Third Starlighter (Tales of Starlight)

by Bryan Davis

  His hand still raised, Leo stepped down to the floor level. As the people gasped, Philip withered like a plum drying into a prune. Soon, he was little more than a skeleton with sagging skin.

  Leo grasped Philip’s wrist and hoisted him to his feet. The poor man wobbled in place, his eyes bugging out and his clothes sliding down his emaciated frame.

  Holding Philip steady, Leo breathed on him, speaking into the flow. “I grant you mercy.” Slowly, Philip’s body filled out until he appeared as he had before, shaky, but restored.

  Leo patted him on the back. “As you can see, this is a man of noble character. I am unable to use my ability on a wielder of dark arts.”

  Philip nodded. “You are right. I am a man of noble character. That’s why I have to do this.” With a lightning fast sweep of his arm, Philip stabbed Leo in the chest, then ran toward the door.

  Holding a hand against the bleeding wound, Leo thrust out an arm as if throwing something. Philip tripped and fell headlong, sliding on the carpet until he stopped near the bench where he and Marcelle had sat. Again he withered, this time more quickly. While the audience looked on in stunned silence, his flesh crumbled to dust and streamed toward Leo in a swirling ribbon of sparkling light. When it struck his chest, the flow of blood stopped, and his frame swelled. Soon, all that remained of Philip was a pile of clothes with skeletal hands and feet protruding from the sleeves and trousers.

  Leo jerked out the knife and glared at it. “I am thankful to the Creator that I could use his flesh to patch my own.” He slung the knife to the carpet. “I trust that this demonstration has been sufficient to enhance your confidence in me.”

  While the crowd applauded, this time with nervous hands, Marcelle searched again for her father. He was nowhere in sight. She backed away in the direction she had come. This Maelstrom person was trouble, probably more than she could handle with just a sword.

  When she reached the corridor, she turned and ran. If Maelstrom had his eye on her, he had to suspect her of sorcery, probably because of her appearance. But how long could she stay away from him while trying to gather an army, especially considering the odd absence of officers? How could she look for her father again without risking another meeting with Mr. Maelstrom?

  She stopped at the rear entrance, just out of Gregor’s view. Could anyone face Maelstrom? If he was so power hungry, why wasn’t he king by now? And why would he be here in Mesolantrum instead of on the throne? He must have a weakness that kept him from assuming the throne, but what might it be? Who would know? One of the Tarks?

  Turning in place, she surveyed her options. Maelstrom knew where she lived, so searching for Father there wasn’t feasible. Going back toward the commons courtroom might be suicide. Running out of the palace wouldn’t solve anything; all the answers were within its walls.

  She faced away from the exit. Straight ahead lay a corridor leading to the palace’s main offices, weapons cache, ballroom, and a stairway down to the archives.

  She marched ahead. The archives were the best option. Old Professor Dunwoody knew just about everything about everyone in the kingdom. Maybe he could reveal Maelstrom’s secrets.

  As she strode through the corridor, she glanced at the framed paintings on each side, portraits of past governors of Mesolantrum. They started with Theodore Blake, the ruler of the region about four hundred years ago. Before that, the history books said that Mesolantrum was just a wilderness, so Blake was the first governor, a balding man with a thick mustache and piercing brown eyes. Quickening her pace, she allowed the rest of the parade of portraits to fly by until she neared the end of the corridor where Orion’s portrait hung across from Prescott’s. Orion hadn’t wasted any time in getting his proud mug preserved in oil on canvas.

  After passing the massive ballroom on her left, she turned right on the shiny marble floor and crossed the front foyer, the location of the faux battle with Jason. Although it now seemed like weeks ago, the test of skills took place only … three days earlier?

  She shook her head. Traveling through a portal between worlds had skewed her sense of time, especially considering the fact that the length of a day on Starlight didn’t quite match that of Major Four.

  After passing a statue of Prescott’s father, Marcelle entered a dark, narrow corridor. With every step, the surroundings dimmed, washing away the side doors leading to some offices no longer in use. Finally, the corridor ended at a barely visible wooden door. As she reached for the knob, a clatter of footsteps sounded behind her, then a deep voice.

  “You check the weapons cache, and you search the ballroom. I will look in the business office.”

  A palace guard ran into the entry foyer and turned toward the ballroom, away from Marcelle. Maelstrom strode behind him and headed straight toward her, his arms pumping and his fists clenched.

  She crouched low. If he was going to the business office, he would turn again before reaching her corridor, that is, if he didn’t see her first.

  He stopped at the entrance to the corridor and peered in. Blinking, he took a step and halted again, apparently waiting for his vision to adjust. A catlike purr rumbled with his words as he called out, “Is someone here?”

  * * *

  THREE

  * * *

  MARCELLE sat on the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest, closing her eyes and hiding her face between her arms. She couldn’t afford to look. The light behind Maelstrom might reflect in her eyes.

  Gripping the hilt of her sword, she listened for the sound of her heartbeat, but only silence reached her ears. Normally, her heart would be racing, and she would have to hold her breath. At a time like this, being semiphysical had its advantages. She could hide here indefinitely without making the slightest sound.

  As she concentrated on staying perfectly quiet, a nagging thought returned. Maybe this was all a dream. The courtroom meeting seemed surreal, especially Philip’s execution. In what reality could someone like Maelstrom exist? Of course, Cassabrie was powerful beyond all reason, but did Starlighters have such destructive abilities?

  Again she concentrated on trying to wake up, but the sense of Maelstrom’s looming presence grew. Was he drawing closer? If so, maybe he chose a slow approach, concerned that she carried a sword. After all, only a fool would chase a well-armed opponent into a dark room. If he really believed her to be a sorceress, he likely thought she could best him in her domain. Still, she couldn’t afford a glance. Giving her position away could be fatal. She would have to rely on sensing his approach.

  As she trained her ears on her surroundings, an image of Maelstrom came to mind, stalking toward her with his dagger drawn, now about fifteen paces away. He took a furtive step. Something squeaked. Boot leather? Or was her mind continuing to manifest the dream, making it come to life in all her senses?

  She pushed her thoughts toward reality once more. Might Adrian still be carrying her unconscious body? Was he still in that marshy area?

  The image of Maelstrom melted away, replaced by a crude log cabin in the midst of a dense forest. Drexel stood near the front door, surrounded by children. Her vision blurred and swayed, as if she were walking toward him in a drunken stupor.

  When she arrived within reach, Drexel bowed, then looked away. “Marcelle appears to be quite ill.”

  Someone shouted, “Captain Drexel is here!”

  Marcelle opened her eyes and peeked over her arm. Maelstrom loomed within three steps, his dagger in hand. He spun in place and marched toward the entry foyer. “Where is he?”

  “Out here!” A short pause ensued. “At least he was here a moment ago.”

  Marcelle rose to her feet, opened the door to the archives stairwell, and slid inside. Laying her palm on the door, she pulled the knob, turning it to make sure it latched without a sound. Now in complete darkness, she felt for a locking bolt, but only smooth wood met her fingers.

  She probed for a switch on the wall but found nothing. Since so few of the upper crust journeyed to the archives, no ext
ane channels had been installed here. Anyone descending these stairs would know to bring a lantern.

  With a hand touching each side of the narrow stairway, she tiptoed down the old steps, cringing at every squeak. The only time she ever visited here was during a school trip at the age of ten. Professor Dunwoody, her teacher before he was transferred to the archives, hoped to explain the importance of historical records, but since he included other palace offices in the tour, they had stayed in the archives only a few minutes. Her lone memory was how dark and scary it seemed, even with a lantern.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, something blocked her way. She found a knob, turned it, and pushed a much heavier door than the one above. It opened into a chamber less than half the size of the royal dining room, maybe twenty feet in length and width. A row of dim lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, separated from each other by about three paces, lit up four wall shelves on the left that stretched from the front to the back of the room. Books, scrolls, stacks of papers, small boxes, and several hourglasses of various sizes lay scattered on the shelves in haphazard array.

  Oddly lettered labels identified the boxes—Sneezing Powder, Sleeping Potion, Smoke Balls, and Metal Polish, among others.

  The lanterns’ flickering lights cast wavering orange silhouettes on the right side of the chamber, casting a dim glow on haphazard piles of old books.

  Marcelle stepped in and closed the door behind her. To the left, a key tied to a leather string dangled from a nail embedded in the jamb just above her head. She pulled it down and locked the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Marcelle pushed the key into her pocket and spun toward the voice. “Professor Dunwoody?”

  “Of course.” The dignified voice emanated from the darkness at the back of the chamber. A tall, gray-haired man strode into the light, blinking. “Whom did you expect to find here, a sparring opponent?” He scanned her body, pausing at her face. “Or perhaps a physician.”

  “I know I look kind of pale, Professor, but—”

  “Kind of pale? Marcelle, I have seen more color in a corpse. In fact, I have seen more color in hailstones or in—”

  “Just listen a minute. What do you know about a minister from Tarkton named Leo? His nickname is—”

  “Maelstrom.” Dunwoody nodded. “I am quite familiar with him.”

  “Well, he’s here as Orion’s enforcement officer, and he has power you wouldn’t believe.”

  “That I wouldn’t believe?” Professor Dunwoody said, pointing at himself. “Marcelle, do you remember the stories I told you when you were knee-high to a … well, to an unusually tall person?”

  “The dragon stories, of course. But no one believed …” She took a step back and looked him over, noticing his clothes for the first time, disheveled and wrinkled, as if they hadn’t been changed in weeks. “How long have you been down here?”

  He straightened, as if reporting to a supervisor. “I was transferred to the archives twelve years ago, two years after I taught you in school.”

  “No, I mean, when was the last time you came up for air?”

  He waved a hand. “There is no need. My wife died long ago, and a boy brings me food and water, trims the lanterns, freshens my wash basin, cleans my chamber pot, and brings me the morning journals as well as the latest gossip. I jog in place, and I have a solar lantern. I am well supplied.”

  “Then it’s been weeks? Months?”

  “Years. By now, I doubt that anyone up there would even recognize me.” He picked up a hefty old book from a countertop under the nearest lantern and squinted at it. “What is this doing here?”

  “Anyway,” Marcelle continued, “what do you know about Maelstrom?”

  Dunwoody lifted a finger. “I remember! He brought it to me as a gift from Lady Moulraine.”

  “He? You mean Maelstrom?”

  “Of course not. Maelstrom wouldn’t know a book from a broomstick.” Dunwoody opened the book and began leafing through the pages. “I meant the boy who brings me supplies.”

  Marcelle tapped her foot. “Okay, forget your delivery boy for a minute. I just saw Maelstrom knock a man down from twenty paces away, absorb his body like a leech drawing blood, and pull a knife out of his own chest like it was nothing more than a splinter.”

  “He did all that, did he?” Dunwoody withdrew a pair of spectacles from his tunic pocket and put them on, blinking at the book. “This is all very interesting.”

  “Interesting? I’d call it mortifying.”

  “No, I mean this book.” Keeping his stare on the page, he walked toward the back of the chamber, dodging two stools and three stacks of dusty newsletters. “Come with me. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  She followed. “But I need to know about—”

  “Maelstrom, I know.” He picked up the last lantern in the row and continued toward the back. “You certainly have quite an obsession about him.”

  “Obsession?” She balled her hands into fists. “The only reason I keep mentioning him is because you keep changing the subject.”

  He stopped and turned, his face now clear in the lantern’s light. “Ah! The sword maiden’s infamous temper has shown its fire. I remember when you knocked Sandon across three rows of desks.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “He questioned my gender.”

  “When a girl always wears trousers, cuts her hair short, defeats her classmates in every sport, and possesses the curveless body of a ten-year-old, then don’t you think punching an inquisitive boy in the nose is a bit of an overreaction?”

  Marcelle sighed. “I grant your point.”

  “You do?” Dunwoody chuckled. “Well, that’s a new development. You’re not as stubborn as you used to be. Perhaps your illness has sapped your energy.”

  “Can we dispense with the Marcelle examination and get on with the Maelstrom news?”

  “Of course. Exactly why I led you back here.” He sat in an overstuffed armchair near the back wall and laid the book on his lap, balancing the lantern on the chair’s arm. “This gift from Prescott’s widow is both relevant and timely, and an earlier cursory examination proved it to be filled with corroborating evidence that confirms theories I have held for quite some time. It appears to be a journal of some kind dating back to …” He glanced at the door. “You did lock that, didn’t you?”

  She patted her pocket. “Yes. Why?”

  “Do you remember when the governor’s enforcement unit barged into our classroom and went on a wild rampage, tearing books from the shelves and throwing them around the room?”

  “Yes. I was terrified.”

  “As was I.” The lantern flames danced in his wide eyes. “They were looking for evidence that I was teaching a view of our origins that differs from the officially approved history.”

  “Was there any evidence?”

  “Of course not. I fully believed the official version of history, ignorant fool that I was.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Dunwoody waved a hand at his surroundings. “Working here in the archives. I pieced together enough evidence to cast a great deal of doubt on the dogma of my peers and my predecessors, and I also unearthed other evidence that is startling, which I plan to show you soon.” He opened the book to its first page. “Even with all that I have learned, there are many mysteries remaining, and this journal might be the key to unlocking those mysteries.”

  Marcelle shifted to a position behind the chair and looked over his shoulder. The page displayed a series of scrawled, illegible notes. “Pretty careless writing.”

  “Careless? Not likely. A handicapped scribe, I think.”

  “Okay. I can believe that.” She leaned closer. The markings took on some familiar shapes, letters and words, but too many were illegible. “Can you read it?”

  “As a teacher I had to read some of the sloppiest handwriting imaginable. I’m sure I could read this, as well, if I took the time.” He flipped to a page near the back. �
�Take a look at this.”

  Marcelle scanned the pages. The handwriting was much clearer now, and some of the letters formed recognizable words—genetics, procreation, and nutrition—along with many simple articles and conjunctions. Yet most words still seemed too messy to read.

  “This is a child’s handwriting,” Dunwoody said. “I have seen enough samples to recognize a young person’s pen.”

  Marcelle leaned over the back of the chair and studied the page. “How old are the entries?”

  He pointed at a series of marks set off by themselves near the top. “This newer one is about five hundred years old.” He turned to the front of the book and pointed at a similar place on the first page. “This is much harder to read, but I believe it tells us that this was written about five years earlier.”

  “Could the handicapped writer have later dictated to a child?”

  “An excellent assumption. My guess exactly. Once I tell you my theories, perhaps you will understand why.”

  Marcelle pulled back. “I’m sure I really want to hear your theories, but right now I have a bigger problem on my hands.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Maelstrom.” He heaved a sigh. “Leo, son of Prince Bernard and nephew of King Popperell, was the Counselor of Sheelan.”

  “Sheelan? I haven’t heard of that province.”

  Dunwoody pointed at a map on the back wall to his right. “It’s Mesolantrum’s neighbor to the northwest. Its name changed to Bernardium due to Leo’s desire to flatter his father.” He wagged a finger at her. “You learned that in history. It seems that you were too busy playing with swords and punching inquisitive boys to remember your lessons.”

  Marcelle rolled her eyes. “Enough scolding. Let’s get on with the story.”

  “Very well, but I will make it short. My boy is due here soon.” He took off his spectacles and tapped them on his chin. “Leo became interested in some rather esoteric teachings, which he claimed gave him the power he has now. Since he can kill with a wave of his hand, who can argue? Anyone who is able to resist—”