Free Deep Water by Pamela Freeman

the voice of the
     dead. Having the Sight would just make him even odder.
    “Stonecasters aren’t thought of as freaks, you know,” Martine said, seeming to read his thoughts as she so often did. “We’re
     just part of the furniture of the world, really.”
    He laughed unwillingly. It was true, stonecasters were accepted everywhere. When she offered him the pouch, his hand seemed
     to rise of its own accord to take it.
    The heavy softness of the leather, the stones within it, fit into his palm as though he had held it a thousand times before.
    “So,” Martine said. “So.” She sounded disappointed, and reached to take the pouch back.
    “What?” Ash said, startled. His fingers tightened on the pouch. Martine paused.
    “They are not in harmony,” she said.
    He had no idea what she was talking about. She was surprised in turn.
    “You can’t hear them?”
    Ash shook his head. Martine’s face was unreadable, as it had been the first time he met her. It was as though she had withdrawn
     from him. As though he had failed her.
    “The stones sing. Well, not exactly. Not like humans. But when they do not have a caster, they sing constantly, out of tune,
     out of rhythm. It’s unpleasant. That’s why I rolled this pouch up in a blanket. So I wouldn’t have to listen to them.”
    “And?”
    Martine hesitated. “When they find their caster, and he or she takes them in their hand, they come into tune.”
    Ash stared down at the pouch, which seemed as silent as the grave to him. “I can’t even hear them,” he said. “So I suppose
     they didn’t come into tune.”
    “No,” she said gently, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I was sure you were a caster. I even cast the stones about it, and
     they said yes, definitely. I don’t understand —”
    “What’s to understand?” he shot back, suddenly angry. He tossed the pouch into her lap. “I can’t do it. Just like I can’t
     sing. Or play the flute. Or
anything
to do with music.”
    “That may be,” Martine said slowly. “But my casting was quite clear. I’ve never known the stones to be completely wrong. I’ll
     cast again.”
    “Don’t bother,” he said. “I still won’t be able to hear them.”
    He strode off and walked the streets of the silent town until the salmon star had swum its way below the horizon. Then he
     went back to the lodging house and lay in the green-ceilinged room, trying not to think of all the things he was useless at — all
     the people he had failed. Perhaps his father had been right not to trust him. The only thing he seemed to be good at was killing.

Bramble
    F IRST LIGHT WAS early so far north, even in spring, and they were all yawning and shivering as they met outside Safred’s house and followed
     her through the alleys and streets of the town to a small wooded area on its outskirts. A score or so of townsfolk came with
     them, and they greeted one another with nods and yawning half-smiles so simply that Bramble knew they took the walk to the
     gods’ wood every morning.
    The wood was surrounded by fields and some houses, and it was clear that the town had expanded around the altar, but had left
     enough space to keep the gods happy. They didn’t like being crowded, it was said.
    Bramble could feel them, lightly, in her mind. It was not the uncomfortable pressure they used when they wanted her to do
     something. This was almost companionable. It was the first time she had felt this way, going to greet them. At home, in Wooding,
     she had hated the dawn prayers, surrounded by those afraid of the gods, or of life, by the pious and by those who wanted to
     be thought pious, like the Widow Farli. But here, she sensed nothing from these people but simple devotion. No doubt it was
     harder to pretend to be pious with the Well of Secret’s eyes on you.
    The rock was in a clearing, surrounded by old beech trees, huge and knotted and twisting overhead so that their branches met
     and the altar seemed to be at the