The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  He lifted his head, and the nearby sound of a brook met his ears. “But what choice does he have, who follows?”

  Nicolas sighed and looked around his little campsite. He stamped on the last few living embers, threw the wool blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, and pulled a loaf of bread out of his pillow. Breaking off a piece, he returned the bread to its bundle and tied the whole thing to his belt. Bear was already walking toward the stream. Nicolas quickened his pace to catch up.

  The brook ran down through the forest and became a wide creek running through open fields. Nicolas and Bear left the cover of the trees to walk among tall field grasses and reeds, bent, brown, and patched here and there with snow. The fields stretched out for acres, intersected with lines of tall trees, stripped to elegant skeletons by the northern winds. On the horizon, smoke rose from half a dozen small cottage chimneys. A deeply rutted road came to run alongside the creek.

  Nicolas stepped gladly onto the road, grateful to get away from the burry tangle of the fields, but as the sole of his foot touched the track, a scream rang in his ears. The scream was torn from a milieu of other sounds to give warning to the young man who could hear. It sounded and was gone, but it left echoes like the ringing of a great bell.

  “Go!” Nicolas commanded. Bear loped across the field as Nicolas threw himself into the tangle of weeds and snow. The muted green of his woolen blanket, spattered as it was with mud, sank inconspicuously into its surroundings. He lay beneath it and waited, watching the road. His fingers reached through the scratchy wool to the smooth tip of his short sword and rested there.

  Nicolas lay on the ground for twenty minutes while his body soaked up dampness from the ground. His muscles tensed, cramped, and yearned to move. He had nearly given in to his own urge to jump up when sounds once more reached his ears—nearby sounds this time. The jangle and stamp of approaching horses mingled with rough voices and the pitiful crying of children. A gust of icy wind blew the blanket back slightly from Nicolas’s head, and he realized that the wool had muffled the noise, or he would have heard it earlier. The approaching company was very close.

  In a few minutes they were passing along the road in front of Nicolas’s eyes. His fingers tightened around his sword. Beneath the dirt on his cheek, his face tightened with anger.

  High Police, marked by their black and green uniforms and silver insignias, were herding a band of Gypsies down the road. There were only a few men among the captives, and these were battered and bloody. The others were women and children—about twenty in all. Even these showed signs of mistreatment. Bruises marked their pale skin. One woman cradled a broken arm. Their clothes were filthy, and the children staggered with hunger and exhaustion. The High Police, riding well-fed horses, prodded the band on with spears and swords. Their eyes were hard.

  It was all Nicolas could do to remain hidden, although he knew that he would die instantly if he dared go to the captives’ defence. He swallowed a cry, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. There were babies among the captives—tiny infants too small to do anything but cry. Their cries reached Nicolas with all the pain of a dagger twisting in his stomach. All his life he had been able to hear the language of the small ones, even of the unborn. What he heard from them now was nearly too much for him. The raw, heartbreaking awareness of want, of loss, gnawed into his soul.

  The band had nearly passed by when a tiny child lost his grip on the shoulders of his mother, who had been carrying him on her back. The little one slipped to the road with an exhausted cry. One of the Gypsy men darted toward him.

  “Get back,” commanded the captain. “Leave it alone, I say.”

  The man ignored him. He picked the child out of the mud and handed him tenderly back to his mother. She took the emaciated little form in her arms with a choked sob. Scarcely had the man given the child over when a kick to his jaw sent him sprawling in the road. The captain, his face red with anger, glared down at the man from the top of his horse. He raised his spear and aimed it at the Gypsy.

  One of the women in the band screamed. The spear flew at nearly the same instant. Perhaps the scream had unnerved the captain, for his aim was off. The spear missed the man’s heart, but pinned his shoulder to the ground. The Gypsy did not cry out, but a deep groan emitted from his throat. The captain dug his heel into his horse’s side and spun around.

  “Move out!” he commanded.

  Most of the band had already gone down the road. It did not take long before the captain had driven the last few captives to catch up with them. When they had gone far enough, Nicolas dashed from his hiding place and knelt beside the man on the road.

  The Gypsy was not old, but the stubble on his chin was grey. He looked up at Nicolas with eyes glazed with pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but sobbed instead.

  “It’s all right,” Nicolas said, knowing that the angry tears in his eyes—tears that still would not fall—belied his words. “I’m a friend. I’m going to help you.”

  Nicolas looked around as though he might find a cure lying beside him. His eyes fell on the stream, and he jumped up and untied a few rags from his bundle. When he had soaked them so that they ran with water, he brought them back to the man and made him drink.

  As Nicolas squeezed out the last few drops, the man clenched Nicolas’s arm with his free hand. He shook his head as he looked into Nicolas’s face, his own twisted with pain.

  “I don’t want to die,” he said.

  “You aren’t going to,” Nicolas answered. He heard Bear behind him on the road. They could carry the man together, he and Bear. He caught sight once more of the chimney smoke on the horizon. Surely someone would help.

  He started to his feet, intending to pick the man up with him, but the sight of the wooden shaft protruding from the Gypsy’s shoulder stopped him short. The spear had gone all the way through into the ground.

  The Gypsy followed Nicolas’s eyes. “Pull it out,” he rasped.

  “I can’t,” Nicolas said, but the man’s grip tightened and stopped him from saying more.

  “Pull it out,” said the man again. “You can’t leave me here!”

  Nicolas stood up resolutely and took hold of the spear. He closed his eyes and pulled with all his might. The man screamed. When his voice gave out, he was unconscious. The spear had not come free. Nicolas drew a deep breath and pulled once more, placing his foot on the man’s chest. This time it pulled free easily. Blood flowed after it. Nicolas pulled rags from his belt and staunched the flow as best he could, but the rags turned dark red before his eyes as blood began to seep through.

  Nicolas got down on the road and placed the man’s good arm over his own shoulder. He hoisted him up on his back with a grunt, his legs shaking as he stood. The man was taller and bigger-boned than Nicolas, but he was lighter than expected. Nicolas remembered the half-starved appearance of the other Gypsies in the captive band and wondered how much weight this man had lost in the last few days.

  Carefully, Nicolas lifted the man onto Bear’s back. He wiped sweat from beneath his eyes with his shirtsleeve. When he drew his arm away, he could smell the blood that streaked his own face. He pointed toward one spiraling ladder of smoke in the distance.

  “There,” he told Bear. “That’s where we’re going.”

  Nicolas threw his blanket over the man, and they left the road, trusting to instinct to lead them along the fastest route. Nicolas walked close by Bear, supporting the wounded man and holding him steady. He stumbled across the uneven ground, but they made good time. The sun was high in the sky when they reached a small cottage with a thatched roof. A small stone pathway, meticulously laid, led to the door.

  The door was made of rough, solid oak, and it stood up firmly under Nicolas’s pounding. No sound could be heard from the other side except that of a fire crackling and the meow of a cat.

  Nicolas knocked harder and leaned up against the door in exhaustion. “For stars’ sake!” he shouted. “I know someone’s in there! Let us in, please. There
is a wounded man with me!”

  “And you’d do well to be quiet about it,” said a sharp voice from behind.

  Nicolas spun around, hand on his sword. He found himself facing a stolid man with a haystack of straight blond hair and a face that had been old since childhood. The man was holding a scythe, and while his expression held no welcome, neither did it threaten. There was, in fact, very little about the expression to suggest that anything was out of the ordinary. It was sour, as is the face of a man who has found children throwing tomatoes at his newly whitewashed fence.

  The farmer cast a long glare on Bear and his cargo, then stepped forward and thumped the wooden door with a gruff, “Open up, it’s me.” He turned to Nicolas. “You’d better come in. Leave the beast outside.”

  The door was opened by a girl of about sixteen. Her demeanor could not have been more unlike that of her father: she was quaking all over with fear. Her hair was the same haystack yellow, though most of it was tied back in a kerchief. She held a large wooden spoon, which was dripping with whatever concoction was cooking over the fire. The only other inhabitants of the room were three cats: two calicos and one hideous orange.

  The farmer pointed to a cot in one corner of the room. “Get that ready,” he told his daughter. “Man’s wounded.”

  She hurried to obey while Nicolas lifted the Gypsy and carried him into the cottage. The girl cleared a few odds and ends off the cot, and Nicolas laid the wounded man down on it. The man groaned but did not open his eyes. A dark red stain had seeped through his clothing and spread all over his chest, neck, and shoulders.

  Nicolas saw the farm girl shudder and turn away. Her father stood for a moment in thought, and then snapped, “Go get an old sheet and rip it up. He needs more bandaging.” The girl fled the room, and the farmer dropped into a chair beside the cot. He sat regarding Nicolas sternly.

  “You can rest up here,” he said. “Get going as soon as you can.”

  “But this man—” Nicolas began.

  “Can’t stay here,” the farmer interrupted.

  “Can you tell me where to find a doctor then?” Nicolas asked.

  “No,” said the farmer.

  Nicolas drew a breath and wished for patience. “I have to find someone who can take care of this man,” he said. “Can you help me at all?”

  “Ain’t no one,” the farmer said. “No one round here ‘d touch that fellow.”

  “Why?” Nicolas exploded. For the first time he thought he saw a glimmer of fear in the farmer’s eyes as he motioned for Nicolas to hush.

  “High Police is after the Gypsies,” the farmer said. “Clearing them out of the country. You help one, you might as well be a Gypsy yourself.”

  “Better a Gypsy than a coward,” Nicolas snapped.

  The farmer hung his head slightly but said nothing. After a while he drew himself up and said, “Now, that ain’t called for. We took in your friend and we took in yourself, though you look Gypsy enough to cause a heap of trouble. We took you in, and we’ll feed you and let you rest your bones, and that’s a deal better than anyone else in these parts ‘d do for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nicolas said. “I thought human life might mean something to you. You’re not the High Police, after all.”

  The farmer leaned forward suddenly and said in a whisper, “Only one place you might find shelter. They say there is hope in the City of Bridges.”

  “Pravik?” Nicolas asked, feeling hope drain out of him at the name. “I can’t go to Pravik.” His throat tightened at the thought of the ancient city of the Eastern Lands.

  “It’s far, I know,” said the farmer. He leaned even farther forward. “But they say the High Police is scared of it. They say something happened there… something magic and terrible. Who knows? But every Gypsy on the road is headed for Pravik, with everyone else who wants freedom. They never come back, those who go east. All that comes back is rumours.”

  Nicolas sat with his head in his hands. Something magic. Something terrible. When he closed his eyes he could still see the otherworldly warriors, creatures of darkness and creatures of light, as they battled over the City of Bridges. He could still see Maggie running along the castle wall. He could hear her singing; could see her weeping over the body of the man she loved.

  He drew in a deep breath and looked up at the farmer. “I can’t go to Pravik,” he repeated. “Do you know anyone who is going there? Anyone who can take this man with them?”

  The farmer hesitated. “I can find—maybe I can find—a man to help you. A doctor of sorts.”

  “Thank heavens,” Nicolas breathed. “Can we stay here, then—until the doctor can come?”

  The farmer gave a short nod. “My daughter won’t like it. Thinks the High Police are right. She never liked Gypsies. Can’t say I ever minded ‘em, except when they stole my cabbages.”

  He stood and paced the length of the cottage, ending at the door. He didn’t turn around, but Nicolas heard him say, “Had a bird with a broken wing once. Didn’t turn that out until it got healed up, and birds have ruined a heap of cabbage.”

  Nicolas smiled at the farmer’s broad back as he pushed out the door and banged it shut behind him.

  The farmer’s daughter reappeared a few minutes later, trailed by all three meowing cats. She handed Nicolas a roll of clean bandages, newly torn, and went to stir her cauldron without a word. Nicolas watched her for a moment and turned to his charge. He changed the bandages tenderly, grimacing at the blood that still flowed from the wound. How much blood could one man stand to lose?

  The cats circled the girl’s feet as she worked at the fire, yowling piteously. “All right, then,” she told them. Nicolas heard the edge in her voice. She ladled stew into three battered wooden bowls and set them on the floor. The smell of meat and vegetables sent a pang of hunger through Nicolas. He looked up from the unconscious Gypsy to see that the girl was watching them. She turned away quickly when he looked at her.

  “You won’t be staying long?” she asked, her voice muffled as she turned her back.

  “Long enough,” Nicolas answered. “Your father’s gone for a doctor.”

  The girl’s face flushed angrily, and she turned around again. Nicolas was taken aback at the hostility in her eyes.

  “A doctor for that?” she said, motioning toward the cot. “We’ll be driven out of town when the magistrate finds out.”

  “Why?” Nicolas asked. “What have the Gypsies done?”

  “Does it matter what they’ve done?” the girl asked. “They’re Gypsies.”

  Nicolas bit his tongue to keep back a harsh retort. How could such a young girl be so full of hatred?

  “Did you take him from the High Police?” the girl asked. She did not wait for an answer. “Every day the police bring more Gypsies through. They won’t stop till every one of them is gone from the country. Them and the queer folk, what hears and sees things that aren’t there.”

  Nicolas’s head shot up at the girl’s words. “Queer folk?” he asked.

  “You know,” the girl said. Her eyes were shining, and her voice had lowered. This was gossip of the first order. She wiped her hands on her apron as she spoke. “The High Police offer rewards for them, but they ain’t easy to find. They keep themselves hidden. They could be anybody. Him—” she said, pointing at the Gypsy on the cot, “or you even, or me.”

  Nicolas tilted his head and said, “Are you one of them?”

  “No!” the girl pronounced. She giggled. “Of course not. I was only making an example.”

  “But how do I know you’re telling the truth?” Nicolas asked, rising to his feet. The girl backed up a little, the first hint of alarm beginning to show on her face. “As you said, the Gifted keep themselves hidden. You might be lying to me. You might have said what you did to throw me off and keep me from suspecting the truth.”

  The girl’s face was white. She shook her head vehemently. “No, I was only saying it—to show you how it could be anybody. I was only saying it.�
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  Nicolas sat back down abruptly and leaned back with his arms folded across his chest. “You should be careful what you say,” he said.

  The girl turned back to her stew, but she was unsteady on her feet. It was obvious that Nicolas had disconcerted her.

  A groan issued from the cot. Nicolas was at the man’s side in an instant. The Gypsy’s eyes were open, and he spoke with great difficulty.

  “It is dark,” he said.

  “It is evening,” Nicolas told him. “The sun is beginning to set.”

  “No,” the Gypsy said. He shook his head with painful slowness. “There is no more evening. Only night.”

  Nicolas leaned over the man, and the smell of blood filled his senses. He took the man’s hand and gripped it tightly.

  “The day is coming soon,” he whispered. “Night can’t last forever.”

  For a moment the man was silent, and Nicolas feared he had lost consciousness again. Then without warning the Gypsy cried out. His whole body shook with the effort.

  “Where is the sun?” he cried. “Blackness has swallowed the sun!”

  Nicolas raised his face to the window. Setting sunlight glinted on the tears in his eyes. “It is shining even now,” Nicolas said.

  “Not for us,” said the Gypsy. He closed his eyes and lay still, though his blood-stained chest still rose and fell with laboured breathing. Nicolas felt the eyes of the farm girl on them: disdainful eyes. He felt suddenly trapped, closed in. His eyes searched the room for a way of escape.

  No, he told himself. Don’t run. There is no reason to run.

  There was a pounding on the door, and Nicolas’s heart beat as hard as the fist on the door. He recognized the voice of the farmer through the wood. “Open the door, fool girl. It’s me!”

  The farmer’s daughter moved quickly to the door and unlatched it. The farmer entered, stamping his muddy boots on the floor. There was another man behind him, a thin, gangly form wrapped in a slick black cape.