Strands of Starlight, page 28
“Are you not well?” he said.
“I don't like this.” She gestured at her hip. “This isn't Saint Brigid.”
Terrill thought for a moment. “Perhaps you are right.” He reached into a side flap of his pack, took out a long dagger, and handed it to her. “Hide it among your skirts. Once, I made the mistake of leaving myself unarmed. I will not do so again, nor will I allow a friend to.”
Dressed simply as a young husband and wife, they crossed the fields, came upon a road, and approached the south gate of the town. There were many people going in and out, and the men at the gatehouse seemed bored with their task. Miriam did not have to turn to the stars to know that they were among the strangers Terrill had sensed.
“Shake out your hair, Mirya,” said Terrill. “Make sure your ears are covered.” Miriam reached up unthinkingly and realized that Terrill had cause for his words. Hurriedly, she arranged her tresses. Terrill himself gave a flick of his head and his hair settled evenly.
“Casually, Mirya. Find your stars, and watch the gatekeepers' inattention. It is time you learned fine control.”
The life of the town was a complex knot among the webs, but Terrill guided her awareness to the strand in question. She watched it fade in and out, and when it dimmed to near invisibility, Terrill calmly took her by the hand, flicked the penny toll into the basket by a guard's arm, and led her past the men's unseeing eyes.
On the surface, the town seemed quite normal: vendors hawked their wares, shops were open, housewives chatted beside the well. But the fear was there. It stuck in the back of Miriam's mind like a sooty cloud, glowed in her awareness like a hot stove. One of its focal points, she saw, was the mayor's residence.
In many ways, the mayor of Saint Blaise was just another citizen, and his house was neither overlarge nor ostentatious. At present, the windows were unshuttered to let in the fresh air, and Miriam caught a glimpse of well-made hangings in one of the upper rooms.
“Glance at it, Mirya,” said Terrill softly, “but do not stare. Observe, instead, the men lounging against the wall on the far side of the street.”
There were two there, dressed rudely, like poor city folk. But Miriam saw the webs that connected them with the house. “Spies.”
“It is so. Come. UP a street, and then to the right. We shall approach from the back. And keep your ears covered.”
Miriam was surprised by the alley. In contrast to the reeking, open sewers that made up the back ways of the northern cities, it was quite clean. The kitchen door of the house did not appear to be watched. Miriam examined the webs and found nothing. Terrill, approving, confirmed her observation.
The Elf knocked at the door. It was opened after a minute by a serving girl in a brown smock, her face flushed from the cooking fire and her dark hair tied back severely.
“Good morning,” said Terrill.
“I'm sorry, sir. We have no positions open.” The girl was nervous. She was not looking at them, and the fear clung to her like oily smoke.
“Dolores,” said Terrill, allowing his Elvish accent to come through plainly, “be at peace.”
Then the girl actually saw them, and her eyes grew round. “Oh, dear God! Terrill! Oh, God, please come in!”
They entered, and she shut the door behind them. She leaned against it and passed a hand over her face.
“There is fear in this house,” said Terrill. “What has happened?”
“Oh, Fair One,” said Dolores, “the churchmen have been through the town, and their soldiers came in disguise. They've been questioning people, and Mistress Janet is up in Hypprux, and the mayor and his lady are left without their daughter—” The words tumbled out, sliding over one another in her haste to be rid of them. “—and I'm so worried about Janet. She's but a mite of a girl, and what would they want with her in Hypprux?”
“Easy, maiden.” Terrill laid a hand on Dolores's shoulder and helped her to a stool. She buried her face in her hands.
“It's been dreadful here. His lordship won't talk to anyone about anything. Stays holed up in his study, he does. Lady Anne won't eat. The house is so . . . so . . .”
“It is the fear.” Terrill spoke gently. “Now, did you tell me that George is in his study?”
“I did, Fair One.”
“Take us there, please.”
“He won't see anyone, kind sir.”
Miriam spoke up. “He'll see us. Don't worry.”
Dolores stared at her, frightened, then rose and curtsied deeply. “You do us honor, my Lady.”
“Just take us to the study.”
Dolores led them up two flights of stairs to a wooden door. “All right, Dolores,” said Terrill, “thank you. You can go back to the kitchen. We will do what we can.”
She nodded at them and scampered down the stairs. Terrill knocked at the door. “My lord!”
“Go away, and have done with you,” came the reply. Miriam wondered: the voice sounded vaguely familiar. “I gave orders that I was not to be bothered.”
Terrill shrugged and lifted the latch. The door swung open on well-tallowed hinges. A man sat at a desk, his back to them, his head bowed.
“Orders,” said Terrill, “sometimes grow outdated.”
The man turned, almost as startled as Miriam. This was the fat man that she had healed on a cold, rainy night in Hypprux, who had given her his money and his cloak. The mayor of Saint Blaise! No wonder his cloak was so fine! No wonder it bore the insignia of the city and the Towns!
George, though, did not recognize her. How could he? The little healer who had mended his ankle had been dead for almost a year, having taken her own life out of despair. . . .
The thought gave her a queasy feeling. She had an awareness of the Dance, but here was someone from the past come back again, as though a familiar partner, swept away by one turn of an estampie, was now back with a new step, reaching out a hand for her to take once again.
George had risen quickly. “Terrill.” He came forward and took the Elf by both hands. He looked wasted, wan, as though sleep had been elusive for many days and grudging with its rest when it actually came. More lines had been added to his face, and they had not come from laughter. “Unlooked for and in time of sorrow you come,” he said. “Forgive my harsh words.”
“Forgiveness is found within yourself,” said Terrill. He took Miriam by the hand. “Mirya, this is George Darci, mayor of Saint Blaise. George, Mirya is a kinswoman of mine and a healer.”
The greater status that Terrill's introduction had accorded her was not lost on Miriam, nor was the mayor's deep bow. But she was still flustered by this apparition from her past. “Blessings on you,” she stammered. “How is your ankle?”
“My ankle?” George was genuinely puzzled.
Miriam shook her head slightly. “No matter. Be at peace.”
“Would that I could.”
“Speak to us,” said Terrill. “You spoke of sorrow. Was it brought by Aloysius Cranby?”
George sat down on a carpeted chest. “That bastard. That bloody bastard.” He looked for words, and in the silence, Miriam heard, through the door at the other end of the room, the sound of a woman sobbing hoarsely. “It was on the first large market day after the thaw,” the mayor said. “There were many people come here form all over the country, and since we hadn't heard of any overt preparations against us, we were caught unawares.”
The sobbing continued.
Terrill spoke. “From what Dolores said, I assume that the bishop and a number of soldiers infiltrated the town.”
George nodded. “Quite a lot of soldiers. Swiss archers, many of them, but many more are of the sort who never wear mail, but spend their time in the taverns and the town squares, listening. Cranby and his two friars came up here and told me that they knew of my dealings with Elves and witches. They brought some fairly irrefutable evidence with them.
“Evidence?” Miriam was almost afraid to ask. The Dance was turning spiral-wise, cycling back to the beginning. She realized with a sense of unease that her purpose in this northward journey was to enter the very dungeon from which she had escaped months before.
George pointed to a peg on the wall where hung a familiar dark green cloak. “I gave that cloak to a little lass in Hypprux,” he said. “She was a healer, and she's been tortured. She healed my—” He stared for a moment at Miriam, who was transfixed by the sight of the cloak. “Healed my ankle.”
Terrill gently slid his arm around Miriam's waist.
“I had no idea whether she got out of the city or not, but obviously, she did. Cranby's men found my cloak in the possession of a witch just outside of Furze. Apparently, the girl had stayed with the witch.”
“She's not a witch,” said Miriam. Trembling slightly, she took down the cloak, examined it, felt again the warm wool, ran her slender finger over the embroidery. “She's a midwife.” Oh, dear Lady! Mika!
“As I thought,” said George. “In any case, they confronted me with the cloak, and there wasn't much that I could say.”
“And what is the situation now?” said Terrill.
“The soldiers are still here. And the spies. And Janet . . .” His lip quivered, and he covered his face with his hands.
Miriam put the cloak back on the peg and knelt beside the man, her arms around him. “Easy, my friend.”
George sobbed. “They've sent my daughter to live in the Chateau at Hypprux. Ostensibly as a guest. Ostensibly to further her education. In truth, she is a hostage. To ensure my cooperation.”
Only half-aware of what she was doing, Miriam closed her eyes, let the light of the stars fill her. She realized suddenly that she was giving the mayor strength. George's sobbing quieted slowly, and he regained control.
“Peace, friend, peace.” Stars. She felt the flow and soothed as she could, healing him for the second time. And he's part of Her, too. Everything is. . . .
When she opened her eyes, George was looking at her. “So I am required to be a spy myself,” he said, “or my daughter will take the consequences.”
“To whom are you to report?” said Terrill. “The men in the street?”
“Are they still there?”
“They did not see us.”
“The soldiers at the gate?”
Terrill snorted softly in reply.
George nodded, relieved. “Actually, one of Cranby's agents stops in once a week. He's due soon.”
Miriam stood up. “It may be the bishop himself who is due soon,” she said, regretting for the hundredth time that Kay had not stayed her hand.
Terrill regarded her levelly. “Do not expect Cranby to return. He is dead.”
It took Miriam a few moments to understand. “How do you know?”
“Varden is my brother. I know.”
Miriam thought of Varden. The healer. The Elf who had put his sword away forever. In seconds, any joy she felt at Cranby's demise was eclipsed by her sorrow at what that action must have cost Varden. “Oh, dear Lady.”
She went to the cloak again, took it in her hands. The Dance was infinite, infinitely varied. A single step was enough to alter it. She had played her part. So had George. Mika was a partner, as were Varden, and Terrill, and Janet, and Charity. . . .
The list could have gone on forever. Indeed, the list would have had to encompass the universe in order to be complete. “Tell me, Lord Mayor,” she said softly. “If you had known what would come of your gift of a cloak to a little, mutilated girl, would you have, nonetheless, tendered the gift?” The golden threads in the embroidery glistened at her, weaving, crossing.
George looked as if he were trying to guess the meaning behind the strange actions and questions of this Elf maid. “My lady,” he said, “I would have, regardless. The girl was cold. She needed help. She had given me help. How could I do anything but give in return? Dear God, if she had been willing, I would have taken her into my own house!”
The emblems had blurred to Miriam's eyes. Slowly, she put the cloak back on its peg. “I am sure, my lord, that the girl, in her own way, is grateful to you.”
Again, from outside the room, came the sound of weeping.
“And who is that?” said Miriam. She noticed that Terrill was watching her, examining her, analyzing her; but this time the look in his eyes was one of tenderness. A little further, he seemed to be saying. Only a little further. Please . . .
George bent his head. “Lady Anne. My wife. Janet's mother. It's been hard on her.” He hesitated. “I would guess that you are traveling north. Toward Hypprux, or maybe beyond. Could you . . . is there any way that you could see that our Janet is well?”
Terrill answered dispassionately. “How much of what we have said here will you tell to Cranby's agent?”
George's head snapped up. “Upon my word, nothing.”
“In spite of the fact that if you are discovered, Janet will suffer?”
“Terrill!” cried Miriam. “What are you doing?”
“It is well, my lady,” George gasped. “He has a right to know. No, Terrill, I will say nothing to the bishop's agent. But I will trust that you and Mirya and the powers of your race will see to it that you leave unnoticed so that I will not be found false.”
“So be it,” said Terrill. “We do indeed travel to Hypprux. Other matters call us there.”
“And we will see that Janet is safe,” said Miriam. “I give my word.”
Terrill glanced at her. His eyebrows lifted for an instant, then settled. “Let us go then.”
In the other room, Anne sobbed again.
“A moment, please,” said Miriam. She had touched George's heart, and she felt that her own had widened as a consequence. When she looked about the room at the cabinets, the desk, the racks of carefully rolled documents, she saw in everything beginnings, potentials. Even the rushes on the floor were full of promise.
There was need in the other room.
She went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. Anne's crying was louder now, and it came from behind a curtained doorway. Miriam paused. She was intruding, but . . .
Lifting her hand, she pushed aside the green velvet drape and entered the bedchamber. Anne was lying facedown on the white bedspread, her head cradled in the fold of her arm. The window was open, and the air was fresh, warm, scented with early spring.
Miriam shook her hair back so that her ears were visible. Calmly, she let the starlight take her, felt her identity begin to slip, did not fight. In the back of her mind she saw a flicker of blue and silver. “Lady Anne,” she said softly.
The woman lifted her head. Blond and blue-eyed, she reminded Miriam of Elizabeth, and when she thought of Anne's daughter, Janet, hostage in a strange city miles to the north, she consistently visualized Charity in that role.
Anne caught her breath. “Fair One . . .”
“Be at peace,” said Miriam. “I'll see that Janet is safe. But for now, let me help you.” She extended her hands, and after a moment, Anne pushed herself up and grasped them.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The day was growing hot when Terrill and Miriam turned their horses once again onto the hidden path that led northward. The trail here was broad enough for two to ride abreast, and Miriam remained at Terrill's side as the sun passed noon and westered. Terrill was thinking, his sight turned within himself, and he appeared to be paying little attention to her, but he spoke up suddenly near the middle of the afternoon. “What did you do to Anne? For that matter, what did you do to George?”
Miriam herself had been silent since they had left the city. She felt subdued, calm. The starlight had flowed through her instinctively, and the widening she had felt in her heart had remained. She felt as though the morning's ride toward Saint Blaise had been made by a different person.
She looked at her hands and wondered for a moment whose they were.
“What did I do?” she said. “Strength. Comfort. Aid.” She tipped her head back, looked at the leaves against the sky. “What else are we here for?”
“I am . . . impressed.” There was affection in his voice. “And grateful. I watched you give yourself to the light.”
A little further . . . only a little further . . .
“I gave myself a little,” she said, “but it wasn't really much. Healing comes easily for me. I've done it all my life. Fighting, though . . .” She shrugged, tossed her hair back over her shoulders.
Terrill rode in silence for a while, then reined in his horse. “We have not eaten. We should stop for a moment.”
“We won't make very good time if we do.”
“I have some preparations to make.”
His voice was as analytical as it ever had been, Miriam noticed the chill of the light in his eyes. She shrugged again and they dismounted where the trees were thin. Miriam was doffing her pack when Terrill's voice rang out harshly.
“Mirya! Elf!”
The urgency of his tone made her to drop her pack and whirl. A wooden sword was streaking at her head, and she only just managed to get her hand up in time to catch it.
Terrill was already leaping in, and Miriam had but a fraction of a heartbeat in which to link with the stars before he was upon her. As she watched the potentials change and shift, she realized that he was moving at full speed, that his strokes were going to be at strength.
Which made Hoyle's swordplay seem infantile in comparison.
Terrill's face was a mask of indifferent concentration as she parried his blow. Her wooden sword splintered along its edge, and she winced. Terrill spun to follow up. Head shot. Parrying again, she swung Terrill's sword down, kicked it away, and swept her foot behind the Elf in hope of catching him off guard.
No luck. Terrill leaped clear. At the same time, he was swinging for her open side. Irritated, Miriam blocked hard. This time it was Terrill's turn to flinch.
But in the back of her mind, Miriam was almost frightened. Terrill's charge had come out of nowhere, and all that told her that he was not bent on taking her life was the fact that he had tossed her a wooden sword instead of challenging her with steel.
She was angry also. By what right . . .?
Terrill was driving in again, and her anger flowed into her block. Both blades splintered and broke.
