Morningstar (13 page)

And then I knew. They were waiting for the Morningstar to make his appearance. Had the situation not been so tragic, I believe I would have laughed aloud. Instead I shook my head.

Count Azrek leaned forward, tapping the fat man’s arm. There
followed a brief whispered conversation. Finally the lord nodded and sat down, allowing the count to rise in his place.

“You have spoken with great calumny against me,” he said, his voice emotionless, his unblinking eyes staring into mine. “I demand the right of challenge.”

Strangely I felt no fear. “As you wish,” I told him, “but even though I die here, nothing will cloak for long the evil that seeps out from you.”

He showed no expression and transferred his gaze to the soldiers holding Megan.

“Let the sentence be carried out!” he called. The men took hold of Megan, and, unresisting, she was led to the pyre and forced to clamber high upon the piled wood before her hands were unbound and lashed to the stake.

It was then that I saw the floating sphere gliding effortlessly over the heads of the spectators. Many people paused to look up at it, pointing to it as it passed. Several times it hovered over individuals before moving on. Perfectly round and swirling, like smoke encased in glass, it glided to a halt above a tall man in a buckskin shirt. At first I thought it was Jarek Mace, but the man turned toward me as he looked up at the sphere, and I saw that he was beardless and wide-jawed. The search spell moved on.

Even within my grief and anger I was impressed by the skill of the unknown magicker who had cast the spell. A searching is always difficult, but in a crowd such as this only the very best would dream of sending out a sphere.

A great cry went up from the crowd as the two soldiers pushed burning torches into the dry wood at the base of the bonfire. Flames licked at the sticks and timbers, smoke drifting lazily up to swirl around the white-garbed woman. Her face was serene, showing no fear, and as her eyes met mine, she smiled. Then the thick smoke enveloped her.

At that moment the search spell found its prey, and a shaft of white light flashed into the evening air, hanging for several heartbeats above the head of Jarek Mace. In sudden fear the mob melted away from him, and the white light became golden, bathing him. Already handsome, he appeared at once godlike, his fringed buckskin shirt of molten gold, his skin of burnished bronze. And he smiled as he executed an elaborate and perfect bow.

“It’s the Morningstar!” bellowed the Lualis Lord. “Take him!”

Soldiers ran forward as the light faded. An arrow from Wulf took the first low in the groin, and the man pitched to the ground and began to scream. With no time to string his bow, Jarek Mace swung the weapon like a staff, knocking a man from his feet. Then his sword flashed into the air, and the clanging of blades rang across the meadow. Another arrow sliced the air, this time from Eye Patch, and a soldier fell, pierced through the temple.

Mace backed away before the attack of five men, and I saw the immense figure of Piercollo lift a barrel of beer above his head and run forward to hurl it at the soldiers. It hammered into the first, catapulting him into his fellows, then shattered, spilling foaming ale on the fallen soldiers.

A crossbowman in the black livery of Azrek sent a bolt toward Mace. It missed and thudded into the shoulder of a woman in the crowd. Panic followed, and the mob ran in all directions, hampering the efforts of the gathering soldiers. Mace ducked his head and disappeared into the throng.

An arrow sailed over my head, and I swung to see it miss Azrek by a hand’s breadth, punching through the throat of a man sitting behind him. Now the knights, too, and their ladies, scrambled for cover.

“
Don‘t stand there gawping, child, untie me
!”

The voice appeared inside my head. Swinging to the fire, I ran to the rear, where the flames had not yet reached. Scrambling up to the stake, coughing and spluttering, I reached Megan. Around her there was no smoke; it swirled just out of reach, as if she were standing inside an invisible globe.

“Your powers are great,” I said.

“What a fine time for compliments!” she snapped. “Perhaps we should sit down here and discuss the finer points of magick.”

I cut through her bonds and took her by the hand. Swiftly she cast a spell. Instantly, her white robe changed to the color of rust and a leather cap appeared, covering her white hair. Smoke billowed around us like a mist as we descended to the meadow, dispersing only when we were some distance from the pyre. People were running and screaming around us, and we were not challenged as we slowly made our way across the meadow, past the outskirts of the river city, and on into the sanctuary of the trees.

At last safe, we made camp in a shallow cave, lighting no fire and needing none.

“It was a foolish act,” she told me, “but I am grateful for it.”

“I could not stand by and watch you murdered.”

“I know, Owen. You have a fine soul.”

Always uncomfortable with compliments, I changed the subject. “I hope Mace escaped from them.”

She chuckled. “Yes, he did. Did you like the way I changed the sorcerer’s search spell?”

“The golden light? It was a master’s touch, and I should have known it was you. He looked like a hero from legend.”

“The people will long remember it.”

“Perhaps, but the memory will fade once Mace is gone, when they see he is no Morningstar.”

“If they ever see it. He chose the name, Owen, and now, I think, the name has chosen him.”

“That is a riddle I cannot fathom.”

“Give it time, my boy. Tell me, how will the events of today be seen?”

I smiled then. “A dramatic rescue by the lord of the forest. Not all the count’s men could prevent it.”

She nodded, her face solemn. “Mace was lucky today. They didn’t need a search spell. He was in full view all day at the contest.”

“Why, then, did they not take him? Were you using your powers?”

“No. There was no need. Azrek has a serpent’s subtlety, and he assumed Mace would be more … circumspect. He believed there would be a rescue attempt but probably expected Mace to come disguised and arrive only when the crowds were thick. Hence the search spell. But Mace, with his casual arrogance, chose the best place to be, hiding in plain sight where no one would look.”

“As you say, Megan, he is a lucky man.”

“Luck has to be paid for, Owen,” she whispered, “and sometimes the price is very high.” Without another word she lay down and closed her eyes.

I shivered, for in that moment, my ghostly friend, I think my soul caught a glimpse of the future.

Then I, too, slept.

* * *

I awoke in the night to find a cool breeze whispering across the mouth of the cave, bringing with it the stealthy sounds of men moving through the undergrowth. Reaching out, I touched Megan lightly on the shoulder. Her eyes opened, and in the moonlight she saw me touch my fingers to my lips, warning her to keep silent.

Dropping to my stomach, I wormed my way to the cave mouth, peering out at the silhouetted trees. At first I saw nothing, but then the dark figure of a soldier, his breastplate gleaming in the eldritch light, edged forward. He was joined by another … and another. The first knelt, his pale hand extending down to the ground, tracing a line. Then he took a shining object from the pouch at his side and laid it on the ground. Immediately a faint blue-white light sprang up from the track. I swallowed hard, realizing that Megan and I had walked from that direction and feeling instinctively that the hunter was examining a footprint, mine or Megan’s, and was carrying a search stone.

The cave itself was partly screened by thick bushes, but in the bright moonlight there was no hope of the entrance escaping the keen eyes of the hunters.

It is a fearful thing to be hunted, but it is doubly unmanning during the hours of night. I don’t know why this should be so, save to note that our most primal fears are of the dark. Moonlight, though beautiful, is cold and unearthly. Nothing grows by moonlight, but all is revealed.

I glanced up, praying for clouds and total darkness, an all-covering blanket of black that would shield us from the soldiers. But almost immediately my fears welled anew, and I imagined the hunters, aided by the search stone, creeping forward purposefully within that darkness, unseen and deadly, their cold blades seeking my heart. No, I prayed again. No darkness. Please!

I was trembling now, but Megan’s hand came down upon my arm, gripping my wrist, then patting the skin. I glanced toward her and licked my dry lips with a dryer tongue.

“Fear not,” she whispered. “They will not see us.” Extending her hand, she pointed at the leading soldier. He cried out and dropped the stone, which fell to the earth and blazed with a fierce light, causing the soldiers to shield their eyes. Leaning her back against the cave wall, Megan gestured with her right
hand. The entrance shimmered, and as I looked toward the soldiers, it seemed I was viewing them through a screen of water.

Slowly they approached the rock wall. There were some twenty of them gathered now, lean and wolflike, swords in their hands. They halted some few feet before us, scanned the ground, then moved on.

After a while there was silence beyond the cave.

“What did you do?” I ventured at last.

“Think through your fear, Owen,” she advised. “Do not let it master you. The illusion is no more than you could have achieved. Any man who can create the Dragon’s Egg should find little difficulty in displaying a wall of rock where there is none.”

I felt foolish then, for she was right. The rock face was dark; it would take little skill to cast an image across the cave mouth, and the soldiers had been half blinded by the destruction of the stone.

“But I could not have destroyed their stone,” I pointed out defensively.

“No,” she agreed, “that you could not do. Azrek has a powerful magus at his side, and I think you will need my … skills before this game is played out.”

“What you did was sorcery,” I said softly. “No trick with light and gentle heat. You burned a stone to dust and ash.”

“I am allied to no dark powers, Owen. Sorcery and magick are not as far removed from one another as you would like to believe. Magick is, as you rightly say, merely tricks with light, illusions. But sorcery is a different kind of … trick. All I did with the stone was to create enormous heat. It is not difficult; it is merely a more powerful variation of the warming spell.”

“How is it done?” I asked her.

“I cannot teach you sorcery in a single night, Owen, nor would I wish to try. But here is your first lesson: When you rub your hands together, you create heat. Well, a stone is not as solid as it looks. It is made of more component parts than there are stars in the sky. I make them rub against one another. The heat generated is immense.”

“You are mocking me, lady. A stone is a stone. If it was, as you say, made up of many parts, then air would be trapped within it and it would float on water.”

She shook her head. “All that you see in this world is not all
that there is, Owen Odell. And your logic is flawed. I can make a stone float or give a feather such weight that you could not carry it. But these lessons can be for another day. For now I want you to tell me why
you
did not create the rock wall illusion.”

“I did not think,” I admitted. “I was frightened—close to panic.”

“Yes, you were. Fear is good, for it makes us cautious and aids survival. Not so with terror. It is like slow poison, paralyzing the limbs and blurring the mind. You have courage, Owen, else you would not have stood up for me at the burning. But you are undisciplined. Never, when in danger, ask yourself, What will they do to me? Instead think, What can I do to prevent them? Or did you think that magick and all the connected powers were merely discovered in order to entertain revelers in inns, taverns, and palaces?”

I was ashamed of my cowardice and said nothing, my thoughts hurtling back to childhood, when my father had constantly berated me for lack of skill in the manly arts. I did not climb trees for fear of the heights or learn to swim for fear of drowning. High horses frightened me, and the clashing of sword blades made me cry. My brothers took to the game of war like young lions, and upon them he showered praise. But Owen was a weakling, worthless, a creature to be avoided. The great Aubertain—how I hated him for his cruel courage, his arrogance, and his pride.

I gloried in his one weakness—fire. A long time before, when he himself was a child, he had been burned upon his left arm: The scars were still visible, white, ugly, and wrinkled, stretching from wrist to elbow. Even into middle age he would jump if a fire log cracked and spit sparks.

And then, one summer’s evening, a storehouse near the castle caught fire. Every villager and soldier ran to the blaze, human chains forming to ferry buckets of water from the deep wells to the men at the head of the lines. The fire was beyond control, and bright sparks flew into the night sky, carried by the breeze to rest upon the thatched roofs of nearby cottages.

My father, brothers, and I organized work parties, carrying water into homes as yet untouched and drenching the thatch. There was a two-story house close by. Sparks entered through
an open window, igniting the straw matting that covered the ground floor. Flames billowed up.

I remember a woman screaming, “My baby! My baby!” She was pointing to an upper window. My father was standing beside me at the time, and I saw upon his face a look of sheer terror. But then, with a snarl, he tore loose his cloak, wrapped it around his face and shoulders, and ran into the burning building.

Moments later I saw him at the upper window with the babe in his arms. Climbing to the sill, he leapt to the yard below, his hair and beard on fire. He landed awkwardly, and we heard his leg snap, but he twisted his body as he fell to protect the infant he held. Men ran forward then, smothering the flames that writhed about him. The mother retrieved her babe, and my father was carried back to the castle.

I am ashamed to say that my hatred for him swelled, roaring up like the blaze around me.