Full Circle (45 page)

“Flax?” she whispered, and then ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. She pulled back, shaking him. “I told you to stay
out of trouble! I told you to be careful!” Saker felt his heart skip a beat, but it wasn’t a lover’s voice she used as she
scolded him. “You went and got yourself
killed
!” Her brother, maybe? She began to weep, hands covering her face, and the boy patted her on the back, a curious expression
on his face, a mixture of pity and consternation at the tears.

Saker noticed an older woman, dark hair showing clearly despite her paleness, staring intently at Zel and Flax, but standing
away from them as though she didn’t have the right to come closer. She seemed to hesitate, then turned and walked to the back,
losing herself in the crowd.

Saker forced himself to look away from Zel. The important thing was that they had more than enough ghosts to break Turvite’s
defences. Perhaps not all of them would join in, but that didn’t matter. They were invincible.

Alder began organising the ghosts who had come to Turvite into groups, to march down the hill to the city. Owl gathered the
new ones who had welcomed Saker’s words, and directed them to Alder’s groups, which were swelling rapidly.

They would take the groups down and the force of numbers would overwhelm the protective spell. The other ghosts could wait
here.

Flax looked across and realised what was happening. His face, so soft before, firmed and he looked older. He moved away from
Zel, searching for others in the crowd. He found an older man, a couple of young ones. His face lit up when he saw Oak, and
he went towards him enthusiastically. Then he saw that Oak was one of a group preparing to fight — checking weapons, settling
knives in belts. He shook Oak’s arm, but Oak stared at him stonily and drew his belt knife. Flax backed away.

He moved into the crowd. Saker watched him closely; he didn’t know why, but his Sight was telling him that Flax was important.
Zel was watching, too, and her face was unreadable. Flax approached the young officer they had bled to death. They faced each
other. Flax pointed at the city, and shook his head. The officer spread his hands — they were empty, of course, because he
had not died fighting, with a weapon in his hand.

Flax made a motion dismissing that as an excuse, then turned and marched towards the path down to the city. He stood on it,
feet planted, and stared challengingly at the officer, and at the other ghosts who were not joining the groups. Saker couldn’t
believe it. This boy had been killed by the warlord’s men only days ago! He should have been hungry for revenge. Why was he
siding with the Turviters?

Other ghosts were joining him. A tall beautiful blonde woman in ancient dress, who stood next to Flax and regarded everyone
with a calm eye. The scraggy old woman, the tall red-head and her husband, the maid, a girl leaning on a crutch, and others,
following them, seeming to realise that they had a choice of who to support. They stared at Saker with varying expressions,
a mixture of disdain, hatred, and fear.

He wished, agonisingly, that he could talk to them properly, and have them talk back. That he could explain everything, so
that they would understand, and respect him, and join him.

Owl and Alder, occupied with readying their troops, realised what was happening too late. The path was blocked by a solid
phalanx of ghosts, of all sorts and sizes, Traveller and Acton’s people alike, standing ready. More joined them, including
the young officer. Although their numbers were not large, there were too many for the path, so they spread out along the ridge,
forming a half-circle of resistance.

Flax looked at Zel, and motioned her to join him, but Saker reached out and took her hand tightly. She made a movement towards
Flax, but stopped. Her hand tightened around Saker’s, and he was filled with a warmth he’d never known before.

Alder snarled at Saker as he pushed past him to confront the newcomers. For once, Saker was glad the ghosts could not talk.

The sun was lowering. Saker was overcome with impatience. They had to act now! Or it would be too late. He didn’t know why
he was so sure — it wasn’t Sight, not as it normally felt. It was something else, some animal sense that told him they had
very little time left.

“Push them aside,” he said to Owl. “Don’t hurt them.”

Owl laughed at him. Then he took a step forward and swung his battleaxe straight at Flax. Zel cried out and leapt forward,
pushing Owl to the ground before the blow could connect.

Flax dragged her upright and pushed her back to Saker, making shooing motions with his hands as he might have shooed chickens
back to roost. He was right, Saker thought. Zel was one of the few who could be hurt. One of the few still left alive.

Owl stood up, his face contorted with rage, and raised the axe again.

“Stop!” Saker said. This time he put power into it, and Owl, thank the gods, stilled with his axe high, then slowly put it
down, resting the blade on the earth.

“Fighting each other will not help,” Saker continued. But Alder turned to him and took him by the shoulders, shaking him.
Shaking his teeth loose in his head, making his neck feel it was about to crack.

“Someone’s coming from the city!” Zel shouted. Saker followed her to a vantage point. The ring of new ghosts parted to let
them look down.

There was a party coming up the path: the leader, a small blonde woman, carried antlers, a symbol that warlords had used for
centuries in the borderlands between domains, to show that they were a hunting party, not a party of war.

“Someone’s coming up this way, too!” a man shouted from the back of Alder’s group. “A man and a Traveller woman — they’ve
got a ghost with them!”

Saker relaxed. More recruits. He looked down the hill again. There were warlords in that band — he recognised Thegan, from
Sendat. How dare he show his face! And others — Merroc, from Far South; old Coeuf, from South. There were women, too, and
a handful of officers.

They would want to negotiate. To save their city. But they had chosen badly, if they thought he would negotiate with Thegan
— with any of them! Sendat had shown there could be no peace, no justice, no surrender.

He could feel that the ghost coming up the other side of the hill was the last one, that the spell was finally ending. He
glanced over and saw the ghost, a big man, flanked by a Traveller couple, step onto the plateau.

The spell faded away. Then the world shook beneath him.

A
S THEY
climbed the hill, Bramble was aware of a great hissing murmur. The ghost army couldn’t talk, but the noise of their movement
was like the noise of the sea on a calm day.

Acton looked out over the plateau. It was filled with ghosts, and they had spilt into the market gardens below as well. Thousands
upon thousands.

“They are opposing him,” Baluch said thoughtfully, pointing to a group blocking the path to the city. “They are refusing him
access to the town.”

Acton wasn’t listening. He was still looking down, his face stricken. He gestured widely, to include all the ghosts, then
tapped his own chest and looked at Bramble questioningly, pleading.

“All your fault?” Bramble asked. She paused. What should she say? What did she truly believe? It was hard to find the right
words. She had tussled with this herself: how could she love a killer? Unless she accepted that she, too, would have fought
and killed and invaded, if she had been him. But although she loved him, could finally allow herself to accept him as he was,
that didn’t mean he had been blameless.

“Some are not your fault. The ones Hawk killed. The ones that someone now has killed. But there are others. River Bluff. T’vit.
More. You invaded, and you killed, and you took. I accept that Hawk had to die, if only to rescue Wili. But after that — after
that you just took what you wanted, because you wanted it. Because you wanted a harbour. Because you wanted to go to sea.
Because you thought a death in battle was a good death, but it’s not. It’s just death.”

Tears were riding down his cheeks, and he bowed his head as though accepting her judgment. Bramble looked away from him, and
once she had she couldn’t look anywhere else but at Maryrose, who was staring down the enchanter’s forces with disdain. Bramble’s
heart was flooded with warmth and she felt her hands loosen from fists.

“He’s called them all,” Bramble said, finding her voice, fighting tears. “He’s said the wrong words, and called everyone who
died because of the invasion.”

Acton pointed and she looked and saw another group of ghosts forming — warlord’s men, and by the way they were behaving, they
knew each other. Men Saker’s army had killed, perhaps. They’d died with weapons in their hands, so they had swords and pikes
now. They began to make their way across the headland towards Saker, swords drawn, a wedge of order in the throng. They were
going to attack.

Acton ran onto the plateau, straight for Saker, grabbing a sword from another ghost as he passed. Baluch ran after him.

Bramble took a few steps after them when something under her feet shifted, putting her off balance. Then the gods cried out
to her:
Help us!
And she fell to the ground as it seemed to shake beneath her. The force of the cry was so great that she began to crawl back
down the slope, to get to them. They needed her.

She scrambled back to her feet and looked down to the harbour below, the quickest way to the altar from here. The ships were
bursting into flame, the harbour boiling with water spirits. The mob that had clamoured to get onto the ships now scrambled
to get off, pushing and shoving back along the docks to the city. The entrances were now held by warlord’s men, and they were
ruthless; they chopped down anyone who tried to break the barricade.

The only other way into the city was to cross the plateau through the army of ghosts.

She turned back to the headland. Below her, Acton was fighting off a group of warlord’s men, standing in front of Saker like
Lady Death herself. She ran down, pushing the cold bodies of the ghosts aside as she went, so that it felt like she was running
into winter, her veins freezing moment by moment. It was hard to run away from the city — the call of the gods was still drawing
her, pulling her hard.

As she ran, she shouted. “Don’t kill him! We need him! Don’t kill him!”

She heard Baluch’s voice added to hers. “The Well of Secrets says not to kill him!”

Those were words of power. When she reached the enchanter, the two sides had stopped fighting and were facing off. Baluch
stepped between them and Bramble wished hard that Ash were there, to let Acton speak for himself.

“The Well of Secrets,” Baluch said slowly, looking at the ghosts of the warlord’s men, “has told us to keep him alive until
she gets here.”

The leader was a young officer, very young, with only a small wound, a cut on his arm. He gazed at the enchanter and at the
ghosts around him with absolute hatred. The officer sheathed his sword and motioned to his men to do the same. But he stood
his ground, as though merely waiting for permission to attack.

The enchanter turned to Acton. “I thank you, sir,” he said formally.

Bramble was impatient. She had to get back to the altar in the city. But the pressure to return to Turvite suddenly lifted,
as though the gods no longer needed help. Or had found it elsewhere.

Ash, Bramble thought, taking a deep breath. Martine. Maybe Safred. She relaxed a little, but it didn’t feel as though the
crisis was over; the gods were not shouting in her ears but they were still distressed.

Maryrose smiled down at her. Touching Acton had been horrible, but she couldn’t help it: she threw her arms around Maryrose,
ignoring the burial cave scent and the cold, cold skin. Maryrose hugged her. Stroked her hair. And for a moment, just a moment,
everything stopped. They were at the centre of the world, the centre of life itself. But her body rebelled against the chilly
embrace, and she shivered, the movement bringing her to the here and now.

Bramble pulled back and blinked tears away. “We’ll solve this,” she told Maryrose. “And then you can just wait for me, so
we can go on to rebirth together.”

Maryrose nodded seriously, her eyes approving. Bramble felt a familiar warmth grow under her ribs; only Maryrose had ever
really approved of her. Maryrose and Acton, maybe.

When she moved up the ridge to get a better view of the city, her gaze was drawn by an odd movement in the sky. She gasped.
Wind wraiths were streaming towards the city from out at sea, a long arrowhead of wraiths heading straight for them. They
had a long way to come, but they were so
fast
. Bramble had never seen them before, but she knew immediately.

Wind wraiths, fire spirits — Tern’s compact was crumbling. That was why the gods had cried out.

Bramble grabbed the enchanter by the shoulder and spun him around. “Look what you’ve done!” she cried, pointing to the sky.
“The compact is broken apart!”

He paled and took a step back, as if to run from the wraiths, then stood his ground. “I did nothing to the compact,” he said.

“Your shagging spell broke it!” she hissed. “Fix it or we’re all dead.”

He stared at her and she realised he was no older than she was, certainly no more than thirty.

“I don’t know how,” he said. He frowned, his eyes unfocusing as she had seen Martine’s do, and Safred’s, when they used the
Sight. She thought to the gods, urgently,
What should he do?
but they didn’t reply.

A
SH AND
Martine kept in the back of the parley group as they walked out of the Moot Hall and up the hill, Ranny in the front with
the antlers. Martine pushed Arvid forward, her hand in the small of his back so unconsciously intimate that Ash stared, and
she flushed. What was it with women and warlords? First Bramble, now
Martine?
He felt like all certainty was crumbling.
Martine?