Strands of Starlight (31 page)

She saw the forest in shades of blue and lavender, but though the path she trod was clearly visible, it was not the path she wanted. The path that led to the Elves remained hidden. The Elves could see it, she knew, but she knew also that she could—she must—find it and walk it herself.

Standing on one path, searching for another, she felt anger and tears welling up along with starlight. She closed her eyes.

“I am a kinswoman here,” she murmured. Holding to the vision of the stars, she opened her eyes and saw the forest as though it were new-made. Potentials shifted around her with every breath, and a path—previously hidden, shimmering with starlight—led off into the trees. Straight. Secret. With a brief thought of the Lady to whom she had pledged herself, she stepped onto it, unaided, and felt the magic tingle questioningly on her skin.

You've helped me. I know You've helped me. Help me now.

The magic accepted her. She moved on.

She walked silently, passing unnoticed within inches of sleeping deer. Owls watched her without comment. A quick-moving fox accompanied her for a few minutes, and where the path twisted and forked, she followed the animal. It left her when the way was straight again.

Thank you
, she thought.

But the vision that had allowed her on this path was sapping her. She was growing dizzy. She leaned heavily against a shaggy oak, and the entire history of the tree flashed through her mind, but she paid little attention, for she was trying to keep from falling. Fighting with her instinctive fear, she clung to the stars. As though she lowered herself into a deep abyss, so did she carefully inch into the light, playing out her sense of identity as though it were a lifeline.

Please help me. I'm afraid, but please help me anyway.

She saw someone that was her, and yet not. Tall, slender, with hair of red gold and eyes the color of emerald, she walked through a springtime forest of green leaves and yellow flowers, a sparrow hawk on her shoulder and a sense of youth in her features that had nothing to do with days or years. And for a moment, Miriam became her, knew herself by another name, another lifetime, another Dance.

Mirya.

The pain in her hands brought her back. She had been gripping the oak so tightly that she had splintered her fingernails. Rubbing blearily at the wounds, she pushed herself away from the tree and stumbled down the hidden path. The fatigue was yet with her, but it was tempered now. She could manage.

And when she stepped into the firelit clearing where the Elves were gathered, she stood, trembling, until they were all looking at her, then bent and touched the ground with her bleeding fingers. “I claim hearthright,” she whispered. She staggered to one side.

Varden was on his feet instantly. “Well said,” he murmured as he caught her.

He guided her to a seat by the fire. At her side was Terrill, still examining her every movement as though this were simply another test he had devised. Other Elves were there also: Talla and Natil, and some she did not recognize. Roxanne smiled quietly at her from across the fire, and Lake nuzzled at his mother's breast.

Gently, Terrill took her bleeding hands into his own. “Varden,” he said. “Please.”

Varden touched her hands. She felt a moment's warmth and did not have to look to know that her fingers were sound. “Thank you, Varden,” she said. “Be at peace.”

“Terrill,” said Varden, “what have you been teaching Miriam?”

“What have I been teaching her? An odd question, my brother. I have been teaching her the way of the sword.”

“More than that, I am sure.”

“She has natural gifts, Varden,” said Terrill. “You more than anyone should know that.”

The light in Varden's eyes flickered. “And you?”

Terrill met his gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes and sighed. “I know.”

“What is your errand, Miriam?” said Varden.

She shuddered at the thought of what the midwife was enduring. “I need help,” she said. “For the sake of love and friendship.”

Varden regarded her for some moments. “Love and friendship,” he said with wonder. “Until now, I do not think I have heard you utter those words with anything but contempt.”

“I've changed.” Her voice was sharp. “I've learned. The midwife who nursed me after I escaped from Hypprux has been taken as a witch. She's being tortured.”

Terrill sat back, his eyes on fire. “Human ways are not ours,” he said with an effort. “I agreed to teach you, Miriam, so that you could have your revenge. That, I thought, was the extent of my involvement.”

“What about Saint Brigid? Information they've tortured out of Mika has brought Aloysius Cranby and his dogs here looking for me. The town's been implicated, and they've seen the panels in the church.”

“Human ways.” Terrill was obviously struggling with his memories. There was grief in his voice.

“Elven ways,” she said defiantly. “Aid? Comfort? Don't you care?”

Varden was staring at Roxanne. The Elves called her Sana, as though she were elven herself. But though she had taken on many of their ways and attitudes, she was human, frail, mortal, and there was a sense of fragility about her as she sat, wrapped in a gray cloak, nursing her baby.

He spoke softly. “We care.” Slowly, he removed the pendant he wore and held it up in the firelight. Finely worked in silver and gold, it was in the form of an interlocked rayed star and crescent moon. He hung it about Miriam's neck. “I will help you, Miriam of Malvern.”

“Varden, you cannot,” said Terrill. “There will be fighting, and though you have skill, it is insufficient for such a venture.”

Varden deliberated. “How have Miriam's lessons progressed?”

“She is almost ready for steel,” said Terrill, “though there is much more for her to learn. But . . .” He seemed to fight with himself for a moment. “But I will go with her to Hypprux, and together we will rescue the midwife.”

“Very well,” said Varden. “I will remain and help Kay. The friars doubtless have some ideas in their heads.”

There was a sense of import to his words, and Miriam instinctively looked into the lattice. She saw another knot of futures ahead, ready to unfold, ready to demand choice and action.

“But there is another matter,” said Terrill. “Miriam will need a sword.”

Varden and Terrill were silent for a long time. The fire hissed and crackled: dry wood, gathered from the forest floor. The Elves would not cut a living tree.

“Is that your wish?” said Varden at last.

“It might be good. I do not know. It might teach her.”

“Very well.” Varden rose and walked away from the fire. Miriam watched as he opened a bundle. When he returned to the fire, he was carrying something long, narrow, cloth-wrapped.

He produced a fine sword in a dark blue scabbard. “Many years ago,” he said, “I wore this. I do not wear it anymore. Perhaps it would suit your hand. . . .” He offered it to her, and when she slid it out of the sheath, it blazed in the firelight as though it were itself made of flame. Miriam caught her breath.

“It is called
Eltieviel
,” said Varden. “That means: Rainfire.”

She hefted the sword. Rainfire seemed alive in her hand, as though it could fight without anyone having to wield it. The handle was an intricate tracery of lapis set in lignum vitae, the crosspiece a crescent of bright metal. The blade was smooth, flawless, with a watered look as of the finest Damascus steel.

“Magnificent,” she said. “How is it that I am worthy of this?”

“Need makes many worthy,” said Terrill, but Varden shook his head.

“There is much in you, Miriam,” he said. “I think you are beginning to know that. Bear this sword well. You are, I believe, deserving.”

As she looked at the sword, she felt its past, felt Varden's hand merge with her own as, long ago, he had wielded it. There was grief there, deep grief, and Rainfire had been put away.

But she saw the futures, too: a network of interlocking possibilities that led off beyond her comprehension. She saw the strands of starlight again, and she saw that Rainfire traced its own path toward the eventual confrontation between her and her rapist.

They made plans quickly, deciding to leave the next night. The Elves would need time to gather the necessary supplies, and in any case, the friars would be asleep and would not know that anything unusual was taking place until well into the following day.

Without comment, Terrill guided her to the forest edge in the predawn darkness, bowed, and departed. Miriam felt that he was almost afraid. Afraid? Of what? Certainly not of battle.
I once cut a man through the spine with a wooden sword.
Her hand fell to her side and came to rest on Rainfire's pommel. She wondered what Terrill could do with live steel.

Whoever kept watch at the town gate this night did not notice Miriam's arrival any more than her departure, and she climbed the iron grille silently, the weight of the sword at her hip at once unfamiliar and comforting.

Even at a distance, she felt the alien presence of Aloysius Cranby, Bartholomew, and Hoyle in the otherwise smooth—though anxious—flow of the town. A thickening complex of lifelines wove about them, indicating an eventful day.

And as she crossed the common, a sudden blow on the back of her head sent her staggering across the grass. Before she could find her balance, another put her on the ground.

She felt a hand feeling for the fastenings of her garments, and the white-hot rage that surged up within her eclipsed the stars as though a nova had kindled among them.

She locked her fists together and swung up and out, catching her assailant in the face. With a grunt and a curse he fell back, and Miriam had time enough to pull herself to her feet, recenter on her stars, and let the energy flow. Her vision cleared instantly, the pain in her head faded. She was not overly surprised to see Hoyle getting to his feet a few yards away.

He was wiping blood from his mouth. “You could make it easier for yourself if you submitted.”

“So you can fuck me before you burn me?” she said. “Is that what you have in mind?”

“You'd better come with me, woman.”

“Touch me if you dare, man.”

He drew a sword and started to move in. Rainfire slid out of its sheath eagerly, flashed in the growing light. The friar saw the elven blade, hesitated, then came on.

With a blink, she was in the starlight vision, examining Hoyle's every move with inhuman awareness. On this pale morning, at this particular time, with the set of his foot just so, Hoyle was going to move to his left and attempt to grab her arm while deflecting her blade. It was a reckless move, one that showed that he had no respect for the combat abilities of a woman.

He was about to learn respect.

Hoyle's sword was spun to the side. Rainfire slashed in toward the friar's throat. He nearly broke his neck as he lurched away, and Rainfire cut through the air a finger's width from his face. Whirling, he changed his tactics, approaching her more cautiously now.

But he seemed clumsy to Miriam. Dancing to one side, she let his blade flick by, and as she watched, she saw the beginnings of a roll. Openings flashed through her mind, but just as Terrill had been open once, so she was now open. Her side. Potentially.

Hoyle rolled, struck.

She leaped, kicking out and down, flattening Hoyle's arm to the ground. His sword caught in the grass. Miriam was already on his other side, but Hoyle swung as he rose, putting his whole weight behind his sword, trying to batter her down.

Miriam knew that he could indeed batter her down. Stepping back, she let his strike expend itself in the empty air. He had left her a clean opening.

Rainfire flashed, lancing out. Just as the rim of the sun blazed at the horizon, touching the steeple of the church with pink and gold, the blade ripped through Hoyle's throat.

A fine spray of blood. A glazed look on the friar's face. He sprawled onto the dew-spattered grass.

The fighting had weakened Miriam, and she lost no time in pulling herself out of the starlight vision. Moving slowly, she went to Hoyle and found that he still lived. His blood, though, was reddening the grass, and his eyes were unseeing. The gash in his throat gurgled and sucked. Miriam's healing power flickered in response, but the stars in her mind burned clear and cold, and the heat subsided.

“No,” she said softly. “I will not heal you.”

In her mind, she saw the lattices that indicated futures and maybes. Hoyle's line was fading, terminating, his choices ending. When he jerked suddenly and lay still, his line winked out, leaving behind a void. There was no future for him now, only a past.

Rainfire was stained and red, and she wiped the blade carefully before sheathing it. She was still breathing hard, and she worked slowly, methodically.

Terrill spoke up suddenly from behind her. “Well,
healer
, are you satisfied?”

She whirled. The Elf folded his arms.

“You've taken life.”

She found her voice. “He wanted to kill me.”

“Maybe. Do you realize what you have done?”

“I saved myself.”

“It is not that simple. How do you feel about this hunk of dead meat on the ground?” He stepped forward until Hoyle's body was between them. “You can see how everything is connected, how everything has its potential. I know you can, for you could not fight the way you do if you could not.”

“What the hell are you trying to do to me, Terrill?” She nearly shouted at him. “This bastard wanted to rape me, then haul me off to the torturers and the stake. And you're worried about philosophy?”

“There was always the possibility, Miriam, that Hoyle could have been persuaded to forget the entire affair. If you had spoken more kindly to him earlier, he might not have been prodded into such a fatal course.” Terrill spoke dispassionately. “Such probabilities are very small, to be sure, but can be made larger . . . if one is clever.”

Miriam glared at him.

“You had the audacity this night to claim hearthright with the Elves. When you set foot on that path, earlier on, you had the cheek to call yourself a kinswoman. I heard. You cannot deny it.”