Strands of Starlight (46 page)

There was hope here. There really was. Gugliemino had been lax with his office for the last eight years. He had plotted and connived with the best. He had even, at times, doubted the reality of his own faith. But it seemed to him, in this land of the Free Towns, where, regardless of fear and the imminent threat of inquisition and war, there was still room for courtesy and even—miracle of miracles!—friendship, he had found something that could make up for his plots and his laxness, something to counter his doubts, something to cling to when the world felt cold and the smiles of those about him seemed terribly, terribly false.

And if that something edged ever so slightly into heterodoxy . . . well . . . no one ever questioned to goings-on at Monserrat, and Hildegard had pressed her mysticism at Rupertsburg well beyond any kind of orthodox boundary. Did it make so much of a difference that the Free Towns were not enclosed by a monastery wall, but instead lay open to the blue sky and the bright sun that reminded him so much of home?

They could so easily have hated me.

He wanted to talk to Kay, but he knew already what he would hear; knew, in fact, what report he would give to Clement VI.

***

Mika arose shortly after dawn to find Kay at the table, his head on his arms, sound asleep. There was a smile on his face that reminded her of a contented infant, and as she led him to his own room, he came to himself just enough to murmur: “Don't forget your cloak.”

“My cloak?” she said. “Am I supposed to go somewhere?”

“No . . . never . . .”

And he drifted off again as she tucked the sheets up under his chin. There was no cloak in the kitchen, though there was a half-finished cup of peppermint tea on the table and a chair was drawn up to the fire as though Kay had entertained a guest during the night. Doubtless, he had met someone on the way home from bringing the Sacrament to Simon's father and had eventually decided that no sleep was better than an hour's worth. Nature, obviously, knew better.

After breakfast, she finished her morning chores, then took a moment to peek in on Kay. The priest was still asleep, curled up, a smile still glowing on his features.

Would that I had such easy memories and such peaceful dreams.

With a sigh, she closed the door, resolved not to wake him unless it were absolutely necessary. She had only been in Saint Brigid a few days, but she was picking up the routines, and life here was not so much different than in the little hamlet south of Furze. It was still a matter of shopkeeping, cooking, cleaning, of people watching out for one another, of babies coming and old folks going. Kay could sleep.

She entered her room and poured out water to wash.

But then there were the Elves, and that made for some differences. Here in Saint Brigid the priest did not cross himself when they were mentioned: he had them into dinner instead. Here, too, Miriam had stayed as a welcome guest. In this very room, in fact.

Mika dried her face. Had Miriam been happy in Saint Brigid? Was she well? Where was she now? Mika had asked all these questions of Kay, and the young priest had answered them all in the affirmative, but with an inflection to his voice that told the midwife that there was more involved in her questions than a simple yes or no could address. He had not offered to elaborate beyond saying that Miriam was off on a journey, though, and Mika could only hope that here, in the safety and tolerance of the Free Towns, Miriam had found some kind of ending to her pain.

She changed into a gown that Elizabeth had lent her, and just before she left to go to market, she picked up the brush that Miriam had left behind. What luxury this was for an old woman who had so recently lain upon the rack: safety, a bit of mirror, and a real brush . . . and her own room!

“She must have been happy here,” she said to herself.

Her eyes fell on the brush she held in her hand, as though through it she could touch the girl she had come to love. Tangled in the bristles was four days' worth of her own hair, dark brown and shot with silver. But some of Miriam's was there also.

She squinted at the brush. Red gold? Miriam's hair had been black.

She took the brush to the window and drew out one of the near-blond strands. It was long and fine, much finer than any hair she had ever seen on a human head. Only once had she seen this color before, and that was on the head of the Elf who, with Terrill, had rescued her. Terrill had called her Mirya, and she had seemed, at times, so familiar.

We met once. But I'm sure you don't remember me.

Tall, slender, hair the color of red gold, and eyes like emeralds that flashed with all the light of the stars on a summer night. Mika remembered her clearly. How could she ever forget someone like Mirya?

Mika puzzled over the connections for some time, but the link did not come to her until the early afternoon, when, as she dozed on the bench at the side of the house, nearly asleep, vision and memory suddenly fused together into a coherent, incredible whole, and she started awake with a cry.

Kay had just then come to the front door and was blinking at the noon light. He scratched his head, as though wondering where most of the day had gone. Mika ran to him and grabbed his arms. “It's true, isn't it? Mirya is Miriam . . . isn't she?”

Kay listened quietly to her frantic questions, his eyes peaceful, and that soft smile still hanging about the corners of his lips. Slowly, he nodded. “It's true. It's a long story.”

She thought he was going to tell the tale right then, but she felt a presence behind her and turned around to see a big bay horse with a stout man sitting on it. He was a clergyman, a monsignor at that. A gold ring was on his finger, and the brooch that fastened his cloak was in the form of a papal crest.

“Oh, dear God,” she said, “they've come.”

The stout man bobbed his head at them. “I am Monsignor Gugliemino,” he said, his voice lilting with the accents of Italy. “I am from Avignon. Clement received your letter.”

Mika stole a glance at Kay. The priest's face was still peaceful. “And what is the news from Avignon, Monsignor?” His voice was calm.

Gugliemino swung a foot over the horse's rump and slid to the ground. “What news?” He looked at the house, at the church that was too large for the village, at the lush grass of the common, at the children coming toward him at a dead run as they laughed and shouted and challenged one another to be the first to touch the stranger's fine horse. “What news? I cannot say what it is now, but I can tell you what it will be, Kay. Aloysius Cranby was an ass, and a bloodthirsty one, too. And Roger of Aurverelle is a greedy boor.” He approached, stuck out his hand, smiled broadly. “Or maybe I am wrong?”

Kay let his arm encircle Mika's shoulders as he took Gugliemino's hand. “Welcome to Saint Brigid, Monsignor.”

Even at a distance of three leagues, Mirya could see clearly the four riders trotting toward Beldon Forest. The lattices were regular, even. There was nothing for her to do but wait. Unless she changed her plans drastically, she and Roger of Aurverelle would meet shortly after midday, when the baron would decide to add to his appetite before lunch.

She felt oddly impassive, as if the past days and her recent realizations had drained her of emotion. Her hand, resting lightly on Rainfire's pommel, gripped the sword for a moment and loosened it in its sheath, but she had hours ahead of her, and she shook her head and walked down the hill into the forest.

Her conscience twisted a little for having involved Janet in the execution of her vengeance, but she was not overly worried about the girl: she knew the webs too well. At least she knew them up until that moment when they twisted into the bewildering knot that represented her encounter with Roger.

The sun rose toward the zenith. She was sitting under a tree, off among the stars, examining the knot. It loomed ahead of her like a sea of light in which she could make out the flickerings of half-formed images. Anything was possible. In one potential future, she even saw herself healing a dying Roger of Aurverelle.

When she shook herself out of that particular vision, she was gripping her knees so hard that her knuckles had turned white. She rose, rubbed the stiffness out of her hands, called Cloud with a sharp whistle. It was time.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt through the present and saw that the attendants had lost themselves, that Roger and Janet were moving deeper into Beldon. The baron was talking soothingly to the girl, telling her tales of what he had done on past expeditions.

Mirya touched Cloud and the horse started off. She was certain that Roger was not going to tell Janet about everything that he had done in Beldon.

But Janet was listening attentively, and Mirya felt suddenly unclean at the thought of dragging her into even a potential danger. She had used Charity as a means of pressuring Varden, and now she was using Janet to reach Roger. In spite of her transformation, her growth, and her changes, was she really any different? But it was too late to change anything.

As she expected, she was exactly on time. There was a small meadow a mile or two into Beldon, carpeted with lush grass and sparkling with flowers. Mirya had noticed the flowers, as, she knew, would Janet. Roger would see nothing in the meadow save a flat, open space where he could put a maiden on her back.

Roger and Janet were approaching. The knot grew ahead of her inner sight until it eclipsed everything else. Mirya took Cloud to the edge of the meadow and halted, screened from sight by a cluster of poplar trees.

Wait.

A flash of color at the far side of the meadow, and Roger and Janet rode into view. Janet was laughing, a sunny, girlish giggle. Roger added a harmony with his bass. He looked as though he had in mind nothing more than a quiet lunch in the grass.

Wait.

“Are there really still boar in this part of the country?” Janet was saying. “I thought they wee only in Malvern.”

“Ah, my lady”—Roger laughed—“I myself have taken boar here. But I have to tell you that we've run out of them and have to . . . import them . . . from Malvern. Piggish though they are, they cannot keep up with our demands.”

Wait.

They dismounted near the middle of the clearing, and Roger spread a blanket. At least, Mirya reflected, he planned to have Janet on the blanket: considerably better treatment than a small ragamuffin healer had received at his hands.

Wait.

As Mirya expected, Roger sent the horses off a little distance, far enough so that he would not be able to offer mounted combat.

Wait.

Janet was standing by herself. She reached down and picked a bright yellow flower, smelled it, put it in her hair. She was a fair girl, blond like her mother. Mirya passed a hand over her face, recalling the shimmer about Janet's body. Dear Lady!

Wait.

Roger stepped toward Janet, took her by the arm, embraced her, and forced her to kiss him. Mirya felt her sudden surge of fear.

Wait.

Roger smiled as Mirya had seen him smile before. He carried Janet toward the blanket.

Wait.

“My lord!” cried Janet.

Wait.

He tore at her gown.

NOW.

Mirya rode into the clearing. Rainfire was already in her hand. The bright sunlight glittered fiercely on the polished metal of the blade.

Janet was struggling, but though she was no more a match for Roger than a small woman named Miriam had been, she kept his attention occupied, and he became aware of Mirya only when she was almost upon him. With a cry of surprise, he released the girl, spun, and drew sword. Janet fell, weeping hysterically.

Mirya dismounted ten yards from Roger. “We meet again, Roger of Aurverelle.”

“I don't know you,” he said flatly.

“Months ago. In Malvern.” Here was something she had not considered. Of course he would not recognize her. “I've changed since then.”

He grinned. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making love to an Elf.”

“Love had nothing to do with it.” With a blink, Mirya shifted into the stars, watched the webs pulsate and increment. She had no time to be angry right now. She had too much to do.

“I don't know you, woman,” said Roger, “but if you insist at playing the man with a sword, I'll teach you a lesson.”

“I've vowed to take your life, man,” she said. “I'm not here to talk.”

She moved, quickly, lightly. Roger found her almost on top of him before he had a chance to get his sword up. It was a free shot, and she took it as best she could, but he parried. He would be on guard now, fighting with speed and strength. And Roger of Aurverelle, Mirya knew, was an excellent fighter.

Futures shifted as he swung at her. She dodged, feinted, and swept a foot behind him to trip him, but Roger was as light on his feet as he was strong. He evaded her trap, and Mirya had to backflip to avoid a crushing counterstroke. She found herself suddenly wondering how this battle would actually end.

Minutes went by, blades flickered in the sun. Mirya was not breathing hard, nor, she noticed, was Roger. Any man who could walk away from a fight with a sword in his shoulder had reserves of strength beyond belief.

The patterns shifted as Roger set himself, ducked under one of her counters, and spun. Mirya could hardly believe it, for now Roger's blade was coming overhead, and her feet were set completely wrong for any ordinary defense. Bending back, she raised her sword and caught the blow squarely on its edge. It was not an elegant movement, but it worked, and she saw respect on Roger's face when she backed to give herself room.

“Yield,” he said. “Yield and I'll spare you.”

Mirya forced a laugh. “After you rape me again?”

“Why do you want to die? I don't even know you.”

It was true. He did not. Feeling hollow, Mirya faced him. “In Malvern Forest, when you'd been mauled by a bear, I healed your arm.”

He stared, bewildered. 'That couldn't possibly have been you.”

“I've changed.” She saw a momentary slackening of his guard, and in an instant she had evaluated the futures and struck. Roger parried . . . barely. Rainfire's tip streaked a line of blood across his cheek.