The Nameless One brought up his tattooed hand, clenched in a fist. He looked at it as though it didn’t belong to him, turning it, surveying it. Slowly, he began to uncurl his fingers. As he did so, he spoke, vomiting out strange, guttural words.
Christopher let out a cry of defiance and sprang at his one-time companion—but he stumbled and sprawled on the hard floor of the Pit. His feet were tangled in a pale, sticky web.
Behind him, Moll started to cry.
* * *
When Nicolas stepped into the flame, much that had always defined him died.
The fire was hot—excruciatingly hot. It grew hotter still, white hot, melting down his soul till it was white and malleable as glass, and then shaping it: crystallizing it till it became something new and strong and silver inside of him. Nicolas’s transformed soul was awake, alive, full of the young spirit-man in homespun, full of his courage and love and freedom, so pure and sweet it hurt.
The song overwhelmed him, coursing through his veins, beating through his heart. Fire-Song.
The fire died away. Nicolas found himself on his knees, song and fire still searing within, his heart beating as it had never beaten before. He felt as though, for the first time, he was what he should always have been—as though his whole life he had been made of stone and not of spirit, and he had not known it until now.
The King stood before him. Nicolas looked up into his eyes. The depth of the world was in those eyes. The vastness of the star-filled heavens, the stillness of the forests, the jubilation of the seas. Heights and depths of love. Nicolas bowed his head. The fire within him was still free, still dancing, still rejoicing. And then it calmed and left him full of silence.
When he stood, the King was gone. Nicolas was still in the desolate land, but its roar was gone—swallowed by the song within him. The Veil still flashed with lightning and twisted in the darkness. The dry riverbed stretched on for miles.
Nicolas turned and looked at the bush that had burned. It was still there—unconsumed. But it was not what it had been, either. It was the colour of fire.
Could Nicolas have seen into his own eyes, he would have seen the same living colour there.
* * *
The white wolf whined as they passed through the swamp, and the wild things answered. They rose from the water and scurried down from the trees; swooped in from the air and crawled out of the dense tangles like phantoms. They were ugly and small, many of the creatures of the swamp. Yet the white wolf’s eyes shone with pride in their allegiance to him.
An emerald green snake passed between Miracle’s feet, and a little marsh owl sat on her head as she walked, spreading its wings in protection. Swamp cattle, thin and bony, plodded through the water and mud, their wide hooves splashing in the darkness.
They reached the mound of earth where the tower stood, and Miracle turned and knelt. She threw her arms around the white wolf’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Don’t forget me.”
The wolf whined, and Miracle brushed a tear from her own face. “I have to go alone,” she said. “You know that.” Miracle stood and raised her hand to the door. Her face filled with pain, and she turned back with a motion so sudden that a crow squawked and flew into the air to avoid the arc of her skirt.
“Gwyrion,” she said, “tell Michael—tell Michael that I love him.”
* * *
In the Pit, the captives lay bound and helpless, captives of the Spider’s web. The Nameless One stood over them and smiled cruelly. The fingers of his tattooed hand opened and closed spasmodically as he surveyed Christopher.
“The Rite of the Spider is a powerful thing,” he said. “Shall I drain you dry before the Blackness comes? Feed on your fire as I did the Master’s? Did you ever think it would come to this, Christopher Ens?”
Christopher’s mouth was bleeding. The webbing held him fast. “What will you do with the children?”
“I could do with them much as I will do with you,” the Nameless One said. “But I won’t. I wish to bargain with them. I will, if she doesn’t disappoint me.”
Christopher felt his heart sink further. He opened his mouth to reply, but Miracle answered first. Her voice rang out in the pit. He turned his head and saw her standing in the midst of the twisted candlesticks, beautiful in the firelight, and the smell of roses reached him.
“I trust I have not disappointed,” she said.
A moan escaped Archer. “Miracle…”
Her eyes flickered away from the Nameless One to the place where the children sat together, back to back, trussed tightly. Christopher saw her flinch at the sight.
“It’s all right now,” she said softly. “I’m here.”
“Yes,” the Nameless One hissed. “You are.”
“Let them go,” Miracle said.
The Nameless One took a step away from the fire, toward the corridor of candlesticks. “Not for nothing,” he said.
“I’m here, am I not?” Her voice shook almost imperceptibly. “I am making a trade. That’s what you wanted.”
The Nameless One looked at the children. The webs around them dissolved with a hiss and floated into the air in tendrils of steam. Archer stood uncertainly and helped the others up.
“Where is Kieran?” Miracle asked.
Archer sobbed once. “Dead,” he said.
Miracle bowed her head and struggled for composure, then lifted her violet eyes to the children. “Go,” she said. “The white wolf will watch over you and take you to your family. Do not turn back.”
Moll buried her face in Archer’s chest. He held her close to him and shook his head wordlessly as he looked at Miracle.
“Go,” Miracle urged.
Archer’s chest heaved. He gently parted Moll from himself. “Come on,” he said to her, and looked at Seamus. “Let’s go.”
They went, scampering down the corridor of candles to the stairs. Their feet scratched on the floor like mice. The Nameless One walked closer. Miracle held up her hand for him to stop.
“Let him go also,” she said, nodding at Christopher. The Nameless One’s face darkened.
“You don’t want him,” the Nameless One said.
“You are right,” she said. “He helped betray the family I love. I don’t want him.” Christopher bowed his head at her words. He swallowed a painful lump in his throat. “Even so,” Miracle said. “I gave him his life back once. I wish to do it again. Release him.”
The Nameless One said nothing. He entered the corridor of candles and ran his hand through a strand of Miracle’s hair. She closed her eyes as he circled her. He motioned to Christopher, and the web that bound him dissolved.
Christopher raised his head slowly and brought his free hands up where he could see them. He stared at them, disbelieving.
“Run away, little brother,” the Nameless One said. “Run with your tail between your legs, and remember that you are so helpless you had to be saved by a woman.”
Christopher stood slowly, deliberately. The palm of his tattooed hand grew hot as fire kindled there. It took shape and crackled in the air. He stared down the corridor of candles straight into the eyes of the Nameless One.
Warning curled in the lip of the Nameless One. “No,” he said.
“Oh yes,” Christopher said. He moved so fast that there was no time for the Nameless One to react. Christopher flung the fire at his enemy and howled, following it, throwing his weight against the man he hated and bearing him to the ground. He grasped at the Nameless One’s throat and bit at his face.
There was a sound like metal sliding through metal, and Christopher grunted and fell back. He rested on his knees. His face was pale, and blood trickled from his mouth. He looked at Miracle with pleading eyes.
“I am sorry,” he said.
She shook her head, tears running down her face. “I cannot save you this time,” she said.
Christopher’s eyes widened at a sight no one else could see. He reached up one hand and shielded his eyes, although the Pit was black as ev
er. He swayed, and his eyes began to cloud over.
“Have mercy on me,” he whispered, and fell dead.
The Nameless One stood and looked down on his fallen companion. When he turned back to Miracle, his face was flushed. “You should never bargain with the Blackness,” he said. “I could have killed him in a much more useful way.” He stepped close, and she tried not to shrink away. Tried not to show fear. “But it doesn’t matter, does it?” he said. “You will serve me far better than he ever could.”
He hissed through his teeth and moved forward, but he was stopped by a loud thud. He spun away, an arrow quivering in his shoulder. The Nameless One cried out, his voice more angry than pained.
Miracle whirled around and looked up to the edge of the pit, where Stocky and Jack and the others had fitted new arrows to their bows. A battle cry echoed through the Pit.
“Michael,” she said.
Michael O’Roarke fairly flew down the stairs into the Pit. He ran down the corridor, seeing nothing but her. His sword was drawn; his face twisted with fear and rage and love. He nearly reached her, but the Nameless One was there first. A black arm circled Miracle’s waist and pulled her against him. His tattooed hand hovered near her face. Michael watched in horror as the skin of the Nameless One’s fingers stretched and buckled, and his nails grew until they were claws—long claws, razor sharp. He rested them on Miracle’s throat and tapped them lightly against her skin.
“Come and fight,” the Nameless One said. “What are you afraid of?”
“Let her go,” Michael choked.
“That sounds familiar,” the Nameless One said. “Michael O’Roarke, isn’t it? The one my old master so wanted to join the cause. You should have listened to him. He might even have shared her with you.”
“What do you want?” Michael said. “I’ll do anything.”
“You can’t give me what I want,” the Nameless One said. “All you can do is amuse me.”
“Then I challenge you to a game,” Michael said. “A contest of skill.”
“Winner takes all, I suppose?” the Nameless One said.
“Winner keeps his life,” Michael said.
“Tempting stakes,” the Nameless One answered. “But not tempting enough. I already have my life. I’ve already taken all. You, on the other hand, are about to die. So why should I play your game?”
Michael lowered his sword and tried to answer, but no words came out.
“Here then,” the Nameless One said. “Say goodbye.”
He let go of Miracle and shoved her across the floor. She fell into Michael’s arms.
“Miracle…” he said.
“I love you,” she said.
He buried his face in her hair. “You do?” he asked.
The Nameless One’s voice rang out, cruel and final. “Enough!” he said. “It is over.”
He raised his tattooed hand in the air and screamed in a guttural voice, bringing his hand down to point his clawed fingers at Michael. And then he screamed again, this time in shock and pain. He fell forward.
Kris of the Mountains stood behind him, still clutching the hilt of the sword that was buried in the Nameless One’s back.
From above came a deep, wild voice like the belling of a stag. The voice laughed and boomed in the darkness of the Pit. “You can kill many things, scum of the earth,” Gwyrion said. “But you cannot kill love.”
The creatures of the swamp soared, scurried, and scaled their way into the Pit. The hulking shape of Gwyrion, glowing with moonlight even though the moon could not be seen, appeared at the head of his army. The young men of the Clann O’Roarke stepped forward with the wild things, arrows still ready, swords drawn. The children came behind them, Archer with the young men.
A hush fell over the Pit. The only sounds were the roar of the blue fire and the gasping, scraping breath of the Nameless One. He lay stretched on the ground. Kris put a foot on the Nameless One’s shoulder and pulled out his sword. A crow cawed.
The Nameless One stretched out one hand and clawed his way across the floor, until he lay gasping at Miracle’s feet. Michael held her closer to him.
“Heal me,” the Nameless One rasped.
Miracle looked away and buried her face in Michael’s shoulder. A clawed hand reached out and grasped her ankle. “Heal me!” the Nameless One begged.
“Let go of her,” Michael said. “Die like a man.”
The Nameless One looked up. His eyes flashed. “I am not like a man,” he said. “And I do not mean to die yet.”
Michael kicked the Nameless One’s arm aside, knocking his fingers free. “You can’t save yourself now,” he said.
The Nameless One rolled over onto his back, and a hideous light came into his eyes. He began to flex his fingers and chant under his breath. In the palms of his hands a fire began to burn. The great blue fire behind him roared up.
Moll screamed.
Michael whirled around and saw Moll suck at her fingers desperately, while Seamus held back sobs. Archer fell to his knees, clutching his middle. His eyes pleaded with Michael to help him. Smoke began to rise from his body.
“Stop it!” Michael commanded. He drew his sword and whirled to face the man on the ground.
The Nameless One laughed. “They should know not to play with fire,” he said. “In the end it always burns.” His bloodshot eyes moved to Miracle. “We made a bargain. You broke it, not I.”
“Release them,” Miracle said. She left Michael’s side and stepped forward before he could react.
“No!” Michael cried. The Nameless One stood uncertainly and wrapped his arm around Miracle’s neck. He leaned on her, shrieked three words, and ran backwards.
Through roaring heat and macabre shadows, Michael saw them fall into the great blue fire.
Behind him, Archer groaned. He heard the voices of his clann and the cries of Gwyrion’s creatures. He heard the wolf’s howl that could only belong to Gwyrion himself.
But he could not tear his eyes from the place where Miracle had disappeared. The emptiness inside him threatened to swallow him—to plunge him into a deep, tearless darkness.
But then, somehow, he knew.
“She’s not dead,” he said.
Archer stumbled forward and grabbed Michael’s hand. “The Nameless One is going to Athrom,” he said, his voice thick with pain. “He said he wanted to kill all the Gypsies.”
“So great an evil will wreak terrible things,” said the deep voice of Gwyrion. “It cannot be allowed. The whole earth would cry out against it.”
“Then I am also going to Athrom,” Michael said.
“Not alone,” said Kris of the Mountains. Stocky and the others echoed.
“Nor on foot,” Gwyrion said. “You would never reach the city in time.”
Michael turned. The eyes of the Spirit of the Wild Things were deep and burning wild. Gwyrion threw back his massive head and began to bell. He leaped up the stairs of the Pit, three and five at a time. The swamp creatures lifted their voices and joined their lord. The cacophony was deafening.
“Now run!” Gwyrion roared from the high edge of the Pit. “Speed awaits you on the edge of the swamp. Run to meet it!”
* * *
Nicolas saw the Veil warp and twist, and he heard the Shearim scream. Blue fire licked through the surface of it. In a blur, he saw a man and a woman falling together. The man was nearly indistinguishable from the darkness around him, but the woman shone as brightly as a star. She was in pain. Nicolas reached out as though he could save her, but the vision vanished before he reached the surface of the Veil.
A sound began to pull at his ears—a sound like running water. He quickened his steps. The thorny black bushes were thinning out around the river bed. The landscape was changing.
Nicolas tripped and fell, the ground turning his hands and knees black with soot. He picked himself up and started running. The voice of the River-Daughter sounded in his head, clear and rippling and flowing in every part of him like a rushing stream. The
Fire-Song played a wild, free harmony all through the call.
Faster, Nicolas Fisher! Set me free!
* * *
Chapter 16
Golden War
They sat in a circle on the floor of the Majesty’s throne room, deep in the Darkworld. Candles flickered all around, filling the chamber with an oily smell. They held one another’s hands. A map lay on the ground before them with lines like veins drawn across it. Divad traced a thick line with his pale finger and tapped a spot in the south.
“They will reach the city soon,” he said.
“They must hurry,” Virginia said.
The Majesty’s face was tight and drawn in the darkness. The priests especially seemed aware of it; attuned to their king in a special way, they watched him with concern.
“You have done right, Majesty,” said Rehtse. Maggie held the young priestess’s hand tighter than before.
“The lives of my sons are at stake,” the Majesty said.
“The lives of many are at stake,” Libuse said.
The Majesty turned hollow eyes on the map. “Is it worth it?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Jarin Huss. “Prince Caasi was wise in his words to you.”
Divad stood and placed his hand on the Majesty’s head in comfort and blessing. “It is as it should be. As it must be,” the high priest said.
Rehtse looked at Maggie with eyes that betrayed the conflict within her. The young priestess’s mind might agree with Divad, but her heart only wanted to know that Caasi would be safe. Maggie’s heart moved for her. She remembered how it felt.
“It will not be easy,” Virginia said. “More awaits them than they know.”
“Will they win?” Rehtse asked.
“That,” Virginia said, “I do not know.”
* * *
The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus Page 52
