Starstone

by Denise M. Main

  When servants had brought food, wine and departed again, Varen asked the reason for this unexpected visit.

  “My son is held captive in Delgannan's Hall, under the control of the northlander that Morgan bron Sultain calls brother. Myself and the rest of my family were cast out from that place in humiliation. I want my son back. And I want Morgan dead,” Rainard stated coldly. “Yet if my warriors set foot on Anraun again, the lad will be put to slow death.”

  “You have my sympathies, Lord Rainard, but why come to me? There are no great war-bands here,” Varen replied, gesturing to the dark walls and empty hall.

  “It's not earthly warriors I seek,” the islander said, putting down his goblet and leaning forward over the table. “but those of Yrloch who have long been gone. Open for me a way into the wraith world, bring my dead kin and their followers through and they shall fight for me against Morgan bron Sultain!”

  “You realize this is treason?” Varen enquired lightly.

  “Revenge,” Rainard corrected.

  “And what would be the rewards for my part in this act of vengeance?”

  The red-haired lord leaned back in his chair. “What do you wish?”

  Varen appeared to consider this, gazing into his wine-cup as if for inspiration. Then he raised his vivid green eyes to Rainard's. “For my services, I wish the hand of your daughter, Emmer, in marriage.”

  “What!” Laelan snarled. Rainard quietened him with a curt gesture, yet remained silent himself. Behind the hangings, Omell's eyes narrowed in cold anger as she waited for the islander's response.

  “Well, Rainard,” Varen prompted, “is not the freedom of your son, Morgan's death and the gain of Delgannan worth the marriage of your daughter? Bear in mind there is no one else you can turn to who will do as you desire.”

  “As you wish,” Rainard replied finally. “The hand of my daughter. But the opening must be done within the week.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want it so,” Rainard growled, slopping wine into his goblet in an angry motion.

  Varen smiled coldly. “Of course. Send a message to your daughter now, tell her to come here immediately, and I shall attend to your request on her arrival. Not only that, but I shall arrange for you and your son here to pass through the wraith world and to Delgannan, where you can take your revenge at the head of your ghostly army.”

  With a terse nod of his head, Rainard gave his agreement, and decided that after Morgan had been dealt with, Varen would fall to his unearthly warriors. Just the thought of Emmer, his beautiful golden child, having to submit to Varen's desires turned the fine food and wine sour in his stomach. But for the while, let Varen think him in favor of the marriage.

  The lord of the keep called for a servant to bring writing materials and the table cleared so Rainard could compose his message. While this was happening, Omell silently squeezed along the narrow gap between wall and tapestried hanging until she came to the slit-like door which led through the wall, along a dark passageway scarcely more than two feet wide and from there into Varen's private library. Hardly had she reached the middle of the room when the lord entered.

  “Congratulations on your impending marriage, my lord,” she forced out between teeth clenched in jealous fury.

  Varen regarded her, a faint frown lining his pale forehead. “Why such vehemence, girl? Does it trouble you to think of another woman sharing my bed?”

  Omell made no reply, but glared at him from beneath her long lashes, thinking thoughts of pain and slow death. As if reading these in her mind, Varen strode to her, gripped her small chin, forcing her head up.

  “I will tell you this once only; harm the lady Emmer or treat her with anything but the utmost courtesy and respect, and I will flay you within an inch of your life. In fact,” he smiled, “I have a good mind to make you her maid – to wait on her hand and foot, to serve her every whim. And perhaps I'll let you warm Rainard's bed tonight; I imagine he'll be in need of a little comfort after the bargain we've made.”

  “I am your pupil, not a whore or a slave!” she snapped, jerking her head in an effort to free it from his grasp.

  Varen's pale fingers tightened, putting painful pressure on her jaw. “You are a half-bred bastard, and you are mine. You can just as easily pass from pupil to corpse should I choose. Remember that, Omell. Now come with me, and you can watch how I direct the bird to take Rainard's message to his hall.”

  Following in his wake, Omell was introduced to the islanders as Varen's ward. Rainard barely glanced at her, busy as he was sealing the message. Laelan however, studied the small slender girl closely, remembering the last time he had seen gold-dusted eyes.

  “Are you kin to the seer, girl?” he asked.

  “Lord?” Omell murmured in question.

  “There was a half-Akashiian seer at Morgan's court, more than likely spying on our futures for him. Are you kin to her?” Laelan growled.

  “No, lord. I have no family save for my lord Varen,” she replied. “Neither am I a seer.”

  Laelan nodded, apparently satisfied by her soft-spoken assurances. Yet Varen was inclined to pursue the matter further.

  “This seer, she was a priestess also? A girl of great beauty with red-chestnut hair?”

  “Aye,” the islander agreed cautiously. “You know her?”

  “I have heard mention of her. And her name...?”

  “Liath ap Dubve, daughter of the Head healer-priest, and niece of the High Priestess.” There was a brooding look in Laelan's grey eyes as he spoke of the seer that mildly intrigued Varen. And he knew hers to be the face he had seen in the smoke before that of the High Lord, although her impressive lineage was news to him.

  “If you will excuse me, lords, I shall send off this message. Entertainers will be here soon for your amusement, and I shall return shortly.” Varen, with Omell a pace behind, strode from the hall, making his way to the aerie. The bird he selected resembled a messenger pigeon, but much larger and with greater wing span. Its beak, too, differed from the grain eating birds, being hooked in the manner of an avian which tore at meat and gulped flesh for sustenance. While he ringed the message tube to one powerfully talloned leg, Varen murmured to the bird. Omell recognized the language and words of a directional spell that bound the creature to its destination. Only delivery of the message, or death, would prevent the bird from carrying out its task. Food would be caught on the wing, rest not needed. Even at night it would fly. In the morning, Lady Emmer would know of her father's need for her at Varen's keep.

  As the bird swooped from the aerie, Omell turned to the white skinned man. “This seer you and the islander spoke of, the part Akashii...”

  “Well, what about her?” Varen snapped impatiently.

  Omell struggled to put her half-formed feelings into perspective. “I would like to meet her, yet I have the impression she will pose a great threat to us.”

  “And what is this particular impression based upon?” Varen almost sneered, the sarcastic tones of his voice hiding the faint concern he felt at the girl's pronouncement. Although the seer was no sorceress or magus, she belonged to a powerful order. It would be wise to be rid of her as soon as possible.

  “A feeling I have, that's all,” Omell shrugged, apologetic, wishing she'd not spoken without harder facts to back her words with. To her surprise Varen nodded, resting his hand on her shoulder, the tongue-lashing she'd expected not forthcoming. Instead, the lord guided her, quite gently, from the aerie.

  “I agree with you. We shall have to find some way of dealing with this seer,” he murmured. And remembered the other seer, the night-shaper, wondering how close a friendship existed between the two.

  ***

  As she sat working embroidery with her women, a servant approached Emmer, bowed deferentially and handed her a small tube, curved to fit a bird's leg. She paused in her work, read the message, then read it again. Her father wanted her to set sail for Varen's keep immediately, yet offered no reason for the directive. Puzzle
d, the young woman called to her maids, told the servant to have Lord Kendrew meet her in her rooms, then left her needlework and headed there herself.

  With her usual decisiveness, Emmer indicated which clothes she required for the journey, sent word to have the fastest ship in her father's fleet made ready, and told her cousin, when Kendrew arrived, that he would once more be in charge of the isles.

  Stoic and unflappable, Kendrew stood like a stout rock while Emmer's maids carrying armfuls of clothes, jewelry, bags and other things he couldn't quite identify, swept around him like the frothing foam of the sea, chattering excitedly at the sudden prospect of travel and re-hashing the old and sometimes fearsome tales about Lord Varen.

  “Your father says nothing of the need for you to join him?” her older cousin asked as Emmer passed him. She stopped and turned back.

  “No, only of the urgency. But I suspect it has something to do with Varen himself,” she replied, having gone through various reasons in her mind and finally settling on one in which she was a trading point for Varen's services. It didn't overly appeal to her, but she was practical enough to have realized long ago the fate of a lord's female offspring; it only being a matter of time before she too followed the path of many a noble-born young woman into a relationship that had little to do with love. Besides, she knew her father well enough to realize once Seric was free and Morgan dead, Rainard would have no further need of Lord Varen, and would find some way to be rid of him.

  “Have a care, cousin,” Kendrew warned. “I have travelled through Varen's lands more than a few times, and spoken with his vassals. He's not a man to play games with, as many have found to their disadvantage.”

  “I shall bear what you say in mind,” she unclipped a ring of keys from her belt and separated a small bunch. “These are to the treasure house and armory, and other places which should remain locked,” she added with a faint smile. Kendrew nodded, knowing to what she referred, and accepted the keys, fastening them securely to his own belt and tucking them safe behind the broad band of thick leather.

  “I'll order horses to take you to the harbor and a cart for your luggage,” he offered.

  “Thank you, cousin. We should be ready within the hour.” Emmer smiled, and resumed packing.

  ***

  Days later, as afternoon drew to a close, the young woman caught her first glimpse of Varen's keep, a dark, irregular shadow on the moor. Unconsciously, she gathered her travelling cloak closer around her as the sudden chill of the wind cut through the tightly woven material. Had her father and brother not been in that keep, she would have turned back for home, as her instincts urged her to now. Instead, they rode nearer; Emmer, her two maids and three warriors serving as bodyguards. Soon she was able to pick out individual details – the small cluster of cots huddled apart from the old, dark keep. The walls that once encircled the buildings had fallen into disrepair with gaps in them wide enough to drive a flock of sheep through. A few wisps of smoke rose from cooking fires inside the cottages, but that was the only sign of life around the keep. That, and the hawk that had gracefully paced them high above for the last three hours, or at least had seemed to, for now it uttered a single cry and wheeled away, flying west over the moor, following the lowering sun. Tearing her eyes from the bird, Emmer touched her heels to her horse's sides and urged it on towards the keep.

  Passing the squat, unlovely cots the small group of islanders felt curious, and unfriendly, eyes watching. Shadows moved behind windows darkened with wind-blown grime; once a door banged shut, but during the time it took to reach the keep gates, they saw not even a single inhabitant. As the horses halted before the iron studded double gates, one was opened just far enough for them to enter, then quickly shut and barred after them.

  Looking round the tiny courtyard, Emmer wondered if the sun ever shone down on it. Used to the open land and almost white stone of her island home, she felt as though the black walls of the keep were closing in on her. Swallowing hard the rising panic, she waited, outwardly calm, while her bodyguards dismounted and one came forward to assist her. The manservant who had barred the gate stood watching, silent and unmoving, until all the small party had dismounted. Then he and two other servants who had suddenly appeared took the reins of their horses and the lead ropes of the pack ponies and led them away.

  “Lady Emmer.”

  A soft, yet faintly sinister voice spoke her name. Startled, she spun round; close behind her stood a green eyed man with incredibly pale skin. Recovering from her shock, Emmer noted the man's leanness, the strands of silver in his black hair, his good looks, and above all, the aura of power that clothed him.

  “Lord Varen,” she greeted, glad that her own voice remained strong and clear, and held out her hand to the man. Smiling slightly, he took it with his cold white fingers and raised it to his pale lips. Emmer flinched, unable to stop herself, as Varen's cool kiss seemed to burn her flesh.

  “Welcome to my keep. I trust your journey was trouble-free?” Varen enquired lightly, ignoring Emmer's involuntary jerk of the hand.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, finding herself half-attracted and half-repulsed by the strange, white-skinned lord.

  “Good. It has been many years since such beauty has graced my home,” he said, taking her arm and leading her inside. “And I fear you may find it lacking a woman's touch. My ward lives here with me, though she is still but a child and unskilled in the finer arts of life. The servants will take your luggage to your rooms. Would you prefer to go with them, or see your father first?”

  “I would like to speak with my father; his message to me was somewhat brief,” Emmer stated, while her eyes were busy taking in every detail of the chill, dim corridor they walked.

  “As you wish. Your father waits in here, my lady. I shall let you speak in private.”

  Wondering at the amusement that laced Varen’s words, Emmer thanked him with a brief bow of her golden head, then turned to the door he opened. Rainard stood before a blazing fire staring into the flames, but as Varen closed the door, he looked up and smiled fondly at his daughter. Then he told her the reason for her being here.

  “I suspected as much,” she sighed when Rainard had finished speaking. “Although I do not look forward to it with much eagerness.”

  “Have no fear, my dear,” Rainard whispered in her ear as he embraced his daughter, “I do not expect this marriage to be of any great duration.”

  “A similar thought had crossed my mind,” she admitted. “When is the ceremony to take place?”

  “In the morning,” Rainard said heavily.

  “So soon!”

  “Aye. He will not begin the opening until you are wed.”

  Emmer moved from Rainard's arms and paced the small ante-room, cloak swishing angrily around her feet. “Ah well,” she sighed, turning back to her father, “soonest begun, soonest done.”

  Chapter 29 – Liath & Azqueh

  Liath woke, bed sheets tangled round her legs and thin shift stuck with sweat to her body. Kicking free of the sheets, she sat up and pushed back the damp mass of curly hair from her face. Then she got out of bed and anxiously looked around the end of the lattice screen dividing that part of the L-shaped room from the living area. To her relief, Druin sat on a stool at the table, busy making notes as he'd promised he would, knowing that his daughter hated to be alone now.

  “I need a bath,” she said, more to herself than the healer.

  Druin looked up smiling, “I'll get the servants to fill a tub for you, and I think a good meal is also in order,” he added. Since she had come down from the mountain Liath had hardly eaten, and Druin was not happy with her weight loss. The girl nodded absently and stared across the room through the window. Druin frowned, then went to his workroom, telling the first servant he saw to draw hot water for his daughters bath.

  An hour later Liath sat at the table picking at a small plate of food. The lowering sun shone in through the window, drying her damp hair and firing the red and gold strands
in it.

  “I need...” she began, then unable to define what it was she did need, pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. “ Where's Conna?”

  “In Mirris – his kingdom. Or rather, on the way here from it. Morgan sent word for him to return and meet up with Hurral on the way. They should be here in three or four days. Listen, why don't you go down to the hall for a while? I have a few things to attend to and Balin was asking where you were earlier.” Druin suggested, worried about his daughter's state of mind. She was becoming vague, easily distracted, leaving sentences unfinished, and forgetting things which had happened only hours ago. He wanted to tell her not to look into the other world any more. The prison world, Demora had called it. To ignore it and the feelings it gave her. Yet she was the only one here who could see it. Others, people sensitive to the land and different dimensions, knew it was there, coming closer into phase with each passing day. But until that place and this world became parallel, until just before its inhabitants physically passed through the barrier separating the two worlds, only his daughter and the Darkworld seer could tell them what was happening on the other side. But Demora had sent word that the Doman had called him back to Saybel.

  “Did I ask you about a priestess I met?” Liath asked suddenly as the event popped into her thoughts, bringing a spark of life to eyes that saw a dual-level reality. “She said she knew you. She wore green, but not of the warriors, and her face was veiled – I want to talk to her again – do you know where she is?”

  “You already asked me, Liath, and I said I don't know the woman. The only green-wearers I ever met were warriors.”