"Goodness." His master's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Such weighty matters call for mulled wine. Which also does wonders for productivity, as my own master used to say."
The wine was heady with spice and its heat spread to the outside of the simple brown goblet. Perched on a stool across a table from Master Caienthe, an island of calm within the bustle of the scribe hall, Agnon wrapped his hands around his cup, not ready to sip but comforted nonetheless.
After running from the tapestry, he'd done his chores in a daze. What sleep he'd managed had been troubled by nightmares—visions of being trapped, of being weighed down, of drowning. Drowning wasn't to be feared. It was the way to Her Depths, to eternal life. The bodies of those who died on land were always consigned to the ocean. Yet Agnon had been terrified. When he awoke, he would have asked his father the meaning of his dreams, and to explain away the bizarre behavior of tapestries, but Master Rathe had been summoned to the Armory before dawn and not returned.
For there really was a P'okukii fleet approaching. Maybe the rumors hadn't lied after all.
It had happened before.
Stomach churning, Agnon had waited for his friends before walking the corridor where threads on a wall had spoken to him. The tapestry was still there, but to his astonishment, the warships were little more than shadows, their crews impossible to see. The figures on the small ship were tiny and indistinct, the colors so dim he could barely make them out.
How had he seen more?
"I take it you've heard what's to happen tomorrow, despite the Council's care. Rumors?" Caienthe shook his head as if at himself. "Of course. Your father."
"Yes. The fleet is arming. They sail on the morning tide. Is it—war, Master Caienthe?"
"War?" Caienthe huffed as if shocked, his breath parting the wisps of his beard. "Whatever gave you that idea, lad? Yes, yes, the P'okukii have left their shores for the first time in living memory, which is a startling thing in itself. Just imagine the effort, young Agnon. They had to teach themselves to build suitable ships, let alone learn to use them. River captains and barge crews, taking to the open sea despite their fear. But no matter what you may have heard from unreputable sources," a pause as the scribe scowled meaningfully at his roomful of apprentices, "the P'okukii's purpose is a peaceful one."
"But our fleet sails—"
"As an escort of honor. And a show of might to soothe those on Council who jump at the mere hint the tide's changing beneath their keels." The scribe took a longer swallow of his wine, his cheeks taking on a ruddy glow. "The soothsayers of the P'okukii read portents to guide their people's future. Seems they've learned that by having their ships enter Circle Cove on a certain day—tomorrow in fact—they can prevent a doom. A doom which, I might add, they believe could destroy both our peoples." Caienthe beamed contentedly at his apprentice. "Whether you believe in portents or not, it will surely be a momentous day—the first time ships of another realm have been welcomed into the heart of ours."
"They'll arrive tomorrow?" It was as if the tapestry, with its dire image of warships and pale-skinned crews, hung between them. Agnon took a hasty gulp of his own wine. Sputtering, he managed to gasp: "During the ceremony itself?"
"What more fitting time? The city will be filled with revels and prayer. And parties—"
"They can't!" Agnon half-shouted. Wine spilled over his hands as words spilled from his lips. "The P'okukii were the ones who attacked the Blessed Kingdom in the third age—the Quiet God was Summoned to destroy them. You can't let them into the Cove. They are the Enemy!"
Master Caienthe's kind eyes chilled. "Calm yourself, young Agnon. I think perhaps you've been reading too many legends, instead of copying them."
"No. No, sir." Agnon licked his lips and tried to calm his voice, though he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. "I've seen it, Master Caienthe. I've seen. When I left here yesterday, I passed a tapestry in the hall. Yes, it depicted part of 'The Legend of the Summoning.' But I saw more than the legend—I saw more than what was really there."
The master scribe seemed to become still, the way the waters of the cove could suddenly turn to glass at sunset. "Go on."
"I could see everything. The crews on the warships. I could see their pale skins and eyes. They were P'okukii." Agnon took a deep breath. "More. I could see the faces of the dir-priests who were conducting the Summoning, as clearly as I see yours now. And I heard their names. Rathe, Agnon. And Skalda. Dir Skalda—" He shuddered. "Master Caienthe, she turned and looked at me. She—spoke."
Caienthe's bushy eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Blessed Depths," he whispered. Louder: "What did she say?"
"'What sleeps in the shallows belongs to Her Depths.'" Only words. Yet Agnon felt a cold wash of air, as though the Ocean Herself breathed winter down his neck. "You have to believe me."
His master reached out and steadied Agnon's hands around his cup. "Take a drink, lad. Yes," this as Agnon gave him a desperate look, "I believe you. Dir Segnon, advisor to Council, is my sister. I grew up with visions—though none like yours."
"Visions?" Agnon echoed numbly. "I don't have a gift for magic, Master Caienthe. You know that." He'd been tested at birth, as was everyone. Today's magic might be controlled and contained, but it still required those of inborn talent to utter the carefully composed spells and make them real. Apprentices, called sedir, spent their youth on ships, filling sails with wind and calming storm waves. As masters, they became dir-priests, responsible for the larger and lasting magics. Such lit the innermost reaches of Circle Cove, cured the ill, helped flowers grow. Such went to battle, when necessary, using spells of devastating effect.
None had visions, whispered something deep inside Agnon. Not any more. Those belonged to that dangerous, unpredictable power of the past. Forbidden until forgotten. Lost. "I thought the Old Magic was gone," he protested.
Caienthe glanced around once, as if to be sure they were out of earshot of the others in the hall. "No," he said, his gaze back and steady on Agnon. "Never gone. It remains in the world, a temptation only to those willing to pay any price for power." He reached inside his robe and pulled out a roll of parchment. The brown, brittle edges marked it as older than any here. It was tied with what appeared to be strands of brown hair. The scribe held it between his hands with reverent care, but didn't open it. "This is also 'The Legend of the Summoning.' An older, less comforting version. They say it was been copied through the generations from the account of the very captain who took his ship and passengers over Blood Reef."
The Ocean sighed over Agnon's neck, again sending chills down his spine. Blood Reef. The home of the Quiet God. The young man strained to comprehend what Caienthe was saying, knowing it was important, if not why.
"It tells how the Great Spell used to arouse the Quiet God wasn't from the safe, tame knowledge of the dir-priesthood. It was Old Magic, the kind no inner gift controls, the kind that answers only to blood. Six young princes and princesses gave theirs to Summon Her Quiet God from Her Depths, then three dir-priests gave their lives to join with the God and send him at our foe. The rest—" The master scribe shrugged. "—the rest is as you've copied so often. The destruction of the invader's ships, the final rest of the Quiet God here, beneath the waves of Circle Cove."
He'd swum in the cove with friends all his life, never thinking what might lie below. "Is this—truth or legend? What do you believe, Master?"
Master Caienthe shrugged. "I confess I'm not a religious man, Agnon. It makes sense to me that our people, who depend on the ocean, long ago chose to populate Her unknowable Depths with gods. A comfort to sailors, to believe the Depths themselves care for us—that heaven lies below." He drank deeply then wiped red drops from his beard. "Did you know the P'okukii, who depend on growing things in soil, worship the sun instead, and place their gods in the sky? Still." Caienthe gazed out the window at the sparkling cove, where the last of the fleet could be seen leaving the harbor. "I'm no priest to have studied the mysteries of Her Depths, to have bes
pelled my eyes to see for myself what lies below and beyond. But even I believe something sleeps there."
The scribe laid the small roll on the table between them. "And there is a drop of truth in all tales, Agnon. This, more than most. The captain's name, Bocknek, is recorded elsewhere as a fisher from the Leewards. He existed. The rest? The Old Magic still rumbles below our feet. And," he smiled "there is your name, Agnon. Common as cormorants, isn't it? So is Rathe. And Skalda. The names of destiny and good fortune. You understand why, now, don't you."
Agnon nodded. "They were the dir-priests."
A tremor rattled their cups on the table. At a far corner of the hall, an inkpot slipped to the floor with a crash. They both jumped, then looked at one another.
"Legend gains a voice and the Cove herself trembles," Master Caienthe said soberly. "I may not be a soothsayer, Agnon, but . . . I believe you were right to tell me of your vision. I must go to my sister. Warn her that the P'okukii may have longer and darker memories than we do." He put down his cup and stood. Agnon hurried to do the same. "Meanwhile, I ask you to keep silent and come to me if anything else happens." The scribe's long supple fingers, ink-stained but strong, rested tip-down on the table for an instant, then one finger gently pushed the roll of antique parchment towards Agnon. "I think you should read this for yourself."
****
Petals sank and spun their way through the columns of light, streams of color tasting of soil. So many, they clouded the sky. So many, they became a shadow through which other, darker things drifted down, limbs given grace by the sea, innocence shed.
The remnants of the great flock converged slowly, timid at first. Then they feasted. We had seen this before. As before, blood did not diffuse, but fell to our mouth, coating our sides, staining the world with rage.
If we dreamed, now was the moment we awoke.
****
Awake, Agnon grabbed the sides of his bed, holding on as if another tremor was tilting the world. But all was still, hushed with sleep.
Dream or vision? It had been so clear—that sense of being underwater, of seeing the sacrifices raining down on his face through the water. Of being . . . something other than himself.
His hand drove beneath his pillow to retrieve the parchment from Master Caienthe. He had read the chilling account, knew of the true sacrifice: the lives of children as well as priests. He sagged with relief. It must have caused the dream.
Then, suddenly, Agnon realized his face was wet. He touched his cheeks with trembling fingers. They came away wet and cold. He brought his hand into the light that played over his blankets. Flower petals clung to his fingertips.
And blood.
But it wasn't his.
****
The corridors of Circle Cove had two kinds of floors, those smoothed and cleared of any dust by the ceaseless motion of feet and wheels, and those coated in the fine black powder of undisturbed time.
The approach to the Inner Sanctum of Dir-Priest Segnon was polished to gleaming. Master Scribe Caienthe's sister was a busy woman; the demand of her office, Advisor to Council, claiming what time she had to spare from her studies. This late at night, the light was dimmed to be gentle on tired eyes, but Agnon had no problem following the directions Caienthe had given him.
He'd staggered from his bedroom to his father's chambers, his face dripping with seawater and blood, body coated in the petals of rare orchids and daisies. For once, Master Rathe had been mute, helping dry his son, holding him until he stopped trembling. Then, they'd both gone to wake the master scribe.
Who had sent Agnon here, alone.
Agnon raised his hand to ring the silver bell, but the heavy curtains that formed the door moved aside before he touched it. "Come in, lad," said a voice from the shadows within.
Even as he obeyed and the curtain closed behind him, lights snapped into being from all sides, so bright he might have stood outside on a beach at noon, when the wise protected their heads beneath hats of woven kelp. Agnon squinted, eyes watering.
"A moment . . ." followed by a whispered incantation. The lighting assumed a more normal glow.
Agnon found himself in an unexpectedly ordinary room, sparsely furnished with chairs and tables and shelves no finer than those of his home. He bowed politely to the small woman standing before him. "Dir Segnon?"
"Yes, yes. And you're the young man eavesdropping on the future." At his shocked look, she stroked her hands through the air as if collecting motes of dust. "The gift in a family tends to connect siblings. What you told my dear brother tonight so alarmed him, it woke me from a sound sleep to find the cause." She smiled gently; Agnon recognized Caienthe's kindness in her face.
"I don't know what happened," he admitted.
"Nor do I. That is why you are here. Sit, please."
Agnon obeyed, his hands limp in his lap.
Segnon was no taller than he. Though the years and costs of her calling had lined her face, her eyes were young and fiercely bright. Now, she hugged the folds of her plain white robe closer to her sparse frame as she sat and studied him, her head tilting to one side so her long grey hair tumbled over that shoulder. "Ah," she said at last.
Ah? Agnon fidgeted in the chair. "Ah?" he repeated, when nothing else seemed forthcoming.
"You're the son of the armorer, Master Rathe, aren't you? I'd know his hair and eyes anywhere. Fine man. A little loud, but what can you expect from someone who thumped iron half his life?"
Before Agnon could say anything, Segnon straightened, her look turning serious. "Now. Tell me everything you've done and witnessed in the last two days. All of it—no matter how inconsequential."
Dawn was coming. Agnon suddenly knew it, as if he looked up through water and watched the stars dim in the sky. "There's no time—"
She clasped her hands together. "Then speak quickly."
Agnon thought it would be hard, but the dir-priest listened with such intensity words seemed to pour from him. The tapestry, being awakened by his father's preparations for war, the ancient parchment beneath his pillow and his dream—
She reached out and he put the roll into her hand. She lifted one eyebrow, as if surprised by something: "Thought I'd locked that away. Continue."
"I dreamed I lay at the bottom of Her Depths, that somehow flowers and—and— Agnon swallowed hard, but made himself continue "—children were drifting down on me. Innocent and beautiful. Then, there was blood. So much blood. It filled my mouth. It woke me." He shivered despite the dry clothes, steadying his voice with an effort. "I found myself sitting up in bed, covered in seawater, petals, and . . ."
"Blood."
"Yes."
"Ah. A true vision," she half-whispered, her eyes dark with emotion. "Such has not occurred within these walls since—well, since my long-ago predecessors drew magic away from the land and sea, to pour into the people so its cost would be borne only by the user, not others. With one exception," she lifted the roll and frowned, "we've avoided Old Magic from that time."
"I didn't mean to—"
A smile. "It isn't a matter of fault, but of meaning. Such visions have purpose."
"Do you understand it, Dir Segnon?" Agnon asked eagerly.
As if her thoughts made her too uneasy to sit still, Segnon stood and began pacing back and forth, her sandals making a soft shushing sound, as if they disapproved. On her third pass, she stopped in front of him and uttered a phrase in a musical language Agnon had never heard before, then seemed to await some reaction from him.
A Spell? Agnon didn't feel any different. He opened his mouth to say so, only to have a voice flow out that wasn't his: "WHAT SLEEPS IN THE SHALLOWS BELONGS TO HER DEPTHS. SET US FREE."
Segnon didn't look surprised. "Name yourself."
Agnon gripped the arms of his chair, helpless as his lips writhed around more words, overlapping and confused: "I WAS SKALDA. MYSELF. ONE. THREE TO SUMMON. THREE TO AIM. ONE GONE. TWO GONE. WE ALONE REMAIN. WE ARE ONE. WE MUST BE TWO. I . . . I . . . I!!!!" The young man found hi
mself screaming, as if no volume could be enough to encompass that terrible need to be heard.
By what?
****
"How's your throat?"
"Better." Agnon didn't thank the dir-priest for her healing spell. It had been her magic that called whatever had tried to rip through him in the first place. "Who was that—them?"
"You know as well as I." Segnon busied herself with cups and tea, as much to keep him from seeing her shaking hands, Agnon thought, as to provide them both with a drink.
It wasn't every day, or everyone, who heard the voice of their god.
"No. It isn't possible."
The floor shook, once, hard and impatient.
Segnon lifted one eyebrow. "You were saying?" She handed him a steaming cup. Agnon sniffed it suspiciously. "Drink up. I'll be right back."
She disappeared through a door at the back of the room, pulling its curtain closed behind her. Agnon made himself taste the brew. It was the same as his mother would give him for colds. His eyes stung with tears and he wiped them away furiously. This was no time to play the child, to dwell on befores and what ifs.
If he understood anything of what was happening, Circle Cove, all his people, were in terrible danger.
Agnon's fears were like waves at the rising tide, slipping higher and higher over the black sand until there seemed no room left to safely stand. The P'okukii soothsayers. What had they really seen? Grim past or future? If the future, had they seen the Quiet God aroused to defend Circle Cove again? Wouldn't that be a reason for an otherwise peaceful people to build a fleet of war, to act first to save themselves?
He could see the tapestry in his mind's eye.
Had that been the reason once before?
"Here it is." Dir Segnon's voice rang with triumph as she rushed back into the room, brandishing what appeared to be a roll of parchment identical to the one from Master Caienthe, only older, if that were possible. Three others, two men and a woman clad in similar robes, followed her at a more dignified pace.
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