Starman

by Sara Douglass

  The Goodwife browsed for some minutes longer, walking deeper and deeper into the gully. There! The claw-foot mint she had been sure she would see. These hills were full of good herbs, and wasn’t it lovely that she should be free to wander and examine them at her leisure? She straightened and peered ahead, then her eyes gleamed. Ah! The willow-waisted endura that would be sure to ease Faraday when…

  A rock hit her on the back of the head with well-aimed retribution, and the Goodwife collapsed unmoving to the ground. The eight Brothers sprang from their hiding places and leaped down the sides of the gully in ungainly bounds, restraining their cheers and contenting themselves with punching silent fists into the air.

  They had got the Fiend!

  The Goodwife was only stunned, but she did not have time to rise before all eight reached her, the two largest sitting down firmly on her back.

  “Omph!” she cried as another pushed her face into the dirt. Faraday!

  “What do we do now?” one of the Brothers asked as the excitement of the capture faded.

  The others thought hard. “Wait,” one eventually said. “Wait, until the Brother-Leader calls us.”

  Faraday did not notice Gilbert until she turned to pick the last seedling from the cart. He stood at the other side, his face red and sweaty, his eyes ablaze with fanaticism.

  He hissed, and Faraday involuntarily took a step back.

  “Gilbert?” She could hardly believe it. She hadn’t seen him since…when? Before Borneheld died, she was sure of it. What was he doing here? “Gilbert?”

  “Witch!”

  “Gilbert!” Faraday’s voice was strained now, her eyes flickered over the seedling still in the cart. She could feel her distress even from this distance.

  “What do you do, Faraday?” Gilbert asked, and Faraday recoiled at the loathing in his voice. And there was something else…

  What do I do? She thought frantically. Should she tell Gilbert exactly what she did? How could he not know! Suddenly Azhure’s warning about Gilbert and Moryson sprang into her mind. Faraday had dismissed Azhure’s concern then, but now she could feel nothing but danger from the man.

  And where was the Goodwife? Her eyes quickly swept the surrounding hills.

  “The Fiend has been disposed of,” Gilbert said, and Faraday’s eyes flashed back to his.

  “Fiend?” she whispered. Disposed of?

  “Now it’s just you and me.” Gilbert moved around the cart and Faraday breathed in relief; he had not noticed the seedling. “It’s time you died, Faraday.”

  It was the way he said the words, rather than the words themselves, that completely shocked her.

  “No.” She tried to smile, backing away another step. “Gilbert, you must be tired and hungry. That’s all. Why don’t you stay and eat with us?” What had he done with the Goodwife?

  Gilbert edged forward. “Evil, Faraday. That’s what you are. Time to die. Artor says it’s time that you died.”

  “Gilbert…” She backed away yet another step, her hands clenching her skirts.

  Gilbert paused and smiled strangely. “Why did you give up Artor, Faraday? Once you were as pious a girl as He could have wished. A suitable handmaiden to the god. Why did you deny Him?”

  “I found other gods, Gilbert,” she said. “More beautiful and more compassionate than Artor.” She took a deep breath and fought to keep calm. “Let me tell you about the Mother.” She reached down for her Mother’s power.

  And found nothing.

  Gilbert burst into a wild cackle of laughter. “Fool! Don’t you know I walk with Artor’s power now? Your pitiful Mother is nothing compared to Him!”

  Now she realised what it was that was different about Gilbert. He wore an aura of power about him that Faraday had seen in others. Axis, StarDrifter, Azhure, Raum, even the Goodwife on occasion. But they wore the power of the stars or of the earth itself, and what now shone from Gilbert’s eyes was none of that. It was foreign. Evil. It had cut her off from the Mother.

  “Artor’s power!” he hissed, and stepped forward, his hands extended.

  “Can your Artor be all-powerful, Gilbert, if so much of western Tencendor now supports forest instead of dusty furrows?”

  Gilbert blinked but didn’t hesitate. “Already Artor readies His plough, witch, and soon the trees will lie torn and broken behind His wrath!” His eyes flared, and in their depths Faraday thought she could see red bulls tossing their crazed horns.

  She screamed, turned to run, and caught her foot in a rabbit burrow. As she hit the ground she heard Gilbert’s boot crunch by her ear, and felt his hand grab the back of her dress.

  “Bitch!” he grunted, and she felt his other hand fasten around her hair. “Time to die.”

  He hauled her to her knees, breathless with excitement and with the fear he could see in her eyes, and reached for her neck. This time he would succeed, this time he would not fail!

  And felt, instead, hands creep about his own neck.

  “No!” he wailed, indignant rather than frightened. “This is my time!”

  “Right!” Moryson said, and his hands tightened so that Gilbert’s cheeks purpled and his eyes bulged obscenely. “Your time to die, you senseless idiot! This has gone far enough!”

  Gilbert’s hands released Faraday to scrabble uselessly at the fingers gripping his own throat, and she scurried back from the struggling men.

  Moryson! The old man was even more crazed than Gilbert. His thin brown hair stood on end and his blue eyes blazed with what Faraday assumed to be dementia. His lips were pulled back into a snarl, and his teeth gleamed with thin-roped saliva. He looked as dangerous as a rabid dog.

  As Gilbert wheezed and his eyes rolled frantically, Faraday felt the barrier that had prevented her contacting her power crumble. She stumbled to her feet and drew on as much of the Mother’s power as she thought she could handle, letting it sear through her body.

  Now Moryson and Gilbert were rolling about on the ground, locked together, and in the tumbling bodies Faraday could not see for a minute which was Gilbert and which was Moryson—and if she saved Moryson, would he then turn on her?

  There was a sudden wet crack and a whimper, and the struggling ceased. Moryson, old, decrepit and utterly, utterly deranged, scrambled panting to his feet. Gilbert lay dead, his cheek resting beside the last seedling Faraday had planted so that the shadow of its leaves traced peacefully over his cheek.

  “Fool girl,” Moryson snarled, “wandering about planting your pretty garden. Watch the shadows!”

  Faraday stared at him. The Mother’s power vibrated through her but, while she could feel Moryson’s anger, she did not sense that she was in any danger from it. Slowly she let the power ease away.

  Shockingly, Moryson laughed. “Do you know who I have just killed, Faraday? The last Brother-Leader of the Seneschal! He, he, he! Poor old Gilbert, murdered by his adviser!” He capered about Gilbert’s body in a ghastly parody of a dance, then he stopped still and stared at Faraday once more. “Faraday!”

  She stiffened, stunned by the command that rang through his voice.

  “Faraday, your friend lies trapped under the weight of eight Brothers. But they are a cowardly lot, and should you bear down upon them with the Mother’s power blazing from your eyes I think they will disappear faster than Skraelings before emerald fire. But watch!” he said. “Watch the shadows! Artor is not gone, merely his servant, and Artor still wants you dead…badly. Watch the shadows! Not time to die yet.”

  He pulled his cloak about him and some of the madness faded from his eyes. “Ask Azhure to help you, Faraday. If Artor comes after you personally, then only she can save you. The Mother’s power cannot help you against Artor.”

  Then he turned and hobbled away.

  Faraday blinked, and Moryson was gone.

  For several heartbeats she stood and looked at the place where he had been, then she picked up her skirts and ran to find the Goodwife, the power of the Mother blazing from her eyes.

 
Artor paced behind His Plough and his bulls tossed their heads and roared.

  Gilbert was dead…by Moryson’s hand? That feeble Brother? Something was not right here…in fact something was very, very wrong, and Artor could not understand it.

  And that made Him afraid. Nothing was going right. Gilbert had failed Him, and now those who had been banished walked again.

  Artor paced behind His Plough and thought. There was only one chance left. One chance where even if He met this Tree Friend bitch face-to-face, even with what allies she could summon, He would still stop her. Kill her.

  The one place left in this land where His power was all-consuming. The place where He had originally made mankind the gift of the Plough. Where the Mother could still be vanquished, as any others who stood to deny Him His right to this land and to these souls.

  One place. His place.

  Smyrton.

  34

  OF TIDES, TREES AND ICE

  Azhure pushed against the railing at the prow of the Seal Hope and leaned as far into the surging spray as she could, arms spread wide, laughing with the wind.

  They were close to the mouth of the Nordra, and soon, two days at the most, she would be in Carlon. And from there to Spiredore…and from there to Axis. Two days. She turned to look back along the deck. Only Ysgryff, the children, Imibe and several attendants had travelled back with them, and now Imibe sat on deck feeding one of the twins; Azhure refused to feed them. The Icarii, including StarDrifter, had remained on the Island of Mist and Memory.

  StarDrifter had been aghast at Azhure’s decision to take the children with her.

  “Leave them with me,” he had begged, “for their teaching needs to be continued. And they will be safe here.”

  Azhure had shaken her head firmly. “No, StarDrifter. The children come with me. You will see them again soon enough. And their teaching?” She had shrugged. “Caelum can learn from either myself or Axis, and if the twins refuse to learn from us, then they can stay untrained.”

  And it would not be such a bad thing, she thought, to leave their training for some time yet. Training would only give them the skills to make our lives miserable.

  Azhure had told StarDrifter little of what she had learned about herself in the Sepulchre of the Moon. She knew she was changed, and she knew the change shone from her eyes and in her daily demeanour, but she did not feel that StarDrifter—or anyone else apart from Axis—should learn of her true nature immediately. It would, no doubt, be revealed in time.

  And in the fullness of the moon. Azhure glanced above her, even though the moon was hidden in the bright sky. It waxed now, growing stronger with each passing hour it floated among the stars, and even during the day hours Azhure could feel its pull in the surge of the tides and the cry of the waves. Even now they called to her, Azhure! Azhure! Azhure! and the porpoises that flashed before the prow of the ship danced to the music of her name.

  Azhure smiled at Ysgryff who, standing before Imibe, regarded her with some bewilderment. None could understand her amazing return to vibrant health, but all rejoiced in it. Despite the vague news from the north of a disastrous battle, and of Axis’ crippling injuries, no-one who was with Azhure felt overly despondent.

  Not when she smiled and laughed and said, “It will be all right.”

  The storm had swept down over the remains of Axis’ army with the strength of Gorgrael’s full vengeance. Despite the decision to make for Sigholt, the driving winds and ice had forced the army to take shelter in the foothills and, eventually, in the mines of the Murkle Mountains.

  For three days they huddled in the mines, the healthy sitting, depressed, cleaning their equipment as best they could, the injured lying as still and as sightless as the StarMan himself in the dark tunnels.

  At least they were not harried by the Chatterlings. Ho’Demi spent some time with them, for they sought him out, and one day he reappeared from the depths of the mine grasping a rough wooden box.

  Belial raised his eyebrows at him.

  “I made a vow,” Ho’Demi explained, and Belial nodded. Ho’Demi had told him of his peculiar promise to these lost souls.

  “I was going to return after the wars were over to collect them,” Ho’Demi went on, “but here we are and they whispered and argued and drove me to agree to take them with me. So, here they are,” he held up the box and Belial stared at it in the flickering light of one inadequate brand, “and none must open it but me. None, understand?”

  Belial nodded again. He had no wish to open a box full of mischievous lost souls.

  Ho’Demi attached the box to the back of his belt where it did not hinder his movement and where, when the dark seemed particularly still, those close to him could almost feel the excited chitter, chatter of the souls within.

  On the fourth day of their incarceration the storm blew itself out. The scouts reported that the sky had lifted and lightened, although clouds still blanketed the sun. Snowdrifts littered the plains below the mountains, but, with perseverance and determination, perhaps they could begin their way east.

  “What do you think?” Belial asked Magariz and Ho’Demi, sitting huddled together for warmth. Axis lay beside them, but he had been silent so long that only the occasional twitching of his blanketed form showed he was still alive.

  “I say we leave this cheerless place as soon as we can,” Magariz said. “I would prefer to die under the open sky than in these mines.”

  “Ho’Demi?”

  “I concur, Belial. There is no point staying here.”

  “But what if this is a trap? What if Gorgrael has pulled the storm back to tempt us out? If a storm of that magnitude hit us when we had no chance of shelter we would all freeze to death.”

  All except me, Axis thought, listening to the conversation wash over him. I would be trapped inside a frozen corpse; alive yet not alive. What must I do to let this life go?

  Over the past three days Axis’ condition had shifted from the appalling to the abysmal. His flesh was rotting about him, and yet he remained stubbornly alive. And with each passing hour, each passing minute, his pain flowered.

  “The choice is yours, Belial,” Magariz said.

  Belial glanced at Axis and saw the gleam of the man’s eyes. It decided him. Axis could not be left to linger in this darkness any longer.

  “We move,” he said, “as fast as we can for Sigholt.”

  As Magariz and Ho’Demi left to begin the evacuation, Belial squatted down by Axis. “Are you awake, my friend?”

  Axis nodded his head imperceptibly. “I cannot sleep, Belial.”

  Belial felt helpless. No-one could do anything to ease the man’s misery. And what of the larger question? What of Gorgrael? What if they did get to Sigholt? What then? Where then?

  “It has all been a dream,” Axis whispered, and Belial did not know if he was addressing him, or speaking to himself. “All a magnificent dream. We were teased with a single moment of beauty, of hope, and then we woke to find that it was all a sickening lie. We are finished, Belial, finished.”

  Belial sat and stared at Axis and tried to convince himself that Axis was wrong. But deep in his heart he found himself believing him.

  “It is as you thought, Gorgrael, Axis lives and plans your destruction.”

  “I knew it!” Gorgrael howled and leapt from his chair. “I was right to pull the army back from the Azle!”

  Over the past week Timozel, while still leading the Skraeling host northwards towards Gorken Pass, had never ceased to complain about it. Daily he had argued and pleaded with Gorgrael to reconsider his decision, although he was careful never to push his master too far.

  While Gorgrael had insisted that Timozel continue north, Timozel’s arguments had worried him. Should he have pushed while he had the chance? Had Axis truly been crippled, even killed, by the power he had loosed on the Gryphon? Gorgrael had been racked with uncertainties, but now these uncertainties were eased. He heard only what he wanted to hear.

  “You are sure?”
he asked, his silver eyes narrowing at the Dark Man.

  The Dark Man bowed his head slightly. “Positive, Gorgrael. What would have happened if Timozel had been allowed to attack as he wanted? Undoubtedly Axis would have loosed more emerald fire on the Skraelings as he did above Gorkenfort.”

  Gorgrael shuddered, remembering. “Will I never defeat him?”

  “Oh Gorgrael,” the Dark Man said. “A temporary setback, nothing more.”

  “I’m sick of these temporary setbacks,” Gorgrael muttered.

  “You have the Gryphon, and they continue to breed well.”

  “And look what Axis did to the nine hundred!” Gorgrael said.

  “Ah, but can he do that to seven thousand, or seventy thousand? Even Axis’ power must have its limits. You need but wait, Gorgrael, and the Prophecy will work its will. Besides, it must come down to only you and him. No matter what your army can do to his, and his to yours, both of you know that it will come down to one thing.”

  “The final duel,” Gorgrael said, his voice calmer now, his eyes introspective. Then his head jerked up, for thoughts of the final battle had made him think of Faraday, and thoughts of Faraday reminded him of…“The trees!”

  “Ah, yes.” The Dark Man moved to stand before the fire, his back to Gorgrael. “The trees. They grow.”

  “I thought you said that Artor would stop her!” With each passing day Gorgrael could feel the forest growing. With the planting out of Minstrelsea, Gorgrael’s hold on the winter was slipping. Not much, but enough to cause him to halt the storm that he had sent down to batter Aldeni. And now he wondered how much longer he could keep the country south of Ichtar caught in its unnatural winter.

  “It’s all the fault of those SkraeBolds!” he cried, “for not destroying the Earth Tree when they had the chance!”

  “Water gone now, Gorgrael,” the Dark Man said mildly, turning to face him. “Plan for the future. Timozel can mass and regroup in Gorken Pass—and remember the destruction your army caused there before—and not even Axis with his pitiful army could drive him from that pass. And from there, Timozel can lead Axis to you.”