Strands of Starlight (42 page)

He glanced at her, then plunged his head into the water and scrubbed. When he surfaced, he cleared the hair from the back of his neck.

Mirya had waited. “Well?”

“Anger?”

She worked at the tar. “What about you? You still wear that sword after Varden put his away. You fought beside me in the dungeon.”

“I was not angry.”

“It looked like anger.”

Terrill's skin was fine, white, like ivory. He washed slowly, sitting in midstream. “It was not. Someday, you will understand. There is anger, and that is not a good thing. There is also wrath, and when I say wrath, I mean something that empowers, something that ennobles. Anger knows only how to hate and kill. Wrath can choose. I was wrathful. Something precious was in danger of being destroyed, and I had to save it. I had little choice to my methods, but if I had been given any, I would have considered them carefully.”

Mirya still fought with the tar. “Why didn't you just change the futures?”

He laughed suddenly, his hair scattering water in a shower of sunlit drops. “Ah! Why not indeed! I will tell you this, Mirya: every future must be accounted for, and you must take responsibility for all of them. So, as I said, consider carefully what you want before you change the futures.” Clean at last, he stood up and brushed water from his body. “But, in answer to your first question . . .”

The tar finally gave way and she tossed it into the bushes. She looked at him expectantly.

He let her wait for a moment, then: “What do you think?”

She dropped her hands into the water in exasperation.

“Well?” He was smiling at her.

“I am as I am. I'm still angry.”

“Maybe. But I have been angry also. And in spite of your anger, you acted with dignity and kindness; you risked your life for love. You healed, Elf.”

She felt a tightness in her throat. “Thank you, Terrill.”

“It is well.” She was clean, and when he reached a hand to her, she took it and stood up. The sun shone warmly and flashed in Mirya's hair. “You have,” said Terrill, “farther to go. It will not be easy. But I will call you Elf, and if you claim hearthright, I will not accuse you of audacity.”

“It means a great deal to me.”

“We all need to belong somewhere.”

She dropped her eyes, nodded slowly. A playful trout approached and nibbled at her toes. She thought she recognized it: maybe, once, it had leaped high above the waters of Lake Onella, the ripples it created mirroring the petals of a flower in Sicily. Laughing, she bent and shooed it away.

“What will you do now?” Terrill asked softly.

She knew what he meant. Roger of Aurverelle was in Hypprux, and, apparently, had a good deal to do with both the city and the plots against the Free Towns. “I . . . I haven't decided yet.”

“Will you be returning to Saint Brigid?”

“I'll be going as far as the north edge of Malvern.”

“You cannot find peace among us?”

“No more . . .” She swallowed with difficulty. “No more than you can, Terrill.”

His mouth worked. He met her eyes. “I may . . . I may be looking at my peace right now.”

She passed her hands over her face. “I—”

“I do not wish to . . . to lose you.”

Even though he did not utter the word
again
, she heard it in the tone of his voice. She stumbled to the shore, sat down on a rock, and mechanically ran her fingers through her hair to help it dry. Slowly, as though shamed by his admission, Terrill followed.

“I'm not she, Terrill.”

His eyes were haunted once more. “Are you certain?” he said softly.

“I'm too different.”

“Are you certain?”

She understood. She had seen flashes of image and memory that had not been a part of the life of Miriam of Maris. Snatches of the elven tongue came to her at times. Her healing powers seemed no longer something alien, a cruel burden that she was forced to bear, but rather a part of her, a genuine gift. “No,” she said at last, “I'm not certain. But I can't find peace through you.”

“I know that now.”

“Am I ready to fight him?”

For an instant, Terrill looked pained. He sat down beside her, thought deeply. “I have watched you fight. I have fought you myself. I know what you can do. You have talent that I have only rarely seen before, and then only in the best. And yet, unless you lose your anger, I cannot say. You had difficulty in Hypprux because of anger: you lost your stars.”

“I found them again.” She told him of the second time that she had heard Roger's voice, what she had done.

“That is good,” he said when she finished. “It gives me some hope.”

“But you're still not sure.”

“I am not. I am afraid.”

“You want to see me again.”

His voice was barely audible. “I do.”

She moved closer, rested her head on his shoulder. His arm went around her. “You will,” she said.

“I would like to see you happy.” His arm tightened. “I would like to see you at peace.”

Once, Varden had offered her paradise: Saint Brigid could have been a haven for her. But she had turned away. Now, something else she wanted was being offered her, and again she had to say:
Later. I can't now. Later.

Somewhere among the futures, Roger of Aurverelle stood, sword drawn, facing her. She had fought to come this far, and she would not turn back.

“I will go with you as far as Malvern,” she said. “I'll head north then. After a while, I'll come back. That's all I can do.”

He watched the stream for some time, his arm still around her. “
Illme mari yai, Miryai,
” he said at last.

She did not need him to translate. “
Illme mari yai. Me ya ciryo.
”

He turned, held her tightly. “I am,” he said. “And I will, someday, again.”

She recognized his last statement as a prayer.

***

Monsignor Gugliemino folded his hands on the table. Roger tried to read him and found that this damned churchman was keeping his expression very carefully neutral, the picture of dispassion, of objective analysis.

“My Lord Chamberlain,” said the monsignor, “I find this very curious. The so-called witch that you claimed held the key to Bishop Cranby's investigation of the Free Towns is no more. Do I hear you correctly? Has she died?”

Roger had tried on many occasions to intimidate this man from Avignon, but even sheer physical size seemed to have no effect. Gugliemino was, Roger assumed, so inured to the plot and counterplot of corrupt papal politics that simple threats held no terror for him. “No,” he said, trying to conceal the anger, “she has not.”

“Well then—”

“She was rescued—taken out of the keep.”

Gugliemino allowed himself to look mildly astonished. “Rescued? From an armed keep?”

“Elves. It had to be Elves. Those demons can walk on water if they put their minds to it. Bishop Cranby can tell you more about them. He's been collecting information for years.”

“I'm certain that he has.” The day would be a warm one. Air was fragrant with the scent of flowers in the formal gardens poured in through the window, and moisture had beaded the legate's forehead. “But don't you see, my good baron: His Holiness Clement the Sixth sent me here to investigate this matter personally—”

“On the basis of one damned letter from a heretical priest!”

Giuseppe Gugliemino looked genuinely concerned. Roger forced himself again to be silent. If only Cranby would return! Men, women, animals: the baron knew how to deal with them. But these eunuchs, these spiritual castrates who went about in women's clothes—they were something different. Cranby came the closest he had ever seen to being a real man, and that was, perhaps, why they could work together. But the others . . .

The monsignor wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “I will have to consider all of this, Lord Chamberlain. I was hoping to be able to speak with the witch myself. Personal confirmation is always a good thing to have, as I'm sure you'll agree.”

Roger got up, leaned across the table. In truth, he wanted to shake the miserable priest by the throat. “Don't you see, Monsignor? This is all the personal confirmation you need. The marshal is dead, as are several soldiers. Even the inquisitor, Karl son of Hanno, a man of the cloth like yourself, was slain. And who but Elves could get into the keep without raising some kind of an alarm?”

“I believe, Lord Chamberlain, that an alarm was indeed raised.”

Frustrated, Roger sat down.

“And what evidence is there that the deed was not committed by individuals within the castle?” Gugliemino continued. “Perhaps they are among your soldiers? This would make sense: after all, soldiers would be able to move about the keep without arousing suspicion, they would be familiar with the grounds and rooms of the Chateau, they would—”

“Shut up.” The words were a muffled rumble.

“—know its routines. I had occasion a year or so ago to speak with a very learned Franciscan, William of Ockham—”

“Shut up.” The rumble neared the surface, threatened to erupt.

“—who very wisely had said once that entities—”

“
Shut up, damn you!
” Unthinkingly, Roger grabbed the heavy table and flung it across the room. It fetched up against the granite wall and cracked in two.

If he had been less angry, the chamberlain might have noticed that Gugliemino had paled by a shade or two. Breathing heavily, Roger turned to the window.

“I would like you to speak to Baron Paul delMari,” he said, forcing the words into some semblance of calm. “The witch practiced her infernal craft in his district for many years.”

Gugliemino cleared his throat. “I have already spoken to the baron. He indicated that he had been paying her to stay in his region as she was a midwife of most incredible skills.”

“Skills gotten from the devil!”

“Skills gotten from her teacher, and from her teacher before her. Baron Paul indicated to me that he did not in all honesty know for sure if the woman were a witch or not. He commented that he had to be guided in the matter by the superior wisdom of . . . Aloysius Cranby.”

The baron leaned on the stone sill, his face thrust out into the sunlight. His head ached, and the light hurt his eyes, but he stayed where he was, because he was not sure that he could look at the churchman again without killing him. “Thank you, Monsignor,” he managed. “We will just have to get along without the approval of His Holiness.”

“Am I to understand that—”

Baron Roger turned around. “
Get out!
”

The legate rose, bowed calmly in spite of his renewed pallor, and departed. Roger went back to the window. Outside and below, among the gardens, resplendent in a gown of light blue samite, Janet Darci of Saint Blaise walked. Reading as usual.

Behind him, the door opened. “What is it?”

The voice of his page answered. “My Lord Chamberlain, a man has just arrived from Saint Blaise. He reports that Bishop Aloysius Cranby has been found dead on the road south of that city.”

Roger kept his eyes on Janet. “Is that all?”

“Aye, my lord. Do you wish to speak with him yourself?”

“Later.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Light blue gown, hair like flax, skin like ivory. Janet Darci walked among the flowers, a flower herself, and her image burned in Roger's brain. He did not even notice when the page withdrew and shut the door behind him.

***

Mika rose in the late morning, and Terrill and Mirya let her bathe and eat before they called the horses and resumed the journey. They pushed on throughout the rest of the day, and by evening they were within the northern marches of Malvern Forest. A short distance away, the hidden path glimmered, but only to the eyes of the Elves.

Mika was tired, and they spread the comforter for her and watched her as she slept. “Kay will need a housekeeper,” said Mirya.

“You are not returning to his house?”

“Could I? My way doesn't lie with humans anymore.”

“True.”

He took her hand, and together they walked under the trees. Mirya looked up at the interlacing branches. Mind, body, and heart, she had changed, and the trees were inviting. She could spend the rest of her existence beneath their leaves, beside a fire, listening to Natil's harp, watching Talla dance. There remained but one last task.

They came to a small clearing, a forest meadow, its grass deep and lush. The starlight glistened on the wildflowers.

“I could ask you once more,” he said, but her silence was her answer, and he sighed softly.

They said their farewells then, in the night, and in the morning Terrill took Mika up behind him on Nightflame. Even form a distance, Mirya saw that the starlight of his eyes was uneasy, troubled. He nodded to her, and she waved. He turned the horse onto the elven path without looking back.

Mirya stepped up to Cloud.

“My friend,” she said, “will you bear me? It's an uncertain journey at best.”

Cloud watched her.

“There's a battle ahead of me. I hope it's my last. Will you?”

The brown eyes were sad as they answered:
I will.
Taking up her pack, Mirya mounted and started north.

Out along the Street Gran Point, then down the Street of Saint Lazarus to the southwest. A quick turn that led among darkly clustered buildings built over two centuries before, then along a street—little more than an alley, actually—with a plaque at the corner that, under a layer of soot and dust, read DOMINO CROSSING.

Paul delMari picked a path through the puddles of excrement and piles of refuse until he came to a small, run-down church with a green lozenge roughly daubed on both pillars of its tiny porch. Wary of beggars, he kept the rough, brown cloak pulled tightly about him until he was through the door.

The light in the nave was dim, as much from the congestion of buildings pressing up on all sides of the church as from the soot that covered the windows. Above the altar was a crucifix done in the Spanish style, and the half-rotted eyes of the Corpse seemed to follow Paul as he made his way up the nave. He wished for some light, but the only flame he could see was the lamp in the sanctuary burning red as a clot of blood.