Strands of Starlight, page 21
The River Tordion had frozen over near the first of the year, and now small boys played there, cr3eeping out across the white surface on wooden skates, pelting one another with snowballs, chinning themselves on the large chains that hung from the guard towers on either bank.
Paul delMari, tenth baron of Furze, pulled his hood close about his head as he followed the funeral procession along the Street of Saint Lazarus, the tic above his right eye twitching repeatedly. There was no doubt in anyone's mind about who would be the next chamberlain, for Roger of Aurverelle had already donned the chain of office. Lucky devil! Married right, bribed right, supported right. Although—and Paul looked at the huge man who walked directly behind the velvet-draped bier—the story that Baron Roger had threatened to break the neck of anyone who questioned his claim to the office was quite believable. The baron was not known for gentleness. There were stories about his first wife . . . and about peasant girls found in the forest. . . .
Paul slipped and came close to breaking his head on the cobbles, but the loyal arm of his steward caught him. The baron nodded his thanks to the man as he found his footing, and he reminded himself that his thoughts should be on prayers for the eternal rest of old Thomas.
God, that he himself should live to be so respected and venerable as the late chamberlain! Even Aloysius Cranby had to praise the man who had served the city and the region for over forty years. In fact, the bishop was going to celebrate the funeral Mass himself, although Paul admitted that if he did not, he would be considered discourteous by all, even by his supporters.
And Paul's thoughts returned again to politics. He hoped that George was doing something down in Saint Blaise. But then, George had probably done quite enough already. Those Elves. And witches now, too. He wondered about the letter he had received from Aloysius Cranby the evening before, and had the uneasy suspicion that the bishop had been asking about the old midwife. Another unpleasant thought.
Aloysius Cranby, clad in the purple of his rank, his crozier frosted by the cold but nonetheless agleam with amethysts and—some thought prematurely—rubies, walked at the head of the procession. Flanking the bishop were the two Dominican friars who worked closely with him, and following were members of Thomas's guild, the Brotherhood of the Queen of Heaven, sevenscore and ten of the wealthiest men of the city who had devoted much time and money to the care of the poor, the outcast, and the unfortunate.
Then the bier, the new chamberlain, and Paul. Behind the baron of Furze marched the other barons who were wintering in Hypprux, the aldermen of the city, and a selection of men from the respected trades. Slowly, the procession wound along the Street of Saint Lazarus, up the Street Gran Pont, and into the Cathedral of Our Lady of Mercy where the choir was already singing. The bells tolled, and a few crows took wing and flapped about the flèche, their cries brittle in the frosty air, their forms dark.
The altar was ablaze with candles, and incense hung wraithlike in the air. After placing the bier directly at the intersection of nave and transepts, the bearers took the black pall away, revealing a dark blue drape with an intricately embroidered device of interlaced moon and star.
Taking his place nearby, Paul knelt on a red cushion and crossed himself. Time to say farewell to an old man.
***
Every year now, the winter seemed a little harder.
Mika made her way along the road, cloak pulled tight against the cold, booted feet plodding through the snow. Her joints ached, and her eyes smarted. There was a stiffness in her knees that would not go away, she knew, until the weather warmed, and the old twinge in her left shoulder was persisting in spite of herbs and compresses.
“Midwife, heal thyself,” she murmured. But even Miriam could not take away the burden of the years, and hers was the most miraculous power of which Mika had ever heard, excepting maybe that of a certain carpenter of Nazareth.
Mika stopped in the road, looked up at the brilliant blue sky. Where was the girl now? Was she warm? Was someone looking after her? Had she found safety? A home?
The wind stung her face. She pulled her hood down low and continued on her way. A crow called harshly form the bare branches of a tree.
“Not much to eat, is there, old one?” said the midwife. “I'll put something out for you when I get home.”
The bird flapped its wings once, then settled and fluffed its feathers. Mika took the turning that led to Clare's house and the young mother let her into a warm room that smelled of fresh straw and hot stew.
“It's just in time for supper you are,” said Clare. “Will'ee stay?”
“I could be persuaded.” Mika doffed her cloak. “How is little Miriam?”
“She's fine.” The little girl, ten months old now, toddled up to Mika. The midwife lifted her. Miriam giggled and made a grab for her nose, and Mika laughed.
“She seems fine indeed, Clare. Eyes as bright as silver pennies.”
“She's talking.”
“She is! What's she saying?”
Clare stirred the stew. “She'll sit on her father's lap, and she'll point to most everything in the room and name it.” She laughed. “Sometimes she dan get the names quite right, but that dan seem to bother her!”
Mika smiled. “What's that?” she said to the girl, pointing at the table.
Miriam looked at the table with enormous gray eyes. “Dog,” she said seriously.
“It's a table, little sweet,” said Mika.
“Dog,” said Miriam in a tone that did brook disagreement.
“Well,” said the midwife, “I suppose she takes after her namesake.”
Clare did not look up from the pot. “Ha' you . . . ha' you any idea where she is?”
“No,” said Mika after a long silence.
“The priest asked me questions about her after Mass last Sunday.”
“What did you tell him?” Mika's voice was tight.
Clare shrugged, plainly disturbed. “I told him I didn't know.”
From outside, clearly, the sound brittle in the cold, came the cawing of a crow.
***
To leave is to return.
There were, Miriam reflected, all kinds of returns, whether to a forest cave and the sound of harp strings, or to a small village in the south of Adria. But as she and Roxanne came out of the trees and saw the rooftops of Saint Brigid poking up above the walls of the town, she knew that her time there would be limited. This was a return, no more. There would be other returns, to other towns, other places. Maybe, in the end, to the forest. It was as if she had passed some midpoint in her life—perhaps on a stone slab at midsummer—as if, from now on, she would only be returning.
She wondered. Would she return to Mika, too? And what about the Chateau? Woulds he again set foot within its white, polished walls? For what purpose?
So many places to which to return.
Lake, Roxanne's son, murmured softly, and the witch nestled him deep into the folds of her gray cloak. Varden would have come to see them home, but Roxanne preferred to enter the town of her birth by herself, bearing her child in her arms. She had her own returns. Varden, understanding, had not pressed.
“How is he, Sana?” asked Miriam.
“Sleeping,” said the witch with a fond smile. “I think he misses Natil's playing already. I'm afraid I'm going to have to take up the harp until he's old enough to hold one himself.”
“I'm sure he'll have a good teacher.”
“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.
Chapter Twenty-two
“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.”
