Deep Water (69 page)

He was wrong. Of course, Dotta had known. Bramble realized with shame that Dotta had warned her about this, and she had forgotten.
She remembered another thing Dotta had told her: “The prey must be called with love, though, or it does not come. Remember
that.”

Were the delvers her prey, or was she theirs? It didn’t matter. She was moving once again in a bizarre world where the impossible
was necessary. She touched the images of the earth spirits which someone had painted thousands of years ago and sent out the
call, as the hunter had taught her, as the hunter had done, with love. Come to me, she said silently, as she had been silent
in the Forest when the deer came and nuzzled her before their deaths; as she had been silent when the hunter had his knife
to her throat; as she had been silent when Red had brought the knife up. Prey or hunter, it was the same thing. Come to me,
for I have need of you.

Medric’s gasp alerted her. She turned to see Fursey kneeling, separated from her and Medric by a river of dark rocks. They
were slow moving but inexorable, filling the cave not from the outer cave or through fissures but from out of the walls themselves,
sliding through the rock as easily as she moved through snow, but leaving no trace of their passage behind. They were half
her height, and glinted in the light from the lantern as polished granite glints, but they were rough, not smooth.

They were far more strange than water sprites or wind wraiths; dangerous and alien. Bramble grinned at them in the darkness,
feeling the familiar lift of excitement, and moved forward, slowly, giving them time to get out of her way. They made an aisle
for her and she reached the shaft at the edge of the cave easily — but now she was alone, in a little island surrounded by
earth spirits.

“There were bones,” she said clearly, “thrown here a thousand years ago. The bones of a man. I need them. I am sent by the
gods to recover them.”

She had no idea if they would understand her, and when they spoke to her in grating rock-sliding-on-rock voices she knew that
they hadn’t. She looked at Fursey.

He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t understand them, either,” he said.

The delvers edged forward, pushing Bramble closer to the shaft. Medric sprang forward too, shouting, “No!” but he was too
late. They pushed suddenly, hard and impossible to resist, and she felt herself falling. The sensation was like the waters
sweeping her away once again and she forced herself to relax, as she had then, to let the current take her where it willed.

She landed with a thump that knocked breath and thought from her body and lay for a while in darkness so complete that her
eyes made light for her, peopling the cave with specks and fireballs, with colors and sparks.

There was something sharp under her. She moved with difficulty and edged it out. If Acton’s bones had broken her fall — she
laughed silently. That would be rich. She drifted off into semi-consciousness.

“Bramble! Bramble!” Medric’s voice roused her.

“Mmm,” she said. “I’m all right.” That was a lie. She hurt all over.

“The delvers have gone,” he shouted. “I’m sending down a candle. Do you have a tinderbox?”

No, of course she didn’t have a tinderbox. What a stupid question.

“No,” she managed to say.

She dragged herself up and sat with head hanging. A moment later a thin cord with tinderbox and candle came snaking down through
the shaft and hit her on the head.

“Oh, dung and pissmire!” she said. The box had bounced off her head and fallen somewhere nearby. She felt for it cautiously.
The rock beneath her was covered with bones. Whether they were Acton’s or animals’, she didn’t know.

Then at the same moment, her left hand touched the tinderbox and the right one found a smooth surface… rounded, with
holes. Oh, gods, it was a skull. She grabbed the tinderbox but her hands were shaking too much to undo the knot. She put it
on the rock next to her foot and reached out again for the skull. His skull. The bone was silk covered in dust. She rubbed
it on her trousers to clean it and held it in both hands, leaned her head down until her forehead was on his.

He was dead. He had been alive, smiling at her, only a few hours ago. But he was dead. He had been dead all this time, lying
here, flesh withering away to dust, to nothing but bone. He was dead and she would never see him again.

The grief rose in her overwhelmingly; worse than for the roan, or the hunter, or even for Maryrose. The strength of it burned
her as it rose, choking her, stopping her breath so that she thought she would die, racking her with so much pain that her
eyes could not fill with tears, and at last she recognized it for what it was. She had felt this grief before, when she was
Piper, looking at the ghost of Salmon. This was the grief of love.

Alone in the dark, she cradled his skull to her and rocked backward and forward and remembered him, because all she would
ever have was memory, and she would love no human never, because he was no longer human, because they had never been human
together except for that one moment on the hillside, where he had smiled at her with such promise, such delight. She remembered
him vividly, gold hair shining in the sunshine, flecks of gold glinting on his jaw from the new beard, blue eyes bright and
mischievous, mouth curved with desire. For her. Her, not Wili or Freide or the girl on the mountain. He had smiled at her,
only two hours ago.

And now he was dead, and his bones were as dry as her eyes.

I
NVINCIBLE
. T
HEY WERE
invincible. All day the warlord’s men fell before them, or ran before them. They cowered behind locked doors, they pleaded
for mercy before the killing stroke came. Nothing could save them.

Saker himself was invulnerable — guarded not only by undying men, but by the wind wraiths as well. Safe against archers, safe
against blades, safe against blows. Invincible.

He was buoyed by victory, elated and exalted and set free from all fear, at last. He had thought that the wraiths were a terror,
but they had saved his life. The gods were truly with him, supporting him.
They
had sent the wind wraiths.

He left the cart behind on the hill and took only the casket of bones and the scrolls with him. Now that he had been discovered,
he must hide until the next time. They would keep a lookout, to stop anyone digging for bones. This army was all he had, and
probably all he could get, for now. It was enough.

Enough for Sendat. Enough to raze the warlord’s fort and kill everyone within. Enough to gather all the weapons they would
need.

Then, Turvite. He would raise Alder, his father, to participate in that great fight.

As the day ended, he found an abandoned water mill whose course had run dry, and hid the bones and scroll under the decaying
wheel before holing up himself in the mill loft. Owl went with him. They looked out the window slit across what seemed peaceful,
prosperous country lying golden in the last light of the sun. Owl smiled ferociously and gestured wide, then began to fade,
still smiling.

“Yes,” Saker confirmed as he disappeared. “Yes, we will have it all.”

He ignored his empty stomach and settled down, smiling, to plan for massacre and conquest.

THE CASTINGS TRILOGY CONCLUDES WITH:

FULL CIRCLE

Pamela Freeman

A ghost army that cannot be stopped must be stopped, before it destroys everything in the Domains. . . .

Bramble and Ash together try to raise the spirit of the only man in all time and space who has a chance of laying the ravaging
army to rest… but is Acton’s ghost still there, or has he gone on to rebirth?

Thegan the warlord has his own solution, and it may mean the death of every living Traveller… unless his wife and his
most faithful officer forget all their loyalties and betray him.

When they come together for the final confrontation on the cliffs of Turvite, the evil dead may triumph over the evil living.
If we’re lucky.

Coming in September 2009

Available wherever good books are sold

extras

P
AMELA
F
REEMAN
is an award-winning writer for young people. She has a doctorate of creative arts from the University of Technology,
Sydney, Australia, where she has also lectured in creative writing. She lives in Sydney with her husband and young son. Visit
the author’s official Web site at
www.pamelafreemanbooks.com
.

If you enjoyed

DEEP WATER,

look out for

BLACK SHIPS

by Jo Graham

“Are you afraid of the dark?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Good,” she said, and smothered the fire with ashes until only a few coals glowed. It was very dark within the cave. I had
never been somewhere there was not even starlight. I heard her moving in the dark, the rustling of cloth.

“Sit here,” she said, and I felt her putting a cushion at my back. I sat up upon it. It raised me so that I sat, my legs crossed,
leaning almost over the brazier. She put another cushion behind me so that I might lean back against the wall.

There was more rustling, and I smelled the acrid scent of herbs crumbled over the coals. Rosemary. Laurel. And something richer,
like resin, like pine carpets beneath my feet. Something heady, like smoke.

“There,” Pythia said. “Look into the fire and tell me what you see.”

My eyes itched. It was hard to keep them open. They watered. The smoke wavered. The tiny glowing lines of coals blurred. I
didn’t know what to say.

She was still talking, but I wasn’t really hearing her. I was looking at the darkness between the glowing lines. At the blackness
in the heart of the fire.

“Black ships,” I said, and I hardly knew my own voice.

“Where?” Pythia said.

“Black ships,” I said. I could see them in the darkness of the coals. “Black ships and a burning city. A great city on a headland.
Some of the ships are small, not much more than one sail or a few rowers. But some of them are big. Painted black. They’re
coming out from land, from the burning city. But there are other ships in the way, between the black ships and the sea.”

My voice caught with the emotion of what I saw. “There are so few of them! I can see them coming, rowing hard. The one in
front has seven stars on her prow,
Seven Sisters,
like the constellation. That’s her name. The soldiers on the other ships have archers. They’re shooting at them.”

One of the sailors was struck in the eye by an arrow. He screamed and plunged into the sea. One of the ships’ boys was hit
in the leg and went down with a high, keening sound, his blood spurting across the deck.

One of the small boats was rammed and capsized.

“There are people in the water. They’re not sailors, not on the little boats. Children. Women.” I could see them struggling.
The archers were shooting them in the water.