Starflower

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  My mind was a tumult during those months. More than ever, the people of the village avoided me. The village women would not permit Fairbird and me into the fields, and we more often than not lived on whatever I could harvest from the Eldest’s garden. Every day I woke afraid, and when I put down my head to rest at night, I thought I heard someone crying up from the gorge. Sun Eagle, far away and lost, a phantom in the darkness:

  “Can anyone hear me?”

  I would cover my ears and curl into a tight ball upon my pallet, but still his voice would ring in my mind. My father, true to his word, had sent warriors into the forest to search for Sun Eagle. But they had found nothing, not even the other end of the broken rope. He was lost forever. So why did I keep hearing that ghostly cry?

  Then one night, deep in the coldest darkness of winter, it stopped, and I never heard it again. That night I made the signs of passing for my betrothed.

  “May he walk safely through the void beyond the mountains,” I signed. “And may the Songs sing him to life.”

  I could not say exactly what my feelings were at Sun Eagle’s loss. Horror. Guilt. Sorrow, I believe. I scarcely knew him. But I think had our lives been otherwise—had I not been a living curse—I might have made him a good wife.

  Amid all those other feelings, however, there was one even stronger: relief.

  I hated to admit it, but it was true. For now Sun Eagle was gone, I should not marry. And this was best. I knew it could not be long now.

  It happened in late winter just on the verge of spring. The warriors were already beginning to gather to prepare for the spring sacrifices before marching off to war. It was the night before they set out on this long pilgrimage to make their blood offerings that we heard the sounds.

  Just before sunrise, when the world was still dark but edged with the first gleams of light, I was startled from a restless sleep by frenzied animal screams. It was as though some creature was being torn apart. And rising with the screams of that luckless prey were hideous snarls. I had heard hunting dogs make similar noises, but never like this. I had even heard wolves calling in the night, and on one occasion, the haunting cry of a panther.

  But this was unnatural. It was as loud as thunder, and it shook the earth! Whatever made that cry was a monster so great that even the ancient giants trembled in their stone sleep.

  The screams of the first animal died, but then another took up its place. Something was among the cattle in one of the far fields, I realized. Something was among the cattle, going through them, slaughtering. Something vast, something the likes of which we had never seen before.

  Fairbird lay beside me, her hands over her ears, her mouth open in a silent scream. I gathered her to me, and she, in her terror, pressed her face to my shoulder and bit down upon my gown. Her little teeth tore down to my skin, but I did not move her. I held her close and stroked her back but could not shield her from those unnatural sounds. They carried into the center of our spirits, ravishing all sense of safety or hope.

  I knew then with absolute certainty: The Beast was come down from the mountains.

  It seemed like hours later before I heard word. My father and his most trusted men ventured out to the far fields. There they found the Eldest’s great herd slaughtered. Not a cow was left alive. Not even those calves had been spared that had been isolated in preparation for the spring sacrifices.

  The Eldest was stern and seemingly unafraid when he marched with his men back into the village and announced to his people what had transpired. Everyone had heard the evil sounds. Everyone knew that this could be no natural work, even those of us who had not witnessed the carnage firsthand. No pack of wolves, no matter how large or how vicious, could have made the sounds that had shattered the morning only a few hours ago.

  “It is the work of some devil,” declared my father, yet his voice did not shake as he spoke. The sun shone down upon his tired face and made him look once more the strong and noble leader he had always been to his people, a man who would serve the needs of the nation before considering his own.

  In all but one point.

  I shivered and dared not draw near the crowd but remained out of sight, Fairbird held tightly by the hand. Frostbite had followed us, cringing, her tail tucked. She too was frightened by what she had heard. She was my loyal shadow, however, and would not be left behind.

  “It is the work of some devil,” I heard my father say again. “But do not fear. We shall hunt it down! We shall stop this monster before the day is through!”

  I watched how the people looked at each other; I saw the disbelief in their eyes. They knew this was not the truth. They knew, as did the Panther Master, though for the moment he refused to admit it.

  Suddenly a deep laugh rumbled through the crowd. I watched as people parted, backing away nervously, clinging to each other, men and women, young and old. And through the gap they made, I saw Wolf Tongue.

  He strode down the middle of the village, his long wolfskin heavy about his shoulders. He laughed as he came, a cruel, derisive laugh, right in the face of his Eldest. The Panther Master stood like a rock, and I saw the spark of fire in his eyes. I knew, however, that he would not dare strike the High Priest. Even the Eldest may not strike a holy man, especially not one so favored by the Beast.

  Wolf Tongue stood before his Eldest, still laughing. When at last he spoke, his voice was low, but silence held the village in such a grip that I knew we all heard every word he said.

  “Do not think you can thwart the will of the Beast,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen before. So have you. Have you forgotten the days of your grandfather already? Have you forgotten his fate when he too thought to keep from the Beast his due?”

  He turned suddenly to the village, his arms outspread. The wolfskin fell back to reveal his naked torso beneath, scarred from many battles. He was a big man, muscular and awful in his history of bloodshed during the many long years he had served his god. I realized then, for the first time, how old Wolf Tongue must be. For he had always been the Beast’s High Priest, as long as anyone could remember. Yet his body was that of a warrior in his prime, and his face was both young and old. What an unnatural life he must lead in his close communion with the hideous divine.

  “Do not forget!” he cried out to all of us. His voice, like the awful sounds we had heard that morning, seemed to shake the village to its foundations. “Do not forget the horror loosed upon your grandsires when they failed to heed my warning! They called your servant a liar and refused to satisfy the Beast’s demands. They refused to give him the woman he required of them. But she belonged, by rights, to your god! Who among you remembers the screams? Who among you remembers the slaughter? I remember as though it were yesterday. I remember mothers wailing, children lying in pools of blood, warriors choking on their own gore. I remember your elder slain, mauled beyond recognition! You remember, do you not, Panther Master?”

  He turned once more to my father, and the proud Panther Master shrank under his gaze. Wolf Tongue’s words were painting that dark night of long ago across his memory.

  “You were there,” said Wolf Tongue. “You were a small child, and you saw the death of your grandfather. You remember.”

  He did. I could see how my father crumpled beneath those memories, melting from the powerful warrior into that small, frightened child witnessing things innocent eyes should never be made to see.

  “Give the Beast what he asks!” Wolf Tongue’s gaze swept out across the village. “Give the Beast what he asks!”

  “Yes,” muttered one man. “Give him what he asks.” Then another took up the sound. Soon the men were shouting, and even the women raised fists in the air in agreement. “Give the Beast what he asks!” all cried.

  My father was as silent as a woman before them.

  Wolf Tongue turned suddenly, and his gaze fixed upon me where I hid. I realized he had known where I was all along. I gasped and drew back into the shadows of the outer buildings, but he was striding toward me in an instan
t. Frostbite yelped and fled before me up the hill. Though I tried to follow, I could not make my feet move. The High Priest’s hand came down upon my shoulder.

  The next thing I knew, he had taken Fairbird. I fell to my knees as she was pulled from my arms, and watched as Wolf Tongue flung my sister across his shoulder and strode back to the crowd. Her eyes and mouth were wide with terror, and her tiny hands reached back for me. She seemed so far away, miles and miles beyond my help.

  Oh, Fairbird!

  Holding her in his arms, Wolf Tongue strode to the middle of the crowd. He raised one hand, and instant silence fell. Then he spoke, this time in a voice so soft, so gentle, I would have thought he soothed his own children. It was like pure honey in its sweetness, and for a moment, even my heart calmed.

  “My only thought,” he said, “is to protect you. Helpless as you are before the wrath of the Beast, I long to stand between you, to give you shelter from the storm of his fury. But how can I?” he persisted. “How can I, if you resist me so? The Beast has made his will known. If you will not give him the blood he requires, he will take it from you in other ways! Today, livestock. Tomorrow, your children!”

  Women gasped and clutched their little ones. Men brandished spears and stone knives, shouting battle cries. But those who had seen the carnage in the field knew there could be no fighting this enemy. The cry was taken up again, “Give the Beast what he asks!”

  “The Eldest has two daughters!” cried the High Priest. “One belongs to the Beast by law!” He raised my sister, struggling uselessly in his grasp, high above his head. And the Eldest, standing behind Wolf Tongue, hid his face in his hand.

  In that moment, I thought I hated my father.

  Teeth grinding, my fingers like claws, I tore into the crowd. None, not even the largest men, dared stand in my way. I tore and kicked and even bit as needed until I broke through them all. I leapt at Wolf Tongue with the fury of a wildcat, clawing at his bare chest in my efforts to reach my sister. But he held her out of my reach. Leaning forward, he whispered so that only I could hear:

  “Will you spit in my eye again, lovely one?”

  If only I had been born a man! If only I’d had a spear in my hand at that moment! How different would be the story I tell you now!

  But I had no weapon. I had not even a voice. I had only my decision, made long ago on the dark night my sister was born.

  My eyes spoke everything I had to say. Wolf Tongue understood. His own eyes flared with triumph and . . . hunger, I thought.

  I took a step back. I held out my arms. Wolf Tongue placed my sobbing sister in my grasp, and I hugged her as she wept into my neck. Then I walked slowly away from the crowd. I spared a single glance for my father, but he did not look up. He knew the choice had been made. He knew, as did all the people of Redclay. They parted, letting me through, and I walked between them as I carried my sister back up the hill to the Eldest’s House.

  Behind me, I heard Wolf Tongue shouting orders to the village. “Prepare the procession. Make ready the rites. We journey tomorrow to the Place of the Teeth!”

  7

  EANRIN

  EVERY STEP WAS A BATTLE OF WILLS. He may as well have walked on burning coals. But there was no fire here, no heat; only darkness on all sides.

  Except, not complete darkness. Eanrin’s hand trembled as it clutched the handle of Asha lantern. It was unbelievable yet undeniable. He, the Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus, held the Light of Sir Akilun. The glow that lit the many Houses of Lights in the Near World of long ago, before Hri Sora burned those houses to the ground and banished the lights, leaving shadows in the wake of her flames.

  And following that destruction, before rebuilding could begin, Akilun himself had journeyed into Death’s realm and never returned.

  Eanrin had assumed, along with all the Faerie folk, that Asha had gone out when Akilun died. But here it was. He tried to tell himself he was mistaken; it must be some other lamp. After all, he had never seen Asha with his own eyes. Could this not be a replica?

  Might it not, rather than lighting his way out of darkness, direct him only into deeper death?

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, Eanrin cursed himself for thinking it. No matter how many blasphemous lies he might try to tell himself, he could not deny what he absolutely knew in the depths of his heart. The lantern was real. And the Path it showed him led to safety.

  The face of the Hound flashed before his eyes.

  “You fool,” he whispered, his mind crying out against his heart. “You fool, Eanrin! You have given in. You’ve accepted his way and his help. He will devour your soul at last.”

  But his heart responded with a shrug. After all, it was follow the light or remain in blindness. It was accept the aid of the Hound or succumb to the will of the Dragon. Was there a choice in the end?

  “I should never have rescued Imraldera,” he said. “I should have left her by the River and gone my own way. If I had, I would never have been made to look into the face of Death. At least, not for many generations to come.”

  Again he cursed and closed his eyes, wishing he could block the lantern’s light. But it glowed down into the farthest reaches of his mind, separating truth from lies.

  “I’m glad I saved her. I’m glad I’ve been brought to this place.”

  The light flared brighter still. Eanrin opened his eyes hesitantly, afraid of the sudden brilliance. But it was gentle even in its power, and he found that he could bear to look upon it. He could also now get some sense of where he stood. A tunnel led as far as he could see both before and behind. His feet were turned up an incline, his back to a gaping descent. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that not many paces behind him the Dark Water still waited.

  Shuddering, he faced forward and squared his shoulders. As he went, his gaze shifted more and more often to look at Asha, to study the wonder that he held.

  It was silver and delicate, made by craftsmen of such skill, Eanrin could not begin to guess who they were. Surely not the goblins, even before they forsook their craft. Nor dwarves, for its beauty was of a different kind than their work. No one he knew in all of Faerie could have done something like this. But still more amazing to his eyes was the light it held.

  It was as though one of the moon’s own children had come down from the heavens to dwell inside. White as purity, but full of all the colors of all the worlds, it warmed and it cooled, refreshing the spirit. When he breathed, Eanrin took in the scents of spring, of summer, of autumn and winter together, pursuing their ageless, circular dance.

  As he looked at it, Eanrin knew that what he had seen on the edge of the Dark Water was no dream.

  Guilt weighed upon him. How, in his arrogance, could he have been so foolish? How could he have believed that the work of the Dragon only affected other people? Wicked people who deserved their fate if they were willing to listen to those lies. He breathed a long sigh, remembering the scales he had seen at his feet, where they had fallen from his own face. How close had he been to becoming one of the Dragon’s brood?

  Gazing at the light, Eanrin felt his heart settling into a steady beat. “My life will never be the same,” he whispered. “I have forsaken the Dragon. So I must be devoured—”

  “Hallo in the dark! Be you living or dead?”

  In that moment, Eanrin realized what miracles might occur in these deep places of the world. For, when he heard Glomar’s voice ringing in the darkness, he felt a surge of good feeling, of camaraderie, of brotherly affection and even . . . yes, even love. It was a dizzying sensation! He hollered back:

  “Lumé’s crown and scepter! I never thought I’d see the day when your voice would give me joy!”

  There was a long pause. Then, “Dragon-eaten vapors. For a moment, I thought that was real. Ah well . . .”

  “No! Glomar!” Eanrin shouted. “Glomar, you blundering oaf of a badger-man, stay where you are!”

  “That was more like. Is that you there, cat?”

  Eanrin sprang forw
ard, little caring in that moment if he followed the Path of the lantern or not. His longing for a familiar face, a good old Rudioban face, beat all other concerns into nothing. Asha shone upon the startled features of the guard, who had just time to open his eyes wide and exclaim, “What by all the Dragon’s brood is—” before Eanrin clasped him in glad embrace.

  “You dirt-nosing lug!” he exclaimed, slapping the guard repeatedly upon the shoulders. “Fancy meeting you in these foul parts! To what depths have the mighty plummeted, eh?”

  Glomar growled and pushed the poet away. “The darkness has made you mad. Or madder than you were.”

  “Perhaps,” said the poet, stepping back and smiling. Asha swung gently in his hand, spreading its glow up and down the long tunnel. “Or perhaps it is here that I have finally seen the light.”

  “Little enough light, if any,” said the badger. His eyes squinted as though he were peering through heavy murk. “I can hardly see my hand before my face in this tomb. It’s a good thing I depend on my nose rather than my eyes, or I’d be lost indeed.”

  Eanrin blinked, and his smile drooped into a frown. “Are you daft, Glomar?”

  Glomar snorted. “I’ve no time for this. Follow me if you’d like; I’m not opposed to your company in this place, but I am opposed to your wicked tongue. Keep it behind your teeth, and perhaps we’ll find our way out of here.” He moved heavily past Eanrin, stumping several steps down the long incline.

  “Lumé’s crown!” Eanrin darted out a hand to catch the captain by his shoulder. “Have you gone blind?”

  “Blind? I’m a badger! Blindness makes no difference to me.”

  Eanrin began to tremble. Asha’s light shivered in his grasp. “Can you not see the lantern, then?” he asked.

  “What lantern?”

  So perhaps Eanrin had gone mad. Visions of dragons and black lakes and hounds! He gazed from Glomar’s stern face to the silver light and back again and saw that Glomar, indeed, had no perception of what Eanrin held.