Deep Water (54 page)

The noises changed into howls, threatening, louder than Martine thought her ears could stand; the sound crept into the back
of her brain and urged her to run. Flee! Take cover! It was hard, very hard, to stay still when every instinct said to move,
and move fast. Zel was sweating, staring at Safred as though her life depended on it. Cael sat with hunched shoulders, gripping
their hands so hard that Martine’s fingers were losing all feeling. Safred’s legs twitched as if she had started to move and
then stopped herself. If only they could
see
what was out there. But perhaps the mist was to protect them from seeing. Perhaps seeing would send them mad.

Bramble jerked and groaned as though she had been wounded. The movement was enough to distract their attention from the howling
and bring it back to her. Their song became stronger, and immediately the mist circle moved further outward, pushing back.
They were safe within that circle, Martine was sure, but the howling and shrieking were growing louder and the shadows in
the mist darker, clearer.

Larger than humans, moving with cumbersome, swinging movements, the shadows changed as they watched: grew arms and legs, flexed
claws, divided one head into three. It was profoundly unsettling — not just fearsome, but striking at Martine’s understanding
of how the world worked. This was not the world she knew; this lake, this Forest, were connected to the world beyond this
one, where humans did not belong. Perhaps rebirth was simply the way humans escaped from the terrible darkness beyond death,
if that darkness held these beings.

Bramble shivered, and shuddered, and began to thrash her arms and legs. Her knee struck Safred’s and Zel’s hands and almost
broke their hold. The howling intensified, the shapes throwing themselves at the circle and being stopped by the edge of the
mist, their bodies too visible as they flattened themselves against the circle. Much too visible, because they were not animals,
nor wraiths like the water sprites or wind wraiths, nor even demons as some storytellers described them. They were human,
and yet not. Some elongated, some compressed, some twisted around on themselves like snakes, some wizened away like dried
leaves.

Martine sang although her throat was raw, sang with a dry mouth and cracked lips, sang and sang and sang again, the five notes
that her mam had taught her, and did not look at the faces of the demons in case she saw her mam’s face there, or her da’s,
or Cob’s or any of her loved ones who had gone with Lady Death, because she did not want to know if they had not been reborn,
if they had swollen with pride or shrunken with envy or turned awry with greed and become one of these shrieking, hungry monstrosities.

Bramble gasped, gasped as though she were drowning, and woke.

T
HEGAN TURNED TO
look down at the map spread out over a side table. It showed the Domains in detail, and an outline of other lands as well.
It was the largest map Leof knew. He had seen it before, many times, and every time there was more information marked on it — more
details about the Wind Cities, about the Ice King’s land, about the Wild Shore on the other side of the Eastern Sea, and the
Long Coast beyond the Wind Cities. He saw now that the area above Foreverfroze had been filled in — although there was not
much to mark in the freezing lands. Leof wondered which of Thegan’s agents had ventured so far north.

“We could make this a great country, Leof,” Thegan said somberly. “We talk about the Wind Cities with awe because they are
so rich, yet the Domains are ten times their size
and
more fertile. But when they trade, they speak with one voice. They play us off against each other and we let them.
We
must speak with one voice.”

“And that voice will be yours,” Leof said. The words came out without thought, and he tensed against Thegan’s reaction. But
Thegan took it as a compliment, or maybe a vote of confidence, because he laid his hand on Leof’s shoulder and shook it gently.

“One day. Soon, perhaps.” Then a sudden gaiety overtook him, as it did sometimes when they talked about the future. “We’re
going to need a new name,” he declared, smiling. “A fitting name for our united country. What about Actonsland?”

“What about Thegansland?” Leof countered, smiling back.

Thegan laughed, but shook his head. “No, we need something to unite us, not set us quarreling. ‘Thegansland’ would be seen
as a boast, a spit in the face.”

“Sornsland, then,” Leof said, only half-joking. “She will be a most beloved Overlady, and they would see it as a romantic
gesture. Particularly since she will be bearing your heirs.”

Thegan had laughed at the idea of Sornsland, but at the last sentence his brows came together and his mouth hardened. Part
of Leof watched him with satisfaction. Yes, there was some problem there that bothered him. But Thegan recovered himself quickly.

“Still too divisive, lad,” he said. “Actonsland will bring us all together.”

“Except the Travelers,” Leof said.

Thegan shrugged. “They ceased to matter a thousand years ago. They’re nothing.”

“Except this raiser of the dead. He’s likely Traveler blood,” Leof reminded him.

Thegan looked at him with puzzlement. “You’ve changed. You’re more serious than you were. Older.”

Flushing, Leof looked away. “You shouldn’t have put me in charge,” he tried to joke. “That’s enough to give gray hairs to
anyone.”

Thegan smiled and nodded. “But is anything better than being in command?” he asked, not needing an answer, and dismissed Leof
to his meal with a gesture as he sat at his desk and began reading Leof’s report.

Leof left the office with the last comment echoing in his head. It was true for Thegan — to be in command, to be in charge,
was the best thing possible. Power — Leof couldn’t quite understand it. Of course, it was a good feeling when your men obeyed
you, trusted you to give them the right orders, followed you into battle and committed themselves, body and soul, to supporting
you. There
was
nothing like that wave of loyalty and trust, buoying you up so that you were greater than you could ever be on your own.
But after battle? Command was the boring part of being an officer, Leof had always thought. Making inspections, reading and
writing reports, having to take responsibility… Well, his mother had always said he was irresponsible, except with his
men. She claimed that he would have been married long since and given her grandchildren if he’d had any sense of family responsibility.
Perhaps she was right. He’d worked hard as Thegan’s officer, but he’d played hard, too. He smiled at the memory of the chases,
the girls, the hunting. Just as well I’m not ambitious, he thought wryly. The last thing Thegan wants is an officer who really
yearns to command.

D
AYLIGHT, IN THE
Deep, was for sleeping and singing. The other men, with their own faces returned to them, wandered away to curl up on blankets.
One older man had even brought a mattress. Ash’s father shook his head and laughed.

“Plum says he’s getting too old for sleeping on the hard ground. I know how he feels.” He looked at Ash with undisguised pleasure
and put both hands on his shoulders. “It’s very good to see you. You’re looking well? You’ve certainly filled out!”

It was a question. Ash smiled. He certainly had filled out over the past two years. He had been little taller than his father
for quite a few years, but now he was bigger, too. Stronger.

“Yes, I’m well.”

“What happened with Doronit?”

Ash’s face closed in. He could feel it, feel the muscles tense and the jaw set, and he forced himself to relax. “I’ve left
Doronit. It was necessary.”

His father looked at him shrewdly and, to Ash’s surprise, decided to change the subject. He turned to Flax.

“Welcome to the Deep, lad. Flex, your name is?”

Ash smothered a laugh. “Flax,” he corrected.

Rowan chuckled gently. “Badger ears are sharp but they don’t hear human speech all that well,” he explained. Flax goggled
at him, clearly astonished that he would refer so casually to his transformation.

“Oh. Um . . .”

Rowan took pity on him. “You’re a singer?”

Flax nodded.

“Well then, let’s hear something.”

This was the moment Ash had been dreading. He took a step back, to have a clear view of both Flax and his father’s face. Flax
coughed nervously, no doubt wondering what would happen to him if he sang poorly. Then he took a deep breath and let out a
single, clear note; the beginning of the most famous love song ever written,
The Distant Hills.

From the high hills of Hawksted, my lover calls to me

The breeze is her voice, the wind becomes her breath

From the high hills of Hawksted, above the settled plain

My lover sings so sweetly, sings the song of death

The song told of a pair of separated lovers. From the words it wasn’t clear whether the beloved was far away or actually dead,
and singers differed in their interpretation. The song could have been sentimental, but the music was spare and dignified
and it was one of the treasures of Domain culture. The men puzzled over it in the Deep, as they talked over many songs — who
might have written it? No one knew where Hawksted was. None of their extensive traditions mentioned the song, but the scale
used and the melody line showed that it was very old and probably written by someone of the old blood.

Flax’s voice, always beautiful, was taken and magnified by the high walls of the Deep. It took on resonance and depth that
sent chills down Ash’s spine, but it kept its haunting clarity on the high notes. Rowan’s face was unreadable, but the other
men came back, slowly and quietly, not wanting to disturb the singer. Halfway through the song there was traditionally a flute
solo. Rowan fished his smallest flute, a wooden willow pipe, from his pocket and was ready; he picked up the melody from Flax
without a break and when Flax came back in for the last verse he kept on playing softly, so that the flute and the voice wound
around each other like the lover’s voice and the wind.

Afterward, every man there had tears in his eyes. Even Ash, although he didn’t know if he were crying for the song or for
the look on his father’s face.

Rowan carefully shook the spit out of his flute and put it back in his pocket. “Well,” he said. “Well.” He turned to Ash.
“You did right to bring him.”

Ash nodded. Their meeting had happened just as he had imagined. Rowan would welcome Flax and train him and take him to meet
Swallow and they would Travel together and be a family. So, although he felt as though a hole had been scoured out of his
gut, he had to remember that this was not important.

“Yes. But I didn’t come here because of Flax. I came because I need something from you.” His father turned, surprised, and
Ash motioned him away from the others.

“Of course, son. What is it?”

“I need the secret songs,” Ash said.

Rowan went very still. “I can’t teach you those.” His voice was flat.

“Because you don’t trust me,” Ash said. “You told me you taught me all the songs, but you didn’t. Because I’m not a singer.
Or a musician.”

He couldn’t stop the pain from appearing in his voice. Rowan heard it, and bit his lip. But he still shook his head.

“Not for those reasons. I trust you. Truly. But the songs are not for young men. Not for
any
young men, no matter how trustworthy.”

Ash stared at him, wanting to believe him. Rowan took him by the arm and dragged him back to the group seated around the fire.

“Ask them, if you don’t believe me.”

“Ask us what, lad?” one of the men said.

“I need to know the secret songs,” Ash said baldly.

The men, just like Rowan, went very still and the atmosphere chilled. One of them got up and stepped forward; a stocky, balding
man whom Ash had met here before. Skink, that was his name. He glared at Ash, and then around the circle of men.

“What do you know about the secret songs? Who’s been talking?” he asked.

“The Well of Secrets,” Ash said.

That astonished them, he was glad to see. Before they could collect their thoughts, he explained everything: the enchanter,
the ghosts, the need to find Acton’s bones and raise his ghost. At that, they looked at each other and shook their heads.
They were going to refuse him.

“I
need
the songs,” he said in desperation. “Or we all might be wiped out.”

A thin-faced man named Vine pursed his lips. “But this enchanter wants to take the land back for us, doesn’t he? For Travelers?
Why not just let him?”

The other men seemed to be considering this. Ash couldn’t believe it.

“Let hundreds, maybe thousands of people die? People you all know! Children. Babies. They’re killing
everyone.
”

“But not us,” Vine said.

Ash was astounded that the other men were looking thoughtful, some of them even nodding.

“Really? I know they’ve killed at least one person with some of the old blood in her. How are they going to know who is a
Traveler and who not?” He turned to an older man with a bald pate and a fringe of white hair and hazel eyes. “How will they
know who
you
are, Snake? You’ve pretended to be one of Acton’s people often enough. How will ghosts know the difference?”

“Lad’s got a point,” Snake said, embarrassed.

“But he can’t have the songs,” Vine said firmly.

“Why
not
?” Ash was exasperated.

“Let’s sit down and discuss it,” Rowan said, smoothing things down.

Ash sat down in the fire circle. The fire was low, cooking some parsnips in the embers, but it gave a kind of formality to
the gathering, as though they were assembling a council.

Ash sat next to Rowan. Flax hovered behind until Rowan pointed to the place on his other side.

“Sit here, lad.” Yes, Ash thought, momentarily distracted. Of course you have to sit next to him. He was surprised that he
felt no real hatred of Flax for usurping his place. It felt so inevitable, as though it had been planned by the gods, that
he could no longer feel anything but pain and resignation.