and soothe pain. The Temple had no groundstone, but Namior drew what she could from its deep-set walls, chanting softly over people with broken legs, water-filled lungs, rent flesh. Healers arrived at last from Drakeman’s Hill—they had made their way across the swollen river and plain of mud in a small boat that had been deposited high up by the waves—and while they used their herbs and drugs, Namior supplemented that with her young touch of magic.
Kel remained close by. He had no wish to leave her, so he helped where he could, moving people around and finding them somewhere to sit or lie down while waiting for treatment. The village militia brought many people in; even the trained soldiers were shocked by what had happened, eyes wide and frightened. They had left their weapons behind andfilled their belts with skins of fresh water, and they almost made Kel believe that someone was in control. But their commander had been killed in the harbor, drowned by the second wave as he tried to rescue the victims of the first. Perhaps the shock felt by the militia was more down to that than anyone else; their captain had been sixty years old, a veteran, and a father figure for many. Now, they were as lost as anyone.
He carried three dead people out of the Temple and laid them down in the moon-bathed yard. The death moon cast a yellow light over their flesh. Their wraiths needed chanting down, he knew, but that was a Mourner’s job. He had tried it before, but that had been a friend, and he could not face such memories right then.
Halfway through the night, just as a third and final wave came in, he was relieved when Mourner Kanthia arrived at the Temple, guided by Namior’s mother. Kanthia had struck her head and been made blind, but she willingly let Kel direct her across the yard to the bodies. The Mourner began her work.
The third wave was much smaller, but still it caused upset and fear, and its roar was somehow more painful than the sound of the first two. Perhaps it was because he knew it was merely stirring the remains of a destroyed village, now, rather than doing any more damage. It felt like an unnecessary insult from the sea upon Pavmouth Breaks, and Kel was surprised at the strength of emotion he felt. It was ironic that he could think of this place as home only after half of it was gone.
He watched from the Temple doorway. Kanthia—hooded, cloaked, flowing rather than walking—moved from one corpse to the next, chanting, making vague sigils in the air above their heads and chests. Soon she was finished, and when she returned to the Temple she stood far from Kel.
Perhaps she had sensed what he had done.
LATER, A LINE of four machines appeared from down the slope. They rolled on chipped wheels, crawled on clumsy legs, and they were all coated in a thick layer of muck. A Practitioner sat on the back of each construct, steering with chain harnesses, whispering their knowledge of the land’s magic and urging the machines onward.
They brought the dead and injured with them. Kel and a couple of militia took them down, carried the wounded into the Temple, laid the dead side by side in the yard. Mourner Kanthia emerged from the shadows behind the Temple, converging on the corpses like the carrion foxes Kel had seen in the Widow’s Peaks. He stood back again and let the Mourner do her work.
She spooked him, but he was glad that she was there. He was not sure he could have remained had the air been full of wraiths.
DAWN BROKE, CRAWLING across Noreela and reaching them last of all. Its vibrant colors piled down the valley of the River Pav and touched the pitiful ruins of Pavmouth Breaks’ lower areas, glittering from the still-churning waters and reflecting a thousand disturbing images from the seas of mud. There were bodies trapped there, broken homes, and machines that still struggled feebly against inevitable rot and rust. People hauled themselves across the muck in small boats and on sheets of heavy
Kel remained close by. He had no wish to leave her, so he helped where he could, moving people around and finding them somewhere to sit or lie down while waiting for treatment. The village militia brought many people in; even the trained soldiers were shocked by what had happened, eyes wide and frightened. They had left their weapons behind andfilled their belts with skins of fresh water, and they almost made Kel believe that someone was in control. But their commander had been killed in the harbor, drowned by the second wave as he tried to rescue the victims of the first. Perhaps the shock felt by the militia was more down to that than anyone else; their captain had been sixty years old, a veteran, and a father figure for many. Now, they were as lost as anyone.
He carried three dead people out of the Temple and laid them down in the moon-bathed yard. The death moon cast a yellow light over their flesh. Their wraiths needed chanting down, he knew, but that was a Mourner’s job. He had tried it before, but that had been a friend, and he could not face such memories right then.
Halfway through the night, just as a third and final wave came in, he was relieved when Mourner Kanthia arrived at the Temple, guided by Namior’s mother. Kanthia had struck her head and been made blind, but she willingly let Kel direct her across the yard to the bodies. The Mourner began her work.
The third wave was much smaller, but still it caused upset and fear, and its roar was somehow more painful than the sound of the first two. Perhaps it was because he knew it was merely stirring the remains of a destroyed village, now, rather than doing any more damage. It felt like an unnecessary insult from the sea upon Pavmouth Breaks, and Kel was surprised at the strength of emotion he felt. It was ironic that he could think of this place as home only after half of it was gone.
He watched from the Temple doorway. Kanthia—hooded, cloaked, flowing rather than walking—moved from one corpse to the next, chanting, making vague sigils in the air above their heads and chests. Soon she was finished, and when she returned to the Temple she stood far from Kel.
Perhaps she had sensed what he had done.
LATER, A LINE of four machines appeared from down the slope. They rolled on chipped wheels, crawled on clumsy legs, and they were all coated in a thick layer of muck. A Practitioner sat on the back of each construct, steering with chain harnesses, whispering their knowledge of the land’s magic and urging the machines onward.
They brought the dead and injured with them. Kel and a couple of militia took them down, carried the wounded into the Temple, laid the dead side by side in the yard. Mourner Kanthia emerged from the shadows behind the Temple, converging on the corpses like the carrion foxes Kel had seen in the Widow’s Peaks. He stood back again and let the Mourner do her work.
She spooked him, but he was glad that she was there. He was not sure he could have remained had the air been full of wraiths.
DAWN BROKE, CRAWLING across Noreela and reaching them last of all. Its vibrant colors piled down the valley of the River Pav and touched the pitiful ruins of Pavmouth Breaks’ lower areas, glittering from the still-churning waters and reflecting a thousand disturbing images from the seas of mud. There were bodies trapped there, broken homes, and machines that still struggled feebly against inevitable rot and rust. People hauled themselves across the muck in small boats and on sheets of heavy
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