Third Starlighter

by Bryan Davis

  Marcelle took it, popped the entire ball into her mouth, and began chewing. It produced no flavor in either taste or smell. In other dreams, situations like this were unpredictable. Maybe she would sweat in spite of having minimal bodily fluids. Maybe she would sprout wings and fly. Who could tell?

  While she continued chewing, everyone looked on in silence. Although she had very little saliva for dissolving the ball, it began to dwindle. When it shrank to the size of a pea, she spat it out in her palm and let it drop to the floor.

  Maelstrom withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, reached over the guardrail, and mopped her face and forehead. He walked back to Stanton and presented the handkerchief. “Would you please check this for moisture?”

  “Glad to.” Stanton took it and wadded it in his hands, then held it up by two corners. “It’s completely dry.”

  “Then there is no perspiration at all.”

  “None that I can detect.”

  Maelstrom grabbed the handkerchief and waved it like a flag as he strolled back to Marcelle. “By her own confession, she has admitted that no blood flows in her veins, that her heart is a stone within her breast. And now we have demonstrated that she has no perspiration in her pores. In fact …” He grabbed her wrist again. “Would my most helpful examiner please come and touch Marcelle’s hand and tell us what you feel?”

  Stanton rose and strode across the gap, his graying head held high. When he wrapped his hands around Marcelle’s, he jumped back, letting go. “She’s … she’s as cold as Miller’s Spring!”

  The audience erupted in chaotic chatter. Maelstrom shouted above it, waving the glass rod as his voice rose to a crescendo. “Only a sorceress could have no fluids of life. Only a sorceress could move and speak without a beating heart. Only a sorceress could be frigid to the touch while the rest of us roast in this oven.” Spinning back toward her, he jabbed a finger at her face. “Marcelle is a sorceress!”

  Orion pounded his desk with a flat stone. “Silence!”

  The crowd grew quiet. With a hint of a smile growing on his face, Orion began with a tsking sound. “Leo, my own wife’s feet are frigid to the touch, even on summer nights. She tries to warm them on my feet every night.”

  Laughter skittered about. When it died away, Orion continued. “And just because Marcelle doesn’t sweat when chewing lava gum, that proves only that she has a high tolerance for the spice. And we are all unfamiliar with your truth-detecting rod, so how can we rely on it in this life-or-death trial? We cannot return to the ignorant, superstitious ways of the past and burn every female who exhibits unusual qualities. That would be barbaric. I promised Marcelle a fair trial, and I intend to keep that promise.”

  His smile growing, he rose to his feet and placed his hands on the desk. “If you are unable to provide more evidence than these superficial tests have uncovered, I will have to decide in favor of—”

  “Wait!” Leo’s voice echoed throughout the chamber. “I have one more test.”

  Marcelle eyed him warily. Something in his tone gave away a deception, as if every word had been staged, even Orion’s near dismissal of the case. The climax of the drama had come. She would have to be ready to react.

  With another quick spin, Maelstrom lunged at her with the rod and drove its point into her chest, shoving it several inches in. The crowd gasped. Marcelle staggered back a step, but Maelstrom held on to the blunt end of the rod. Then, he jerked it out and displayed it for everyone to see. With dramatic flair, he yelled each word in a punctuated rhythm. “I … rest … my … case!”

  Marcelle clutched her tunic, feeling the hole and her skin underneath, dry and already sealed. Although pain ripped through her body, there was no blood. His blow caused no permanent damage, but it proved to be the fatal stroke. Maelstrom had won. He and Orion had concocted a brilliant plan. There was no denying it. Yet, the verdict mattered little. Since the dream had lasted so long, it had to end soon.

  As ladies cried and men shouted oaths, Orion pounded his rock on the desk again and again. “Silence! There is no reason to fear! We know how to dispose of a sorceress. When she burns at the stake, all will be set to order.”

  A crash sounded at the window. Several smoking balls flew through a hole, one after the other. As smoke filled the room, sneezing broke out until nearly everyone in the crowd bent over in sneezing fits.

  Maelstrom lunged at Marcelle. She jerked away, leaped over the guardrail, and plunged into the smoke, climbing the stairs between the seats. This had to be Professor Dunwoody’s doing, but where could he be? What escape had he planned?

  When she found the window and the hole, she looked out. Dunwoody stood in a hedge with a sword in hand. “Hurry to the archives,” he whispered. “The guard is no longer there, but it’s the first place they’ll look, so we’ll have to duck into the escape tunnel immediately.” He extended the sword’s hilt through the hole. “Don’t kill too many people.”

  She grabbed the sword and tried to hurry to the exit, but the swarm of coughing and sneezing people funneling down the stairs blocked her way. The smoke began to clear, revealing Maelstrom knocking men and women out of the way as he stormed toward her with a sword in hand.

  Marcelle dashed back to the window, smashed the pane with her boot, and leaped out. With a spin, she slashed at Maelstrom just as he burst through the hole, grazing his thigh and drawing a trickle of blood. Roaring, he swung his blade at her. The edge cut deep into her waist, tearing her tunic. Again no blood spewed, but this time there was no pain.

  She leaped and kicked him in the face with both feet, sending him staggering backwards. She then spun and ran around the palace, sprinted up the steps, and burst through the unguarded rear door, retracing her previous path to the archives. When she arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she found Dunwoody standing at the open door, holding a lantern. “Get in quickly! We must hurry!”

  As soon as she entered, he slapped the door shut and locked it. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her past the ransacked room to the back and opened the panel behind the chair. After she crawled through, she turned and knelt. When Dunwoody appeared, she took the lantern and helped him crawl inside.

  He pulled the panel closed and ran his finger along the edges. “It appears to have sealed properly. We should be safe now.”

  “Have you seen my father?”

  He nodded. “He is well. I advised him to stay out of sight until the chaos settles. I guessed that you would need funds for the army you’re trying to raise, so I asked him to transfer a large sum to a secret account.” He handed her a scrap of paper. “Here is the account number. Memorize it quickly, and I will destroy it.”

  “Good. Excellent.” She read the number—142103—then pushed the scrap back into Dunwoody’s hand. “Do you know where Father is?”

  A loud thud sounded, then a crash. Angry voices burst into the archives room. “Search everywhere! Don’t worry about what you might destroy. Just find her. If she’s not here, post three guards. Make sure they’re expert swordsmen.”

  Dunwoody raised a finger to his lips, his eyes wide in the glow of the lantern.

  Marcelle studied his expression. Not being a warrior, he likely had never faced such danger. Yet, a look of excitement grew on his face. The old teacher seemed to be having the time of his life.

  She turned toward the tunnel. The lantern she had left behind still glowed, and the book and mirror lay next to it unharmed. Apparently no one had discovered this refuge between her visits.

  After a few minutes, the noise ceased. Dunwoody kept the finger in place, still waiting. This was not the time to risk making a single sound. A misplaced step or an inadvertent grunt might give them away. They had to wait for the dust to settle and for the guards to grow less wary.

  Marcelle shifted to her bottom and pulled her knees up close. Normally in situations like this, she would be taking slow, even breaths to quiet her thumping heart, but without a heart or a need to breathe, staying perfectly silent was easy.

&nb
sp; She closed her eyes. Maybe this would be a good time to try to wake up again. Now that her father and Professor Dunwoody were safe, her real mind might be satisfied, and healing wouldn’t be hampered. This imagined adventure was over. It was time to go on with the real adventure, rescuing slaves on Starlight.

  As she concentrated, the blackness of inner thought slowly faded. Light filtered in, then color and contrast. She lay on her back on a bed of leaves and straw. This was the same room where she had confronted Drexel, but now several children sat on the floor. The closest one, a wiry boy of about twelve, carried a sword, though far from expertly.

  With three other children huddled near his feet, the boy’s eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, often pausing at an open door at the far end. Light poured through, along with a breeze that kicked up dust and swirled it in a tiny cyclone.

  Blinking, she lifted a hand and looked at it, though the effort felt like lifting a boulder. Was she awake now? Was this real life? It seemed real. Yet something was missing, something crucial— the embrace of mind and body. A wall still divided thought and response. It seemed as if she were telling a young dog what to do. The dog wanted to obey, but it didn’t understand her commands. She would have to retrain her body, become reattached to it.

  To her right, a bearded man lay on the same bed. She gasped mentally, but her body didn’t respond in kind. She just stared at the familiar face, similar to Adrian’s. Could it be? Yes! Frederick!

  She tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. Only a breath of a whisper emerged, a feeble, trembling, “Frederick?”

  The boy jumped toward her and dropped to his knees. “Marcelle! You talked!”

  She forced a weak smile. “Who … are you?”

  “Orlan, but that’s not important. Adrian’s gone, and I think somebody’s outside who wants to hurt us. An axe is missing.”

  Pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she forced out, “Drexel?”

  “That’s what I think, but I haven’t seen anyone.”

  “He is …” Again she had to push out her words. “Evil.”

  “I know.” He touched her hand. “Do you feel like you can fight?”

  She lifted her arm again and flexed her bicep. It seemed more flaccid than usual, but probably strong enough for the likes of Drexel. “I think so.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” He pushed the sword against her palm. “Adrian told me about you. I’d feel a lot better if you took this.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the hilt. It felt good and right. “What …” She swallowed through her parched throat. “What ails Frederick?”

  “He fell into a deer trap. He bumped his head, and a spike broke his leg. Adrian thinks Drexel pushed him, maybe even whacked him on the head.”

  “He … he knows I am here. … He’s a coward. … We are safe.”

  “Maybe we are, but Zeb was supposed to come back after leading Adrian to the skunk tree. He should’ve gotten here a while ago. The cart he took with him is in sight out back, but no Zeb. I know Drexel pretty well. I’m sure he’d hurt Zeb.”

  “He would.” Marcelle climbed to her knees and looked at Frederick. “Has he moved? Spoken?”

  “A little. I thought he was about to wake up a few minutes ago. He’s close.”

  “Water? Cold water?”

  “We’ve been trying that, but not for a while.” Orlan took four strides to reach the opposite side of the room. He retrieved a bucket, sloshing a bit of water as he hurried back. After setting it down, he dipped his hand in and sprinkled it on Frederick’s forehead.

  “No.” Marcelle touched the bucket’s rim. “All … at once.”

  “But won’t that startle—”

  She firmed her tone. “Do it.”

  “If you say so.” Orlan picked up the bucket and dumped it over Frederick’s face. He jerked up and shook his head hard, slinging water from his hair. “What? Who?”

  Marcelle laid a hand on his shoulder. “Frederick. Calm … yourself.”

  He stared at her, then at Orlan, then all around the room. As the seconds passed, his shocked expression twisted into anger. With a low growl, he muttered, “Drexel!”

  Orlan nodded vigorously. “Adrian said Drexel must have pushed you into the deer trap.”

  “Adrian?” Frederick’s brow shot up. “My brother?”

  “Yes, he rescued you from the trap.”

  Frederick blinked at Marcelle. “You’re … Marcelle?”

  “I … I think so.” She laid a hand on her face. Even the simplest actions seemed as if she were manipulating her body with marionette strings. The separation wouldn’t go away. “I am not … myself. So dizzy. So … dis … dis …”

  “Disoriented?”

  She nodded.

  “Fill me in.” Frederick’s words shot out in quick succession. “What’s going on? Why are you here? Where’s Adrian?”

  “Orlan. Tell him. I have to … lie down.” She lowered her body to the bed. Although the leaves and straw were now cold and wet, it didn’t matter. With her head spinning, she would soon collapse if she didn’t rest.

  Orlan related his experiences with Drexel, then shifted to what he knew of Adrian’s story, including his recent excursion with Regina and Zeb. Marcelle tried to add details about her journey with Adrian, but when blackness dimmed her vision, she had to settle for answering Frederick’s questions, which were many and rapid-fire.

  Finally, he nodded at the huddled children. “Tom, fetch the shovel. That will be my crutch. Ariel, you and Orlan get the cart and collect the animal traps. We’re all going to leave. Marcelle and I need to visit a place that should aid our healing, and we need to find Zeb. We’ll set some traps along the way.”

  “What about Adrian and Regina?” Tom asked. “They won’t know where we went.”

  Frederick mussed Tom’s hair. “Trust Regina. She knows the signals.”

  Marcelle reached for Frederick’s hand and compressed it in her own. “Not sure … I can walk … so dizzy.”

  He returned the clasp. “Don’t worry. We’ll haul you in the cart if we have to.”

  Spreading his arms, Frederick gestured for the children to draw close. When they gathered around, Tom and Ariel each looping an arm around one of his, he whispered, “We’ve had a lot of scary days and nights here, haven’t we?”

  Tom and Ariel nodded. Orlan and the other children just looked on, their faces tense.

  “Well, let’s do the same thing we always do when it gets scary.”

  Tom firmed his jaw and made a fist. “Fight the darkness!”

  Ariel waved an arm as if tossing a gift. “Spread the light!”

  “Exactly!” He wrapped his arms around them and pulled them close. “Sing the songs I taught you, and maybe Drexel will hear us and try to follow.” Grinning, he looked at each child in turn. “Let’s see if we can catch a skunk!”

  Marcelle pushed against the floor, but her arm gave way. She flopped back to the damp bed. Darkness flooded her vision. As her mind swam through a spell of dizziness, she closed her eyes. Garbled voices pecked at her ears, like crows squawking, competing to be heard.

  Finally, one broke through in a soft whisper. “Marcelle? Are you all right?”

  She forced her eyes open. Professor Dunwoody stared at her, his expression worried. She swiveled her head. Frederick and the children were gone. “Where are they?” She blinked. It seemed so easy now to move and speak. The marionette strings had been severed.

  He kept his whisper low. “Where are who?”

  “Never mind.” She blinked rapidly. “I’m fine.”

  “Were you dreaming?”

  She smiled. “I wasn’t then, but I am dreaming now.”

  “You think so?” He touched her cheek with his hand. “Your illness is devastating your body in many ways, probably affecting your mind as well, perhaps taking you to the brink of insanity.”

  “I guess I should expect someone in my dream to think I’m insane.” She
looked at the panel. “Shouldn’t we stay quiet?”

  “Whispers are fine.” He nodded toward the access panel. “The men left and closed the door to the stairway. They are likely guarding the room from the outside.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “First, I want you to explain the special powers you have.”

  She blinked again. “Powers? What are you talking about?”

  “While you slept, I saw images around you—a boy with a sword, a man with a beard, other children. They were like glowing fog, semitransparent and ethereal.”

  Marcelle pointed at herself. “Professor, are you sure I’m the one who’s insane?”

  “What I saw is not insanity, I assure you.” Dunwoody picked up the lantern and slowly rose to his feet. Hunching over to keep his head from bumping against the ceiling, he hobbled farther into the tunnel. “Come with me. We have much to talk about.”

  * * *

  NINE

  * * *

  MARCELLE and Dunwoody stopped at the trunk that bore the eggshells. He reached in, picked one up, and cradled it in his palm. “This might come as a shock to you, but I believe our ancestors arrived here in these eggs, a male and female from Dracon.”

  “Humans from eggs?” Ignoring a new chill, Marcelle touched the shell’s jagged edge. “How is that possible?”

  “I assume it was the only method the dragons knew for safe transport of embryos. My guess is that something terrible happened that made Dracon unfit for human habitation, so in order to save the species, the dragons put harvested embryos in these eggs and brought them here.”

  “You mean Arxad and Magnar.”

  “Yes.” He touched the side of the trunk. “I take it you read the plaque.”

  She nodded. “And I know them personally.”

  “Ah! You will have to relate your exploits. If dragons are cruelly enslaving humans on their planet as we have long believed, it’s good to know that there are two dragons we can count on for help.”