Starman

by Sara Douglass

  “No, Axis!” Azhure breathed in horror, her eyes wide, but he carried on relentlessly.

  “Azhure, as enchanting as they are, my powers are pitifully ineffective for what I ride to meet. I could hardly touch the small Skraeling force that Gorgrael sent down the WildDog Plains, and the force I now go to meet is five thousand times that size.”

  “Axis!” Azhure moaned desperately, hating the shadow of defeat in his eyes. “You have Belial and Magariz and Ho’Demi and the Strike Force—”

  Axis laughed harshly. “They will fight just as bravely and they will die just as quickly as Jorge did, Azhure. Now, if anything happens to me in the north, if I fail—”

  “Then I will have no further reason to live!”

  His hands tightened about her face. “No! You must go on living, for my sake and for our children’s sake and for the sake of Tencendor.”

  He paused, and what he said next he said only with the greatest difficulty and between clenched teeth. “Azhure, if I die, then let StarDrifter love and support you. He loves you, you are both SunSoar so you will be happy together, and he will be a good father to my children.”

  “No!” Azhure cried, striking his chest with a clenched fist, trying to twist out of his hands.

  But Axis was far stronger, and he held her firmly. “Yes, yes and yes! You will need advice and help and strength and love, and StarDrifter can give you all of these. Azhure, listen to me,” he said, grinding the words out now. “If I die then seek refuge in Coroleas. There you will be safe. There you can plan for the future—whatever that might be.”

  Azhure wept, not because Axis had planned for the future should he die, but because of the defeat she heard in his voice. Axis expected to die!

  After a moment Axis gathered her close, and they stood gently rocking under the shadows of the moon for a very long time, the waters of Grail Lake lapping a hundred paces below their feet.

  11

  THE REPOSITORY OF THE GODS

  That night the five gathered on the deserted northern shore of Grail Lake: Jack, the senior among them, Zeherah, Ogden, Veremund and Yr.

  Yr, who was to visit the Repository of the Gods.

  She was the first, and the others envied her, feared for her, and mourned with her. But she was the youngest, the strongest and the most vital, so it was fitting that she go first. She would have the furthest to travel and yet would have the best chance of reaching her destination.

  They stood in a line, using rarely touched reserves of power to cloak their activities so that they would not be disturbed.

  Jack waited until the moon floated fat and powerful above them. “It is time,” he said, and the others sighed.

  “Time,”Yr echoed softly.

  “Time,” said a melodious voice behind them, and the five turned to see who spoke.

  Yr’s eyes filled with tears, honoured and gratified that the Prophet should wish to witness her sacrifice.

  He stood there in his full glory, such as none—not even Jack—had seen him before. He had assumed his Icarii wings, and they could see that the Prophet was an Icarii Enchanter of such power and magnitude that he would humble all those who sought to oppose him.

  He was almost indistinguishable from the moonlight, for he wore a close-fitting silver suit that seemed to have been moulded to his body. It was of a material such as the five had never seen before, a closely woven, silvery grey, with glints of blue in its creases and curves that flashed whenever he moved. Behind him glowed great silver wings.

  The five bowed to him, and the Prophet himself bowed and acknowledged their service. They had done well, better than he could ever have expected, and his violet eyes were moist with gratitude.

  He nodded slightly at Jack—it was time to begin.

  “Friend and sister Yr,” Jack said, his voice as gentle as the waves that lapped at their feet, his hands folded before him. “There are few words that need to be said at this time. Our entire service has been for this point, which will, in turn, lead us to the final conflagration. We have all served as best we could. We have watched and waited and, since the Prophecy began to walk, we have guided. We have served to the best of our ability.”

  For some time they were all silent, the Prophet standing slightly behind them.

  “I would like to speak some words,” Yr finally said. “I harbour myriad regrets,” she began, her eyes on the moonlight as it skittered across the waters of Grail Lake. “Myriad.”

  None of the others, and certainly not the Prophet, begrudged Yr her regrets.

  “Myriad,” she said yet again, almost inaudibly. “I have enjoyed life in this OverWorld, although at times it has been petty and irritating. But I have made friends, friends whom I will now have to leave. Friends whom I may have no chance to farewell as they deserve. Friends whom I will miss and who will miss me.”

  The others watched, their eyes shining with unshed tears. They shared her regret. They had never, never thought to have made friends on their journey.

  “I have even learned to love a little,” Yr said. “I shall miss Hesketh, and I regret that in the morning he will wake and I will not be there, and he will never know where I have gone. I fear that he will mourn me for a very long time and that he will spend the rest of his life wondering why I left like I did. Wondering if I was well or in need of help.”

  Her mouth trembled. “It is unfair to him to end it this way with no explanations and no goodbyes.”

  The others listened and watched.

  Yr took a deep breath, and its unsteadiness betrayed her emotion and fear. “I will miss my health most of all,” she whispered.

  Jack kissed her gently. “Be at peace, sister Yr. You will be the first among us to share the mysteries of the ancient gods of the stars.”

  The other three then stepped forward, kissing her and murmuring words of farewell. Tears streamed unashamedly down Ogden’s and Veremund’s cheeks. They would all see her again, but she would be changed and would continue to change—she would never again be the Yr they had known and loved for so long.

  Finally the Prophet came forward, his silvery brilliance making them all blink. He rested his hands gently on Yr’s shoulders and kissed her on the mouth.

  “You will be beloved always for the sacrifice you now make,” he said. “And you will always rest in my heart. I could not have asked for better than you.”

  Yr smiled at him, tears slipping down her cheeks, but they were tears of joy rather than sadness.

  “Yr.” He smiled, and her breath caught at his beauty. “Yr, tonight you will discover one of the great mysteries of Grail Lake but you will need courage and fortitude to do so. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Prophet, I am ready.”

  He lifted one hand and ran it through her pale blond hair. “You will need my strength and my breath for the journey you are now about to undertake, Yr.”

  Then he leaned forward and kissed her again, powerfully.

  When he stepped back Yr’s tears had dried and she looked vigorous and certain.

  “I have loved each of you,” she said, then she walked to the water’s edge.

  She slipped out of her gown and stood naked for a few moments, letting the light of the moon wash over her. Then she raised both arms above her head, stretching her entire body and spreading her fingers in supplication. “Sister Moon,” she cried, her voice joyful, “show me the path to the Repository of the Gods!”

  Azhure murmured in her sleep and rolled over. Awakened, worried, Axis watched her carefully, but Azhure slipped back silently into her dreams, and Axis closed his eyes and relaxed.

  For a heartbeat nothing happened, then the moonlight that rippled over the waves flickered, faltered, then coalesced in one spot on the water a few paces in front of Yr.

  “I thank you,” she whispered, and she dived into the water.

  She swam downwards for a very long time, following the silver path of the moon. Her hair trailed behind her, glowing silver now itself, and her sharp blue eyes were
open wide as she peered into the depths. On either side of her the water deepened from blue to indigo and then to black as she swam deeper and deeper into the mystery of Grail Lake.

  She swam deeper than any human could, but then Yr was not human.

  She swam longer than anyone had a right to without breathing, but then the Prophet had imbued her with his strength and his breath.

  She swam even when others would have given up, sure that they were lost, but Yr believed, and that would see her through.

  And always the silvery light of the moon showed Yr her path and guided her into the unknown depths of the lake.

  The Charonites spoke of the legend when gods even more ancient than the Star Gods had made a gift of the Sacred Lakes. In a storm that lasted many days and nights, fire rained down from the sky and almost blasted all life from the land. When those few hardy souls who had survived emerged from the deep caves that had sheltered them, they had found lakes where before there were none, and mountains where before there had been only plains. They gazed at the lakes in awe, for then their waters were clearer than they are now, and in the depths they could see the vague outlines of what lay there.

  It was said that the ancients themselves lay sleeping in the depths of the Sacred Lakes.

  Now these legends were remembered only by the Charonites.

  But Yr was privy to knowledge that other Charonites were not, and she believed, and so she swam on.

  Just when she thought her strength would finally fail her, she saw lights glowing in the dark far below her. With her goal so near she pushed on with added resolve, despite the fact that her muscles were aching and weak and her lungs screamed for lack of air.

  The Prophecy was so close, so close, to achieving fulfilment that Yr swam on, empowered for the final few strokes with the certainty of eventual success.

  There!

  The Repository lay directly below her, massive, almost totally buried in the silt. Only its smooth spherical top broke the surface of the lake bed, ringed around its outer surface with soft lights glowing in an infinity of different hues. Its skin was smooth and grey, and Yr knew that if it was exposed to strong light it would appear as silvery as the Prophet’s suit or her hair as it floated out behind her.

  Yr swam over the Repository, searching its immense surface for the opening that she knew must be there.

  Ah! This must be it! Yr ran her hands over the smooth surface of the closed entrance, finding a dome of multicoloured gems. Drawing on the instructions the Prophet gave her three thousand years ago, Yr carefully struck individual gems with her fingers, listening to the chimes they gave off, revelling in the beauty of the music they made.

  Suddenly the music ceased and the dome sank below the surface of the outer skin of the Repository. In the next instant a circular door slid open and a pool of blackness appeared beneath her and, grateful beyond measure that soon she would be able to draw breath again, Yr gave a last powerful kick with her legs and dropped into it.

  As soon as her feet had passed the level of the outer skin the circular door closed silently behind her and, praise the Prophet, the next moment the water drained out of the chamber she had entered. Scrambling to her feet, Yr stood for a very long time, hands on knees, gulping in sweet fresh air, her body recovering from its arduous dive.

  Now that she was finally here Yr forgot her sadness and her regrets. As her body responded to the air and rest, a sense of sweet excitement filled her.

  She straightened and looked about. The chamber was small and plain, but in the wall across from her was cut another circular door. She walked slowly over and spoke in a strange language, which the Prophet had told her was the language of the ancients, and the door slid open. A softly lit corridor stretched into infinity before her and, confident and joyous, Yr began to walk down it.

  She continued for a long time and passed many strange things—chambers, caverns, closets and yet more corridors—but Yr knew her destination and she was not tempted to explore these other wonders.

  She was going to the great Well of Power in the very heart of the Repository.

  After walking some time Yr heard a dulcet song, hummed with almost breathless intensity, and she knew that she approached the Well. The magic that the Prophet had told her the ancient gods had once commanded fuelled the Well of Power, but Yr had not thought that it would sing so beautifully.

  Or with such deadliness.

  She paused before an arched doorway, open and ringed with light. Inside she could hear the Well sing. Not even the Star Gate, she thought, sang this beautifully.

  The chamber was circular, as was so much of this Repository, and in the very centre sat the Well. Yr was surprised, for she had thought it would be a massive thing, but it was relatively small, about twice the circumference of a thickened body. Its walls stood waist high, and glowed golden with the Power they contained.

  She walked over to the Well and stood there a while, staring at the golden Power within it, listening to its music. Then, sighing, she stepped forward so her lower body leaned against the walls, and plunged her arms and face into the Power that called to her.

  When Yr surfaced the four watchers thought she had not changed at all. But when she stepped forth, they saw her blue eyes glittering strangely, brilliant with Power.

  All longed to touch her, but they knew that to do so would be death. So they smiled sadly, nodded and silently filed away.

  Yr, after retrieving her gown, followed at a distance of four or five paces.

  They began the slow walk east.

  12

  FAREWELL

  The crowds had lined the streets of Carlon since early morning. Today the great lord Axis, StarMan of all Tencendor, would lead his army north to defeat Gorgrael the Destroyer. Once he had fulfilled his destiny, all would live great and good lives, and there would be laughter and joy for time without end.

  The air of excitement grew almost unbearable. Colourful flags fluttered from houses and shops alike, people leaned out windows, and street musicians attempted, in vain, to keep the crowd entertained.

  The army waited in orderly units in the fields outside the city walls. Any air of excitement was notably absent among these men, for most were hardened veterans of the wars fought against Gorgrael and with each other over the past two years. But each and every one was proud to be there, and prepared to fight to the death for his StarMan. The core of the army was the twelve hundred former Axe-Wielders who had fought with and behind Axis for many years. Their numbers were augmented by a variety of units, ranging from Ysgryff’s mounted knights, the softly chiming Ravensbundmen, the infantry of Achar, militia from Arcen, sundry swords, pike and spearmen, to Azhure’s squads of archers. All in all, not counting the Icarii Strike Force that would not fly out for another day yet, the army numbered some thirty-thousand men. All were impressively uniformed in grey, and all wore the blood-red blazing sun on their breasts.

  The uniforms, like the emptied laundry hampers, were another of the minor miracles that had swept Carlon over recent days. Axis had always strived to have his men-at-arms clothed uniformly, and ever since Azhure had arrived in Sigholt over a year ago she had been directing needlewomen to sew suitable outfits. But in recent months Axis’ army had grown to huge proportions, especially with the addition of seven or eight thousand men who had joined from Borneheld’s defeated army, and there had not been the time or the thread to give every man a uniform.

  Yet when each soldier had woken this morning, there at the foot of his bedrolls was a neatly folded uniform. Each one a perfect fit, each one a perfect match, each perfectly emblazoned for the rank of the man who would wear it, and each one perfectly unexplainable.

  When a messenger, breathless with excitement, brought news of the miracle to the StarMan as he sat at breakfast with the Enchantress, Axis turned and looked at Azhure.

  He raised his eyebrows, although he kept his face carefully neutral.

  Azhure flushed and stared out the window. After a moment she spok
e, her voice quiet.

  “I had a dream last night. I dreamed I saw a glittering army arrayed in the fields outside Carlon. I dreamed they all wore perfectly matched grey uniforms, all with your sun blazing across their chests. And in the dream I bewailed the fact that there had not been enough time to fit out the entire army identically.”

  Axis stared at her for a very long time. “Then pray dream me a great victory,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, and Azhure gazed at him, her eyes deep with longing.

  “Then pray me the power to control my dreams,” she said, “and I will do just that.”

  The Icarii Strike Force, uniformed in black, lined the balconies and parapets of the palace, their faces impassive, their wings extended slightly to ruffle in the breeze. They waited to farewell their Strike-Leader and his ground force, but they would join them soon. Several Wings had already flown to the lower Western Ranges to scout the north as best they could, trying to find the horde of Skraelings that they knew must be in Aldeni somewhere.

  Inside the palace Azhure stood with Rivkah and Cazna in the stableyard, the three women waiting to farewell their husbands. Cazna, not yet nineteen and the horror of not knowing Belial’s fate at Bedwyr Fort still fresh in her mind, was trembling as she fought to keep her emotions under control.

  Azhure reached over and took one of her hands. She was fond of Cazna, and not only because, as Ysgryff’s daughter, she was one of her new-found family—Niah, Azhure’s mother, had been the elder sister of Ysgryff.