Strands of Starlight (23 page)

She closed the door. “I'll fight.”

“Not that,” he said. “I mean about not being a Christian any longer.:

“It's true,” she said. “I can't say whether I believe in anything anymore. But I certainly can't believe in a faith that's hounded me all my life.”

She was hurting Kay, just as she had hurt Varden, and she could not do anything about it.

“I'm sorry, Kay,” she said, and she tried to put all the care and concern that she felt into her soft contralto.

Kay was not looking at her. She doubted that he could have seen her if he had. “No, Miriam. I'm the one who should be sorry. Aloysius Cranby should be sorry, too, and Clement the Sixth, and all the others. But they aren't, so I have to be sorry in their place.” He wept. Miriam stayed where she was, unable to move.

“My God came down to this place once,” Kay whispered, his voice hoarse. “And He talked about healing and comfort, just like the Elves. And He preached love . . . and peace. The Church preached love and peace, too, for a while. And then . . . something happened. I don't know what. But it's made us fail you, Miriam. And now you say you're not a Christian.”

She watched him silently, felt his tears.

“And I can't say I blame you, my daughter.” He sobbed loudly and buried his face in his hands. Miriam went to him, cradled his head in her arms, stroked his thin, blond hair.

“Kay,” she said. “It's not your fault. You've tried.”

“I've failed.”

“No . . .” she bit her lip to stifle her own tears. “It's not all lost. The soldiers aren't here yet. We haven't tried any decrees. We can prepare.”

“For what? For battle?”

“For whatever. I don't care what Aloysius Cranby or Clement the Sixth says. If there's anything holy in this damned world, it's not in Rome or in Avignon or in Hypprux . . . it's here in the Free Towns, and I'll fight for it. Dammit, Kay: you're some kind of saint, and if your Church can't see that, then it's not worth spitting at.”

“I'm a priest of my Church, Miriam.”

“I know. There's no greater irony.”

He wiped his tears on his sleeve. “I'm a priest,” he said. “I'll do what I can. Augustine delAzri is old, but respected. I'll write to him. And I'll write to Clement the Sixth, too. Maybe there's a chance that he can take enough time away from his statues and his frescoes and his moneylending to pay some attention to a little priest in a little town.”

Miriam brought him candles and wax tablets. He began sketching drafts of his messages, pausing now and again to mop his tears. After seeing to him, she went down the hall to her room without taking a light. She had no need of such things.

She crawled under the warm comforter and tried to forget the fact that she would more than likely awaken before Kay finished with his work. Elves, she recalled, did not need sleep.

But she was not an Elf. And yet she could not drive from her thoughts the knowledge that she could no longer consider herself human either.

The snow came in the darkness, clouds moving across the sky. Before midnight, small, hard flakes were falling, and by the time Miriam awoke, they had turned large and wet.

She wrapped a thick robe about herself and went into the kitchen to stir up the fire. Kay was asleep, his head on the table, the candles burned out. She fetched a pillow and slid it under his head. The snow rattled softly against the shutters. She could see clearly, in shades of blue, the words he had been writing.

“. . .
and so, my most revered teacher, from whose hands I received the three major orders, I do beseech you to use your influence with the barons of Adria
. . .”

She set the tablet aside, threw a blanket over Kay, and made herself a hot drink. As she sat in the dark room, listening to the snow and to Kay's quiet snoring, she sensed that the grass of the common had already disappeared under a blanket of white, and she knew the snow would not stop that day, or possibly the next.

“Early snow, early spring,” she murmured, sipping at her tea.

Someone tapped at the front door. Miriam opened up to find Varden. Snow was falling heavily, and he was wearing a gray cloak.

“Blessings,” she said.

“The hand of the Lady be on you, Miriam,” he returned.

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Standing in the snow at present. May I come in?”

“Uh . . . yes, of course.” She stood aside as he entered and shook the snow from his cloak. “How is Roxanne?”

“Sleeping,” said the Elf. “She is well.”

Miriam wondered how much longer the witch would be able to sleep in peace. In her mind, she saw a lattice of starlight that stretched off into the future, crossing and recrossing in an intricate pattern of possibility. In the web was a strand that was herself, and one that was her revenge, and one that was the man she needed to kill. But she saw also Roxanne, and Varden, and Terrill, and Mika, and the strands blended together in a dense tapestry that she could not comprehend.

Varden's touch brought her back. “Not yet,” he said softly.

There was compassion in his touch, and forgiveness. “I'm sorry about what I said to you yesterday,” she said.

“Was it untrue?”

“No,” she admitted, “it wasn't, but it was cruel. And I've no reason to be cruel to someone who's done so much for me.”

“It is what I am here for. Be at peace.”

She looked him in the eye. Starlight met starlight. “How on earth do you stand me?”

The Elf considered. “I see you as you were, and I see you as you are now, and I see you as you might be.” He smiled. “What is there not to love?”

She grimaced. “Am I going to wind up as mad as you?”

His smile broadened. “Quite possibly.”

Kay stirred. “Hmm? Is that you, Varden?”

“It is, Kay. May I suggest that you go to bed?”

“Did you talk to Andrew and the others?”

Varden tucked the blanket around Kay's shoulders. “I did, my friend. Lamps have been burning well into this night. The general attitude of the town council seems to be that freedom is more important than the niceties of dogma.”

“Battle?” said Miriam.

“It could come to that. But other paths are still open. The peerage of Adria has profited from the Free Towns. It could be that the barons simply need to be reminded of this fact.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“There was talk of hiring mercenaries,” said the Elf. “And of training those who could wield weapons.”

Kay spoke. “Mercenaries in the Free Towns? It would be the end of us just as surely as if we were invaded.”

“Ad I said, other means were discussed.”

Kay nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “I have some means of my own,” he said. He fumbled with the tablets, and when Miriam remembered that he could not see, she lit fresh candles. “I'll have these letters ready by sext. We need to get one to Maris, and the other has to go to Avignon.”

Varden glanced at the writing, nodded. “Good. Someone can carry them to one of the larger cities when the storm abates.”

“We don't have any time to waste,” said Miriam. “I'll start this afternoon.”

Kay started. “Miriam, I—”

“I want to do it.”

“But . . . it's snowing.”

“True.”

“You're a woman.”

“I've noticed. So?”

“It's dangerous!”

“Just write the letters.”

Varden spoke. “I see no reason to gainsay Miriam's wishes. Traveling alone in the snow is unwise, though. One of my folk will accompany her.”

“And do what?” said Kay. “Get burned?”

“Elves can pass among humans for short periods of time. We simply must keep our ears covered. Miriam?”

“That's fine. Who's going with me?”

“I myself wish to stay with Roxanne. I daresay Terrill will offer his company.”

Miriam nearly laughed. “So that he can continue my training?”

“Possibly. That is his decision.”

She wondered what futures Varden saw. Had he foreseen this situation? Was her offer to take the letters merely a part of an unfolding pattern that the Elf watched as though it were some strange, night-blooming flower? Training, indeed! “Kay, where do you keep your parchment?”

The priest looked almost ready to cry again. “In the green chest in my room. The ink and quills are there, too, and the wax and cord.” As Miriam went off down the hall, he put his face in his hands. “What's happening, Varden? I don't understand what's happening. Why is she doing this?”

The Elf laid a hand on his shoulder. “They grow up, my friend,” he said. His voice was almost lost in the whisper of falling snow.

***

Terrill showed up at noon, wrapped in a gray cloak and hood. His eyes twinkled at Miriam. “You desired to travel?” His voice was almost humorous.

“As soon as Kay finishes up,” she said. “I'm packed already.”

“What are you using for a cloak, Miriam?”

“I have a blue—”

The cloak that Mika had given her was hanging in her room, but she realized that it would not fit her now any better than Charity's diminutive gowns.

“Well, then,” she said. “I don't know.”

The Elf produced a bundle. “Roxanne is thoughtful and prudent. She sent this.”

It was a gray cloak, like those worn by the Elves. “Oh . . .” Miriam held it up. It was perfectly matched to her size, and its clasp was an intricately worked moon and star.

“Natil, our harper, provided the clasp,” said the Elf.

“It's lovely.” She looked at him curiously. “How am I worthy of this?”

“It is cold, Miriam.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I do.”

Without further comment, she donned the cloak, fastened the clasp, shook her hair back over her shoulders. She had decided to wear her elven garb for traveling, and when Kay came down the hall, the letters sealed with wax and cord and ready in his hand, he stopped short at the sight of her.

“Dear God,” he said softly.

“I'll wear human clothes when I'm in town, Kay. This is only for traveling.”

He still stared. “Are you sure you can still pass in human clothes?”

She remembered what Varden had said about covering ears, realized that her own were burning, decided not to touch them to find out why. “I'll do my best. The letters can't wait, though.”

The priest nodded resignedly and put them into her hands.

“My calligraphy is not the finest,” he admitted as she tucked them into a pouch. “I hope Clement will deign to read this.”

“I'll try to find someone reputable to carry it to Avignon.”

Terrill spoke. “There are ships that sail down River Bergren from Furze and Belroi. Their captains are good men of business. I am sure that one could be entrusted with the missives.”

“Furze?” said Kay. “Belroi?”

“I would assume,” said the Elf, “that messages sent directly from the Free Towns might arouse interest on the part of Aloysius Cranby or Roger of Aurverelle. Much better that one of the honest rivermen take the letters.”

“How soon can we get there?” said Miriam.

“We will travel the forest paths. Two days. Perhaps three.”

“In this storm?”

His eyes twinkled again. “Elves are known for being ingenious. Come.”

It was still snowing hard when they set off. Miriam hugged Kay farewell and followed Terrill into the bitter wind and driving flakes. She kept her hood pulled close about her face as they made their way along the streets of the town, across the bare, white fields, and into the forest.

Once they entered the forest, though, the wind died, and the path Terrill took was surprisingly free of snow. Miriam almost asked about the change, but as she opened her mouth she felt the soft energies about her. The path seemed to shimmer with magic, and she doubted that any human being had ever set foot upon it until now.

Until now? She wondered.

They journeyed northwest, paralleling the course of the Malvern River, and the sound of moving water blended with the sighing of the wind in the bare branches. But the forest still felt overly quiet, and Miriam had been walking for several hours before she understood why: her footfalls had become as silent as Terrill's.

She estimated that it was close to midnight when the Elf stopped and gestured toward a clearing. “You need to sleep.”

Fatigue was indeed telling on her, but she mustered as mall laugh. “Maybe, but for how much longer, Terrill?”

“I do not know,” said the Elf.

She stood before him. “Are you sure? I've had the feeling these last days that there's a lot going on that you and Varden aren't telling me. Elves can see the futures. What do they tell you?”

He regarded her evenly, a pale, fair-haired figure wrapped in a cloak of gray. “Very little, Miriam,” he said at last.

“Do you expect me to believe that, Terrill? I've seen them.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you cannot see all of them, nor can I. It is true: there is much that is happening. But you saw many, many possibilities when we fought in the clearing yesterday, and if there are so many in a mere clash of wooden swords, how many more must there be in a life? You make choices, Miriam. You make them sometimes even without thinking. But every time that you do, you alter the Dance. Neither Varden nor I can make choices for you, nor can we predict what they will be. I beg you: consider that before you accuse us of withholding information.”

For a moment, she looked among the stars for awareness of the Dance. She saw the strands of starlight that wove together in ever-changing patterns. Strand met strand, potentials split, and split again. She examined the amount of starlight flowing through her futures and knew that no one but an Elf would be so deeply connected with such energies. She pulled out of the vision. Her heart was racing.

“And how much choice do I really have, Terrill?” she said hoarsely.

The Elf turned away and began to kindle a fire.

***

When they reached the edge of the trees, Belroi was some six leagues to the north. Here, the snow had been light, and the River Malvern cut a trial through dun fields pinto-patched with snow as it ran swiftly toward the city to join the Bergren.

Closer was Furze. “We could reach it by noon,” said Terrill, surveying the land with his keen eyes, “but the letters would have to pass through that many more hands. Better we take them to Belroi.”