Strands of Starlight (9 page)

It was a good, hearty breakfast: porridge and fresh milk and bread and honey, and Miriam felt her stomach begin to unclench. Charity sat beside her and served her, and although Miriam found that embarrassing, the presence of the girl was strangely comforting.

Miriam found herself watching her. There was more to Charity than was usual for a girl of thirteen years, but what it was, she could not say.

Priests who were not normal, children who were not normal . . . Miriam wondered what was going on in the Free Towns.
That's not human
, she had said, but Kay and Charity were quite human . . . and quite out of the ordinary.

“What became of Varden?” she asked as calmly as she could.

Kay answered between mouthfuls. “Oh, he went away, back to the forest to be with his people. He said you'd gotten through the worst of the night and that he really couldn't do anything more. He left a while before dawn.”

“To be . . . with his people.”

“Yes.” Kay was unflustered.

“Where are you from, Miriam?” said Charity as she refilled Miriam's cup with milk.

Miriam glanced between Kay and Charity, wondering what the officers of the Church would do with what she was seeing and hearing. After a moment, she dropped her eyes and shrugged. “Everywhere.”

“I've always wanted to meet someone from everywhere,” said Charity with a smile. “It's so dreary to be from one particular place.”

Miriam wondered at first if she were being ridiculed, but Charity's smile was honest and open. Her stomach unclenched a little more. “I was born in a village near Maris. My father was a fisherman. I guess . . . I guess I've tried to forget more than that.”

“Did you lose your parents?”

“You might say that.” In truth, she had lost them the first time the power had taken her. She had been only three then, but the final rupture seven years later had been a mere technicality.

Charity's eyes were sympathetic. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“I've wandered about. I never stay anyplace for very long. People . . .” Miriam wondered how much she could say. “People become afraid of me. I'm . . . I'm a healer.”

Kay was unperturbed. “Varden mentioned that. You're welcome in Saint Brigid.” He started to butter a piece of bread.

Miriam found his nonchalance irritating. “Doesn't your Church take a dim view of people like me, Kay? I had a fine time with your friend Aloysius Cranby—”

“Aloysius Cranby is no friend of mine,” Kay said bluntly. “I was ordained by Augustine delAzri of Maris. I stay away from Hypprux.”

“Well, my powers are supposed to come from the devil.”

Kay was still buttering the dark bread, and his movements became agitated. “Some people are fools,” he said. “They should get down on their knees and praise God for people like you. Healing coming from the devil indeed! And Who was it that made lame beggars walk and blind men see?” The bread slipped out of his hand and skittered across the table. Kay peered at it. “It does always land with the buttered side down, doesn't it?”

Miriam smiled in spite of herself.

“I think of them as city dwellers,” Kay resumed, peeling up the slice and then mumbling through it. “Noses buried in their books while the sun shines and the flowers bloom about them. They've never gone out and gotten their hands dirty, never really looked at a sunset or watched a tree grow.”

“How did you ever become a priest?”

“I wanted to serve God,” said Kay. “Not gold. Not the bishops and the cardinals, not Rome—or Avignon either. I grew up out here among the fields, and I always knew there was magic about. No one had to tell me. At school, I simply kept my mouth shut.” He smiled at her with the expression of an angel who had just purloined the largest, reddest, juiciest apple from a neighbor's tree.

“This place is a miracle,” she said.
But I can't ever enjoy it.

Kay was working on another piece of bread. “Yes,” he mused, “I suppose you'd say that there is something about Saint Brigid. Of course there have been ups and downs. If you'd come here a few years ago, my child, you'd have found a different reception.”

Miriam stifled her instinctive retort. “Why is that?”

“My predecessor, Jaques Alban, was an associate of Bishop Cranby, and held to most of his views. How he was ever given this town as a cure, I'll never know. He certainly never fit in.” Kay rambled on. “Saint Brigid was a rather unhappy town for several years, but Alban, fortunately, disappeared one day.”

Miriam thought for a moment. “Was he the one the Elves turned into a pig?”

Kay looked uncomfortable. “Uh . . . wherever did you hear that?”

“Up north. It's a popular little tale.”

“Well, Alban disappeared one day. . . .”

Charity sighed softly. “It's sad.”

Kay shrugged. “Alban did some good in the end, though his motives were not the best. He rebuilt the church, and he made sure that he had a fine large house to live in. This one. Comfortable . . . and capable of taking in wandering healers.” He looked at Miriam.

She understood the unspoken question. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your hospitality. If I could repay you in some way—maybe keep your house for you—I would like to stay for a while.”

“You're welcome to stay as long as you want,” said Kay. “As for the housekeeping . . . we can talk about that later.”

Miriam was surprised when she looked at Charity. The girl's eyes were wide, and she was smiling broadly, as though the news that Miriam would be staying in Saint Brigid was a cause for great joy.

Saint Brigid lay nestled against the southwest corner of Malvern Forest, separated from the trees by a bow shot or two of tilled fields and pasture. It was a neat, orderly town, its walls and streets well kept, its houses trim and sturdy. The tidy streets meandered off as streets will do, but within a few weeks Miriam could find her way about as well as any native.

She had, without further comment, taken over the housework, though Kay lived so simply that there was not much of it other than the basic tasks of washing, sweeping, and cooking . . . and Kay did some of those himself anyway. He urged her to get out of the house as much as she could, obviously hoping that the fresh air and sunshine would cheer her up. Miriam had no such hopes herself, but she acceded to his wishes. She rambled through the town and the fields around it, becoming, day by day, a familiar figure to the village folk.

The days warmed. Spring was taking hold for certain, the fields greening with crops, the forest shining with new leaves, the meadows bright with flowers. But Miriam paid little attention. Arms folded inside the sleeves of one of Charity's gowns, she kept her eyes on the ground as she wandered. Her mind was far away, searching for a path that would lead her to a certain large man.

She had made some inquiries and had found that no one in the town knew him. Indeed, his accent had been of the north. She might have thought him a common wanderer, but for his hands: they were not those of a vagabond or a soldier. Something else . . .

She was treated well by the people of the village. There was an openheartedness about them, and they seemed to forgive Miriam her dark looks and her scowls, but their kindness made the healer reflect bitterly upon the irony of her circumstances. Hunted, pursued, tormented for most of her adult life, she had come now to a place of love and safety. And she would have to leave. And it was not the Church that would drive her away: it was herself. Full now to the brim with impotent rage, she could not accept any haven, no matter how inviting.

And it was indeed inviting. The village folk accepted her as family, and Charity treated her like a sister. Miriam had not been in town a week before the girl had taken her off to visit friends, relations, people who were dear to her. What time Charity had to herself, she spent with Miriam, trying in whatever way she could to lighten the cloud that hung over the healer.

“Charity,” Miriam said once as the girl gleefully tugged at her sleeve. “I need to be alone.”

“No, you don't,” said Charity, her blue eyes bright. “You've been alone too much. You need to play.”

“Play? Dear God . . .”

“Come on.”

They gathered flowers for the statue of the Lady in the church. They listened to the roar of the river to the north of the town as it bounded over boulders and under the stone bridge. They climbed along the rocks of the foothills of the Aleser Mountains.

There was a depth to Charity. Miriam had seen it before, but it manifested itself most strongly when the girl was engaged in frivolity. It was as though Charity had long ago realized how precious and transient her youth was and had determined that while she could, she would drain that cup, refill it, and drink again.

But even in those hours Charity gave her, the obsession burned in the back of Miriam's mind. She wanted the man dead. She wanted him dead by her own hand. She wanted to feel the impact of sword on flesh, see the living man cleft by cold steel, and know it was her arm that guided the blade. Despite the townsfolk, despite Charity, Miriam's rage and anger drove her through the lengthening days.

One morning, near the middle of April, Kay asked her gently if perhaps she brooded a little too much.

She glared at him across the breakfast table. “What am I suppose to do, dammit? Laugh? Sing about it? Tra-la-la, I've been raped, and the man's off having a fine time.”

Kay flushed with embarrassment. “I only meant to help.”

Miriam caught herself and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Kay. I've no reason to be cruel to you.”

“Maybe if you got your mind off it?”

“Charity's been trying. I'm not sure I want my mind off it. Somehow, I'm going to kill him. That's what I want.”

“I was thinking of some other distractions.”

“What do you suggest?” She stared sullenly at the table.

“Would you like to learn to read and write?”

She lifted her eyes.

Kay shrugged uncomfortably. “After Bishop Cranby, I can't blame you for having no great love for such as me. But—by Our Lady, Miriam, I'm a priest. I'm here to help. I'm supposed to bring aid and comfort.” His eyes were moist.

She stared at him. “Why are you all doing this?” she demanded suddenly. “You're driving me mad.”

“Miriam?”

She dropped her bread, spread her hands. “Everywhere I go, people are terrified of me, and now all of a sudden I'm adopted by an entire town, Everyone says hello to me. Your father carries me across the street when it's muddy. Charity's friend Roxanne is making me clothes. For nothing. For . . . for love!”

Kay blinked. “Is it so incomprehensible that people can be kind to one another?”

“People aren't kind. You talk of kindness? Talk to the torturer that put those blades into my legs. Have him tell you about kindness. People are horrible. I know that for a fact. Now, what in hell is going on in Saint Brigid?”

Kay was silent for some time. Light and air spilled in from the unshuttered windows: yesterday's rain had brought a softness to the morning. “Maybe we've just learned a few things here in Saint Brigid,” he said at last. “Maybe we've learned that people are important. Not because they can tithe, or pay scutage, or build castles, or make brass candlesticks, or anything like that. Just because they're people. And if they care about one another, then that's important, too.”

She eyed him. “That's crazy.”

Kay shrugged. “Maybe. But Saint Brigid is a different town than it was ten years ago. And it's because of just that.”

“What changed it? The . . . the Elves?”

Kay went to the pot of water boiling over the fire and tossed in a handful of peppermint leaves. “Probably,” he said. “They were there, out in the forest, and they helped us a number of times. Think of that, Miriam. Humans have been persecuting Elves for centuries, and yet they helped us!”

Miriam stared at the piece of bread she had let fall. “Varden's an Elf, isn't he?” The young man had been to Kay's house many times. How was Miriam feeling? Was there anything he could do for her? And always those starlit eyes watched her as though he were waiting for something.

“Yes, he is.”

“And he healed me.”

“You know that.”

“
Why?
”

“Because that's what Elves do. Help and heal. Aid and comfort. That's really what everybody should do. Varden's been pounding that into my head ever since I took up this cure, and I'm finally beginning to understand him.”

“Help and heal. Sure. And get burned.”

“Not here.” Kay poked a floating piece of peppermint down to the bottom of the pot, filled a mug, and drank.

“What about the Inquisition?”

Kay grimaced. “We keep our own counsel here in the Free Towns. Jaques Alban was the only outsider to have a Free Town cure in many years.”

Miriam's eyes glinted. “And he disappeared.”

Kay shook his head. “He went against the grain of the town. He just vanished one day.”

“Turned into a pig?”

Kay said nothing.

There were hurried footsteps outside, and a quick knock on the door. Kay glanced at Miriam, who had flinched at the sound, and swung it open. “God bless you, Roxanne,” he said to the tall, dark woman who stood there. “Is there something wrong?”

“It's your brother, Michael,” she said. “There's been an accident at the forge. Some tackle fell and crushed his foot. Varden's away in the forest. I'm doing what I can, but I'm limited.”

Miriam felt her stomach start to churn.

“Mick . . .” The priest was stunned.

“Is Miriam here?”

“Yes . . . of course,” said Kay. He motioned Roxanne in.

Miriam knew her a little. Roxanne had measured her for some new clothes a few days before. Black-eyed, good-looking, she was skilled both at her trade of weaving and in the use of herbs. She functioned as midwife for many of the women of Saint Brigid. Charity was extremely fond of her.

“Miriam,” said Roxanne softly, “Varden has told me of your powers. He's also told me of your reluctance to use them. Normally, I would send for him, but he's away, and Michael's foot is badly damaged. So I have come to ask you if you would heal Michael.”