Starman

by Sara Douglass

  “Roland,” she whispered, and stepped out of Azhure’s arms and ran down the corridor, laughing. “Roland!”

  Cazna watched with wide eyes.

  “Take the reins of my horse and enter Sigholt, Cazna,” Azhure said gently, “and when the bridge asks if you are true, answer with your heart.”

  Roland was stunned, but enormously pleased to see them.

  “Rivkah!”

  She hugged him breathlessly. “See who else comes, Roland,” and the next moment Azhure’s great hounds were baying about his legs, then a young woman who Roland at first thought was Azhure was crossing the bridge leading a horse, stunned amazement on her face as she found herself talking to a bridge. Then Azhure, more beautiful than Roland had remembered her, with three women and three babies, one of whom opened his arms and cried for joy when he saw the old man.

  “Roland!”

  Roland kissed Azhure on the cheek and took Caelum into his arms. “Azhure! Caelum! What? How? Ah, dammit…what news?”

  “Oh Roland,” Azhure laughed. “What news? Have you heard nothing since we left to reunite Tencendor?”

  Roland was almost quivering with impatience. “News? Here? We are so isolated that we think we live in a world of our own. How many months have passed since Axis led his army from here? How this lad has grown! And these babies? Yours?”

  Azhure grinned at him. “Roland, where are your manners? Here we are, having travelled unknown leagues in but an hour, and you want to keep us gossiping in the courtyard?”

  Roland waved them towards the Keep. “Food and a fire, and then you talk. Tell me, how’s my good friend Jorge? Still campaigning as if there’s no tomorrow?”

  Azhure glanced at Rivkah, then she smiled sadly and took Roland’s arm. “Roland, there is so much to tell.”

  Much later, as twilight embraced the Keep and Lake, Azhure stood alone on Sigholt’s roof, wearing nothing but a loose white linen shift, her black hair blowing in the warm breeze that swept off the Lake. She leaned her hands on the ancient stone and closed her eyes, drinking in the warmth and the life and the scent that surrounded her.

  When she opened them she turned, half expecting to see Axis standing there, smiling at her, his hand extended, his fingers flaring towards her in love and desire.

  But Axis was not there, only the night and the first stars above, and Azhure blinked back tears. Axis was far to the west, perhaps struggling through snow, perhaps lying forgotten amid the ice, and he needed her as he had never needed her before. She could feel that here, could feel his need and his longing reaching out to her, calling, calling, calling, and it was all she could do not to dash down the stairs and rush westwards clad only in her shift.

  “Axis,” she whispered, and turned her face back to the view below her.

  Behind its protecting blue mist the hills and town surrounding the Lake of Life had continued to grow apace in the months since she had left. Ferns, wildflowers and deep-swaying trees covered most of the hills, and dividing the thick growth were open glades and mown walks. The scent of the grass and the flowers wafted gently down, and before the sun set Azhure had caught the sound of birds and the cries of children as they played on the slopes closest to Lakesview.

  The Lake glinted ruby-like with the lingering memory of the sun. Its colour had deepened, Azhure saw, in past months. It was beautiful and mysterious and stately, and it throbbed with life. During the day, wrapped as it was about its edges by the blue mist, the Lake looked almost as if a giantess had laid her gown of red silk and blue gauze in the sun to brush it and then, distracted by some great matter, had left it for eternity to enjoy.

  At the Lake’s edge the town of Lakesview had grown, if not in size, then in maturity, for now all the buildings were faced with stone, and doors, shutters and windowsills had been painted in pleasant greens, dusky pinks and rich creams, complementing the grey slate roofs. Gaily painted signs swung over doorways, and most windows were lead-paned and gleaming. The residents strolled the streets, lighting lamps now, and exchanging news and gossip with their neighbours.

  No-one had left, Roland told her, for who would want to? The Lake and the hills provided all the food they could require, and the days were long and pleasant, despite the storms they knew howled beyond the mist.

  Roland had been devastated by news of Jorge’s death. They had been friends for many decades, had fought and wived together, and had somehow both thought they would die shoulder by shoulder in some desperate battle. Jorge had indeed died in a desperate battle, but Roland had been far away, concerned with his own gentle dying here in the mystical realm of Sigholt.

  Death was closer now, Azhure had seen that instantly. Where before it had lingered like some half-forgotten shadow in the corners of his eyes, now it stared full from his face. Roland assured her there was no pain, but his hands had trembled at dinner, and he had set his wine glass aside after only a sip or two. A month or so, but Roland would certainly never see his beloved Aldeni again.

  And Azhure was glad of that, for the Aldeni that now groaned under the weight of Gorgrael’s fury would have distressed him and made his dying harder. Roland was a gentle man, despite his warrior upbringing and occupation, and deserved the sweet fading of the light he now experienced in Sigholt. There would be no rage in his passing.

  Did Axis fade sweetly? Or did he spend his nights raging into the darkness?

  Azhure shuddered and only barely restrained her tears. Tomorrow she would leave, just herself, her hounds, her horse, and the Wolven, as Belial had requested, and race westwards. She did not doubt that she would find him, for the moon now fattened towards her full girth, and she would light the way.

  Far beneath her she could feel the tug and pull of the waves at the base of Sigholt.

  Azhure.

  She turned, not surprised or frightened.

  Adamon stepped to her side and put his arm about her shoulders, stroking her face and hair with his other hand. His dark hair, so like Caelum’s she now realised, curled about his shoulders, and the faint light of both stars and moon picked out the fine lines of each of the muscles of his body.

  Do not cry for him.

  She shuddered again, and his arm tightened about her shoulders.

  He waits for you, and yet is afraid to see you. He sits his horse, a corpse ten-days dead, and wonders if you could find anything left to love in it. He fears.

  As would I.

  Yes. As would we all. None of us have gone through what he has.

  Azhure leaned against the comfort of his body. What must I do?

  He fears the power of the Star Dance, Azhure.

  It has burned him fearfully.

  He misused it. With reason, surely, but he misused it nevertheless. No wonder it bit him.

  She wrapped her arms about his body. He was warm, and she could feel his skin quiver against hers. Help me to help him.

  That is what I am here for. Azhure, can you hear the Star Dance?

  Assuredly.

  Then let me tell you a secret, a holy secret, about Axis and the Star Dance. And he took her face in his hands and whispered into her ear.

  Azhure leaned back, her face shocked.

  Imagine, Azhure, what you have held in your arms at night. He felt her shiver. You have shared much the same relationship, Azhure, as exists between the Moon and the Star Dance. Do you understand?

  She smiled tremulously. I think so.

  It will become plainer, Azhure. And it is this relationship which will enable you to help him.

  I don’t understand.

  Later, my lovely, later. You have a long way to go, and a long way to grow, before you reach Axis. Many nights in which I will come back to you, and in which the other Six will come to you. But me, mostly.

  He let her face go and held her close. Azhure, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are the same colour as the grey blue sea as it crashes against the cliffs of the Island of Mist and Memory? And has anyone ever told you that your hair is the same inky black
ness that embraces the stars? And has anyone ever told you that your skin is…

  She stood back, smiling. “And has anyone ever told you, Adamon, that your tongue is far too sweet and your hands sometimes far too silky?”

  He laughed and kissed her, and then he was gone.

  When Azhure returned to her chamber she found a set of clothes she had never seen before laid out across her bed. She fingered the material, awed by its beauty.

  When she lifted it to her face, she thought she could catch Xanon’s lingering scent.

  For a long moment she drank in the scent, then abruptly lifted her head and stared about the room, remembering.

  A year ago tonight she had been deep in her labour with Caelum in this room. It seemed so long ago—ten years, not one. Then she had only been Azhure. Then MorningStar had still been alive, and Axis still refused to admit his love for her. Then Faraday had been her nemesis, not her friend.

  A year ago tonight. Yuletide Eve.

  38

  YULETIDE

  Faraday had planted Minstrelsea from Arcen to the Bracken Ranges, then through the ranges towards Fernbrake Lake. Now even Pig Gully, where Jack and Yr had once left Timozel wrapped in enchantment, lay deep in shade and soft song.

  For the past three days, Faraday and the Goodwife had been exploring the lost Icarii cities of the Bracken Ranges, with the Icarii as their guides.

  Over the past thousand years the Acharites had known the Bracken Ranges as a range of mid-height mountains, mostly so barren the only life they contained was the brown bracken that covered the slopes. But in the days of old Tencendor, and again now, the Icarii had known the ranges as the Minaret Peaks, and even though the recovery of the cities was barely under way, Faraday could well understand why. Every day another of the minarets was disencumbered of the enchantments that had concealed it, and every day another of the spires leaped towards the firmament.

  As in Talon Spike, most of the Icarii construction in the Minaret Peaks had been within the mountains themselves; Faraday was astounded to learn that the entire mountain range was riddled with airy corridors and chambers. But the ancient Icarii had built on the outside as well: cloisters leagues long that wound through the passes and arced about the slopes; gentle terraces that provided views of both Skarabost and Arcness; platforms and balconies from where the Icarii could lift into the thermals and descend from the stars; and the minarets themselves, great domes and spires of pale pink, gold and blue luminous stone that reached hundreds of paces into the sky.

  And about all of these soon-to-be-recovered terraces, balconies and domes would sway the Minstrelsea. The Icarii showed Faraday where she should plant.

  “Once,” they explained to her, “the Minaret Peaks stood in the heart of the great forests that covered Tencendor, their spires reaching through the canopy to greet the sun. Now they will again. This is the place where the Avar and the Icarii lived side by side, where both the Mother and the Star Gods walked and sang. Now they will again.”

  On the day she and the Goodwife crested the mountaintop that cradled Fernbrake Lake, she turned and looked behind her.

  “Mother, but I wish I would see this in its full beauty one day,” she said quietly, and the Goodwife looked at her in alarm.

  “But you will, my Lady,” she said. “Of course you will!”

  Faraday smiled at her sadly, then took her arm and turned her to face Fernbrake Lake.

  “Behold,” she said softly, “the Mother.”

  Below them the Lake glowed gently in the afternoon light, not as beautiful as when it was lit with power, but lovely nevertheless. Faraday had planted up the slopes to the crest, and now she would plant down the trails to the water’s edge, linking the ancient stand of trees at the far curve of the Lake to Minstrelsea.

  The Goodwife felt her stiffen at her side, and she looked at Faraday in concern. “M’Lady, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Faraday laughed. “Look!”

  The Goodwife squinted. Several dark shapes were emerging from the trees and pointing to where she and Faraday stood.

  “The Avar!” Faraday cried, her hand tightening about the Goodwife’s arm in excitement.

  Faraday had wondered if any of the Avar had ventured south now that the power of the Seneschal had been broken, or whether they would prefer to wait in the Avarinheim for her to plant Minstrelsea to their home. But here they were, at least five or six of them waving at her, and Faraday was thrilled. She would not have minded spending Yuletide at Fernbrake Lake with only the Goodwife for company, but the Avar’s presence made it special.

  Of the Avar people, Faraday had only ever met Raum and Shra before, and then only briefly. Now Tree Friend would meet some more people of the trees.

  But Faraday did not rush. An afternoon’s planting still lay before her, and she did not let her own excitement spoil that of the seedlings who would be lifted from their cribs and planted out this day. Their joy was the more palpable because of where they would finally find their rest; along the shores of the Mother, the seeding ground for the original great forests of Tencendor.

  So Tree Friend sang and spoke gently to them as she lifted them from their pots, and the Goodwife clumped behind, humming her cradle song. And behind both of them, careful to keep both hooves and the wheels of the cart well away from the seedlings, trod the white donkeys.

  It was late afternoon when Faraday completed her planting and stepped onto the grassy space before the trees. The Avar, six women and a child, had waited patiently as she worked her way down into the crater, and now they stood, some smoothing their long robes or tunics nervously.

  But the child had no such reservations. Evading the hand of the leading woman, she ran across the clearing.

  “Faraday!” she cried, and Faraday, recognising her, stepped forward and swung the girl into her arms.

  “Shra!”

  The child had grown in the two years since Faraday had last seen her. She had more than doubled in height, and had lost most of her baby pudginess. But she retained her friendly grin, and her eyes were still full of the beautiful liquid darkness that Faraday remembered. Shra wrapped her arms about Faraday’s neck and gurgled with laughter as the woman spun her about delightedly. The bond that had formed between the girl and the woman when Raum had presented both of them to the Mother had not tarnished during their separation.

  “Shra,” Faraday said again, but softly this time, and gave the child a final hug before she set her down. The six women had stepped forward until they were only three or four paces from her, and now Faraday caught some of their nervousness.

  The leading woman was a Bane, small and delicate, but she exuded the same power that Faraday remembered had surrounded Raum. Despite the apprehension apparent in her eyes, her face was calm and her mouth determined.

  “Tree Friend,” she said, then bowed, the palms of her hands on her forehead. “I honour you. May you always find shade to rest in, and may the paths to the Sacred Grove remain always open to your feet.”

  She straightened. “My name is Barsarbe, and I am a Bane of the Avar.”

  Faraday bowed and greeted Barsarbe in the same manner, then stepped forward and kissed the woman on both cheeks. “Greetings, Barsarbe. My name is Faraday. I am glad to meet you and yours finally.”

  Barsarbe looked startled at Faraday’s kiss, but she indicated the five women behind her. “My companions, Tree Friend. Banes Merse and Alnar, and Elien and Criah, both from the FlatRock Clan, and Relm, from the PineWalk Clan.”

  Faraday greeted each of them with formal words followed by a kiss, then she turned and waved the Goodwife forward.

  “My friend and companion, Goodwife Renkin. She has come to me from northern Arcness.”

  Barsarbe frowned and spoke before the Goodwife had a chance to greet the Avar. “Tree Friend, I would not have thought that one of the Plains Dwellers would prove a suitable companion.”

  Faraday’s face hardened. “I am a Plains Dweller, Barsarbe, and yet the Mother
accepted my service. And I have accepted the Goodwife’s service. On many days she speaks with the voice of the Mother, and every day she sings to the seedlings and gives them the heart to grow. If I have survived to stand here before you today, then it is in large measure due to Goodwife Renkin.”

  Barsarbe flushed at the rebuke in Faraday’s voice. “Forgive me,” she said, lowering her eyes. “We are ashamed that…well…”

  “Faraday, Tree Friend,” Alnar, an older Bane, stepped forward. “What Barsarbe means to say is that the Avar are shamed that both Tree Friend and the StarMan bear no Avar blood, yet one of ours birthed Gorgrael. We find it hard. Sometimes our shame makes us say words that we later regret.”

  Faraday’s face relaxed. “Barsarbe, Alnar…my friends. The Prophecy bends all of us in strange ways. There was a time when I did not want to be Tree Friend, when I shuddered at the sight of a tree and called on Artor to save me. But I accepted my path, and will continue to accept, and I have found peace. Barsarbe, the people of Plough, Wing and Horn must fight this battle together, and when Tencendor is finally won, then all will walk its paths together. The Mother chooses whom She pleases to serve Her.”

  Chastened, Barsarbe took a deep breath and lifted her eyes. “Tree Friend,” she said quietly, “we have made a bad start.” She greeted the Goodwife, offering her the same obeisance and words she had Faraday, and kissing her on both cheeks as Faraday had her. The Goodwife blushed and shuffled, but she managed to return the welcome, and beamed happily at the other Avar.

  Shra smiled, and took the woman’s hand.

  “Let us sit under the shade of the trees,” Alnar said, breaking the remaining awkwardness, “and share a meal. There are still some hours before the night is dark enough for us to observe Yuletide and there are many things for us to discuss.”