Deep Water (7 page)

Ah, Saker thought, noting her dark hair as she ran, sobbing with fear, into an alleyway. The spell is working. It protects
those of Traveler blood. He concentrated on the feeling of satisfaction that gave him, so he didn’t feel sick at the terrible
noises coming from the battle around him; so he didn’t feel at all for the man who had just died. That man was an invader,
he reminded himself. Living off the profits of murderers. Deserving of death.

Then the ghosts went to the houses. Carlion was a peaceful town. It had its share of robbers and tricksters, but they tended
to concentrate on the country visitors and traders who passed through. The residents left their doors on the latch, except
during the big Winterfair. That was why Saker had chosen it as the first city, instead of Turvite, where crime flourished
and householders put good stout bars across their doors before they went to bed.

The ghosts simply walked in for their slaughter. They disappeared from the silent, moonlit street into houses all along the
main street and a few moments later the screams started.

Saker began to tremble, but he breathed deeply and admonished himself, imagining what his father would say if he could see
him. Just standing still wasn’t enough. He had to be part of it, to see it.

So he followed Owl into the next house.

It was a brick house, well-to-do. The front room was used as a carpentry workshop but there was a big standing loom there,
too. Stairs led up to the sleeping chambers. As the door crashed back and Owl rushed in, a voice was raised in question from
upstairs. A young auburn-haired man ran down, staring blankly at Owl and Saker. He was tying his trousers as he came; he had
no weapon. Behind him was a red-headed woman in a nightshirt: tall, with a strong, attractive face.

Owl raised his sword and the man, quicker than he looked, jumped the last few steps and caught up a long piece of wood which
lay on the workbench. He brought it up in time to block Owl’s stroke, but the wood shattered.

“Merrick!” the woman screamed. She grabbed Owl and pulled him back, giving the man time to recover and find another weapon.
All he could find was a chisel with a long point. Sharp enough, but no use against a sword. As the woman grabbed him Owl turned
and raised his sword to strike at her, then stopped as he had done with the woman in the street. He pushed the red-headed
woman away. Saker couldn’t believe it. This red-head was one of the old blood? No, surely not!

“Maryrose!” the man cried, and slid around Owl to her side, helping her up.

Owl grinned, satisfaction on his face as he prepared to strike the man. As the sword came down, knocking aside the chisel,
the woman threw herself in front of the man. The sword almost cut her shoulder off and she dropped straight down, dead already.
Merrick screamed in anguish and launched himself at Owl, but two more strokes stopped him. He fell beside her, but he wasn’t
quite dead. His blood flowed out across the woman’s hair, turning it dark, like a Traveler’s. He tried to turn himself toward
her, but only managed to slide his hand along the floor to touch her face. Her eyes stared blindly, green as grass. The man’s
fingers slid, shaking, along her cheek and fell.

“Maryrose,” he whispered. “Wait for me.” Then he died.

Owl smiled and turned to the door. Saker was shaking, but he reminded himself that this was necessary. This was no more than
the invaders had done to his people.

He followed Owl outside.

There were people on the street now, rushing out to see why their neighbors were screaming, some men already armed, as though
they had been expecting trouble. There was confusion, shouting, men trying to form groups to fight, women collecting children
who had wandered out in their nightclothes, yawning.

Many died. Mostly it was quick. But sometimes it wasn’t. Even the men who had come ready for fighting were soon overcome.
Those with swords didn’t know how to use them. They did better with the tools of their trades: knives, hoes, scythes, axes.
They fought with desperation but could not do well enough to save themselves. Not when a ghost could take a stab to the heart
and still keep fighting.

Yet Saker was astonished to see how many the ghosts passed over. Traveler blood must account for it, because there was no
visible difference — the ghosts slashed down at one man but merely shoved another aside; they ripped a scythe across a woman’s
throat and leapt over her almost identical neighbor.

No matter what the people of Carlion did, they could not defend themselves against his army.

The only house untouched was a stonecaster’s house with a big red pouch hanging outside, which Saker’s Sight could tell had
a spell on the door against ghosts. So. Something to think about.

He had seen enough. He walked through the dying and the dead, past people cowering behind carts and children bleeding over
the bricks of the street. Dawn would come soon and he suspected that the ghosts would fade, then. He had to be ready to leave
as soon as they faded.

When he stood by the burial site and looked at the bones laid out before him, he had a revelation. He had raised Owl’s ghost
by simply using his skull. He didn’t need to go from place to place, raising the local dead against the living. He could take
them with him. A bone, just one bone from each, was enough. If he used fingerbones instead of skulls, he could carry an army
in a sack!

Frantically he began to collect fingerbones, laying them on the sack he had wrapped Owl’s skull in. He sent out his Sight
so that he could feel the spirit of the person who had owned the bone — when he felt the tingle that said the ghost was walking,
he put the bone on the pile. In the end, he had a pile of bones which would fit into his smallest coffer. He pulled out the
scrolls he kept there and put them in the sack. They weren’t as precious, now, as the bones.

By the time the sun edged above the blood-red horizon, Saker was ready, horse harnessed, reins in hand. As he felt the spell
dissolve and the ghosts fade, he started off, leaving behind a carpet of bones cast across the disturbed earth.

S
AFRED POURED OUT
another round of cha while Cael lit a lamp, making the shadows sharper and the dark outside the windows seem more threatening.
She looked at Ash.

“There is more needed. Once we have the bones,” Safred said, “we have to raise Acton’s ghost. The gods say you must sing him
up.”

Ash felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He stared down at the table, his hands hidden but his shoulders hunched
tight. Was
this
why he sang with the voice of the dead? To sing spells of resurrection? It had a nasty logic about it. But he couldn’t sing
up a ghost.

“I don’t know how,” he said.

“You’d better find someone to teach you,” Bramble said. He looked at her sharply and then nodded, once, abruptly. Many things
made sense to him, all of a sudden. If such songs existed, he knew where to find them. It was even the right time of year — and,
of course, that was why the gods had told them to stay in Hidden Valley until the spring. So he would be able to go straight
to the Deep and demand answers.

Unexpected anger swept over him. This was a matter of
singing.
Of
songs.
He was supposed to know all the songs. His father had said he had taught Ash all the songs there were. Then he paused, his
anger faltering. That was not exactly what his father had said. He’d said, “That’s the last song I can teach you, son.” Ash
had just assumed that meant his father didn’t know any others. Because he had also said to Ash, “You must remember
all
the songs.” He had remembered them all, but apparently he had not been trusted with every one. He felt sick, and angry enough
to take on even the demons of the Deep.

“Yes,” he said to Bramble. “I should. I should be able to… can I take a horse?”

Bramble nodded. “Yes, but you don’t know how —” she started to say.

“Do you want me to come?” Martine asked.

Ash hesitated, and then shook his head reluctantly.

Safred chimed in at the same moment. “Martine comes with us.”

“Really?” Martine’s voice was dangerously calm. She clearly didn’t like it. Her mouth was tight.

Safred put up her palms in the traditional mime of good faith. “Not
my
idea,” she said hastily. They were all silent. It took some getting used to, this idea that the gods were organizing their
lives. “Your destiny is here,” Safred said in a small voice.

Then she sat up, regaining her confidence, turning to speak to Ash. “After Bramble finds Acton’s death place, you and she
can go to find the bones together.”

“Did the gods say that, too?”

“No, but isn’t it obvious?” Safred was becoming annoyed. She wasn’t used to people questioning her.

Ash shook his head. “No. I have to go somewhere else first.”

“Where?”

He just stared at her. “Set a meeting point,” he said. “I’ll join you later.”

“You must be at the lake, to give the brooch to Bramble at the right time!” Safred insisted.

Ash wondered why Safred didn’t simply take the brooch from the table.

Safred flushed. “To be used, the brooch must pass from its rightful owner to the Kill Reborn in the right time and place,”
she insisted.

Ash nodded, picked up the brooch and weighed it in his hand for a moment. Then he held it out to Martine. Her lips twitched,
but she took it respectfully enough.

“I give you this brooch,” Ash said. “You are now the rightful owner.”

Martine nodded and slipped the brooch in her pocket. Safred frowned. She opened her mouth to speak, but Ash forestalled her,
as though everything had been settled.

“If I’m Traveling alone… I don’t really know how to look after a horse,” he said to Bramble.

“Take Flax or Zel,” she said. “They’ll know more than I do. They’re Gorham’s children.”

Ash had no idea who Gorham was, but the dark-haired girl’s head came up.

“Flax stays with me,” she said. “We’ll both go.”

There it was, a flat statement leaving no opening for discussion. Stone. But Ash was stone, too. He had to be.

“No. You can’t come. I’ll go alone.”

Safred looked curiously at Ash, her eyes unfocused. Ash suspected she was listening to the gods. If so, they didn’t tell her
anything she wanted to hear. Her face tensed.

But she put her hand over Zel’s.

“We have need of Flax. He should go with Ash.”

“I look after him.” Zel’s voice was almost pleading.

“Yes,” Safred said. “Perhaps it is time to share that privilege.”

Zel’s eyes were dark with internal struggle. Safred patted her hand gently.

“You have done enough.” Again, there was a layer of meaning that Zel seemed to understand.

“I’m a safeguarder,” Ash reminded them. “He can look after the horses, and I’ll look after him.”

Zel stared at him intently, trying to read his soul. “Do you promise to look after him? As though he were your own brer?”

Ash nodded. “I promise.”

Zel let out a long breath. “All right then. He can go.”

“Anybody planning to ask Flax what he thinks?” Ash asked.

Safred looked startled, which was satisfying. Ash was tired already of people who arranged other people’s lives as though
they were gods themselves.

But Zel laughed bitterly. “Oh, he wants to go,” she said.

It was true. Flax’s eyes were alight. No surprise, Ash thought. What boy wouldn’t rather travel with another young man than
with his sister?

“We must decide where to meet,” Safred said. “But I think, not now. Tomorrow, at the altar for the dawn prayers. Let the gods
guide us.”

Ash felt a little uncomfortable at the thought, remembering two black rock altars — the one in Turvite, where the gods had
called to him, and the one at Hidden Valley, where they had commanded him to come here, at this time. Or perhaps they had
set the time so he could save Bramble’s life by killing the warlord’s man, Sully. The thought of Sully pierced him with regret.
He hadn’t meant to kill; his training had taken over. He hadn’t been able to stay, as he should have, and attend the quickening
of Sully’s ghost. He should have been there, three days later, waiting, ready with his knife, to admit his guilt, cut his
own flesh and offer blood to Sully’s ghost as reparation for his death. He sat for a moment at the table as the others got
up. To lay one ghost to rest, that he understood. That was personal, immediate, necessary. But to lay an army of ghosts, who
had died perhaps a thousand years before… he shook his head and pushed back from the table, following the others toward
the door. He couldn’t imagine how that might work.

Flax was cock-a-hoop as Bramble led him and Ash to the stables so that she could check on the horses and introduce him to
Cam and Mud. She wouldn’t dare lend Ash Trine, she said. Besides, she liked the cross-grained animal the best.

Flax chattered happily about getting back on the Road. “I can’t stand it in towns,” he said. “They close in around me.”

“Me too,” Bramble said. “You’ve always Traveled?”

He nodded. “When our mam and da Settled, Zel and I took the Road together. Six years ago now.”

Ash revised his estimate of Flax’s age upward. He had to be at least seventeen, although he talked like a much younger boy.

Flax knew horses, all right, and he soothed them with his voice. Bramble relaxed about letting her precious horses go to someone
else. After he had finished grooming them, Flax left with a cheerful “Wind at your back!”

After that, Bramble spent some time with Mud and Cam, teaching Ash about their grooming and feeding, telling the horses that
she was sure they would meet again. Of course they would. They nuzzled her and whickered gently as though trying to comfort
her against the coming separation — until Trine got jealous and nipped them away from her. She laughed, and dusted her hands
off. She seemed revived by her contact with the animals, but she still looked very tired.

“Enough for one day,” she said. She turned to Ash and raised her eyebrows. “Have you wondered, if we’re going to lay all these
ghosts to rest, who’s going to give the blood the ritual needs?”