Elk Riders Omnibus Volumes 1-5: Elk Riders

In the Darkness Visible

Elk Riders Volume 1

To Martin T.E. Northfield

Chapter 1

The Ship of Red Sails

It all began with sand; it all ended with sand. Gabriella’s brother, Dameon, sifted through handfuls of the stuff, one fist over the other like an endless hourglass. He made a soft, almost inaudible groan as he did so. Anyone else might think him in distress, but Gabriella, long used to his ways, knew it was a sound of contentment. His blank, glassy-eyed stare was not one of idiocy but of deep concentration.

He doesn’t tire of it? Eloise asked, striking at a cluster of mussels with a wedge-shaped rock. She grabbed the loosened shells and dropped them in the basket next to her.

No, Gabriella said, moving her own basket closer to the bed of mussels she was harvesting. It soothes him. Repetition usually does. Eloise stared at Dameon, his legs spread before him, his back hunched to bring his face as close to the stream of sand as possible. His was a round face, with hazel eyes, wide-set cheekbones, and thin lips moving, as usual, as he mumbled incessantly to himself. His hair had been cut by their father with care, but no matter—it was still an unruly mess, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, and presently dusted with sand. Dameon’s sleeves were rolled up past the elbows. It was cold, the time of autumn to wear a cloak or at least to stay warm with harvesting work. But cold rarely affected him.

It was just that everything else did.

Eloise turned back to her mussels, chipping away at their bases and the fibers that fastened them to rocks. There was no sign of judgment in her face. She had never judged Dameon or ridiculed him. With her right arm stunted since birth, she too was an outcast among other children.

And Gabriella, as well, for the simple fact that she was Dameon’s older sister and Eloise’s friend.

The other children were not far. They had been sent to gather from the mussel and clam beds on the shore of the island, but they kept a stone’s throw away from the three of them. They always did.

Clouds rolled down from the highlands, brassy patches of sunlight cutting through the white heaps to shine on the conifer trees on the slopes, the flattened fields of harvested grain, and finally the rocky shore of the island.

Gabriella noticed a warm shaft of sunlight open up on the rocks where the other children from the village laughed and called to each other as they worked. The light lingered on them for some time—like the favor of the heavens—before shifting out onto the sea, over the kelp beds where the otters played, and then into the open sea.

It was then that Gabriella noticed the ship. It was still too far out to see more than its sails, but even at a distance she could see they were reddish brown, the color of oxblood. She had never seen sails of such color. The other children were too busy among themselves to take notice. Gabriella said nothing and continued to gather mussels, certain that someone would spot it soon enough and, once that happened, their work would end.

Gabriella filled her basket and made her way over the rocks to Eloise’s side. Eloise’s arm slowed her down as she could not move her basket and collect shells at the same time. Normally she would accept help from no one, but Gabriella was the exception. Together they loosened the mussels in a comfortable silence until Eloise looked up, caught sight of the ship, and sucked in her breath.

Look, a trading vessel! she cried.

She said it loudly enough that the other children heard. A current of elation swept through them, their shrill cries spreading the word. New vessels always meant excitement at the docks, foreigners, unfamiliar foods and spices, and sometimes even toys and trinkets that the children of Harkness had never seen before. Already they were gathering their baskets, full or not, and making their way back along the shore toward the village.

With the unexpected arrival, all the usual routines would be broken as the people of the island rushed to prepare goods to trade. The day now had the air of a holiday, and the children knew they could skip off the rest of their chores. No one would notice if they returned from harvesting with half-empty baskets.

Gabriella did not share in the excitement. The ship did not have the white sails of a trading vessel, and its prow was high and pointed. It was more like a ship of war than trade, she thought. Even the sweep of its hull was sharp and steep, not low and open like most of the vessels they were accustomed to seeing in the archipelago. With its high gunwales and castles fore and aft, the ship had a more sinister look than anything else. Gabriella and Eloise placed their baskets on their heads and started back for the village while calling to Dameon to follow. At first he didn’t, so engrossed he was in his game, but Gabriella came back to him, placed a hand between his fists to stop the flow of sand, and said, Dameon, it’s time to walk. Why don’t you count out steps back to the house?

By threes? he asked.

How about by sixes?

He nodded. Gabriella attempted to brush the sand from his trousers, but he moved out of reach too quickly. She sighed, embarrassed, and followed after him. His brisk pace soon overtook Eloise as he counted under his breath, Six, twelve, eighteen, twenty-four, thirty, thirty-six, forty–two . . . He would reach some unfathomable number by the time they reached home, but Gabriella knew his counting would be accurate, so long as the other children did not interfere with him.

The children were preoccupied with the approaching ship, which was already nearing the mouth of the harbor. Gabriella hoped it would hold their interest long enough that no insults or jibes would come their way this day. A small number of them, mostly older ones in their early teens like Gabriella, had stayed behind to finish loading their baskets. Gabriella knew many of them: Annalyn Berger, Christine Donnaldowd, Edme Angeline, all of whom Gabriella had been friends with before Dameon had been born, before it was realized that he was different, cursed. They had plaited each other’s hair, played skip-rope, and climbed trees when younger. But now they offered no greetings as Gabriella and Eloise passed by. Instead Edme made the sign with her hands to avert evil, and Annalyn mumbled something to Christine that made her look at Eloise and laugh.

Ignore them, Gabriella thought to herself, remembering how her father had told her that it was her duty, her obligation, to be a better—bigger—lass than the rest of them. It was not always easy, for even she missed those days when she could join the games, the circles of giggles, and parties without hesitation, when she had more friends than just Eloise, when her mother had more lines in her face from smiles than frowns. So much had changed since Dameon had been born. Her father’s farming and fishing business had shrunk as fewer men were willing to work for him in fields or in ships; even fewer would buy from him. They had been able to keep their home, but the days when neighbors would visit and gather around the hearth’s fire were long past.

A splash, followed by the sound of her name, broke Gabriella out of her self-pity. She stopped, balancing the load of mussels on her head. The path ahead of them crossed the stream from Gray’s Mill, and a number of children were gathered on the edge of the bridge looking into the rushing water.

Dameon.

She and Eloise set down their baskets and ran to the bridge. Spring storms had damaged the stonework and loosened a number of bricks along the footpath. Gabriella could see the gap where the bricks had tumbled into the rushing water below. She reached the break just in time to see Dameon spun around by the current and slip out of sight beneath the bridge.

No one else had moved to help him, and she knew it was not beyond the other children to have pushed him towards the weakened part of the bridge as a thoughtless joke. By the shameful looks on some of their faces, she suspected that was the case.

But she had no time to scold them now. She ran to the far end of the bridge, leapt the wall, and scrambled down the bank of the stream. She slipped and tumbled, falling face down in the mud. Eloise called after her, to see if she was all right, but she did not answer. She was focused on Dameon, who had found a handhold on an uprooted tree sunk in the middle of the stream.

Gabriella splashed into the water to reach him but soon regretted her haste. The current was too strong, and she was swept downstream immediately. It took all her strength just to swim back to the bank. When she did, she found Eloise waiting for her. Eloise offered Gabriella her good hand and pulled her up into a clustering of cattails. Breathless, they both ran upstream again. This time while Eloise held one end of a stick, and Gabriella the other, they waded in together, Eloise standing close to the bank while water rushed up to Gabriella’s armpits.

He was still out of her reach, and her clothes and shoes felt heavy in the water. She was a child of Harkness Island, growing on boats, playing in the ocean, swimming in the sea during summer. She, like all her fellow Harkenites, was a strong swimmer. But right then her limbs felt numb and lifeless and her breath short.

The stream was tea-colored from the peat in the surrounding hills, but it was clear as glass as it slid over Dameon’s face, and his clothes ballooned to his shoulders. Underwater, his fingers looked shorter and fat, like an infant’s reaching for a breast. His face was contorted as he alternated between gasping and holding his breath, reminding Gabriella of a harbor eel—horrible creatures that would eat their own mothers if fed to them as chum.

As the current swept Dameon under, Gabriella realized that she was seeing her brother for what he was: grotesque and freakish. She was dimly aware of the dozens of children peering down at them, so many, but none helping except Eloise. Gabriella hesitated, frozen while the water swirled around her, and in the space of a few heartbeats, became aware of how much she wanted her brother to die.

A shape moved under the bridge, and a figure dove into the water that Gabriella first took for a beaver or an otter by the matted hair bobbing in the current. But as he surfaced for air, she recognized Mortimer Creedly. He was bare-chested, revealing skin that was weathered and scarred. Although he looked starved, he was a strong swimmer and he rode the current right to Dameon’s side, took her brother in one arm, and stroked for the bank with the other.

Dameon was stunned and dazed, but alive. Gabriella took him from Mortimer, wrapped him in a tight embrace, and tried to soothe him by making a long, drawn-out shhhh. He coughed up some river water, and she knew he was fine when he started to twist and struggle against her grasp. She released him and he began rocking. She looked up to Mortimer standing next to them, wringing out his long, matted hair.

Thank you, Mr. Creedly, Gabriella said.

Mortimer Creedly said nothing as water dripped from his hair. It was hard to read his expression with his face lost under his beard, which was as unkempt as the hair on his head. He resembled a shaggy dog more than any human she knew, and like a dog, he suddenly shook his head and body, sending a spray of water over them. Gabriella would have thought it rude had she not already been soaking. She swallowed an awkward lump in her throat and tried to think of something else to say when Mortimer spoke.

He’s not right is he, like, in the head?

It was an ironic question, Gabriella thought, since the entire village knew of Dameon’s idiosyncrasies, but the fact that Mortimer did not was no surprise to her. He lived a solitary existence. He had no real home but could be glimpsed sleeping under bridges or the docks when he was not off in the woods hunting and trapping. It was not lost on Gabriella that her brother, an outcast, had just been rescued by another outcast.

No, she said, choosing her words carefully. Dameon is . . . different.

Mortimer Creedly looked at her. His eyes were the sharpest blue she had ever seen, and a great contrast to the rest of his dirty, bedraggled appearance.

You’re his sister, he said. A statement, not a question. Was there a note of accusation in his voice, or was it just Gabriella imagining things, her conscience playing tricks on her? He said nothing more except for a loud, Humph, as if disappointed in something about her, before he turned to jump back into the water and swim over to the patch of grassy bank just below the bridge. Gabriella now noticed his crossbow and a pile of pelts he had been washing in the stream. On land again and lacking all modesty, he began to remove his wet trousers and wring the water from them. With Mortimer gone, Eloise came to her side, helping her up, tsking in the trapper’s direction.

Mortimer Weirdly. She called him the name most of the children used for him. So uncouth.

Yes, Gabriella said, shivering, as if Mortimer’s eyes had sized her up and found her wanting. She pulled off Dameon’s shirt, wrung it out, then fought with him to put it back on again. He would be cranky and irritable if she did not get him moving and counting again.

Come on, Gabriella said. Let’s get to the village and see what is going on with that ship.

Chapter 2

The Servior

The ship was already at dock when they arrived, its red sails looming over the wattle and daub houses of the village. The square beside the docks was packed with people, so many that it was impossible to squeeze past them. Gabriella could tell that something was terribly wrong though, for no one was bartering over goods or bickering good-naturedly over prices. Instead the crowds of Harkenites were silent while they strained to listen to what sounded like an argument between two men standing where the cobblestone of the square met the planking of the docks.

Gabriella and Eloise tried standing on tiptoe but even then they were not quite tall enough. Other children occupied all the barrels and crates on the periphery already and all the choice perches in the nearest trees. Eloise had an idea. She motioned for Gabriella to follow her down under the docks. Gabriella pulled Dameon along after her. The three of them walked on the exposed shingle amid smells of rotting fish and waterlogged timbers. Gabriella could tell Eloise knew this path well. Eloise had a way of blending in and hiding in the wide open, a trick of survival Gabriella knew well herself. That her friend could find a secret pathway into the heart of the village did not surprise her in the least.

What did surprise her was the sight of the foreigners, men of wealth and power, attended to by men of war with weapons of steel, not a simple wood club or bone spear among them. They were harsh-looking men, not dressed as sailors but rather as mages with black tunics and trousers beneath velvet, midnight-blue cloaks. Their belt buckles were a dull unpolished metal that did not reflect the light. In contrast to the sobriety of their dress, each wore a necklace with a broken ring upon it, hanging like a golden C against their breasts. These sparkled and shone in the intermittent sunlight.

Their attendants wore boiled leather armor and ring mail shirts. Some wore helmets. Those who were bareheaded had closely shorn hair that revealed tattoos coiled liked snakes around their scalps. Some had bones stuck through their noses and earrings that ran in shiny rows up the sides of their ears. Two of the visitors stood on pointe, in front of the others, just where the docks met the courtyard, halted as if by a sense that they were welcome no further.

Eloise led Gabriella and Dameon up a muddy embankment so they could get a better look. The two men at the lead were a great contrast to one another. One stood tall in a carmine cloak lined in black with what looked like silver lettering, runes, sewn into the border that Gabriella could not read. His skin was smooth and unblemished. He carried no weapon save a short sword with a jeweled hilt.

His companion was shorter, stockier, and wore sleeveless mail. His weapons, a throwing ax across his back and a scimitar on his belt, were nicked and scratched—the marks of many battles. The short man’s face was scarred and pitted, his nose flattened as if broken many times.

Yet, despite their differences, each man’s face—with high cheekbones and wide-set eyes—had a serpentine quality. Even their mouths were wide and thin lipped. Gabriella concluded that they must be brothers or cousins at least.

Chief Salinger stood, along with the elders of Harkness, to greet the visitors. Gabriella felt the heat rise to her face when she realized how close they were to the chief. His stance was wide, his shoulders squared and his chin pointed upwards, the expression on his face one of quiet confidence. He was young for a chief, but in that moment Gabriella saw why he had been elected out of all the Harkness elders: everything about him bespoke leadership.

He is so handsome, Gabriella said, clutching Eloise close to her, still shaking—whether it was from cold or pure excitement she didn’t know—but she did know that whenever she was close to the chief, her head felt as if it were full of wind, her stomach full of feathers, and her heart pounded like a smithy’s hammer.

The man in the carmine cloak introduced himself as Sade, of the Servior. Whether the Servior were a tribe or a state, Gabriella was not sure.Perhaps they are an order of magi, Eloise said.

Shush, Gabriella said, trying to listen. She wrapped her arms around herself, her wet clothes making her cold.

We are here to offer a bid for the land that is for sale on the eastern side of the harbor, Sade said. It was noteworthy that he identified the land this way, for everyone knew which land he meant: the land next to the dark tower, the Tower of the Dead.

This land is not for sale, Salinger said. It is adjacent to grounds that are sacred to our people.

Of course every villager in Harkness knew this. Every soul in the archipelago knew Harkness by its other name: the Isle of the Tower, the tower that stood as a portal between the world of the living and that of the dead. The coins of Harkness were stamped with it. Ships sailed past the mouth of the harbor so crews could take a look for themselves. It was the center of life for those who lived here and legendary in the islands of the Northern Sea. By their accented Oceanic, Gabriella could tell these men were not from the archipelago.

We heard otherwise, Sade said.

At this point a voice called out from the crowd, You heard correctly, my Lord Sade.

Mab Miller, merchant, miller, and owner of the land, stepped out of the wall of Harkenites gathered on the cobblestone to a chorus of boos. A rich man, he normally wore rings on every finger and fat medallions on chains around his neck, but this day he had forsaken the ostentatious and was dressed modestly in skins and furs, like an ordinary Harkenite.

He’s making a show of being indigent, Eloise said.

Gabriella agreed and wondered herself what Mab was up to.

The price is three pounds of gold, Mab announced.

The crowd broke into a fury. Harkenites screamed and cursed Mab for his greed, his disloyalty, his betrayal. A head of cabbage flew through the air and landed at his feet, the leaves spreading out on the cobblestones. Salinger called for silence. His people obeyed.

Mab, the chief said. You know the law as well as I do. A Harkenite might not sell land to foreigners unless the people of Harkness have had one moon to raise an equal amount. If the Harkenites produce such a sum, the land reverts to them.

It is an old law, Mab said.

Because it is old does not mean we shall not follow it. Our forefathers put it in place for a reason, to keep our lands in the hands of our people.

We trade with foreigners all the time. It is the lifeblood of the island.

Not land. Not these lands. Not so close to the tower. Salinger said it, the subject they had really been talking about: the tower and its traditions. No one actually owned the land where the tower stood. It belonged to the people of Harkness, but for generations, they had passed through the Millers’ lands to reach it. There was no other way.

Isn’t it about time that, as a people, we did away with superstitions and old wives’ tales? asked Mab.

More shouts from the crowd. Mab raised his arms to fend off another cabbage, this one brown and rotten. Salinger called for silence again and turned back to Mab, his eyes narrow this time. Careful, Mab, those are your ancestors you speak of, too, said Salinger, making the sign to avert evil.

Mab was not cowed. You have all been fooled by spectacle and fairy tales, he said, flipping his wrist and mocking Salinger’s sign. Fellow Harkenites, I tell you now, such an arrangement, such wealth flowing into this island would benefit many.

It would benefit you! said Tarmac, an elder who was a former chief.

Does not the prospering of one business bring profits to others? Mab countered. More insults followed, but not as many this time. Gabriella knew there were some islanders who did not cling to the old beliefs, who would be interested in doing business with a wealthy partner like Mab. Three pounds of gold would be more riches than all the coin in the village coffers. Mab did not have the entire island on his side, but he might have had enough. Enough that the people fell to conjecture and conjecture led to bickering.

All of this, the brothers of the Servior watched. The shorter one’s expression was unchanged. He studied the crowd the way a fighter assessed an opponent, cold, calculating, searching for weaknesses while projecting strength. Sade, in the carmine cloak, was more relaxed, a self-satisfied smile splayed across his face. Everything about him—his upturned palms, his open stance—conveyed sincere beneficence.

Gabriella felt it to be a lie.

It took Salinger some time before the crowd was again his. Some of the other elders had to join him in the call for order and silence. The people eventually quieted but not before energy rose up among them like the hum of wasps in a nest. Salinger turned back to the Servior, their ship, their weapons, their jewels, all their symbols that bespoke of power, in such contrast to the simple homes and plain dress of the people of Harkness. His voice sounded smaller now, his eyes darting about, unsure. Lords, I beseech a moon of you, as is our custom.

Granted, Sade said. The people of our order are patient. We will wait. He turned to the shorter Servior, the one who could have been his brother and said, Come, Vondales.

Your graciousness is noted, Salinger said as the Servior turned their backs and returned to the ship. The people of our island are devout. We will consult our ancestors.

Chapter 3

Illicaine

The undertaker and his two sons had carried Sade’s mother out of the house, her body wrapped in the sheets from her bed. She had become so thin in those final weeks that the pointed angles of her bones were visible even through the fabric. Erasmus, the landlord, was waiting outside for them and swiped the key from Sade’s hand. Not enough that she couldn’t pay rent for the last six months but now I have to pay for her to be carted away. Turn your pockets out boys.

Sade did as he was instructed, then pulled Vondales’ pockets inside out, for he was crying too much to do it himself.

Not a pence between them. Worthless. I’ll take any animals and the furniture as well, even if it’s only good for firewood.

There is only Bea the mule left, Sade said. They had slaughtered and eaten all the chickens, goats, and the cow. Erasmus took one look at the gaunt old mule with sagging skin next to the barn, cursed, then spat at Sade and his brother’s bare feet.

Worthless, he said again, then gestured to the undertaker and his two sons. I can’t afford three of you. Make the boys here help.

The wiry undertaker muttered something to his two sons and walked off. Sade and his younger brother took up their mother’s feet and helped the other boys, not much older than them, carry her to Skull Point. It was a short walk but a long way to carry your dead mother as a newly orphaned child. The undertaker’s boys walked in silence out of respect for Sade and his brother. Vondales was little help, bawling as he was.

There, there, we’ll be all right, Sade said, even he did not believe it.

The path up to the point was sunken deep into the earth by previous processions so that the four of them moved with the ground near their shoulders. This was not how Sade’s mother had wanted to die, leaving them, with no mourners along the path, no one to take care of her sons. The hillside was bleak, empty, the sky low with dark clouds, and the air wet with the beginning of a rainstorm. Although they were quiet, the two other boys walked at a quick clip so as to avoid the rain. For them, they could not quit themselves of this body soon enough. It wasn’t their mother; it was another job.

They reached the top of the hill. The gray sea opened from one end of the horizon to the other. Sheets of rain were visible on the wind. The undertaker’s sons set down their load. Vondales had snot dripping from his nose. Tears ran down his face. One of the undertaker’s sons began to take stones from the cairn at the end of the path and set them in the sheet while the other wrapped the body tightly in string. Sade pulled the sheet aside, just to see their mother’s face once more.

It looked like her and didn’t. It was their mother, but as she looked in those final weeks as the wasting disease had taken her, hallowing out her cheeks, deepening her eye sockets, turning her hands into an old woman’s. Her lips were purple, like a drowning victim’s. Her oily unwashed hair stuck to the side of her face. She would want them to remember her differently. Nonetheless Sade stared at her until the undertaker’s son closed the corners of the sheet over her and pulled the ends of the string tight. Both of the undertaker’s boys stood at either end of the body, looking back and forth between Sade and his brother.

Any words, the older one said to Sade. Sade realized that was supposed to happen now. Someone was supposed to say some words over the body as it was thrown into the sea. But an emptiness as immense as the gray ocean below opened up inside of him. He found no words. He simply shook his head no and swallowed the shame of it. The young men carried her to the cliff’s edge, swung her three times between them, and let her go into the sky where she floated just before she disappeared over the lip of the earth.

Vondales sobbed anew and the sound was like a knife to Sade’s heart. He began to cry as well, both of them weeping into the other’s shoulder. Sade thought that he felt one of the other boys pat him on the back as he passed. He welcomed the touch, any touch, any sign that this world was not empty of love. But when he looked up, the two boys were already down the hill. The tap between his shoulder blades had just been a fat drop of water as the rain began to fall.

Sade knew he had to get Vondales somewhere warm. Their mother had been shunned for her illness and it had been long since any neighbors had spoken to them. So none of the cottages or farms nearby were an option. It was a longer trek, but Sade decided their only recourse was their uncle Micael. With a black disgust enveloping his already sorrow-filled heart, Sade put his arm around Vondales and started walking him, like an injured soldier, down the hillside, away from their mother, towards their drunkard of an uncle.

The journey took the better part of the day. They wandered deep into the interior of the Illicaine Island. They were far from the smell of the sea and the frigid ocean, but there was no escaping the rain. It fell on them every step of the way, turning the road into a sloppy, muddy mess. Their clothes—already too thin for the season—become stuck to their bodies, their shoes became bricks of mud. Both Sade and Vondales’ teeth chattered and their limbs shook from cold and lack of food. Sade could not remember the last time they had eaten. His stomach was a pit of pain. He knew Vondales was not much better. Outside the third and last village they passed they found some dandelions just starting to bloom on the edge of a meadow. They ate the flowers which had a bittersweet taste, but they were far from satisfying. Vondale’s lips were blue and his face pale. It was as if he were taking on the visage of death that their mother had worn.

I want to sleep, he said.

No, Sade replied, a tremor of worry passing through him. We’re almost there.

Vondales struggled behind him, Sade goading him along the forest trail that led to their uncle’s cabin. His heart swelled with hope as they approached the home and he saw smoke billowing from the chimney. But Sade knew better than to assume they were welcome.

There were reasons that mother and brother were not close. Their uncle had the gift of weather magic and had been a weather worker in his day before he had lost himself completely to drink. A wagon with a broken axle sat surrounded by dead leaves and weeds in the yard. Piles of hay rotted near the chicken coop, which was covered in a patina of white droppings from sickly looking birds. The uncle’s mare, Crystal, looked as forlorn as they, standing in the mud and rain, her ears drooping. She was an old horse and the fact that she knew the way home was the only reason her uncle had made it back from the taverns most nights. A crude canopy strung from nearby trees covered the only instrument in the yard not lost to rust and decrepitude: a still for fermenting alcohol. A small pyramid of empty jugs sat beside it, waiting to be refilled.

Sade knocked on the door then stepped back off the porch. A dog barked from inside but there was no answer. Smoke continued to billow out of the chimney so he knocked again, louder this time, calling his uncle’s name. After several minutes, finally Sade hear the cursing and shuffling of feet that meant he had roused his uncle Micael from his stupor. The door swung open and his uncle peered out at them.

He was equal parts face and beard, the hair matted and stained yellow around the mouth and nose. Hair grew so high up on his face that it was difficult to tell where the beard stopped and the hair from his head began. His left hand shook as it rested on the door handle, the right hung down at his side, a finger looped through the handle of a clay jug.

On the wall behind him were empty shelves. Once they had held the tools of his craft, spell books, talismans, compasses, and wands. But they stood empty now except for a few crumbling books. The best of his possessions had all been traded away for spirits. He smelled of sweat and mildew. Sade thought he saw black patches of mold growing on the hem of his coat—it was a weather worker’s coat lined with pockets outside and in, but most were turned out and empty.

The house stank, but Sade could also feel the warmth of the hearth fire on his face. While his uncle stared at him, blinking his eyes without recognition, Sade spoke. Uncle Micael, sir. It’s Sade and Vondales.

You pips, he said, his crooked yellow teeth showing as his lips curled. What do you want?

Mother is dead.

Micael took a long swig from his bottle, gasped for air, then said, I’d heard she was ill. So what do you want?

The landlord turned us out. We’re hungry and have nowhere to go.

Their uncle looked them over and instead of inviting them in, stepped outside on the stoop beneath the portico where he was shielded from the rain, and closed the door. His inscrutable face ran through a series of expressions as if balancing a lifetime’s worth of favors and debts left unpaid. Sade was afraid he knew exactly what was coming next.

You should have been my apprentice, his uncle growled. You had the gift for magic.

Maybe I can be now, sir.

His uncle sneered. I’m too old for an apprentice now.

Too drunk was the truth of it.

Your mother thought you were too good for me, your own blood.

I assure you sir, Sade said, blinking rain out of his eyes, She just misunderstood you.

Now you’ve come like little rats begging for food and shelter.

Sade wrapped his arm tightly around Vondales and swallowed. Their uncle turned and entered the house. His hound, its fur patchy with mange, remained in the doorway staring. Micael returned with a chunk of stale bread. It was no bigger than Sade’s fist but his stomach grumbled at the sight of it. Vondales looked up hopefully. The dog sniffed at it, only to be beaten away by his master.

You can have this, he said, shaking the bread. But you have to fight for it.

Fight?

Fight. You know, bring your uncle some entertainment. He took another swig from his bottle then sucked in his breath through gritted teeth. Your mother always thought you were too good for me.

I know sir, you said so.

Now all my knowledge has gone to waste, all because she wouldn’t give me an apprentice.

Yes, sir.

What are you waiting for? Fight!

Sade felt Vondales look at him. Please, Uncle Micael, Vondales and I are hungry.

Fight.

Sade let go of his brother and squared off with him, raindrops plunking into the mud between them. His brother was always the stockier of the two of them, but it was muscle more than fat. Sade harbored some jealousy as his younger brother had grown up stronger than he. Sade had inherited the delicate features of his mother, whereas Vondales had the beginnings of the brawn their father had had, at least the few times they had seen him. The only reason Sade still won when they wrestled was from more experience, but Sade had known for a long time that the day was coming when Vondales would realize his own strength.

But now his brother did not look strong at all. His eyes were red from crying and rings darkened the skin beneath them. His hands were balled into fists and shoved under his armpits from the cold. His shoulders shook and his knees were knocking together.

I can’t hit him, Sade thought.

But Sade also knew how hungry they both were. His stomach twisted at the very thought of the bread. Vondales, hit me.

Vondales looked from their uncle to Sade and back. His hair was flat and soaking against his scalp. They had fought, at times for fun, at times in earnest, but Sade knew his brother could find inspiration for neither at this very moment. Vondales went as far as unfolding his arms and holding his fists at his side but his emotions conquered him. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to sob once more.

Girls! Nothing but girls you are. I’ve got two worthless nieces.

Sade tried to encourage his brother, shoving him lightly in the shoulder but Vondales only collapsed onto his rear, still crying. Sade turned to their uncle just as he threw the stale bread into the mud. Sade dove but the hound snatched it up and ran around to the back of the house. Now he and his brother were both on their knees in the mud, Vondales keening softly. Sade looked up just as the uncle slammed the door. He could hear him mutter inside, Pathetic.

Chapter 4

The Tower

Gabriella was shivering as they made their way around the harbor on the wagon road. The villagers had left the square for the tower so quickly that there had not been time to stop and dry their clothes by a fire. Now Gabriella took some solace in the mere fact that they were moving, which was better than standing still and shivering. But if it was bringing any warmth to her body she did not sense it. Instead she was painfully aware of each gust of wind from the harbor and every wet leaf lying in the road.

They found Gabriella’s parents in the crowd along the road. Her mother was not pleased to see her and Dameon’s damp clothes.

Whatever were you doing? she asked in a scornful tone. Gabriella explained what had happened and how Mortimer Creedly had jumped in to save her brother. Gabriella’s mother, Marissa, looked at her father, who rubbed his whiskers with his calloused hand and said, I suppose we should give him a cask of wine in thanks for his heroics.

Mark, Gabriella’s mother said. Drink is the last thing that man needs.

Then we could at least have him over for a meal, he said.

Sure, Gabriella said because she knew she was expected to, but having that man with the penetrating stare and uncouth ways in their home made her uncomfortable.

That would be a proper gesture, her mother said.

They made their way around the harbor, past fields ready for harvest. Pumpkins and squash waited, ripe and colorful and fat. Heads of cabbage had grown to full-size and the corn was high and plentiful. Some farms had already begun their harvests, gathering hay in piles for winter feed. But no one was in the fields now.

Word had reached even those who had not been present dockside when the Servior had arrived. Fields had emptied and homes were shut up while entire families joined the throngs, marching down dark, well worn, paths to observe the ancient ritual at the tower.

The villagers grew quiet as they turned off the road to take the winding trail through the section of land that was owned by Mab Miller.

Gabriella listened to the whispers around her.

Surely he won’t sell.

He’s a greedy man.

The dead will smite him.

What could these foreigners want with the tower?

There was no response for the last question, and it hung unanswered in the silence that grew as they neared the tower. First to change were the trees. The ubiquitous pines of Harkness gave way to Caledonian trees, their leaves blood red with the season. These trees grew along the harbor and were thickest around the shore of the tower. In winter they would look gnarled and twisted without their leaves, like remnants of a forest fire. Yet even in that season the shadows of the trees conspired so that the black tower seemed always cast in darkness.

The loamy soil underfoot gave way to sand, but not the golden grainy stuff of ocean shore with which children built sandcastles. This sand was black as coal and suffocating. Nothing could grow in it, not a sapling, not a single shoot of grass. Children did not play in it, and adults were forbidden to dig in it. Those who had, had found bones, thousands upon thousands of bones.

Gabriella and her family rounded the end of the peninsula, and the tower rose up brooding. It was not tall. The highest conifers of the forest surpassed it. It was brutal in its simplicity. The black stones that made up its walls were irregular and mortarless, stacked tightly upon one another with sharp edges turned outward. There were no crenellations, no merlons or balustrades, only two plain windows and a single cypress door on the harbor side.

The door was locked for the protection of anyone who tried to enter. Only the initiated—those consecrated to the gods and the dead—who were wise in their ways and privy to their secrets could step within. Anyone else who did so would die. Or so it was said. In her lifetime, Gabriella had known no one to test the legend, but stories abounded of others in the distant past who dared to enter and never emerged alive.

The arm of land that held the tower was already crowded with villagers. Some had even rowed across the harbor and waited offshore in boats. Others braved the cold, and removing their boots, sandals, or shoes, stood submerged in the water up to their knees, so determined were they not to be on the periphery of the coming ceremony. Gabriella and her family found a place close to the open ground where the summoning would take place. This suited Gabriella, for although the dancers, once they were possessed by the Gods or spirits of the Dead, scared her, she wanted to be close enough to hear any prophecies they might speak. She moved closer to her father, glad he was there, a head taller than other men, with wide shoulders and large powerful hands. She always felt safer in his company.

As the sun oozed into a red band on the horizon and shadows grew, a novice priestess lit the lamp that indicated the presence of the dead. The village across the harbor and all the houses that lay between were dark. Gabriella had never seen so many villagers present for a summoning before. There were so many that there was a delay as the priests, priestesses, and sanctified dancers had to make their way through the crowd to the tower, which they entered alone in order to prepare. They filed in one by one, ducking beneath the low lintel, their faces drawn and solemn, their footsteps slow and purposeful.

Gabriella wished for expediency for she was growing even colder now that night had set in. Dameon was unbothered. He was keeping to himself, drawing spirals in the sand with a stick. But Eloise’s lips looked blue, and her teeth began to chatter. Gabriella was not much better.

I wished I had changed clothes, she said to her friend as she tried to wring out the sleeve of her shirt.

It’s worse now that we are not walking. Eloise stamped her feet.

A whistle sounded, the note soaring overhead then descending to a lower register, signaling that the musicians were in place and ready. It was the starting note of the ceremony, a flare sent up to the gods to beseech their attention, a stone tossed into a sea of darkness to disturb the boundary between life and death. The drums followed, roaring to life like thunder, their pounding giving a heartbeat to the dead, inviting them back into the world of the living. Above and below, gods and spirits were called.

The dancers, white robes swirling around them, emerged from the tower, a uniform line of motion. The identity of each dancer was obscured by a mask bearing the likeness of the god to whom he or she was sanctified. The dancers were villagers whom Gabriella knew. Everyone knew them, but beneath their robes and their masks they were indistinguishable from one another. A few times Gabriella had thought she recognized a dancer. It was rumored that Chief Salinger’s wife, Mellanye, was a dancer, but no one spoke of it openly. To do so was improper.

Gabriella knew many of the masks. There was Samiel the Sorrowful, a round face, round eyes, and agonized frown; Hydesen the Joyous, who had similar features to Samiel, except for a mirthful, laughing grin. There was Galbrieth—Quick to Anger, whose face was carved with aquiline severity. Dol the Rememberer, with her long thoughtful countenance and narrow pensive eyes. A number of masks passed under the light of the torches that Gabriella did not recognize in the play of light and shadow. Then she recognized Hiban the Seer and Kiuwa the Trickster.

The priests and priestesses in their white robes followed. It was their role to address the spirits when they possessed the bodies of the dancers. Former dancers themselves, they knew the rhythms and rites of the ceremony better than anyone. Only they were allowed to interpret the prophecies provided by the gods or the dead.

Gabriella turned her attention to the ceremony, trying her best to forget the cold that was seeping into her bones. Her muscles felt rigid with shivers. She set her teeth against each other to still their chattering. Eloise was faring better. She had only waded into the river up to her waist and was now standing closer to the offering fire. When she saw how Gabriella shivered, she traded places with her.

Stand here and get warm, she said, positioning Gabriella so that she could feel the warmth of the great fire that the priests had lit and the dancers circled.

Their arms and legs gave shape to the rhythms of the drums, the whistling of the flutes, and the bellow of conch shells. The seal skin drums, the bone flutes, the shells, all instruments fashioned from dead creatures pressed to warm flesh to give them life once more. The musicians played in unbroken unison, the sound of their music shaking Gabriella’s chest, altering her consciousness so that she felt as if her spirit might leave her body to let something, someone take its place.

Gabriella.

She turned, thinking Eloise had called her name, but her friend’s attention was fixed on the dancers, her hands clapping out the rhythms of the drums. The line of dancers swooped around the fire, undulating and swerving, an eel circling an urchin of fire. Suddenly one stepped out of line, then another as their bodies trembled under the weight of the spirits that were not their own.

The gods were coming.

There were fourteen dancers, one for each god. At most ceremonies, it was customary for three or four dancers to become possessed by their gods. Once the god had mounted them, they could call forth spirits of the dead to inhabit the bodies of the other dancers. Then the living could make requests of the dead, and the dead could answer, granting the request if they were satisfied with the offering made—usually wine, fish, or wheat thrown into the offering fire. But this night was different. The entire line of dancers splintered, and everyone was being mounted. Kimba of the Rain, Asaka of the Harvest, Airre’Soleigh of the Hearth—all settled into those sanctified to them. The drummers struggled to keep up, each one trying to follow with the rhythm preferred by each deity. The jumble of beats made for an overwhelming sound. Gabriella’s ears fluttered and her mind felt as if it, too, were shaking with the throbbing of the drums.

Gabriella.

Or perhaps she was just shivering. She moved closer to the fire, as close as she could without getting caught up in the swirl of the dancers. Soon even the fourteenth dancer was mounted by Savay-Mael, the Speaker, the oldest of the gods. The music of the instruments grew louder as the crowd became silent.

Savay-Mael rarely made appearances, and when she did, she spoke for all the gods and the dead. Her mask was that of a serpent, her symbol a snake biting its own tail, a sign of her own infinitude. Her priest, whose staff bore the same symbol, rushed over to attend to her as the dancers on either side of her grew completely still, in reverence to the ancient deity amidst them.

Savay-Mael took on the posture of an old bent crone. Her voice from behind the mask sounded strange and other worldly, tired, and full of whispers.

My people, she breathed.

The priests and priestesses knelt down. The music went silent. The villagers followed suit and settled their knees into the sand. It was a full summoning. Every god was present. Nothing like it had occurred in a generation. Gabriella felt her own stomach flip as she fell to her knees.

Gabriella.

She shook her head. The cold was getting the best of her. She wondered if the ceremony would last longer because it was a full summoning. She was not sure she could endure it. She looked at Eloise and Dameon, but neither was in as much distress as she. Gabriella’s hands shook, and her head hurt as if a metal band were fastened around her temples and was tightening.

Gabriella.

She must have been turning feverish. Her skin tingled. The priests, busy with their gods, had let the offering fire die down. Gabriella could barely feel its heat now. Her clothes felt like a heavy icy blanket. So focused she was on staying close to the fire that she was startled when the high priest spoke out, beseeching the gods for their wisdom. Savay-Mael hissed, cutting off his elaborate greeting, her sibilant voice cascading chills down Gabriella’s spine.

What do you seek? Savay-Mael asked.

Counsel, oh most revered one, the high priest continued, his hands shaking on his staff. A group of foreigners, men who call themselves the Servior seek the lands about this very tower for what reasons we know not. The owner of the land will grant the sale if we cannot raise the amount. It is a great sum, greater than all our stores on the island. What are we to do?

The crowd waited. Gabriella took a deep breath, but the air felt thin, her head foggy. She thought of all the counsels she had heard sought at summonings throughout her life. Which moons to sail under, which days to plant, which medicines to use for healing, even which man to wed. How many aches and pains had she seen healed? How many happy unions predicted? How could Mab Miller, or anyone for that matter, doubt the gods and their power? Surely the gods would want to keep the doorway wide open to the people of Harkness, to accept their offerings and for the dead to accept their tributes.

The gods will have the answer, they must, she thought.

Savay-Mael stomped her foot and raised her hands in a flourish, her mask agleam with firelight, her eyes dark pools of darkness.

The seller will be cursed and live in infamy if the exchange takes place, she said, the syllables floating over the heads of the villagers like a curse. And the Servior . . . those whom they serve are treacherous.

Abruptly, all the dancers collapsed. Villagers gasped. The priests, caught unawares, scrambled to catch them and carry them back to the tower. Not an instrument played, no one spoke. The only full summoning in a generation had ended—too soon.

Once the dancers and priests had disappeared into the tower, the whispers began. First suspicions fell upon the Servior: they were sorcerers and they had interfered with the ceremony. Had not the gods warned that those whom the Servior served were treacherous? A voice called out to burn their ship. Another man seconded it.

But then Chief Salinger stepped forth from the crowd. In the light of the offering fire he looked regal, trustworthy, and calm. Yet Gabriella could not focus on him. Her mind was a whirlwind. Her ears were filled with the noise of whispering voices, her skin crawling. This was beyond gooseflesh; it was as if hands were grasping for her, drawing warmth and life away from her body. Her vision was darkening. She attempted to pay attention to Salinger’s words, but when that failed, her eyes were drawn to the offering fire.

Gabriella.

Now her body felt rigid as a board, her chest convulsed, and her thoughts were not her own. Images flashed, and she could not tell if she saw them in the firelight or her own mind’s eye. The voices became a chanting cacophony, the music of the ceremony returned to her. Her body felt like it was shaking, not with cold, but with the very cadence of the ceremony. She felt as if she were falling into a trance herself. Her vision faded and her spirit felt as if it were lifting out of her body to wander over the rim of the horizon to distant oceans and continents. Towers filled to their highest windows with treasure dominated the sky. Dragons and carrion birds circled snowy peaks. Ruined cities rested in the laps of mountains waiting for her to loot them from her perch in the sky. She glimpsed Harkness, her own home, her own people, from a gull’s perspective: the island a single emerald on a cushion of blue wrapped in the lace of waves. It was in the palm of her hand like a baby bird fallen from the nest, so fragile, so precious.

Her self was finally pushed aside. Her mouth opened for a voice to come out that was not her own.

Chapter 5

Uncle Micael

They would die. The truth of it was obvious to them now as their own mother’s passing made clear to them with every door slammed in their faces, every look of derision they earned as beggars in the street. They had eaten nearly everything and anything they had come across: weeds, hay, wads of parchment they had wetted and balled into soggy, bite-size pieces. When they were chased away from the back of a tavern where they had tried to steal scraps and bones, they turned to eating strips of their own clothing.

Relief only came briefly when they would come to a stream and fill themselves up with so much water that their bellies would swell, but even this had worked against them as they had drunk some foul water that left them both with the runs. Weakened as they were, Sade and Vondales trudged onwards, westward across the island to familiar places. There were already new tenants in their old home and when they tried to sleep in the barn they were discovered and run off by the man of the house with a whip. So they found themselves back at Skull Point, overlooking the sea where their mother had disappeared from them forever. There was nothing left for them on this island, this earth. No one came up the hill to rescue them, no one had shown them kindness since their mother had passed. Illicaine was a cruel island and there was an even crueler world beyond its shores. But if there was no place for them on this island, where they had been born and raised, there was no place left for them anywhere. And so they had sought out the familiar, that place where the center of love and life for them had left them.

And they would follow.

Sade held his brother’s hand as they stepped close to the edge. The sea crashed in long rollers on the rocks below. Somewhere below the foam and swirling eddies lay their mother. What waited for them on the other side? Sade comforted himself with the notion that after impact and a brief struggle against the pressure of air in their lungs and the weight of waves, tossing and twisting their bodies, they would know. At best their mother would be waiting on the other side; at worst, the pain stopped.

His brother poised on the edge with him. It was a sunny day but the air was still unforgiving. Sade would not miss that, always being cold. Gulls hung in the wind, calling to one another. How jealous Sade was of them and their ability to persist, to feed themselves, to survive on what little the world provided for them. The birds were so much more suited for the world than they were. The lowest roach and rat were better suited than they were. Sade took in what he resolved was his last breath. He savored the view of the clouds towering over the blue sea, noted the play of white on blue that brought to mind the breakers below. That was enough. That would be his last vision, his last sight. He closed his eyes and waited for his brother to pull them over.

But the tug did not come, much less the rush of salt air, the dizzying sense of vertigo, and the all important impact. Sade focused on the darkness visible behind his eyelids, long after he had taken many more breaths beyond his last. He finally opened his eyes to see his brother looking up to him, eyes large in sunken sockets and hallow cheeks.

I’m scared, Sade.

In that moment, the sun shining on them, the wind playing in the grass at their feet, Sade realized that he was scared, too. More than that, he wanted to live as well. That indeed the world was full of riches, they would just have to take them. Nothing stood in their way but rules, conventions, and what were rules? You couldn’t see rules, couldn’t eat them. But they could be broken.

Sade stepped back from the cliff side and took his brother in his arms. I’m sorry Vondales, I’m sorry. He pressed his face into his brother’s hair. It was redolent and oily but he was at least alive, unlike their mother. And why should she be dead? Why should they, or anyone else be forced to die, especially when it was crueler individuals who lived. What had decency brought their mother and them? Nothing but ruin. Sade realized they had been feeble. It was time to be strong. Time to make their own rules. Like the birds of the sky, like the creatures of the forest. Otherwise they would die.

Tears no longer came to Sade’s eyes but he closed them anyway. He could see the remaining spell books on his uncle’s shelves, the bottle in his hand, the way the