The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

At the sight of the newcomer, the farmer’s daughter turned red with anger. “Father, no!” she said. “How could you bring him here?”

  “Hush, child,” the farmer answered. “Leave my affairs to me. You stick with your stew pot!”

  The girl turned away, breathing hard with indignation, and snatched up her wooden spoon. Stew spilled from the pot as she stirred. It dripped on the fire and hissed loudly.

  The thin stranger moved to the cot and knelt beside the wounded man. Long fingers inspected the bandages and the wound. The stranger pursed his lips.

  “It is bad,” he said. “But perhaps it can be healed. And then what? What is this man’s life worth if he recovers?”

  “It is worth as much as mine,” Nicolas said. He searched the stranger’s face for some hint of his sympathies, but the thin, dark face was enigmatic.

  “And where shall he go?” asked the stranger. “He is not safe here.”

  The farmer spoke in his gruff voice. “I thought you would take him to Pravik with you.”

  “He would slow me down on the road,” said the stranger.

  “Guilt will slow you down if you don’t take him,” Nicolas said.

  “Will it?” asked the stranger in surprise. “Why should it? This man is no concern of mine unless I make him so.” He placed an almost skeletal hand on Nicolas’s shoulder. The expression in his strange amber eyes was still unreadable, though his words were kind. “Do not worry, lad. I shall make him so.”

  “You will take him?” the farmer asked.

  “Indeed,” said the stranger. He stood, and his cape parted, revealing clothes stitched in amber thread. For an instant Nicolas seemed to hear voices speaking in a language he could not understand—an ancient language, long dead among the peoples of the Empire. But something made him think that he was imagining it.

  “Who are you?” Nicolas asked.

  The man regarded him with one sharp eyebrow raised. “Good question,” he said. “I am someone who, as of this moment, is on your side. Assist me; I cannot take this man to my carriage alone.”

  Nicolas stood immediately. Together the two men carried the wounded Gypsy out of the cottage. The thin stranger was surprisingly strong. He carried the wounded Gypsy’s head and shoulders with ease. The road was dark. Night had fallen so quickly that Nicolas had not noticed it in the cottage, but now his eyes strained to see the path in front of him. He heard a grunt behind him, and Bear’s nose nudged the small of his back.

  They came to a stand of trees. The stranger whistled a signal. A black carriage drawn by one white horse pulled out of the stand to meet them. The stranger and Nicolas eased the Gypsy onto the seat of the carriage.

  Nicolas touched the Gypsy’s head in an awkward gesture of farewell. He climbed out of the carriage and started back down the road with his head low. The voice of the stranger stopped him.

  “And how long will it be till we see you in Pravik?” he asked.

  Nicolas turned. “Never,” he said. “I am heading the other direction. Into Italya.”

  “Come now,” said the stranger. “You have the look of one who has listened to the stars. And you have defied the High Police by taking in a Gypsy. I am quite sure that I will see you in Pravik.”

  “What is in Pravik that cannot be found on the roads?” Nicolas asked.

  “Strength worth exploring,” replied the stranger.

  “How do you know that?” Nicolas asked. “No one knows what happened in Pravik. Only that the High Police are afraid to go there.”

  “I do not know it,” the stranger said. “I feel it. Come, wanderer. Join me.” He looked away from Nicolas and said, half to himself, “Sooner or later we must take sides.”

  Nicolas lowered his head in the darkness and felt Bear by his side. “My future lies in other places.”

  The thin stranger cocked his head. “You are afraid of Pravik?”

  Nicolas shifted his weight. “I am not afraid of anything.”

  “That is very foolish of you,” the thin man said.

  “Good speed, sir,” Nicolas said. He began to turn away.

  The thin man bowed his head. “And you. My thanks for the traveling companion you have brought me.”

  Nicolas felt a wash of guilt. “No, it is you who should be thanked. Without you this man would die.”

  “And with me he shall live,” said the stranger. An odd light in his amber eyes testified to thoughts Nicolas did not wish to know. “And will he thank me for that?”

  With those words the man climbed onto the carriage seat and took the reins in his hands. Nicolas stood and watched the black wheels turn after the white hooves for some distance, and then he put a hand on Bear’s shoulder and started back down the road for the farmhouse. The night was cold. An icy rain had begun to fall, and Nicolas had no wish to sleep out of doors. If the farmer did not welcome his return, he would take shelter in the barn.

  The farmyard was quiet when Nicolas and Bear stepped into it. The house seemed to have gone to sleep. No lights shone in the windows; no sound came from within. Even the cats were silent.

  “Looks like it’s the barn for us,” Nicolas said to Bear in a low voice. He started to walk toward the shelter, but Bear would not move.

  “Let’s go,” Nicolas said. He took another step toward the barn and froze.

  Something had moved in the shadows.

  Nicolas turned on his heel and ran. The farmyard erupted with police. Their silver insignias flashed in the moonlight. Nicolas raced through the yard, leaping obstacles where he found them. In the road he skidded to a stop and turned once more. He had heard the sound of hooves pounding the road ahead of him.

  He looked wildly around, and his eyes fell on the door of the cottage. The farmer’s daughter stood in its frame, next to a tall police captain with his arm around her waist.

  Nicolas turned away from the road and ran to the west. Shouts filled the darkness behind him. He knew he had been seen, but he did not care. He shouted to Bear, and the faithful beast ran in the other direction. High Police fell away as Bear charged into their midst, roaring as only a bear can roar.

  Nicolas reached a fence and hit the ground, rolling under the rails. He gained his feet again quickly and ran through the barren fields with the High Police close behind him. The cold air burned as he sucked it into his lungs; the icy rain stung his face. Ahead he could hear the rippling of the creek as it splashed over rocks. There, Nicolas knew, lay his only chance to hide.

  He flew over the ground until his legs gave way. He rolled into himself, arms clutching his knees. He turned over and over, and just before hitting the creek, he clutched at the brown reeds to slow himself. He came nearly to a stop and then dropped, almost silently, into the water.

  Muddy water filled his nose and ears as he sank, one, two feet under. Dirt and pebbles showered the water above him as the High Police skidded to a stop at the bank of the creek. They were looking for him; looking around—but they did not look down into the reeds and the mud and the water.

  Nicolas gripped rocks and weeds at the bottom of the creek and let out a little air, desperate to keep from floating to the top. The water was crushing him, the lack of air was crushing him; crushing his heart and his lungs. He would drown himself. He would die waiting for them to leave.

  The world was blacker than it had ever been, but Nicolas did not know if it was black because he was under water and the night was dark, or because he was already drowning. He let out more air and knew that soon he would have to breathe in.

  He thought he heard Bear roaring and water rushing over stones. Then it was Maggie he heard: singing, talking to him by a campfire on a warm night in the fall. That night, too, he should have drowned. He heard laughter and horses and stories in a Gypsy camp. He heard a captive woman on the road to Italya screaming out against horror. He heard the thin dark stranger say, “Sooner or later we must take sides.” He heard nothing.

  And then he heard a voice, clear and strong. It rushed into his nose and ears and
mouth and lungs even as the water rushed in. The voice said, I still await you. Your journey has not ended. Wake up, Nicolas Fisher. Your story is not over yet.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Snow and Roses

  Michael O’Roarke stood on the prow of the longship as it cut its way through the blue waters. His eyes swept the mountains on every side, following the cliffs to the high summits white with snow. The sense of awe that filled him was oppressive, and yet it set his heart free to fly to the topmost peaks of Fjordland.

  He tore his eyes reluctantly away when the longship’s captain joined him. The captain was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered. His chin was covered with a neatly trimmed beard of gold; the ends of his mustache extended far below his beard. He smiled when Michael turned to greet him.

  “Na, don’t look at me,” said the captain. “Keep your eyes on the mountains. I will not steal such treasure from any man’s eyes.”

  Michael turned his eyes up once again. Cold air rushed past his handsome face and through his dark red hair. The air was exhilarating. It did for Michael’s lungs what the mountains did for his heart.

  A young man joined them at the front of the ship. He leaned over and spat into the water. His dark eyes, set deeply in his face, hardly seemed to notice the beauty around them.

  “Weeks on the sea,” he grumbled, his voice, like Michael’s, heavily shot through with the accent of the Green Isle. “And now we have reached the land, and still we’re on the water. Is there no place in Fjordland for a man to walk that doesn’t buckle and heave under his feet?”

  “Patience,” said the captain. “We will reach the land soon.”

  “I don’t suppose you Fjordlanders have drink in this country of yours?” the young man asked.

  “The best,” said the captain, his blue eyes twinkling. “Soon you will forget all about ships and the sea.”

  “There, Michael!” said the young man, slapping his friend on the back. “Does it not do you good to hear that?”

  Michael smiled and turned on his friend. In a moment he had wrestled him into a headlock. He held the young man’s head so that his eyes looked up at the blue sky beyond the crags of the mountains.

  “Stocky, a baser man than you I have never known,” Michael laughed. “How can you think of drink while you pass through the country of heaven?”

  Stocky squirmed free and shook his head, rubbing his neck gingerly. “Eh, Michael, you’ve lost none of your strength at sea.”

  “I will need it to climb those mountains,” Michael answered. He raised his eyes once again. He did not look back at the sound of the captain’s voice.

  “I wouldn’t try it if I were you. The winter mountains of Fjordland are not friendly to strangers—nor to their own born children. Stay on the lower slopes, Green Islander.”

  Michael did not reply.

  Twenty minutes had passed by the time the longship finished its journey up the fjord. They docked the ship at a small harbour and trudged up the slopes to a little valley where a village lay under the snow. The houses and shops were built of grey stone and thatched with straw. Small mountain ponies with long, shaggy hair blew frost clouds from their nostrils and nibbled on stray bits of thatching. There were few people in sight, though Michael could feel curious eyes on him from windows that were mostly covered for the winter. Smoke rose from the houses through small round holes in the thatching.

  The captain and his sailors led the way to a long stone building with a high roof of logs and thatch. They ducked through a low door into the dark interior. Michael stepped inside and breathed air thick with cedar smoke. The floor of the tavern was dirt, and three fire pits burned brightly along the length of the hall. Men sat around the fires, laughing and drinking ale from large wooden cups. Stocky brightened at the sight. He followed the sailors to the bar, behind which were six enormous ale vats. Oven-heat wafted from alcoves at one end of the hall, and the smells of hot meat and bread mingled with the smell of smoke.

  Michael stayed near the door. He heard a fluttering of wings above him and looked up curiously to the rafters, where dozens of tiny brown birds flitted from place to place. The twigs and straw of their nests stuck out from the joints of the rafters.

  Michael looked back down when he became aware that someone was walking toward him. The man’s long grey hair was braided, as was the beard that reached down past his chest. His skin was rough and weathered from years spent in cold, salty air. His eyes were a startling blue.

  The man appraised Michael quickly and said, “If you’re not Thomas’s son, these eyes have lost their power over the years.”

  Michael smiled warmly, for he was sure he knew who was addressing him. “I am the son of Thomas O’Roarke,” he said. “And I think I recognize my father’s friend. You are Kris Jarald, are you not?”

  Kris threw his arms around Michael and crushed him to his chest. “I am Kris of the Mountains, as you say. And I welcome you.”

  Kris released Michael and looked him over at arm’s length. “You look like your mother,” he said, “as she looked when last I saw her. She carried you in her arms then.”

  The big man took Michael’s arm and steered him toward an empty space near the central tavern fire. “Come,” he said. “There is time for business later. Now you will tell me of your home.”

  Michael sat down on a cedar-log bench. The smoke from the fire stung his eyes and made the room waver like a heat mirage, though the air outside was numbingly cold. The room was close and stuffy, but the wind occasionally found its way through cracks in the door, cutting through the tavern with icy precision.

  “What news of the Green Isle?” asked Kris.

  “I hardly know,” Michael answered. “It has been three long months since my feet walked its lovely ground.”

  Kris took a swallow of ale and peered at Michael over the top of his cup. His voice lowered. “Do my roses still bloom in the Isle, Michael O’Roarke?”

  Michael looked into the Fjordlander’s intense eyes and whispered, “Aye, that they do.”

  “Then tell me, son of my friend, why have you come to see Kris of the Mountains?”

  Michael reached into his coat and drew out a yellowed piece of paper. “Years ago you promised this land to my father,” he said. He unfolded the paper to reveal a land deed. “I’ve come to claim it.”

  “It’s yours,” Kris said. “But why now, lad?”

  Michael looked away for a moment. The smoke stung his eyes. “There is trouble in the Green Isle,” he said at last. “It is perhaps time for your roses to come home.”

  “The Clann O’Roarke would not leave their land for any small reason,” Kris said. “Your father would not leave, though I all but begged him to.”

  “Many do not want to come,” Michael said. “And I will not force them. But I am the head of the clann now. I must do what I think is best.”

  Kris leaned forward. “Why do you think it best that you leave?” he asked, gently.

  “There are strangers in the Isle,” Michael said at last. “They do not wish to be seen, but we see them. They wear black robes and move among the High Police, commanding the forces of the Empire.”

  “They are looking for those who are Gifted?” Kris asked.

  “Yes,” Michael answered.

  “For this reason Clann O’Roarke will leave their home? Is the threat to you real?”

  Michael closed his eyes and thought of the small ones, the four little cousins he had left behind. “The spirit of my father runs deep in the clann. The blood that flowed in him flows also in us. I am not Gifted—we older ones are safe—but the children show signs. I do not know what time will reveal in them. It is enough that the black strangers have returned. I fear they will take the children away.”

  “Do you have children, boy?” Kris asked.

  “No,” Michael said. “We have remained largely isolated since—since it happened. Our family has not grown. But the little cousins are under my protection. I must bring them a
way from the Green Isle.”

  “So you would bring them to the Northern Lands for safety,” Kris said. He looked into his ale cup and shook his grey head. “You cannot, Michael. The black strangers ride here as they do in the Isle.”

  “How can it be?” Michael asked. “Are they everywhere?”

  “They have always been everywhere,” Kris said. “But we have not seen them until now.”

  “Surely in a village like this…”

  “It is safe? Don’t think it. They are looking for something, and they will not leave until they find their quarry. To bring Gifted children here would only cause them to take renewed interest in our mountains.”

  Outside, a sound of hooves arose. Kris raised his head. “Come and see,” he said.

  Together they went quickly to the door, ducking low under the stone. A party of High Police was riding down the main village street. Their southern horses towered over the native ponies of the fjords. Michael’s eyes were immediately drawn to two men riding with the police. Both wore black cloaks. The taller of the men turned and scanned the roadside, and Michael thought that his eyes lingered on him for a moment. He was young and strikingly handsome, but Michael shuddered at his eyes.

  “They call him the Nameless One,” Kris said quietly.

  Stocky staggered out of the tavern door and stood by Michael. He made a face at the black-robed riders and the soldiers that followed them.

  “The creatures are everywhere these days,” Stocky said. He spat into the snow. He smelled like ale and smoke.

  Michael looked down at the deed in his hand, and oppression fell on his head. He crumpled the deed suddenly and shook his head. “We will leave soon,” he told Stocky. “We’re going back home.”

  Stocky’s mouth dropped open. “Back on the boat?” he said. “We’ve only just arrived, man! You’d have us go now?”

  “No,” Michael said. “Not quite yet.” He lifted his eyes to the snow-streaked slopes. “Not until I have climbed the mountains and seen what my father once saw.”

  He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Kris’s eyes were gentle and troubled. “Careful, son of my friend. Take care that you do not break your heart on the northern cliffs. The mountains have made many a man, but they have broken just as many.”