The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus Read online

  “Come on, Maggie, we’ve got to go now or we’ll miss them. You can sleep all you want when we get there.”

  “That’s what you said about this nap,” Maggie complained, clambering groggily to her feet. “Can’t we stay here a little longer?”

  Nicolas was pacing back and forth on the path. “It’s not far, I promise. You won’t regret it.”

  Maggie’s head hurt as she followed Nicolas. She realized that she really needed sleep; needed it very badly.

  “Where are we going?” Maggie asked, when she had caught up with Nicolas.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “There’s a Gypsy camp ahead.”

  Briefly, Maggie wondered how he knew that, as she had seen no sign of human company in the woods. She bit back her questions. The flight from the inn had given her a sort of faith in Nicolas’s instincts—his hearing, or whatever it was he had.

  “Tell me,” she said as they walked, “Why do we want to catch up with the Gypsies?”

  Nicolas looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “You can ride instead of walking, sleep even when we’re moving, and eat meat instead of berries. And they may have feather pillows.”

  Maggie grinned. “Don’t you think we’re going too slowly?”

  Nicolas laughed. “Well then,” he said, “Catch me if you can!”

  Without another word he sprinted ahead through the trees, leaping obstacles like a goat. Maggie ran after him, surprised at the strength that rose up in her at his challenge. They ran for a few minutes, until Maggie had to stop for air. She leaned against a tree and gasped in deep breaths, laughing as she did so.

  Nicolas came back to stand by her. “There’s a clearing just beyond those trees,” he said. “Campfires and horse dung all over the place. Looks like they’ve just moved out. They can’t be far.”

  Maggie nodded. After another minute, they headed down the path again. Their step was slower this time, but they soon came across the abandoned campsite. A much wider path, clearly distinguishable as a road with wheel ruts on either side, led out of the clearing. On another side, a similar road headed out.

  “Which one?” Maggie asked, gesturing toward the roads.

  Nicolas didn’t hesitate, but walked toward the first. “This one,” he said. “They’re very close. I can hear them.”

  Maggie shook her head and followed him, Bear at her heels. In a short time she thought she heard voices, and before long, she clearly recognized the sounds of horses, wagons, and shouts. Bear began to grunt as he caught the scent of the camp ahead.

  A sudden cracking noise interrupted Maggie’s walk, and a small figure fell in a shower of leaves from the overhanging tree branches. Maggie jumped back with a startled cry. The creature had nearly landed on top of her. With her heart still thudding in her chest, she broke into laughter at the sight that met her eyes. A boy, no more than four or five years old, stood in the road, holding a wooden sword. Dark eyes glowered out of a round, dirty face. The boy wore trousers that had once been white, and a green vest without any buttons that exposed a bare chest.

  Maggie moved toward him. The child’s skinny arm lifted the wooden sword defensively. He snarled like a fox. Suddenly his eyes grew large, and he stepped back. Maggie felt the massive form of Bear just behind her. She reached up a hand to touch the animal’s head, and held out another hand toward the boy.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “See? He won’t hurt you.”

  The boy lowered his sword apprehensively, eyeing Maggie and Bear with evident suspicion. His feet remained rooted to the road.

  “Would you like to pet him?” Maggie asked, stepping even closer to Bear to demonstrate the absence of danger.

  Curiosity overcame the child’s caution. He took three hesitant steps forward. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he let his sword drop limply to his side as he trotted happily forward and reached out to touch Bear’s nose.

  Bear licked the boy’s hand with his long, rough tongue. The child laughed. His laugh was musical and free of fear, and Maggie melted under his charm. She crouched down beside him and laughed with delight as his giggles erupted under the force of Bear’s sniffing nose and wet tongue.

  Nicolas’s voice broke through Maggie’s reverie, coming from somewhere oddly far off.

  “Don’t look now, Maggie,” he said, “but you’re surrounded.”

  She jerked her head up, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of the people standing silently all around. They stood on the road and in the midst of the trees, at least twenty of them, dressed in ragged, brilliantly coloured skirts and vests and head scarves. Men and women both wore earrings and necklaces, and the women wore loose bracelets. Their hair was long and dark and curly, and they held weapons of many shapes and sizes in their hands.

  Maggie shivered suddenly. Had she been an enemy of the Gypsies, she would not have stood a chance.

  Her eyes skirted past the dark, unfamiliar faces to Nicolas. He was standing next to a tall, big-chested man with a black beard and long, curly hair.

  The tall man motioned with his hand. Maggie heard a rushing sound as fifteen or so daggers and swords were tucked into homemade sheaths and sashes. She stood awkwardly to her feet as the little boy happily skipped to the side of the tall man next to Nicolas. Bear nudged her arm comfortingly.

  Nicolas held out his hand. Maggie left Bear’s side, walking past the eyes that silently followed her down the wheel-rutted road. She stepped up to Nicolas and took his hand. He presented her to the tall man with a bow.

  “My friend, Maggie,” he said.

  The tall man cocked his head in question. “Is that all the name she’s got?”

  Nicolas nodded. “In Bryllan there might be more,” he said. “But here she’s only Maggie.”

  The tall man seemed pleased by the answer. He bowed his head politely.

  “And I am only the Major,” he said. He spread his hands out to encompass the still-silent individuals in the road. “These are my Gypsies. We haven’t got much, but we’ll share it with you for as long as you like.”

  Maggie smiled. Her voice expressed gratitude and relief.

  “Thank you,” she said. Before she could say more, the Major turned and walked down the road, the little boy clinging to his hand and jabbering excitedly. The silence of the crowd broke as the air filled with laughter and talk. Nicolas walked at Maggie’s side with a proud little smile.

  They soon arrived at a place in the road where horses impatiently stamped and tugged at reins held by children on brightly decorated wagons. The horses were shaggy, small, and strong, with broad backs and light-stepping feet. Their manes were long and unkempt, but their eyes shone brightly, and the wagon wheels rocked as they strained at their bonds.

  The Gypsies climbed aboard their wagons. Some reclaimed the reins from their children. At the front of the caravan, the Major stood on the driver’s seat of a wagon painted red and yellow. Beside him, a teenage boy smoking a pipe held the reins and waited. Nicolas climbed into the back of the wagon and pulled Maggie in after him.

  They moved quickly to the front, where they could see the road and the pipe-smoking boy and the Major standing precariously on the seat.

  The Major shouted and Maggie heard a chorus of answering shouts from all around. He raised his bare arm and held it high in the air for a moment, bringing it down with a cry of, “Move out!”

  The wagon lurched forward as the pipe-smoker lashed the reins on the horses’ backs. They pulled with a jubilant toss of their heads. The jangling sounds of wagons on the move echoed through the trees.

  The Major took his seat, his broad back blocking the view of the road. Maggie settled back into the wagon, leaning against a wooden cupboard with a sigh.

  Nicolas pushed past a worn green blanket that divided the wagon into two compartments and motioned for Maggie to follow. In the back of the wagon, three bunks were built into the sides: two on the left, one on the right. Nicolas pointed to the single bunk.
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  “There you go,” he said. “Sleep all you like. And look.” He snatched up a plump pillow and threw it at Maggie. “Feather pillows. Just like I told you.”

  “Won’t the Major mind?” Maggie asked as she caught the pillow and let her weary body settle onto the bunk.

  “Of course not!” Nicolas scoffed. “Anyway, I asked him already. This is your bed for the rest of the trip, so long as you want it.”

  He turned and positioned himself at the back door, ready to leap out into the dusty road. He turned his curly head back to smile reassuringly. “Good rest, Maggie.”

  With that, he was gone. Maggie was left with the rocking of the wagon and the lull of the noises outside. She pulled her tattered shoes off her feet for the first time since she had arrived in Calai, swung her feet up on the bed, and laid back slowly, letting herself sink into the softness.

  Before she knew her eyes were shut, she was asleep.

  * * *

  It was dark inside the wagon. Maggie sat up and wondered for a moment where she was. Outside she heard the sound of voices.

  She felt around on the floor for her shoes, and soon gave up. The air was still warm despite the night. She groped her way to the door and pushed it open, stumbling into the open air. The ground was hard and cool under her bare feet. The air felt open and sweet after the closeness of the wagon.

  Traces of firelight illuminated the shadowed wagon and made its colours dance, aided by the distant moon shining into the clearing. The caravan was arranged in a circle, with the wagons sitting end to end to form a wall of wood and harnesses. Here and there a campfire burned beside individual wagons. In the center of the circle, a large bonfire blazed.

  Maggie thought she could see Nicolas’s slim form in the silhouettes around the fire. She moved toward him. Before she had quite joined those seated around the fire, Nicolas jumped to his feet. He stood with his back to the flames, voice rising. Maggie slipped into the circle, sitting cross-legged in listening silence. The little boy from the road, now wearing a long cotton shirt, spotted her and plopped himself onto her lap. His fingers twined in her sleeve as he listened, wide-eyed, to Nicolas’s story.

  “The creature was so close I could feel its breath through the floorboards,” Nicolas said. “I took all the matches I could find and climbed up on deck. There it was, staring at me, with its horrible green breath and glowing eyes. It took one look at me and roared like a lion. It shook the whole ship.”

  The little boy huddled closer to Maggie. She put her arms around him as she watched Nicolas.

  “I turned and ran for the ropes,” Nicolas said.

  “Were you scared?” interrupted a boy of about eleven.

  Nicolas drew himself up to his full height and did his best to look offended. “I am never scared,” he said haughtily. “I used my head—and I knew that I would be at better advantage in the rigging than on deck with the monster.”

  The boy nodded apologetically. Nicolas continued.

  “I hung high above the raging sea. The wind tore at my clothes and the monster paced on the deck below.”

  Maggie hid a smile in the little boy’s hair. Her own memory recalled a calm sea. She had, after all, been out on it.

  “My eyes fell on a dry pile of rope right next to the beast,” Nicolas went on. “I reached for my matches—struck one. But the match would not burn! I threw it from me and lit another… and another… and another!” His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. Maggie leaned forward with the rest of the crowd to hear him. “Still, they would not light. And then at last, one match caught! But even as I prepared to throw it, the mast on which I perched swayed and cracked. The monster had attacked from below! I lost my footing. I fell!”

  Maggie was holding her breath. The little boy’s fingers dug into her wrists.

  “Down, down I plunged, until I reached out and grabbed a rope! Saved! I swung out like a bird over the ocean, flying in the wind, and then back over the ship once more.”

  The eleven-year-old once again failed to contain himself. “What happened to the match?” he asked.

  The question derailed Nicolas for half a second. He made a comical picture, posed dramatically with the fire raging behind him, quite unsure of what to say.

  “What match?” he asked.

  “The one you lit before you fell,” the boy prompted.

  “Oh, the match. The match had fallen from my fingers when the mast gave way beneath me. It flew down through the tangle of rigging and landed in the midst of the ropes. As I swung back over the ship, I was greeted by the terrifying sight of flames licking up the wood.”

  “But you weren’t afraid?” came the voice again.

  “Of course not!” Nicolas frowned at the boy. “Where was I?”

  “Swinging over the terrifying flames,” Maggie spoke up. Nicolas turned to her, noticing her for the first time. Maggie smiled.

  “We assume you mean that the flames were terrifying to the beast… since you, as you said, were not afraid,” she said. To her surprise, a brilliant smile lit Nicolas’s face. He laughed.

  “Come up here, Maggie,” he said. “Come on!”

  Voices rose in general accord. Maggie removed the little one from her lap, stood, and joined Nicolas in front of the fire where she waited self-consciously as Nicolas picked up the narrative. In less than a minute her attention had gone from the audience back to Nicolas, as the heat of the fire brought back the memories. For a moment her mind left the Gypsy camp altogether and returned to the little wooden boat out on the sea. She felt the hot wind of the explosion on her face, heard the deafening silence that overwhelmed all noise for a split second afterwards; and then she heard the cries of the seagulls and the voice calling to her from the water.

  Pieces of Nicolas’s retelling pulled her back to the present, but now she had no fear of the audience.

  “The black waters washed over my head,” he said. “As I fought my way to the surface I heard a sound.”

  Maggie cut him off, and he fell silent before her. “The ship exploded like a dying star,” she said. “In the moments that followed, all that could be heard was silence. The waves still moved, and the sea gulls still cried, but I could hear nothing.”

  “I swam through the waters,” Nicolas said, quietly.

  “… and I thought of how my friend must have perished. I bowed my head and cried, and the gulls sang a mourning song over my head. And then a new sound broke through my silence. I heard my name being called.”

  “She reached for me and dragged me into the boat,” Nicolas finished.

  “We let the waves carry us as we watched the last burning remnants of the ship,” Maggie said.

  “And that,” Nicolas said with a flourish, “is how I—we—defeated the shadow creature.”

  Maggie was delighted when the audience clapped in appreciation. The Major jumped to his feet and put his arm around Nicolas’s shoulders.

  “Well,” he said. “Who knew we had such heroes among us? And such good storytellers. They are welcome by our fire any day!” Maggie saw the respect in his eyes as he looked at her.

  Nicolas and Maggie returned to their places in the circle. Someone slapped Nicolas on the back, and the little boy climbed back into Maggie’s lap.

  “And now we shall have another story!” the Major said. “Peter! Will you tell us the story of the apple barrels?”

  The pipe-smoking boy shook his head in amusement. “No, sir, Major,” he said. “I will let that story rest until it becomes new again… or until a new story comes my way!”

  The Major chuckled. “All right, then. Marja! Tell us a tale of the old days.”

  This request was met with a chorus of encouragement.

  “Yes, Marja!”

  “Tell us of the birds, Marja.”

  The Major sat down. A tall, willowy girl rose from the audience to take her place before the bonfire. She wore a long, crimson skirt that ended just above her bare feet. A red scarf adorned her head, tying at the nape of her neck and t
railing down her back along with her black hair, which curled and fell nearly to her waist. Maggie didn’t think she could be more than seventeen years old, but the smile that played on her face spoke of confidence and beauty and a half-hidden strangeness that intrigued all who looked on it.

  She moved with the bewitching grace of a dancer as she spoke. Maggie cast a glance at Nicolas and saw that he was watching with rapt attention.

  “Long ago,” Marja began, “when every man in the world was a wanderer, and all peoples of the earth were free, there was one who called himself Rinco. He was the father of my own people, who are called the People of the Sky because of their friendship with the birds. This friendship began with Rinco, and this was the way of it.

  “It came about that as Rinco wandered in the green forests of the earth, he saw a great flock flying overhead, toward the southern reaches of the world. It was not his way to let any pass by without sharing with him what news they had, so he determined to speak with the birds. He climbed up into the highest tree and called to them by name:

  “‘Ho eagle! Ho dove! Ho nightingale and wild goose! Won’t you wait and speak with me? I wish to know where you fly, and what is the news that carries you so far from your homes?’

  “But the birds paid him no heed: all except the raven, who was angered that Rinco would try to stop him in flight. He screamed at Rinco and flew in his face, and scratched him from his eyebrow to his jaw, so that Rinco was blinded in one eye. For this reason the People of the Sky have no friendship with the raven, though they respect him. He is one of the lords of the sky although he is cruel.

  “At last it came to Rinco to try and call to the birds in their own language, and so he listened closely for their cries and tried to imitate them. But the best he could do was to whistle, long and low, and he clung to the top of the tree and whistled, while the flock of birds darkened the sky with their numbers.

  “Near the end of this great flock flew the sparrows, innocent children among the lords of the sky. The sparrows heard the whistle and took pity on Rinco, for they saw that the raven had marked him. And so three of them stopped their flying, and lighted in the tree where Rinco waited to talk with them.