Strands of Starlight (32 page)

Her weakness was ebbing slowly. “I won't deny it. Is it your duty to eavesdrop at the forest's edge?”

“It is my duty to teach you, Elf.”

Miriam started.

Terrill nodded slowly. “I will give you the dignity of that title, though to my mind you have yet to earn it. Let me say this: You can see as we do, and you can kill. You took away every one of this man's futures by slaying him, be your reason good or bad, and you created others, for futures spring up to fill the void of a death. By your actions, you take on responsibility. You have much to learn about who and what you are, Miriam of Malvern, but let this be your first lesson: You are responsible as no human can possibly be, for you can see the past, and you can see all the futures. You are not ignorant, and therefore you have no excuse.”

She made herself breathe evenly. Outbursts were doing her no good and—she was beginning to understand—never really had. “So,” she said, “you're berating me for saving my own life?”

“I am not. I watched. You did well. As well as I expected. Even better. Had you been in danger of losing, I would have killed him myself, for when he fought you, he found out too much about your nature. Aloysius Cranby might be looking for a witch, but he would have found an Elf. All the better for his plans.”

“His plans? We have a dead body to explain, Terrill.”

Terrill looked down at the sprawl of flesh that had been Hoyle. “Just so. I will lug the guts into the forest. Hoyle's simple absence will be less troublesome than his corpse.”

Miriam was seeing probabilities again. Terrill was right: the void left by Hoyle's death was being filled. There were choices ahead, actions. She saw Aloysius Cranby and Bartholomew, Kay's frightened face, Charity lying in the street.

But nothing was certain. Nothing was ever really certain until it happened. There were too many choices, too many maybes. The Elves could see everything and, as a result, could see very little at all. Only the intense focus of the starlight vision allowed anything resembling surety, and that only seconds before the actual event.

She nodded slowly. “You're right. Better get him out of here. The town gates will be open by now. I'm sure that no one will say anything if they see you.”

“They will not see me.” Terrill picked up the friar's body easily, though it must have been nearly double his weight. Slinging it on his back, he turned to go.

Miriam's hand rested lightly on the pommel of Rainfire. “Why doesn't Varden wear this sword anymore?” she asked.

Terrill turned back for a moment. Hoyle's corpse hung grotesquely over his shoulder. “For the same reason that I always wear one,” he said at last, and his inflection told her that he would not elaborate.

***

She had hoped to be able to return to her room undetected, but seconds after she had closed the door, it was flung open again and blocked by two figures. “Have you any idea,” said Brother Louis, “what has become of our dear Brother Hoyle?”

She stood, clad as an Elf, a sword at her hip. Louis, she knew, was perfectly aware of what had happened to Hoyle. In the space of a few heartbeats she retraced the strands of the past and saw Louis watching the fight on the commons. She traced a little further back and heard skillfully placed comments and innuendos that had goaded Hoyle's sense of pride until he had gone looking for the woman who had defied him. He had prowled through the streets of the village all night, until . . .

“Oh,” she said innocently, knowing that Louis would not believe her anyway, “has he disappeared then?”

“We've known you from the beginning, witch.” And Miriam saw that Louis and Bartholomew were both armed with swords. She caught a glimpse of Kay's agonized features behind them.

“Brother Louis—” began the priest.

“Silence, man,” said Louis. “You've been bespelled, can't you see? You'll follow her to the stake along with all the others if you're not careful.”

“I'm not going to the stake,” said Miriam evenly. Her hand grazed Rainfire's pommel and hung, ready.

“You are an Elf and a witch,” declared Louis.

Very consciously, Miriam relaxed. “I am not a witch,” she said softly, “but you are Bishop Aloysius Cranby of Hypprux, and we have met before. And you accused me of much the same things then; but this time, wanting me and having me are two very different things.” Her tone was cold, the starlight holding back a weight of anger that could have riven mountains.

The bishop shook off his surprise and motioned to Bartholomew. “Arrest her in the name of God.”

Bartholomew stepped forward, his ruddy features set, Rainfire flashed once, and he fell to the floor and did not move again.

Miriam turned, pointed her blade at Aloysius Cranby. “You have two fears now, Your Excellency. Elven magic, and elven swords.”

“If you kill me, it will bring the Inquisition down on this entire town,” he said. “No one will be spared.”

“As if you intend to spare anyone in any case,” said Miriam. She took a step forward. “This way, I'll at least have the satisfaction of seeing you dead. You shouldn't complain. You wanted Hoyle to die, just like you wanted something to happen to Jaques Alban. You've wanted excuses to bring the Inquisition down on the Free Towns. Well, now you have them. Several of them. And I'll be more than happy to give you one more.”

Her sword leaped, and the bishop parried, but he did not stay to fight. Shoving Kay brutally aside, he vanished down the hallway toward the front door.

Miriam started to follow, but Kay grabbed her tunic. “No more, Miriam,” he cried. “Please, no more. There's been enough killing today.”

“Dammit, Kay, let me go. He's heading for the stable.”

“Please, Miriam!”

If she had struck him, his grip would have loosened, but she could not bear to hurt the priest. Slowly, she pried his hands from her clothing and pushed him away as gently as she could. Kay was sobbing helplessly.

She ran to the door, but she was too late. Cranby was already horsed and was galloping across the common. There was no way she could catch him, and the village gates were open.

But the carpenter's house was near the gate, and someone lived there who could hear her. “Charity,” she shouted among the stars, “have the men close the gate! Quickly!”

And, again too late, she realized what was going to happen, saw what her words and her actions had done. In her mind, she saw the probabilities unfold, watched helplessly as the young witch left her house. Charity saw the bishop approaching at a gallop, and having no time in which to reach the gate, she leaped for the horse's bridle.

Cranby did not slow or turn aside. Instead, he simply rode her down and continued on through the gate and into the open fields. When he returned, he would bring the Inquisition.

But Miriam was not thinking of the Inquisition. She was running across the common, screaming, her mind blank save for the image of Charity lying broken and crumpled in the street.

Night and day had blended together into an uninterrupted blackness, pocked upon occasion by the glare of torches red as her own blood, the touch of iron and wood to her naked flesh, and a change in the quality of a pain that had by now become habitual in spite of its intensity, that caused her screams to float ambiguously between madness and torment.

And when her cries now and again faded into whimpering and then into harsh gasps, she could hear the distant wails of other prisoners, the scurrying of rats, the steady drip of foul water. She smelled mold, rot, excrement; and her mouth was filled with the taste of her own blood, retched up hot and metallic during those hours in the blinding torchlight. But none of these—nothing—told her whether or not the sun or the stars shone, or how long she had been here, in this dungeon, on this rack, chained to this reeking pallet. . . .

Always she heard the questions, the ostinato litany of interrogatives that dinned in her ears even when there were no lips to speak them.

What did you do with the Elves?

She had never known the Elves, had never looked into the compassionate eyes that were filled with starlight or head the melodic language that had been formed to describe the creation of a world. She wished that she had, for those memories might have contained enough strength for her either to endure the endless day-night of pain and horror or to force herself into the shadowy release of death.

You have been sodomized by the devil, haven't you?

The questions rang in her ears, mingling with her screams and the screams of others, and all she had with which to fight them were gentler, more human recollections of pregnant women, the painful glory of birth, the chubby, reaching hands of an infant, the first flush of returning health in a pale cheek.

Tell us everything.

One by one her allies had fled, for they were no match for the glowing tongs and the blood-corroded spike. The balance between madness and torment was, minute by minute, scream by scream, becoming more precarious, and she could not deny to herself that she was glad the she was slowly tipping toward the former.

***

White fire blazed up Miriam's spine, incandescence filled the space behind her clenched eyes, and the pain was such that she breathed in shallow, miserly gasps, but she did not complain: she almost relished the onslaught of the healing power, rejoiced in its magnitude.

But Charity, still and bloody on the ground, seemed an abyss of damage. Aloysius Cranby had ridden directly over her, and the heavy hooves of his mount had crushed her skull. By the time Miriam had arrived, the young witch had seemed dead. No breath, no heartbeat, massive blood loss.

Still, Miriam had fallen on her knees beside her, letting the power flow, taunting it, dragging it from her spine in ever-increasing amounts. She had healed plague. She had brought men back from near death. Surely she could save one frail young woman.

The power surged, and her head seemed close to splitting with the light.
For Charity. I'd not do this for anyone else.
She remembered the little priestess as she had been: whole, complete, with a quietude that bespoke vast depths of knowledge and at the same time a merry laugh that was the essence of an early, flower-filled spring.
Charity!

No answer. And Miriam's seemingly inexhaustible stores of power were suddenly nearing their limits.

She felt her shoulders gripped. “Moderate it, Miriam,” came Roxanne's voice. “A little with control is better than a great deal without.”

The smooth, even energies of the witch blended with her own. The healing flow subsided into a firm, strong current through which Miriam could sense Charity's presence.
Sana, she's here!

“Slowly,” said the witch.

“Find your stars, Miriam,” said Varden, and she felt the touch of his hands on hers, the blending of starlight with the white-hot healing.

Carefully she searched for, found the firmament within. The stars were bright and clear, and they, too, added their energies. Miriam felt a massive balance, as though of life and death, tipping slowly. The abyss was filling.

“
Vardeni
,” said Roxanne. “
Ei astael Cara ami circalmi
.”

Miriam picker up her meaning.
Astael
. Starlight. Charity could be profoundly changed, the immortal radiance altering the very basis of her existence. At the moment of Miriam's transformation, the starlight had flooded into her. And she had changed. . . .

The balance hung, frozen. “Carai,” said Varden, his soft voice echoing among the stars, “you must decide.”

Miriam's pain was still intense, but she held out against it. She saw the girl's hand and her own gathering flowers for the statue of the Lady, scattering crumbs for the birds. . . .

“To stay or to go,” the Elf continued, “as you wish. You are aware of the possibilities.”

Charity's voice was soft, calm, almost matter-of-fact. It befit a trained priestess who had already faced death and rebirth twice in the course of one lifetime, who would now face it again with equanimity. Miriam felt Roxanne's pride.

“I have work to do,” said the young witch. “I will stay. If I am changed, then so be it.”

And the three healers, Elf, witch, and one who was not quite either and yet, maybe, a little more than both, loosed the energies that, for a moment, they had held in check.

Miriam opened her eyes. Charity was still bloody, but her wounds were healed, and the terrible rent in her head was no more. Miriam felt her squeeze her hand, a gentle thank-you,

“Better sleep, Carai,” said Varden, and the young witch nodded, sighed, and drifted off.

The Elf's face was gray. His voice had been soft, but the light in his eyes was hot and bright, like the edge of a newly blooded sword. He stood up slowly, his sight seemingly elsewhere, as though he looked into the past.

Terrill was standing with the crowd of villagers a little to one side, holding Lake. Near him, Elizabeth and Andrew were crying, and Francis had his big arms about them both.

“My brother . . .” said Terrill.

Varden did not reply. Terrill handed Lake to Roxanne and took him into his arms. Varden shuddered, wept softly. “Once again, Terrill,” he said. “Once again. Mirya, now Cara . . . Who next? Sana? Elizabeth? Andrew? Kay? Who do we love best?
Ai, ea sareni, Elthiai!
”

After a minute, Varden sighed, his tears spent. “Go on your errand,” he said to Terrill and Miriam. “I will attend to other matters. Alone.”

Terrill regarded him in silence, examining, evaluating. Then: “He has a word, dear brother.”

“True, Terrill, he does. And I have only my hands. But they will be sufficient.”

Varden knelt beside Charity and kissed her on the forehead, then rose, turned, and departed, his garments of gray and green dark in the bright sunlight.

Together, Miriam and Terrill picked up Charity and carried her into her parents' house, where Elizabeth and Andrew cleaned the blood and dust off the pale face and put her in her own bed.

Miriam stood at the unshuttered window, her jaw clenched. Terrill was at her side.