StarCrossed

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  The prince darted a glance, full of meaning, toward Lyll, then back to me. “I have a plan for them,” he said. “It will require the assistance of the Lady Merista, when she’s feeling up to it.”

  Meri looked alarmed, but nodded. “Yes, Your Highness,” she said.

  Lyll cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it!”

  “You can’t forbid me, Mother, I’m an adult now,” Meri said reasonably, and all of us were shocked to silence.

  Finally Antoch broke into a giant laugh that shook the room. “That’s my girl.” He leaned down and patted me on the head in an affectionate way I kind of loved him for. “Come now, ladies, Highness. Give the girl some room to rest.” He ushered Lady Lyll and the prince toward the door, but Meri lingered.

  “I’ll stay with Celyn,” she said. She’d had by far a worse day than mine, but here she was, moving smoothly through the room with a calm confidence that was oddly familiar.

  As they filed out, Wierolf bent down to my level, though I saw him wincing, and whispered something in my ear. “If you were my sister, I’d have taken better care of you.”

  Meri stood beside the bed and poured me a shallow draught of warmed-over wine. Her pale face was whipped with red, her own fingertips spotted white — I’d forgotten she’d been out in the snow for as long as I had — and her wrists were raw from the silver chains.

  “Was he really your brother?” she asked.

  I took the wine she offered. “Say he’s very like me, and I swear by Marau I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

  She smiled a little, holding the goblet to my lips, then stood back and looked at me gravely. “Thank you,” she said, almost whispering.

  “Sweet little Meri.” My voice sounded thick and — silly, and after a second I couldn’t remember what I’d said. “Sly little Meri — you drugged me?”

  “Poppy,” she said, a note of quiet triumph in her voice. “Prince Wierolf said we’d have to trick you into taking it.”

  For a moment I couldn’t fix her in my vision, and then I was too tired to try. I felt something thick and heavy at the end of my hand bounce softly against the bed, and then the warmth of Meri climb ing into bed behind me. Warm arms wrapped around my body, legs tucked behind my own. A soft voice breathed against my ear, “Good night, Celyn.”

  I slept through that night, and they tried to keep me in bed the next morning too, but the poppy only brought me nightmares of snow and knives and men with blood in their beards. Besides, there was too much going on. I eased myself out of the bed, wincing as I rediscovered every one of my injuries. My hand hurt obscenely — burning and throbbing, and I gave it about ten seconds before I was seeking out a knife to strip the wretched bandages off again.

  The door cracked open, and I started guiltily, spinning round to find the prince standing in Meri’s doorway.

  “Wierolf! I’m half naked!” My voice sounded rusty. I gave a cough.

  “Fair’s fair,” he said cheerfully. “Leave that alone or it will never heal.” He strode across the room and threw open the lid to the clothes chest. He pulled out an ivory damask robe of Meri’s and helped me slip my bulky arm through the sleeve.

  “Have you eaten? Here —” He produced a roll from inside his own jerkin. It was flecked with wooly fluff.

  “Whose clothes are those?”

  Wierolf paused a moment to display a dun-brown coat and buckskin breeches. “Do you approve? It turns out there’s a man-at-arms here who is very nearly of royal stature himself.”

  “Berdal.”

  The prince snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. A good man.”

  Prince Wierolf’s man. “Yesterday, in the courtyard —”

  “Oh, yes. Everyone’s talking about how Celyn just-a-maid was plucked from the snow by the gallant prince of Hanival. He’s quite the hero, I understand.”

  “No, I mean —” I sounded impatient. “Why did you come back?”

  He lowered himself to the window seat. “Why did you jump off the bailey? We’re not runners, Digger, neither of us. The work was here. The danger was here.”

  “The Inquisitor is here,” I added pointedly.

  “Ah, yes. Your reunion with your brother sounded very . . . exciting.”

  I gave a snort. “Meri’s kernja-velde was ruined.”

  “Oh, come now. I’m sure this is one birthday she won’t soon forget.”

  “No, and she’ll stop thanking me eventually too,” I said. “I really should travel more — I spread such good fortune wherever I go.”

  “That’s Tiboran’s girl,” he said, grinning and rumpling my hair. Nobs.

  Instead of blasting us from the mountain and grinding us to dust, the commander of the Green Army agreed to meet with the Nemair and discuss terms by which we might all achieve a peaceable outcome to this situation. This would be the rebels’ opportunity to present their documented grievances and demands to Bardolph’s representative. I knew how much hope Lady Lyll had for this meeting, and I was concerned. I didn’t believe Werne would listen, much less negotiate.

  We gathered inside the east tower, overlooking the courtyard and the valley. We didn’t have the Green Army’s numbers, but we had the advantage of height — particularly Wierolf’s. They’d found him a set of clothes that more or less fit, a nob’s suit, all velvet and fur and damask, but it was Wierolf himself that made them look regal. All the Bryn Shaer Sarists were there — Wellyth, Sposa, Eptin Cwalo, and the Cardom, who were looking very pleased with themselves. And Meri, dressed in sober gray, her hair braided round her head and tucked beneath a caul, looking every inch Nemair: the grown-up, in de pen dent daughter of this house, though she’d had rather a different coming-of-age than anyone had planned. I saw that she’d left her necklaces off this morning.

  Lyll and Antoch arrived last, leading with them a party I scarcely recognized, without their ragged bandits’ clothes. Reynart stepped forward, absolutely splendid in brilliant violet robes, a silver star blazing at the breast, his longish hair billowing. He gave me a bow, and reached out for my good hand. A thrill went through me as my fingertips touched his, and his hand blazed up in a flash of glittering light. Following behind Reynart were Stagne, Kespa the healer, the Giant and his little daughter, even the dog — all in purple (the dog wore an improb able star-embroidered kerchief round its thick neck). They were twenty-one strong including Meri, who turned back the sleeves on her gown to reveal their purple silk lining. Suddenly, I was fiercely proud of her.

  Were these all the wizards in Llyvraneth? Reynart had told me they weren’t very strong without power like Meri’s, Channeling the magic so the Casters could shape it into some useful form. The brief display I’d seen, of Meri and Stagne playing with light and fire, hadn’t seemed that threatening — but Werne might think otherwise. Any magic provoked him, even my slight trace, and I doubted that the Confessors, much less the average Green Army soldier, had even a fraction of Reynart’s understanding of Sar’s gifts.

  “It’s almost midday,” the prince said cheerfully. “Let’s see if they’ve sent their men. Lady Nemair, if you’ll lead the way?”

  The thirty-odd of us climbed to the top of the tower. Below us, the two dozen liveried Nemair guards — including Berdal — were conspicuously stationed throughout the courtyard and armed with firearms instead of pikes. Among them, wearing makeshift black or gray sashes, were the men Berdal and Lord Antoch had recruited. Overnight, somehow, they had pulled out the artillery, pointing the cannon muzzles down on the ridge below, so it looked like we might well be hiding a much greater force.

  I looked at the prince, tall and fierce behind those cannon, the Sarists a wall of violet behind him, the black-and-silver Nemair guards like a strong chain around the courtyard, and my pulse quickened. Lyll and Wierolf knew how to bluff.

  The Nemair guards threw open the siege gates, their brisk boots making the first prints in the fresh snow. Waiting outside on the ledge stood a knot of soldiers and horsemen in green, Werne like a dark flame at their h
eart.

  Lady Lyll’s impassive face was turned down upon the soldiers marching on her home. The plan had changed, I realized — if the Nemair were up here, not down in the courtyard below, they must not be planning to parley after all.

  Bardolph’s men rode in, and a soldier riding beside Werne — their commander, I’d gathered, a man called Llars — looked around the courtyard, his expression growing dark. He leaned over in the saddle to speak to the Inquisitor.

  Werne looked up at us, contempt briefly flashing across his composed face. “Celys commands us to be merciful in our correction of Her wayward children,” he said. “But correct them we must. Residents of Bryn Shaer, the Goddess gives you this one chance to deliver unto Her servants the woman Merista Nemair and her waiting woman, called Celyn, and the rest of you will be spared. If you refuse, Celys’s justice will be swift and —”

  “I think we’ve heard enough.” Wierolf’s voice was soft, but it carried, halting Werne mid-sentence. Clearly not used to being interrupted, he just stared.

  “Do you know who I am?” the prince asked, almost conversationally.

  Werne squinted up at him. “The Holy Church does not recognize you or your authority in these proceedings!”

  “Well, what about the army?”

  “Your Highness,” the commander said. He sounded grudging, as if he was trained to respect those who outranked him, and yet as a soldier in the king’s army, he wasn’t supposed to acknowledge Wierolf’s exis tence or position.

  “Good. Are you authorized to speak on behalf of Bardolph?”

  Llars paused, and his men grew restless. The Nemair guard eased forward gently, almost imperceptibly. Lyll and Antoch, flanking Wierolf, watched the commander become more uneasy.

  At last he said, “No.”

  Lyll was expressionless. They never meant to parley, then. The rebels’ document would have been useless.

  “I speak for the Goddess!” Werne said. “And I demand you produce the two heretics before we destroy you!” He kicked his mule forward, but Llars grabbed its reins.

  “But you don’t speak for this army,” the commander said harshly. “Keep to your own purview, your Grace.” Werne turned to him, a look of stunted hatred on his face.

  “Gentlemen, please.” Wierolf stepped forward, leaning lightly on the tower wall. “Your quarrel with me is so much more entertaining. Now. Let’s discuss the situation in which we find ourselves. These good people” — he gestured toward Lady Lyll and her rebels — “came prepared for a civilized and productive negotiation, but as no one here seems able to represent His Majesty’s views in this matter, you’ll simply have to convey a message on our behalf instead. I presume you are authorized to do that.”

  Below the tower wall, Wierolf made a small movement with one arm, invisible to the men on the field below. Reynart stepped forward — with Meri, who slipped into place beside the prince and gripped the battlement with her hands.

  “Of course,” Llars said, but Werne burst forward.

  “I will speak for His Majesty!” he cried. “I will hear whatever outrageous claims —”

  “Good,” interrupted Wierolf. “The message is this.”

  And before I could blink, Reynart had thrown back his hand, and a ball of flame burst into the snow at Werne’s feet. His mule reared up, spilling him to the ground. The soldiers scattered back, and I even saw a few of the Nemair men flinch. I had flinched myself. It happened so fast, so impossibly fast. Wierolf gave another nearly imperceptible nod, and Reynart flung his spread fingers toward the soldiers on the ridge.

  A wagon exploded.

  Then a tent.

  A tree.

  Someone screamed. A startled volley of arrows scattered into the air, falling to cinders, one by one. Below us, smoke and flame billowed up from the burning wagon, and another burst of magic blazed through the camp, ripping through tents, incinerating all but two of the remaining wagons. Horses and soldiers screamed, as Werne shrilled out from the ground, “Attack! Attack!” But the Green Army was in disarray, the men scattered and panicked, their supplies destroyed. Nobody was going to attack us anytime soon.

  Meri stood, a picture of serenity, but she held fast to the stones and she was breathing hard. Magic streamed up all around her, bathing her in light. That kind of power came from our Meri?

  Abruptly Wierolf put up his hand. Ribbons of red filled the sky from the skeleton of the ruined tree. Reynart eased smoothly back, just as the other Sarists stepped forward, forming a sort of guard around the prince. They linked their hands — a gesture that now seemed dangerous.

  Llars was still struggling to calm his horse, which danced ner vously around a patch of smoldering black on the white field of Bryn Shaer’s courtyard. Werne had taken refuge below a stone trough, one green-clad arm flung up to protect his head, and a soldier reached down to pull him out.

  Wierolf’s face was set, but his voice rang out loudly. “Go back and tell your king that Prince Wierolf of Hanival is coming to Gerse. And I have a new weapon.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Green Army limped away from Bryn Shaer that day. Werne sent a messenger to us with one parting blow: a Writ of Expulsion, damning all the denizens of Bryn Shaer for heresy. Lady Lyll looked proud of it.

  “What will we do now?” I asked her. She squeezed my arm and gave me a broad grin.

  “Now we hold Meri’s kernja-velde!”

  It was not so simple as that, of course. Meri slept for two full days after her contribution to the battle on the tower, and when she woke, her magic was so weak and faint that even I couldn’t see it. Reynart and Kespa assured us that this was to be expected, and that she would recover fully with rest and good food. But Meri fretted and Lady Lyll fussed, until Antoch brought in Stagne to separate them, and after that Meri’s smile made more frequent appearances, and the sparkle she gave off may not have been magic alone.

  As for Wierolf’s brazen debut on the Llyvrin political scene, there was much to discuss, and debate, and dissect about what had just occurred, and what consequences might follow. The Sarists could not go to war immediately, of course; despite Wierolf’s brashness and Lady Lyll’s efforts to prepare for this eventuality, the plain fact was that these new rebels weren’t ready. Even with the men Berdal had collected, the Nemair had nothing like an army, and although they had coaxed support from Corlesanne and Varenzia, those nations were unlikely to commit troops until their Llyvrin allies had some of their own. The prince felt he could count on assistance from a number of other key houses, but these names sometimes drew protest from Sposa or Lady Cardom or even the Nemair — until Wierolf had to give them what I was coming to call the Royal Eye, and declare, in his easy voice, that a particular matter was settled.

  There was no question who was the leader here, and it was strange to watch, because it had seemed to me that no one could be more formidable than Lady Lyll. But of course Lyll had not done all this for her own benefit. It was always on behalf of a world with Wierolf on the throne. Some strange alignment of the moons had brought him here at this time, and it would be interesting to see how things shook out in truth. Would Wierolf be the leader these peoples’ dreams had set him up to be? Or would he be his own man? I touched the little wooden sun lion he had given me, and wondered.

  Reynart and his band joined these talks as well, to discuss how the prince’s new weapon might best be wielded. Lady Lyll wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her daughter becoming a permanent part of Wierolf’s army of mages, but Meri was adamant.

  “They need me,” she kept saying. “And I don’t know why we’re having this discussion anyway. If I were a boy, you’d expect me to join the army!”

  Lyll sat back, her lips pressed closed, and looked hard at Meri, as if she might never see her again — or as if she were really seeing her for the first time. “Yes,” she finally said. “But I wouldn’t like it.”

  Meri just snuggled up into Lyll’s arms until her mother closed her eyes and rested her chin on Meri
’s dark head. Watching them, I felt a strange tightness in my chest, and I pulled away, feeling out of place and uncertain.

  Wierolf spotted me hiding behind a column. He strode over, seeming lanky and comfortable in his new role.

  “You look like you own the place,” I said. “Maybe you should make Bryn Shaer your seat.”

  “After all the work the Nemair have put in? Hardly! No,” he said, his grin vanishing. “I have another palace in mind. Come with us, Digger. You know you’re welcome.”

  “And what would I do in an army?”

  He burst out laughing. “I don’t know, mount daring missions behind enemy lines, maybe? I think we could find a place for you.” He touched my shoulder. “You have medical experience; you could work in the field hospitals. I can think of worse people to tend the wounded.”

  I looked at my bandaged hand. What would I be left with when my injuries healed? Didn’t surgeons need ten good fingers? Didn’t thieves? “No,” I said. “I don’t want to always wonder if the next patient I see will be you. Now that I know you, I kind of like you.”

  “Well, I’m glad we have that established,” he said. “Don’t worry. I plan to be around to antagonize you for a long while to come.” He lifted me off the ground by the shoulders and kissed the top of my head.

  “Gods!” I cried, pulling away. “Lady Lyll has got to find you a woman, Your Highness.”

  He grinned and darted a jab at me, which I blocked smoothly. And I took his ring again, because I could. He could have it back later. Maybe.

  Antoch was the only one who seemed to share my sense of being unmoored. I’d find him sitting at the council table long after everyone else had left, staring at the maps but not quite seeing them. One evening I finally gathered up my nerve and went to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said — wanting to elaborate, but not quite sure how to say every thing I was feeling. That I was sorry not only for my role, but for what Daul had done, who he had been . . . things I wasn’t remotely responsible for, but felt bad about anyway.