He raised his hand. “Hail, Cratus.”
“Hail, Master,” Cratus said. “Natoli has given up its men willingly.”
“There is blood on the stones behind you,” Morning Star said.
“One spoke against us,” Cratus said.
“Against me,” Morning Star said. “There is no us in my world, Merlyn Cratus.”
Cratus restrained his own fear and nodded. “My lord.”
“And supplies?” Morning Star asked. “Men cannot march on empty stomachs.”
“We are collecting enough to take us across Galce and into the mountains,” Cratus said. “Our companies will meet at the crossroads, as planned, and divide our resources there. By then I expect some five thousand at our… at your command.”
Morning Star smiled. “After all these years, men come so readily to my banner. Nothing has changed, and that pleases me. Go on; swell your ranks. You do well.”
Morning Star lifted his chilling eyes to the horizon. “Pravik and all who huddle there will soon fall.”
* * *
High on Pravik’s outer wall, a breeze was blowing warmly up from the mountain forests. It carried the scents of summer with it—but mingled with those smells was a faint tinge of ash from the forest Evelyn had attacked. It was just strong enough for Virginia’s senses to pick up. It distracted her from the conversation of Roland and Rehtse, who were perched on the wall beside her. She didn’t realize their voices had gone silent until another voice called her name.
“Virginia.”
Virginia turned slowly, trying to place the voice. It was a man, and her leaping heart told her who it was—yet the reality of this voice, falling on her ears and not only on her spirit, was hard to believe.
Then he took her hand, and unexpected tears sprang to her eyes.
Her visions had come true before. But for the King to step out of vision and into this reality, this reality of bone and sinew and skin, was something she had not been prepared for. She shifted from her place on the wall and slowly, her hand still held in his, knelt.
She could hear the smile in his voice—the serious smile, at once joyous and somber, that she had grown to love in her visions. “Rise, daughter,” he said.
Trembling, she did. As the King released her hand, she became aware of other newcomers on the wall with them.
“Cratus is gathering an army against us even now,” the King said. “It is time we gather our own. Virginia, long ago I told you what I had for you to do.”
She bowed her head. “To awaken the world,” she said.
“Roland, you are a voice,” the King continued. “I want you to join that voice to Virginia’s eyes, and go show the people of the villages the truth. Show them who I am. Show them who they are. And call them to come and join me.”
“We cannot have much time,” Virginia said.
“You do not—not before this battle,” the King said. “But show me, Virginia, what you have been carrying with you since the day you called the Earth Brethren out of sleep.”
Surprised, Virginia took a moment to realize what he meant. Then she pulled the little bag of seeds from the inner pocket where she had kept them through all her journeying.
“They don’t look like much, do they?” the King asked. “Yet they are life. You and Roland will go and speak to the villagers, and what you speak will be seeds. Trust me to bring them to harvest.”
Virginia nodded. The King continued. “Soon, I want you to take those seeds to the forests that Evelyn destroyed and replant them. The trees that grow from them will always be a haven for my faithful ones and a testimony to me.”
He turned. “Michael, Miracle, you will train the villagers when they come.”
“And I, my lord?” Rehtse asked.
“For you I have quite another task,” the King said. His voice grew quieter. “You have been faithful, Rehtse, when so many others turned away. You remember all Divad taught you?”
Virginia could not hear Rehtse’s answer—she must have nodded.
“Good,” the King said. “None of it must be lost. I want you to work with Professor Huss to write it down. It’s time we add to the books the good professor found hidden in the city. Your prayers, too.” The smile returned to his voice, and Virginia found herself smiling with pride for Rehtse. “I have heard every one,” the King said. “And they have brought me joy.”
* * *
The woods of the Eastern Mountains were thick, and the bloodied and battered man who fought his way through them was weak with hunger and the wounds he had sustained resisting the High Police.
When a voice called “Halt!” and a young Gypsy stepped out of the trees with a bow aimed at his neck, Harutek almost felt relief.
“Prince Harutek?” the young Gypsy asked in surprise.
“Darne, isn’t it?” Harutek asked, surprised by his own ability to remember. The young Gypsy nodded. He began to lower his spear, but another voice stopped him.
“Hold your weapon!” the voice said. “This man has much to answer for.”
This time there was no doubt about the voice’s source. Nicolas Fisher stepped out of the trees, wearing light armour and carrying a sword. His golden eyes accosted Harutek with disdain.
“My lord,” Harutek said, bowing his head. “I throw myself on your mercy.”
“Tell me why I should offer you mercy,” Nicolas said. “I took the Ploughman and Maggie Sheffield from a prison to which you betrayed them.”
“Because I did not intend to betray them,” Harutek said. “I saw what was coming in Athrom. I knew that if I convinced Cratus of their worth, he would keep them alive—and he did. I intended to rescue them myself when the time was right.”
“You sold them for a promise of your own people’s protection,” Nicolas said.
“I sold them into prison only,” Harutek said. “I saved them from death, for Cratus would have killed them unless he had believed them more valuable alive. And I had a responsibility to my people, as you do to yours.”
Harutek’s voice softened. “You have a right to judge me, but not, I hope, to condemn me. I bring word to you now that all Pravik, above and below ground, must hear.”
Nicolas regarded Harutek a moment longer. “Turn your weapons over,” he said.
Harutek unbuckled his sword and handed it to Darne, who took it more hesitantly than the prince gave it. Harutek drew a knife from his boot and threw it into the trunk of a nearby tree. “That is all I have,” he said. “Of greater worth is my news. Morning Star is loosed.”
“We know this,” Nicolas said.
“And he is coming here,” Harutek said. “With a growing army of High Police thousands strong and his own hordes of Blackness. I have seen them. I fought my way free from the High Police and have come to warn you all.”
Nicolas gestured with his head, and they slipped back into the trees together, coming quickly to a cluster of Gypsies on patrol. Nicolas called out two of them and assigned Harutek into their care, telling them to take him to Pravik immediately.
“Do not expect a warm welcome,” Nicolas said. “Though you may expect a just one. Things have changed here also, Harutek, prince of the Darkworld. Your people sided with the witch Evelyn, who no longer reigns. They slaughtered your priests. Your father and many others are in the custody of the King for their traitorous actions, though they have not yet been judged.”
Harutek paled. “Has the Ploughman declared himself king then?” he asked.
Nicolas smiled. “No,” he said. He nodded to the Gypsies on either side of Harutek. “Take the prince to the city,” he said. “Make sure he delivers his news. Best he sees for himself what has changed there.”
* * *
The Gypsies brought Harutek through the thick woods, into the rocky outcroppings under the city walls, and through a small, guarded door in the stone walls. The ploughed streets beyond the door had now been abandoned for some time, and weeds and green shoots were growing sparsely between hunks of rock and debris. The castl
e rose over the whole scene, a new flag—Libuse’s handiwork—flying from its highest tower: a dark blue flag adorned with a silver crown and seven stars.
Harutek’s body ached as he followed the young Gypsies, and the ache grew worse as his tension increased. He was still trying to process what Nicolas had said. His father imprisoned—his father a traitor. The priests slain. He swallowed a lump in his throat. In many ways, Divad had been more a father to him than the Majesty; Hazrit more like a mother than the mother Harutek barely remembered. With shame he remembered Rehtse, the priestess Caasi had loved, and the ways he had stood against her and mocked her faith in the days before leaving Pravik. He wondered if she had clung to her faith till the end.
For her sake, he hoped she had.
Harutek shoved down the voice in his heart that told him he was going now to see not just a new king in Pravik, but the King in whom Rehtse had so ardently believed, the one from ancient stories Harutek had so strongly called myth and lies. He could not deny the possibility, for he had not believed in Morning Star either, and he had seen Morning Star tear the Veil and enter the body of a man with his own eyes. He had seen the Blackness loosed.
If the King was in Pravik, there would be a battle greater than any foresaw. Perhaps that meant hope for the world. And yet…
He pushed his thoughts back down. If the King was in Pravik, he would know it soon enough. The sun was hot, burning down on red cobblestones and on Harutek’s already sunburned skin, which was peeling and blistering. He was acutely aware of the Darkworld under his feet, of its damp, cool passages and great carved caverns. Homesickness gripped him, made worse by the knowledge that things were not as they had been—that they would never be the same, and that it was at least partially his fault.
The Gypsies called out to guards as they approached the castle, and the doors were opened to them. They stepped into its shadowed corridors and took the familiar path to the throne room. But when the doors to the throne room opened, it was on a scene entirely unfamiliar and unexpected.
The room was full of children, laughing and playing around the feet of women who were storing food, water, and bundles of other supplies on hastily built shelves and scaffolds all around the room. A group of men were building bunks against the walls, and some of the older children were helping. Mrs. Cook directed the supplies, clapping her hands and calling instructions loudly. A beautiful Gypsy woman was supervising the mending of tapestries that depicted ancient battles and kings—the history of the Eastern Lands. She wore a tiny baby in a sling on her back, and a little boy with a strong resemblance to Nicolas Fisher clung to her skirt. A cluster of young children sat around Professor Huss, who was reading to them from an old book about the far distant past and exploits of the King. And as he read, the children looked up, wide-eyed, across the room at a smiling young man with golden hair, the beginnings of a beard, and sea-coloured eyes.
And Harutek knew as he looked at him that he truly was the King. He had come back into the world just as Morning Star had come back into it.
Through the doors a couple walked: a well-built young man with red hair and the most beautiful woman Harutek had ever seen, her hair white-gold and tied back. Both wore leather armour. The man carried a sword; the woman a bow and quiver of arrows. They approached the king and bowed before him.
“What do you report?” the King asked.
“We are ready to begin training,” the young man said. “Roland sends us more villagers every day with his passionate calls to join you. Six came from Morvo an hour ago, along with the dressmaker.”
The woman smiled. “They respond well to his lion’s roar.”
The King nodded, pleased, but his eyes were sorrowful too. “But not all will come,” he said. “And Morning Star reaches the Southern Lands first.” He shook his head as though dislodging the thoughts. “It matters not,” he said, almost to himself. “Begin training with my blessing,” he said. “Train them all to fight as courageously and righteously as you do. Tell them about your clann, Michael, and show them why it is so important that they stand against evil.”
Michael nodded, and Harutek saw grief mingled with pride in his expression and in the woman’s. They turned to go.
Maggie passed them in the door. She knelt quickly before the King, but before she spoke something drew her eyes to the side, and she saw Harutek. She stood silently, staring at him.
Harutek stepped forward, leaving his Gypsy escorts behind, and bowed.
“Rise, Harutek, Seventeenth Son of the Majesty,” the King said. His voice was stern, but not angry.
“I—” Harutek began, but he found that words failed him.
“You have done wrong,” the King said. “Yet some good has come of it despite yourself. Your father has chosen sides against me. And you?”
Harutek looked into the King’s eyes and was shaken by what he found there. “I have no choice,” he said. “Reason and right dictate that I join you. I would not be found on the side of the Blackness.”
“The Blackness may win,” the King said. “As far as you know.”
“But I will not fight alongside it,” Harutek replied.
The King smiled. “That is a good answer,” he said. “Go, follow Michael and Miracle to the training yards. You are a warrior. You can be of help to them. Only take care that you train the arms of my new soldiers only. I want the Clann O’Roarke to train their hearts.”
Harutek swallowed and nodded. He turned to go. His eyes fell on a young woman he had not seen with the others, just extricating herself from the tapestry menders. She wore grey, though not her old priestly robes, and her long braids were bound back by a leather tie. She met his eyes calmly. His mouth gaped as he tried to understand how it was that Rehtse was still alive.
“The Majesty dismissed me from his service,” Rehtse said. “So I went to seek the King. And I found him.”
“You were right to believe,” Harutek said. “You and Caasi were right to believe. I am sorry now that I did not side with you.”
Rehtse’s eyes were full of tears, but they did not fall. He took her hand and kissed it courteously. “I am glad,” he said, “that one of the priesthood remains.”
With that, he left the throne room to its preparations and repairs and headed for the courtyard where he could already hear Michael O’Roarke shouting orders to new recruits.
* * *
Four days passed. The Blackness crept over the Southern countries, gathered and divided, demanded men and armed them. Shadows moved up through the forests of Galce, led by the hoofbeats and tramping boots of the swollen ranks of High Police.
In the villages of the Eastern Mountains, a boy and a blind woman from the Highlands stood in market squares and announced that a kingdom had come and a King worthy of love was calling all who would rally to his banner.
Few responded. But each time Roland and Virginia returned to Pravik, they brought another handful with them. More trickled in of their own accord when the message had sunk in—or when the shadows in their nightmares frightened them into Pravik’s walls.
The throne room, which was central to the castle and the easiest room to defend, had been transformed into a nursery, kitchen, and bunkhouse for those too young or too feeble for battle. The King still held court in it, happy to let children run around his feet and seeing to it that they helped. The tapestries were mended under the direction of Marja and Libuse, who made sure the old glory was hung on the walls and that new flags flew from the towers.
Night fell on the fourth day. The air was hot and heavy, with the sense of a thunderstorm coming. The horizon was unusually dark before dusk, and the night more shadowed. The Gifted gathered on the high tower and looked out over the city to the forests beyond.
“They are nearly here,” Virginia said.
“Can you see them?” Nicolas asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
Roland sighed. “I wish I’d had more time.”
Virginia turned her head and smiled at him. “You d
id well, lion-child. More time would not have turned stone hearts. You called every heart of flesh in this province.”
“But there is still a world out there,” Roland said.
Softly, Maggie began to sing.
They waited.
* * *
That night, the sound of hoofbeats, boots, and wagons trembled up through the ground and echoed off the walls. As the hordes drew nearer, the sounds grew more varied—they could hear hissing, shrieks, roars, dark laughter.
In a cell deep in the castle, Evelyn trembled. In another, locked up at the end of the corridor, the creature called Undred the Undecided went frantic.
“Do we go now?” Michael asked the King, his voice quiet so as not to wake the children in the throne room.
The King shook his head. “They will be here in the morning,” he said. “For now we rest. Morning Star will not come by stealth. He means to overpower us in a great show of force and superiority.”
He smiled in the faint light of the throne room, as fearless as he had been when Undred had carried him in sleeping in child-form. From above, outside an open window, the sound of singing drifted down. Michael looked up. “She is singing a lament,” he said.
“For the world,” the King said. “For five hundred years, the song of this world has been a lament.” He laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We will change that.”
The horns of the watchmen sounded as morning dawned. The armies of the Blackness were coming out of the woods.
* * *
It was morning, and the sun was rising. But its light didn’t reach the city. The forests and mountains all around were shrouded in grey, in darkness that choked out the light.
The gates of the city had been drawn shut and barred. The Ploughman’s watchmen blew their horns, and the companies of the King gathered.
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