Starflower (20 page)

It gave Eanrin the wild urge to jump.

He knew that was wrong, evil even. Yet something about that chasm, that plunge into nothingness, beckoned to him, filling his body with unholy need—a need for the pitch, the fall, and the swallowing that must follow.

Shaking himself and backing up a step or two, he cast about for some anchor, anything at all to hold him back! He knew in his rational mind that this wild, consuming craving was suicidal. Yet all the deathly smells of Etalpalli rolled in upon him, urging him to give in. His ears pricked, then went flat to his head, for he thought he heard thousands of voices calling, rising from the darkness. Did the dead Sky People call his name? Did they cry out for him to join them?

It was the foul city! He knew, but the pull was so great he did not want to fight it. Etalpalli would swallow him, and he would willingly leap down its gaping throat.

A new voice, like a caress, crooned to him.

Choose my darkness, Eanrin.

Eanrin had never before in his life been so afraid. Until that moment, he realized, he had not known what fear was.

Choose me.

There must be some escape! There was always an escape for the heroes of epics. Hissing, flashing his sharp fangs, Eanrin drew himself together. The fur on his spine and tail bristled, but there was no one to combat. Only the pit.

Choose me, before I choose you.

As though a noose had closed around his neck and dragged him, Eanrin found himself pulled to the lip of the void. He strained and twisted, but deep inside he knew he could not resist, wasn't even certain he wanted to. The choice was so easy! The fall, so inevitable.

Then suddenly his front paws were out over the edge. He scrambled and snarled and felt that terrible rush through his body that precedes a plunge. He had only an instant to cry out, inarticulate in his terror.

Then his voice was lost as he fell into the arms of darkness.

Hri Sora's eyes were two yellow candles, flickering but intent. The only other light on the roof of that Midnight-shrouded tower came from the smoldering eyes of her children. The Dogs crouched on either side of her, tense and trembling, as though expecting a blow at any moment. Their gazes followed their mother's hands when she moved them in deft signs or folded them quietly before her. There was fear in their ugly faces, fear mixed with unfathomable love.

But Hri Sora spared them not a glance. Her attention fixed upon the maiden from the Land.

She was unmistakable. Hri Sora could have laughed at herself for ever doubting. This girl with the mark of slavery all over her face could only come from the Land Behind the Mountains. She was enslaved to her own beliefs, to the laws of her people.

She belonged to the Beast.

The silent language of women was hateful to Hri Sora. But her fingers did not hesitate as they formed the familiar signs. How long now since she'd been taught this language of slavery? How long since she too had been rendered mute under the curse? She shuddered, wishing not to remember, struggling to keep at bay the fire that always raged to life with these memories. No, she could not succumb to it yet, no matter how tempting those surging flames might be.

One thing only she desired more than the return of her wings. One thing . . . and this girl might prove the key.

Though her hands shook, she formed the necessary words. “Tell me who you are.”

“Starflower,” the girl replied. “Daughter of Eldest Panther Master.”

“I do not know this Eldest.” Hri Sora blinked slowly. “There were many elders in the Land when last I was there.”

“There is but one Eldest now,” the girl signed. “All elders bow to Panther Master.” Then her face contorted, the skin of her forehead puckering while her mouth fixed in a firm line. Her chin quivered, and she bit down on her lip. Then she hung her head, and her hands signed a correction. “They
bowed
to Panther Master.”

“Look at me,” Hri Sora snarled. The girl raised her swimming eyes and watched the dragon form more words with her hands. “In my day, the elders bowed only to the Beast.”

The girl nodded but offered no other reply.

“Does the Beast still rule the Land?”

The girl nodded again. A shudder passed through her small frame, and Hri Sora wondered if the little mortal would faint then and there. Such a puny creature!

The dragon licked her dry lips. She hated the girl. She hated everything she represented: dirt, degradation, and despair. She wanted to swallow her up and then let herself descend back into the fire of her hatred. But no! She must focus.

“Tell me, child,” said Hri Sora, her hands moving harshly. “Tell me how you came to escape the Beast. Tell me how you fled from behind the Circle of Faces.”

The mortal girl closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down one cheek.
One of the Dogs, seeing her distress, whined softly. Hri Sora turned to it with a snarl and cuffed its muzzle. It backed away, its tail tucked, and dared not whine again.

When the dragon turned back to the girl, she found those large black eyes fixed upon her in anger.

“What?” Hri Sora said. “Do you disapprove of how I treat my own slaves?”

The girl ground her teeth, her jaw working. Her hands remained still, but she spoke from her eyes with clarity.

Hri Sora realized suddenly that, for all her mortality, there was strength in this girl. Strength much deeper than what could be outwardly seen. Strength stemming from some source the Dragonwitch could not fathom. But women of the Land were never strong! They were beaten, downtrodden, worthless rags, just as she had once been. Where, then, had this girl come by such power? It took power indeed to feel compassion for one of the Black Dogs. Such power the Flame at Night, in her most potent wrath, had never known. Hri Sora growled, but a shiver ran down her spine.

The mortal's eyes did not leave the Dragonwitch's face. At last she signed with her clay-formed hands, “They are
his
children, aren't they.”

Hri Sora hissed, and fire fell from her lips when she answered aloud rather than with her hands. “His monsters. Yes.”

The girl signed, “And yours?”

The fire would swallow her whole. Hri Sora felt a mounting desire to blast this girl into oblivion!

“Tell me,” she repeated, her claw-tipped fingers ripping at the darkness, “how you came to escape the Circle of Faces. You have his mark in your eyes. You have gazed upon his true face. Yet you lived. Mortal that you are, you lived.” Her lips curled back, and fire licked at the corners of her mouth. “Tell me!”

Imraldera stared at the devil before her, this creature out of her peoples' darkest stories. Though she saw no wings, no scales, no long sinewy tail, she knew what this woman must be. A dragon, like the one that fell from the sky and smote Bald Mountain, killing everything within miles of its dreadful summit. Though her form was not right, the fire brimming inside her was unmistakable.

Yet somehow, Imraldera could not fear her. She could not decide what she felt instead. Was it hatred? Or merely pity?

“It is a long story,” she signed.

“Time does not matter here in the Far World,” the dragon said. “Tell me your story. Tell me from the beginning, as you remember it. Tell me everything.”

So with halting fingers, Imraldera began to weave the tale in the darkness. Her brown hand danced, but it was a solemn dance. A dance of mourning. And as she worked her tale, she felt as though she relived it.

She relived the days of death.

S
TARFLOWER

I
REMEMBER
THE
NIGHT
my mother died. I remember it because, until that night, I had never heard her voice. But that night she screamed. Not even the curse of the Beast could stifle those screams.

I do not like to recall my mother that way. It is difficult to prevent those final moments from overshadowing everything else. Her hands were gentle. They were not the hands I saw clawing at the animal hides upon her bed. They were not the hands I saw tearing at the shadows, begging for help in broken signs. No, let me remember them as they were before! Brown as doeskin, rough as lizard hide, hands that contained so many stories.

Her fingers . . . how they could dance out a tale! How they would fly for me when I was little and just learning to form words of my own. She told me stories of heroes, of elders back in the days before the Land was united under one Eldest. She told me how the mountains that surround
the Land were once giants, tall and grand and glorious. But they sinned a dreadful sin; because of this, they are bound forever in stone. Only if they allow their hearts to become soft once more, to beg forgiveness and listen to the Songs of the Spheres, will they ever be free.

My mother taught me the names of things. I remember that best of all. Her fingers, elegant and strong, would help mine to form the name of the sun, the moon, the name of each mountain and lake and tree. They are silent names, known only to the women. Men do not speak our language of hands. They do not know the hidden names of things.

“Before a creature may truly live,” my mother told me, “it must be known by name. Every living thing, be it man or woman, animal or angel, sleeps inside, waiting for that day when it will wake and sing. But until it is called by its true name, it will remain asleep.

“A true name is a powerful thing. Dangerous. Many go through life asleep inside, because no one has ever called their true name. And so, they think themselves safe.”

“Safe?” I asked. “How can this be? If they must be called by their true name to come alive, why wouldn't they want that name to be known?”

“Because to know a true name is to have great power. The one who knows becomes so strong . . . and also, so weak. Just as you too, when your name is known, are both stronger and weaker than you would otherwise be.”

“If one person knows many true names, is that person then very powerful?”

“Yes,” my mother signed. “But also very fragile.”

I shook my head, confused by this. How can one be both strong and frail at once? It is a great mystery. Perhaps the greatest mystery of all.

“Well, I know my name,” I told my mother in my ignorance. “I am Starflower.”

“That is the name your father gave you, yes,” my mother replied.

“Is it my true name?”

She smiled. I know the reading of faces as well as I know the reading of hands. And in her face, young as I was, I read her answer: “I know your true name, my child. I know, though no one else does. And I will keep it safe.”

My father is Eldest of the Land. All the elders of all the villages, the Crescent Tribes, the men of Black Rock, the tall North Walkers, all of them pay tribute to Eldest Panther Master. They bickered among themselves, however, and only their loyalty to their Eldest kept them from violent warring.

But my father had not produced a son. Only me. Only a worthless woman-child.

Without a son, my father risked losing the loyalty of the elders. Their squabbles became more bitter every year, and their trust in their Eldest, a sonless chieftain, faded. After all, who can trust a man who can father no heir?

The men of our village pleaded with Father many times to set aside my mother and take another wife, one who would give him sons. But Father refused. I would say it was because he loved my mother, but how can a man love a woman? We, who have no voices. We, who are born slaves. It is too much for me to understand.

But I know Mother loved the Panther Master. She loved him for his strength, but she loved him more for the kindness he showed her by not putting her aside when, in the ten years since she had given birth to me, she still gave him no heir.

Then, after all hope had been lost, she came to be with child again. Stone giants above! I had never seen her so joyful! How beautiful her hands became during those months. And I saw her sign these words:

“Let me praise the One Who Names Them.

He named this child from the Beginning.

Since before the worlds were made, he knew

The name of the child I bear.”

Her hands moved in song, though she could not sing aloud. I thought it strange and beautiful. And I wondered who it was who gave the names to living things, even the unborn.

Father, his warriors, and many elders journeyed to Bald Mountain to
make sacrifices to the Beast. The High Priest, Wolf Tongue, journeyed with them to be certain these prayers were heard. If Wolf Tongue prayed on behalf of the Panther Master, then surely a son must follow!

While the men were gone on their long pilgrimage, my mother grew heavy with child. One day, I remember, she drew me aside, and her hands were full of secrets.

“Starflower,” she signed, “you will have a sister come next full moon.”

“A sister?” I replied, horrified. “No, Mother. No, Wolf Tongue has gone with Father to the mountain. He will pray to the Beast, and surely the Beast will give you a son!”

But Mother shook her head. “Child, the Beast cannot give life. He can only crush it. He has no power that his worshipers do not confer on him, and even they, no matter how fervent, cannot grant him the power of life-giving.”

“How can you say this?” I asked. “This is blasphemy!”

I was afraid for her. If Father were to learn these secret thoughts dwelling in Mother's heart, he would be forced to kill her. But perhaps he would never discover it. After all, men do not know the language of women. It would be a sin for them to learn it or to acknowledge that they understood it. Maybe she would be safe?

Mother must have seen these thoughts racing across my face, for she smiled. “Not blasphemy but truth. You will learn it yourself one day.”

I could not stop the tears that sprang to my eyes. If this was the truth, if Mother did indeed have a daughter and not a son, then she would still die. The elders would put her to death, along with the child. No woman who birthed two daughters and no sons could continue being the Eldest's wife.

Mother's face was peaceful; there was no fear in her eyes. This frightened me more. But she put her arms around me, holding me, breathing comfort into my hair. When at last she put me from her, she signed, “You must be brave, Starflower. And you must learn to search out the names of things as I have taught you. When you know them, you must store them in your heart. And one day . . .” She smiled and drew a deep breath before continuing, her hands shaking. “One day, you will speak those names aloud, and in speaking, you will be stronger than death or life-in-death!”

She placed my hands over her rounded stomach. I felt the baby moving there. “Promise me,” my mother signed, “that you will watch over your sister.”

She read the promise in my eyes.

Father and the elders returned before the next full moon. Wolf Tongue was not with them. But he had declared that the Beast, though unseen, had nonetheless heard their prayers. The Panther Master must have a son! The elders were confident.

I don't believe I had ever heard a woman's voice before that night. Perhaps I had and smothered the memory because it was too strange for me. But that night, my mother screamed and screamed, and nothing the midwife did could stop her.

Father prowled the opposite side of the dim, smoke-filled house, his body dark against the light of the fire. He saw me at last, crouched in a corner. I could not take my eyes off my mother. I hardly recognized her, so contorted was she in awful pain.

Father came over to me and hauled me to my feet. I do not think he intended to hurt me. He was too frightened himself to realize what he did. His face was gray and his teeth flashed in the firelight.

“Get out of here, girl,” he said. “Get out!”

I fled the house.

The hillside was black that night, for the moon, though full, hid behind thick clouds. The Eldest's house was set high above the rest of the village, greater than all other buildings save the Long Hall. Light poured from the windows of the Hall below me, and I knew that the elders waited there for word of the Eldest's new son. I could hear their brutal songs.

I sat in the darkness halfway down the hill, afraid to venture any nearer to the village, afraid to look back up at the house. Mother's screams were dulled by distance, but each one hacked my ears, hewing at my sanity like a great hatchet.

Oh, Mother!

The moon broke suddenly through the darkness above me. Light
poured onto the hillside around, like water rushing in spring rains. It startled me so much that I forgot, if only for a moment, the cruel sounds filling the night. A moment later, I could not have heard those screams or those raucous songs had I strained my ears for them!

Music filled the world.

It flowed from the moon above in a language I had never heard, but which I understood. A language like water, like light. For an instant, I understood everything! Only for an instant, but it was so clear while it lasted. I understood that the Beast was not the giver of life. No, not even the giver of death! I understood that I had always been made to sing, to raise my voice to join with those of the moon and the sun and that greater, more beautiful voice that had taught them the songs! Such a moment it was . . . a moment beyond life, beyond death.

But when I opened my mouth to sing in reply, instead of my own voice, I heard that final scream.

The moon vanished behind the clouds. The song was gone, as though it had never been. I turned to gaze up at my father's house and knew, as I looked at the light shining dully through the low doorway, that my mother was dead.

But the baby . . .

The next moment, my feet were flying back up the hill. There was no time for thought. I burst through the curtain hung over the entrance. The hearth fire cast horrible shadows upon the walls, like the giants of old etched in darkness. Mother lay so still upon her pallet. The midwife beside her wrapped something in soft skins. The bundle mewled unhappily.

The Panther Master stood across the room, his arms folded and his face like a stone. He saw me in the doorway. “I told you to go,” he said.

I heard him but could not make myself understand his words. The midwife, still carrying the crying child, stepped over to the fire and stirred an evil-smelling brew that bubbled in a pot. Noxious fumes rose with the smoke.

Poison!

I flung myself across the room and snatched the baby from the midwife. A foolish gesture, I knew, for where could I go? The midwife, crouching by the hearth, lunged after me, staggering under her own heavy bulk so
that I easily eluded her grasp. I backed away from her until I hit the far wall. Both the midwife and my father approached.

“Give back the child, Starflower,” said my father, putting out both hands. I held the infant closer. “You know the law,” my father said. “Hand over the babe and let Doefoot feed her the brew.”

I bared my teeth at him like a mongrel. When he took a step closer, I ducked under his arms and fled to the doorway.

I ran into Wolf Tongue's arms.

———

The High Priest was taller than any man in the Land, so tall that he could scarcely fit inside my father's house. His strong hands, which could have broken my neck without a thought, pinched deeply into my shoulders. I was a rabbit caught in a hawk's talons. But I clutched the baby close to my chest.

“Wolf Tongue!” the Panther Master gasped as he ducked his head to exit the house. “You have come already.”

“The Beast sent me,” said the priest. At the sound of his voice, my body trembled so hard, I feared I would drop the baby. I had never before stood so close to Wolf Tongue, never heard his voice so near. I had always seen him at a distance, offering the harvest sacrifices or giving his dark blessing to the warriors before they marched off to bloodshed. Even from a distance, he had seemed too terrible and enormous to be flesh and blood.