The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Gypsies gathered on the left wall under Nicolas’s command.

  Handfuls of villagers gathered on the right under the command of Michael O’Roarke and his wife.

  The Ploughman’s few remaining faithful farmers and old scholars gathered in the center.

  The Gifted stood scattered among the companies.

  All together, the defenders of Pravik numbered a few hundred, lining the walls only one or two individuals deep. They carried whatever weapons they owned.

  Out of the woods, the Blackness was swarming.

  Into the clearing between the city and the trees, companies of High Police, mounted and on foot, arranged themselves by twenties and fifties. There were hundreds in view, packing the clearing; hundreds more still back in the woods. In the air, winged creatures of the Blackness hovered and soared, cackling, calling, crying; the woods seemed to swell and compact with the presence of the shadow creatures. A few of these made their way into the clearing, giants and hideous forms that were not man, not animal, not anything familiar at all: creatures like men and bulls or goats; great hounds and serpents; bat-winged, clawed creatures with eyes that glowed.

  As one, the armies of the Blackness let out a battle cry that shook the very stones of Pravik.

  “Great stars,” Michael O’Roarke breathed.

  From the midst of the cry a single figure strode forward, a man but far more than a man. High Police and creatures of the Blackness alike fell back from his approach and bowed on every side. He carried a staff in one hand and a jagged blade in the other. He wore a black cloak with the hood thrown back to reveal a pale, malicious face. Armour glinted beneath his cloak.

  Morning Star.

  On the wall, in the midst of the Ploughman’s rough farmers, the King looked down on the gathered masses.

  “Greetings, Usurper,” he called.

  Morning Star smiled. “Greetings, Ancient Fool. Standing again on the ground of betrayal, in a world that is only a shadow of what it once was. Why have you come back here?”

  “To mend my broken heart,” the King said. “To rescue those who are lost. And to destroy you.”

  “With that rabble?” Morning Star said, laughing.

  The King smiled grimly. “Indeed,” he said.

  Then he did what no one expected. He lifted his voice and addressed himself to the High Police.

  “Merlyn Cratus,” he called, “and all who ride under the banner of Athrom. You are men. You are not thoroughly twisted and deformed as you see these creatures behind you have become. You are not evil through and through—not yet. You have this chance to change sides, even now. To come away from the Blackness that leads you and seek my mercy. I will give it to you. That I promise.”

  Stunned silence met his words. Then Cratus gathered his breath and shouted back words that carried to the walls. “Join you? A scrapling, barely more than a boy? And your army—Gypsies, freaks, women. That is the glory to which you call us?”

  “No,” the King said. He smiled, and his sea-green eyes twinkled. “It is only the beginning of it.”

  From somewhere—no one could tell where—a horn blew. And as it did, suddenly the woods were alive with something else, something not Blackness. A wind was blowing over the clearing, and in it a voice taunted and exulted, whispering and shouting all at once—Llycharath, Spirit of the Wind. The trees bent over the dark armies in their midst and seemed to swell as a gigantic, translucent form stepped from the western edge of the forest. Around him, wolves, cats, deer, and bears gathered.

  Standing on the wall with the new recruits, the boy Kieran whooped with joy. “Tyrentyllith!” he cried. “The Earth Brethren are here!”

  In the city, the ravine through which the black waters of the Vltava flowed was humming with another presence. The River-Daughter had come once again.

  Morning Star snarled. He raised his jagged sword and shouted, in a voice that shook the mountains, “Attack!”

  His armies answered the call with another cry of their own and surged forward, but even as they did, the sound of horns split the sky, and the darkness blazed and danced with light in points and lines, in shining constellations in the clouds. For an instant it seemed as though the stars themselves were sounding battle horns, and then that they were coming down to join the battle.

  And then several points of light gathered into the form of a man, and all saw him together: the Huntsman, riding a great white horse, with stars woven into his cloak, a hunting horn in his hands, and the joy of vengeance in his eyes. Behind him more constellations gathered into shapes, forming hunters and hounds, and as the Huntsman sounded his horn once more, they charged down out of the clouds and swept into the Blackness.

  The King stood on the wall, shining with the light of the stars, a sword in his hand raised over the battle. The wind blew his hair and his cloak, blurred into visibility around him, and then swept off the wall with such force that it blew back the first line of High Police, knocking them off their feet and hurling them back into their advancing ranks. And the voice of Llycharath laughed.

  “To arms, my children!” the King shouted, and the handfuls of fighters and Gypsies on the wall watched in wide-eyed wonder as the constellations still dancing in the clouds above lighted on them, filling them, charging them with light and power. Michael O’Roarke raised his sword and shouted the old battle cry of the clann, and he made ready to lead his villagers off the wall into the battle below. But before he could look for a way down, the wind picked him up, and his fighters as well, and carried them down, leaving only Miracle and her archers on the wall.

  On the ground, he could see fear in the eyes of the High Police, and for a moment he felt regret at the thought of killing them, but before he could even reach their ranks, water burst up and carried another hundred of them off their feet, back into the woods under the force of the sudden current. In the spray, the form of the River-Daughter took shape, shimmering like water. Another company of High Police charged forward, and she swept them back with another wave of water from the ground, forming instant ruts and channels in the ground, making it impossible for them to hold their footing. Closer to the forest, Michael could hear the sounds of animals snarling, howling, snapping, and crying. He recognized the giant form of Gywrion, Lord of the Wild Things, leading them.

  And overhead, the starry forces of the Huntsman were still riding down into the ranks of the Blackness and slaughtering the creatures of Morning Star.

  He laughed incredulously, the sword in his hand suddenly seeming a ridiculous, needless thing. The ground beneath his feet stayed intact, the water carving channels all around him and the villagers but leaving them a place to stand. He looked back at the wall, and it seemed to him that the King was smiling down at them, even laughing.

  But then he heard the command, deep in his soul. Defeat the Blackness. He turned and looked back at the battle. The River-Daughter had left one clear path, through the struggling High Police into the shadowed tangle in the forest that was the Blackness. Bursts of light could be seen where the Huntsman’s forces fought, but the shadow creatures were not easily defeated, and there were more of them—more than Michael’s mind could comprehend. For a moment he felt fear.

  Then, from another place on the battlefield, he heard the cry of the Gypsies and saw Nicolas leading a charge of his own. He raised his sword. “Onward!” he bellowed. “Take the Blackness!”

  He did not wait to see if the villagers were following him, but took his sword hilt in both hands and ran forward, almost flying over the ground. He knew they were filled with the same power that was animating him, and as he ran, he felt that power overcoming fear. A creature half man and half goat, twice the height of any man, horned and hooved, turned and met his advance with a terrifying grin. It lifted a black sword. Michael did not hesitate, but swung his own blade to meet it.

  In the instant the blades met, starlight burst from the meeting, and Michael slew the creature in an instant. He was glowing, shining like the Huntsman whose dogs h
owled in the sky overhead. The villagers were running to meet more of the shadow creatures, and they too shone. With the light of the stars. With the power of the King.

  Remember your clann, he heard the King’s voice in his heart. Take my vengeance, Michael O’Roarke.

  With tears in his eyes, Michael fought. With every blow he remembered them: Shannon, Jack, Stocky, Lilac. The children. His father.

  Thomas O’Roarke had long ago been changed by the light on a mountain. Michael had sought that light all his life.

  And now he was shining with it.

  The Blackness fell before the power in Michael, before the power in a handful of hardly trained villagers, before the power in a slender band of Gypsies. They fell before the Ploughman, who fought in golden splendor in the very center of their ranks. They fell before the Huntsman and his starry hosts. They fell under the Healer’s arrows.

  On the wall, Maggie looked at her hands in wonder as they began to shine, as light burst from her fingers, and she smiled in awe and looked to the young man who still stood with his sword raised on the wall. He is the Sun-King, and the Moon-King, and All-the-Stars King, and he shines like them all together. And we shine, she thought; we shine in him.

  We triumph in him.

  She could hear a song, singing through the sky, singing over the battle, singing in the wind, singing in the river, singing in the King. A three-fold song, harmony overwhelming in its perfection, melody more bright and pure than anything she had ever heard. Father-Song, Lover-Song, Spirit-Song. She heard it like love and like fire; like life.

  She sang what she heard, and tears of joy and wonder flowed down her face as voices joined her. Everything was singing. The sky, the stars, the earth was singing. Beside her, Rehtse, last priestess of the Darkworld, sang the words as though she had known them all her life.

  The Blackness shrieked and covered its ears. The High Police, retreating now through the woods, holed themselves up wherever they could as the song welled from the very air. Cratus turned and shook his fist at the city, and he screamed out a curse at the man who presided over it.

  But the song drowned out the curse.

  The song swept through the castle, and Marja tossed her son onto her back, where he clung to her neck, and cradled her daughter close as she pulled every lock off the doors of the throne room. She burst out onto the wall and looked over the field of battle and the forest beyond.

  Light—pillars and rays and points of light—was rising into a sky where pure white clouds met it, embracing the light in mist and piercing rainbows. The High Police were gone. Of the shadow creatures, not one remained. The people of the King were shining like stars, but their light was beginning to fade now. The Earth Brethren were drawing back into the woods and the ground and the air; the Huntsman and his forces were dissolving and withdrawing to the sky.

  The battle was ended.

  Only one figure still stood on the field, his pale face twisted with hatred, anger, and fear. Nicolas, the Ploughman, and Michael O’Roarke gathered their small forces in a circle around Morning Star, blocking off his escape.

  The Ploughman looked up at the King, still standing on the wall. He nodded.

  And the Warrior of the Gifted, a man, struck down the ancient Usurper.

  Morning Star fell.

  It was over.

  Marja felt a gentle hand on her elbow. She turned, and as she did, Virginia pressed something into her hand. Smooth, polished, wood. Marja opened her hand to see a whistle in the shape of a bird lying in it. She smiled.

  Turning back to face the King, she brought the whistle to her lips and sounded it.

  As the King’s forces with their fading light began to trudge back to the city and the wall, the birds started to arrive. Great flocks filled the air, migrants and sea birds, geese and ravens, sparrows and starlings, swallows and owls, doves and eagles, northern birds and southern; winging from the Isle of Bryllan and the mountains still to the east. They filled the air with the sound of wings and with their cries.

  The King had come.

  They had already been on their way.

  Nicolas came up behind Marja and put his arms around his wife and his children, and they watched in wonder as the ancient story Marja had told so many times around campfires came true.

  An eagle flew low over them and dipped its wing in acknowledgment. Little Bear waved wildly. Marja and Nicolas looked at each other with a grin. Near them, Virginia was smiling, looking into the sky and seeing things no one else could—things just as wondrous.

  The Ploughman climbed the wall and opened his arms to Libuse, who pressed herself close to him, and hand in hand, they knelt on the wall before the King. Others followed suit, Miracle and her archers, Maggie and Pat, and the villagers and Gypsies still climbing back up the wall, as the birds formed a single great flock all around them and swallowed the sky in wings and cries and living flight.

  And the King looked on them all and smiled sadly.

  His form jerked where he stood. His eyes fixed on them once more and then lost focus. His knees gave out, and he fell. Miracle caught him in her arms, eyes wide with shock at the arrow buried deeply in his back.

  The Ploughman had seen it first, had risen, grabbed a bow from one of Miracle’s archers, and loosed an arrow in the direction of attack before he had even been able to recognize the attacker. He now looked down the stairs of the wall at the man who lay dead on them, the guilty weapon still in his sunburned hands.

  “No!” Rehtse wailed.

  Harutek, prince of the Darkworld, was dead.

  On the wall above him, the Gifted and their friends crowded around Miracle and the King. She was shaking her head, stroking his neck and forehead, groaning, “No, no, no…”

  Virginia reached out a trembling hand and touched Miracle’s. The Healer looked up at them.

  “I can’t help him,” she said. “He is dead.”

  Virginia gasped. Rehtse laid a hand on her shoulder. “It is all dark,” Virginia said. “Everything has gone dark.”

  * * *

  Chapter 20: A New Kind of Darkness

  Rehtse fell at the King’s feet, her voice choking out through a throat already nearly closed with tears. “Why?”

  Virginia put her arms around Rehtse’s shoulders and shook her head, her own tears falling. She wanted to give an answer. But there wasn’t one. There just wasn’t one. She could hear Rehtse’s wailing, Maggie’s soft weeping. Grief and fear and anger. More than that, she could hear the silence. Her own silence. The silence of the others. Shock.

  And a question.

  What now?

  Another figure pressed in close, and a boy’s Highland voice said, “Stray?” The voice quivered. But in a moment it firmed. “He said—he said things wouldn’t be how we expect.”

  No one responded. Virginia heard the Ploughman lift his voice to the people gathered around them, and she remembered that there were others here besides the circle of the Gifted and their faithful lovers and friends. The villagers. The Gypsies. The remaining remnant of Pravik. And they needed leadership now. They needed hope.

  “Do not be afraid,” the Ploughman said. “The King has fallen, but so have our enemies. All is not lost. Go to your resting places in the city—we will prepare his body for burial. We will honour him as he should be honoured. He has given his life for us. That is not a reason to fear. It is a reason to be grateful. It is a reason to live.”

  Virginia heard Rehtse’s low moan and tightened her arms around the priestess’s shoulders.

  “What good is life if the King is dead?” Rehtse whispered.

  * * *

  The death of the King had changed things. They knew that more piercingly with every hour that passed.

  The dungeon of Pravik Castle was dank, and Virginia imagined it was also dark. She had carefully descended four flights of stairs to reach it, and now she felt her way along the wall toward the sounds of breathing.

  She paused when she knew she was in the presence of other
s. A torch was flickering on the wall near her hand, kept lit by the few who volunteered to guard down here.

  “So your King is dead,” Evelyn greeted her. “And now you know your own foolishness.”

  “He showed you mercy,” Virginia answered quietly. Her answer was for Evelyn—but more, for the man imprisoned near her.

  “You are better off without him,” Evelyn said. “You are all better off without him. No more Morning Star, no more King. You can govern yourselves. That is why Harutek killed him. People will say Harutek was a martyr, you know. The real hero of this story. He has ushered in the age of men.”

  “Men are traitors,” Virginia said. “That is what I have learned.”

  There was the sound of a man clearing his throat. “Why are you here?” Lord Robert asked.

  Virginia hesitated. It was an answer she wasn’t entirely certain of. Only, she’d been compelled to come and to speak with him. To make him see.

  “Are you still seeking?” she asked.

  He was caught off guard; his answer slow in coming. “I have always sought to know the other side of reality.”

  “As you should now know is not enough,” Virginia snapped. “The other side of reality demands allegiance; it forces you to choose a side.” She heard Undred shifting in his cell and sighed. “I came to tell you, then, that everything has changed. Reality has changed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lord Robert asked.

  “Since the King’s death no one has seen the Earth Brethren,” Virginia said. “Kieran, a child who relied on Tyrentyllith’s life to give him life, is dying, and Miracle can do nothing for him. The Gifted are no more. I have seen nothing; Maggie sings nothing; Nicolas hears nothing, and his eyes are beginning to turn brown again.”

  She smiled sadly. “It was all in the King,” she said. “Everything you sought. Even the Blackness was only a perversion of his power. And it’s all dying now. The world is a shell. I do not know if it can last much longer.”