Jim Baen's Universe

Fantasy Stories

What Sleeps in the Shallows Belongs to the Depths

Written by Julie Czerneda

Illustrated by Kevin Wasden

And so it came to pass, in the third age of the world, that those from the mainland sought once more to conquer the ocean realm. They gathered powerful sorcerers and built ships beyond numbering to carry them. Unstoppable, they sank fleet after fleet, razed island after island of the archipelago until they threatened Circle Cove itself, the very heart of our Blessed Kingdom. All seemed lost.

Until a willing sacrifice of Magic, Innocence, and Hope aroused Her Quiet God from Her Depths. The Three revealed to Him our enemies, and He did swallow them whole. Those few who survived fled back to the tree-infested lands of their birth, knowing the water forever cursed for their kind.

To ensure the safety of the ocean folk for all time, the Quiet God left Her Depths and came to dwell within the arms of Circle Cove, where He will sleep until called upon at our darkest hou~~~

"May barnacles crust your stinking hull," Agnon cursed as latest gentle tremor jarred his table enough so the nib of his pen broke, splattering octopus ink over the rest of what had been pristine parchment, imported, pristine parchment. He looked around quickly to see if he'd been heard. Master Scribe Caienthe was a gentle soul, but even he might be as quick with the back of his hand as any quartermaster if he heard bilge talk in his workroom. But he was alone. The rest of the apprentices had finished their stacks and left for supper. Agnon, the newest arrival, wondered how long it would be before his hand was as swift. Or as accurate.

Maybe he could wipe it. Agnon tried the edge of his sleeve, already spotted from his morning's task of refilling inkwells. The result was more artistic, but the parchment was still ruined. With a sigh, Agnon dropped it to join two others on the floor. At least his stack of perfect copies was shoulder-high. Not that anyone would read them or admire his elegant script. No, each would be rolled and secured with golden thread, by those who could afford it, or clean linen picked from a hem, by those who couldn't. Rare orchids from the Outer Islands would be affixed to each roll, or daisies, for those reliant on the charity of priests. Regardless of presentation, the result would be an offering, to be floated on tiny candle-lit rafts by pious and atheist alike on the upcoming anniversary of the Islanders' supposed salvation.

Agnon stretched and gazed out the broad window that spilled sunlight on his table. The Scribe Hall held a privileged location, a third up one of the elaborate towers carved from the living black stone. The stone itself formed a mountain, curled like a mother's embrace around the deep blue waters of Circle Cove. Its outer surface was composed of bleak, ragged cliffs—clawed by the sea and home only to seabirds. But the mountain's inner surface had been worked and reworked by artisans for generations beyond memory. The result was a city overlooking the cove, footed in gleaming black sand and busy docks, rising in towers terraced with gardens aburst with the flowers its residents loved so well.

The cove itself was an almost perfect circle, its waters rippled only by the traffic of traders and fishers, and the kiss of gulls. The great fleet rested at anchor, its magnificent ships like begemmed toys from this height.

In the distance, Agnon could make out the mist-filled entrance to Circle Cove, wide enough for three galleons abreast and hemmed by cliffs extending out into the ocean like welcoming arms. Or protecting ones. For those cliffs were hollowed as well, home to warrior-priests and their weapons. Rocks were not the least of what they could unleash on any who ventured without permission into the cove.

Or out. Woe betide the merchant who thought to sneak by without paying due tax, or the smuggler attempting to leave with stolen cargo. Not that the spells of dir-priests were lightly used—but the threat of a magical blight on one's ship or crew was usually enough.

Agnon shook his head and pulled another parchment into position, dipping his pen into the inkwell with care. There was more demand than usual this year for copies of the reassuring "Legend of the Summoning." The recent quakes, perhaps. They were more nuisance than anything else—except to his pen nib—but several nights of being shaken awake had begun taking its toll on even the good-natured.

Then, there were the latest rumors, though Agnon put little stock into word that traveled from fisher to dock hand to rock scrubber. Those were prone to embellish a tale with each retelling, loving the sound of their own voices, until what might have been real news was as unreliable as the legend he penned so carefully, over and over again.

The peace-loving P'okukii, who never ventured on the open sea, had somehow built themselves a secret fleet? A race who relied on soothsayers and foreign traders for news of the world, had somehow invented metal hulls and weapons of magical fire? All so they could invade Circle Cove—a place no P'okukii had ever seen in person?

And he, Agnon, was really a prince of noble blood, orphaned by a cruel twist of fate, doomed to apprentice in this craft hall until a raven-haired princess with warm brown eyes and a laugh like the chiming of telltales on a mast fell in love with him from afar . . .

"Agnon!"

The bellow rattled quills in their pots. The young man cringed inwardly, but fixed a pleasant smile on his face before he turned on his stool. "Yes, Master Rathe?"

The master armorer was larger than life in every way, from the unruly mass of black hair sprouting from his squared head to his temper. A temper that hadn't sweetened with Agnon's refusal to apprentice in his hall. Fathers had aspirations for their sons. "Aren't you finished scribbling yet?" Rathe scowled at the parchments so fiercely Agnon half-expected them to shrivel up and burn. "If you've no time to spare for the forge, there's other work waiting."

There always was, Agnon sighed to himself. Those in charge of the craft halls were not merchant princes or of the ten Noble Houses, entitled to servants. And the Quiet God forbid, his father pry loose coin to hire one while he, Agnon, lived at home. "I'll be finished in an hour."

Somehow, Rathe managed to create sufficient wind with his leaving to dislodge the legends carefully stacked beside his son, a minor disaster timed perfectly with Master Caienthe's return. He exclaimed in soft dismay: "Oh, Agnon. Can't you be more careful?"

****

Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with flower petals, twirling downward. At night, the stars were doubled by closer, smaller flames, floating above us to outline the dark hulls of ships.

We had been content thus, to gaze upward through the great lens of our eye into the living magic of this place and see that which belonged here. The great flocks came, silver-sided and swift, seeking the richness of the reef, dancing in the light. Others swam among them, taking as was their need, sometimes just to dance.

But time measures itself in tide and change. They came more rarely, the great flocks and the others. Among the flower petals rained wood and metal, offal and ash. The clarity above our eye diminished. We grew restless and trembled.

If we dream the world, we sometimes wondered, surprised by bursts of fire, or touched by lifeless hands, do dreams end?

****

Two hours, not one, later, Agnon grumbled to himself as he hurried home through the corridors leading deep into the mountain. "Next year," he muttered out loud, "I'll be old enough to move to the men's hall. See if he finds a servant who works half as hard." An urgent low growl from the rock on either side seemed to agree. Agnon waited for the tremor to end, one hand on a nearby tapestry to steady himself.

For some reason, his eyes were drawn to what he touched. Agnon usually ignored the tapestries. The ancient, faded weavings lined all of the inner stone walls, relieving the black and muting echoes, if doing little to add warmth. Living in a cave was living in a cave. Having windows and terraces overlooking the cove was for the privileged—or for those whose work required sunlight and convenient access to both harbor and nobles. Another good reason he'd apprenticed as scribe. His father's armory was located so far inside the hollowed-out mountain only ensorcelled light could be used.

This tapestry, like many others, depicted both those of the land and those of the sea. The Landers. The P'okukii. Their pale skin and paler eyes seemed to glow against a backdrop of storm cloud and wave-wracked ocean. This must be one of the oldest, Agnon decided, carefully lifting his hand from its dusty surface. Then he frowned. The image—it was all wrong. The P'okukii didn't venture on to the sea, yet these were shown on ships. Ships of war. That was wrong, too. Despite their differences, not least the Islanders' amused contempt for anyone afraid of open water, there had always been peaceful commerce between their people. Lumber and metal for fish and rare pearls, grain and fruits for the feathers of island birds and the oil of whales. Agnon couldn't imagine otherwise.

But this? There was nothing peaceful here. The ships in the tapestry were heavily armed, their pale crews grim-faced and ready for combat. Red and silver threads shot across every open space, lines of battle magic, spells of wasting, spells of blindness.

Agnon took a step back, the better to study the strange scene. The legends spoke of a long-ago conflict with those from the mainland, but everyone knew it had been with a mysterious, overwhelming Enemy, beings with the heads and habits of beasts, arms longer than his father's. Teeth filed to points! Not the P'okukii. Yet it was them standing in those ships, so many ships they filled the entire horizon. It was as if an entire people had gone to war. Why?

In the foreground, so low Agnon had missed it at first glance, was the lone ship in opposition to the mammoth fleet, riding sideways up a wave. No warship or galley, this was a sturdy little fishing vessel, better suited to chasing baskers. On her prow stood three figures, dir-priests by their robes, a woman and two men. Their faces were so well-rendered Agnon would have been able to recognize each in real life. Ah yes. He nodded to himself. "The Legend of the Summoning." These must be the ones who cast the Spell.

He leaned closer, amazed by the weavers' skill. One man wore armor, a warrior-priest. Rathe.

Agnon started at the name. He glanced around for who had spoken, but he was alone. Wait. It hadn't been a voice. He'd just . . . known.

He couldn't help looking back at the tapestry. The second man was smaller, rounder, with the stooped shoulders of a scholar or scribe. Agnon. Not his own name, but that of this long-dead priest. And the woman . . . "Skalda," Agnon said out loud.

And the woman in the tapestry turned to look right at him. The faded threads that were her mouth parted in shreds, as if she shouted without sound. Words floated Agnon's mind: What sleeps in the shallows belongs to Her Depths.

Gasping, Agnon stumbled away, then ran for home as fast as his legs could carry him.

****

"Master Caienthe. Master, please. A moment." Agnon followed the old scribe as he wound his way among tables loaded with parchments and scrolls, barely able to resist plucking at his robe to stop him. "I must speak with you."

Caienthe paused and looked down, his expression kind, if harried. "Can it not wait until tomorrow, young Agnon?" His hands fluttered in the air, as if he were a dir-priest able to command the elements. "This is the busiest day of the year. We're so behind. I really don't know how we'll make quota before tomorrow's celebration—"

"Master. Please. It can't wait . . ." Agnon's voice faltered and he swallowed hard. "I need your wisdom. It's about tomorrow—the meaning of the ceremony. The Legend . . ."

"Goodness." His master's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Such weighty matters call for mulled wine. Which also does wonders for productivity, as my own master used to say."

The wine was heady with spice and its heat spread to the outside of the simple brown goblet. Perched on a stool across a table from Master Caienthe, an island of calm within the bustle of the scribe hall, Agnon wrapped his hands around his cup, not ready to sip but comforted nonetheless.

After running from the tapestry, he'd done his chores in a daze. What sleep he'd managed had been troubled by nightmares—visions of being trapped, of being weighed down, of drowning. Drowning wasn't to be feared. It was the way to Her Depths, to eternal life. The bodies of those who died on land were always consigned to the ocean. Yet Agnon had been terrified. When he awoke, he would have asked his father the meaning of his dreams, and to explain away the bizarre behavior of tapestries, but Master Rathe had been summoned to the Armory before dawn and not returned.

For there really was a P'okukii fleet approaching. Maybe the rumors hadn't lied after all.

It had happened before.

Stomach churning, Agnon had waited for his friends before walking the corridor where threads on a wall had spoken to him. The tapestry was still there, but to his astonishment, the warships were little more than shadows, their crews impossible to see. The figures on the small ship were tiny and indistinct, the colors so dim he could barely make them out.

How had he seen more?

"I take it you've heard what's to happen tomorrow, despite the Council's care. Rumors?" Caienthe shook his head as if at himself. "Of course. Your father."

"Yes. The fleet is arming. They sail on the morning tide. Is it—war, Master Caienthe?"

"War?" Caienthe huffed as if shocked, his breath parting the wisps of his beard. "Whatever gave you that idea, lad? Yes, yes, the P'okukii have left their shores for the first time in living memory, which is a startling thing in itself. Just imagine the effort, young Agnon. They had to teach themselves to build suitable ships, let alone learn to use them. River captains and barge crews, taking to the open sea despite their fear. But no matter what you may have heard from unreputable sources," a pause as the scribe scowled meaningfully at his roomful of apprentices, "the P'okukii's purpose is a peaceful one."

"But our fleet sails—"

"As an escort of honor. And a show of might to soothe those on Council who jump at the mere hint the tide's changing beneath their keels." The scribe took a longer swallow of his wine, his cheeks taking on a ruddy glow. "The soothsayers of the P'okukii read portents to guide their people's future. Seems they've learned that by having their ships enter Circle Cove on a certain day—tomorrow in fact—they can prevent a doom. A doom which, I might add, they believe could destroy both our peoples." Caienthe beamed contentedly at his apprentice. "Whether you believe in portents or not, it will surely be a momentous day—the first time ships of another realm have been welcomed into the heart of ours."

"They'll arrive tomorrow?" It was as if the tapestry, with its dire image of warships and pale-skinned crews, hung between them. Agnon took a hasty gulp of his own wine. Sputtering, he managed to gasp: "During the ceremony itself?"

"What more fitting time? The city will be filled with revels and prayer. And parties—"

"They can't!" Agnon half-shouted. Wine spilled over his hands as words spilled from his lips. "The P'okukii were the ones who attacked the Blessed Kingdom in the third age—the Quiet God was Summoned to destroy them. You can't let them into the Cove. They are the Enemy!"

Master Caienthe's kind eyes chilled. "Calm yourself, young Agnon. I think perhaps you've been reading too many legends, instead of copying them."

"No. No, sir." Agnon licked his lips and tried to calm his voice, though he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. "I've seen it, Master Caienthe. I've seen. When I left here yesterday, I passed a tapestry in the hall. Yes, it depicted part of 'The Legend of the Summoning.' But I saw more than the legend—I saw more than what was really there."

The master scribe seemed to become still, the way the waters of the cove could suddenly turn to glass at sunset. "Go on."

"I could see everything. The crews on the warships. I could see their pale skins and eyes. They were P'okukii." Agnon took a deep breath. "More. I could see the faces of the dir-priests who were conducting the Summoning, as clearly as I see yours now. And I heard their names. Rathe, Agnon. And Skalda. Dir Skalda—" He shuddered. "Master Caienthe, she turned and looked at me. She—spoke."

Caienthe's bushy eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Blessed Depths," he whispered. Louder: "What did she say?"

"'What sleeps in the shallows belongs to Her Depths.'" Only words. Yet Agnon felt a cold wash of air, as though the Ocean Herself breathed winter down his neck. "You have to believe me."

His master reached out and steadied Agnon's hands around his cup. "Take a drink, lad. Yes," this as Agnon gave him a desperate look, "I believe you. Dir Segnon, advisor to Council, is my sister. I grew up with visions—though none like yours."

"Visions?" Agnon echoed numbly. "I don't have a gift for magic, Master Caienthe. You know that." He'd been tested at birth, as was everyone. Today's magic might be controlled and contained, but it still required those of inborn talent to utter the carefully composed spells and make them real. Apprentices, called sedir, spent their youth on ships, filling sails with wind and calming storm waves. As masters, they became dir-priests, responsible for the larger and lasting magics. Such lit the innermost reaches of Circle Cove, cured the ill, helped flowers grow. Such went to battle, when necessary, using spells of devastating effect.

None had visions, whispered something deep inside Agnon. Not any more. Those belonged to that dangerous, unpredictable power of the past. Forbidden until forgotten. Lost. "I thought the Old Magic was gone," he protested.

Caienthe glanced around once, as if to be sure they were out of earshot of the others in the hall. "No," he said, his gaze back and steady on Agnon. "Never gone. It remains in the world, a temptation only to those willing to pay any price for power." He reached inside his robe and pulled out a roll of parchment. The brown, brittle edges marked it as older than any here. It was tied with what appeared to be strands of brown hair. The scribe held it between his hands with reverent care, but didn't open it. "This is also 'The Legend of the Summoning.' An older, less comforting version. They say it was been copied through the generations from the account of the very captain who took his ship and passengers over Blood Reef."

The Ocean sighed over Agnon's neck, again sending chills down his spine. Blood Reef. The home of the Quiet God. The young man strained to comprehend what Caienthe was saying, knowing it was important, if not why.

"It tells how the Great Spell used to arouse the Quiet God wasn't from the safe, tame knowledge of the dir-priesthood. It was Old Magic, the kind no inner gift controls, the kind that answers only to blood. Six young princes and princesses gave theirs to Summon Her Quiet God from Her Depths, then three dir-priests gave their lives to join with the God and send him at our foe. The rest—" The master scribe shrugged. "—the rest is