by Glenda Larke
“But ye found enough to water yourselves?”
“The Cloudmaster supplies the caravansaries,” she said vaguely.
“A talented young man.”
“A solitary one, unfortunately. He cannot manage to water the whole of the Quartern alone forever.”
He stopped moving, stilled so suddenly and unnaturally that she was shocked, wondering what she’d said. When he spoke again, and it seemed a long time afterwards, his words were oddly flat, yet she felt an undercurrent of anger. “Does he think to be stopping our rain?”
“No. But there is a limit to what one man can do.”
“Ah.” There was another silence, then he said, “I’ve never been to the true heart of Khromatis, up in the mountains. None of us have. Alabasters are forbidden past the Borderlands and the administrative ward called the Southern Marches, as are all foreigners.”
She blinked, struggling to cope with the sudden change of subject. “Why? What do they have to hide?”
“Nothing that I know of. But the early history between Khromatis and the Quartern was fraught. Wars, invasions from this side—I speak of the days before we Alabasters lived here, ye understand—terrible, terrible times when ferocious tribes pillaged the land. In the end the Khromatians decided this land was the dwelling place of evil and their engineers flooded the Borderlands to be making the crossing difficult. They diverted a river, I believe. The marshes ye’ll cross were originally man-made. This happened around the same time we Alabasters were exiled here. About two thousand years ago.”
“You were exiled from Khromatis? Why?” she asked.
“To become the guardians of their borders. To be making sure that people don’t enter Khromatis from the Quartern. We take that task seriously. Ye and Russet are Watergivers, so of course that does not apply to ye, although Russet may have broken some Khromatian rules by coming here in the first place. However, that’s not our business.”
“Why do you have to protect their borders? It’s not your land any more!”
He looked down at his hands. He had long thin fingers, and his skin was paper thin, his blue veins knotted and uneven under the fine mesh of wrinkles. “It is our burden. Our duty. Our atonement for a great sin committed long ago. When our penance is done, we will go home.”
She stared at him in bewilderment. “Home? To Khromatis?”
“Yes. One day we will be forgiven and be permitted to return.”
“You were exiled—and you remain in exile—for something that happened so long ago? Why, that must have been before the Time of Random Rain.”
“It was. In an age of regular rain, when the Giving Sea didn’t exist and there were no Scarpermen, or Gibber folk, just the ancestors of the Reduners.”
“That’s incredibly silly,” she said, so taken aback that words slipped out before she’d thought about what she was saying. “How can you—and your people alive here and now—be guilty of something that happened so long ago? And why should it still be your home after all those years? Why, I don’t feel the least bit like a person from Khromatis even though my parents grew up there.”
He looked pained. “For us, it is just so.”
She almost laughed, then realised her mockery was rude. “I’m sorry. That was ill-mannered of me.” Her mind was racing. Why had he told her what he had? She now knew more about Khromatis and the Alabasters than anyone she’d ever heard of! They keep a secret for two thousand years and then blurt it out to me? Because I’m supposedly from Khromatis and should know it anyway? No… there’s more to it than that.
Diplomatically, she asked a more neutral question. “Will I be able to take my two Scarpen guards to Khromatis? I don’t want to travel with Russet without protection. I don’t trust him. And from what you’ve just said, his people aren’t all that hospitable.”
“We’ll not stop your guards, but what happens on the other side of the Borderlands we’ve no control over. We’ll deliver ye all to the Khromatian authority in Marchford. That’s one of the three border towns. Many Alabasters work there and in the surrounding fields and farms. If the Khromatians refuse to be allowing your two guards any further, there’s nothing we can do.”
He stood up. His movements were slow and deliberate, his balance unsure. He took up his stick again and headed towards the door on the other side of the room. “Come with me a moment. I want to be showing ye something.” He turned to leave without waiting to see if she followed.
Wincing every step of the way, he led her down several flights of stairs until they emerged in a narrow room with curving walls, lined with recessed shelves full of scrolls and books from ceiling to floor. She looked around in awe. It was so dim and cool, she wondered if they were partially underground. The numerous light wells at the top of the outer walls were angled upwards through the salt.
“The library is circular,” he said. “It goes all the way around the hill. In the centre is our main water cistern. That’s the pumping mechanism ye can hear.”
“I didn’t know there could be so many books in the world,” she said. “No one could possibly read all these, surely?”
He laughed. “Probably not in several lifetimes. These are our history. The oldest of these documents, a copy of the Rules of Faith, dates back several thousand cycles to our exile. The originals are even older and still to be found in Khromatis. They are the actual words of God, recorded on clay tablets by the scribes who heard Him speak from the waters of the Source.”
Terelle gave him a blank look.
“The Source is the spring feeding all the rivers of Khromatis. The Quartern priests tell ye the source of all life is the sun, but we know the sun is our enemy and it would shrivel us if the earth had no life-giving water. God lives within every drop of water on this world—including the water within our bodies. We are mostly water; did ye know that? And of all people, those of Khromatis are the closest to the Source—the true heart and purity of God.”
“The Reduners use the same word about a natural water supply in the dunes,” she said.
“Perhaps they are wiser than the Scarpen folk.”
“So you believe the Sunlord is something evil?”
He shrugged, indifferent. “Perhaps. But our writings do not say that. They do not mention him.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want ye to believe your waterpainting power comes not from the Sunlord, but from God, the real living God, part of whom flows in your veins, in the water of your blood. We want ye to know ye are a Khromatian, a Watergiver lord, born of our faith, and God has His purpose for ye.”
Her head was reeling. “Which is?”
He laughed. “I am not God! How can I say what His purpose is? He will let ye know, all in good time.” He waved a hand at the shelving. “I could prove much of what I say, if ye could only read our script. At the end of each star cycle, a history of that cycle has to be written by the Bastion’s historian and kept here. I could show you the very one describing the coming of Ash Gridelin and how he passed on water skills and sensitivity during the Time of Random Rain. It was quite deliberate, ye know. He promised his lovers they would have special children who would save the world, and they did.”
She frowned. “You recorded things from before the Time of Random Rain?”
“Indeed. From back when only us and the original plains dwellers lived here. The Scarpen and Gibber folk came later and built their mines and their towns and traded the minerals back to their home cities. Still later the sea rose up and cut them off from their origins. By then, the original people had already retreated to the dunes. The seasonal abundant rains ceased and the Time of Random Rain began. The only way to live was to follow the rains. Most people died and they were still diminishing in number when Ash Gridelin happened by.”
“How did the Alabasters survive before he came?”
“We raised white pedes and farmed samphire. In the Time of Random Rain, we dug for underground water near the Border Humps and built the first water
tunnels. Later, even that water began vanishing, but by that time Gridelin had come and the first of the Quartern stormlords had been born. Unfortunately for us here in Alabaster, his behaviour was considered so outrageous he was forced to be leaving before he fathered even a handful of children. That’s why our water sensitives are rare. We haven’t had a rainlord or a stormlord born in several hundred cycles.” He waved a hand vaguely around the walls of books and scrolls. “The story is all in there.”
“Alabasters built the tunnels?”
“We built those in the White Quarter, certainly. Later we taught Scarpen folk how to be building their own.” He paused to ease himself into a chair. “When the water vanished and they were cut off from the outside world, Scarpen folk thought they were being punished for their sins. They tried to placate a ferocious sun with their water sacrifices. When Gridelin turned up, they were sure the Sunlord had sent him.”
“And he didn’t tell them otherwise?” she asked in distaste.
“Who knows? It was a long time ago, and although we have good records from Alabaster, our forebears knew little of what went on in the other Quarters. Our God is gentle and giving, and perhaps he instigated Gridelin’s restless need to be exploring, which resulted in his succour of the Quartern. They were different times. Pointless to be judging them by our standards.” He smiled at her. “If ye like, we will teach ye more of our faith. Ye will find it a kind one.”
She shook her head with sudden violence. “How do I know it’s not all spindevil dust in the wind? Tales to pacify children? I sacrificed water all my life to the Sunlord and now you and Feroze have convinced me there is no Sunlord, and never was. But you can’t make me believe another lie.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she reddened at her own rudeness and rushed from the room, running up the stairs. At the top she came face to face with Feroze.
Her anger drained away as if it had never been. “I think I’ve just been unforgivably rude to the Bastion,” she told him miserably.
“Ah.”
“I ran out on him. He’s down in the library.”
He smiled at her. “Wait here, Terelle. Maybe I can sort it out, and then I’ll walk ye back to the townhouse. All right?”
She pulled an unhappy face and nodded. He disappeared down the steps and she leaned against the coolness of the salt wall with her eyes closed.
Why does it feel as if someone wrenched the heart out of you? You loathe the Quartern Sunpriest, and you’ve known for ages about who Ash Gridelin really was…
The answer, when it came, surprised her. Because you need to believe in something. You’re not like Shale. You need to know that you aren’t alone, that there is a purpose to this life that is bigger than you are.
The smile Feroze gave her when he returned was wry. “Don’t worry,” he said, “he understands.”
He led her out into the streets again by another route and as they began the descent, he said, “The Bastion told me he never did say what he really wanted to tell ye. He has asked me to be saying it instead.”
“So he had his reasons for telling me things that no one else in the Quartern knows?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Terelle, if there is limited water to be had, then we are the ones who’ll suffer most. If Lord Jasper has to be making choices, then he will choose to be watering the Scarpen first. And ye are leaving. We worry that ye’ll not return.”
It was her turn to be silent, to wonder what he had not said. After a moment she sighed. “You know, don’t you?”
“That the only way Lord Jasper could have been bringing water to us all is with the help of waterpainting? Your waterpainting? Yes. We understand the limitations of a stormlord better than most, and we understand the abilities of a waterpainter. He could not have overcome his problems with cloudmaking so quickly. We put two and two together.”
She stopped in the shade of a wall to look at him. “And what is it you want from me?”
“Poor Terelle. There is always something, isn’t there? Last time it was to use your powers to be fighting the Reduners. Now it’s stormshifting.”
“I have every intention of returning.”
“I know. We want more. We want ye to be bringing another Watergiver back with you. In fact several, if possible.”
She was silent.
“Ah,” he said. “That wasn’t a surprise to ye, was it?”
“Jasper has already asked me. But nonetheless I am surprised to hear it from Alabasters. Why in the sweet waters do you think Watergivers would listen to me rather than you? You know them, mix with them in the Borderlands, work for them, trade with them, worship the same god, know how to speak their tongue. Why haven’t you asked them?”
This time the silence was so long she was sure he wasn’t going to reply, but she held his gaze. The flow of pedestrians in the street passed to either side, making an island of them. She was unsettled and angry, hating her ignorance. Feroze may have seemed his usual calm self, but the artist in her saw the tautness of his shoulders and neck, the tense clenching of his jaw, the trouble that clouded the sparkle in his eyes.
“They despise us, Terelle,” he said at last. “We are the abomination cast out by their ancestors, never to be heeded again. Our crime was beyond forgiveness. Were we to be asking a boon, they would refuse it without thought. Why do ye think they’ve never sent us water? So many of them are waterlords! Stormlords. They could send us rain on a regular basis.”
“What did you do?” she whispered.
He shook his head and turned away. “It matters not,” he said as they continued on their way. “What matters is your ability to persuade them to come. Three or four of them—best not waterpainters, perhaps. Ye’re right; that’s a dangerous art, better left alone. No, we need more of those ye would call stormlords. Khromatians call such folk waterlords. Waterlords and waterpainters together are the Watergivers. Of course, most people are neither, being water-blind just like most Quartern folk.”
“Do you think they’ll listen to me?” she asked again. “Leave their homes and their land because the Quartern asks?”
“I don’t know. But every land has its adventurers, the people who want to be exploring, seeing new places, trying new things. There’ll be such among the waterlords. I’m not expecting a man with Gridelin’s answer to the problem, mind you. No, just people who could help us all over a rough spot for a short time until more stormlords are born.”
She was silenced, feeling unbalanced. As if I was sucked up into a spindevil, she thought. As if my feet can’t reach the ground. I am too ordinary for all this.
“Would ye like me to be coming with ye as far as the Borderlands?” he asked. “The Bastion suggested I do so.”
“I—yes. Yes, I would.” It was the truth; of all the Alabasters she had met, it was Feroze she trusted most.
“Then, with the Bastion’s permission, I’ll do so.”
When they reached the townhouse and Feroze turned to leave her, she laid a hand on his arm to delay him. “There is one thing I’d like to understand. What was the sin that your ancestors committed? What could be so terrible that you’re all still ashamed of it two thousand years later?”
He took a deep breath, as if he needed to steady himself. “I suppose ye’ll find out soon enough. They silenced God,” he whispered. “They silenced the voice of God.”
He turned and walked away, but not before she had seen the tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The White Quarter
Samphire and the Whiteout
Borderlands
Khromatis, Southern Marches
“I don’t like this city,” Dibble said quietly from where he sat on his bunk in the dormitory of the townhouse. There was no reason for him to speak quietly; there was no one else there, but the two of them were perpetually cautious. “I don’t like it at all. And I don’t trust these people.”
Elmar, lying down on his bunk next to Dibble, turned his head to look at the young guard. He’s just a
lad, he thought, even though he knew that patently wasn’t true. Dibble was as old as Jasper Bloodstone and, by all reports, had distinguished himself as an armsman of calibre in battle. Dibble Hornblend deserved to be called a man, but he was twenty years younger than Elmar, and that was enough to have him seem ridiculously youthful for the responsibility of this expedition. “They are just… different,” he said. “A dour folk.”
“Yes, that’s it. They don’t laugh much, do they? They don’t drink much, either. And I haven’t seen a single snuggery anywhere.”
“That shouldn’t worry you. You got me,” Elmar said.
Dibble flashed a grin, but then grumbled, “Right—but no weeping privacy. I don’t want to go to a snuggery; it just seems weird that there are none.”
Elmar snorted. “You may not see them, but they’ll exist, I’ll bet.”
“El, seriously, is she safe among these people? And the old fellow is the Bastion? He doesn’t look like a ruler!”
“These aren’t safe times.”
“This whole trip scares me waterless,” Dibble said, starting to clean his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.
“It should. I reckon we’ve as much chance of getting Terelle home safely as a sand-flea has of lasting a day on my arse.”
“But we have to.”
“’Sright. We do.”
“I heard that.”
Elmar sat bolt upright and bumped his head on the bunk above. The figure—a silhouette against the light—was unrecognizable, but the voice was indubitably Terelle’s.
“Can you try being a little more cheery about my chances?” she asked. “You know, like telling me that this is going to be as easy as adding salt to a cooking pot out on the Whiteout.”
Elmar swung his feet to the floor, rubbing his head. “Wish I believed that, but it’s not weeping likely. If Russet could paint your future, then what can all these other Watergiver folk do to you—to us—if they put their minds to it? And we not only have to get you home safe, but bring some of them back, too.”
