Northlight

 

 

Warmest thanks go to Bonnie Stockman, who rekindled my love of horses, to James Brunet for his insights into the politics of Laureal City, to Sheila Gilbert, my editor at DAW, for encouraging my first attempts at telling this story and being patient while they gestated into maturity,

But most of all, this book owes a special debt to Kung Fu San Soo Grandmaster Jimmy H. Woo, who taught me how to fight and when not to. “You can take my life, but not my confidence.”

Every story contains at least one other story, sometimes in its creation, other times in how the telling affected the writer's life or what came about as a result of the completed tale.
Northlight
is no exception.

My first professional sale was a short story, “Imperatrix,” to the very first
Sword & Sorceress
anthology, edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley and published by DAW Books in 1984. Buoyed by that first sale, I embarked on a novel set in the same world. I created a race of “Weires,” giant silver-coated ape-like creatures that travel between dimensions. I intended to go back in time to the first contact between this race and humans to show how the Weires became devoted to the “Imperial” family, those who could sense the “paths between the worlds.” At least, that was the general notion.

I bumbled through a rambling, disjointed approximation of a novel (which was about my skill level at the time) and sent it off to DAW. To my great surprise, I received a thoughtful and encouraging rejection letter from Sheila Gilbert. Meanwhile, I had drafted another novel (
Jaydium
) and joined a writer's critique group. The group minced no words in telling me what was wrong with the early drafts of
Jaydium
, and I applied myself to the daunting task of learning to write at novel length. Finally, I sent off that book to Sheila and settled in for a long wait.

I continued to write and sell short stories, not only to Marion's anthologies but to other markets as well. By 1990, I had made my first sale to a major magazine (“Madrelita” to
F & SF
). The “Weiremaster” story kept calling to me. Armed with my new skills, I took out Sheila's letter and began revisions. As is often the case, the story took off in directions of its own, until the Weires completely disappeared. How I could lose track of eight-foot telepathic Yetis, I don't know, but between one draft and another, they wandered off into their own world.

I found myself more and more drawn into the politics and relationships of the people of “Newarth” (“New Earth” — I cringe to admit it). I kept adding more and more fore-story, pushing the point of entry farther back in time. My group said it was all very well written and incredibly boring. Kardith (whom you will meet on page 1 of this edition) didn't make her entrance until page 150, but when she did, she set the story on fire.

Two things happened about this time: I slashed those first 150 pages and I lived in France. My family had a rare opportunity to stay in a furnished house in Lyons, an adventure too marvelous to pass up. For the first time since I'd started writing seriously, I had child care most of every weekday, no day job, and very few other distractions. I set up my portable computer and got to work.

“Newarth” metamorphosed into Laurea as Kardith's twisted past pushed the story in new directions. Terricel opened his heart to me as I watched him grow from a young scholar to a visionary leader. The horses, especially Kardith's nameless gray mare, carried me through a landscape I'd never guessed was there. When I stood with Terricel in the northern light, I had no idea what would come next. I just typed as fast as I could, trying to keep up with the unfolding scenes.

By the time we returned to California, I had a solid revision. No Weires, no Imperial bloodlines, just a world full of wonders...and characters I cared deeply about. Even though it was financially terrifying, I folded up my day job to focus on writing.

Three months later, Sheila called me with an offer for
Jaydium
. I couldn't have dreamed of a more perfect affirmation that I was on my true path.

Here you have
Northlight
, the book I wrote in France, a tale of healing and adventure and some very cool horses. It came before and after that breakthrough first sale. I'm glad it stuck with me long enough for me to make it the best it could be.

As a final note, the book is dedicated to my kung fu teacher, Jimmy H. Woo. Jimmy brought
kung fu san soo
to the United States, and schools run by his students and their students still carry on this marvelous tradition. Many of the techniques Kardith uses are based on moves I learned in
san soo.
(Not, however, the crazy leap.) Jimmy passed away while I was in France.

Deborah J. Ross

Boulder Creek

2011

Scaling the final hill was like climbing into a sea of ice. Up and up we went, one shivering, dogged step after another, woman and mare. My fingers had gone numb, laced in her mane, and I could no longer tell if she pulled me along or the other way round. I envied her, with no thought but to keep going.

As we neared the crest, I squinted up at the sky, as white and airless as if some vengeful god had sucked it dry. I reminded myself there were no gods here in Laurea, vengeful or otherwise.

The mare plodded on, head lowered, one ear cocked toward me and the other flopping, snapping at a sucker-fly without breaking stride. Her neck and shoulders were so wet they looked black, the dapples hidden under flecks of foam. Suddenly her head shot up, ears pricked. She snorted and lunged forward, nearly yanking my arm off.

The next moment, I stood on the crest of the hill, sweating and shivering at the same time. As far as I could see stretched green and yellow patches of wheat, barley and hybrid oats, all outlined by orange bug-weed. A farmhouse flanked a silo, pond, and vegetable plot. The mare nickered, scenting the ripe grain.

On the horizon, a line of trees marked the river. Serenity, it was called, typical dumbshit Laurean name. The trees looked blue from up here and I could almost see the smaller tributary snaking in from the northwest. Where it dumped into the Serenity, colder than winter snot, the trees bunched as if they'd scrambled up on each other. Buildings hid among them, glass and rock as pale as weathered bone.

Laureal City. Back on Kratera Ridge, I thought I'd never see it again. Now I remembered the streets, so smooth and flat, the rows of trees in flower and fruit at the same time. The courtyards with their fountains and gardens, set between angular geodesics or inside tall, square houses where a dozen families might live together.

I remembered standing in the Starhall with the other Ranger candidates. Pateros hearing my oath, just as Guardians have heard Ranger oaths for hundreds of years. The light in his green-gold eyes and the grainy softness of his voice as he talked about beginnings and moving beyond the past. But it didn't sound like the usual Laureal wishcrap. It seemed to me the demon god of chance had finally turned my way and smiled.

I remembered too much.

The gray mare shook her head and stamped one hind hoof. The metal shoe clicked against a stone buried under the trail dust. By now I'd stopped sweating, but I was still shaking and my hands hurt. I opened my fingers and pulled free of her mane. My right hip twinged as I mounted up and swung my leg over the rolled sleep-sack and saddle bags. I let my body sway with the mare's east gait and my lower back popped and felt looser.

The gray mare tucked her hindquarters like a cat and started down the hill, reaching and sliding in the loose dirt. She was Borderbred from the wild hills between Archipelago and the Inland Sea, the best horse I ever owned. I spent a year's pay to buy her rough-broke, then started her gentle all over again. The first thing I did was take that Mother-damned bit out of her mouth...

Listen to me, nattering on to hide how scared I am.

Me, Kardith of the Rangers. Scared.

I don't scare easy. The Rangers still talk about “Kardith's Leap” as if I were some kind of hero. Six or seven years back, three of us got jumped by a pack of hothead norther kids out for their manhood blood or shit like that. That was before the northers came looting and burning clear past Brassaford until General Montborne's army stopped them. There was Derron, just made Captain, and me, and a blustery man named Westifer who didn't make it back from Brassaford alive.

I'd unhorsed one norther kid, vaulted on his pony's back and wheeled around, trying to spot the breaker. Not the leader — the breaker. The heart of them. Not the big one screaming orders. Take him out and some other damned fool will jump up and do the same. But kill the breaker and all you've got left is a bunch of solo heroes.

There he was — a skinny kid who had not got his growth yet, the only sane one of the bunch. Edging toward Westifer, who was down on his knees in the freezing mud. I booted the pony into a gallop, drew my long-knife and stood up on the saddle pad.

Westifer was about half a second from explaining his sins to the father-god. I leapt for all I was worth. Landed splat on top of the norther kid. He twisted out from under me, grabbing for leverage. I shoved my knee hard into his balls. His grip went slack for just an instant, long enough for me to whip the knife around. He let go just as I nicked his face, high on his cheekbone, a nasty cut that would leave a scar. Then the yellow-haired kid galloped by and scooped him up and they all bolted out of there.

“Wolf-bitch,” Derron said to me back at camp, “isn't there
anything
you're scared of?”

Not what gives him nightmares, that's sure. Norther steel, a quick death or a long bloody one, it's all the same to me. The twisted places on the Ridge you can't quite see but can feel on the back of your neck, the nameless things that came snaking into your dreams. He was right, they didn't scare me.

Going back empty-handed without doing what I'd come to do, that scared me.

It was past dark when I reached the city and I'd mostly shoved my ghosts back into their graves. I let the gray mare pick her own pace and browse in the grain fields along the way. I couldn't take her into the city, and besides it was too late to do anything more today. I was tired, bone tired.

The trail broke into part-cobbled roads, warehouses, and stock pens of smelly brush-sheep. Blue Star Stables had a big dirt yard, raked clean and smelling of sweet alfalfa, a barn on one side and a house on the other, solar lanterns hanging above the door. I caught the familiar sounds of stamping and hay-crunching.

I swung down and dropped the reins and the mare stood as if I'd tied her. I rapped on the house door. For a long time I heard nothing, just the soft
pat-pat-pat
of moth wings against the lantern glass and the animals settling down in the barn. The mare sighed and tipped one hind hoof. The shadows made her flanks look hollow.

Heels clicked on a bare wood floor and the door opened. A big-handed man, clean, no smell of drink on him.

“You got room?”

“Sorry, I'm full up.” He stepped down into the yard. He was no fighter, that was sure, but there was something about the way he moved through the darkness... He held the shadows close, as if he belonged to them instead of the open yard. This man had secrets, I thought, or maybe it was my own I was seeing in him.

“You know how it goes,” he said. “Noon today I was empty except for the rental stock and a few head for sale. Then suddenly everybody's either coming or going. You could rub your mare down, feed her and tie her in the yard here with a blanket, but if she were mine, I'd get her a decent box indoors. It'll be cold tonight.”

The mare butted her head against my hip, rubbing the places where the dried sweat itched. I liked it that the stableman hadn't tried to touch her. He wanted to. He knew horses and his eyes were hungry on her.