gi­ven to stop mo­ving. My lips crac­ked open, shed­ding even mo­re co­ral. Warm oce­an flo­wed over them, he­aling, so­ot­hing, re­min­ding me of gre­ater things than now and he­re and me.

  But the Sum­mo­ning loc­ked me to the sur­fa­ce whe­re I co­uld not se­ek them.

  ****

  Skalda… Skal­da

  Once, well, mo­re than on­ce, she’d do­zed over the par­c­h­ments; the stuffy ro­om and ho­urs of clo­se re­ading ma­king a po­or com­bi­na­ti­on. Each ti­me, she wo­ke not fully awa­re, her eyes glu­ed shut un­til she rub­bed them free of sle­ep, her mind slow to ro­use from its sub­con­s­ci­o­us ex­p­lo­ra­ti­on of the words of the Gre­at Spell. This might be one of tho­se ti­mes, she tho­ught, on the ed­ge of a dre­am.

  Skalda.

  Her na­me drew her back to re­ality, a re­ality en­com­pas­sing the loss of fri­ends, the ago­ni­zing de­fe­at of an Enemy, and the su­re know­led­ge of her own do­om.

  Rathe, she rep­li­ed un­wil­lingly, but awa­re that even his in­sa­nity was mo­re hu­man than an­y­t­hing el­se he­re.

  He was in one of his calm sta­tes, al­most re­aso­nab­le, as if this was one of the­ir in­nu­me­rab­le prac­ti­ce ses­si­ons in the Co­un­cil Cham­ber. They fo­re­saw this, you know, he sa­id to her. The P’oku­kii fo­re­saw it all.

  The so­ot­h­sa­yer. The­
ir fe­ar of the east and su­per­s­ti­ti­on. Skal­da wo­uld ha­ve wept if she co­uld. Rat­he was right. The Sum­mo­ning Spell had be­en cast be­fo­re-she knew it now. The Qu­i­et God had ri­sen at the­ir whim and blo­od, des­t­ro­ying the­ir Enemy so that the is­land sta­tes co­uld grow and flo­urish. They had for­got­ten, at­tri­bu­ting li­fe­ti­mes of pros­pe­rity and pe­ace to long ago hu­man he­ro­es and hu­man ma­gic. But the P’oku­kii, ter­ri­fi­ed of the sea, ter­ri­fi­ed of the east, had bet­ter me­mo­ri­es.

  In a sen­se it didn’t mat­ter, Skal­da tho­ught. Many things in the world mo­ved in vast cycles, un­no­ti­ced un­til one’s li­fe was gro­und in­to in­sig­ni­fi­can­ce by storms, fa­mi­ne, or dro­ught. That they had had a part in this one was me­rely pro­of that the Depths sho­wed her po­wer ho­we­ver she cho­se.

  We must end this, she ur­ged Rat­he, un­su­re how much he co­uld un­der­s­tand.

  We must kill them all, he rep­li­ed, still soft, still re­aso­nab­le.

  ****

  I bur­ned. The sun­light lost its be­a­uty wit­ho­ut the lens of oce­an. Fish, lar­ge and small, tos­sed them­sel­ves ahe­ad of my wa­ke wit­ho­ut re­cog­ni­ti­on. The Sum­mo­ners fo­ught con­s­tantly, the­ir pur­po­ses bright and con­f­lic­ting. When they dre­amed, I had no pe­ace, only lon­gings for a pla­ce. The Co­ve.

  ****

  THE CO­VE. The dar­k­ness con­fu­sed her only bri­efly as the lon­ging wo­ke her. Skal­da fo­cu­sed and saw stars spil­led over­he­ad. Stars she knew.

  Rathe, she wa­iled. It’s ta­ken us ho­me!

  Kill them all, he sang softly. Mo­re gifts for the Gods.

  KILL.

  No! But her pro­test wasn’t hel­ping. She co­uld sen­se con­fu­si­on. Alo­ne, she wasn’t strong eno­ugh to over­co­me Rat­he’s mad­ness.

  There was anot­her way.

  ****

  The en­t­ran­ce to the Co­ve was nar­row. I strug­gled thro­ugh the rocky bar­ri­er, he­aving myself half out of the warm sea with re­luc­tan­ce, dri­ven.

  Look! Lo­ok the­re!

  The Aiming was im­pe­ra­ti­ve. I tur­ned my he­ad up­ward in ti­me for the mass of jag­ged sto­ne to smash in­to the si­de of my he­ad. Then I co­uld no lon­ger see the co­lor of ra­ge. I co­uld no lon­ger see at all.

  Except thro­ugh one eye.

  ****

  Without Rat­he, the Spell of De­par­ting wo­uld work, Skal­da knew. Yet she he­si­ta­ted. The Qu­i­et God wa­ited too, stop­ping up the chan­nel in­to the Co­ve. The ships wit­hin lo­oked li­ke a scho­ol of tiny fish star­t­led by a shark, scat­te­ring at ran­dom as gal­leys ro­wed, ot­hers with sa­ils fil­ling with bes­pel­led wind.

  The bal­co­ni­es? They we­re fil­led with pe­op­le as well as flo­wers, equ­al­ly be­a­uti­ful and as still. They we­re wa­iting too.

  WHERE DO I GO?

  Where you will be sa­fe, she tho­ught, re­le­asing all cla­im on that world out­si­de. Whe­re we will be sa­fe.

  ****

  Shafts of sun­light di­sap­pe­ared, re­ap­pe­ared; they fil­led at ti­mes with flo­wer pe­tals, twir­ling dow­n­ward. At night, the stars we­re do­ub­led by clo­ser, smal­ler fla­mes, flo­ating abo­ve us to out­li­ne the dark hulls of ships.

  We we­re con­tent thus, to ga­ze up­ward thro­ugh the gre­at lens of our eye in­to the li­ving ma­gic of this pla­ce and see that which be­lon­ged he­re. The gre­at flocks ca­me, se­eking the ric­h­ness of the new re­ef, dan­cing in the light. Ot­hers swam among them, ta­king as was the­ir ne­ed, so­me­ti­mes just to dan­ce.

  If this is sle­ep, we so­me­ti­mes won­de­red, sur­p­ri­sed by bursts of fi­re­works, or to­uc­hed by the hands of chil­d­ren, per­haps we dre­am the world.

  ****

  The Thief of Stones

  Sarah Zettel

  As I ha­ve be­en bid­den, I will tell of how the sor­ce­rer Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us ca­me to the sho­res of Ire­land, and what he did the­re. Am­b­ro­si­us was so­me­ti­mes cal­led No Man’s Son, but be­ca­use of the­se de­eds I am to tell you now, he al­so had a third na­me, and that was the Thi­ef of Sto­nes.

  He ca­me alo­ne to the sho­res of the bles­sed is­le. So­me say he flew the­re, ha­ving po­wer over the wind as he had over the earth, but this is not so. Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us was child of the west lands and its rag­ged co­asts. He tra­ve­led in a bo­at of re­eds and skins, with a brown sa­il to catch the winds and a sto­ut oar to ste­er him thro­ugh the ro­ugh grey wa­ves of that sea. Autumn spre­ad rust and gold over Bri­ton’s lands when he left the­re, and he ca­me to the gre­en sho­res on a day of chill ra­in and mist. It is of­ten so in Ire­land, and that is why her wa­ters are de­ep and her fi­elds mo­re gre­en than any ot­hers on the earth.

  He drew his bo­at up on the sands and as he did, down from the hills the­re ca­me two war­li­ke men in the stri­ped clo­aks and tig­h­t­ly-ti­ed tro­users fa­vo­red on tho­se sho­res. They mar­ked well the short sword on Mer­lin’s hip, as well as the whi­te staff in his hands. This was in his yo­un­ger days, be­fo­re Mer­lin be­ca­me the an­ci­ent sa­ge of Ar­t­hur’s co­urt. He was tall, then, and bro­ad in fra­me. His clot­hing was well-ma­de, but sim­p­le, be­ing a blue tu­nic bel­ted in bron­ze, gre­en tro­users, and a sto­ut clo­ak of brown wo­ol. His be­ard was short, and mo­re brown than grey. His ha­ir flo­wed in cur­ling locks ac­ross his bro­ad sho­ul­ders held back in a band of bron­ze cha­sed with the ima­ges of fal­cons. His eyes we­re cle­ar and blue, and all abo­ut his per­son spo­ke of one who is strong and bold.

  Because of all this, the sol­di­ers ad­dres­sed him most co­ur­te­o­usly, in­qu­iring whet­her he was the one they we­re sent to me­et by the­ir king, who was Be­rach Ui Ne­ill.

  “I am the one,” Mer­lin an­s­we­red them. “And I am re­ady to go with you at on­ce to me­et yo­ur king.”

  They we­re sur­p­ri­sed at this, as it was a hard jo­ur­ney from the land of the Bri­tons. They ex­pec­ted to lin­ger on the co­ast for a ti­me al­lo­wing him to rest. But they did not do­ubt his word, and led him stra­ig­h­ta­way up in­to the de­ep gre­en hills that ring that land’s co­asts, now dark and tin­ged with brown as autumn set­tled in. It was a ste­ep way. Ri­sing mist so­me­ti­mes hid the nar­row tracks. But Mer­lin easily kept the pa­ce the two sol­di­ers set, and they we­re much im­p­res­sed.

  Merlin him­self had go­od re­ason for his has­te. He left be­hind him his king, new to his po­wer, and that king had gi­ven him gre­at char­ge. “It is only you, Mer­lin, who can sa­ve me from my brot­her’s fa­te,” he had whis­pe­red in the de­epest dar­k­ness when the­re was no ot­her awa­ke to lis­ten to the fe­ars of the new king. “Go whe­re you will and do what you must. Do not le­ave me to die as he did.”

  Merlin had knelt be­fo­re Ut­her Pen­d­ra­gon and sworn it wo­uld be do­ne. He’d left him with his he­art sin­ging in its ful­lness. He had al­re­ady se­en the gre­at­ness of his king, se­en it in Ut­her’s eyes and his de­eds, and se­en it in the stars over­he­ard. He, Mer­lin, No Man’s Son wo­uld ha­ve his last ven­ge­an­ce. He wo­uld ra­ise up this man and the age to fol­low over tho­se who had on­ce so­ught to ta­ke his li­fe.

  Burning with this am­bi­ti­on, Mer­lin wal­ked lightly over the chill, gre­en hills of the bles­sed is­le.

  It was ne­ar half the day be­fo­re they ca­me to the lands and ho­uses held by Be­rach Ui Ne­ill.

  In tho­se days, the men of Eire bu­ilt the­ir ho­uses of ro­und fra­mes with thatch ro­ofs of a co­ni­cal sha­pe. Sim­p­le pens held the cat­tle and ot­her ani­mals. That the­se we­re a pros­pe­ro­us pe­op­le was evi­dent, for the le­ast among them wo­re bright gold. Even the blind man squ­at­ting by the dar­ke­ned do­or of the smal­lest ho­use had a gol­den ring on his thum
b. As Mer­lin pas­sed among the ho­uses, all the many so­unds of li­fe and work stop­ped as all tur­ned to won­der at this stran­ger.

  The king’s high ho­use dif­fe­red lit­tle from the ot­her dwel­lings that clus­te­red aro­und it, sa­ve that it was lar­ger in its com­pass, and fo­un­da­ti­ons of sto­ne bol­s­te­red its mud, li­me and withy walls. But Mer­lin knew well it was the ho­use of a king, and he en­te­red it humbly and with co­ur­tesy.

  A mes­sen­ger had go­ne ahe­ad of Mer­lin and his es­corts. Thus war­ned of his co­ming, King Be­rach Ui Ne­ill sat on his gre­at wo­oden cha­ir il­lu­mi­na­ted by a fi­re in the ro­und sto­ne he­arth at cen­ter of the ro­om, as well as the gol­den light of no less than ten tor­c­hes set in scon­ces on the walls. His ha­ir and long mus­tac­hes we­re the co­lor of red gold, and his saf­fron tu­nic was ban­ded with scar­let. A gol­den tor­que ador­ned his thro­at and a bro­ad gol­den belt en­cir­c­led his wa­ist. Fo­ur gre­at black ho­unds col­la­red with gold lay at his fe­et. His three sons sto­od be­fo­re him, all clad yel­low tu­nics and clo­aked in red and blue, with gold rings on the­ir arms and gold-hil­ted swords han­ging from belts that we­re stud­ded with jewels. Be­hind the king sto­od his wi­fe and fo­ur da­ug­h­ters, all dres­sed in sof­test wo­ol stri­ped in every co­lor of the ra­in­bow. So much gold flas­hed on the­ir hands, abo­ut the­ir thro­ats and on the­ir brows it was as if the who­le we­alth of the is­land had be­en bro­ught the­re to be­deck the­ir be­a­uty. Many of the or­na­ments we­re et­c­hed or em­bos­sed with the sign of the cross amid the wor­kings of knots and rib­bons for which that co­untry was fa­mo­us, sa­ying that this was a pe­op­le that had con­ver­ted to the ways of God and Christ.

 

‹ Prev