Morningstar (38 page)

“It is safe,” I said. “They are all dead.”

“I heard the singing,” said the old woman. “The … creatures did not sing.”

I stood then and approached them, but the child shrank back
against the woman’s skirts. “How did you escape them?” I asked.

“We hid in the attic,” she told me. “We have been there for … the lord knows how long.”

I took her by the arm and led her back toward the palace. She was weak, as was the child. They had eaten nothing in all that time and had survived only on the rainwater that flowed down through a crack in the roof. At first the child would not suffer me to carry her, but her tiny body had no strength in it and she began to cry. I lifted her then, hugging her to me, and her head fell to my shoulder and she slept.

As we made our slow way through the city, other survivors crept out from their hiding places, drawn by the songs and laughter from the palace. Man is a great survivor. Floods, famine, drought, war, and pestilence—he will defeat them all. Even in Ziraccu, in a city of Vampyres, there were those who had found sanctuary, surviving against all odds.

But of the eighteen thousand original inhabitants, no more than six hundred remained.

By morning we had gathered them all. I walked among them and will never forget their eyes. All had that haunted look. None would ever come close to forgetting the terror, for many had been hunted by their own loved ones, friends, and brothers. Husbands had made prey of their wives; children, their parents.

Oh, Cataplas, how great an evil you unleashed upon the world! And it was an evil of the most vile kind—men, women, and children turned into Vampyres against their will, becoming creatures of vileness themselves. Men talk of the judgment of God. What did you say, Cataplas, when—if—you faced that inquisition? “It was not my fault? I didn’t know?” Will that be considered a defense? I think not. What evil is greater than to force others to walk the path of darkness?

Of the six hundred survivors, some seventeen died within the next three days, some because they were malnourished, others because they were old and frail. But most, I think, merely gave up, having nothing to live for.

Brackban organized teams of helpers, and people from the surrounding areas moved into the city, taking over shops and stores, taverns and houses. I could not stay there. Neither could the Morningstar, and we walked together back into the forest.

But not before we had once more dealt with the skulls. Brackban
took the first and hid it somewhere in the city. Wulf took the second, and I the third. I buried mine beneath the roots of a huge oak. What Wulf did with his I never asked.

Jarek Mace said little as we walked on that first day. His wounds were troubling him, but there was more on his mind than merely pain.

We built a fire in a shallow cave and boiled some oats in a makeshift bowl of bark. I sat and watched the flames licking at the wood yet unable to burn through because the water within the bowl was absorbing the heat. We shared the porridge and then placed the empty bowl back on the fire. It was consumed almost instantly, as if the blaze were exacting its revenge for being thwarted.

“He died well then, Corlan?” asked Mace, breaking the long silence.

“Yes. He charged them all fearlessly.”

He shook his head. “Who would have thought it? Is he in heaven, do you think?”

I shrugged. “I have never believed in paradise. But we have seen hell, Jarek. So who knows?”

“I like to think he might be. But then, how would they weigh the balances? He was a robber and a killer. Did this one act of courage eclipse the rest of his deeds?” He sighed and forced a smile. “Listen to me! Jarek Mace talking of paradise.”

“I think you are talking of redemption, and yes, I believe no man is so evil that he cannot redeem himself. He saved my life. No question of that. He acted with great heroism—as did you.”

“Nonsense! I went there because the bastard was hunting me. I was looking out for myself.”

“There is no one else here, Jarek,” I said wearily. “Just you and I. So let us drop the pretense. You are the Morningstar. It is your destiny. You know it, and I know it. And you journeyed to the heart of the evil because you had to, because that is what being the Morningstar is all about. You are no longer Jarek Mace the outlaw, the man of bitterness. You are the lord of the forest, and the people worship you. In a thousand years they will speak of you. You have changed, my friend. Why not admit it?”

“Still the romantic, Owen? I have not changed.”

“You are wrong. You once told me that friendship was merely a word used to describe one man needing some service from another. You said it did not exist in the form bards use. But
Corlan died for you and the people of this land. You know that is true. And when you were ready to tackle Golgoleth alone, you did not expect anyone to accompany you. But we did. And something else—though you will not admit it—if I or Wulf had been in your place and set off alone to the Vampyre city, you would have accompanied us even if Golgoleth had never heard your name.”

“Pah! Dream on, bard! You do not know me at all, and I will not have you force your heroic images onto me. I like you, Owen. I like Wulf, and yes, I would risk much for you both. That much I have learned. But I will always look after my own interest first. Always! And I will give my life for no man.”

His face was flushed and angry, his eyes bright with a kind of fear. I was about to speak, but I saw in him then a secret terror, and I knew with great certainty that he understood the inevitability of his destiny. I felt cold suddenly, and into my mind came the image of the garlanded bull being led through the streets, with the people cheering and throwing flowers beneath its feet. But at the top of the hill, in the bright sunshine, waited the priest with the curved knife and the altar upon which the blood would run.

Our eyes held, and I knew that similar thoughts were filling the mind of Jarek Mace. He licked his lips and tried to smile, and I knew what he would say, what, indeed, he
had
to say, the words like a charm to ward off the evil of that final day in the sun.

“I am not the Morningstar, Owen. I am not.”

But we both knew. He was watching my face intently. “Well, say something, Owen, even if it is to disagree.”

I looked away. “I don’t know what the future holds,” I said, “but we are friends, and I will stand beside you.”

“That may not be a safe place to be,” he whispered.

“I would have it no other way.”

The village was almost unrecognizable from the sleepy hamlet where I had first seen Ilka and Megan, where I had learned to cure meats and had filled my days with the splitting of logs and the playing of the harp. There were canvas tents pitched all along the lakeside, makeshift shelters erected close to the trees. Hundreds of people had moved down from the mountains as word of the fall of Ziraccu had spread through the forest.

Even as Mace and I emerged from the woods we could see a line of wagons on the far hills, wending its way down to the settlement.

People were milling around in the town center, and such was the crush that Mace passed unrecognized within it until we reached the calm of Megan’s cabin.

The old woman was lying on her back, apparently asleep, an elderly man sitting beside her. It was the same man who had tended her in the village of Ocrey when she had been burned by Cataplas’ spell.

“How is she, Osian?” I asked him. He looked up, his pale blue eyes cold and unwelcoming.

“She is preparing for the journey,” he said, the words harsh, his bitterness plain.

Megan opened her eyes, her head tilting on the pillow. “The conquering heroes return.” she whispered.

The room smelled of stale sweat and the sickly sweet aroma of rotting flesh. Her face was gray, the skin beneath the eyes and beside the mouth tinged with blue. I swallowed hard, trying to compose my features so that the shock of her condition would not register. It was futile. My face was an open window, and the clouds of my sorrow were plain for her to see. “I am dying, Owen,” she said. “Come, sit beside me.”

Osian rose, his old joints creaking, and slowly made his way out into the sunlight. I sat on the bed and took hold of Megan’s hand. The skin was hot and dry, and absence of flesh making talons of her fingers.

“I am so sorry,” I said.

“Carleth’s assassin had poison upon his blade,” she told me. “Help me upright!”

Mace fetched a second pillow, and I lifted her into position. She weighed next to nothing, and her head sagged back on a neck too thin to support it. “I should be dead by now,” she said, “but my talent keeps my soul caged in this rotting shell.” She smiled weakly at Mace. “Go out into the sun, Morningstar,” she ordered him. He backed away swiftly, gratefully, without a word, and Megan and I were alone. “Like many strong men he cannot stand the sight of sickness,” she said. Her head rolled on the pillow, and her gaze fastened to mine. “Such heartache you have suffered, Owen. Such pain.”

I nodded but did not speak. “She was a good girl, bonny and brave,” she continued.

“Don’t say any more,” I pleaded, for I could feel myself losing control. I took a deep breath. “Let us talk of other things.”

“Do not let your grief make you push her away,” she warned me, “for then she would be truly dead.”

“I think of her all the time, Megan. I just cannot speak of her.”

“You won, poet. You destroyed the evil; you made the land safe. But it is not over.”

“The Vampyre kings will not return,” I told her. “They are gone, and we have the skulls.”

“And yet Mace will face Golgoleth again,” she whispered. I shivered and drew back.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. With sword in hand he must cross the walls of the castle and challenge the lord of the Vampyres. And next time he will not have you to send a shining shaft to his rescue. But he will have me.”

Her eyes were distant, unfocused, and I could see that she was becoming delirious. I held to her hand, stroking the dry skin. “He will be gone from you, but he will return. I waited so long. So long … The circle of time spins … spins.” She was silent for a little while, staring at some point in the past, some ancient memory that brought a smile to her face.

“Megan!” I called. But she did not hear me.

“I love you,” she told the ghost of her memory. “Why did you leave me?”

Unconsciously her power flared, bathing her face with youth and beauty. “How could you leave me?” she asked.

I remained silent, for my voice could no longer reach her. But as I gazed on the glory of what was, I found myself echoing her thoughts. How could any man leave such a woman?

“You had it all,” she said, bright tears forming and flowing to her cheeks. “You were the king. Everything you ever wanted!”

I called to her again, but there was no response. And in that moment I knew. From the first day, when she had known my name and we had sat talking about magick and life, I had yearned to know the mystery of Megan. Now it was all clear. Here she
lay, weak and dying, yet even delirious she could still cast one of the seven great spells. My mouth was dry, my heartbeat irregular with the shock.

And I called her name—her true name. “Horga!”

The word was a whisper, but it flowed through her delirium. The spell of beauty faded, and she blinked and returned to me.

“I’m sorry, Owen. Was I drifting?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know what to call me?”

I shrugged and smiled. “I also have talent, lady. When first I created the image of Horga, I used the beauty that you showed me from your youth. It seemed right. And I have always known there was something special about you—from that first day. And when Cataplas admitted you were his teacher, I knew you must have powers I could not even guess at. How have you lived so long? And why have you waited here, in this forest? Why? Did you know Golgoleth would come again?”

She nodded. “You will have all your answers, my boy. But not all of them now. I will set you a riddle, Owen. When did
you
first meet
me
?”

“It was here by this lakeside in winter.”

“Indeed it was, but
I
first met
you
in the springtime, and you warned me not to read your mind, for there were memories there that were not for me.”

“You have lost me, lady. We had no such conversation.”

“Oh, Owen, that conversation is yet to be, and this meeting now is the memory from which you will protect me. The circle of time …” She fell silent again, and I could only guess at the effort of will that kept her alive. I felt her fingers press against mine. “I wanted … needed to live for just a little while longer,” she said. “One question has kept me alive. And the answer is but a few months away. Now I will never know.”

“Who was the man you loved?” I asked her as her tears began to flow again.

“Who do you think?”

“Rabain.”

“Very good, Owen. Yes, it was Rabain. He was a great king, loved, perhaps even adored. He slew the Vampyre lords and created an order of knights pledged to combat evil. And he loved me. I know that he loved me! But he left me, Owen … he mounted his horse and rode from me. I have never forgotten
that day. How could I? His armor was golden, and a white cloak was draped across his shoulders. He had no shield or helm. The horse was a stallion—huge, maybe eighteen hands, white as a summer cloud. And that was my last sight of him. I had begged him to stay. I offered him immortality. Such was my power then that I thought I could keep us both young forever. I even fell to my knees before him. Can you imagine that? I could have cast a spell to stop him, of course. I considered it, Owen. I could have made him love me more; I know I could. But that would not have been real. And it would have eaten away at me, as this poison is doing now. So I let him go.”

“Why did he leave?” I asked her.

She tried to smile. “An old man whom he loved came to him. A poet. He told him the future. Such a kind old man. But I think he was closer to Rabain that I could ever have been. And because Rabain needed him, I journeyed to fetch him. It needed mighty spells and great concentration. I wish now that I had refused.”