Starstone

by Denise M. Main

  The darkness gradually lifted, replaced with diffused light. Occasionally, a faint streak of gold marbled the far-off opalescence like veins of lightning. The old High Lords began to gather round her, a few shades greyer, but hardly more substantial.

  She looked down at her hand and found it unmarked, except for a slight redness on the fingertips.

  “Where am I?” she asked. “What happened?”

  But to her surprise, no words passed her lips, and the High Lords continued to look on with solemn disapproval.. Liath contented herself with staring back, waiting for something to happen.

  A priestess.

  She looked round at all the faces, but no one lord seemed to have spoken.

  A seer. This voice came from a closer source.

  What has she to do with our power? Another asked, lightly scornful.

  Akashii. There was a nodding certainty in that voice.

  She has passed the barriers, and touched the Starstone shard.

  Broken laws, and must be bound by others.

  No laws bind the Akashii. This one was cold – stern and sure.

  They will do this one. Calm certainty again.

  Liath continued to scan the faces, hoping to detect the owners of these disembodied voices.

  No woman has ever shared our power. Why now? The land will reject her!

  It was the land, and the stone, which let her through.

  Liath recognized the voice. It was the third time he'd spoken and she could almost imagine one lord sagely nodding his head. She found a face, and looked into it. The lips smiled slightly, the long eyes darkened a little.

  “Ulric,” she murmured, “Morgan's father. Three years dead.”

  He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “A lecherous old goat whose heart gave out while he was making love!”

  Ulric winked – his smile broadened.

  What do we do with her?

  Show her the Land Power, Ulric stated.

  Never! the stern voice snapped.

  Alaric, Liath thought. And I still don't agree with him. “What is this land power? Wait... is it the power he mentioned in the book?”

  Aye, Ulric nodded, passed originally from father to son – used to protect both land and people – as the magi do now. But before that, it made each lord almost invincible. He looked after our beautiful Land, and she looked after him. He could raise her up against his enemies – talk to her – like a friend and lover. Be one with her, know her like no man ever knew anything else. They were part of each other, he sighed and glanced round at his ancestors.

  As one high lord neared death, or judged his heir ready to take over, they would leave Delgannan and go up into the Delga mountains, to the highest peak, to a tiny cave a day's trek above the snowline. And there, the old lord would pass on his knowledge to the new, show him the secrets of the Land. But...

  Ulric paused and moved forward until only a few feet separated him from the young priestess – who watched and listened with great interest.

  We grew lazy – the magi grew in strength. We let them concern themselves with the more mundane aspects of keeping the land beautiful, gentle and free from all invaders, while we went forth and conquered other peoples, or simply sat at home and enjoyed the benefits of life.

  Eventually, the Land Power became just a telling – not a showing. In times after that, it was a bare mention, one of the old traditions. In my case, death was so sudden, Morgan was never even told that little knowledge.

  He sighed again. We kept our secrets too well, young lady.

  “But why! And what has that star thing got to do with it? Ulric...?”

  As she spoke, darkness filled the edges of her vision, closing in rapidly. The lords began to fade – she felt the rush of motion around her.

  “Ulric!”

  Use your power, child!

  His voice came from a distance.

  Bind it with the Land! A way has been opened – both here and from another world. They must be closed again. Keep the Danaach world away! Call my son...

  Then he, and all light, was gone, Liath was falling – hurtling through space again –screaming.

  This time, the word was 'Morgan'.

  She hit something, hard, unyielding, and screamed at the impact; at the intense unbearable pain that flared along her shattered bones, crushed nerves, burst organs, split veins. Then, mercifully, she lost consciousness. From her loose, misshapen fingers, the shard rolled out, rested a moment on bare stone, then slowly faded, absorbed into rock with her blood. A faint glow hung briefly over the seer’s hand, before it too, faded.

  While her body laid crumpled and useless in the heart of the Delga mountains, her mind was touched by another.

  Warily, the other sentience approached.

  Recoiled from the femininity – yet returned; a little reluctantly – but bound by certain laws.

  Observed with awareness, rather than eyes; examined the feeble spark inside of soft, bruised pulped flesh with feeling, rather than fingers.

  Then eventually, irrevocably accepted the final responsibility for the strange intruder.

  Time waited at a distance, suspended.

  There was a showing, a teaching, a sharing of secrets in past cycles only allowed to a male – a High Lord.

  The mind became a daughter – following the sentience. The body lay cradled in warmth, washed by waters from the roots of Delga, the mountain.

  Gentle fingers of earth probed, found broken bones, realigned and set them.

  Soothed trauma – eased pain – healed nerves and flesh in ways not unlike those that the land healed itself.

  When the teaching was almost at an end, the body was transported through rock, from Delga's heart to a tiny cave, a day's trek above the snowline.

  There it waited, on smooth warm stone, for motivation and consciousness to return.

  As the mind followed upwards, it perceived an anomaly deeply embedded in the rock. It stopped and stared at the glowing stone, shaped like a slender, faceted triangle and veined with gold – the thing that had originally brought her here – then was swiftly urged on with a firm rebuttal.

  The shard was not to be touched by a female again – the next time it could kill.

  Accepting that, Liath returned to her body. She groaned at the pain and stiffness; inevitable, despite the tender care that had been lavished on it.

  Opening her eyes, she stared up at the narrow, jagged ceiling.

  She felt the strangeness of being imprisoned again in static bone and muscle, held in shape with a fragile layer of skin.

  She struggled to sit up, and found herself gently lifted by the rock beneath her shoulders and back. Moving her eyes, she looked down wonderingly at the hands resting on a black lap, as if not quite sure they were really hers. Then, following the line of her legs, eventually saw the clear blueness through a narrow crack in the stone womb.

  Watched, eyes and mind blank, until after a time, a brilliant white disc, high in the blueness, shone heat and light on her.

  She closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, the disc and blueness were gone, replaced with silver pricked black.

  A voice in the wind spoke her name.

  Later, in response, her mind formed a word.

  Morgan.

  The blueness came again, and again, each time faithfully followed by the black. She dredged their names up from the depths of her memory; day and night, sun and stars.

  She found her identity, oddly linked with that of the land, and slowly began to realize the implications.

  “That way...should have been...barred...to me.”

  Yes, the rocks sighed.

  “Why – how, did it happen?”

  Ah, daughter – the ones who came before – the lords – they let you through – because of your life – of who you are.

  “Because I'm a seer – a priestess – an Akashiian?”

  Perhaps...

  “It is taught that the Goddess is everywhere �
� are you and she, one?”

  Perhaps...

  Liath sighed and climbed to her feet, walked stiffly to the narrow crack, a little less than a foot wide, and stared out. It was night again, and the moon shone silver on the snow. In the far distance was the town of Delgannan; miniature, small enough to hold in the palm of her hand. Beyond that, the sea.

  Even further away – far out in time – something shifted, moving in an almost imperceptible, inexorable approach.

  Liath shivered. “It's still here, the darkness.”

  When the sun rises, you must leave, the wind said. You called the young lord – you must meet him below.

  She gestured to the crack. “How do I get through?”

  It will open.

  Chapter 23 – Temple Visitors

  Seated with the other order Heads at their table in the dining hall, Demora let the general noise and chatter wash over her as she scanned the diners for Liath. There were others with wavy, red-chestnut hair present, but none wearing black clothes. She looked for Ianna, but the blond was absent too. So she beckoned the servant waiting on her table and made a quiet request. The servant nodded and moved away. Shortly after, a young magus approached the table, bowing his head to Tia'mar and Demora.

  “When and where did you last see Liath, D'lan?” the High Priestess asked.

  “Late this afternoon, lady. She and the seer Ianna went out riding together,” he replied, looking slightly apprehensive at being called before Demora in front of all the other Heads.

  “Thank you, D'lan, you may return to your meal,” she said with a smile, yet didn't feel totally reassured by the novice's answer. Making a mental note to have the stables checked for the girls horses, she re-joined the conversation.

  Three hours later, Demora was even less happy. Both the seers’ horses were in their stalls. The stable master had agreed the girls had gone riding, but they had returned after only a few minutes. Ianna had been found with Maric and hadn't seen Liath since lunch time.

  “She can't have gone far if her horse is still there,” Tia'mar reasoned after the High Priestess had questioned his novice again. He selected a grape from the fruit on the table in Demora's study and popped it into his mouth, savoring the sweet taste. “Have you checked the Sanctuary, or the Hanging Dog?” he asked. “Or the town, or every young male's room in the Temple grounds?”

  “No,” Demora admitted, staring out of the window into the night, as if she could locate Liath by sheer willpower.

  “In that case, I suggest you wait until morning to send out any search parties. Or, since it's nighttime, have Rajan find her. But knowing Liath, she'll probably turn up at breakfast either with a smug smile on her face, or a hangover,” the magus advised.

  “I hope you're right, Ti,” she sighed, turning from the window. “But I have a bad feeling about this. Annushi, what do you think?”

  “I think she ought to grow up and have a little more consideration for others,” the seer snapped.

  Tia'mar and Demora exchanged surprised glances at the tone of Annushi's voice. “Apart from that,” Demora prompted.

  “Apart from that...I'm as worried as you are. I don't think she'd voluntarily leave the Temple, not after what she's been 'seeing and dreaming.” Annushi sighed heavily, “There are times when I feel I didn't just have one child, but 19 of them. And out of all those, Liath has caused me more sleepless nights than my own son and the rest of my order put together!”

  “Lee's old enough to think about settling down a little,” Demora stated. “Perhaps it's time to call Balin here and send Morgan another harper. And to send an official refusal to his idiotic request that Liath be granted leave from her duties to become one of his advisors. The idea of it!”

  “Did my old ears hear you right?” Tia'mar interrupted. “Is it a marriage you're arranging, in this day and age?”

  “Not exactly,” Demora replied, a trifle defensively. “Just an attempt to bring two people who share a deep affection for each other closer together.”

  “Crap,” the magus stated. “I know Balin and I know Liath, and neither of them are ready for marriage. Morgan's court is not the ideal place to set a young man thinking about spending the rest of his life with one woman, especially not if he's a bard. Not even if that woman or girl is Liath. She's still happy sowing her wild oats, or whatever it is that you females call it. Bring them together by all means, but I think you're both mistaken if you expect them to rush off and make their vows.”

  “I suppose you're right,” Demora said. “But I'll send Morgan another harper all the same.”

  ***

  It was mid-morning, just over a month after leaving Sancurr, when Mesar, Resh and their three companions arrived in Thesa. They made their way slowly through the wide streets that radiated out from the massive collection of white marble buildings at its heart. Few people took note of the five travelers who rode past in silence. The faint pre-occupied air hanging over the group precluded idle conversation from those who did, or those who wished to know who they were and what their business was. Daily, hundreds upon hundreds of people worshipped the Goddess here in her many forms, petitioned the High Priestess, or sought her council, consulted the seers, made use of the archives and the learning of the Academicians, and the medical expertise from the Healers, They visited the Officiates on matters of law, the Magi for their wisdom and arts, the Bards for their knowledge and music, or the Warriors as a final resort. The most secret and sacred of the rites were held here. Priests and priestesses were trained and tested, sometimes staying for weeks on end in the deep subterranean rooms that lay beneath the Temple, and which sometimes doubled as cells.

  Mesar knew the place well, having grown up and received his education, like innumerable others, in the vast Academy, although the Temple buildings themselves he had known more intimately than some.

  From the east, two more riders were approaching; different direction, same reason.

  “Isn't she beautiful?” Ciaran sighed, as she and T'marl topped a rise in the land, and Thesa lay in all her gleaming splendor before them.

  “Certainly is,” the big man agreed. “What always amazes me is, how a city with all that white stone and marble stays so clean.”

  “Your brother and my aunt have a lot to do with that,” she grinned.

  “The magus – garbage sweeper of the land, and the high priestess with mop and bucket. Yeah, I can just picture it,” he nodded. “Come on, Ci, let's see what all these dreams of yours are about. And get a good meal in the bargain; your cooking's worse than mine!”

  “No one could make food taste that bad,” the chestnut haired warrior stated. “You don't cook a meal, you beat it into submission!”

  And so, light-heartedly arguing, they reached the Temple and stabled their horses beside five other newly arrived animals.

  “Looks like they've travelled as far as we have,” T'marl commented and inspected the brand on the nearest horse's flank, then moved along the line of stalls, checking the rest. “They're all from Sancurr,” he said. “Every one’s a city guard's mount. Wonder what's brought them up here?”

  “I don't know. But Demora should…let's go find out,” Ciaran suggested.

  “That's your plan of action? Just wander in and ask the high priestess what the hell's going on?”

  “Yes. Unless you can think of a better one,” she replied, stowing her gear on a wall bracket opposite her horse's stall.

  “Not off-hand,” T'marl admitted, following her out of the stable. A little later, as they made their way to the heart of the Temple buildings, he asked, “Is it me, or do things feel a little weird around here?”

  “I don't think it's you. I can feel it too – it's like being on the back of a horse that’s just on the verge of panicking. One wrong move and away it goes.”

  “Yeah, it's making the back of my neck itch.”

  Passing beneath the wide archway which led to the audience chambers, they were halted briefly by guardians of the Temple. Apart from
the tall potted palm and ornamental topiary bushes, there were matching marble gryphons flanking the corridor outside Demora’s rooms. A tiny beam of actinic blue light swept them from head to toe, reading their life signs and intent. Ciaran, being of the high priestess’s line, and T’marl bearing no ill will, it allowed them to pass and then to her private apartments. Ciaran paused at the little shrine just inside – a tiny statuette of the Goddess stood under a crescent moon of beaten silver, twin horns pointing upwards. Demora's offering of that day, a sprig of willow, lay on a small silver platter with the tiny sickle she'd cut it with. Ciaran searched through the pockets in her wide belt for something appropriate to offer, found nothing, and whispered a prayer instead, adding an apology at the end.

  “Well, that's an improvement on the last time I saw you, Ciaran,” a strong, yet melodious female voice observed. “You ate my day's offering then.”

  The golden tan on Ciaran's cheeks flamed red as she turned and faced her aunt. “Lady,” she murmured, bowing her head.

  “Warrior,” Demora replied, then held her hand out and grasped Ciaran's in the traditional greeting of that order. “You look incredibly well and I'm very glad to see you. But shouldn't you be in Irongar with the rest of your division? I don't remember Master Lymol saying he'd recalled you.”

  “This may sound stupid, aunt, but I've been having dreams...” she stopped, aware of how childish her reason seemed.

  “You're not the only one,” Demora assured her, then turned to the huge black mercenary. “T'marl, it's been a long time since you were in Thesa. Has Our Lady called you here too, or are you just along for the ride?” she asked, gripping his wrist as she had done Ciaran's.

  “It started as that, but I can feel something now.”

  Demora nodded. “Come with me, there are some people I'd like you to meet.”

  “The ones whose horses carry the mark of Sancurr city guards?” T'marl enquired, shortening his long strides to match hers as she set off along the white-walled corridor back the way they’d just come.

  “More than likely,” she agreed. “By the way, have you seen Liath at all?”

  “Liath? No, isn't she here?” Ciaran frowned.