Strands of Starlight (35 page)

“Beloved?” Terrill knelt beside her, concerned.

She shook her head, passed a sleeve across her face. “I'm just an idiot. That's all.”

“Can I help?”

She shook her head. “It's me. It's just me.” As usual, she had passed from sleeping to waking without any transition. She was simply conscious once again of the clearing, the trees, the scattering of leaves about her, the breathing of the horses a few yards away. She felt Cloud's thoughts:
Blessings on you this day.

Smiling in spite of her sorrow, she looked up to the stars. One glowed with the hue of a summer rose. “What star is that?” she said suddenly.

Terrill turned his head, his pale hair whispering in the night air. “We call it
Mirya
,” he said. “It is named after a word we use for the sudden blooming of a flower. It is something of a flower itself, for it changes in brightness day by day.”

She remembered then.

“That's the star Natil talked about,” she said. “It's what you've all been calling me on and off. And the Lady called me that last night.”

“I heard.”

“What did that mean?”

“She confirmed your name.” Terrill stood and picked up a corner of the comforter, and Miriam rose and helped him fold it. “Miriam is a human name,” he said. “Mirya is Elvish.” He put a last fold into the comforter and tucked it into a small bag. “It is fitting: the sudden blooming of a flower.”

Miriam stared at the star.
Mirya.
“Terrill,” she said suddenly, “am I going to have anything left of myself after all this?”

“Meaning?”

“My body's changed. My mind's changed. Now I'm losing my name. What else?”

He was tying up the packs. “I am not sure you will like my answer. You will have to lose your anger and your hate.”

“It was as though he had read her dreams and knew precisely what had dragged her away from love and union. She felt the tears start again, stifled them. “I know.”

“I will help as I can.”

But his words, though sincere, were infused with a feeling of impotence, as though Terrill knew well how little his assistance was really worth in the face of a task that she had, in the end, to do herself.

They let the horses rest for several hours more and set off just at dawn. As the lavenders and blues of Miriam's night vision yielded to the vivid colors of the day, she noticed that they were now not far from the forest's edge. Where the trees thinned, she could see the North Road that led through Alm and Saint Blaise and wound among the scattered villages.

“What about the other Free Towns?” she said. “Do your people visit them, too?”

“Rarely. But we will stop in today. Saint Blaise is an hour's ride ahead, and the mayor there, George Darci, knows me a little. I saved him from a wild boar once. Do you know him?” Terrill glanced back, one eyebrow lifted.

“No. We've never met.”

“All right.” The Elf turned back to the road. “He is still frightened of us a little, Mirya. Pray, do not speak sharply to him, for I do not wish to see him melt.”

“I . . . I'll t ry to rein in my tongue.”

Terrill smiled over his shoulder. “There is my good Elf.”

After a while, Terrill turned off the hidden path and passed onto a human trail. Across broad fields filled with a springtime growth of crops, Miriam could see Saint Blaise.

Saint Brigid was a town, a village. Saint Blaise was a city. The northernmost of the Free Towns, Saint Blaise was the connecting link between the independent cities of that region and the feudal territories to the north. Traders of every sort met in its marketplace, and as its fairs had year by year grown in size and revenues, so had Saint Blaise grown in wealth and esteem. The purity of its coinage was a standard throughout Adria, and only the most hardened inquisitor could find any objection to it.

Miriam touched Cloud, and the horse halted at the edge of the trees. Her lips pursed in wonder, she stared at the bright tiled roofs of the city, the spires of the guildhalls, the colorful banners that flew from the top of the council and mayoral buildings.

And then she caught the sense of fear.

“Terrill.”

The Elf had halted beside her. “I feel it. I suppose we should not be surprised. Aloysius Cranby's journey to Saint Brigid doubtless included a stop here.”

Terrill did not answer for a minute. Miriam knew that he was looking to the stars, feeling through lifelines and probabilities. “There are strangers in the town,” he said after a moment. “They are unwelcome, and armed. I think the war may have already begun, but I want to find out more. If we are traveling north, I do not wish to have difficulties at my back. To my mind, a town in the grip of the Inquisition is a very palpable difficulty. I will talk with George.”

“Is it wise to go in there?”

“It would be unwise not to.” He dismounted. “Fear not: we are Elves. We are known for . . . being ingenious.”

From their packs they took clean but nondescript garments without elven devices of any sort. Miriam looked with distaste at the gown. “I'm supposed to wear this?”

He smiled. “You are becoming spoiled, Mirya.” She noticed that he used her elven name freely now. The Lady had confirmed it: the matter seemed settled for Terrill. “You will have to put off your sword also. Be at peace: fighting is not what we want right now.”

She had become used to the weight of the sword, and she felt naked without it. The idea of entering a potentially hostile town without a weapon frightened her, but reluctantly, she wrapped Rainfire and put it with her pack when Terrill hid the baggage.

“Are you not well?” he said.

“I don't like this.” She gestured at her hip. “This isn't Saint Brigid.”

Terrill thought for a moment. “Perhaps you are right.” He reached into a side flap of his pack, took out a long dagger, and handed it to her. “Hide it among your skirts. Once, I made the mistake of leaving myself unarmed. I will not do so again, nor will I allow a friend to.”

Dressed simply as a young husband and wife, they crossed the fields, came upon a road, and approached the south gate of the town. There were many people going in and out, and the men at the gatehouse seemed bored with their task. Miriam did not have to turn to the stars to know that they were among the strangers Terrill had sensed.

“Shake out your hair, Mirya,” said Terrill. “Make sure your ears are covered.” Miriam reached up unthinkingly and realized that Terrill had cause for his words. Hurriedly, she arranged her tresses. Terrill himself gave a flick of his head and his hair settled evenly.

“Casually, Mirya. Find your stars, and watch the gatekeepers' inattention. It is time you learned fine control.”

The life of the town was a complex knot among the webs, but Terrill guided her awareness to the strand in question. She watched it fade in and out, and when it dimmed to near invisibility, Terrill calmly took her by the hand, flicked the penny toll into the basket by a guard's arm, and led her past the men's unseeing eyes.

On the surface, the town seemed quite normal: vendors hawked their wares, shops were open, housewives chatted beside the well. But the fear was there. It stuck in the back of Miriam's mind like a sooty cloud, glowed in her awareness like a hot stove. One of its focal points, she saw, was the mayor's residence.

In many ways, the mayor of Saint Blaise was just another citizen, and his house was neither overlarge nor ostentatious. At present, the windows were unshuttered to let in the fresh air, and Miriam caught a glimpse of well-made hangings in one of the upper rooms.

“Glance at it, Mirya,” said Terrill softly, “but do not stare. Observe, instead, the men lounging against the wall on the far side of the street.”

There were two there, dressed rudely, like poor city folk. But Miriam saw the webs that connected them with the house. “Spies.”

“It is so. Come. UP a street, and then to the right. We shall approach from the back. And keep your ears covered.”

Miriam was surprised by the alley. In contrast to the reeking, open sewers that made up the back ways of the northern cities, it was quite clean. The kitchen door of the house did not appear to be watched. Miriam examined the webs and found nothing. Terrill, approving, confirmed her observation.

The Elf knocked at the door. It was opened after a minute by a serving girl in a brown smock, her face flushed from the cooking fire and her dark hair tied back severely.

“Good morning,” said Terrill.

“I'm sorry, sir. We have no positions open.” The girl was nervous. She was not looking at them, and the fear clung to her like oily smoke.

“Dolores,” said Terrill, allowing his Elvish accent to come through plainly, “be at peace.”

Then the girl actually saw them, and her eyes grew round. “Oh, dear God! Terrill! Oh, God, please come in!”

They entered, and she shut the door behind them. She leaned against it and passed a hand over her face.

“There is fear in this house,” said Terrill. “What has happened?”

“Oh, Fair One,” said Dolores, “the churchmen have been through the town, and their soldiers came in disguise. They've been questioning people, and Mistress Janet is up in Hypprux, and the mayor and his lady are left without their daughter—” The words tumbled out, sliding over one another in her haste to be rid of them. “—and I'm so worried about Janet. She's but a mite of a girl, and what would they want with her in Hypprux?”

“Easy, maiden.” Terrill laid a hand on Dolores's shoulder and helped her to a stool. She buried her face in her hands.

“It's been dreadful here. His lordship won't talk to anyone about anything. Stays holed up in his study, he does. Lady Anne won't eat. The house is so . . . so . . .”

“It is the fear.” Terrill spoke gently. “Now, did you tell me that George is in his study?”

“I did, Fair One.”

“Take us there, please.”

“He won't see anyone, kind sir.”

Miriam spoke up. “He'll see us. Don't worry.”

Dolores stared at her, frightened, then rose and curtsied deeply. “You do us honor, my Lady.”

“Just take us to the study.”

Dolores led them up two flights of stairs to a wooden door. “All right, Dolores,” said Terrill, “thank you. You can go back to the kitchen. We will do what we can.”

She nodded at them and scampered down the stairs. Terrill knocked at the door. “My lord!”

“Go away, and have done with you,” came the reply. Miriam wondered: the voice sounded vaguely familiar. “I gave orders that I was not to be bothered.”

Terrill shrugged and lifted the latch. The door swung open on well-tallowed hinges. A man sat at a desk, his back to them, his head bowed.

“Orders,” said Terrill, “sometimes grow outdated.”

The man turned, almost as startled as Miriam. This was the fat man that she had healed on a cold, rainy night in Hypprux, who had given her his money and his cloak. The mayor of Saint Blaise! No wonder his cloak was so fine! No wonder it bore the insignia of the city and the Towns!

George, though, did not recognize her. How could he? The little healer who had mended his ankle had been dead for almost a year, having taken her own life out of despair. . . .

The thought gave her a queasy feeling. She had an awareness of the Dance, but here was someone from the past come back again, as though a familiar partner, swept away by one turn of an estampie, was now back with a new step, reaching out a hand for her to take once again.

George had risen quickly. “Terrill.” He came forward and took the Elf by both hands. He looked wasted, wan, as though sleep had been elusive for many days and grudging with its rest when it actually came. More lines had been added to his face, and they had not come from laughter. “Unlooked for and in time of sorrow you come,” he said. “Forgive my harsh words.”

“Forgiveness is found within yourself,” said Terrill. He took Miriam by the hand. “Mirya, this is George Darci, mayor of Saint Blaise. George, Mirya is a kinswoman of mine and a healer.”

The greater status that Terrill's introduction had accorded her was not lost on Miriam, nor was the mayor's deep bow. But she was still flustered by this apparition from her past. “Blessings on you,” she stammered. “How is your ankle?”

“My ankle?” George was genuinely puzzled.

Miriam shook her head slightly. “No matter. Be at peace.”

“Would that I could.”

“Speak to us,” said Terrill. “You spoke of sorrow. Was it brought by Aloysius Cranby?”

George sat down on a carpeted chest. “That bastard. That bloody bastard.” He looked for words, and in the silence, Miriam heard, through the door at the other end of the room, the sound of a woman sobbing hoarsely. “It was on the first large market day after the thaw,” the mayor said. “There were many people come here form all over the country, and since we hadn't heard of any overt preparations against us, we were caught unawares.”

The sobbing continued.

Terrill spoke. “From what Dolores said, I assume that the bishop and a number of soldiers infiltrated the town.”

George nodded. “Quite a lot of soldiers. Swiss archers, many of them, but many more are of the sort who never wear mail, but spend their time in the taverns and the town squares, listening. Cranby and his two friars came up here and told me that they knew of my dealings with Elves and witches. They brought some fairly irrefutable evidence with them.

“Evidence?” Miriam was almost afraid to ask. The Dance was turning spiral-wise, cycling back to the beginning. She realized with a sense of unease that her purpose in this northward journey was to enter the very dungeon from which she had escaped months before.

George pointed to a peg on the wall where hung a familiar dark green cloak. “I gave that cloak to a little lass in Hypprux,” he said. “She was a healer, and she's been tortured. She healed my—” He stared for a moment at Miriam, who was transfixed by the sight of the cloak. “Healed my ankle.”

Terrill gently slid his arm around Miriam's waist.

“I had no idea whether she got out of the city or not, but obviously, she did. Cranby's men found my cloak in the possession of a witch just outside of Furze. Apparently, the girl had stayed with the witch.”

“She's not a witch,” said Miriam. Trembling slightly, she took down the cloak, examined it, felt again the warm wool, ran her slender finger over the embroidery. “She's a midwife.”
Oh, dear Lady! Mika!