Prince of Storms (35 page)

Ci Dehai snorted. Nothing about his duty as attendant to Lord Inweer could have been
simple
.

The day had fallen away to Twilight Ebb. Three brightships waited, sturdy and sleek, but untested against the storm walls. The Tarig must know their machines. They did not look reluctant when they began moving to their respective vessels. Ci Dehai watched with rapt attention as the Tarig moved to the open hatchways, all in quiet and without farewell to Lord Inweer. If they were all versions of each other, perhaps some things were implicit. Or irrelevant. But even after archons, who in the Entire knew the Tarig?

Toward the last, a Tarig lady paused in the shadow of her ship. She turned and looked out past the soldiers standing on the roof, past the ramparts in the direction of the plains of Ahnenhoon. Her face held the shadows of the ebbing sky, but also its enduring luster. When she had her fill, she turned and sprang into the ship.

They had separated themselves into their three ships, and whether they would remain together or find unique destinations, no one could know. The first ship leapt into the sky, and then the two others, swooping over the fortress, making a great circle. Then they plunged toward the storm wall, rending the curtain with three hot tunnels of fire. For a moment Ci Dehai thought he could see into the next realm. It was filled with madness and beauty.

Then they were gone.

A deep quiet lay on the ramparts. At last a single cheer went up, followed by many more until the whole roof resounded with the cheers of the army. Below, in the Gathering Yard and all the billets of the fortress, the roar
swelled. The lords were truly gone, and whatever wars the soldiers of Ahnenhoon had fought in their name were over.

Below, in the heart of the Repel, Ci Dehai stood on the balcony overlooking the Engine Room.

It was the third hour of Deep Ebb, and a hundred soldiers had been working for hours to bring down the engine, smashing its sides with mighty sledgehammers, dragging great shards away with ropes. In due course, the inner workings had all been crushed and carted away to the wasteland between the Repel and the storm wall.

The engine of Ahnenhoon lay in rubble. Still, the troops worked to clear and haul, working with hammers and shovels and bare hands, throwing the pieces onto wheeled pallets and slings borne by the biggest of them.

It was not in Ci Dehai's comprehension how stone and motor and machine could pierce the veil between worlds and strangle a realm, drawing off its vigor. But however the lords had devised it, this engine had been the instrument of destruction, the root cause of threatened war. And the soldiers of the Entire were done with war. They wished to go home to their families and take up their lives in whatever manner remained to them now that the lords had gone and new ones come.

Ci Dehai stayed until his soldiers had removed the last stone, carrying it out to the shadowed gully behind the fortress and hurling it into the waiting heap. He supposed that if the Jinda ceb Horat wished to build another engine, it would be easy enough for them to do so. But this one, by the bright, was gone.

IN A REMOTE SEASIDE OUTPOST
between the Radiant Arch and the Bright River primacies, Geng De snugged up his vessel against the dock, the place, the Fold where the young ones would undergo their rite of passage.

As he emerged from the main ship cabin, he saw that the old dock was leaning worse than ever, in disrepair since the last of the devotees had died or fallen away. At the top of a small rise sat a low-slung edifice, all that was left of the former enclave. In the distance, a storm wall came down to the river's edge, curdling the river matter at its foot.

It had been a hundred days since Geng De had been here, led by clues in the
Book of the Drowning Time
toward the place the old one had referred to as the
Fold
. There had been no cultists here at his first visit, nor were there now. It was just as well; they would have gotten in his way.

His excitement growing, he hurried up the embankment to the building, patting the satchel at his side containing the book. After the transformation of the children, he would untwist the cables of the world. He was on the very brink of the Drowning Time. That sacred time would come so much sooner than he had planned, since the damnable Titus Quinn continued to make trouble.

Inside the hall everything was in order: tables, where believers must have shared their meals; neat rows of chairs as though they had left just moments
before. Through an arched doorway, the navitar operatory. He went through to assure himself that all remained untouched.

He need not have worried. Dozens of navitar beds peacefully adorned the room. Once the children had been primed by their dip in the Nigh, they would lie on these beds and become more than mere navitars. They would become like Geng De. Drowned navitars, able to bend the wills of individuals, able to direct the affairs of sentients in all the realms.

The capsules—all quite small, no larger than was necessary to fit a Hirrin youngling—were closed and sealed, perpetually ready. His throat tightened for a moment at the thought of such devotion—for ordinary sentients to have so faithfully prepared this haven! How had the devotees borne their disappointment when no navitar rose up to claim the new age? If only they had waited a few thousand days, they could have witnessed the Drowning Time. Of course, they had expected to enter ships and partake of the Indwelling. But when the River Nigh overflowed its banks, the denizens of the Entire would perish, nor would believers have been spared.

Their misunderstanding came from a few passages in the holy text stating that the river would be an everlasting kingdom for the stewards of the holy Nigh. The old one, and no doubt his brothers and sisters at the Fold, had readily interpreted those passages to mean that the believers would live forever. But such a future was not for under-sentients.

Not even drowned navitars would live forever. There must be children to carry on. Only the mad would wish to live forever.

He ran his hands along the smooth sides of the capsules. Tan Hao would have to curl up very tightly to fit in one of these. But once he was inside, Geng De would seal the casket and never activate it. It would nicely solve the problem of having to kill him; he would step into his own doom. And there would be no
mess
.

Approaching the nearest capsule, Geng De pressed the marker and the pod snapped open as fast as the jaws of a midlands bear. Inside, a concave receptacle bristled with needles so fine one could hardly see them. The book meticulously described the steps to activate the chamber. Although he knew the steps by heart, there could be no mistakes, and no second chances. He thought with some guilt of how he had interrupted Titus Quinn's process.
He shuddered under his robes. Titus Quinn as a navitar was a future he had not foreseen until it was almost too late. By the time he saw the threat, the Jinda ceb had already begun altering the man. Since Titus Quinn would not finish the process, he would be only half a navitar. As a mercy, Geng De had tried to end that monstrous life. He would go back into the binds to see if Nistothom had conformed.

His time was short. Forces were massing against him, and even weaving could not assure victory.

Leaving the building, he hurried down the path to the dock, noting that the ship keeper had wakened and stood on the ship deck. For a time Geng De had considered honoring his promise to Tan Hao of the life of a navitar. But after Tan Hao had savaged Sen Ni, he didn't deserve that honor. Geng De could not forgive him.

He glanced up at the window of the pilothouse, wishing that Sen Ni were well enough to watch the children anointed by the river, but lately she woke less than before. Oh Sister, he thought. It will be a fine sight. And sweetest of all will be seeing that Tiejun comes up from the silver water still breathing.

Tan Hao joined him on the dock. “The chamber,” he said, looking up the hill at the building. “But first, they will be drowned.”

A crude term. “Not drowned. Dipped.”

“Drowned,” Tan Hao insisted. “And some will die.”

Unfortunately that was true. But this lout seemed to hope for it. “We don't want to frighten the others when that happens. We'll take the young ones out one at a time. Here on the dock is the best place. You'll plunge each one in by arm or leg, and when I give the word, bring them up again. Mind that the Hirrin youngling doesn't choke. He's susceptible with the long neck.”

“That one we should just throw in for good.”

It would be well when he was rid of this fellow. Geng De guarded his temper. “That one is a particular favorite of mine. After Tiejun. Make sure none of them slip from your grasp.”

“We'll get them drowned, don't worry. Maybe then they'll stop crying.”

As though on cue, sounds of children waking came from the main cabin.

It was time.

“Fetch the one most awake.” He fixed Tan Hao with a stern look. “They must be mostly awake, lest they choke on the river matter, you understand?”

Tan Hao paused, glowering. “You want to pick them?”

For all his eagerness to begin, Geng De did not want to pick. He did not want to be the one to dip the children. He worried that the youngsters might struggle, or choke or throw up. He had no energy for conflict, if the child should fuss, and no wish for revolting scenes.

Tan Hao tramped up the ramp to the ship. It was about to begin.

A slight breeze hit Geng De's face, bringing the smell of the sea and something else.... An apprehension knifed into him, a startling premonition of doom. He looked over his head, as though expecting to see some sign of displeasure from on high.

“What?” Geng De whispered. “What is this?”

That is when the madness came upon him. It began with dread and spiked into a vivid impression of limbs crashing down on him, hammering him. He bent under the terrible image, protecting his head.

The vision passed.

What was this assault? Geng De spun around looking for the army whose advance work this was. But the river lay flat and silver, the shore slicked with pools of river matter, the sky gentle in Early Day.

Tan Hao slammed the cabin door. He had a Chalin child gripped by the hand.

“Hurry!” Geng De shouted.

Tan Hao picked up the child and strode down the ramp to the deck. But as he reached the bottom of the gangway, he began batting at the air around him, letting go of the child and waving his arms as though the air were full of stinging insects.

“No!” Geng De cried. “Hold on to the child!” He seized the child's hand before the little one tottered and fell into the river.

“Stop it!” Geng De hissed at the frantic ship keeper. “There's nothing here!”

“There is!” Tan Hao shouted. The youngster had begun to scream, looking wildly at the sky.

Geng De looked, too. To his alarm, he saw ghostly creatures rushing toward
him down the sky. It was a stampede of Inyx. They were a great herd, and they were spearing toward Geng De, splintering the dock with their hooves.

“Inyx!” he said triumphantly. “With their sendings! Nothing but thoughts, nothing but air!”

“Keep them away!” wailed Tan Hao.

With the child firmly in hand Geng De stepped up to Tan Hao and slapped him across the face. “Courage! Hold firm!” he shouted in the man's face.

Staggering back, Tan Hao fell heavily, cracking his head on the planks of the dock. Only stunned for a moment, Tan Hao got to his feet, calmer now. He seemed to have come back to his senses.

But that was just the first wave. Now another attack rushed in, more fierce than before, accompanied this time by beastly screams. Amid all this Geng De heard the name of
Sydney
.

Tan Hao covered his ears and bowed away from the stampede of beasts, horned and heavy and malignant.

The stampede bellowed,
Sydney, Sydney, Sydney.

“Make them stop!” Han Tao looked like he would gladly fight an Inyx, that he would grab any mount by the neck and strangle it. But there was nothing to bash or murder.

It was impossible to think, hardly possible to move. Geng De almost dipped the youngster in the river himself, just to have one of them done, but instead he ducked away from the hooves aiming for his skull. Still holding on to the screaming child's hand, he crawled over to Han Tao. The ship keeper had fallen to his knees, covering his ears.

With his free hand Geng De grabbed Tan Hao's chin, forcing the man to look at him. “They have come for Sen Ni.
Sen Ni
, not us. If I leave, they will follow me. I'll take them far out into the river. There I will dive to leave them behind.”

“You're running away!”

“Listen to me! They don't care about you. They want Sen Ni. She lived with them; they know she's hurt. They'll come after me.”

“Running,” Han Tao said with an ugly expression. Around them the herd brayed and howled. But with Geng De and Tan Hao forming a tight pair face-to-face, the effect of the Inyx sendings was muted.

Geng De spoke slowly and firmly. “I will come back for you. Once the
visions are gone, you know what to do with the children. Do it.” He thrust the
Book of the Drowning Time
into the ship keeper's hands. “I've told you everything. But here it is all written down. Do it. When I come back, have my little navitars ready.”

Tan Hao still winced away from imagined hooves, but he had himself under control. He rose, helping Geng De stand.

Geng De pointed at the vessel. “Let's take the children off the ship and up to the hut until you're ready for them.”

It was a terrifying and exhausting effort. They dragged the children, carried them, pushed them up the hill to the Fold. As they did so, Inyx hooves pounded through the air, sending intimations of pain and despair. But now that Geng De knew it was only heart-sendings, his courage returned.

He began to sing a navitar's shanty, just to keep the visions at bay. Tan Hao sang it, too. It was better than the roars of the beasts.

Sen Ni came awake to the sound of singing.

Disoriented, weak, and besieged with pain, she looked around the pilothouse. Empty. She had been waking each time they came out of the binds, never letting Geng De see her conscious.

She managed to swing her feet off the bed and down to the floor. The effort brought nausea and dizziness. She gripped the sides of the bed, willing herself not to faint. Of all her injuries, the one to her head was the worst, making her slow-witted and prone to sleep.

Someone far away was roaring a song.

Where was Geng De? She stood up, staggering to the wall, using it to support her lurch toward the door.

The door at last. She threw it open. Now she heard strange sounds, as of battle, coming from every direction. The youngsters. If Geng De was hurting them, she would pluck his eyes from his skull. She would find the strength, she would…

On her knees at the head of the stairs. She'd fallen. The pain in her knees left her breathless. Still, she grabbed the railing, trying to stand.