Strands of Starlight (15 page)

“Gift?” she flared. “I don't need any more gifts. The one I've got brings me nothing but trouble. I need someone dead, that's what I need.” But she remembered what she had forced out of David that morning, and she fell silent. Charity arrived just then and threw her arms about Miriam's neck.

Feeling awkward, Miriam held her. Charity was shining with light and health, her scars and memory healed by Natil's magic. But when she lifted her head, Miriam suddenly saw a depth in the girl that went back far beyond thirteen summers, that stretched off into another lifetime.

Elizabeth and Andrew stood before her. Andrew was not a large man, but he was well-muscled. He was also gentle, almost shy, and as he stood with damp eyes for a moment, he bowed deeply. “I didn't know,” he said, “that when I carried you to the village, Miriam, I was also bearing my daughter's life.”

“We owe you a great deal, Mistress Healer,” said Elizabeth.

Miriam was still shaken by what she had seen. The Leather Woman. And even Charity did not know. “You don't owe me anything,” she stammered. “No one does, except for . . . for someone who owes me a life.” She turned to Varden. “I can't stay here,” she blurted, and tears were blurring her vision as she ran for the edge of the clearing.

Varden caught up with her before she had gone more than a few yards into the trees. She was hurrying as though pursued, but he fell into step beside her without apparent effort.

“If you wish to go home,” he said, “you ought to turn around.” She noticed that he no longer needed his stick.

“I'm all right, thank you.”

“That may be, but the village is to the west. We are traveling east.” There was no mockery in his voice.

She stopped short and whirled on him. “What do you want of me?” she demanded.

“I would help you, if I could.”

“If you really want to help, you could—” She caught herself. Was she ready to say that? Was she ready to face the Elf's reaction? “You could . . . teach me how to fight,” she finished lamely. “I've never seen anything like what you did. If that bastard hadn't had a sword, you'd probably have finished him.”

Varden flinched as though she had accused him of a crime. “I would not have killed him. I would have stopped him from injuring any of us, but I would not have killed him.” He shook his head. “In any case, fighting is not my talent. I could not teach it.”

“Maybe someone else, then?”

“Some of us are so skilled. Still, you are oversmall fr such work.”

Miriam looked him full in the face. Did he know of her desire? Was he, in some subtle elven way, already seeking to counter an argument that might be presented in the future?

Nothing is impossible,
he had said.
There are merely differing levels of probability
.

But if that were true, then it was also possible that she could gain the stature and strength necessary to kill the man who had raped her. And suddenly she became aware that his tone could have meant
anything
, that he could just as well have been encouraging her request as seeking an escape from it.

Varden's eyes were deep, starlit, immortal. He had seen much. What was he seeing now?

She was almost frightened. “I'm sorry, Varden. I can't do anything else, though.” Was she talking about her hate, or about the request that she had not, as yet, uttered? She herself was not sure.

“I understand,” he said after a minute.

Understand? Understand what? The future seemed to split into a lattice of plexed potentials, each one subsequently riven into further probably outcomes, and each one of those . . .

Her mind reeled. “Varden,” she whispered, putting her hands to her head, “help me. I can't stand this.”

He touched her lightly on the head, and the futures settled, folded back into themselves, faded into a shimmer.

“Take me home, please,” she said when she could speak again.

“Will you not stay an hour or so with us? You have not eaten today. We would like to have your company.”

“I don't see how you can stand me.” She wanted to be away. She wanted to run home and lock herself in her room at the priest's house. She needed darkness and solitude, and she was glad Jaques Alban had built a house that allowed her a private room before he disappeared.

Disappeared? No. He was turned into a pig by . . . by Varden. And Charity . . .

“We would like to help. All of us,” said Varden softly. His words held two meanings again.

She considered. Was he, then, offering? “All right,” she said after a time. “I'll go with you. Maybe I can find something I'm looking for.”

Double Meanings.

There was food and wine and music. Natil was a skilled harper, and although Miriam did not understand the language of her songs, the sounds themselves made pictures in her mind. The Elf was singing of the day again, of fulfillment, of completion, and the music filled the clearing as the wine filled Miriam's cup: clear, sparkling, infused with the good, strong warmth of the day, flavored with flower and fruit, touched with the radiance of the stars.

The sun passed the zenith and began to drop slowly toward the western treetops, and ti was late afternoon when Varden escorted Miriam back to the priest's house. Miriam opened the door and turned to Varden. The Elf regarded her quietly. “Will you stop in for a bit, Varden?” she said.

“My lady,” he said, “Charity is to be initiated tonight, and I would like to spend some time with her before Roxanne takes her into Circle.”

“This won't take long.” She tried to keep her voice even, but it shook.

After a moment, he nodded and followed her into the house. Miriam brought the fire up and heated water, and the Elf sat at the big table, a shaft of sunlight falling on him through one of the high windows.

Miriam made peppermint infusion and filled two cups. “I need your help,” she said, setting one before Varden.

The Elf regarded the cup and the woman before he answered. “I offered help before,” he said, “and you refused. I have no power on the path you have chosen.”

“Ah, but you do.”

“What is it you wish?” he sat back, away from her, hands resting on the arms of the chair. He looked completely off guard. But Miriam knew that he saw many futures and knew their possible outcomes. How could he ever be taken by surprise? Even her careful maneuvering seemed to her now to be the actions of a fool.

She plunged in. “You and your people have the power to transform living beings.” Even to her own ears it sounded like an accusation.

Varden passed a hand over his face. “All right,” he said softly, as though to himself. When he looked up again, he said: “What has given you that idea?”

“This is no idea, Varden. Elves lie badly, so don't try. I know about Jaques Alban and I know about—” She caught herself. No, not Charity. “I . . . I . . . know what happened to him.”

Varden averted his eyes.

“It's true, isn't it?
Isn't it?
” She was out of her chair, leaning across the table as far as she could, the steam from Varden's cup rising into her face.

The Elf did not speak for some time. The starlight blazed in his eyes as though he were watching the crossing and recrossing of the many futures, evaluating their new pattern, finding both hope and fear.

“Well?”

“It is true.”

“Then you can transform me.”

“What are you asking?” The question was almost formal.

She considered carefully. “I'm asking . . .” She felt the light in his gaze. “I'm asking for what I need. Strength and stature. I assume I can find someone among your people who can teach me the way of the sword. But I need to . . . to change.”

“Miriam, I—”

“Will you do it?”

He hesitated, still weighing the futures.

“Varden, dammit, you said you'd help. Now I tell you how you can, and you sit there. Are you going to back down after I saved your life?”

“Miriam . . .”

“Cranby and the Inquisition broke my body, Varden, but he took my soul. I want it back. I can't get it back without your help.”

“But this way?” he finally burst out. “Magic of that potency is dangerous. Any magic is, but this kind especially so. It cannot be totally controlled. It takes strange forms. There is no telling in what other ways you might be changed.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“But—”?

“Varden, one thing I'm sure of: I can't continue like this.”

“Please do not ask me, Miriam.”

He could do it. She knew he could. “Varden, it's necessary.”

“There are always alternatives.”

“Sometimes there aren't. You've been with Roxanne enough—my God, she's carrying your child—you should know by now that humans are different from Elves. Your people are immortal. You can wait. You can heal. My people die. We don't have time. I can't live like this. I have to do something. You can help me. Or is all your talk about healing and comfort just so much horse shit?”

He merely looked at her.

She realized that she had been shouting. “Varden,” she said quietly, “Jaques Alban was a nasty bastard, but you didn't kill him. Who knows, he might be happier as a pig than he ever was as a man. The Leather Woman . . .”

The Elf stiffened.

Miriam forced herself to continue. “The Leather Woman was an evil old hag who killed sheep and blasted Francis's hands off. And . . .” The words stuck in her throat. “And . . .”
Leave Charity alone. Leave her!
“And . . .” Her eyes teared. “You helped her, that's all. And she'd been evil.” She was still crying, not at her own plight, but at that of the Leather Woman. “And I haven't done anything except get tortured and raped.
So why the hell won't you help me?
”

Varden was shaking. Letting his hands fall into his lap, he closed his eyes. “Dear Lady.”

The door latch slid back with a sharp clatter, and Kay stepped into the room carrying a basket of vegetables. He smiled cheerily. “Good afternoon!”

Varden regarded him hollowly. “Be at peace, Kay.”

Kay caught the tone of his voice. “You should take your own advice my friend. What's happened?”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Miriam, angered by the intrusion. “Charity was almost raped this morning by the same son of a bitch that did me, Varden was almost killed, and now he's balking at a simple request that I be transformed magically. Nothing at all.”

Her words went by quickly, and the priest stood in shock for a moment. He set down his basket and hung his cloak on the wooden peg by the door. Varden shifted in his chair as though moving a weight from one shoulder to another without actually getting rid of any of it.

“Then the brute is still about,” said Kay tonelessly. Varden offered him his untouched tea. The priest took a swallow without appearing to be aware of what he was doing, then suddenly came to himself. “What happened? Is Charity all right? Varden?”

“We are well,” said the Elf. “Charity was beaten, but she has been healed in body and in spirit. I am myself sound, by Miriam's power.”

“And the brute?”

“He could well be dead.”

“Don't bet on it,” said Miriam. “I don't believe he can be killed without tearing him limb from limb.” She turned to the priest. “He had a sword sticking through him. And he walked away.
He walked away!
”

Kay looked back and forth between the two of them.

“Miriam is probably right,” Varden admitted.

“And he'll be back,” said Miriam.

Kay set down the cup and wrung his hands. “Child,” he said, “please: give up the idea of killing him.”

“Why?” Miriam struck her hand on the tabletop, but her small fist made only a small sound. “Why should I? Give me one good reason.”

Kay stared. Varden spoke. “I have warned her of the dangers.”

“Varden!” cried the priest. “Surely you don't mean to . . .” He groped for words. “It's madness. Verily, verily madness.” He spread his hands helplessly.

“When I healed Miriam,” said the Elf, “I lived not only through her rape, but also her life. I am not sure that I can call this madness.”

“But—”

“Have you ever been tortured, Kay? Raped? Persecuted?”

The priest opened his mouth to speak, considered, then shut it. Miriam looked to Varden. Was he defending her position? Then that must mean . . .

The Elf turned to Miriam. “Is this what you want?”

“It is,” she said without hesitation.

“Do you ask without coercion, of your own free will?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you freely accept the consequences of your actions, knowing that, if granted, your wish may prove to be of questionable worth?”

“I do.”

Varden regarded her for some time. The fire crackled on the hearth. Miriam saw the light in his eyes, saw the shimmer that surrounded him. He was not human. His ways were his own. The power he wielded was that of the stars themselves, and she knew that as it reshaped her, it would reshape the multitude of future possibilities toward different and maybe improbable outcomes. But defiant and demanding though she was, she knew what Varden saw in the depths of her being: a creature—in pain, tortured with the horror of the past and the fear of the future, living in the hell of the present—asking for release, for healing, for aid, for comfort.

His words shook her. “Tonight,” he said calmly. “It must be tonight. Fast until midnight, taking only water. I will come for you then, if you are still resolved.”

“I—” So soon? So quickly? She felt as though, bathing in the ocean, she looked up to see an immense wave towering over her, already falling, collapsing on her with the weight of worlds.

The Elf stood. “If you are still resolved.”

She drew herself up. “I'll be ready.”

Varden went to the door. “Remember, you may be changed greatly.”

Her stomach felt queasy. “I'm not afraid.”

“This is the Day of Completion,” said the Elf. “
Arae a Olora
. It is fitting that we act tonight,. You could not find renewal in one form, so perhaps you will find fulfillment in another.”

“I don't care about fulfillment. I want that bastard dead.”

He held her in the starlight of his eyes for a moment, then bowed and departed.