The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Miracle’s face was full of emotion, but it was unreadable. Tears glistened in her eyes. She turned and looked at Michael. “I will follow my husband’s lead,” she said.

  Michael shook his head. “Pravik is half a continent away from here,” he said. “This time it is not our battle.”

  The sound of twigs popping in the fire filled the otherwise silent darkness. “Remember the mountain, Michael,” Miracle said softly. “Remember what else you sought in the Northlands.”

  She loosed his hand, stood, and smiled down at the newcomers. “I will follow my husband’s lead,” she repeated. “If he says that I will stay, I will stay. If he says that we will go with you, then that is what we will do. The King will lead him right. I am sure of that.”

  She left. A moment later Michael stood, nodded a wordless farewell, and stalked away into the darkness toward the hills.

  Maggie cleared her throat. Nicolas was still standing, his face stricken.

  “It will be all right,” she said.

  “We need them,” Nicolas said.

  “We haven’t lost them,” Huss said. “Maggie is right. Give them time to come around.”

  “We should talk to the Healer alone,” Nicolas said. “While the chieftain is gone. We only need her.”

  “No, my friend,” the Ploughman rumbled. He had remained silent through all that had been said, but it struck Maggie how much he too needed Miracle to agree to come with them. It was his city, his life’s work, and his betrothed in danger in Pravik. But his voice did not show the fear he had to feel. He looked up at Nicolas. “You know the bonds between man and wife,” he said. “Do not come between them. The chieftain is a good man. Give him time to think it through, and he will choose to help us. But don’t ask him to forget who he is. Too many people depend on him.”

  The Ploughman stood and laid his hand on Nicolas’s shoulder. “Don’t fear,” he said. “We’ll go back for them, no matter what happens.”

  “We won’t be enough,” Nicolas said.

  The Ploughman smiled. “We have never been enough,” he said. “But that has never stopped either of us before.”

  * * *

  Michael O’Roarke tramped through the grass and mossy stones in the darkness, heading away from the settlement to the slopes he had known since childhood. Voices followed him; Shannon had returned to the fire and engaged the newcomers in hospitable conversation. Soon strains of music began to play, Jack and Cali with their fiddle and pipes. Platters of lamb and leeks were carried from the house, their scents drifting on the air with the smoke from the fire. Guilt stirred in him for a moment. It was hardly the behaviour of a chieftain, this running from his guests.

  But he needed to think.

  Michael knew the way well, yet he chose his footsteps carefully. The hills had been friendlier in old days, when his father still lived and he was a boy running through the grass and following the sheep. Now they were crisscrossed by the clann’s own handiwork: defenses they had spent more than a year erecting against the attack they had always known would come.

  Skirting carefully constructed brush piles like haystacks in the darkness, Michael climbed higher. Moonlight fell more clearly as he drew nearer the top of the gorge, nearer the heavens themselves. The gorge was a dark slash across the landscape, shadowed and dangerous. Nearby, invisible in the night, a mountain river splashed through a shallow, rocky bed down the slopes.

  At last, at the highest point of the slope, Michael reached the cascade that was the source of the river, flowing down a last peak from underground. He crossed the river on mossy stepping stones. A small tower was silhouetted in the darkness, one of their more clever constructions, housing machinery he prayed they would never need to use. He leaned against it and let himself sink to the ground, listening to the flow of the water, facing the moonlit sky.

  He couldn’t hear the voices from below anymore. It was good to be here without the clann, without his sister or his cousins or anyone who was so dependent on him. But he wished he wasn’t alone. He wished for the presence of Miracle, or of his old friend Kris of the Mountains, or of Gwyrion, Lord of the Wild Things, who had been their companion for a time. Far away in the Northlands, hidden in a cave, Gwyrion had once spoken to him of the King. Traces of the conversation came to his memory now.

  My father saw a great fire in these mountains, Michael had told him. A light that swept over the whole earth and did not destroy, but purified all that it touched.

  Gwyrion’s voice had rumbled in reply. Your father met with the King.

  It was true. Thomas O’Roarke had never referred to the great Spirit-Lord whose light he had seen on the mountains as “the King,” but Michael knew that his father’s vision had shown him the same being the Gypsies told stories of, the same being who was remembered in old wives’ tales in the islands, the same being Miracle worshiped.

  She had not always been open about that. But after their marriage, she had told Michael more and more of what she believed. She had told him that she knew the power that flowed through her was not hers, but belonged to one Northerners called the Great Light. Her grandfather, who raised her, had taught her to revere the Light. And then, when she was thirteen, the Light had come to her in the form of a man and told her that he was the source and the heart of mankind, the great enemy of death, and the healing of the Seventh World.

  The Great Light had also shown her that for his sake, she would have to suffer. And she had accepted that.

  Michael’s jaw clenched as his eyes roved the stars. She had suffered. Her suffering had made her even more beautiful in his eyes, and he had done everything he could to protect her from suffering again. He would do everything he could. But now—

  We are at war, Gwyrion had said.

  The whole world is troubled. Meet evil head on, fight on the right side, and you will overcome it. Your father saw the truth. The Burning Light will come and purify the world again. It has already begun.

  “I want to see it too,” Michael said aloud. His voice startled him. He let it sink back down, let the words sink into him even as he hoped they carried into the starlit sky. He stood slowly, leaning against the defense tower as he kept his eyes trained on the sky.

  “My father saw the Burning Light in the Northern mountains,” Michael said. “Like Miracle did. But if you are truly the heart of the world, then surely you are not confined. And if you are truly calling me to war, then I want to see you as they have. I do not have the courage on my own.”

  Was he surprised as the stars began to move, as they began to shape themselves into a form like a man? He didn’t know. But he did know that suddenly the hilltop seemed aflame with white light, and he was looking into eyes that burned with a holy fire, in the face of a man unlike any he had ever seen. He knelt.

  “I only want to protect her,” he said.

  “I know,” the man answered. “And you will, Michael O’Roarke. But you must protect her, and the rest of my Gifted, by giving them time. The attack is coming to you, as you knew it would. And you must hold it back.”

  Michael bowed his head. Tears were pricking at his eyes, but they seemed to him to be tears of light, tears like diamonds. “This will be the end for us,” he said.

  “Yes,” the King said. “As much as anything in this world is an end. But you must believe what I tell you: all ends here are only beginnings. This war has been one of defense too long. Make one last stand here, and I will take the war on the offense forever. Look at me, Chieftain of the Clann O’Roarke.”

  Michael raised his head and looked.

  * * *

  Shivering in a cold night wind in a mossy cleft of rock near the Galcic coast, Virginia snapped suddenly awake. Rehtse’s hand touched her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  She shook her head, desperately trying to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. The lingering pain of Evelyn’s attack was still with her, making it harder to focus. What had she seen? What had—

  She gasped a
s she remembered. Her heart was racing as though it would race itself to a finish line and die on the spot, her breath coming faster than she wanted it to. She had seen the return of Morning Star.

  And suddenly she felt a pull, drawing her to her feet, drawing her eyes through the trees and the rocky ground in the direction of the coast. For a moment all she could see was shadows behind shadows. Then a brilliant light flashed out of the darkness and flooded the forest with light, flooded Galce, flooded the world. Virginia fell to her knees.

  She did not know how much time passed. Only that Rehtse’s voice was urgently calling her name. She heard Kieran chime in with an expression of concern. She turned to look at her companions, but her vision had gone black once more.

  “Did you see the light?” she asked.

  “No,” Rehtse answered. “It is still night.”

  Virginia nodded and curled up against the rock once more. If Rehtse and Kieran had not seen it, then it had been a vision.

  And that meant it had been real.

  “Hold on,” she heard herself whispering, to Pravik and to Maggie and the Ploughman and to everyone in this world who did not know they needed the King. “Help is coming.”

  * * *

  Part 2: Advent

  Chapter 14: One Step Ahead of You

  Roland dreamed that night. He and Stray were sleeping inside the cave because it looked like rain. Shale crunched under him as he shifted in his sleep. It was uncomfortable, but shelter was shelter—and this cave, with its hard-packed earthen floor and dry walls, had sheltered them well in the months since they’d taken to it.

  In his dream, the world had been swallowed by darkness. Every shred of light was gone, and if the sun rose, no one saw it. He wandered in the black world and groaned for light.

  A glimmer. Roland thought he was waking up to the sun shining on his face. But no, it wasn’t—he was still dreaming, and the world was in darkness. In his dream, he looked up.

  Stray was sitting against the opposite wall of the cave. His knees were drawn up to his chest. His blue-green eyes smiled on Roland. They were uncanny eyes, full of light.

  Roland pushed himself up and brushed dirt from his clothes. He tried not to look at the boy—he was making him nervous again—but there was no avoiding that gaze. For months the boys had lived together in the cave, fished in the rivers, hunted small animals in the trees. They had climbed old oaks and willows, chased each other, laughed together. Stray told stories and jabbered nonsense. He had not been especially good at anything else. Roland had taught him patiently, teasing him, sometimes frustrated with him. And he had loved him.

  And now Stray’s eyes were summoning Roland, and their power was unmistakable.

  “The sun will rise,” Stray said.

  Roland heard himself sighing in his dream. He turned his eyes to the cave entrance. A tangle of branches and roots usually cast a greenish light on the inside of the cave, but now, the entrance was nothing more than a black hole in already black surroundings.

  “The sun isn’t going to rise,” Roland said. “Something’s awfully wrong out…”

  His voice trailed off. Soft light was dancing on the cave walls.

  Stray had a candle cupped in his hands. The light flickered and bounced, and the boy watched it with delight in every curve of his young face.

  “Where did you get that?” Roland asked, aware even in his dream that there were no candles in the cave.

  The boy did not answer. He was standing, carefully so as not to jar the candle. He walked to the mouth of the cave and looked back at Roland. His eyes were all the colour of the forests and the seas, his smile a spring morning full of secrets. “Are you coming?” he asked.

  Foliage rustled as Stray passed outside the cave. Roland scrambled to his feet and pushed his way through.

  The boy was standing in an open place in the darkness where long grass grew, and the candlelight silvered the bark of slender trees behind him. None of it would have been visible but for the gentle light in the boy’s hands. Roland remained crouched at the cave mouth. He could not move. He could not tear his eyes from the boy he had sheltered.

  Stray laughed suddenly and threw the light into the air. It remained there, hovering above the boy’s open hands—the flame alone. The candle was gone. The light began to grow. The edges of the flame were white, its center golden.

  “No more darkness,” Stray said.

  There was a sound like voices singing, and the light above the boy’s hands rose and broke into glittering pieces: they rose higher and higher until suddenly the stars were shining through the darkness and sending silver healing rays down to the earth. The moon appeared and bathed the valley in cool white light. Out of the shadow the silhouettes of mountains took form, tree branches waved gently in a sudden breeze, moonlight sparkled on the river.

  Roland took it all in, mouth agape. Moonlight and starlight touched him softly as a mother’s kiss. He tore his eyes from the sky and looked at Stray. He was smiling—yes, it was the boy’s smile, his eyes, his beautiful face, but the tiny form in rags was no more. A young man stood in the valley with his hands held upward and his face bathed with light.

  And the sun began to rise.

  Roland woke. Sunlight was warming his face, morning light streaming through the cave mouth. And little-boy Stray was sitting in its rays, watching him with a knowing look in his eyes.

  “We have to go to the House of Angslie now,” Stray said when Roland sat up, trying to shake off the effects of the dream and finding that he could not. The blue-green eyes looked into his expectantly.

  “All right,” Roland said. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t protesting. He shook his head a little to clear it. How did Stray even know about the House of Angslie? Why would he want to go there?

  What exactly was this child?

  Roland stood slowly, waiting for something extraordinary to happen. Nothing did. The boy pushed himself up with the usual aplomb of small boys and waited with a tiny smile on his face. Roland exited the cave first, into the morning sun, and blinked. Dew lay on the valley; the sun sparkled off the river on the other side.

  Roland pointed. “The laird’s house is that way. Across the river.”

  They ambled over the dew-drenched grass of the valley, silent and companionable. Roland could still see the light bursting forth in his dream, making the sunlight seem magical. It was only a dream, he told himself. He was not sure he believed it. They reached the edge of the water, which was deep here, and Roland turned west.

  “We can ford downriver,” he said. “We’ll go by the shallows, since you still can’t swim to save your…”

  Stray didn’t answer. Roland turned to look for him.

  The boy was standing on the surface of the water, five feet out, one hand held out to Roland. He laughed.

  Roland blinked, wondered if he was still dreaming, and stepped out on the surface of the water. It held him. Stray smiled again, and this time there was something serious and approving in his face.

  * * *

  When Roland and Stray reached the great House of Angslie, Roland felt as though something was haunting his steps. He had not been here since the day he’d run from the village to warn the laird that High Police were coming to take Virginia Ramsey away. What had happened after that was anyone’s guess—no one had seen the laird, or Virginia, again. The High Police were found dead on the hillside. For some months more soldiers had come and oppressed the villagers until at last they too stopped hunting for answers and withdrew.

  Now the house was a broken mirror of its former self. Windows had been smashed out, gardens and fields destroyed, the house’s stores wasted by the soldiers. Weeds were growing through the smashed window panes and running riot over once well-managed lawns. Small animals scattered as the boys approached, but no sign of human life appeared.

  Roland felt anger rising in him at the sight of the desecrated ground. Lord Robert Sinclair, Laird of Angslie, had not been a perfect symbol, but his family and his
home had symbolized this part of the Highlands. The soldiers had no right to do what they had done.

  Just as they’d had no right to take Virginia Ramsey, Roland’s hope in the loneliest hours of the night, away.

  He had not known her well, but he had never forgotten the day she and her grandfather came into the tavern, and her grandfather haggled with the MacTavish over flour while Virginia stood in a corner and waited. Roland had approached her, shy and curious and a little fearful of the girl so many of the villagers treated with veiled enmity because she could see into their souls.

  She had smiled at his approach and held out her hand so he could touch her and know that she was a friend. And she had said, “Do you want to know what I see in you, Roland MacTavish?”

  He said yes.

  “I see in you a golden lion,” she said. “And a great man.” And in a very low voice she had told him, “Someday everything in this world will change, and you will be at the center of things then. Roaring and strong for righteousness.”

  Every night until Virginia disappeared, Roland had laid awake in his loft bedroom over the tavern, listening to the drunks and the howls of his father in his inebriated idiocy, and he had told himself, Someday everything in the world will change, and I will be a lion at the center of it.

  The High Police had had no right to take her away, for with her, they had taken away Roland’s hope for a future.

  “Come,” Stray said, tugging at Roland’s sleeve. He pointed at a window on the second floor of the rambling house. “It’s up there. It’s for you.”

  “What is?” Roland asked.

  “You’ll see,” the boy answered.

  “How do you know what’s up there? You didn’t even know the way here by yourself!”