Everything that had happened to him from the moment he’d been tossed overboard seemed dreamlike: the experience in the sea with the Weeper; meeting with a man who appeared to be the King of Escator, Maximilian Persimius (StarDrifter had heard of him, yes, but he’d never paid the story much attention); discovering Axis had apparently made off with Maximilian’s wife (StarDrifter had to suppress a grin every time he thought about that. Axis had not changed, it appeared); and, finally, being escorted by one witch-woman to the home of another, deep in the marshlands.
From the beach Ravenna and Maximilian had helped StarDrifter (who had been given the Weeper to carry) up a hill to where two men waited with horses, and then Ravenna and Serge had led the others, riding the horses, deep into the marshes to Ravenna’s mother’s house.
Then there was apparently much discussion and catching up to be done, but all StarDrifter could think about was the wonderful warmth of the fire, the delicious ale, the food that Venetia was spreading over the table, and the promise later of a bed…if bed this ramshackle establishment could provide.
The Weeper lay under his stool. It had been remarkably quiet ever since they’d been washed ashore.
Venetia kept casting him uncertain, and decidedly cool, glances, but StarDrifter had no idea why, nor did he particularly care. He could worry tomorrow about where he might go, and what he might do.
Tonight he was warm, and, he smiled around his mug of ale, he was free of the damned Ba’al’uz.
Eventually Venetia handed out the food as well—thick sausage encased in warm, fresh bread, and, as people ate, Maximilian Persimius began to tell his tale in between mouthfuls.
It entranced even StarDrifter. Tales of indifferent love and of wives lost were commonplace enough, but who this wife was (a priestess, perhaps, of an order that intrigued even someone as world-weary as StarDrifter) and the powers that Maximilian hinted she may possess, made this far more interesting.
“And you say my son, Axis, stole her from you?” StarDrifter eventually said, unable to keep quiet any longer.
Maximilian turned from his seat at the table to regard StarDrifter coolly. “He has possession of her now,” Maximilian said, “but Ishbel was stolen by a band of men led by a man called Ba’al’uz—”
“Ah,” said StarDrifter.
“Ah, indeed,” said Maximilian, now regarding StarDrifter very keenly indeed. “I think perhaps we have heard enough of my sad tale. StarDrifter, perhaps you might enlighten us as to why you are here, washed up on the shores of Escator with that bronze statue.”
Maximilian’s eyes slipped to where the Weeper lay almost hidden beneath StarDrifter’s stool.
“The Weeper is a bronze deity,” said StarDrifter, “infused with the soul of a man I am trying to release. Let me explain…”
As clearly and succinctly as he could, StarDrifter related what had happened to him over the past few weeks: his meeting with Ba’al’uz, his seduction of Salome, the theft of the Weeper, and the adventures that led him to this hut this night.
He mentioned Salome only briefly, and only as the woman he’d needed to seduce in order to win the Weeper, but as soon as he’d stopped, Venetia leaned forward, interrupting Maximilian, who had begun to ask StarDrifter a question.
“This woman, Salome,” Venetia said. “She is in trouble, I know it.”
StarDrifter looked uncomfortable. “The Coroleans will be greatly angered at the loss of the Weeper,” he said. “No doubt they have imprisoned Salome and—”
“She has been raped and brutalized,” said Venetia flatly. “Treated with a contempt that is unimaginable. I have felt this, intimated it, over the past few days. It has unsettled me greatly. Now, as you have spoken, what has happened has clarified in my mind. Why, StarDrifter? Why has she been so cruelly treated? It is connected with you, somehow.”
StarDrifter looked down at his hands, twiddling the empty mug of ale between them.
“Salome is almost pure Icarii,” he said. “I have no idea from where she got the blood, but she has spent her life trying to hide her origins. She was a powerful member of the Forty-four Hundred First Families, and as a caste they allow no ‘new’ blood. Everyone must trace their ancestry back to an ancient group of families in pure and untainted line, or be cast from the First. Salome held the most powerful position within Coroleas, save for the throne itself…and she held it by lie and deceit. Once that lie and deceit was discovered…then Salome would have suffered for it.”
“How was it discovered, StarDrifter?” Venetia asked.
StarDrifter raised his eyes to hers. “I told Ba’al’uz of her Icarii blood, and once we had left Coroleas he told me he’d informed a member of the emperor’s court of the fact. Salome would have been seized within hours.”
Venetia gave a slight nod. “You’re speaking the truth. I can sense it, but even so…”
“I did not like the woman,” StarDrifter said. “She had done things in her life that I abhor. But I would not have wished this on her. Her Icarii blood was no fault of hers.”
“She may not see it so,” Venetia said softly. Then she straightened, and looked around the table. “There is so much we need to discuss, but it is late. I need to look at Maximilian’s shoulder, and we all need to get some rest. Perhaps—”
The Weeper sighed, stopping Venetia midsentence.
Then it gave a soft whimper.
StarDrifter put his mug on the floor, and lifted the Weeper into his lap.
“It seems to like me,” StarDrifter said. “It would never go to Ba’al’uz, and when—”
The Weeper whimpered again, this time with such longing that tears sprang into StarDrifter’s eyes.
“He wants to go to you now,” StarDrifter said, and lifted the Weeper into Maximilian’s arms. “Now you must carry him on his journey.”
CHAPTER NINE
Crowhurst, the Far North
Crowhurst was a stunning castle, particularly given its position in the frozen northern wastes. Fashioned out of a pale turquoise rock, its battlements and edges coated in a dazzling white, it stood out from the snow-covered tundra like a jewel.
Lister had created it twenty years ago, using powerful magic that had left him tired for many months afterward, but even so, even given its stunning beauty, Lister knew it was but a pale imitation of the memory he had used to fashion it.
It was not Elcho Falling, as desperately as it tried.
For months now Skraelings had been gathering at its base. They drifted in from even farther north in small groups, their gray, wraithlike forms buffeted by the winds that cut across the tundra day and night, their huge silver eyes mournful, their tooth-ridden mouths hanging agape in longing and hunger.
They gathered at Crowhurst because it formed a convenient beacon for them—even the Skraelings thought it very pretty—and because the man inside was kind to them, and spoke soft words to them, and (far more important) fed them. He was also allied with the Lealfast, with whom the Skraelings had a love-hate relationship.
The Skraelings listened to what Lister had to say, and in return for the food and the kind words, they occasionally helped out in the castle (as much as Skraelings were capable of “helping out” anyone, but they did their best), but they owed him no particular loyalty.
Lister was not their master.
The Lealfast, as much as they tried to lord it over the Skraelings, were not their masters.
Their true lord lay far south, and every day his siren song grew stronger and stronger in their minds.
One day the Skraelings would go to him.
One day, when they were strong, they would swarm.
High in Crowhurst, Lister stood at a window looking down at the Skraelings. He was never too sure whether to be sorry for the creatures, or to be completely repulsed. For the moment he supposed he should be tolerant of them, for they tolerated him and gave him a stage on which to act.
“They’re growing restless,” said Inardle, standing at his side. She had a hand resti
ng intimately on his lower back, caressing him through the soft fabric of his clothing.
“They will swarm this winter,” said Eleanon, from where he stood farther back in the room.
Another of the Lealfast, a man called Bingaleal, who was older, more experienced, and somewhat harder in nature than the other two, moved up to Lister’s shoulder. “They scare me to death,” he said, earning himself a surprised look from Lister.
“They scare you to death?” Lister said. “But I would have thought you to be their friend.”
He received no reply from Bingaleal save a slightly cynical twist of the man’s mouth, and so Lister turned to Eleanon.
“Your brothers and sisters, your cousins and neighbors, your friends and comrades?” Lister asked the man, although he meant the question for all the Lealfast in the room. “Are you ready to swarm?”
“We are ready, Lister,” said Eleanon. “All of us. We will do anything to ensure that Elcho Falling rises again.”
Lister looked at Bingaleal, who held seniority over Eleanon and Inardle.
“Anything for the Lord of Elcho Falling,” Bingaleal said in a quiet tone, and Lister nodded, satisfied.
“Then I, and he, are blessed indeed by the Lealfast,” said Lister, giving Inardle a kiss on her forehead and smiling at Eleanon. “Now, to business, eh? Ba’al’uz. I have heard or felt nothing from him, and I worry.”
“Is he not in Coroleas?” said Inardle.
“The last I heard, yes,” said Lister. “But now? I don’t know. Until he makes himself known to us, we just won’t know where he is.”
“He must still be in Coroleas,” said Inardle.
“I hope so,” Lister muttered.
CHAPTER TEN
Venetia’s Hut in the Marshlands, Escator
Tell me what you know, Ravenna,” Venetia said. “Tell me why you have left Lord Drava and returned to this world.”
They were sitting at the table, conversing in quiet tones.
Everyone else was wrapped in blankets, and lying in various spots about the fire, but neither Ravenna nor her mother would be able to rest until they had spoken with each other.
“There is something coming,” said Ravenna. “Something about to move between this world and…another. Not from the Land of Dreams, but from a far darker world. Drava spoke often of it, and I felt it, too. I think you have as well, Venetia.”
Venetia nodded. “My dreams have been greatly disturbed these past months, and not just with my sense of the woman, Salome, who StarDrifter abandoned.”
She paused, one hand rubbing at her forehead, as if to worry away her memories. “I feel as if the world is about to pull apart, Ravenna. Like dough that has been rolled and stretched too far on the pastry board. Something is stretching reality too thin in order that it might cross over. A terrifying, raging beast. I feel as if…”
Ravenna smiled, a little sadly. “I think it has come time for us to say good-bye, for the time being, to these comforting marshes.”
They sat in silence for a little while, each lost in her own thoughts, then Venetia roused, and smiled a little.
“Tell me, Ravenna. Do I have a grandchild yet? I have often wondered. Did you give Drava a child?”
“No,” Ravenna said, “I wanted no child. Not of his. He was not what I wanted.” She gave a small shrug. “I had been thinking of leaving for a very long time. The darkness that now besets us finally gave me the courage to actually leave.”
Venetia stretched her hand across the table, resting it on Ravenna’s arm. “And I for one am glad to have your company again. It has been a lonely time here without you.”
She gave her daughter’s arm a pat. “And what a coincidence, my darling, that you should reappear just as Maximilian has lost his wife. Be careful, Ravenna. I sense deep sorrow about this, such abiding sadness, such loss, that I worry for you.”
“Venetia, do not worry. Maxel is my friend. He cannot hurt me.”
Maximilian lay wrapped in his blanket in a quiet corner of the hut, listening to Venetia and Ravenna’s muted conversation. His shoulder still throbbed, but Venetia had rubbed an ointment into it earlier that had reduced both the pain and swelling, and Maximilian thought it would be well enough within a day or two.
He was tired, but for the moment he did not sleep.
Strangely, he felt content for the first time in many months.
The sudden appearance of Ravenna, a girl—now woman—to whom he’d once entrusted his life, he took as an omen of very good fortune. Maximilian had felt a distance between him and Garth, but Ravenna…he was glad to see her again, and he thought she would be a boon on his journey into Isembaard.
Maximilian knew without a shadow of a doubt that she, as her mother, would be accompanying him farther south.
More important, the Weeper accounted for his strange state of contentment. He’d known the instant he’d touched it on the beach that the bronze statue was somehow intimately connected with Elcho Falling and with himself.
That moment on the beach had been a shock, and he’d leapt back, asking Ravenna to pick up the statue.
But now…when StarDrifter had laid the Weeper into his arms earlier, Maximilian felt as if an intimate part of him had been returned. He had no idea what, or even how, but the Weeper suddenly made him feel…vindicated. Doing something positive and riding after Ishbel had been the right thing, after all.
The Weeper was near his bedroll, not quite touching one of Maxel’s hands as it lay outside the blankets. Maximilian knew his Persimius ring and the queen’s ring, secreted away in a pocket of his jerkin, were communicating with the Weeper. Not in words, and not in any manner that Maximilian could understand, but communicating they were.
Somehow, they were old friends.
For the moment Maximilian felt contented, and he felt safe, and he felt optimistic, and none of these things had been close companions for many, many months.
Maximilian finally succumbed to his weariness and slept.
The rings and the Weeper chatted throughout most of the night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Road Between Narbon and Deepend
Ba’al’uz had no idea how he’d managed to survive the storm. He’d crouched in a corner of that cursed cabin, holding on to anything he thought might give him purchase, screwed his eyes closed, and waited for that final, crashing wave that would send the fishing boat to the bottom of the sea.
It hadn’t come.
The storm had grown immeasurably worse by the moment, the cabin had pitched and rolled until Ba’al’uz was covered in bruises and contusions from being tossed against chests and bunks, but the boat had not sunk.
Instead, incredibly, the storm calmed, the sea became unruffled, and everyone, apparently, was going to live at least another day.
Ba’al’uz had struggled on deck—only to discover that during the height of the storm, the captain had managed to lose StarDrifter overboard.
With the Weeper.
It had been a moment Ba’al’uz would never forget. Standing there on the now gently rolling deck, staring at the captain, trying to comprehend the words.
StarDrifter was lost.
The Weeper was gone.
Then the incredulity and incomprehension faded, and incandescent rage took their place. Ba’al’uz summoned every scrap of power that he could, meaning to strike the captain and the crew and even the entire damned, cursed fishing boat from the face of the sea (the fact that he needed captain, crew, and boat in order to reach safety himself just didn’t occur to Ba’al’uz in his fury).
But something had quelled his power. Something about the captain, and the five crew standing in a semicircle behind him.
Something calm. Something…protective.
They’d been encased by a charm. Ba’al’uz could not see the precise nature of it, but he could smell the Weeper about it.
The Weeper had protected them.
Why it couldn’t bloody protect itself and StarDrifter at the same time,
Ba’al’uz didn’t know.
So he had quelled his power, stamped back to the cabin, and sat there for the day it took to reach Narbon.
There he had disembarked with nary a word to the captain or crew, and set himself on the road for Deepend with no delay.
Ba’al’uz wanted to get back to Aqhat with the utmost alacrity.
The loss of the Weeper was a stunning blow. What would he tell Kanubai? How could he explain it?
StarDrifter. If it hadn’t been for StarDrifter…
But he had time. It would take him weeks, at the very least, to get back to Aqhat. He could think of something to tell Kanubai.
But Ba’al’uz didn’t get weeks.
Kanubai found him the night after he left Narbon.
Ba’al’uz had been riding the horse he’d purchased in Narbon. It was late, well after dusk, and he wanted to find a nice sheltered spot—or, better, an inn—to spend the night. The horse was ambling along and Ba’al’uz was peering into the night and muttering about his ill luck in finding suitable accommodation, when suddenly the horse shied to one side, tossing Ba’al’uz onto the road, before it galloped back the way they’d come.
Cursing, Ba’al’uz managed to get to his feet. Then, just before he turned about and trudged after the horse, a movement ahead caught his eye.
He stopped, squinting as he endeavored to make out what it was.
Again, a movement, and then something frightful coalesced into ghostly form two or three paces away from Ba’al’uz.
It was the spectral figure of a jackal-headed naked man, and Ba’al’uz knew instantly who it was.
“Great Kanubai!” he breathed, terror flooding his being as he abased himself full length, pressing his face into the grit of the road’s surface. “Almighty One,” he muttered, raising his face a finger’s breadth from the dirt in order to get the words out. “How blessed I am that—”