The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “Think then,” Libuse said, even more quietly. “May your thoughts twist in knots and bind you tightly.” She could hear Marja’s voice in her head—Marja knew a thousand curses and had taught Libuse several that she had since put to use. “How is Marja?” she asked.

  Evelyn glared at her again and didn’t answer. Libuse fell silent and scanned the twelve High Police. The tapestries over their heads had been torn and defaced, but the scenes of the ancient world where Libuse’s ancestors had ruled could still be made out. The soldiers were surly, uncomfortable in the heat and the presence of the increasingly unpredictable woman in black. Link had settled at the table off the dais where the Ploughman had held council.

  Libuse offered up a silent prayer for the Ploughman. She was still uncertain that the King existed, much less that he was listening. But her only two options for action now were to offer remarks that needled Evelyn and to pray. She did both.

  The throne room doors, which had been closed behind Link, burst open again to admit Evelyn’s recently promoted general—the commander who had led the High Police under Cratus’s orders. Evelyn leaped out of her seat, seemingly propelled to her feet by the sound of the doors opening, and with her eyes shot the man full of arrows.

  “You dare interrupt my thoughts?”

  He was unmoved. “There is a creature to see you,” he said. “You’ll want to see him.”

  “I’ll tell you who I want to see,” Evelyn snarled, but her venom dried up in mid-sentence as she looked past the man and saw the shadow lurking in the door. Libuse glimpsed it at the same time.

  Creature was the right word, for this thing was not a man. It was twice the size of a man, hunched over and winged. Its eyes glowed amber from a face too shadowed to make out. It seemed to wear ragged clothes, and its feet and hands, as it scraped forward, were clawed.

  In its arms it carried a child.

  Libuse’s heart stopped beating as the creature came forward, into the torchlight, and the light fell on the child’s face. He was so young—not more than eight, she thought. His golden hair was sticking to his forehead in wisps. His wrists and ankles were bound. And yet he was sleeping—sleeping as though he trusted this creature.

  The boy woke slowly as the creature lowered him to the floor, blinking at the lights and taking in the room bit by bit.

  The creature bowed. “Lady,” it said in a voice as indescribable as its appearance. “I have brought you a gift.”

  Evelyn looked at the child and then back up at Undred. “What is it?” she asked.

  Libuse kept her eyes on the child, willing him to look at her. He did not. He strained his head back to look at the tapestries and the soldiers, ignoring Evelyn entirely, as though she was part of some grown-up world that had absolutely nothing to do with him. Libuse had never seen anyone so completely free of fear.

  The creature looked around, at the lines of soldiers and at Link, who was watching intensely. It hunched itself more, craftiness in every line of its form, and said, “I will tell thee, but only in thine ear.”

  Evelyn stood and stepped down one step, pausing for a moment to look more closely at the creature and at the child. She nodded shortly. “Very well.”

  The creature ambled up the steps, leaving the boy trussed up on the floor. It brought its shadowed head close to Evelyn and whispered something.

  Libuse heard the whisper, and the words shot through her like a bolt of lightning. She looked back at the child. Something in his demeanor had changed. He was looking up the steps now, at the creature and Evelyn. And slowly, he was sitting up—and the ropes around his ankles and wrists were loosening of their own accord.

  Evelyn stepped back up the dais. “What kind of fool do you take me for?” she demanded. “That child is not—not what you say. He can’t be.”

  “He is,” the creature insisted, its voice more afraid now. Behind him, the child was on his feet and shaking the ropes off his wrists.

  “And who are you to possess such knowledge?” Evelyn snapped. “What are you?”

  “I am the last of my kind,” the creature said. “I was there. I was there five hundred years ago.” Its amber eyes grew larger, glowing fiercely. “I remember it all.” It pointed a clawed hand at the child, who was now watching them, still unafraid. “I remember him!”

  The child spoke. His voice was pure and clear. “It’s true. He is Undred the Undecided,” the child said. “He was there—in the Great War. But he never took sides. He wanted to see who would win. But he has chosen you now, and that is a terrible mistake.”

  The child looked at Undred, and his face creased with pity. “You have been a fool, Undred, and a coward, for a long long time. But you are out of time now.”

  He looked up at the throne, taking in both Evelyn and Libuse with eyes that were not now childlike. They were sea-green and blue, and full of the light on water. He fixed them on Evelyn.

  “You are sitting on a throne that does not belong to you,” he said. “And you have grave crimes for which to pay.”

  Evelyn listened as though she could not believe her ears. A half-smile played on her face as she looked from the child to her soldiers and to Link, who stood tensed and ready over the stone.

  “And who are you to challenge me?” she asked.

  “Undred already told you who I am,” said the child. “Why don’t you tell these others?”

  “You are not the King,” Evelyn snapped. “You are only a boy.”

  “For someone who has practiced deception her whole life,” the child said, “you are very quick to believe in appearances.” He smiled. “I used to walk as a child. Undred remembers. My priests could have told you.” His expression darkened. “Where are my priests, Evelyn? The ones who have been waiting for me?”

  The witch did not answer. Libuse spoke into the silence with tears in her eyes. “She killed them,” she said. “On these very steps. The Majesty gave them up as the price of alliance with her. It is their blood that spatters the stones.”

  The boy’s face darkened once again. “Step down from that throne, Evelyn Witch,” he said. “The time of the Spider is over.”

  “I disagree,” Evelyn said. She stretched out her arm, her hand in a fist. Around it black tendrils like smoke began to play. She smiled. “Whoever and whatever you are, you are about to learn that the time of the Spider has just begun.”

  She threw her fingers open, and from her hand a dark swarm of tendrils erupted, forming a howling storm that swept through every inch of the room, a hurricane of dark power. It centered around the child, tendrils piercing into and through him, and Link screamed in shock as power surged through him and into the stone. The stone burst with light so bright that it nearly blinded Libuse, and she crouched against the bloody throne in the howl and the light, eyes shut tightly, with tears running down her face.

  “No!” she heard herself scream.

  * * *

  In the streets of the city, Nicolas’s eyes widened as words burst into his hearing, words pulsing with importance, echoing from the stone walls and floor of the castle throne room.

  “He is the King… I was there. I remember him!”

  “Where are my priests, Evelyn?”

  “The time of the Spider has just begun.”

  And then a great howl, and a burst of power, and a scream that nearly knocked him to his knees. “No!”

  The voices propelled him into a run. The others looked at each other and began to run after him, Rehtse helping Virginia as they hurled themselves up the cobblestone streets toward the castle.

  “What is it?” the Ploughman shouted.

  “He is the King!” Nicolas shouted back. “And she’s going to destroy him!”

  As he ran, everything else lessened in importance. Marja, his children, Pravik, the future—

  Somehow this one child meant more than them all.

  He was crying as he ran.

  * * *

  Behind closed eyes, Libuse saw the incredible burst of light that flashed, f
illed the room for a long moment, and then dimmed. It took her a moment to realize she had heard something else in the midst of the howl: the sound of something shattering.

  It was quiet.

  Her head had been buried in her arm against the throne. She lifted it now and forced herself to open her eyes. Her gaze was drawn by a bright light—but not now the light of the stone.

  The light emanated from a young man in the throne room, a tall, bearded young man with broad shoulders and eyes the colour of the sea. His presence cooled the heat in the room like the presence of a spring rain; power seemed to pulse from him, but it was the power of life, of healing, of new birth.

  He took her breath away. And she knew what she had hardly believed a few minutes ago. This young man, who had worn the form of a child only moments before, was the King she had so long withheld full belief in.

  Evelyn was still on the throne, but curled up defensively, staring wide-eyed at him. Blue shards, the remains of the shattered stone, were everywhere.

  “Woman,” he said, his voice booming like a wave through the room. “Come off that throne!”

  With every eye in the room on her, Evelyn slowly uncurled herself and slunk down. The King waited patiently as she descended the steps on her hands and knees, coming to rest on the floor before him, tensed like a cornered rat.

  “Take this thief away and lock her up,” the King said.

  The High Police looked at each other. The King sighed impatiently and said, “Yes, I’m talking to you.” Two of the soldiers rose from their knees and came forward hastily, taking Evelyn by the arms.

  “Don’t be afraid—not of her,” the King told them. “She has no power anymore. Everything she took belonged to me, and I have taken it back.”

  They ushered her out, and the King’s eyes rested gently on Libuse. She felt her chains loosen and fall off, and strength came into her cramped legs as she stood. He came forward, took her hand, and bowed.

  She fought back the sob that wanted to burst from her chest.

  “I heard you, you know,” he said softly. “All those prayers.” He smiled. “The curses too.”

  “Marja—Marja taught them to me.” She swallowed. It was such a foolish thing to say. With his hand still holding hers, she knelt on the flagstones and bowed her head. “My King,” she said.

  “I am glad to hear you say those words,” he said. “Then I can trust that you will be on my side in what is to come?”

  “With all my heart,” she said. Words came hard, fighting their way around the lump in her throat. “The Ploughman—”

  “… is here,” the King said.

  As he finished speaking, the doors burst open once more, and eight bedraggled figures entered. Libuse’s knees weakened at the sight of the foremost of them: a man whose face and form she knew better than any other on earth. The Ploughman. He saw her and came forward slowly, wordless, holding out his hands to her. She waited until he had drawn alongside the King, and then she rushed forward and took both his hands.

  “Welcome home,” she said. “I did all I could to keep the city for you.”

  His eyes covered her, looking for injury, and finding none, he drew her close and choked down a sob. She clung to him, letting her own tears soak his sleeve. She drew back, smiling up at him through her tears.

  The others were drifting forward, looking at the King in awe and confusion.

  Roland spoke first. “Stray?” he asked.

  The King laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Well done, Roland. You came in good time.”

  The others still hung back, each one hesitating to believe what they saw. He smiled, a smile that was strangely sad. “You will all know me better soon,” he said. “And learn to recognize me no matter how I may appear.” Before any could venture an answer, he turned to the Ploughman and Libuse once more. “Warrior,” he said.

  The Ploughman dropped to one knee and drew his sword, laying it at the King’s feet. “You have my service,” he said.

  “Good,” the King answered. “Evelyn was only a beginning, a thief who needed dealing with. The real enemy is still coming. I want all of you here, on my side—my Gifted, united at last. You must all prepare for battle—and for the future. It will not be what you expect.”

  “Ah! You’ve all made it!” Another voice burst into the gathering. Maggie turned, her heart pounding.

  Professor Huss was standing in the light of the doorway with his arms full of books. He smiled and bowed to the King. “I found them,” he said. “Right where you said they would be, buried in this very city! Who would have thought such a treasure could be here? Maggie, do you know what these are? They are chronicles of the Great War, written by secret believers in the King in the Tribal Age! All the truth our world has been missing for so long! This blessed child—though I see he is a man now—told me to look where we had been ploughing, and there they were!”

  “But—” Maggie gaped. “How did—how are—”

  “The King came by and plucked me out of the water,” Professor Huss said. “He said he still needed an old scholar. He sent me on ahead, accompanied by some very companionable old wolves. Now what do you think of that?”

  And he laughed for joy.

  * * *

  Part 3: Battle

  Chapter 19: Light

  Dust kicked up from the horses’ hooves like smoke, carried up in swirls of wind to form plumes of brown and grey over the road. In the Italyan town of Natoli, crowds gathered in the streets to watch the procession of High Police, dressed for battle, that galloped to the town square.

  General Merlyn Cratus, his face newly scarred and his battle armour gleaming, climbed the statue of Lucius Morel in the center of the town and raised his hands to quiet the people. Eyes of hostility, fear, and wonder watched him.

  “Every man who can bear arms,” Cratus shouted, “bear them and join our ranks. We ride to the battle in Pravik.”

  “Haven’t you got enough of our sons already?” one old man was brave enough to call out.

  Cratus glared down at their weathered faces. Some of the younger men returned his gaze more eagerly, itching to know what this was all about. “The Empire has fallen,” Cratus announced. He raised his hand to silence the gasps and cries that met his announcement. “We are ruled by the one called Morning Star, a great power more terrible than ever the Empire was. You know me—I was Lucien Morel’s general. I tell you the truth now. Morel has gone mad, and Morning Star builds a greater world than we have known. Beginning with you. If you wish to be counted among his loyal subjects, prove yourself in Pravik.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Those who do not come willingly will be brought unwillingly—or left here for Morning Star’s hordes to discover.”

  “Morning Star…” one man said. “Morning Star is a myth. That is what we have always been told.”

  As if in response to his words, a low tramp sounded from beyond the town. Heads turned, eyes seeking the source of the sound. A shadow was gathering on the horizon.

  “Yonder comes the Blackness,” Cratus said. “The armies of Morning Star following the armies of men. This is no myth. Take up arms!”

  A white-haired man stepped out of the crowd. His voice, strong though it trembled with age, was the same as that which had already challenged Cratus earlier. “If Morning Star is here,” he said, “then the King is also coming. We have heard the stories the Gypsies tell.”

  Cratus fixed his eyes on the old man. “The King is not coming,” he said. “He has already failed you. The only rebellion is in Pravik. And we are going to crush it.”

  He drew a crossbow from his back and fitted an arrow into it, aiming it slowly at the old man, who met his eyes and waited.

  “So fall the enemies of Morning Star,” Cratus said, and loosed the arrow.

  There was silence as the old man grunted and collapsed. Cratus lifted his eyes to the crowd once more. “Every household that sends a man to fight with us will be protected. Your women and children are advised to stay within door
s. The rest of you, ready yourselves. We march in three hours.”

  The High Police scattered into the town by unspoken command, raiding stores and houses for supplies for the march. Some townspeople protested, to be ignored or struck down—Cratus left that up to his men. He waited under the statue of the Empire’s first ruler, directing those who came to him into companies.

  The shadow on the horizon grew darker and larger. The sound of tramping feet grew until the whole town trembled with it. An ill wind, smoky and sick, blew up the streets ahead of the advancing hordes.

  In an hour Cratus’s men were on the march again. He sat astride his horse and counted the companies as they rode through the town: ten, twenty, thirty companies of soldiers, due to meet with more at the next crossroads. Trained soldiers mixed with villagers and townsfolk eager to prove their new allegiance.

  Morning Star was wise. He would forge loyalty from his new empire by bringing the people of the South Country, of Galce, and of the Eastern Mountains on the way to Pravik together in battle—by giving them a shared enemy and a common victory, by teaching them all fear when they fought among his creatures. There would be time enough after Pravik’s destruction to advance his rule into Bryllan and the Green Isle, and from there to sail into the Northern Lands.

  The last of the companies left Natoli, and Cratus turned to watch the hordes enter the flagstone streets. The creatures of the Blackness slithered, crawled, and flapped into the town, bringing a creeping darkness with them. The townspeople were locked and shuttered in their homes.

  Cratus felt his horse’s nervousness, and he patted its neck and urged it toward the advancing creatures softly. It went, every muscle quivering in protest. He reached the foremost of them and stopped, waiting. They parted to reveal the advance of Morning Star, on foot, dressed in gleaming chain mail and a black cloak, the heart of the darkness that swirled through the hordes.