The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  The river swept into Athrom. Waves crashed down over the High Police as currents picked up the rebel fighters and carried them up in the warm embrace of the water. It washed away the blood and gore and made even the dead clean. The Ploughman held the body of Caasi in his arms as the river cradled them and carried them away. He closed his eyes and let the warm waves wash his wounds and cool the fire in his soul.

  Marja stood with tears pouring down her face as the water swirled around her feet and lifted her up. She saw Nicolas coming to her, riding in the arms of a creature more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. The River-Daughter swept Nicolas into Marja’s arms and carried them away together.

  The rain and the river mixed together until all of Athrom was under the floods, and the people fled their city for higher ground in the country.

  When they returned, the Gypsies and the rebel soldiers were gone.

  The River-Daughter carried her refugees back to Pravik, but this time the rivers they traversed were above the ground. The Darkworlders drank in the sun as it sparkled on the water around them. When they reached Pravik, the Majesty and Libuse and Divad and Maggie and all of the people were waiting for them. The River-Daughter had sent word of their soon arrival by sweeping acres of water lilies into the caverns under the City of Bridges, filling the sunless world with the smell and sight of hope.

  The Clann O’Roarke went home to the Green Isle and set about rebuilding their home. They mourned the loss of the child Kieran and celebrated the marriage of Michael and Miracle. Kris of the Mountains disappeared the morning after the wedding, and a north wind blew down from Fjordland in farewell. The white wolf was gone as well.

  The Gypsies took to the roads in caravans of crimson and purple and brilliant yellow. They danced and sang and told stories, and the people of the Seventh World feared them.

  And when their caravans rattled over bridges and past marshes and ponds, the water laughed.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  Golden leaves rained down on the wagon, unseen in the moon-light.

  Nicolas Fisher lay awake in the dark. Crickets chirped in the forest, and the sound of his wife’s breathing filled the wagon. He thought he could listen to such sounds all night and never need to sleep.

  Even so, when he first began to hear the voices, he thought he was dreaming. They were so far away—so thin. But he knew them, these silk rainbow voices, and he sat up a little and tried hard to hear them.

  The Veil grows thin, said the voices of the Shearim. We are passing from the world at last.

  Tears filled Nicolas’s eyes and he whispered, “But—”

  Soon anyone will be able to put a hand or a foot through the Veil, and then there is no telling what may happen.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Nicolas asked. Marja stirred beside him.

  For this last moment we have voices. It is good to talk with a friend.

  “Thank you,” Nicolas said. “For everything.”

  Marja sat up and strained her ears in the darkness. But there was no answer. The voices were gone—and always would be.

  “Nicolas?” Marja asked, settling down again.

  Nicolas leaned over and kissed the top of his wife’s head.

  “Is something there?” Marja asked.

  “No,” answered Nicolas.

  He closed his fire-coloured eyes and went to sleep.

  One last voice broke through his dreamless slumber. The voice of his son.

  He had told Maggie, long ago. Sometimes I can hear a baby talking when it’s still in its mother’s womb.

  What do they say? she had asked.

  They dream, and they wonder, and then they go back to sleep.

  Nicolas smiled and joined his child. They dreamed. And they wondered.

  “Nicolas?” Marja asked, her voice groggy in the pillows.

  “Mmm?” he asked.

  She smiled and took his hand. “Go back to sleep.”

  THE END

  Coming Day

  Book 3 in The Seventh World Trilogy

  by Rachel Starr Thomson

  * * *

  Prologue

  The boy had wandered out of the mountains north of Angslie. He was small, blond, perhaps seven or eight years old. Where he could have come from was anyone’s guess. His feet were not the tough goat-feet of a mountain child. They were bare, cut and bruised from walking, and soft like the skin of a newborn baby, though he blithely ignored any pain in favour of cheerfully investigating his surroundings.

  Roland MacTavish was not sure what to do with him.

  Roland had left his father’s inn the night before, abandoning his responsibilities because, from his room over the tavern, he could hear the MacTavish and his comrades drinking up a wave that would last for days and break over Roland’s head if he stuck around long enough. The MacTavish would be angry when he found his son missing, but by the time he had sobered, pride would prevent him from inquiring too much into where Roland had been while he was blindly, stupidly drunk.

  Roland had lowered a rope from his window, left the village, and headed for the hills. He was fifteen years old, and he reveled in the night’s freedom.

  True dawn was a long time in coming. It sent out hints and lightened the sky while Roland followed little-known paths through the glens. He was looking north at the white rock formations that ran down the side of a mountain, and when he turned his face to the east, the sun all at once blazed in his eyes. He squinted and shaded his eyes to rid himself of the sun-puddles obscuring his sight, and as he did he became aware of a figure standing only ten feet in front of him.

  His first impression was of a tall man, but as the sun cleared from his eyes he saw only a boy, small, with a white face and large eyes, clothes tattered and bare feet soft. The boy was wreathed in the light of the rising sun. Wind moved in the edges of his clothing and blew in his hair, the golden strands shining in the dawn light.

  Competing instincts wrestled in Roland. One deep instinct yearned after mystery. The other instinct was for solid ground, somewhere to put a foot down and not feel the earth slipping away from beneath him.

  He put his foot down. “Are ye lost?” he asked. His voice shattered the spell completely.

  “No,” the boy said.

  Roland raised an eyebrow. “Where do ye live?”

  The boy looked confused, then gestured vaguely to the hills. Roland began to grow impatient. “What do ye do with yourself?” he asked.

  The boy looked at him and did not answer.

  “Not terribly quick, are you?” Roland muttered. “Will anyone be missing ye?”

  “No,” the boy said.

  “Well,” Roland said, smiling in spite of himself, “come along then, Stray. Ye’ll bide with me a few days.”

  A few days passed, and the child learned eagerly from Roland and helped him fish, build a fire, and roam the hills. At night Stray tucked himself under Roland’s arm and slept there. When the time had come to return home, Roland kicked dirt over his fire, rolled up his bundle of belongings, and sighed at the sight of the child playing in the dirt.

  What could he tell his father? The MacTavish did not even like stray dogs or cats.

  Perhaps he could convince one of the old women in the village to take the child in. But his mouth turned down of its own volition at the idea. There were two old women in the village, one toothless and nearly senseless, the other a drinker almost as bad as the MacTavish. One of the village families, then? But they had their own cares, their own children, their own needs to look after. The MacTavish, with a good livelihood and plenty of room in the inn, was the most likely candidate to be saddled with a foundling if the villagers decided it was their duty to take him in.

  Besides, there was the money the MacTavish paid his son—just a small sum, laid away under Roland’s straw mattress for the day he’d be a man. He could delay that day a little, use some of the money to make sure Stray was taken care of.

  Roland hoisted his small pack over
his shoulder. “Come along,” he said.

  * * *

  “What do ye take me for, a fool?” the MacTavish snarled. Stray was playing in the yard behind the kitchen when Roland confronted his father. Hanging onions and root vegetables framed the MacTavish’s head.

  “But I’ll pay for his keep myself,” Roland protested.

  “No ye won’t,” the MacTavish said. “I pay ye that money, and I say not a penny of it goes to the urchin. Ye’ll keep it in your own pockets where it belongs!”

  Roland’s face burned, but he forced back the words he wanted to say. “He’s got no one else. We were in the hills three days together; no one came looking for him.”

  “Then no one wants him,” the MacTavish said. “And I’ll trust they’ve good reason for it.”

  Roland turned away. He could still smell alcohol on the MacTavish’s breath. Why should the money he helped earn pay for drink instead of helping Stray?

  “I’ll go to the magistrate,” Roland said. “The village will judge what’s right. They’ll make us take him in; there’s no one else so well suited.”

  “Well suited,” the MacTavish repeated, disdain dripping from every syllable. “You think because we’ve a roof and an honest livin’ that we ought to throw it all away.”

  “I think we ought to share it with one boy,” Roland retorted.

  “And I told you, I’ll have none of it. You go to the magistrate. See what he says. I’ll wager he’ll not take your side any more than I do.”

  Roland stalked out of the kitchen and grabbed Stray’s hand as he passed. The child tried to pull away, but Roland held the grubby fingers tightly.

  “Where are we going?” Stray asked.

  “To see the magistrate,” Roland said. “We’re goin’ to find ye a home.”

  “But I’m staying with you,” Stray said.

  “Ye can’t,” Roland snapped. He stopped and looked down at the blue eyes that goggled up at his. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My father says you’ll not stay with us. So I’ve got to find ye another home. I’ll come to see ye every day—I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. But we’ve got to find ye a willing roof first.”

  Stray looked away, obviously unconvinced of the worth of Roland’s plan.

  The inn was on the road just outside the village of Angslie, and soon they were in the town proper, passing the black-smith’s shop and the collier’s and the weaver’s. At the end of the main street was a tall, gabled house covered in ivy: the home of the magistrate, the man who oversaw the affairs of the town under the lordship of Lord Robert Sinclair, Laird of Angslie.

  The laird, of course, had been gone more than two years—he’d disappeared with Virginia Ramsey, leaving two dead soldiers behind. The laird’s house had fallen into ruin; the villagers thought it a haunted and evil place. But the magistrate had not abandoned his post.

  Curious onlookers watched the boys pass, and a small crowd of village lads gathered after them, whispering and poking each other. Roland ignored them. He climbed the steps to the magistrate’s house, squared his shoulders, and rapped the knocker as loudly as he could.

  After a few minutes the door swung open, and a tall man with a ponderous head and a wrinkled neck looked down on him. “Well?” he asked.

  “Please, magistrate,” Roland said. “I’ve found this stray. I want the village to take him in.”

  “Take him to your father,” the magistrate said, peering shrewdly at Stray.

  “I tried that, sir,” Roland said. “He won’t take him in unless he’s got orders to do it.”

  “Well,” the magistrate said. “So you want me to give the orders, do ye, son?”

  “To him or to another,” Roland said. “It would be a shame to leave a child out in the hills alone.”

  “The hills?” the magistrate said. “And that is where you found him?”

  “Yes, sir,” Roland said.

  The magistrate cleared his throat, and the loose flap of skin under his chin jiggled. “Ring the bell, boy. We shall call the village together and discuss the matter.”

  Roland nodded and hoisted himself up the ivy, over the window frame, and onto the roof where he grabbed the pull of a brass bell high over the front door. The yard was already filling with townspeople who’d seen him go past. He rang the bell as hard as he could and jumped down, sitting on the steps by the door and motioning for Stray to sit down beside him.

  When the villagers—twenty or so men, including the MacTavish, and a collection of wives and children—had gathered in the dirt around the house, the magistrate cleared his throat again. “Hark ye all,” he said. “Roland MacTavish has brought this child out of the hills and wishes us to take him in.”

  The announcement met with a slight clamour, and Roland looked across the crowd and met the eyes of Wee Cameron, the blacksmith, his oldest and best friend among the villagers. Cam inclined his head, but said nothing.

  “He’s small and scrawny,” one woman offered. “He won’t eat much.”

  “Looks like to work hard enough, if you push him to it,” said the collier. “And young enough to train well.”

  “He’s an outlander,” spoke the MacTavish from the back of the crowd. “He’s not one of us, and I want no part of him.”

  “He’s a child!” Wee Cam said, giving the MacTavish a glare that could have moved boulders. A couple of the women chimed in.

  With one finger stuck out like a schoolmaster’s pointer, the weaver came forward and stopped just short of Stray. “He’s from the hills,” he said. “Came from near the House of Angslie, didn’t he?”

  Roland didn’t answer, but shifted in discomfort. A murmur picked up again. The weaver waited for it to die down and said, “All is not right with the child. Ye can sense it—ye can smell it. He’s got the cursed ways on him.” The weaver’s words seemed to affect the whole crowd at once. The magistrate took a step backward. And the cowardly action brought Roland’s blood to a boil.

  “He’s a child!” he said, jumping to his feet. “Are ye afraid of a child? The laird would have taken him in!”

  At those words, the crowd burst out in shouts and accusations. The weaver cut through all the voices, glaring at Roland. “Aye, he would have! Just as he protected Virginia Ramsey, she that saw into our souls and brought the High Police upon us! Just as he brought the woman in black here, and the outlanders all those years before! The Council for Exploration Into Worlds Unseen—have any of us forgotten them? Is that what we want? To go back to entertaining accursed strangers? How do we even know this boy is human?”

  “Are ye human, child?” asked the magistrate just as the collier shouted out, “Are ye somethin’ else?”

  “Yes,” Stray answered, his voice trembling just a little.

  “Well,” the magistrate said, “which is it? Are ye human or are ye something else?”

  “Yes,” Stray said again.

  “You hear him!” the weaver shouted. “The boy is trouble, magistrate, mark my words. We should not keep him here.”

  “What then?” Roland asked, frustration stinging his eyes. “What then, send him back to the hills?”

  “Yes,” said a strong voice from the back of the crowd, voicing what every face was silently saying. The voice was Wee Cam’s. Roland felt as though someone had punched him in the gut.

  “Yes,” the blacksmith repeated. “Send him back to the hills. This village is no place for the child.”

  The eyes of the crowd turned on Cam with the surprise Roland felt, but they voiced their agreement. The magistrate nodded, his jowls punctuating the movement. “That’s the decision,” he said. “You’ll take him back yourself, boy.”

  Roland nodded dumbly. Anger was still building up in him, but he knew better than to let it off here—he’d done enough damage. He should have known better than to invoke the laird. He should have remembered the village’s hatred of Virginia. Of course they would not welcome a child who looked as though the sea and its wildness was contained in his eyes.


  The truth hit Roland as he stood. From the moment he’d seen the child, he’d been trying to convince himself that Stray was normal. Now he knew that he only cared so much to keep the boy and help him because he knew he was not. Stray was like Virginia. Human—and something else. He shot the small boy an incriminating glare. But then, he was only a small boy—whatever else he might be.

  “Come on,” he said to Stray, who followed him gladly.

  As they passed the blacksmith’s shop, a gruff voice called out Roland’s name. He hesitated, then ducked inside, Stray at his heels.

  “Why did you do that?” Roland demanded of Wee Cameron, who was bent over a piece of glowing hot iron. “I count on you to be friend to me, and to what’s right.”

  “And so I am,” Cam said. “I spoke true. This village is no safe place for that child. You can see as well as I that they were right—he’s not like the rest of us. He’s like Virginia.”

  “And so you’d throw him friendless back to the hills?” Roland said.

  “No,” Cam said, looking up and calmly meeting Roland’s eyes. “I’d send him back to the hills with you.” He nodded to a long sack on the floor, lumpy with its contents. “There’s provisions in there and a good start to surviving—flints and knives, a lantern, a bow, and money. Take it. Go make your home in some dry cave until it becomes clear to you what to do next.”

  Roland found himself suddenly groping for words. “I…”

  “I don’t know what will come next,” Cam said. “But that boy needs a friend and protector, and this village will not be any safer for him than it was for Virginia. Or have you forgotten who it was that told the High Police how to find her?”

  Roland shook his head. His father’s betrayal of the blind girl had been the greatest shame and horror of his life. He had never forgotten it. Or shaken the guilt he felt, even though he had done everything he could to warn her in time.