Deep Water
Authors: Pamela Freeman
Copyright © 2008 by Pamela Freeman
Excerpt from
Black Ships
copyright © 2008 by Jo Wyrick
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the
U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: November 2008
Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-07343-1
Contents
“So,” Bramble said, “let me see if I understand you.
I have to go to a lake somewhere, use the brooch in some way you don’t understand to do something you don’t understand to
find out the death place of the biggest bastard who ever lived, who died a thousand years ago and whose bones may be irretrievably
lost and who is unlikely to want to help us anyway.”
The silence was heavy with antagonism. Bramble and Safred stared at each other.
“It’s the only way,” Safred said at last.
“Hmm,” Bramble said.
Safred looked at her. “There is a risk… some who take such journeys do not come back.”
Bramble bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m good at coming back.” And
then
she would go to Carlion and find the enchanter and kill him.
Praise for
Blood Ties
“Freeman shies away from simplistic morality, building elegantly well-rounded characters.” —
Publishers Weekly
“Freeman has crafted a rich and magical world where insurgency is definitely brewing.” —
Romantic Times
B
Y
P
AMELA
F
REEMAN
The Castings Trilogy
Blood Ties
Deep Water
Full Circle
(2009)
To Stephen and Robert
“T
HE DESIRE TO
know the future gnaws at our bones,” said Safred, the Well of Secrets. “Or so a stonecaster told me.”
Her uncle Cael grunted and kept cutting up the carrots. Carrots, beets, onion and garlic, lemon juice and oil. Delicious.
“Are you going to bake that?” Safred said hopefully. She wasn’t fond of salad, but Cael loved it.
Cael grinned at her. “The desire to know the future gnaws at our bones.”
She laughed, then sighed.
“They’re coming. Send out the word. The girl is badly hurt.” She paused. “They may not get here in time. It will be difficult.”
“Don’t tire yourself out.”
“You’d rather I let her die? Besides, you’ll like her, this Bramble. She’s contrary.”
He grimaced at her but went out to the street to spread the word, as she had instructed. The Well of Secrets sat for a few
moments more, wondering if she had the strength to bring the Kill Reborn back from her second death. The gods were silent
on the matter, although she had asked them, a thing she rarely did. Prophecy was all very well, but sometimes things came
to a tipping point, where the future could go either way, or they came to a person who held the future in her hand, and this
was such a time and Bramble such a person. If the Kill Reborn lived… if the girl Bramble survived… which was more
important? Safred thought that not even the gods knew. What would happen in the next day would shape the future of the Domains,
perhaps of the world, and Safred was as blind to it as — as Cael was.
“Gnaws like a rat,” she said, and laughed so that she would not cry.
“A
SH
! C
ATCH HER
!” Martine shouted.
Ash moved by instinct, kicking his horse toward Bramble’s as she swayed and slid sideways, her eyelids fluttering. He grabbed
her awkwardly, her shoulder hitting his and almost pushing him out of his saddle. He gripped with his knees, but that was
a mistake, because the horse — what was its name? Cam? — took that as a signal to go faster. They started to pull away from
Bramble’s horse, with Bramble still half out of the saddle and Ash’s reins caught up underneath her back. She was not quite
a dead weight, and she struggled weakly, as though she thought Ash was trying to pull her off the horse. Her skin was as hot
as though he were holding a cup of fresh cha.
Bramble’s horse blew out through her nose in disgust and stopped dead, and Ash’s horse stopped with her. They were still badly
aligned, but now he could hoist Bramble back onto her seat. He brushed her wounded arm as he steadied her, and she made a
sound halfway between a moan and a scream, and fainted truly.
He managed to push her so that she fell forward, over her horse’s neck. The arm that the wolves had savaged dropped and hung
straight, and Ash could see for the first time just how swollen it was. The sleeve of her shirt, even pulled back as it was,
cut deep into the puffy red flesh.
The wound, made by a wolf’s claw, was starting to smell, the unmistakable sweet smell of decay.
Martine smelt it too. “The Well of Secrets is her only hope of keeping that arm,” she said. “We’ll have to ride faster.”
They used a shift of Martine’s to lash Bramble to the neck of her horse. Ash was nervous as he did it, because Trine had already
tried to take a few bites out of him, but this time she waited patiently, occasionally turning her head to nose at Bramble’s
good shoulder.
Then they rode.
They had sighted Oakmere, where the Well of Secrets lived, from the top of the Golden Valley mountain pass just before sunset,
and the town had seemed only an hour or so riding away. Ash had thought they would have plenty of time to reach it before
the northern twilight ended. But as they went down into the valley, and then up the hill and down into the next valley, and
the next, they realized that they had been deceived. They had stopped to rest the horses at a stream that flowed icy cold
down from the mountains, but they didn’t dare take Bramble off Trine in case they couldn’t put her on again. They managed
to get her to drink a little water, and Martine made a cold compress for the arm, but it was clearly useless.
“I don’t know how fast we can go without risking the horses,” Ash said with frustration.
“The horses can be sacrificed if necessary,” Martine replied.
Ash’s mouth twisted wryly. “As long as you tell her it was
your
decision!” he said. He had met Bramble only that morning, but he knew already that her horses were like gold to her — no,
not gold, but something more precious. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her one of them was dead.
Martine returned the half smile. “That’s fair. Let’s go.”
Even tied on, Bramble swayed in the saddle. By sunset, she was delirious, muttering about guilt and death and someone called
Leof who had let her go from somewhere, against orders. “Shagging pine trees!” she said suddenly, clearly, then moaned. Ash
felt embarrassed and guilty, as he had when Doronit had made him listen to the secrets of the dead, back in Turvite. He tried
not to listen, but his horse worked best with Trine, so he rode next to Bramble, supporting her, and he felt every word as
well as hearing it.
Martine took their reins and led them both, to leave Ash’s hands free. He trusted her to find the road and set the pace. All
his attention spiraled down to Bramble. He was determined to save her. He had killed a warlord’s man to protect her, back
in the Golden Valley, and he didn’t want that death to be for nothing. If Bramble lived, he would feel better about killing
the man Sully. If she died — he didn’t want to think about the waste of two lives, so he rode and rode and supported Bramble
and prayed to the local gods.
The ride turned into a rhythm of canter and rest and canter. He was blind to the spring beauty of the mountains; deaf to the
wind and the birds and the constant, rushing sound of the streams. All he knew was Bramble’s back under his hands, his own
back screaming in protest at the unnatural pose, his breath and the horses’ drowning out hers. She was breathing in feeble
gasps, as though each breath hurt.
Every hill forced her back in the saddle until she was supported only by the cloth under her armpits and by Ash’s hands. Every
downslope sent her sliding toward Trine’s head, rubbing the inflamed arm and shoulder and making her cry out. She roused sometimes
and blinked vaguely at Ash. He got her to drink whenever he could, but finally she didn’t even react when her arm hit the
saddlebow.
Ash raised his head and stared at Martine in despair. “She’s dying,” he said.
He became aware that it was growing dark. They had ridden through the long hours of twilight and into the night. The horses
were laboring up another slope, a zigzag path that led to a high ridge. They were exhausted. Ash became abruptly conscious
of the pain in his legs and back. His own tiredness almost overwhelmed him.
“It can’t be far now,” Martine said, but her tone was doubtful. She looked pale and her face showed more lines than usual.
She eased her backside in the saddle and winced. “Let’s hope she can cure saddle sores as well,” she said.
It was a good try at a joke, but Ash was too tired to laugh. They plodded up the rise, sure that there would be nothing but
another empty valley in front of them.
There were lights. Below them in the valley, there were lights beginning to shine. One by one they sparked up, flaring gold
and white and yellow until the valley seemed carpeted with stars.
Ash tried to say something, but his mind refused to work.
Bramble breathed more harshly.
“That’s the beginning of the death breathing. It will get louder, and then the rattle will start,” Martine said, her voice
tight. “Go! Go! There’s still a chance!”
They set the horses at the downslope as fast as they dared. Then, Ash gritted his teeth, took the reins back from Martine,
and urged Cam and Trine even faster. If the horses broke a leg, so be it. Bramble’s breathing was coming slower and louder.
He put his head down and pushed the tired horses to their fastest pace. They couldn’t do it for long, but he spoke to them,
as he had heard Bramble doing back in Golden Valley.
