Strands of Starlight (27 page)

“He'll have many good teachers.” Roxanne looked up and around at the town, the forest, the snow, the indigo blue sky of evening. Venus glittered in the west, just above the mountains, and the slender crescent of a waxing moon hung nearby. “So many changes,” she whispered. “The seasons, the cycles . . . Everything returns, but it all returns changed. I entered this world a child, and I grew into a woman. And now I am a mother. So many changes. So many.”

But there had been changes in Saint Brigid also. The opening in the wall was now barred with an iron grille. Roxanne and Miriam stood before it, startled.

“I suppose it was to be expected,” said Roxanne. “But it's hard. I've never know Saint Brigid to be locked up at evening.”

Miriam pressed her lips together. Though she knew the reason for the gate, it felt too much like a rejection. “I'll get us in, Sana,” she said. “You'll have a fire on your hearth this night.”

She went to the gate and climbed. Her body was strong and responsive, and she gained the top easily, swung over, and climbed down inside the wall.

“It's obviously Francis's work, Sana,” she said. “I've never seen better.”

“Who is there?” came the call from within the gatehouse.

“Come let your friends in, Andrew,” said Miriam. “Sana . . . uh . . . Roxanne's outside with her son.”

Firelight spilled into the passageway as Andrew opened the door. “Miriam! You've come back!”

“For a while.”

Together, Andrew and Miriam unfastened the catch and swung the gates wide. “Has something happened, Andrew?” said Roxanne as she entered. “Is there danger?”

“No,” said the carpenter. “But there may be eventually, and we're trying to get into the habit of locking the town after dark. No one cares for it, but we all know it's probably for the best.” he fastened the gates shut. “I'm very sorry. We weren't expecting you to return at night.”

“It was the time to come,” said Roxanne. “And if the gates were locked, then that was the way they were supposed to be.”

Lake murmured.

“He's hungry,” said Roxanne. “I'll take him home.”

Andrew beamed at the child, then bowed deeply. “Blessings.”

“And on you, Andrew.”

The town was quiet, its folk keeping warm indoors. But when they came in sight of Roxanne's house, it was brightly lit. Smoke wafted from the chimney, and lamps burned on either side of the door in welcome. As they approached, the door opened, and Charity stood there, waiting for them.

Miriam did not stay, though. She hugged Charity and Roxanne, kissed Lake on the forehead, and set off for Kay's house.

The gate still hung in the back of her mind like a weight. Saint Brigid was changing, was becoming now like one of the northern cities, like Maris, or like Hypprux. It could never be quite like them, for Miriam was sure that there would never be a Chateau in Saint Brigid, or a dungeon. If there ever were, Saint Brigid would be no more: the land would have other homes on it, houses occupied by strangers with faces scarred by sadness and fear.

She remembered the feeling in Belroi.

She stopped in the middle of the snow-covered common, cloak clasped about her, hood thrown back. Changing. Changing too fast, in too many ways. Change was inevitable, but did it have to be like this? With gates and bars and bloody wars?

She had struggled to be free of Hypprux so passionately that even though she had been bleeding and mangled, she had dragged herself out of the dungeon and pulled herself through the city's gate. And because there was something precious in Saint Brigid, something worth having, this night she had climbed a gate to enter a town.

She realized that it had been exactly a year between one gate and the other, between the escape and the entering. There were returns. But there were changes, too, and of many kinds. All part of an intricate pattern, a changing Dance.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she crossed the rest of the common and entered the house. Kay looked up from a frugal meal, and his eyes teared as he watched her take off her cloak and hang it on a peg.

She filled a mug with peppermint infusion and sat down across from him. “Well, I'm back,” she said.

“Again,” said Terrill.

Miriam picked herself up, head spinning with fatigue, hands numb from the unmelted snow that still patched the familiar meadow. Terrill had been attacking her with a practice sword for the better part of three hours, but he had not touched her once. It was exhaustion that had put her on the ground.

With the passing of winter, her lessons had resumed; but—far from becoming easier—they now drained her so thoroughly of energy that she wondered at times if she could summon the strength to crawl to her knees.

And always Terrill demanded more, his voice calm, his gaze piercing. “Stand up straight,” he ordered. “Do not slouch. Find your stars, and draw their light into you.”

Jaw set, knees threatening to buckle at any moment, she closed her eyes. As she had a dozen times since midmorning, she watched the gleaming stars in her mind for several minutes, drank in their energy. Her knees firmed up, her breathing slowed.

“Good,” said Terrill. “Now open your eyes—maintain the vision.” And he was suddenly in motion, his sword, as much a part of him as his hand or his arm, sweeping in.

She saw a million potentials in every move that he had made, saw which were the most likely to become reality. She moved to counter, blocked his cut at her throat, and swung gracefully around for a quick riposte that almost (a part of the Dance) caught her teacher off guard. He retreated a half step. She felt his approval, but she also sensed his next move.

And all the while, the afternoon progressed around them: the snows melting in the late February sun; the sound of water—dripping from leaves, splashing in puddles, rippling in river and stream—loud in the forest; the animals active, frisking in the crisp air. Only on such a day, with the sun where it was and a crow spreading its wings in the sky, would Terrill approve of her strike and follow up with a—

She ducked and—the devil with it, she was wet and muddy already—rolled out of the path of his sword, aimed a kick at his knee, missed, came back up with a counterstroke that made a shambles of Terrill's further plans. She saw his quick smile—oh, rare expression!—and he backed up again.

All the while, though, her fatigue was growing. A minute into the skirmish, her wooden sword felt like lead. A few seconds later, her vision blurred. Terrill dropped his sword and caught her as she toppled once again, and he led her to a dry, sunlit patch of grass, gently supporting her with an arm about her waist.

“Enough,” he said softly.

“I can't do it.” She was crying with frustration. “I can't do two things at the same time. I can't hold the stars and fight. That's for Elves. I'm—”

She broke off suddenly.

“Go on,” said Terrill.

“Never mind.” She found the stars again, breathed. “I can't do it.”

“If you continue to say that, it might come to pass. You must continue to work.”

“I'm not improving.” She crossed her legs, wiped her hands on the grass. She was dirty, sweating even in the cool air, caked with dirt, and her breeches were soaked. In contrast, Terrill was clean, unrumpled, not even breathing heavily.

“But you are,” he said with kindness, giving her shoulder a squeeze. It was an open show of affection, and Miriam was almost startled. “You have progressed greatly. Your form is good. Not perfect, but good. And in the space of a few hours, the amount of time you can stay on your feet has increased.”

Terrill's face was inches from hers. Miriam tried to speak, could not. The faint memory that had stirred in the cave was stirring again . . . along with something else.

With a gasp, she looked away.

“Miriam?”

“I'm all right,” she said, staring hard at a single crocus that had forced itself through the crust of snow, a flare of crimson brilliance against the white. “I can't . . .” She felt Terrill's presence, his arm around her shoulders, the pressure of his hand. “I can't watch you and the stars at the same time.”

He sat back. “It is not a matter of watching. You must . . .” He thought for some time. “You must give yourself to them.”

Her answer was abrupt, instinctive: “No!” Terrill looked at her, startled. “I can't do that.” She had, she thought, given up too much of herself already, torn away bits of her heart and passed them out every day of her life. Mika had cost her dearly. And the brute in the forest had sliced off an even larger chunk.

She felt cold. “Isn't there some other way?” she asked in a small voice. But she knew Terrill's answer already. She was, however, not prepared to lift her eyes and see in his face, once again, the unutterable grief. Nor was she prepared to feel her heart respond to it.

She was back in the clearing the next day, and the next. Each time, each clash, Miriam stayed on her feet a little longer, but she and Terrill both knew that her additional stamina stemmed only from single-minded purpose and iron will. She would return home wet, cold, and frustrated—knowing full well that her teacher was equally frustrated—but though she could soak away the mud in a hot bath, there was little she could do for the underlying problem.

Even with the hot water lapping at her chest, she shuddered at the thought of it. To give up everything. To embrace something so large that it seemed able to swallow not just her heart, but her entire identity. . . .

She had floated among the stars. She had reached out to forest and stream, to town and villager. She had felt herself a part of the Dance. But even when the experience had been most profound, she had always maintained her own identity. She had seen the stars, participated in the Dance, but she had never lost sight of her separateness from both.

And so, every afternoon, she would enter the clearing with Terrill, pick up a wooden sword, and allow herself to be slowly exhausted by the starlight vision.

“Perhaps,” said the Elf on a day in early spring, “we should give this up for a time.”

Miriam crawled to her knees, shaking her head. “I'll learn.”

“Beloved,” said the Elf, “this is not something that can be learned. It must be felt.”

“I said I'll learn.” She almost snapped at him.

It was no longer a question of revenge—it was rather one of self-betrayal. She had controlled her body, and to some extent her destiny, but her heart had rebelled at the task set before it, and its treachery seemed a greater affront than any she had experienced in the past.

When she stood up, shaking, the light in Terrill's eyes was like needles. Lips pressed together, he bent and struck his sword into the ground, point down. “It will end here, then,” he said. “I cannot teach you to feel. I cannot teach you to trust. I and my people can and do love. But only you can embrace that love.”

“What the hell does love have to do with it?” She leaned on her sword, panting.

“You do not love yourself, do you?” Terrill was impassive.

“I . . . I never thought about it.”

“The Church does not encourage self-love,” said the Elf. “Those who live under its sway are stunted as a result. Know this: If I do not love myself, that is a clear indication that I am not worthy of the love of others. As I give myself to the starlight, so does it surrender to me. But how can I embrace it fully if I am not worthy? And how can I give myself unless I have myself to give?” He eyed the sword. “I will not continue with this charade unless there is some chance that you can succeed.” His voice was gentle, softening the finality of his words, and there was again the flicker of grief.

His sorrow struck her almost as deeply as did her failure. Miriam let go of her sword and sat down on the muddy ground. “So I just give up? I've failed?”

Terrill was beside her in a moment. His voice was heavy with sorrow, and he spoke in his own language as he put his arms about her. “
Miryai, marithae, si altare el eleve ania
—”

“
Iye, Terrilli
,” she replied without thinking. “
Ea sarena a . . . a ombra
—”

The world flickered, and for a moment, she was looking at a different Terrill. He seemed younger, more apt to smile. The weight of years in his eyes had lessened. She realized that she was speaking words she did not comprehend, fell silent.

The familiar Terrill came back, but his eyes were wide, startled. “M-Miriam?”

She passed a muddy hand over her face. “I'm sorry, Terrill. I think I'm just tired.”

He nodded slowly.

“But what do I do now?”

“You must . . .” He was watching her as though she might, of a sudden, change before his eyes into someone else, as if he did not know whether he would fear or welcome that. “You must live. You must be. I think that it is time to put aside the swords for a while. Now we must work on you.”

She stared at her hands, saw the gleam that surrounded them. She flared. “Work on me? What am I supposed to be now? Dammit, Terrill, what the hell am I supposed to be now?”

He took a deep breath and let it out before he spoke. “You are supposed to be an Elf,” he said softly.

“I'm not an Elf!”

“Not yet. You must grow.”

“But I don't want to—” She stopped herself short. Could she really say that? Her life before her transformation had become hazy, vague; and although she retained her memories and her hates, she could not but look upon her former self in the same way that a new mother, holding her infant, might regard her own childhood. Changes.

She looked within—at herself, at the patterns, at the Dance—and she found that she was poised exactly at a balance between human and Elf, mortal and immortal.

Terrill's arms were still wrapped about her. She felt her heart stir again. The pattern, the Dance, was altering massively, tipping her into futures that she could scarcely comprehend. And here, in this clearing, with a crow flapping lazily in the sun, with the ground sparkling with spring flowers, with the scent of life in the air blending with the rustle of new leaves, with her heart beating as if in response to the season of new growth come round again as it always did in the endless cycles, she was at the pivot point of it all. What she did, what she uttered in the next few moments, would change everything.