Marten nodded, then sobered. He turned her around to face him. “This is a good thing, Lucy. The Jutras are invading Crosspointe. There are constant rumors about the Pale failing and the majicars can’t fix it, not even working together. You’re here, now, for a reason. You are Crosspointe’s guardian.”
She crossed her arms belligerently, wanting to argue. But she had a terrible feeling he wasn’t wrong. “So if I’m the great guardian of Crosspointe, what are you supposed to be?”
“Me?”
She nodded. “Walks on water, molds the winds, funny eyes and silver scales—surely you’re here for some great purpose as well.”
“I am…”
Her brows arched. “What?”
“I am never leaving your side.” He bent and kissed her.
She let it go on for a long moment, then tore herself away. His words had the ring of a promise. It loosened the tension squeezing her chest.
“Let’s see the rest, then,” she said, unsure how she felt.
“The rest?”
“There’s something else here. Something…big.”
It had been growing on her awareness for several minutes. A deep, churning power. The heart of the hurricane.
Water dripped from the branches of the blood oaks. The ground was covered in thick leaf meal with no bushes or flowers growing beneath the great trees. The invisible path Lucy followed took them up a low hill. She began to hear a rumbling as they neared the west wall of the great canyon. Dusk fell, but Lucy did not conjure light. She wasn’t sure she ought to be using majick here. It felt too much like desecrating a holy place.
They crested the hill and stopped dead.
“By the gods,” Marten murmured.
“I’m getting tired of hearing that.”
“All right. Does Braken’s cods make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Then you may just be mad.”
“I think you’re probably right. Pale-blasted.”
He crooked his arm at her. “Shall we go down?”
She nodded her head and slipped her hand through his arm.
They walked down into a wide shallow bowl. Almost immediately, they found themselves under the spreading branches of the largest blood oak Lucy could imagine existing in the world. It sat in a churning pool of sylveth fed by a cataract falling from the cliffs above. Mist rose from where it dashed against the rocks. The leaves of the tree were red-veined clusters. They shifted and whispered. Lucy thought if she listened close enough, she might be able to understand.
They stopped on the edge of the pool. It was really more like a small lake. The tree grew out of its depths, its bole easily eighty feet in diameter. How tall it was, Lucy couldn’t begin to guess.
“You could build an entire ship from the timber,” Marten said softly.
The leaves shook, as if reproaching him.
“I don’t think she likes you talking about chopping her to bits.”
“She?”
Lucy nodded. “The mother tree. Don’t you feel it?”
He shook his head.
“What’s that?”
He followed her pointing finger. “It looks like an entrance.”
The oval opening was tiny in the side of the great tree. It shimmered, covered with a door of sylveth.
“I’ll wait here for you.”
Lucy glanced at Marten and then nodded. This was something she had to do alone. The cipher had chosen her, after all.
The pool roiled as she approached. Again she was reminded of a puppy left too long alone. She knelt, running her fingers through it. It swallowed her arm, running up over her neck. She stood, stepping out onto it. It firmed, but not before sliding up over her legs and waist. Soon she was entirely sheathed in the shimmering stuff. But she had no difficulty breathing, nor seeing.
She crossed to the door. She brushed her fingers over the surface and it dissolved. She stepped up into the tree. As she did, the sylveth drained away, returning to the pool.
The interior of the mother tree had been hollowed out to create a large room. The walls glowed with a soft pink light. Along a wall there was a bed, looking freshly made. Beside it was a table, a long workbench covered with all sorts of odd bits, a huge copper bathtub, and a tall mirror. Lucy caught sight of herself in it. She went closer, examining herself. She looked very much the same as she always had. Round figure, full breasts, freckles. She was surprised to see that the gold necklace signaling her royal lineage remained unchanged. Aside from the silvery speckles on her chest and belly, the only other outward sign of her change was in her eyes. The blue irises had turned silver. They shimmered and spun like raw sylveth. The pupils and outer ring were dark crimson. They would likely be very unnerving to others. Lucy rather liked the effect.
“Well, you will certainly turn heads, won’t you?” she said to herself, returning to her examination of the room.
In the center was something resembling a Pilot’s compass. It stood on a post of blood oak. It was living wood, Lucy realized, kneeling down to touch it. She stood again, examining the compass itself. The rays were each a different shade of red sylveth, and in the center bubbled a pool of the stuff. From its depths another red finger of sylveth protruded. Lucy reached out and touched it. Instantly the walls of the room flashed brilliant white.
“So you’ve come at last, have you? Took your time, too. Oh dear. A woman. Well, should have expected that. Pretty enough, though. At least that’s something.”
The low, scratchy voice was male. It reminded Lucy of a foghorn. It was also bad-tempered.
“Errol Cipher, I presume?” It couldn’t be anyone else.
“What’s left of him. What he left here to molder while you dawdled getting here. No senses—can’t taste, touch, or smell. Nothing to look at. Nothing to hear but the gods-cursed wind blowing.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“I didn’t. The trinket did. Made just to find someone strong enough to manage the blood oak. To be a proper heir to my knowledge.”
His tone was pompous and self-impressed. He reminded her entirely too much of her elder brother Stephen. Lucy rolled her eyes.
“Heir?”
“Certainly, though I did not think it would be a woman.”
“You don’t like women?”
“Oh, no. I like women very much. Very much. But…”
“But?” she prompted.
He resolved out of the whiteness. He was slightly taller than she, with thick blond hair that flopped over his forehead, and a square, craggy face. His nose was broad and large, looking as if it had been roughly hewed from stone. His mouth was flat, his eyes the same red-ringed silver as hers. His chin had a cleft, and there was a gap between his two front teeth. He had a narrow waist and muscular shoulders. He appeared to be around forty-five years old, perhaps a few years older. He was dressed in antiquated loose trousers, low, slipperlike shoes, and a tight, short shirt with a wide studded leather belt. He was not handsome, Lucy thought. But something about him was tremendously compelling.
“Women have the capacity to do terrible things. Vicious things. Without hardly a qualm,” he said. “They are quite reasonable right up to the point where they become unreasoning, and then they do exactly as they wish without concern for the consequences. Men, however, have hot fierce tempers that burn out quickly. They are more easily deflected from their stupidity. Women are single-minded about it.”
“This from the man who set innumerable curses on his friends and enemies alike.”
He smiled slyly. “Imagine if I were a woman. But there’s no help for it. You are here and you are the one, so I must teach you.”
“Teach me what?”
“Everything. Each ray of the compass contains journals, lessons, books—all that I’ve learned. It is for you. And for whoever comes after you. Touch the rays in order—box the compass, as it were. Only when you thoroughly learn what each has to offer will the next open for you. Guard the information well. It can be dangerous in the wrong h
ands. In stupid or weak hands. Is there still a Rampling on the throne?” he asked suddenly.
Lucy nodded. “Cousin William.”
“Cousin? Ah, then, that is all right. Rampling blood is unreasonably loyal, stupidly steadfast, and revoltingly stubborn. Clever, too. Too clever by half, sometimes. Yes, you may just do.”
“Just what do you expect me to do?” she asked, finding the situation more amusing than she ought to.
He put his hands on his hips, staring in disgusted disbelief. “Serve the crown, of course. That’s what majicars do.”
“They do?” Lucy thought of the guild. Certainly majicars were required to serve three months of every year. They did whatever was required, from healing to helping with customs, from building roads to providing majickal protections for the king. The rest of the year they did as they pleased. Though they provided regular service to Crosspointe, she wouldn’t have said they served the crown.
“Of course. From the founding it was decided. Well, the first William and I decided. Trevor was only interested in amassing several fortunes. We overruled him,” he said smugly. “After all, I could conjure a mountain of gold and jewels in my sleep. I have no need of money. Majicars really only have one true devotion, besides the gods, and that is learning their craft and using it for the good of the crown.”
Lucy shook her head. “That’s not the way it is now. Majicars have their own guild. They only serve the crown to pay a sort of tax on Merstone Island. Many charge hefty fees for the services they do otherwise. I have no idea what happens on Merstone Island. Experimenting and learning their craft, I suppose.”
“That’s outrageous,” he sputtered, spots of color rising in his cheeks.
She watched entranced. He seemed so real.
“Well, that nonsense is about to change. You will serve. And you will bring them to heel.”
“I will?”
He pointed a blunt finger at her, approaching so that his insubstantial face was only inches from hers. “Do not play games, chit. I am not so dead that I cannot still curse you so that your skin sloughs off and your innards spill out your anus and your brain runs out your nose.”
Lucy held up the charm on the end of her gold necklace. “I’m a Rampling, remember? Of course I will serve. I have all my life. But bringing the majicars to heel…” How could she do that? “Cousin William will have to decide.”
He stood back and then nodded. “Well enough. Now”—he turned and walked, rubbing his hands together—“there is so much to tell you. Where to begin? The blood oak, I think. Yes, that’s simple enough and—”
The tree shook and twisted as if someone was trying to uproot it. Lucy staggered, losing her balance and pulling her hand away from the hardened sylveth protrusion. Instantly the vision of Errol Cipher vanished. She caught the compass for balance, slicing her hand on one of the rays. Blood dripped to the floor.
Everything went still. Lucy pulled herself to her feet. Suddenly the walls turned brilliant red, the color of fresh blood. A pulse of majick rose up from the roots of the tree. It flooded Lucy, washing through her and beyond. For an instant she felt the tender tips of the leaves, the minuscule root hairs taking in nourishment from the sylveth, the tall, solid trunk driving deeply into the soil and sky. And she felt more. Sparks in a web, far away. And…
A void.
A wrongness.
A death.
Lucy’s stomach turned over. Her hands shook with palsy. She braced her elbows on the top of the compass, grasping the sylveth finger with both hands. This time there was no white mist, no vision of Errol Cipher. Only his voice. Weak.
“What’s happened?” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“The Pale. It’s gone. The tree always knows where her children are. You must go. The sylveth rises. The Chance storms are already forming. Hurry.”
His voice faded at the end.
“What do I do?”
“Make a new Pale.”
“How?”
Lucy had a sense of annoyed amusement. “Conjure it, majicar. Anchor it to the Wall tree. Remember, it’s blood oak.”
“The Wall tree? What do you mean?”
But there was no answer. He was gone. She pushed herself upright, going to the doorway. The pool of sylveth churned madly, and she could hear the tree now. Its hum was echoed by the grove. An ominous sound.
Lucy patted its bark with her bleeding hand. “I’ll fix it,” she promised. Did the hum shift pitch for a moment? She couldn’t be sure. She pulled her hand away, watching in fascination as her blood was absorbed into the wood and disappeared. It’s blood oak, Errol Cipher had said. It was not named for its color.
Crossing back across the sylveth was far more difficult. It did not want to listen. She concentrated with everything she had, forcing it to hold her weight. She ran across, not trusting the bridge to hold. Marten caught her hands, helping her jump to shore.
“What’s happened?”
“The Pale has been destroyed,” she said, fleeing back through the grove.
Marten caught up with her. The barrier that had been so hard to cross did not hinder their leave-taking. They dashed through the trees and out into a meadow. Marten grasped Lucy’s hand, pulling her to a halt. Feeling the stickiness on her hands, he examined the black stain in the moonlight.
“Can you fix this?”
She focused on her hand, imagining her flesh closing. Nothing happened. Instead she conjured a bandage. He wrapped it carefully around her wound.
“We have to get home,” she said, her voice thick with worry. “Quickly. Chance storms are already building. We don’t have much time.”
Marten looked up at the sky, his face remote. Then he nodded. “It will take a few days for them to reach full strength and start sweeping across the sea.”
“How are we going to get there? And in time?”
He flashed his most irritating smile. “Majick.”
He called the winds again and lifted them back up to the lip of the chasm. From there they climbed down. He made her sit and rest at the foot of the great ridge.
“We haven’t eaten all day. Let’s try not to be stupider than we have to be. We’ll need all our strength and wits about us.”
Lucy assented, conjuring bread, meat, apples, and cream tea. They ate quickly. She recounted her visit with the remnant of Errol Cipher around bites of food.
“Errol Cipher’s heir. Keros is going to have a litter of cats when he hears this.”
Lucy grinned. “He’ll rant at me for cutting up my hand again.”
“Such a wet hen, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. He watched me take a bath. He said all my fat was in the right places.”
Marten lowered the sandwich he’d made, eyeing her darkly. “What was he doing watching you bathe?”
“Something about wanting to make sure I hadn’t damaged myself more than I told him.”
“And did you?”
“Not that time.”
“I’d just as soon he kept out of your bathing room from now on.”
“Really? Why?”
Marten hooked a hand around her neck, dragging her close and kissing her hard. He raised his head, snugging her close against his side.
“Because I’ll blind him if he dares.”
“He is a majicar, you know. That could be risky.”
“He may be a majicar, but I am—Whatever I am, he’ll find himself on the wrong end of a hot poker.”
“I’ll be sure to warn him.”
“You do that.”
It was nearly dawn by the time they returned to the shore. Lucy was exhausted, but she refused to rest.
“There’s no time,” she insisted.
“Then make us a boat. I’ll do the rest.”
She walked out into the water, closing her eyes. Sylveth coiled and swirled in the waves twenty leagues away. It lapped up against the Root and spread tendrils in a wide net near Normengas. It lay in a thick mass off the coast of Orsage and lingered deep u
nder the waves west of Crosspointe. She tapped its power and thought of a boat. A customs cutter, with two masts and a sheltering roof. She opened her eyes. It rocked in the waves before her, exactly as she imagined, exactly as she’d remembered from every time she’d sailed across Blackwater Bay in one.
“You’re getting very good at this,” Marten said, lifting her aboard. He swung himself up easily. “A tight little craft. I’ll set the sails and get under way.”
He hoisted the sails, tying them off. Then he went to sit in the stern, one hand on the rudder.
“Ready? Hold on.”
The wind rose. It bellied the sails. Soon they were skimming across the water. It was fast. But not fast enough.
“We won’t get there in time,” she told Marten.
He only smiled. Then suddenly the ocean surged. A tall wave picked them up on its crest. They thrust forward, racing across the ocean at lightning speed.
“Sleep,” Marten ordered. “It will be hours before we’re close.”
Lucy nodded and went to the cabin. Just outside she stopped, looking out across the water. The eastern sky was streaked pink and orange. She narrowed her gaze, watching the water ahead. A Koreion rose up and sinuously dived back down, keeping pace with their boat. She smiled and went inside, conjuring a blanket and pillow and curling up on the floor.
Chapter 31
They rode through the day and into the night. Lucy woke, conjuring food, watching Marten while she ate. His face was remote and austere. His mind was far away, sunk deep in the sea and blowing swift across the waves. He took the fare she offered without a word or a look.
She was content to leave him be. Her own thoughts were tangled. She wanted time and peace to sort them out. She went to the bow, leaning against the rail and watching the Koreions. There were six of them now, diving and winding.
Her mind kept coming back to the Jutras. Sharpel had said Crosspointe’s protections wouldn’t last the month. Had he found a way to snap the Pale? But the Jutras wanted Crosspointe intact. They would want its Pilots and seamen and dockworkers…. Or it could just have failed. The papers had been predicting it for decades, saying its power was fading.
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