After sending what few warnings she could, she sat to gather her strength. She reached out to Ruse, extending her summons as far as she ever had — the burgeoning puissance nearing from the west called to her but she kept away, knowing it would consume her in an instant. Instead, she decided upon an old water-witch’s trick from her youth: sea-soothing. Like oil upon water, the localized rounding off of rough water. It was simple, easy to sustain, and this would free her to concentrate upon drawing from the yammering waterfall of power coursing through Ruse — potency that would flick her to ashes in a moment’s slip of concentration.
Horrified cries rose but she did not crack open her eyes. Ropes suddenly drew tight about her, binding her to a cabin wall, but she was far gone from her flesh — she rode the shockwave itself as it coursed through Ruse. Above a swelling roar Nok’s voice sounded, ordering more sail. Devaleth worked to gather a pool of calm: a smooth surface like a slick of oil that would ride above the churning froth bearing down upon them. Accomplishing this, she worked now on spreading it to protect as much of the fleet as she could reach.
The roar intensified beyond bearing; nothing could penetrate its ear-shattering continual thunderclap. The Star of Unta suddenly lurched forward, picking up speed like a child’s toy. It struck an impossible forward attitude. A rope’s explosive snap penetrated the roar; boards groaned. Equipment tumbled down the deck, rolling and crashing for the bow. The ropes constraining Develath held her back. Someone screamed, falling forward, rolling along the decking. She fought at the limits of her strength — not to maintain the workings of the Warren, but to hold back the immense forces striving to break through her grip like an enraged bear striking at the thinnest of cloth. If even the smallest fraction of it should squeeze through it would annihilate her and the vessel together.
The Star of Unta now rode a waterfall slope, its angle pitched almost straight down. The crest! We were upon the crest! Devaleth bore down with all her might to maintain the mental contours of the sea-soothing charm. How grateful she was for its simplicity, its time-honed elegance. And we in Mare sneer at these water-witches! They know what works, and do not mess with it!
With another ominous chorus of groanings the vessel heaved itself flatter, falling at the stern. A mast-top snapped, falling with a deck-shuddering crash. Devaleth maintained her concentration, moving now with the wavefront, easing the passage of every vessel she could reach.
Someone was kneeling with her and a wet cloth was pressed to her brow. The coolness and the gentleness of the gesture revived her immensely. She dared slit open one eye: it was the old Admiral, Nok.
‘How did you know that would help?’ she ground through her clenched teeth.
‘A mage named Tattersail told me — long ago.’
She grunted — of course. This man has seen them all.
‘Well done, High Mage,’ he said. ‘I believe we are through the worst. And that was the worst I’ve ever seen. The end of the world.’
‘No. Not the end of the world, Admiral. The end of their world.’
Nodding, he squeezed her shoulder and rose; instinctively, he understood that he’d distracted her enough, and withdrew.
Once the titanic wavefront had swept on far enough — far outstripping the lumbering progress of the vessels — she relaxed. She tried to rise but fell back, tied down. Utterly exhausted, she cleared her throat to croak, ‘Would someone get these ropes off me!’
Sailors untied her and then the Blue Admiral, Swirl, gently attempted to raise her up but she could not move. Her vision suddenly swirled pink and all sounds disappeared. Agonizing pain seized her joints. No! The depth-sickness! It had her! In the panic she’d neglected her protections!
Yells of alarm rose around her as she suddenly, explosively, vomited up great gouts of bile and water.
Ivanr had returned to his weeding. It was heavy work; he’d been away for some time. It was demanding and he was out of shape. How it hurt his chest to bend down!
Someone was following him but he ignored her.
‘Ivanr,’ she called. ‘Your work is not yet done.’
Don’t I know it — just look at the mess of this garden!
‘Your garden lies elsewhere…’
He turned on the annoying voice to find himself staring down at the small slim form of the Priestess. You are dead.
‘And you will be as well if you keep retreating from your duty.’
Duty? Have I not done enough?
‘No. A life’s time would not be enough. The fight is unending.’
I know. He gestured around. You see?
‘Exactly. You are needed. Think of it as… stewardship.’
Someone else can manage that. He bent to his weeding, wincing, and holding his chest.
‘No. It has fallen to you — not because you are somehow special or singled out by fate. It is just that your turn has come. As it came to me.’
He straightened, studied his muddy hands. That I can understand, I suppose. None of this stupid special chosen nonsense.
‘Yes. It is your turn — as it is everyone’s at some time. The test is in our response.’
He slowly nodded, looked up at the sky. Yes. The test is how you answer. Yes. He rubbed his hands together. I suppose so…
‘Ivanr?’ another voice called, this one an old woman. ‘Ivanr?’
He blinked his eyes, opened them to the hides of his tent outside the city, on his bed. It was day. The old mage, Sister Gosh, was leaning over him, the long dirty curls of her hair hanging down.
‘Ivanr?’
‘Yes?’
She sagged her relief. ‘Thank the foreign gods. You’re alive.’
‘I thought you said we wouldn’t meet again…’
She waved her hands. ‘Never mind about that. I was wrong. Now listen, order Ring city evacuated. You must! It is vital! You will save countless lives. Now do it!’
‘Order the city evacuated?’
‘Yes. A great flood is approaching. Call it the Lady’s Wrath, whatever. Just order it!’
He frowned. ‘I can’t say that…’
‘Just do it!’ she yelled.
He blinked, surprised, and she was gone. Guards flew into the tent, glared about. Then, seeing him awake, they fell to their knees.
He cleared his throat, croaked hoarsely: ‘Evacuate the city.’
The guards glanced to one another. ‘Deliverer…?’
‘Evacuate the city!’ He squeezed his chest. ‘It… it is doomed. Empty it now.’
Eyes widening in superstitious fear and awe, the guards backed away. Then they bowed reverently. ‘Yes, Deliverer!’ And fled.
Ivanr eased himself back down into his bed. He massaged his chest. Gods, how giving orders hurt!
*
Sister Gosh straightened from where she’d taken cover from the gusting frigid wind next to Cyclopean stones that anchored an immense length of chain, the links of which were as thick as her thigh. The huge chain extended out across a wide gap of water between the tips of two cliffs, the ends of a ridge of rock that encircled a deep well that was supposedly bottomless. The Ring. Metal mesh netting hung from the chain — a barrier to anything larger than a fish.
She studied the rusted gnawed metal of the chain, pulled a silver flask from her shawls, up-ended it in a series of gulping swallows then shook it, found it empty, and shrugging threw it away. She set both hands upon the final link and bent her head down to it, concentrating. Smoke wafted from the iron and a red glow blossomed beneath her hands.
‘It’s just you and I now, Sister Gosh,’ someone said from behind her.
Sighing, she turned to see Brother Totsin, the wind tossing his peppery hair and the tatters of his frayed vest, shirt and trousers. ‘Thought you’d show up.’
‘The Lady is with me, Gosh. I suggest you join as well.’
Sister Gosh sighed again. ‘The Lady is using you, fool. And in any case, she’s finished.’
‘Not if you fail here.’
‘I won’t.’
Totsin frowned, disappointed, as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant child. ‘You cannot win. The Lady has granted me full access to her powers.’