Cethe (20 page)

“Fol ow me,” said Michael. He nodded shortly to Elan and strode into the vil age.

Stefn hurried after him. Vil agers turned, bowing, awe in their faces as the tal , pale-haired half-breed passed. A crowd

gathered silently behind them, fol owing them through the vil age to the shore.

Boats were pul ed up along a low dock. Seeming to pick one at random, Lord Michael stepped down into it and beckoned to

Stefn. Gingerly, Stefn got in. Of its own accord, the mooring rope unknotted and fel into the water. The boat slid away from dock,

moving as smoothly as if it sailed on glass.

They were away. Stefn felt a trembling inside. It grew until his entire body shook. Tears flooded his eyes, spil ing down his

face. He wanted to speak, to scream and rage and beg for mercy. Instead, he bowed his head and wept.

The movement of the boat stopped. It rocked gently, side to side, rhythmic. He thought, in a dim, smal place, that he should

be ashamed of his weakness, that tears were for women. He thought Arranz would sneer at him and tel him to be silent, but nothing

happened and, after a long while, his anguish spent itself and silence returned.

“I’m sorry.” Arranz spoke quietly, soberly. “I’m sorry you were forced to go through that.”

Stefn felt hol ow. He lifted his head, but he couldn’t look at the h’nar. Instead, he looked to the side, avoiding Arranz’s gaze.

They drifted alone in the midst of a green and watery labyrinth. Surrounding their boat were other islands, deserted as far as

Stefn could see, everything overgrown by a tangle of thick brush and tal , wide-branched trees.

“If I’d known what he planned, I would never have brought you to Blackmarsh.”

“It was nothing my father hadn’t done to me many times,” Stefn said final y. “At least you healed me. T’was more than he ever

cared to do.”

“Your father gave you those scars?”

“We both know what I am, my lord.” Stefn stared out over the water. “It was a source of great shame to him. Sometimes,

usual y when he was drunk, he would find it past enduring.”

Stefn remembered the sound of staggering footsteps in the middle of the night, the crashing of his father’s body against the

wal and curses as the earl negotiated the dark corridor to his youngest son’s room. A cracking sound nearby made him flinch wildly.

Heart pounding, Stefn saw a broken, low-hanging branch had caught itself on the mooring line. Relief washed through him in a cold,

sickly tide.

The boat started to move once more. The sun rose higher as they made their way deeper into the maze. Lul ed by the

tranquil, green silence, even Stefn’s trembling final y died away. After awhile, he risked sliding to the side of the boat and, when

nothing dreadful happened, put his hand in the water. It was warm and silky-smooth. “Where are we?” he asked. “Is this stil

Blackmarsh?”

“No. We’re in the Wyrbane delta. The marsh empties into it north of here.”

“The delta? We’re near Loth’s Gate?”

“We are.”

“Legends say it’s haunted.”

“By marshlanders,” agreed Arranz. “Are you sure you’re al right, Eldering? Are you stil in any pain?”

Startled, Stefn shook his head. “N-no.” Something in the h’nar’s expression sent warmth through him. In confusion, he looked

away.

An island sliding past showed bits of masonry poking through the green. A handful of stone pylons stuck out of the water near

its shore.

“The marshlanders say our naran ancestors built them,” Lord Michael said, fol owing Stefn’s gaze.

“Nonsense.” Stefn squinted, trying to make the ruins out. “From here, they look too old to be naran.”

Lord Michael grinned. The expression made him look unexpectedly boyish. “Someday we’l return and investigate them

together, shal we? We’l see who’s right.”

Stefn stared at him, then shrugged and looked away. His heart was pounding. It was a dangerous, appealing notion.

Fool! What do I care? Anyway, he doesn’t mean it.

But he did want to explore the intriguing place, and it would be pleasant to have a companion to join him, someone to share

the discoveries and argue hypotheses. He’d never once imagined he’d be outside the boundaries of Shia, yet here he was. He’d

never imagined having a friend, either, yet…

Stefn caught himself, aghast at the direction of his thoughts. “My lord,” he began.

“Michael,” said the taint with that same engaging grin. “Cal me Michael.”

In early ages of Tanyrin, the Westsea Mountains had formed an unbroken, impenetrable wal along the coast. Rivers flowing

westward had nowhere to empty, fil ing the Great Marshes instead, which according to legend, had covered vast stretches of land

from the northern tip of Blackmarsh to as far south as Canterwel .

Loth saw this great waste of land and caused the mountains to break, opening a narrow way to the sea. In a single day, the

legends claimed, water trapped in the marshes drained through the passage, creating great stretches of rich farmland. The break in

the mountains was cal ed Loth’s Gate and it marked the delta’s northernmost boundary. North of the gate Blackmarsh began.

Horses waited for Michael and Stefn at the bottom of the Gate cliffs. There were signs of marshlander presence, but no

marshlanders themselves. Michael roused a sleeping Stefn and got him out of the boat and onto a horse. They rode until dusk,

final y stopping at a spot that looked as good as any for camping. As the sun sank behind the low mountains, Michael lured several

packles to the edge of a nearby pool with a bit of witchery and they had fire-roasted fish for supper.

Stefn said little. Heavy-eyed, he seemed exhausted in spite of his nap in the boat. He lay down at once, pul ing Michael’s coat

a little closer, resting his head in his arms. His eyes drifted shut.

Michael pul ed out the sheaf of parchments from his waistcoat and unrol ed them on his knee. There were nine sheets, written

on the front and back.

“What are those?” Stefn’s eyes were open, fixed listlessly on them.

“Nothing,” said Michael. “Go to sleep.”

Stefn didn’t argue. Without another word, he rol ed over, his back to the fire and Michael.

Nine pieces of parchment; upon them, seven of the high spel s of the thrice-damned naragi. His grandfather’s box had

contained not only these copies, but the originals. Set down in quaint, archaic script, the latter had been yel owed with age, the

edges brown and brittle. How they had come into his grandfather’s possession, or when, the old bastard refused to say.

“
When the time comes, I will tell you. Until then, you walk too close to danger. The risks of your capture and interrogation

are too great. If Severyn and you are triumphant, then there will be no more secrets.”

“Damn you, old man,” whispered Michael. “What game are you playing?”

Many of the careful y transcribed words that he recognized as naran were, alas, al but forgotten. Stil , as an Arranz, he knew

more of the language than most. Studying the spel before him, he found two familiar lines. The spel ing was different, but the

pronunciation was probably the same.

Among h’naran witches there was a common charm that used these Words. Snatch-Breeze, it was cal ed, a spel requiring

very little skil or power to wield. As a boy, Michael had used it to sail his homemade boats on the streams and pools below his

home. Yet here it was, embedded in a much longer incantation. Those extra Words would make al the difference, turning snatch-

breeze into a real wind.

If his grandfather were right.

Folding the other papers and putting them into his coat pocket, he rose. Stefn was sound asleep. He didn’t stir when Michael

stepped over him and headed up the steep slope. On a ledge high above the marsh, Michael stopped, col apsing breathlessly on a

large rock and, in the last of the day’s light, read aloud the Words.

From deep within him, a barrier fel . For an instant, he hung above the Dark Stream, seeing it in al its limitless, terrifying

power, wild with great waves and currents. Then it rose to meet him, fil ing him, lifting him, and then shattering him into a starfield of

droplets. One by one, the Words repeated, like the clamor of bel s, and when the last syl able echoed into silence, he found himself

returned abruptly to the world, flat on his back, breathless, every muscle aching. It was a struggle to sit up and look around.

For several moments, nothing happened. The wind, instead of strengthening, fel away to dead calm. A prickling ran over his

skin. Out on the marsh, the music of sunset, the cicadas and buzzers and chippie-frogs, went abruptly, ominously silent.

It came, soft at first: a sighing that ruffled his hair and shirt and sent the swamp grasses bowing. After that, hel itself burst

forth. Wind slammed into him like a fist, knocking him sideways. He kept his balance only by grabbing the branch of a nearby scrub

pine. In moments, he was surrounded by a shrieking gale, hurling bits of gravel and shredded leaf at him as it howled past.

Then, behind the wind, he heard another sound, one he’d heard only once before in his life. It was a roar, like the stampede of

a thousand horses, and his blood ran cold.

Flood wave!

The giant waves were a rare, but deadly event along the marshes. Usual y they were a winter phenomenon. Gale winds,

meeting little resistance from brittle marsh grasses, scooped up water before them, creating a wave that rol ed across the wasteland,

gathering strength and speed until it final y crashed up into dry land, destroying everything in its path.

Michael saw it now: a swel of water racing up from the south, driven by the wind howling along the cliffs. It snapped smal

trees and uprooted bushes as it came. Even in the fading twilight, he could see the logs and other debris churning within it.

Shoving the parchment into his pocket, he ran, slipping and skidding down the hil side, reaching the campsite in time to see an

uprooted needle-bush tumbling past. Stefn was on his feet, trying to untie the terrified horses.

“Help me!” His shout was barely audible above the wind.

Michael ran to free the animals. They gal oped away, going north, vanishing in the brush. “Come on!” Michael shouted. “We

have to get to higher ground!”

Stefn, for once, didn’t question him. He fol owed Michael up the steep embankment, clinging to rock and boulder to keep from

being blown away. Branches, twigs, even tiny bits of gravel hit them in an unending stream of shrapnel. Michael conjured a witch

light, careless of expending more k’na, intent only on finding their way safely up into the cliffs. A cry from behind stopped him. Stefn

had lost his balance and fought to keep from being blown down the hil .

Michael caught his hand. Slim, cold fingers tightened convulsively around his. Half-dragging him, Michael kept going, reaching

the top of the bluffs at last. The cliffs soared higher stil , sheer, ragged sheets of rock. Amidst the fissures and fal en rock, he spotted

an opening. They fel into it, col apsing in a tangle of limbs on mossy ground.

The wind was a living thing, a monster fil ing the air with dust and a deafening roar. Inside the shal ow cave, however, it was

stil . Michael, dizzy and breathless, rol ed over and sat up. Wiping his hair out of his eyes, he looked out, but there was only howling

darkness.

“Is it the end of the world?” Stefn asked. In the witchlight, his eyes were huge. There was a long, bloody scratch across his

right cheek.

“It’s a gale,” replied Michael.

“But, it was perfectly clear outside!”

“I know.” Michael spat dust. Remembering the other spel s, he had a moment of panic, but they were stil with him. After

determining they were undamaged, he returned them to his pocket.

Stefn’s eyes narrowed. “You did this?”

This was true naragi magic. Michael should have been triumphant. Instead, he remembered the stories of the naran war, of

entire battalions swept away in the naragi storms, towns leveled, the bodies of men, women and children drifting in lakes and rivers

that had been, for a brief, lethal time, turned into monsters by the unholy wind.

The gale raged on forever, it seemed to Michael. The smel of rank swamp water mingled with the smel of crushed vegetation

and dust. Michael thought about the flood wave and wondered how high it would reach. Surely not as far as the cave?

Final y, the winds died away. Silence returned to the night. Moonlight straggled into their shelter. For the first time, he realized