Deep Water (38 page)

As soon as the door closed, Hodge came to the point. “The ghosts were gone when we arrived, but the town was a shambles. They’d
killed, we think, about half of the townsfolk. We’re not sure, because some of them jumped off the cliffs to get away and
we couldn’t get all the bodies back, and others simply ran and haven’t returned. I don’t blame them.”

“My lord is occupying the town?” Sorn asked.

Hodge nodded. “The town clerk and most of the council are dead. The townsfolk are terrified that the ghosts will come back.
They welcomed us with open arms. The lads are living high — there’s plenty of room for them.” He spoke grimly, and Leof caught
a sense of what the town had been like when he had arrived.

“Lord Thegan is organizing what’s left of the townsfolk to fortify the town; taking stone from the empty buildings to make
walls and so forth.”

Leof nodded. “What does he need from us?”

Hodge handed over a list. “Supplies; armor; weapons, mostly. And to recruit some stonemasons from other towns to go to Carlion
to help fortify it. But he says on no account deplete the workers from Sendat.”

“Anything else?” Leof asked, studying the list. Hodge hesitated. “For your ears only, my lord.” He looked at Sorn. “And I
suppose yours, too, my lady… we found, out beyond the town, a great burial uncovered. Bones everywhere. Old bones. Very,
very old.”

Sorn went quiet, and then began pacing around the room, as though she could not contain her anger. “He is using the bones
to raise the ghosts,” she said. “The bones of the slain. Angry bones. Oh, this is a great blasphemy against the gods!”

Leof had never seen her show such emotion.

“Then let us hope they will aid us,” he said seriously.

Sorn nodded. “I will pray for it,” she said simply, then turned to Hodge.

“Sergeant, come and I will arrange food and rest for you.”

Hodge smiled. “Thank you, my lady, but I have a home of my own to go to in the town. With my lord’s permission?”

Leof motioned for him to go. “But be back here early. Does my lord want you back?”

Hodge shook his head. “I’m to help Alston train the oath men. We know more about how these ghosts fight, now.” He paused,
as though wondering if he should launch into a description now.

“In the morning,” Sorn said, with mock severity. “Go to your home now.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Hodge said and left with more energy than he had when he arrived.

Sorn and Leof looked at each other. He wondered if Sorn had understood the implications of what Hodge had said.

“So,” she said carefully, “my lord is now the warlord of a free town, with a nice, deep harbor.”

He drew in a deep breath. She understood, that was certain. “Aye,” he said. “Without a single protest.”

Their eyes met and they nodded, very slightly, aware of Thegan’s ambitions and, surprising to learn of each other, uncomfortable
with them.

“I wonder,” Sorn said, “if anyone has asked the local gods of Carlion what they think should be done?”

“Thegan doesn’t consult the gods,” Leof said without thinking. But it was true. Thegan never prayed at the altar except on
festival days, in front of everyone.

“I know,” Sorn said. That was all. But Leof suddenly saw a deep fissure between Sorn and Thegan, this matter of belief. She
was devout, as everyone in Sendat knew, and he… Leof wasn’t sure Thegan even believed in the gods, although how someone
could not was beyond Leof’s understanding. But it was obvious in Thegan’s attitude to the Lake — as though he could not bear
anything
to be more powerful than he was.

Pity this enchanter, Leof thought, if Thegan gets hold of him. If he can’t bear the gods to be powerful, he will do more than
destroy a man who had such power.

Sorn stood, her earlier energy contained again. “Your meal is unfinished, and you should announce that all our people are
safe and have come to the aid of Carlion after an attack by an unknown aggressor.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “That is exactly what I should do.”

She flushed, as though caught out in something dishonorable. “My lord, I did not mean to instruct you —”

He laughed. His reaction startled her, but she smiled tentatively back. Fortune sprang gladly up from the hearthrug, ready
for a game. He sidled up to Leof and Leof pulled gently on his ears, grinning at Sorn.

“My lady, I find myself in unknown country without a map, and I am grateful for any instruction.”

She smiled more widely at that, a true smile with a hint of humor in it. “We are all walking unknown paths, my lord, and some
of them are very rough.”

“Well, we’ll just have to help each other not to fall smack on our behinds,” he said cheerfully, offering her his arm to go
back into the hall.

She began to laugh. It was the first time he had heard her laugh, and it was a very pleasant sound. He had missed the sound
of women’s laughter. They walked back into the hall together still laughing, Fortune dancing behind them, and he saw that
it was the best thing they could have done, because the tension in the room reduced immediately and was banished altogether
by Leof’s announcement. Banished by gossip and speculation about the “unknown aggressor.”

Speculate all you like, Leof thought. None of us can tell you who he is. He handed Sorn into her chair and sat back down to
a fresh plate of kid, conjured from somewhere at Sorn’s signal. He ate it gratefully, and smiled at her as he swallowed. A
woman who fed you was worth just as much as a woman who bed you, he thought. Sorn smiled calmly at him, the lady in her hall
back in full force. What a warlord she’d make! Leof thought idly, then laughed at himself. Calm, serene ladylike Sorn! He
was more tired than he’d realized. At least tonight he could sleep without wondering what was happening in Carlion.

“Y
OU CAN GO
now,” Dotta had said, as though she were a warlord’s wife dismissing a servant. Bramble found it amusing rather than annoying,
but knew she was using the laughter as a distraction to hide her uncertainty. What did it mean, that Dotta had seen her? Was
she
really
present, then, truly experiencing these times and events? Half of her had thought it was like a story being played out in
front of her, a message from the gods put into her mind. Part of her had thought she was, in truth, back at Oakmere, and these
were just illusions — true illusions, perhaps, faithful to history, but still just a glamour the gods had cast.

If she was really here… Could she change things?

She’d thought it before, but not seriously. The gods had showed their disapproval even of the thought. But as the waters floated
her away, the thought came back stronger than ever. If it were possible to change things, to communicate with Baluch, say,
or Gris… If she could shift events so that the peoples of the Domains didn’t die… The best way would be to make
an avalanche in Death Pass as Acton and his men were coming through that first spring morning.

Change history. Kill Acton and Baluch and the rest, the invaders.

She remembered Dotta saying, “Did you think the Destiny stone meant nothing?”

She remembered Acton saying, “I have seen the Ice King and we cannot survive him!”

She remembered Sebbi’s blood, sprayed across the ice.

If she changed history, Acton’s people would die.

Her people. Her ancestors.

She understood, bitterly, why Safred had needed someone of mixed blood for this task. Someone with divided loyalties, who
could not, in the end, be on anyone’s side.

If she did not change history, her people would die. If she did, her people would die. There was no good outcome. She was
under no illusion that she could change things enough so that the invasion would be peacefully negotiated. Even if she could
take over Acton’s mind, that wouldn’t happen. There were too many men too used to fighting to let it happen. Men who
liked
fighting, who enjoyed the intensity, the vividness of life on the edge of death, as she had liked the intensity of chasing.

If she let the invasion go ahead, she was as guilty as Acton.

She let that thought settle into her as the waters buoyed her up and landed her on another shore.

At least it was warmer, but the yoke she carried on her back was so heavy that when her sight cleared all she could see was
the earth in front of her. Stony earth, the kind you got near mountains, full of sharp stones and hidden rocks. She was pulling.
Gods, she was pulling a plough! No wonder it was shagging hard work. Hadn’t these people learned how to use oxen for this?
Or horses, even? They had horses!

“Get moving, thrall!” a voice shouted. “We need to get the seed in before the rains come!”

A thrall. Not quite a slave, not in the way the Wind Cities kept slaves. They weren’t locked up at night or sold off. They
were perhaps more like bond-servants. At least, some of the old stories Bramble had heard said so. But there were no thralls
in the Domains. She wasn’t sure why. The stories said Acton had forbidden it… that only free men could cross the mountains.
No doubt she’d find out the truth of it, sooner or later . . .

The thrall paused and wiped sweat from his face — definitely
his
; a woman couldn’t have pulled this plough through the stony ground. Not far away, Acton and a group of young men were building
a house from wood and stone. An older man, the stone-layer, probably, was directing them, choosing the stones for each course,
making sure they fitted together and sloped gradually inward from the wide base. There was no mortar. At intervals, strong
posts were held up by younger boys until the stones reached high enough to support them. The posts, Bramble thought, would
form the basis for the wattle sections that were being woven by a group of women sitting under a tree. Asa was there, and
the mother of the girl Friede who had been lost in the storm.

There the girl herself was, a woman now, limping along with her crutch, carrying a bundle of wattle withies on the other shoulder.
She was laughing at something her mother had said, and her face was alight. Not beautiful, but strong and happy, despite the
ever-present crutch. She dumped her bundle of withies at Asa’s feet and rolled her shoulders as if they had been heavy. Her
mother said something, with a face full of concern, but Friede brushed it off and swung around to collect another bundle from
a group of young girls who were stripping the willow branches of their leaves. It was typical of Friede, Bramble thought,
that she didn’t simply sit down and strip leaves with the others. Typical of her to take the harder task; the more active.
She wished for a moment that she could see this world through Friede’s eyes instead of the thrall’s. She suspected she would
feel right at home in that mind.

The sun was at mid-morning and Bramble realized that it was coming not from the mountains but from the plains beyond. They
were in the Domains, building a new settlement. She was puzzled. Had the battle of Death Pass already happened? Was the invasion
over? She thought it would be just like the gods, to let her agonize over whether to stop the invasion and then to move her
straight past it. A weight of responsibility lifted from her shoulders.

Now all she had to do was watch Acton until he died, and see where his bones lay. No decisions, no need to understand. The
invasion was over and a thousand years past and no business of hers. She felt light, and free, even under the heavy yoke.
It was not her burden, after all.

The thrall reached the end of the furrow and stopped to rest, looking down the valley to where a rough track emerged from
a stand of larch and spruce. The grass either side of the track was spring green, but there was snow on the hillsides not
far up and the air nipped cold at the thrall’s lungs. He had a quick, lively mind, if the rhythm and speed of his glance could
be read right. He took the opportunity to observe all he could: the house-building, the women (lingering on one girl in particular,
a young blond who giggled to Friede about something), the track again. There were riders coming out of the trees and the thrall
raised a shout. Warning or welcome? Bramble wondered.

The men stopped working on the building and dusted off their hands, moving to greet the newcomers. Hawk was in the lead on
a chestnut, a longer-legged version of the shaggy hill ponies from the other side of the mountain. One of the Wind Cities’
desert horses cross-bred with the mountain horses?

As he dismounted and threw his reins to one of his followers, Hawk pointed at the thrall and laughed. “Have you tamed no working
beasts, then, in your Ice King’s country?”

Although she had thought exactly the same thing, Hawk’s mocking tone annoyed Bramble. Who was he to criticize?

Acton came forward, smiling. “Our ox broke his leg on the mountain path, and fell,” he said. “The wolves will eat well for
a while. We make do.”

“Hmm.” Hawk pretended to consider, sending quick glances toward the women who had stopped work to listen. Asa had apparently
accepted Hawk’s contempt toward women, for she made no move to join the men. Hawk’s glance lingered on the blond girl and
Friede. The thrall saw it, and his heart sped up, his hands clenched.

“So,” Hawk said. “Perhaps we can lend you one of our beasts until you can bring another over the mountains.”

Cooperating? Hawk letting Acton build a settlement near his land? No! This wasn’t what had happened! Could she have changed
history without even knowing it? Could the past have shifted so much just because she had observed it? Or had Dotta changed
things somehow?

“That would be most kind.” Swef’s voice came from behind the thrall and he and the others turned around in surprise. Swef
moved easily down the hillside, carrying a huge pile of withies across his shoulders. For this gathering chore, he had swapped
his good red leather boots for the plain sheepskin ones everyone else wore. “If we do not get the seeds in, it will be a hard
winter and a harder spring.”

Hawk nodded. Swef dumped the withies at the feet of the blond girl. She giggled. Gods give me patience! Bramble thought. What
is
it about pretty girls and giggles? But she knew very well what it was. Every man there was aware of the blond. Except Acton,
who was ignoring her, inspecting the next set of stones for the wall. Now that was strange. She didn’t want her opinion of
him to improve, but she had to admire his lack of interest in the giggler.