Starstone

by Denise M. Main

  “No way, Raj. Demora still hasn't forgiven me for what happened at Anni's last age-party, and that was four months ago. I get into enough trouble as it is without adding anything like that. She'd have me up in front of the tribunal. Why d'you want to partner me, anyway?” she asked, pulling her hair free.

  “So that we can focus the energy on one particular object. And that's why we'd need to practice.”

  “Is this some complicated way of asking me to go to bed with you?”

  “No – we've already shared that pleasure, or had you forgotten? But if you agree, it would mean us spending a lot more time there, of course.”

  “And what about Saron? Why don't you ask her?”

  Rajan made a dismissive gesture. “She's a good seer – a good lover – but she hasn't a fraction of your strengths. Or beauty.”

  “Nor yours,” Liath smiled, reaching up and touching the black crescent moon, the mark of priest-seer, on the curve of his high cheekbone. “What're you planning to focus on?”

  He caught her hand, gently kissed each fingertip, and watched her eyes darken slightly; then thought of a gem-stone within an ebony box. “Partner me, and I'll tell you.”

  “Demora would find out, and Annushi. We're both pretty distinctive looking people.”

  “Illusion, Liath,” he murmured, brushing her fingertips over his soft lips.

  “You know I’m not that good at illusion...not that and participate in the solstice at the same time. I can't, Raj. Sorry.”

  His hand tightened around hers. “I'll ask you once more,” he said, voice tinged with ice, knowing that he could try forcing her, and perhaps even win, but the chaos and destruction they would cause between them would have half the Temple at the door. If there was a door left.

  “No. Now let go of my hand.”

  Rajan's grip tightened even more. Then abruptly he released her. “As you wish,” he said coldly. “But if Annushi or Demora should find out what we have discussed, you will be very sorry, Liath.”

  “So will you, if you partner one of the other seers,” she snapped back and strode out of the room, waiting until the door closed behind her to shake and flex her throbbing fingers. “Bastard,” she muttered under her breath.

  ***

  “Right, the rest of you can go. Ianna and Liath, stay behind, please,” Master Jaran said at the end of the afternoon's study period.

  The two young women glanced at each other, identical expressions of dismay on their faces, then both turned their attentions back to the tutor, willing him to let them go.

  “You can stop that, ladies,” he said, closing the books he had been quoting from. “I have no intention of letting either of you leave until I have received adequate reasons for your inattention all afternoon.”

  Master Jaran had been tutoring young seers long enough to have built up a resistance to their ability of putting their thoughts in other people's heads. He was well able to cope with the efforts of these two, especially since they were giving him conflicting suggestions.

  “Well, Ann, what has suddenly turned my top student in this field into a starry-eyed, sighing daydreamer?” he asked, finishing with the books and leaning back in his chair.

  “Oh, just an interest in the order of Bards,” Ianna replied evasively.

  “I see,” Jaran murmured. “And could this sudden interest have black hair, blue eyes and a golden tongue?”

  Liath sniggered as her friend blushed a little.

  “Yes, I've noticed you and Maric,” Jaran paused and glanced out of the window at the lawned area below. “And the object of your affections is waiting for you downstairs. Well, you may go. But I want an essay on this afternoon's discussion by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  Ianna opened her mouth to protest the short notice, then thought better of it. “Thank you, Master Jaran,” she smiled, gathering her things together and standing up. “See you later, Lee,” she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, then strode quickly out of the room before the tutor could change his mind.

  “Well, Liath, what's your excuse?” Jaran asked, settling himself into his comfortable chair and steepling his fingers, looking over the top of them with calm brown eyes.

  “I had a letter from my father yesterday saying he and the High Lord's party should arrive within the next few days. The lord wants Annushi to foretell who he shall marry, among other things, and I was wondering if I'll get to see him this time.”

  “And you've spent all afternoon thinking about that?” Jaran said in plain disbelief, dropping his hands into his lap.

  Liath nodded, having no intention whatsoever of telling anyone, not even Ianna, about the passages she had discovered, nor about the conversation she'd had with Rajan.

  The master frowned slightly. “Since you can see your own futures, young lady, why didn't you just look, then spend the rest of the time concentrating on Sun's philosophies!”

  “I don't like looking so far ahead,” she replied, completely truthful this time. Once, she'd looked too far, and had seen what she concluded to be her own death; a blackness across the time-lines. For months after she'd had nightmares about it. Even now, if she was particularly anxious or worried, the dreams returned to haunt her. As a consequence she restricted herself to only looking forward a day at a time along her own futures.

  “You have a choice, Liath. Either get to like it, or concentrate. I know philosophy isn't your strong point, and there are much pleasanter things to be done on a lovely afternoon, but you must make some effort. You only just managed to pass the assessments and testings for the priestess-ship at the end of your fifteenth year. That wasn't through lack of intelligence or commitment to the Goddess, but because your mind drifts from idea to idea like a butterfly flutters from flower to flower. As it is doing now!” Jaran suddenly snapped.

  Liath looked up, startled by the stern note in her tutor's voice.

  “As well as completing the same assignment as I gave Ianna, you will write an essay on the philosophies of the various High Lords, starting from the first one, Almarc, and every fifth one after him to Ulric, Morgan's father. You have four days to complete that. And I want good solid arguments, no romantic twaddle! Understand?”

  “But...! Yes, Master Jaran,” she sighed, picking up her books.

  He watched her go, wondering if there was a young man in her life too. Like Annushi, he knew Liath had never perfected the art of lying, and very rarely offered any. She'd been absent from yesterday's evening meal – but if it was a new lover, why on Earth was she hiding him? It wasn't another seer, that much he did know. Because the order was so small, they all lived at the Temple, as did the other order heads and prelates, of which Jaran was one. All had been present at dinner.

  He stood up and looked out of the open window. Nine of the ten seers he tutored were easily visible in their dark clothing. None, however, had long, rich, red-brown hair. Perhaps she'd gone straight down to the archives to begin her assignments. Possible, but Jaran doubted it, and made a mental note to keep an eye on the girl over the next few days.

  “Wool-gathering, Jaran?”

  He turned from the window and shook his head, smiling at the chestnut haired woman dressed in a simple white robe who was standing in the doorway.

  “No, Demora, just seeing which of my hardworking students were rushing off to complete their assignments and bring them in before time,” he replied, gesturing for the woman to sit down.

  Like all those Temple born and bred, she was tall and slender, graceful and commanding, and although in her late forties, an extremely attractive woman. The High Priestess raised her eyebrows at his comment, and took a seat.

  “Those can't possibly be our seers you're talking about,” she smiled.

  “One can always hope.”

  “Dalanda Sun,” she read, tilting her head sideways to see the name written on the spine of Jaran's books. “I remember his philosophies from my student days. A pompous, idiosyncratic little man, whose teachings belong in the dark a
ges. I'm surprised you continue to include him in your lectures.”

  “You have a lot in common with my students, Lady,” the academician observed. “However, it helps them to think, and if they can't differentiate between good and bad philosophers, then I'm not doing my job correctly.”

  “Is there such a thing as a bad philosopher?”

  “Only if his teachings are so obscure and illogical as to be completely senseless. But I'm sure you didn't come here just to discuss that; wouldn't you rather have a glass of wine instead?”

  “That sounds infinitely preferable, thank you. I suppose Liath told you Druin and Morgan are due to arrive shortly?” she asked while the prelate brought over wine and glasses.

  “Yes, she spent all afternoon daydreaming about him,” he smiled.

  “Really? I would have thought there were more than enough eligible males here to keep any young girl occupied, even a priestess.”

  “Well, that's the excuse she gave.”

  “What's she up to, Jaran? I noted her absence from dinner last night. She was supposed to assist at worship, but Annushi told me Ianna said Liath was sick – I do hope she's not going to start disappearing like Druin does.”

  “That could be very inconvenient,” Jaran agreed. “I did overhear Rajan asking where she was.”

  Demora shook her head. “That young Nightlord bothers me at times – he's so drawn to the darker aspects of the Goddess – I imagine The Doman, Jarath, was glad when the temple accepted his...I suppose you could call him nephew, although Raj’s mother, daughter of the old Doman, was born on the wrong side of the sheets. And so far, he’s not caused quite as much chaos as when Rowan and Tarik, Jarath’s own sons, were here. Except for the time he called the dead out of their graves. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, unfortunately, I do.” Jaran shuddered, perversely glad that Rajan had been at the Temple when he’d performed that little trick and not on his home world of Saybel. The Doman would probably have set fire to the dead and imprisoned his nephew, for want of a better name. Jarath was a very powerful Prime Lord and ruled his courts with an iron hand. Both his own brothers had turned rogue – indeed, the elder one, who should have been Doman, was believed dead after a fight with Jarath years ago. The badly injured brother, Lucienne, had fled to Iantii, to his once-lover Tallia Lac’Lowe whom he’d met while she was studying at the Temple Academy. Unfortunately, her father, Lord Randal of Morne, disliked Lucienne with a passion, and the Darkworlders relationship with Tallia, and vowed to end it. Another bloody fight ensued and Randal Lac’Lowe was the only one to come out alive.

  “Did you,” she paused a moment, “sense anything from your seers today? Any restlessness, or withdrawal, anything...secretive?”

  The academician prelate, drawn back from his own musing, frowned at the unusual question, but thought back over the afternoon. “No,” he said finally. “The only things out of the ordinary were Ianna's lack of concentration, and Liath's attempt at a lie. And I know what Ann was thinking about. Rajan did seem a little quieter than he usually is; he spent a lot of time glaring at Lee – but I think that has something to do with last night when he was looking for her. Why?”

  “A feeling I, and a couple of others, have. This morning, both Annushi and Tia'mar told me they had very disturbing dreams; Casel too. My sleep was restless, and I wondered if any of the younger ones had showed signs of the same.”

  “Only those I've mentioned. What were these dreams about?”

  “There you have me, Jaran. None of us remember, just the impressions of unease, even fear, remain. Casel suggested it was a backlash of the energies released during the spring rites, but I don't think so. If we'd all had erotic dreams, then it'd be a different matter. My first thought was that someone like Rajan was playing mind games,” she admitted, “since he's been caught doing that enough times before. Annushi said it wasn't him, though, and she should know. But keep your eyes and ears open, will you, Jaran? By the way, this wine is excellent, what vintage is it?”

  Chapter 7 – Warriors Meet

  Following the faint trail through the forest, aided every so often by the light of the full moon, Ciaran first smelled, then saw, a fire blazing in the centre of a small clearing. Stopping a short distance away, she slid down from her horse, whispered a word to it and ghosted silently forward to the edge of the clearing. Crouching down, screened from view by a thick undergrowth of bush and brambles, she slowly pushed a handful of whip-thin branches aside, then grinned at the scene in the clearing.

  Leaping flames illuminated a tall, dark-skinned man stretched out on the grass near the fire. He was bound by wrists and ankles to short stakes driven deep into the hard earth. Naked but for a loincloth, the firelight flickered patterns of red, gold and purple onto his glistening black skin. He was talking to a plump red-haired woman knelt at his side, his deep bass voice carrying easily above the crackle of the fire to Ciaran. She listened, smiling.

  “You don't have to tie me down for this, lady,” he rumbled.

  The red-head looked down. “Oh, but I do, warrior. I do,” she breathed and leaned forward to kiss him, hands roaming over his broad muscular shoulders and thick, well shaped arms.

  Ciaran sighed and waited patiently for what was coming next.

  Eventually, the red-head sat back on her heels and slowly unfastened the front of her yellow robe. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it pool around her hips. The man's eyes avidly followed its progress, then jerked upwards to her full breasts, his fingers working convulsively against the grass.

  In the bushes, Ciaran nearly choked with laughter.

  The woman swept aside her robe, pale flesh shining in startling contrast to the man's ebony skin. His eyes lowered to the dark shadowed apex of her parted thighs. Bending over him, she ran her hands across his wide, smooth chest in slow sweeping arcs, moving ever downward, until she reached the loincloth around his hips. Pausing to unfasten and pull it out from under him, her murmur of appreciation was lost within the crackle of flames.

  Ciaran shook her head pityingly, and sighed again, as finally the plump woman knelt astride the black warrior. Even though his face was blocked from Ciaran's view by the woman's back, she guessed his liquid eyes would be closed, and his full lips parted in a moan. She stood up carefully, not disturbing the branches, and eased her short sword from its scabbard.

  Back in the clearing, the redhead was moving her hips in slow circles, head tilted back and hands resting on the man's muscle-ridged belly. As she moved faster, one hand darted out and snatched up something from beneath her robe. The warrior, feeling the slight shift, lazily cracked an eye open, then snapped both wide when he saw what she held in her hands. Staring wild-eyed, the woman hissed like a cat, firelight shimmering off the wickedly sharp blade of a razor as she continued moving.

  Frantically, he lurched and thrashed, trying to dislodge her and free his hands as the point of the blade came nearer his throat.

  There was a brief blur of light, and the woman's head suddenly rose. Muscles clamped painfully around him and he was drenched by a fountain of hot, pulsing blood. A moment later, the body thumped against his chest, forcing more blood out through the neatly sliced neck. Its head landed on the grass, rolled and came to rest on its left ear, its shocked eyes gazing glassily into his as he turned away from the dripping corpse on his chest. He gave a ragged sigh and briefly closed his eyes.

  “Hi there, T'marl,” an amused, huskily female voice greeted. “Thought I recognized you.”

  T'marl opened his eyes and glowered at the tall young woman who stood between his spread-eagled legs. “Get this...thing off me!” he growled.

  “Tsk, and I thought you were enjoying yourself,” she grinned.

  “Ciaran!” he rumbled warningly.

  “Oh, all right,” she stepped over his leg, put a foot against the corpse and shoved. The body rolled free with a squelch and flopped heavily on the grass beside its head.

  “Thanks. Now cut me free.”


  Ciaran squatted down at his side, blood-smeared sword dangling loosely in her right hand. “I don't know,” she mused. “Maybe I'll carry on where she left off.” Then she twisted round and lifted up his limp penis with the tip of her sword. “On the other hand...”

  “No!” T'marl stated emphatically. “Definitely not where she left off. Bitch was going to cut my throat!”

  “Yeah, I know,” she replied, slicing through the leather bonds. “She was a member of a weird, spin-off cult. The temple outlawed them years ago, in my great, great grandmother's time.” She laughed gleefully, cutting his other hand free. “And you fell for it!”

  The warrior sat and lunged at her in one swift movement. Still laughing, she rolled out of reach.

  “That whore almost kills me,” he growled, untying an ankle, “and you laugh about it!”

  “Right – but what a way to go! Better than being hacked to pieces on some battle field,” Ciaran observed, sitting comfortably on her heels, cleaning her sword, while he pried the final knots apart from the thongs around his ankle.

  “I plan on dying peacefully in bed, surrounded by beautiful women, sometime in the far distant future,” T'marl informed her. “Not staked out like some sacrificial lamb in the middle of a forest,” he glanced up. “And while we're on the subject, just how did you know what was going on?”

  Ciaran slid her sword back into the scabbard. “I've been following you for three days; just missed you back in Irongar, otherwise none of this would have happened.”

  “Couldn't you have followed a little faster?” he enquired, standing up and using a clean part of the yellow robe to wipe blood from his face and body.

  “What?” she chuckled. “And have you miss such an interesting experience?”

  T'marl paused and glared at her, “You know, I'd really hate to have you as an enemy – it's bad enough having you as a friend.”

  She stepped up to him, stood on tip-toe and planted a big kiss on his cheek. “You say the sweetest things, T'marl.”