Starstone

by Denise M. Main

  “Morgan! What on Earth are you doing?” she asked, lighting another lamp and carrying it over to the table.

  He finished the sentence and laid the stylus down. “Just helping out a little – you were drifting right away from Alaric’s logic. He did have some, even though most of it was rather obscure. Look...” He turned the sheets of paper over and began showing her the points he'd made.

  “Yyyess,” she said dubiously when he'd finished. “I see why he said and did those things now. But I don't agree with you here.”

  “You don't?” Morgan frowned, scanning the notes he'd made. “Why not?”

  “I think that if he'd carried on the course originally set, then the episode with Sarn – which almost cost him the kingdom of Kirthas – would never have come about. Or if it had, the end result wouldn't have been so drastic.”

  “No, you've missed the point completely. Sarn needed to be taught a lesson; Alaric had to do it that way for maximum effect, and once you see that, you realize that Kirthas was never in jeopardy.”

  “But look...here...and here,” she flipped through the parchment pages of the old leather-bound tome open on the table, “Alaric clearly states the complete opposite...”

  Finally, over an hour, and one heated conversation later, during which Liath had brought out wine and savory biscuits, she admitted that, just possibly, Morgan might be right.

  “Thank the Structure for that!” he laughed, raising his wine cup to the priestess. She lifted hers and they drank a salute to each other. “You are one stubborn lady, Lee, but it's been a long time since I enjoyed such a debate so much – you're a lot like your father.”

  “He says I'm a lot like my mother,” she grinned.

  “Well, you certainly have all the fey and eldritch beauty of an Akashii...”

  He was cut off as Liath booed his comment. “Eldritch beauty! Goddess, Morgan, you should have been a bard!”

  “Or maybe a healer – I have a good bedside manner.” He leaned back in the chair and stretched. Liath resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him – he was very temptingly handsome, and she was a red-blooded, Temple-born girl with a lusty streak in her make-up; and with a very good idea of what bedside manner he was talking about. Maybe later...

  “By the way, Morgan, do you know what Alaric’s referring to here?” She opened the old book near the beginning and scanned a few pages before she found the reference. “It's just after he becomes High Lord – this is supposedly a quote of something he said to one of his confidantes, 'The Power is still there – and I will use it, should the need arise, have no fear.'.” She looked up, “What power? What's he talking about? I read something else similar to that in an earlier biography, but there was no explanation.”

  Morgan read the quote, looked through the pages before and those following, then shrugged his shoulders. “I haven't a clue,” he admitted, helping himself to a refill of wine and topping up Liath's cup.

  For the next two hours, they talked about a hundred different subjects, took the world apart and rebuilt it to their own ideals of perfection, until Morgan finally stood up.

  “I suppose I had better go now. It's getting late and I should be attending the Lord,” he sighed.

  “What are you, his steward, or something?” Liath asked.

  “Or something,” he replied, winking.

  “I see,” she smiled. “And will you be with the High Lord in the morning when he has his futures read?”

  “More than likely – we're very close.”

  “Closer than his brother?”

  “A little.”

  Chapter 9 – Varen Returns

  “Go down to the beach,” Varen ordered. “Make the way clear for the sailor.”

  “What of you, my lord?” Omell asked, unaware of the light sarcasm her voice carried.

  Without reply, the man stared coldly at her, his face paler and leaner than usual. A few threads of silver showed within the blackness of his hair. Omell met his glare for a moment, then ducked her head and hurried towards the beach, there to clear the mists and guide the boat to shore.

  When she was out of view and earshot, Varen growled a curse and sat heavily on a fallen tree trunk. The summoning, although only of brief duration, had exhausted him. Used to cooler climes, the trek across the almost tropical island had further drained him, especially since they'd had one day less to complete the journey in order to be at the beach when the sailor returned, one week after their arrival. Omell, on the other hand, seemed to draw energy from the cursed island, seemed to thrive on the heat and physical hardships.

  Varen lay back on the canted trunk, staring up at the green patchwork canopy of interlocking branches and leaves. The summoning had been a success; he could feel it, and in his mind's eye he pictured the gradual alignment of worlds. The passage lay through many planes and dimensions, the shifting of darkness and light, until the two were in phase, and a new age dawned over Anraun.

  ***

  Far away, in a place where time and space were mutable, on a world dedicated to a specific cause, evil had mutated far from it original level. Bodies had mutated, too, as differing species combined, parted and reformed. Differing factions did likewise, until a few reigned supreme. Numbered among those were the Stealers of souls, outcast from Saybel, the Darkworld, as were the remainder of the Voltus, and where landscapes were held more by thought and cities made of ideas, there grew an awareness. At its center resonated a gold gem, marbled with purple. Locked inside a small metal casket, it glowed softly, like the throb of an alien heart.

  Once, there had been seven–now there were thought to be only five.

  One was presumed shattered, that from the world of Tindal, not even the finest trace of dust remaining.

  One was hidden in another plane – useless, lost, since the lord who hid the gemstone was supposedly dead. Murdered, as he lay gravely injured, by a foul Iantii, taking the secret of its location with him, not heard of since. But...was something stirring on Iantii? It was hard to tell with only one shard in his possession, with only one link.

  One was in that other place, and would soon be used – by a female who saw things to come.

  Another had been stolen by sorcery from its resting place on the minor trading world of Cellan years past – put in the mind of a babe, illusion taking its place.

  Another should have been on a great trade world, forgotten. Yet it was here, where it should never be.

  The sixth – that was on Lammia, an old, dark world whose people changed whenever they left its protection.

  The seventh – the final one – whose outcasts were the strongest…the Heart of the Darkworld, that...

  From around the black casket came whispers, alive, brushing against the confines of the small rough-walled chamber, chanting from the shadows, hissing from the cold stone floor, crowding into corners, spilling across the tiny altar which held the gem casket until the entire room was filled with sibilant noise.

  In front of the altar stood a creature; not of mankind, but a close enough approximation. Copper-pupilled black eyes thoughtfully regarded the glowing casket, and a long, talloned finger reached out and released the lock.

  ***

  Omell, having called the boat to land, stood, half-hidden by undergrowth, watching Varen rest. There were times when he frightened her, times when he'd beaten her, forced himself upon her. There were times when she hated him above all else in the world, when she loathed the touch of his white body on hers. And then there were times when she almost loved him. But more than anything else, she planned to be at his side when he became master of the three worlds.

  “Varen,” she said softly, moving into full view, “the boat is here.”

  Slowly, he drew his gaze from the gently shifting treetops to the orange-haired girl and, surprising her, he smiled. “Good. Tell me, Omell, how much command do you have over the sea?”

  “None, lord,” she frowned.

  He tutted, mildly. “You are your mother's daughter, it is ti
me you put your inheritance to the test.”

  “What do you wish me to do?” she asked as Varen stood and picked up his travelling pack.

  “An unfortunate accident will happen to the old sailor just before we reach the mainland. A freak wave, perhaps, will wash the poor man overboard, drowning him in full view of the townsfolk. We, of course, will escape unscathed. Can you do this small thing?”

  “I shall try.”

  Varen's green eyes narrowed, and the girl hastily amended her statement.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Good. Prove yourself to me, and I may allow you to return to the keep. Fail, and you shall join the sailor when I deal with him.”

  Omell opened her mouth to respond to his threat, then prudently closed it. She had learned much from him in a short time, but there was still a great deal more she had to know. Bowing her head, she stepped aside for him to pass.

  “What will you do about the seer, Varen?”

  “Ah, yes: the beautiful, arrogant night-shaper. I think I'll let those from Danaach enjoy him, they who once were our kinsmen, and women. Or I may entertain him myself for a while first.”

  Chapter 10 – High Lord’s Future

  Gauzy white drapes billowed slightly in a warm breeze from the tall window. The morning sun shone in and glinted on silver dishes and trays placed on the long low table. There was fruit in a dish, wine in a jug and four silver goblets on the tray. A short black sofa stood behind the table and a black padded chair at the end. Elaborately designed rugs in black, silver and blue covered the marble floor in front of the table and seats, and the walls were plain white, unadorned except for a small alcove dedicated to the Goddess.

  At the sound of an opening door, the High Lord turned away from the window and watched two tall black-robed seers enter.

  “Good morning to you Morgan,” Annushi greeted. Despite her silver hair, Annushi was a little younger than the High Priestess, and like Demora, a strikingly attractive woman.

  “Morning, Morgan,” Liath echoed as she followed the head of her order in to the small intimate chamber on the ground floor of the tower, where the silver-haired seer performed her far-seeings.

  “You two have met?” the elder woman asked, glancing from one to the other.

  “Yes,” Liath answered. “First in the archives, then later, we discussed a little of old Lord Alaric’s ideas and philosophies.”

  “Well, there are few better people for discussing those with than a High Lord himself,” Annushi mused. “Please be seated Morgan, and we'll begin.”

  Liath, moving to stand beside Annushi's chair, missed a step and frowned at Morgan as he took a place in the centre of the short sofa. “A High...you’re Morgan bron Sultain?”

  The High Lord smiled at her, and briefly inclined his head. The girl continued to glare at him until she reached the seer's chair, then stared blankly at the wall opposite her, studiously ignoring the man, while Annushi searched the weeks and months to come for Morgan's life-thread.

  “You could at least have told me,” Liath grumbled as she and Morgan left Annushi's chamber together a little later. “I thought you were his lover!”

  Morgan shrugged. “Usually, when people know, or find out who I am, their whole attitude towards me changes – I liked yours just the way it was,” he explained, following her along the main corridor, only a little sorry that he'd misled her into thinking he was someone else. “Besides, you must have come across plenty of the old lords who liked to go around incognito – it's an inbred syndrome.”

  She stopped outside a black door with her name scrolled on it in silver. In a three-quarter circle were the rooms other seers used for their foretelling; small tables and padded chairs were set out in an informal style for those who waited.

  “I guess so. Just don't expect me to call you your lordship, or start bowing, or anything. Goddess, I even put on this stupid robe, too,” she sighed, plucking at the long skirt of her formal black robe.

  “And you look lovely in it, too,” he smiled, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

  Liath gave him a warning glare, then smiled back. “Well, I have to work now. It's been interesting meeting you, Morgan. The High Lord, too. And thanks for putting me straight with Alaric.” She held out her hand.

  “But I'm not going for another two days yet. Possibly three, or even four,” he replied, taking hold of her hand. “And I would like your views on why Annushi couldn't – or wouldn't – see much of my futures.”

  “Wouldn't?” Liath repeated.

  “Yes, I got the impression she was holding a lot back...will you look for me?”

  “Only if you ask her and she agrees. Sorry, but even seers have their code of ethics. Besides that, she's the order head. It's not an honorary title, Morgan, Annushi earned it by being the best,” she told him, growing increasingly aware of his hand still round hers.

  “Both she, and your aunt, told me you were the best seer the Temple had ever had...”

  “Didn't they also mention I was undisciplined, thoughtless, unruly...” she ran the list off, mimicking the High Priestess's voice passably well.

  “That did come up in conversation, but then Demora has more or less called me the same things on various occasions,” he smiled.

  “So, a fellow rebel,” she said. Then she asked, “What's it like being one of the most powerful men in Anraun?”

  “One of the most powerful?”

  “You've got an interesting reputation, and one hell of a personality; I've even forgiven you for fooling me. But I wouldn't bet on you against Tia'mar the Magus, or the top few of his order. Not even Father. And then there are the bards, Nightlords...”

  “All right, I get your point – painful though it is,” he stated, releasing her hand and folding his arms across his chest.

  Liath made a quick study of his unsmiling face. “Sorry, I'm not very tactful at times.”

  “True,” he agreed, and smiled. “But you don't really think I am more powerful than those others, do you?”

  “Not really, not to me. I even met Jarath, the Doman of Saybel once; he's Rajan's uncle once removed, or something. And there’s the Doman’s sons, Benedict, Rowan and Tarik, although the eldest one is a bit of an ass...the other two though...” she half-explained, slipping in a lecherous grin. “Of course, you are the temporal power in the land – but, your influences don't apply here. I'm not answerable to you, only to the high priestess and my order head, like everyone else in Thesa.”

  “I suppose you're right. And I do know Rowan and Tarik, quite well in fact; they like to escape to Delgannan whenever Jarath turns his back. But you still haven't answered my question though; will you give me your views on my reading?”

  “I'm not sure if I should,” Liath replied doubtfully, heeding the faint voice inside her that warned against it. Annushi's foreseeing had been remarkably sketchy and had not even come close to answering Morgan's questions concerning a wife. She had to have her own reasons for that, Liath decided.

  “Listen, I'm meeting Father for lunch, you're welcome to come along – if you don't mind a lowly student’s tavern.”

  “The Hanging Dog?” he guessed.

  “You know it?”

  The young lord grinned. “Know it? I've been thrown out of there more times than you've had hot dinners. I'm only surprised the place hasn't been closed down.”

  “What! And have all the students rioting?”

  They laughed together, then parted until noon – Liath to her duties and Morgan to visit his youngest brother. He found the bards easily enough by simply listening until music reached his ears. Setting his feet to follow, he found a group of young bards apparently lazing around where the smooth trimmed lawns gave way to less cultivated grasslands leading away from the Temple proper. For a while, he stayed still and out of plain sight, half-hidden within a small stand of trees, eyes half closed, picking his brother’s voice and playing out from the rest. There was something primal about the bass beat of the long necked i
nstrument Raithe held across his body. It seemed to flow up through Morgan’s feet, pick up the rhythm of his blood, and move with his breath – making him think of the basic desires of life. It would be easy to imagine dancing, moving to that beat alone, yet it felt as if it needed other instruments to accompany it.

  Raithe stopped then, straightened up, shook his long wavy hair back and looked directly towards where Morgan stood in the shade of the trees. The young lord watched his brother clamber to his feet, sling the instrument across his back and stride towards him. Sunlight glinted off earrings and chains as the bounce of Raithe’s stride lifted the heavy mane away from his face and neck.

  “Morgan!” The youth’s, deep well-trained voice, full of exuberance and music, brought a smile to Morgan’s lips and he moved to meet the baby of the family half-way – much to the interest of the group of people Raithe had been with. “I was going to come looking for you later this afternoon,” the youth stated, moving back from their back-slapping greeting. “When you’d finished your meeting with Annushi – did it end early, or have I lost sight of the time?”

  One arm around Raithe’s shoulders, Morgan was surprised at how he’d grown in the last few months; they were almost of a height now. Although like Conna, Raithe was still as slender as a girl. “We finished early, so I thought I’d come and find you. See how your studies are progressing, too, and not just the musical ones,” he added, watching the grin fade from the youth’s face and feeling the shoulders slump.

  ***

  When Morgan met Druin, the two of them strolled towards the pavilion gardens close to the Seers Tower.

  “I presume that by now Liath has found out that the two Morgans are one and the same?” Druin asked.

  “Yes. I think she was a little annoyed, but she forgave me,” the young lord said.

  “What a surprise,” the elder man remarked dryly. “However, I would prefer it if you didn't spend all hours of the night in my daughter's rooms. I don't want her name adding to the gossip which already surrounds you.”