The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “But you’re not like the rest of us,” Rehtse said. “The way the plants respond to you—and the way you fade into the earth so I can’t see you…”

  Kieran shook his head again. “I don’t know—I changed. He changed me. I became more like him.”

  “How old are you now?” Rehtse said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I was eleven when I came, before the winter—in the summer.”

  “Wait,” Rehtse said, “last summer?” She looked hard at Kieran again. Of course it was possible that Sunworlders aged differently from those who lived underground, but this much? The boy who sat before her could not possibly be eleven or twelve—and yet, as he sat crying in the tree, he seemed so much younger in spirit than he looked in body.

  “Yes,” he said. “Last summer. Maybe two—I can’t remember. But I’ve grown older.”

  “But Kieran,” Rehtse said slowly, “you can’t have grown this much older in such a short time!”

  He shrugged. “The forests age differently.”

  Rehtse frowned. “Yes—trees may take decades to grow. They taught us as much when we trained for the priesthood. But shouldn’t that make you age more slowly?”

  “They don’t all age slowly,” Kieran said. “Some things grow very quickly and bloom out all at once.”

  He fell quiet for a moment and said, “The ones that die early.”

  He looked up, and his blue eyes sparkled with tears. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me,” he said. “People aren’t supposed to live like I do. I don’t know if that makes me stronger or weaker. I just know that I want to be with Tyrentyllith.” He swallowed, and Rehtse’s heart ached. “I need him.”

  In a sudden wash of understanding, Rehtse recognized the tone in the boy’s voice as belonging to her too—it was the tone she felt when she thought of Caasi. Her heart moved for him. They were both orphans, in their own way. They all were.

  Ignoring the vast space beneath her, Rehtse moved closer to Kieran. “Whose were you before?” she asked. “Do you have a family?

  Kieran frowned. “It’s hard to remember. I think—yes. In the Green Isle. But I don’t know what’s happened to them. The Blackness came to get us. The others were playing with it—but I was afraid, because I knew if let it, it would change me and make me powerful, and that would be bad for me. For all of us. So I ran to the end of the train, and I felt my father in the woods. And I ran away.”

  “Does your family know what happened to you?” Rehtse asked.

  Kieran shook his head. “Tyrentyllith said they must not know, or the Order would try to find me. He said that in the beginning, when he took me in. I had forgotten until now.”

  Virginia stirred suddenly, though she didn’t move from the trunk of the tree—wisely, Rehtse thought, shuddering a little at the drop beneath them. “Tyrentyllith is alive,” she said. “I’ve seen him. He is wounded and has gone deep, as you said—but the Spider has not conquered him.”

  Kieran smiled through his tears and looked away.

  “And you, Virginia?” Rehtse asked. “You have hardly spoken since last night.”

  Virginia made an attempt to smile, but it didn’t work. Rehtse noticed that she was clutching a small brown pouch, which she tucked away before answering. “Much is wrong in the world, Rehtse. Evelyn intends to conquer Pravik in a few days and hold it against Morning Star when he returns. And she is powerful enough to do it.”

  Rehtse caught her breath as the words sank in. “But—if—we should go back, then,” she said. “Go to Pravik, warn them. Evelyn is a far greater threat than the High Police, and the Gypsies did not know of her, even if they reached Pravik with our message. The Darkworld must know…”

  “No, Rehtse,” Virginia said quietly. “It is too late for warnings. We cannot help them any more than I could help the laird. Huss sent us to go where I last saw the King and seek him out. And that is what we must do. We need him. If the world has any hope now, it must be in the King. We are high—can you see the sea?”

  “I can,” Rehtse said.

  “Angslie is over the sea,” Virginia said. “It is there we must go. Kieran, help us down. There is a long walk ahead of us. And we must finish it before Evelyn knows where we are.”

  * * *

  Chapter 10: The Fall of Pravik

  Nicolas lay on a sunburned patch of earth where he had fainted. His body ached in every muscle, every bone. Each time his senses returned enough for him to try to move, his head split so badly that it knocked him senseless again.

  Hands grabbed beneath his arms and dragged him into shade. He felt moss beneath him, and he was rolled onto his back.

  He opened his eyes to a blurred, too-bright world. A face was before him, but it was long in taking on any real form. He could smell something familiar, something mingling with the smells of bark and moss. Smoke.

  “Drink this,” the face said. Something was put to his lips, and he managed to swallow it. It was cold and sweet. The taste of water mingled with the rust of blood. A damp rag touched his face, washing some of the dirt and blood away from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

  “Who—” Nicolas began to croak, but before he could ask, his eyes focused enough. His body relaxed. “Peter.”

  Peter the Pipe-Smoker, cousin to Marja and lifelong friend, regarded Nicolas solemnly. “I don’t know how you come to be alive,” he said. “But I’m heartily glad you are.”

  Nicolas tried to answer, but words failed him.

  “You smell like avis leaf,” Peter said. “Beneath all that blood, I mean. They drugged you good. You’ll be a few days before you’re fully back to normal. But no bones are broken. What was the point of beating you?”

  “He wanted—” Nicolas stopped. What had the commander wanted? “To know… something.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something of my own,” Peter said. “One of our Gypsies found you in the camp when he was scouting for Marja and betrayed us all.”

  Nicolas’s heart leaped. “Marja?”

  “She came for you, but that gutter rat had already tipped the High Police off.” Peter knelt in front of Nicolas. His expression was somber, his brows knit together. “She’s alive, Nicolas, but a greater miracle than you are. She’s badly wounded and not out of danger yet.” A crooked smile crossed his face. “If she didn’t love you so much, I expect she would be dead now. But she’ll not go without knowing you’re well.”

  “How did…”

  “I found her myself and carried her back to Pravik,” Peter said. “She’s safe with them for now. Then I came back to look for you. I didn’t think they could hold you long. Your children are in Pravik too—have been since the caravan was attacked.”

  This time Nicolas managed to smile back. He reached out a bloodied hand and laid it on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re a true friend,” he said.

  Peter looked away as though the praise made him uncomfortable. “You’ll be a day or two more to mend,” he said, “and then I’ll take you to the city.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “I don’t want to wait.”

  Peter looked him up and down. “When you can walk,” he said. The crooked smile reappeared. “I’m not carrying you.”

  * * *

  A grey, clouded sky bent over the empty streets of Pravik. Libuse had ordered the gates shut and the people hidden in the castle after Peter carried the limp and bloody form of Marja to safety in the city. Not one of the soldiers sent to rescue Nicolas had returned.

  Deep in the castle, the Darkworld priests Hazrit and Annan tended to Marja. On the city walls, Libuse had posted armed guards. She spent hours on the highest tower of the castle, looking over the city, its river and bridges, its walls, the forests beyond. Wishing with all her heart for a glimpse of the returning Ploughman. Knowing she would not see it.

  Expecting at any moment to see something far less welcome.

  She stood there, at the top of the highest tower looking into a storm-gathering sky, feeling a few cold raindrops on her face,
her own breath threatening to tear her apart. Somehow she knew the wait was over.

  “Help us,” she whispered into the storm.

  In answer, lightning forked across the sky. The wind was picking up, blowing her hair and skirts wildly. She held onto an empty flagpole as the wind pushed against her. The city below, the green and grey world beyond that, the blackening sky above—none answered her plea. Thunder crashed and lightning forked down again, splitting the sky before her.

  It illuminated the faces and weaponry of the High Police who even now marched on the city from every side.

  She breathed the words again. “Help us.”

  She heard feet on the stairs, shouts. “My lady, we are attacked!” She closed her eyes, and tears slipped out. But she steeled her expression and turned to meet her men, the Ploughman’s men, the faithful few who might now fight the last battle of their lives.

  “Sound the alarm,” she said as they burst onto the roof. “Take up arms and gather around the castle. We will fight with our backs to it that they may not get behind us.”

  “But there is no retreat,” the first man said.

  “That is our lot,” Libuse said.

  The man bowed. “My lady.”

  Libuse turned to look back on the approaching army. They surrounded the city. Behind her, one of the men took a horn from his belt and blew it, long and loud, calling the men to the castle. She watched as the guards at the gate abandoned their posts and ran to rally at the sound of the horn. It was best this way. The gates could not hold the army long. They had not the manpower to make them hold. The tramp of boots grew louder, then the hollow thud as a battering ram hit the doors.

  For one fleeting moment Libuse allowed herself to picture the Ploughman, golden in power, strong and tall, the leader they needed, and to wish with all her heart that he was here. For only a moment. She could not afford to dwell on his absence now. Not when her people needed her presence to make up for it.

  A flock of birds flew over the tower, undisturbed by all that transpired below. She watched them go, set her jaw, and left the tower in search of her own leather armour and a sword and spear.

  The High Police burst through the gates before she was halfway down the stairs.

  * * *

  The High Police marched through empty streets furrowed by shovels and ploughs. The long-abandoned homes of the city were in disrepair. They marched over the Guardian Bridge, past the carved kings with their empty eyes and hands stretched out—in blessing or beseeching, it was not now easy to say. Houses grew finer as they advanced, showing the care of residents: all around the castle was the city’s living core.

  At their head the commander rode, a gold, rain-sodden cloak identifying him as leader. He frowned as the castle came closer into view. It seemed that every man in Pravik had gathered in front of it, and they stood now, silently defiant, waiting with weapons in their hands. As his soldiers drew closer, the commander could see the woman who stood before them all, slight, beautiful, and resolute. The last scion of the Eastern kings, Libuse had always been something of a legend in the Seventh World, even more so when she threw in her lot with the rebel called the Ploughman. In his own heart, the commander had admired her. But now she was only so much chaff to be trodden and burned. He had his orders. They were clear enough, straight from the emperor himself.

  Take the Seer from her refuge in Pravik. Kill all the rest. Torch the city.

  Give no quarter. Not to any.

  Libuse stood with sword drawn, her hair tied back for a fight. The commander didn’t know if he was relieved or annoyed that she was not asking for mercy.

  The march of his men halted. No one moved. Rain fell and puddled at their feet, soaking their armour and their horses’ fur, making their torches smoke. The commander cleared his throat.

  “Deliver the Seer up to us,” he said. “We have been sent to take her.”

  “She is not here,” Libuse answered, her voice strong and calm. “Nor would we give her up if she was.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “She must be here,” he said. “Where else would she take refuge?”

  “Nevertheless,” Libuse said. “She is not.”

  A bolt of lightning split the sky behind the castle, illuminating the resolute faces of the men of Pravik. Suddenly the commander knew why they stood here ready to fight, why they did not ask for quarter, why they did not offer to surrender. They knew as well as he did what the High Police’s presence here meant. There was no quarter. The emperor had lied. They were all meant to die.

  And they meant to do it dearly.

  Shaking his grizzled head, the commander raised his sword. To his front lines he barked, “Cut them down and find the Seer. Do not harm her. All the rest die!”

  Thunder crashed as he lowered his sword, and his men surged forward on every side. Pravik let loose its last battle cry and rushed forward to meet the onslaught. The commander stayed where he was, watching from horseback. He saw the farmer-soldiers of Pravik struggling to reach him, but his men were too many. The rebels were cut down one by one.

  Six of his men surrounded Libuse. She killed one of them. The corner of the commander’s mouth twitched. She could hold her own. For that he was glad.

  Not that she could last.

  Not that any of them could. The rain grew heavier, pinging off swords and armour in weird counterpoint to the battle cries, the screams, the groans of dying men. The commander knew his recent history: when the High Police had first fought these people, Golden Warriors had appeared and slaughtered the emperor’s men. The streets of Pravik had become a supernatural battleground.

  Now it was hardly a battleground at all. This was little more than a massacre.

  He sighed. He kicked his heels into his horse and started forward, through the battle that hardly even threatened him, toward the castle. He would head the search for the Seer himself. Her escape from his camp had humiliated him, all the more when word arrived from the emperor that he wanted the woman captured for his own purposes. Where he respected Libuse, he was eager to find and be finished with Virginia Ramsey.

  Lightning flashed again, and this time it illuminated a dark figure in his path.

  Another woman stood on the steps of the castle. She wore a black cloak. Its long sleeves covered her hands, its hood cast her face into shadow. He recoiled. He knew that uniform: the Order of the Spider, skulkers in the emperor’s court, holders of unimaginable power and universally despised. The woman held up her hand, palm forward. A black tattoo in the shape of a spider stained it.

  “Stop,” she said.

  He did not intend to obey, yet his horse froze where it stood. He tried to kick it again, to nudge it forward, but he could not move. He began to panic as he realized the sounds of battle had grown silent.

  None could move.

  The air around the woman seemed to be shifting and twisting in dark knots, swallowing itself and coming back out again.

  “Butchers,” the woman said, her tone one of amusement. “How many have you killed? One, two hundred? Your opponents have not done half so well. Shall we even the score?”

  Sudden groans and screams split the air. The commander didn’t look. He knew what was happening. Somehow, without even stirring from her place on the steps, she was killing his men.

  “There,” she said. “One, two hundred. And the rest of you? Will you also die where you stand?”

  He could not even move his lips to answer. She lowered her hand. “I am releasing you now,” she said. “If you are wise, you will come forward and swear allegiance to me. If you are fools, you will die.”

  The commander felt his limbs loosen, and the flanks of his horse heaved. He was free to move. So were his men. Yet none did.

  “Caught in indecision?” Evelyn asked. “How if I tell you that your emperor, to whom you swore allegiance, did not send you here? That he has done nothing for months, for he is a slavering madman and someone else has taken over for him?”

  The commander’s mouth seem
ed to move without him. “Our orders came from General Cratus.”

  “Indeed they did,” Evelyn said. “And only from Cratus, for he, a man like yourself, with no greater claims than yours, is ruling in the emperor’s seat. I can offer you proof, if you want it. Link!”

  A man who had been hiding in the shadows behind her suddenly moved into view. He carried a large, flat stone. Its center swirled with light.

  “Sight stolen from the Seer of Pravik,” the woman intoned, “serve me once more!”

  The commander gasped as sudden visions passed before his eyes. He saw the throne room in Athrom. An empty throne. The emperor, his hair grown long and wild, crawling on all fours like a beast. And Cratus sitting on the throne, giving commands in secret.

  “Drop your weapons at my feet,” the woman said. “Swear allegiance to me now. Whoever does not will die where he stands. Whoever does has joined a new army and a new rebellion. We will conquer the usurper of Athrom with the same power you have felt restraining your own limbs. Come forward now!”

  The commander remained unmoving as his men began to step forward, one by one, then in clusters, and drop their swords at the woman’s feet. He felt no emotion as the men he had led abandoned their allegiance and swore fealty to the black-cloaked witch. There were many. Hundreds. Those who had surrendered retreated into the streets, waiting for new orders.

  When they had all finished, only a handful still stood unmoving in the street among the bodies that lay growing heavier with the rain.

  The commander himself. Libuse, still on her feet. And the hundred or so men who were left to her.

  The commander cleared his throat. Slowly, he nudged his horse forward until he stood at the mountain of weaponry that had been left at the woman’s feet. He drew his sword and slowly dropped it. He pulled his dagger from his boot, his spear from his saddle, and his axe from his back, and one by one laid them down. Then he bowed his head.