Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (9 page)

“I’m hungry,” he said, anxious to keep talking. “You hungry?”

Fiona shook her head. “No.”

“We should eat. We’ll eat, and we’ll rest, and then we’ll find our way out of here. Believe it, Fiona, okay? You got to believe it.”

“Why’s that going to help, Moth?” She looked at him, really wanting to know. “Wishing doesn’t make things happen.”

“Believing ain’t wishing. Believing is knowing, and I know Leroux didn’t lie to me. I know it, see? That’s trust. You trust me, don’t you?”

Fiona nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Believe that, then.”

Moth dug out the meat pie he’d nibbled at the morning before. He took another small bite, offering the rest to Fiona. When she refused, he put it gently to her lips.

“Just a bite,” he told her.

She did as he asked, swallowed, and then announced, “I’m cold.”

“Me too,” said Moth. He put his arm around Fiona, and at once they both stopped shaking. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “I’ll keep watch.”

Fiona was too tired to argue. She closed her eyes and put her head against his slight shoulder, sharing his warmth. He listened to her breathing, first quick and anxious, then slower, more relaxed. He smiled, realizing she was falling asleep. It spread over him like a contagion. Before he realized it, he was sleeping too.

 

Too exhausted to dream, Moth did not awaken until he felt something tickling his nose. For that first, blissful moment, he forgot about his trek through the fog, thinking he was waking up in Leroux’s apartment on his own, soft sofa. But when he opened his eyes he saw Lady Esme staring back at him, standing right beside his head, and he knew exactly where he was.

His eyes opened wider. He saw sunlight. The smell of flowers filled his nostrils. He lifted his head, and to his great astonishment saw them all around him.

“Bluebells . . .”

His mother had grown them, and now he was in a valley full of them. Sunlight poured down from the purest sky Moth had ever seen. Lady Esme screeched in delight, bounding off Moth’s shoulder and shooting toward the clouds. And there in the flowers was Fiona, spinning in a joyous pirouette, her red hair flying out around her, her belt of canteens banging.

“We made it!” she cried. “Ha! Leroux was right!”

In the carpet of bluebells, a chorus of hummingbirds flew out from their feeding. Lady Esme soared over the wood-land, klee-klee-kleeing as she wheeled through a long, lazy spiral. Moth put a hand to his chest. His heart was thumping wildly again, but not with fear this time. This time, all he felt was gladness.

“He
was
right,” Moth whispered. He gazed into the sky, up to where Lady Esme soared, and knew Leroux hadn’t lied to him. “All of it’s true.” Laughing, he dashed out into the bluebells. “Hey Fiona! Still think Leroux was crazy?”

THE HEADY SMELL OF FLOWERS filled Moth’s nose as he stared up at the sky. Fiona lay beside him in the bed of bluebells, her fingers knitted behind her head and a mysterious smile on her face. They had eaten out of their pockets, drunk from their canteens, then reclined in the sunny field, sleepily enjoying the warmth of a summer that shouldn’t exist. Amid the hummingbirds and bees they marveled at the world they had entered, watching Lady Esme sail high above them. There were no mountains; no mechanical dragonflies disturbed the tranquility. Like the gray season that chilled the other side of the Reach, they had left Calio and their troubles behind.

“Look how free she is here,” said Moth. His voice was easy as he watched the spiraling kestrel.

“She knows she’s home,” said Fiona. “She’s happy.”

Moth felt happy, too. But also worried. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

“Maybe.” Fiona shrugged. “If my grandfather wants that star-thing bad enough.” She got a puzzled look on her face suddenly. “Why don’t others come?” she wondered. “Why don’t more people try and cross the Reach?”

“Some probably do,” said Moth. “They probably get lost. We almost got lost.”

“But why is it forbidden to try?”

“It’s always been that way,” said Moth.

“I know, but why? Why can’t people come here? It’s not dangerous. We sure haven’t seen anything like a Skylord yet!”

Moth wasn’t sure how to answer. “It’s just forbidden, that’s all. That’s why folks don’t know how good it is here.”

Fiona went back to sky-gazing. “It
is
good here. Good and free.” Together their eyes tracked Lady Esme through the air. Fiona gave a pensive sigh. “I wonder who she is,” she said. “Is Esme her real name, do you think?”

“That’s what Leroux called her, so yeah, I guess so.”

“I bet she was a beautiful woman. I bet she had all sorts of men in love with her.”

Moth tried to imagine what Esme might look like as a woman. She’d have golden hair, probably. Long, like a girl in a storybook. And a proper voice, too, instead of an annoying screech. It would be a pretty voice, good for singing, because Leroux liked music.

“How much he must have loved her,” Fiona continued. “He spent his whole life trying to help her get back here.”

That part of the puzzle remained a mystery to Moth. “Why didn’t he?” he wondered. “He could have just walked on through the Reach like we did. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

When Fiona didn’t answer Moth rolled his head to look at her. She was still staring up at Esme, but seemed a hundred miles away. “Fiona? You okay?”

She whispered, “I think she’s lucky.”

“Who?”

“Lady Esme. She’s lucky. I don’t think anyone will ever love me as much as Leroux loved her.”

“Go on. Why would you say a fool thing like that?”

“Because people love beautiful things. They don’t like awkward things, things that are too tall or too boney.” She tugged a strand of hair out of her head. “Too red.”

“What’s beauty got to do with anything?” said Moth as he sat up. “Everyone’s got a different opinion on that anyway.”

“That’s ’cause you lived your whole life in Calio,” Fiona argued. “The ugliest place in the whole world. Back in Capital City people know what’s beautiful and what’s not. And I’m not.”

Moth scoffed, “Who put all that flapdoodle in your head? It doesn’t matter what some high-up Capital City snob thinks of you, Fiona. My mother taught me all that matters is what we think of ourselves. You keep going around thinking bad of yourself and it’s just gonna follow you everywhere.”

He stood up, stretching his arms to the sky to end the conversation. He looked around, spotted the place where they’d left their coats in the flowers, and knew it was time for them to go.

“We should move on now,” he said. “We’ll need to find water soon as we can, maybe locate someone who can help us around here. Someone who knows Merceron.”

Fiona sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs. “Try the star machine again. Maybe it’ll work now.”

So far Moth had hesitated trying the thing again. If it didn’t work, they’d be stuck wandering, bumbling around their newfound world. But he agreed reluctantly, rummaging through the pocket of his coat. Unwrapping the instrument’s cloth, he headed back to Fiona. “I was gonna wait till nighttime.”

There were no stars in the sky, only the sun and a few puffy clouds. Moth cradled the instrument in his hands, still unable to decipher its mysterious markings. Fiona sat beside him, smirking.

“Don’t wait,” she said. “It’ll either work or it won’t.”

Expecting nothing, Moth raised the thing with both hands and peered through the scope. A sharp, magnified view of the flowers and trees burst into his eye. The thing was obviously a powerful telescope, but it had to be more . . . didn’t it?

At last Moth tilted it skyward—into an explosion of stars.

“Whoa!”

Fiona jumped to her feet. “Is it working?”

Moth was too dumbstruck to answer. The machine had somehow peeled back the sunlight, exposing a heaven of bright, living stars. Slowly he tracked the scope across the sky, realizing that the stars were shifting. Bunched together like constellations, the star clusters
moved
.

“C’mon, Moth. What do you see?”

“I see . . . pictures!”

There was no other word for it. Moth knew constellations were pictures, but these seemed alive to him, moving together, tumbling, running. And not just one big mess of stars, either. They were separate from each other, moving in their own particular dance.

“They look alive,” he gasped. “The stars are alive!” He could feel Fiona tugging his arm. “Let me!” she exclaimed, but he couldn’t look away. Back in Calio, he’d spent hours at night stargazing with Leroux. He knew every constellation in the sky, by name and by story. Anxiously he searched for one he recognized.

“Moth,” Fiona begged. “Please!”

“All right,” said Moth, handing her the instrument. He grinned excitedly as she put her eye to the scope and pointed it upward. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Fiona’s frown crowded the lens. “I don’t see anything. What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” Moth put his head next to Fiona’s, their two eyes sharing the scope. “Look, right there!”

“What? There’s nothing . . .”

“Fiona, what are you talking about? The
pictures
.”

“I don’t see pictures, Moth. I don’t see anything. It’s just all sky.”

“No, that’s wrong,” said Moth. He looked again, plainly seeing the array of constellations. “Can’t you see them moving?”

Disappointed, Fiona handed the instrument back to Moth. “It doesn’t work for me.” Her brows shot up in surprise. “It only works for you! That’s why Leroux couldn’t help Esme. He probably couldn’t work it either.”

“But why?” asked Moth. Once again he pointed the thing up to the sky, unable to resist the magical parade of constellations. “I’m nothing special. Why does it work for me but no one else?”

“I don’t know,” said Fiona, sounding a little sad. “Moth, tell me what you see.”

“Oh, Fiona, it’s fantastic.” Moth felt himself pulled into the sky. “All the stars. They’re not like stars back home. The constellations . . . they’re
real
.”

“Real?”

“Yeah, like alive.”

“Can you tell what they are? The pictures, I mean?”

Moth swept the machine across the star field, stopping on a particular cluster. “It’s hard to tell,” he said. Like all constellations, this one was tough to interpret. “This one might be a horse. Or maybe a train.”

“A train
or
a horse?” snorted Fiona. “Some picture.”

“I wish you could see it, Fiona.” Moth lowered the machine. “I’m sorry you can’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Fiona with a wave. “As long as you can use it to find the wizard. Do you see any wizards up there?”

“How can I tell? What’s a wizard look like?”

“Probably like an old man,” said Fiona. “With a hat. Ooh, and a spell book! And maybe a cat.”

“Fiona . . .”

Fiona laughed as she made another suggestion. “Talk to it! Like I showed you back in Calio.”

“Be serious,” groused Moth. “Help me figure this out.”

“I am serious.” Fiona jabbed Moth with her elbow. “Go on. It likes you.”

“You’re a pain,” said Moth, but knew he had nothing to lose. Just as Fiona had done the night before, he held the strange machine above his head and said, “Show me Merceron. Please.”

In his hands the thing began to move.

“It’s alive!” screeched Fiona.

Moth held on, watching as the scope turned skyward on its own. Each time he moved the object, the scope tracked back to the same exact spot. Moth looked through the lens. Against the field of stars he saw a single constellation emerge. He held his breath as the picture took shape. The pinpoints of starlight formed a rectangular shape, followed by a long, trailing tail. To Moth, the constellation looked like a kite.

“Uh, Moth?”

“Fiona, I wish you could see this! I’ve never seen this constellation before . . .”

“Moth, look,” Fiona insisted, tugging at his sleeve. “The mirror . . .”

So far, they’d never seen anything in the mirror except themselves. But now the gleaming surface swirled and churned, distorting the world around them. When it finally cleared, they saw the image of a creature in the glass, something they had never seen before, not in their entire lives.

Something impossible.

MOTH REMEMBERED ALL of Leroux’s tales vividly. The old knight had always loved telling stories about the Reach and the strange beings he had met in this world. He had once told Moth that the Skylords themselves were angelic beings, so beautiful that any man who looked at one too long would be blinded. The rivers were filled with water sprites, said Leroux, and on moonlit nights unicorns ran through the fields. But Leroux had never once mentioned dragons. Dragons didn’t exist. Even if they did, dragons didn’t smoke pipes. And yet that was exactly what Moth and Fiona had seen in the mirror, clearly and precisely.

It was hard to tell how big the creature was, the mirror being so small. It sat alone in a darkened room, paging through a book with its taloned fingers. Rings of smoke spiraled from its pipe, clenched between pointed teeth. Amazingly, the thing wore spectacles. They were the kind of glasses old people wore, perched on the edge of its nose. Occasionally the dragon ran a tongue across its lips as it turned the page, sipping from a tea cup.

For a long while Moth and Fiona gazed into the mirror, marveling at the dragon’s long tail and yellow reptilian eyes. Then, Fiona had a terrible thought.

“What if it can see us, too?” she said. “What if it knows we’re watching it?”

Moth quickly covered the star machine in its cloth. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was move. The instrument had pointed them toward a range of tall, tree-covered hills. Presuming they would find Merceron there, the pair headed off. But neither could shake the image they had seen from their minds.