Strands of Starlight (3 page)

“I don't work in Hypprux. I don't work for the Church. I've watched a midwife or two burned, and I'm in some danger myself. A hazard of the trade. But if I don't attract attention, I'll survive, and so will my ladies.” Esau the pony nickered, and Mika rose and went to him. From the deepening darkness outside the firelight her words came back: “You're someone who heals. That's enough for me. I don't agree with the Church when it says that anyone with gifts beyond the usual has to get them from demons.” Mika came back to the fire. “Besides, you must have some good patronage: it's not every condemned woman that goes around wearing a cloak with the badges of Saint Blaise and the Free Towns on it.”

The cloak was hanging on the low branches of a tree near the fire. The wool was almost dry, and embroidered at the collar with precise stitches were the blazons Mika had named. Miriam stared at them, their threads of red and blue, silver and gold flashing in the firelight. “I didn't know. I found him in the street when I was escaping. He'd broken his ankle.”

Mika put an arm about her. “And in spite of your danger you healed him? A godly act.”

Miriam jerked away. “God had nothing to do with it. I'd just as soon have left him in the rain. I had to heal him.”

Mika looked at her, puzzled.

“Don't you understand?” said Miriam. “I've no control over my powers. If I see illness, wounds, injuries, I have to cure. I have no choice.” Her hands were hurting, and she realized that she had clenched them into fists. “I tried to stop myself once. I . . . I must have fainted from the pain. People around me said that I was screaming. I . . . can't . . . live like that.”

Mika stared.

“And I can't do a thing for myself. The power doesn't affect me.” Miriam looked at her bandaged hands, then at Mika. She froze. “What's that? Your arm . . . ?”

“What? I burned my arm this evening heating water for your gruel.” Mika looked at the scald. “It's not serious. Don't worry.”

The power flared up Miriam's spine, white-hot, like molten iron. She stiffened, teeth clenched, then stumbled toward Mika. “Give me your arm.”

“Child, don't trouble yourself. It's nothing. Really. You have to rest.”

“
Give me your arm!
” Without waiting, Miriam tore the bandages from her hands and seized the midwife's arm. The power was searing along her back, and she could almost see light somewhere behind her eyes just before it let go. There was a flash, and then the midwife was looking at her arm again, this time almost in fear.

“It's gone. The scald's gone.”

Miriam wavered where she stood. The world swam about her. “Of course it's gone. It never works by half measures. I've healed plague. I've reattached severed legs. I can't do any different.”

Mika reached for her with an unmarked arm. “Child.”

“I'm not a child. And
don't touch me
.”

Mika drew back, startled, and Miriam toppled to the ground.

***

Fever found the little healer that night, and the next day she lay delirious in Mika's wagon as the midwife drove south along the road that led to Belroi and the great dairy lands. The land rolled away, spotted with trees, crossed by streams that rushed toward the River Bergren. The scent of cows and goats was strong, but Miriam stared uncomprehendingly at the sky, scrabbled among the blankets, and now and then whimpered when the pain in her hands and legs overcame her.

Mika was hurrying. The herbs she had with her were not adequate to stem Miriam's fever, and she could not stop for help along the way. Her supplies and her medicines were at her house, so she urged her little pony onward.

Esau found his own way down the road, and she looked over her shoulder to reassure herself that Miriam was as well as could be expected. But something about the healer held her gaze.

Sometimes she thought she could see into people's hearts and catch a glimpse of what the future might hold. Times like this made her think so, for as she looked at the little healer woman whose black hair lay matted and soaked with fever sweat, she thought she saw more: a gleam about her, and a flash of red gold around her head. For an instant, she thought of night skies, and of stars that shone clear and cold in the darkness.

The vision persisted for a moment more, then faded. Mika lifted her head. In the distance, Malvern Forest spread like a dark cloak upon the land, stretching for many leagues to the south and west. The dairymen of this region shunned it, and kept their herds from it, saying it was a forest full of magic, that Elves lived there, that it was best for God-fearing folk to stay away. But the old tales that mentioned the Elves also mentioned the stars, and told of alight shining about elven faces that was like that of moonlight and starlight mingled.

Miriam moaned, struggled, clutched at the warm cloak with bandaged hands. Mika tucked the warm wool around the girl. The vision of the stars had faded. Miriam was once again no more than a little, battered healer. Yet the midwife could not help but wonder about the meaning of the vision. The Elves? What could those terrible, immortal creatures have to do with this girl?

A crow called overhead, and Mika shook herself out of her thoughts. There was no time for daydreaming. She had to take Miriam home. Quickly.

“I'm . . .” Miriam mumbled in her delirium. Mika urged Esau forward, but the noise of the cart wheels could not drown out the words she had heard over and over again, words the little healer had obviously uttered many times, in rising pain and desperation: “I'm not a witch. I don't know anything. I healed them, that's all. I can't help it. I have black eyes. I have black hair. I don't know anything. Please . . .”

***

George Darci, mayor of Saint Blaise, waited in the vestibule while the serving girl climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The words of Thomas a'Verne had wrung his thoughts for two days. There was not much to fight against at present, only whispered words and meetings that the participants—churchman and baron—described as merely “informal.” He did not have much hope that this visit would achieve anything, but he was determined to try.

The top panel of the front door was open and let in the sounds of the street, the February cop of flies, and the dust. “Pies,” came the call. “I have good pies.”

“Karl of the Green Man Inn has opened a cask of this wine. Whoever wants to buy come along please!”

“Pasties!”

George waited. Pies, wine, pasties. The bells had rung sext. Time for food. He was hungry, and his head ached with worry. But he waited.

The girl came back down the stairs. “M'lord will see you, sir.”

George followed her back up the stairs and entered the study of Paul delMari, tenth baron of his house. Though he was the same age as George, he looked older, and he had a chronic tic over his right eye. A half-empty decanter of wine stood at a nearby table, along with an untouched plate of lunch.

Paul rose, took George's hand. “I haven't seen you in some time, George. What has it been? Ah . . . ten years?”

“More like fifteen. I have a lot to occupy me in Saint Blaise.”

Paul waved him toward a seat. “Quiet life and peaceful nights, I should say,” said Paul. “I should like something like that to occupy me for a while.”

George smiled. “I rather do feel like the country mouse here in Hypprux.” He was watching the baron.
He's nervous. He doesn't want me here.

Paul poured himself a cup of wine, offered some to George, who politely declined. Wine on an empty stomach would be a mistake. “Oh, we're busy here. Very busy. Running about and getting nowhere. How is the family?”

George told Paul a little, recounted bits of news. Janet's birth. The Two-Score-and-Five Fair. Anne's illness. He spoke to fill the void and to entertain Paul, no more. The real business would come soon enough. George had never before called upon the bond that linked him to Paul delMari, and he wondered if what he wanted might not strain the link beyond breaking.

“So all in all,” the mayor concluded, “life goes on in Saint Blaise . . . in the Free Towns as a whole, I should say.”

“Good . . . good . . .” Paul fidgeted.

Several moments of uneasy silence. George coughed. Paul poured another cup of wined and downed it. George rose and strolled to the window that overlooked the street.

“Pies! Come buy my pies!”

“Karl of the . . .”

George turned around. “Trade between the Towns and the northern cities has been increasing steadily. At the century fair in Maris, our people accounted for at least one-quarter of the taxes to the city. Free Town goods are popular in the north.”

“It's easy enough to see why.” Paul rubbed at his tic. “The quality is excellent. Your guilds are fair. They provide good training and good standards.”

“They've been left alone to work as they see fit,” George said simply. “Their pride spurs them to perfection.”

Paul laughed dryly. “That, and the fact that every artisan in Adria that's worth anything flees to the Towns.”

George shrugged and returned to the street scene. “Freedom . . .”

“Somewhat dangerous freedom . . .”

“Pies! I have pies!”

George went back to his seat. “You have to admit, Paul, that it's producing good results.”

“Still, each man has his place in God's plan,” said Paul. “And the Free Towns disturb the balance. You know that, George. It's only a matter of time before—“ He stopped short, stared straight ahead for a moment, then appeared to find something wrong with the buckle of his belt.

“Before what, Paul?” George waited, watching.

Paul said nothing for some time. Finally: “Before God's plan becomes manifest.”

“That wasn't what you were going to say originally.”

Paul poured some more wine. “I don't know what you have in mind, George.”

George sighed. It was time. “We're milk brothers, Paul. We sucked the same breast when we were little ones. We played together in the streets of Hypprux, and later on, you stood beside me when I married Anne. Now I need to ask you some questions. About the Free Towns.”

“I'm sure you know infinitely more about the Free Towns than I, George.”

“On the contrary. When the name Aloysius Cranby comes up, my knowledge fails.”

“The bishop? What—“

“Come now, Paul. I've heard that Cranby has some interest in the Free Towns. I have some interest in them also. What can you tell me?”

Paul mopped his forehead with his free hand, though it was not at all warm in the room. “There's been some talk.”

“That's what everyone tells me,” said George. “I had hoped for more from you.”

“Well, that's all there is,” said Paul. “Talk. Don't blame me for such things. You're the ones that are getting involved in heresy.”

“Heresy?”

“Dealings with the Elves. My God, George, what are you doing down there? Jaques Alban disappeared, and now everyone hears stories about you and some Elf in the woods, and about odd dealings down in Saint Brigid. What can you expect? Why do you have to go and bother the Immortals? Haven't they given us enough trouble?”

“I hadn't heard that the Elves had been any trouble at all,” said George evenly. “On the contrary. It's the Church and the baronage that have given the Elves the problems.”

“Don't talk that way, George. They're demons.”

“Horse shit.”

“Well, you can horse-shit your way right out of the Free Towns, then.” Paul nearly shouted. He caught himself. When he spoke again, his tone was normal. “Cranby is talking to the council one by one. He's feeling for support. There's been no action, nor any talk of action.”

“How are the barons reacting?”

“Some moderately favor the idea of a crusade and annexation, but you know as well as I that favoring an idea and favoring the Church with men and horses are two different things.”

“Do they really think there's heresy in the Free Towns?”

“Not at all. Their interest is purely economic.” His tone was a little too casual. “The Free Towns are wealthy, productive, and the land is fertile. A plum ripe for the picking, but a plum fenced in by thorns. You people in the Free Towns fought like devils when you threw out Baron David a'Freux, and the barons will weight the value of the Free Towns against what it might take to win them. I'm sure they will decide against Cranby's plans for that reason.”

“What about the fact that the Church is active in this?”

“Oh, well, the Church . . . you know . . .”

“I don't know. Could it be that the idea of spiritual sanctions by the Church has never crossed the minds of the barons?”

“I . . . suppose such a thing could raise a little more support than simple greed. We all have to die someday. I would rather not be condemned to the pit.”

“And has Aloysius Cranby spoken to you, Paul?”

Paul looked at George, said nothing. After a while, the baron dropped his eyes and studied the parquetry floor.

“Paul? How do you stand in this?”

“I have no desire for annexation. . . .”

“But?” George did not consider himself an imposing figure. He was plump, round-faced, altogether too jolly looking to inspire fear or respect. But he tried. He stood, drew himself up straight. “But?”

Paul raised his eyes, but could not look directly at George. “I . . . I have to think of my soul,” he said. “I'm a good Christian. If I protested, I could be condemned myself. My wife . . . my children . . .” He fell silent, licked his lips.

George rubbed his face. His headache had grown worse. “Thank you, Paul. I'll say good-bye now. I trust that our bond will be enough for you not to say anything of our talk to Bishop Cranby. Or to Roger of Aurverelle.”

Paul stared. “Roger of— How did you know?”

“How does anyone know anything int his damned city?” George snapped. “The wind . . . the dogs . . . the farting of birds . . . Suffice it to say that I know. All right?”

“I won't say anything,” said Paul. “It would be dangerous for me to admit that I even met with you at all.”

“Good. Thank you. God be with you, Paul.” George bowed without shaking hands, found his own way down the stairs and out into the street.

“Pasties! Good hot pasties!”

He was not hungry.