Strands of Starlight (18 page)

“It is to be expected,” said the Elf. “Miriam has been reborn in body, and maybe a little in soul, too. Such transformations demand at least a retroactive gestation.”

“You're taking this pretty calmly.”

“There is no other way, my friend. Fear not.” He glanced at the sleeping woman appraisingly. “She will awaken with the dawn. Have a good breakfast for her. She will be hungry.”

Kay shook his head in amazement, but he followed the Elf out to the kitchen. Varden opened the front door. The sounds and odors of night entered the room. “You're leaving?” said Kay.

“Our vigil is ended. Miriam will be ready tomorrow morning. I am going to talk with Terrill.”

The priest rubbed his cheek. “Terrill. That's the fellow who's going to teach my girl how to kill?”

“Kay,” Varden said gently, “Miriam is not yours, nor is she mine. She belongs to herself. I told you that she is on a path. Who knows where she will have to go in order to follow it? Pray to your Lord that yours will be easier . . . as I pray to my Lady.”

The night air made the candle in Kay's hand flicker. He winced as a rivulet of hot wax found his skin.

“All right,” he said. “God be with you, Varden.”

“The hand of the Lady be on you, Kay,: said the Elf, touching his forehead. He closed the door behind him.

And Miriam dreamed. Starlight.

***

Mika was not sleeping well these nights. Over the years, she had trained herself to fall asleep quickly, to snatch as much rest as she could before she was called out to attend a laboring woman, but the ability was failing her now. Eyes unclosed, she stared into the darkness as the night crawled slowly toward morning.

She wondered if her sleeplessness was not perhaps for a reason. Maybe one of her ladies was going to begin labor prematurely and her midwife's intuition was responding. Maybe someone was coming down the road right now, sent to bring her to the side of a woman who needed her.

Her eyes felt dry, and there was a whiteness in her mind: emblems of the insomnia afflicting her these nights. The summer heat was not helping. Sweating, she unbarred the door and went out into her garden.

Sitting on the bench, head tilted back against the warm wall, she looked up to the stars that shone brightly in the dark sky, their light tingling almost palpably on her face. They reminded her of something, something she had seen before.

She shut her eyes for a minute while she grappled with the memory. It was important for some reason that she recall it right now, as though there would be a gap in the pattern of life and living that she suddenly sensed around her if she did not. She opened her eyes, the stars blazed down at her, and the recollection at last settled into her mind.

Starlight.

She remembered Miriam again. She did frequently, for though the girl had spent only a few weeks with her, she still thought of her as being a part of the household. This was the corner where she slept. And this was the plate and cup she used. Here is the chest where the dark green cloak of the Free Towns is folded.

But this time there came to her not a recollection of Miriam as she had been—housemate, helper, almost daughter—but the all-but-faded memory of the vision that had surrounded the healer when she lay, feverish, in the back of the wagon north of Belroi. Mika had seen stars then, too.

There: the pattern was complete. For a moment, the night had paused, waiting for Mika to remember, and now that she had, it continued on its way. The stars burned, wheeling slowly in the sky.

But why? Why now? What pattern had she, for a moment, entered? Lifting her head, she looked off into the darkness, almost expecting to hear a familiar step on the road. “Miriam?” she called hesitantly.

But aside from the hoot of the owl and the chirping of crickets, there was no answer, unless it was the clear, cool, twinkling of the many stars.

***

George Darci awakened to find Anne's arms wrapped around him and her blond head pillowed on his shoulder. Her hair lay like a tumble of gold silk across the bedclothes. He sighed contentedly. It was nice to wake up in such a way. It made the dark clouds on the horizon seem less dark. He smiled up at her, kissed her forehead.

“Umph,” she said sleepily, and she snuggled a little closer. Outside, the first light of dawn was growing, and it glowed in through the unshuttered window. A skylark fluttered to the sill, perched, and surveyed the room.

George nodded to it. “Good morning,” he said. “If you were a burgher of Saint Blaise, would you defend your city and not mealymouth about niceties of Christian doctrine? You understand, I ask as one mayor to another.”

“Hmm?” said Anne.

“We have a visitor.”

She lifted her head and smiled at the bird, then fell back to George's shoulder. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

“Let me see. . . .” George pretended to think. “Well, it's morning, just dawn. No, I don't think you've had time.”

“Well then, I love you.”

“I love you also, my sweet.” George looked back to the window. “If you see Terrill somewhere,” he said to the bird, “could you please tell him that I need his advice?”

There was a burst of laughter from the next room, a high, girlish giggle, and a clap of hands. The skylark took wing.

“You'd better come tell us, love,” called George. “We'd like to start the day with a bit of mirth, too.”

The curtain that covered the doorway was pushed aside, and a young woman who looked much like Anne peered in anxiously. “I'm sorry, Father. Did I wake you?”

“Not at all. What's so funny, Janet?”

She was holding a book in the crook of one arm. It was a large, heavy tome, bound in thick covers. “Otto gave me this to read. It's about rhetoric. He thinks it will improve my Latin. I suppose he may be right, but there are some good stories in here. Listen.” She opened the book and translated. “ 'Six centuries after the birth of Our Lord, the learned monks of Hibernia, Gabundus and Terentius, argued for fifteen days and fifteen nights the vocative of
ego
, and in the end, unable to agree, they attacked one another with hand and with weapon.' Imagine that!” She laughed again. “Maybe they should have just called themselves Gabundus and Terentius!”

Anne chuckled. “It would have been easier, I suppose.” She nuzzled at George's cheek. “Janet, would you please go back to your studies? Your father and I are going to make love.”

“Really?” said George. “I didn't know that.”

“Ummm. You do now.” She crawled on top of him, stared into his face, and—very deliberately, very sloppily, very noisily—licked the tip of his nose. Their laughter drowned out the whisper of the falling curtain.

***

Although it was only midmorning, the day was already hot. The tilled fields around Aurverelle sent up their odors of manure and mulch and filled the air with humidity; and the heat seeped along the narrow streets of the town as Bartholomew shouldered his way through the throngs that had come for market day.

As he went, he looked at faces, listened to voices. He had a good memory for such things, and it was a useful talent. He was also quite a mimic—though that was not quite so useful—and could imitate even Baron Roger himself, drawing himself up and crashing about the room like a great bear, thundering curses and imprecations. The bishop would laugh heartily at him, though Baron Roger was never present at such times. For good reason.

But the bishop and the comforts of Hypprux were far off, and Bartholomew was indulging in more than a little self-pity as he presented himself at the entrance to the castle complex.

“Brother Bartholomew to see Baron Roger.”

The guard lounged back, pursed his lips. “Baron Roger's seeing no one.”

A trickle of sweat wound down Bartholomew's temple. “I'm bearing messages from Bishop Aloysius Cranby.”

“Oh?”

The friar pulled out a signet ring. The guard took it and whistled. “Quite a chunk of gold, that.”

“Quite,” said Bartholomew, steaming. “May I see the baron?”

“He's not seeing no one, I told you,” said the guard. “He's sick. Not seeing no one.”

“Will you at least tell him that I'm here in town? It's rather important. Bishop Cranby—”

“I don't care much 'bout Bishop Cranby myself,” said the guard, handing back the signet, “though he does keep nice rings. But if you're with him, you're welcome. Talk to the steward in the front house. But Baron Roger won't see you for a while.”

“What's wrong with him? Fever?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Something with his arm, too, I think. None of my business. Anyway, go on.”

Still sweating, Bartholomew tucked the ring back into his pouch. Food was near, and drink and—please, God!--some place where he could strip off his Dominican habit and flounder in a pool of reasonably cool water like a great, pink whale . . . or maybe even a bear.

Terrill was tall, fair-haired, and his eyes held a calm grimness that seemed to evaluate dispassionately everything that they focused upon. His actions were sharp, quick, well defined—like the sword that hung from his belt. His voice was clear, his intonation firm and factual.

He showed up at the door, of the priest's house in the late morning and asked for Miriam. Kay hesitated for a moment, then called her. When she appeared, Terrill handed her a bundle and asked her to put on the clothing it contained.

As he talked, he was watching her, and Miriam, though she was clothed, felt more naked before him than she had when nude before Varden. Every movement, every shift of her weight, even the way she held the bundle was, she thought, being examined and memorized for future reference. She searched his face for reactions, but his reserve was impenetrable.

She took the bundle back to her room in order to change, leaving Terrill waiting at the door. He would not come in, thank you very much. Perhaps some other time. Be at peace.

The clothes he had brought were light, simple, of green and gray, with a belt and boots of soft leather. It seemed to be the standard dress of Elves, male or female, for not only Varden and Terrill wore it, but Natil and Talla—Roxanne, too, Miriam recalled—had also been garbed in the same way.

She tied the belt loosely, as it seemed meant to be, and tucked the legs of her breeches into the tops of the soft boots so that they bloused at the knee. She peered at herself in the mirror. Her face and body were still strange to her, but she was starting to learn what she looked like. Maybe the three days she had spent asleep had made some difference, though she remembered nothing of them.

The elven garb fit her exactly, flattered her, and again she was struck by a sense of familiarity about herself. She puzzled over it for a minute, then shrugged it off. After giving her hair a quick brush and tying it back loosely, she padded down the corridor, her boots almost noiseless on the tile floor.

Terrill's eyes flickered for a moment when he saw her. Touching his forehead with both hands, he bowed.

“Terrill,” said Kay suddenly.

“My good father?” said the Elf. Dispassion and respect blended seamlessly in his voice.

“You'll take care of Miriam, won't you?”

The Elf looked him up and down, weighing, balancing, reading in the priest's eyes what had not been uttered aloud. Finally, he nodded tersely. “Fear not.”

Without another word, he led Miriam down the street toward the village gate. Kay looked nervously after them, drying a plate that had lost all its moisture a quarter of an hour before.

Outside, Miriam felt self-conscious. Villagers stared at her without recognition. It chilled her. She had known these people for months, and now she was a stranger to them. How could she explain? What had she given up in return for a new body and a chance at a new fate?

They crossed the fields, the trees closed about them, and for a minute or two Miriam thought that Terrill was leading her back to the site of her transformation. But the path twisted oddly, and after a short time they entered a different clearing. It was level and carpeted with grass. Wildflowers were scattered about, their colors bright and clear.

Leaning against a tree were two wooden practice swords. Terrill took up one of them. “We will not do much today. I want to come to know you a little and watch you handle this. You are tall for a human woman, but not overtall. So I will be teaching you to fight like an Elf: deft, quick. We are slender, as are you, and depend upon lightness of foot rather than brute strength.”

She nodded. There did not seem to be much to say.

Terrill walked a dozen yards from her, turned suddenly, and tossed her the sword. The wooden blade tumbled gracefully in the noon light.

Without thinking, she caught it properly, her hand settling on the grip comfortably but firmly. The Elf's eyebrows lifted for a moment, but he sat down cross-legged where he was. “Hold it,” he said. “Play with it. Feel it. But remember this: even a wooden sword is a weapon. Respect it. I once cut a man through the spine with a wooden sword.”

There was a hauntedness about his eyes as he spoke, but no further information was forthcoming. He gestured for her to proceed, leaned back on his elbows, and stretched out his legs, relaxed.

Left standing here in this clearing with a practice sword, told to do something indefinite, she felt again self-conscious, momentarily overwhelmed by the difficulty of the path she had chosen. But she had a sudden flash of a leering face, felt the grip of a new-healed hand and arm, and hate welled up. Instinctively, she raised the sword and cut through the air in a graceful, sweeping arc, her feet taking up the follow-through just so, coming to rest lightly and ready to move again.

Risking a glance at the Elf, she found that not only had his eyebrows lifted, but his eyes had widened also. But his calm resettled. “That was done in anger,” he said simply.

“Yes. That's true.”

“It is not a good way to fight. Anger quickens response, lends strength, but is not a reliable ally.”

“It's why I'm here.”

“True,” said Terrill, “and it is why I am here. You will eventually ask me whether you are ready to fight the man who raped you. I will tell you something then, but I will tell you this now: when you can love him as you kill him, then you will be ready.”