The Silver Star (Kat Drummond Book 11)

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  And, with a crescendo, a pyre of golden light rose into the sky, breaking the fog and letting the sun truly shine on this dark island. Many of the mutants who had not escaped fell to the ground, clawing at their throats to stop the leeches from being expelled. But, even the parasites that managed to remain in their fleshy havens were disintegrated as the light touched their hosts.

  I felt everything that she had gone through. All the pain. All the torment. To watch her entire race die by her own hands. To know it was not her fault but knowing how little that mattered.

  I felt it all.

  And I absolved her.

  The world went silent.

  With a retch, as if coughing up water, the last leech crawled out from the witch’s mouth, slithered away, and was crushed underneath Kyong’s boot with a squelch. He’d awoken fully, eyes more shocked than I’d ever seen them before as he looked at me. The others were doing the same.

  I ignored my gawking comrades, as I placed my hand underneath the witch…the nymph’s head. Her hair felt like a gentle stream, running through my fingers.

  The nymph’s eyes flickered open, and tears welled up within them.

  “I…I remember…” she said, her voice carrying the misery of a lonely sea. It brought more tears to my eyes, but I tried to smile reassuringly.

  “You’re free now,” I said. “They’re gone.”

  With my help, the nymph sat upright. She looked at her hands. Without the corruption of the leeches, they were a smooth and brilliant light blue. I had expected to see webbing between the fingers but found none. They were the fingers of a piano player. Sleek, long and elegant. Human, yet too perfect to be human.

  “I…felt them in me. All of them. And what they made me do…”

  She choked down a sob, and I embraced her. Just as the thundering of boots sounded down the street,

  The elves, led by Lianthorn, arrived, their guns levelled.

  “We saw a pyre of golden light, humans. What was that?” Lianthorn asked, glaring at us and the nymph in my arms.

  “Magic,” I replied, and was rewarded with a sneer. “But the crisis is averted. It wasn’t a sea witch’s doing. She was under the control of brain parasites.”

  “Is this her?” Lianthorn asked, taking a step forward.

  The nymph flinched at the elf’s approach. And then again as he drew his sword. I stood up, lifting up Ithalen and putting myself between him and the nymph.

  “Step aside. She has killed hundreds of my kind,” he said, his eyes dark and filled with rage.

  “She is a victim as well. She was not in control of herself. The creatures that caused this are no longer in her. She’s free!”

  “I will not argue this with a human. And I will not suffer an enemy of my people to live. Step aside!”

  I stared daggers into Lianthorn’s icy blue eyes, and he stared back.

  “No,” I responded, simply.

  Clicks of rifles being cocked echoed around us. Lianthorn took a step back, entering a combat stance, and lifting his blade to thrust, aimed at my throat.

  “Then you die with her…”

  The deep and melodic rumble of a horn blow stopped him. In unison, we all turned towards the direction of the sound. Despite the power and confidence that my magic had given me, this sight returned me to my mortal esteem. More than that. It made me feel like a child.

  Flanked by two Silver Star banners, held by elf men in traditional elven tabards, was a woman with silver hair, streaked with blue. Even from a distance, I felt the power of her quicksilver gaze. A gaze that seemed to know everything about me and everything else. It held warmth, calculation, judgement and forgiveness all at once.

  In her upright pose and gentle stride, this woman held a majesty incomparable to that of any Earthly monarch. It spoke of an ancient right of rulership that even the anarchist in me struggled to reject.

  I wanted to bow to this woman.

  Queen Allandrea. Ruler of New Sintar. The Silver Star herself.

  Chapter 21.

  Royalty

  The Queen spoke in elvish. I had heard the language spoken before, of course. Pranish and Candace used Sintari spells a lot. And I had heard it spoken by elves here and in Hope City. It was an elegant tongue. Free flowing. More song than speech.

  The Queen’s elvish put all that to shame. It was not simple speech. And not even a song. It was ambrosia. The essence of language. Hearing her speak the Sintari tongue, I understood its magic.

  Lianthorn hesitated, dropping his stance at the Queen’s words. Many of the riflemen dropped their weapons altogether, letting them clatter to the floor. Some knelt, heads low. Their reverence was palpable.

  But even as he wavered, Lianthorn kept his sword raised.

  “Drop your sword, Lianthorn,” the Queen said, in English. Calm. It was not near to the elegance in which she sang her mother tongue, but there was still a beauty to her words. A beauty, and command.

  “These are infiltrators, Silver Star,” Lianthorn replied. There was something about them speaking English that made the confrontation even tenser. “Anzac spies. And they stand in the way of justice. This creature has killed countless of our kin.”

  The Queen glanced towards the nymph, kneeling behind me and shivering. The nymph looked between Lianthorn and Allandrea with similar fear. After sensing what she had gone through, I didn’t blame her.

  Queen Allandrea stepped forward, forsaking the safety of the elf lines. Lianthorn, shocked, lowered his sword and backed away. Allandrea almost glided forward. She wore a dress of white, with a light blue cape. Despite the wind, it seemed to sway of its own accord. As unyielding to nature as the Queen herself.

  I stepped aside as the Queen approached and lowered herself towards the ground. Kneeling, she looked the nymph in her eyes. I saw tears in the elf queen’s eyes, glistening like falling stars as they hit the ground. Allandrea placed her arms around the nymph, slowly. The nymph hesitated, still vibrating with the terror of her ordeal. But, as Allandrea held her, her shivering stopped, and she accepted the embrace. Tears fell freely from both their eyes as Allandrea stroked the nymph’s long, watery hair.

  “Whatever darkness has befallen you, it is not you,” Allandrea whispered, and repeated the phrase in a language I did not recognise. It sounded like the wind and the current. Primordial, but spoken with a tongue that could truly imitate the elements. The nymph let out a choked sob and Allandrea held her tighter. Allandrea did not let go, until the sobs turned to sniffles. And then, ceased altogether.

  Allandrea stood, helping the nymph to stand with her.

  Allandrea spoke elvish to the assorted soldiers, and then English (perhaps, for our benefit).

  “She will pass. And she will return to her domain.”

  The proclamation brooked no room for disagreement. The elves parted like the Red Sea, and even Lianthorn moved to the side. The nymph took a hesitant step forward, then another. She turned back to Allandrea, and then to me.

  “I will free the others. Thank you,” she said, and she smiled. A faint smile. But it lifted a weight I only now realised I had.

  The nymph passed through the opening between the elves as we watched. Her feet did not leave a trace upon the sand of the beach, as if she was not truly real. But, we had all seen her. And I had felt too much of her to suspect that she was a mere illusion.

  The nymph stopped at the water’s edge. Breathed. Then placed her feet into the water. There was no transition or transformation. The nymph returned to her true form there. And became, once again, the sea.

  I had not been the only one holding my breath, and many of the humans and elves exhaled when the nymph disappeared.

  Allandrea turned to me. Without the distraction of the sea nymph and the elf commander with a sword aimed at my neck, I was able to examine her fully.

  Elves had sharp features, almost as a rule. Sometimes, sharp to the point of delicacy. Lianthorn was one of those elves who managed to make his sharp features look like a knife. Dang
erous. Tough.

  Allandrea’s pointed ears leant a sharpness to her features, but there was a softness in the rest of her face. It gave the impression of sympathy and trust. The look of a mother. Yet, she was not delicate. Her eyes, the colour of my sword’s blade, scrutinised me. Tested me.

  She smiled.

  “I was unaware that Anzac had come to recruit werewolves and ghosts to serve in espionage,” she said, humour in her voice.

  Trudie and Senegal looked shocked that she knew about their condition. But not as shocked as Treth or me.

  “You can see me?” Treth exclaimed, manifesting just in front of her.

  “I can, Knight of Avathor. I have touched the In Between and have been touched in turn. There are few denizens of the spirit-scape that I cannot at least sense. And your presence here is strong indeed.”

  She smiled, examining Treth’s armour. I saw flickers of recognition. Memory.

  “I have been to your home. Long ago. In happier times. When the Voidgates were still open.”

  Treth’s surprise turned to shame. He looked down. Sadness, I thought at first. But mostly…guilt. Allandrea reached out towards him and caressed his cheek. He looked up, shocked that she could touch him, but then sad. The sadness that comes from realising what you had been missing for so long. Only I had touched Treth since his death. And only for fleeting moments. Not like this.

  “You did not kill my kind, Sir Knight. You do not need to carry that burden.”

  Treth looked close to arguing. Allandrea didn’t let him.

  “Guilt is for those who did. Not for those who lived with what came after. There is no use in dwelling in a long dead past. There is only good in how we can use what time we have to change the future.”

  Treth considered her words, and slowly nodded. Allandrea pulled her hand away from Treth’s cheek and I saw regret and loss in his eyes.

  She turned to me and glanced towards my sword, the metal matching her eyes.

  “I know this sword,” she whispered, almost dreamily. My hand clenched on the hilt at the proclamation, even as I raised it slowly. She put her hands out, beckoning. I never wanted to part with Ithalen, but there was something about this elf that made me trust her. The fact that that was, in all likelihood, magic should have made me uncertain. But, for some reason, it didn’t. I held Ithalen out for her and she gently lifted it, stroking her index and middle fingers across the flat of the blade.

  “It is Nimue’s creation,” she said, turning the blade around to confirm her suspicions. “She crafted it while I waited for the worlds to collide, but she did not tell me who the bearer would be. Only that it would belong to her new champion.”

  She chuckled, shaking her head.

  “I had expected the blade to find its way into the hands of an elf. But that is natural prejudice. For all I had known, it could have fallen into the hands of Wu Kong himself. But seeing the pyre of Kath’uon again…it is right that you bear Nimue’s blade.”

  Allandrea’s words fell on me one by one, overwhelming me. She could see Treth. She’d been to Avathor. She knew about the Lady of the Lake and Ithalen. And she had given some sort of name to the magic which I’d used on the nymph.

  I didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Allandrea spoke for me.

  “This is not the new home of my people, but it is close enough. So, welcome to New Sintar, Kat Drummond.”

  “You…you know me?” I managed to splutter. I expected Treth to mock my sudden shyness, but he was still awed by his own experience.

  “It’s hard not to hear rumours of the flame-wreathed hunter from the Titan’s city. Your fame precedes you. Not many hunters can claim to have killed a god.”

  “I…I didn’t. And she was fae.”

  “Humility is a good trait. But unneeded.” Allandrea smiled, warmly. “Besides, I have heard more about you from a more familiar source. Your aunt has spoken a great deal about you.”

  “Mandy?! You know my aunt?”

  Allandrea nodded, a subtle and gentle motion that held with it a power that seemed to lift a veil from my mind. My aunt was alive! This had not been all for nothing.

  “Professor Mandy Caleb has been my guest for a few years now,” Allandrea said, with a hint of amusement in her eyes. As if she was imagining Mandy. Fondly.

  “This human is related to the envoy?” Lianthorn interjected. I had forgotten that he was there.

  “She is.” Allandrea said, her tone suddenly official. She spoke a string of elvish, and then looked at me. Considering. “Can you not see the resemblance?”

  Lianthorn examined me, and reluctantly nodded. Allandrea turned back to me.

  “I suspect you come to these waters in these dire times in search for your aunt.”

  I nodded.

  “Then you are welcome to my realm. Beset by kiwis, kangaroos and wolves, but still our home while we reside here.”

  She turned, her dress fluttering, and chattered some orders to Lianthorn, who reluctantly saluted and strode away.

  “You are all welcome upon my ship. It isn’t far to the mainland. You will sleep in the Star Palace tonight, as my guests.”

  Joined by her bannermen, she glided towards the coast. Wordlessly, we followed, Lianthorn on our tail.

  Chapter 22.

  Reunion

  “I never thought the first bit of New Zealand I’d see would be Wellington,” Brett said, with just a hint of awe as Allandrea’s ship drifted into the port of New Zealand’s old capital. The skyline held many distinctly human buildings, skyscrapers and office blocks. But, intermingled with them were buildings of elf design. Sleek. Almost leaf-like, as they weaved their way between their environment. There was almost no distinction between park and elvish tower, and the elves had even managed to blend their buildings into the human cityscape. If I had to define elvish architecture from what I’d seen, I’d say, adaptable.

  “What do the elves call the city?” I asked. The only elf within earshot was Ari, the elvish sergeant from Lianthorn’s unit. Lianthorn had taken his own ship back to port, but not before transferring the hostages to Allandrea’s. Ari joined them. I suspected to watch us. But Ari wasn’t the typical jailor. She seemed more interested in explaining aspects of New Sintari life to us and making small talk. If I closed my eyes, I’d think she was human. But her long ears, purple eyes and blood-red hair were a give away when my eyes were open.

  “At first, En’athel. But that was because of a misunderstanding,” she answered.

  Pranish and Candace both snorted in amusement. I looked at them questioningly.

  “En’athel means to be well,” Pranish explained.

  Ari sighed. “It was an unintentional pun based on a bad translation. The name is Wellington now, as it is named after a person.”

  “It is not unusual for conquerors to rename a city,” I argued, as if having a debate in a history class. “Why not call it Allandrea, or something?”

  Ari looked slightly taken aback. I stood my ground. The fact that she carried a rifle on her back kind of proved my point. They were conquerors. Even if they were more benign than we had first thought.

  “We did not build this city,” she explained, some red in her cheeks. “We have added to it, but it is not ours to name. History must be honoured.”

  Surprised, I didn’t answer. Most human conquerors renamed the places they conquered. Constantinople to Istanbul. New Amsterdam to New York. Durban to Shaka. It was tradition to destroy tradition. To rip down the vestments of the old. To spit on the history that was inconvenient.

  But Ari almost seemed reverent of the name Wellington. And ashamed at their own misunderstanding.

  Besides Lianthorn’s aggression, these were not the elvish conquerors I had expected.

  As if to symbolise my flawed expectations, Allandrea revealed herself, exiting her cabin with her hand on Ironfoot’s back. There was evidence of tears on the dwarf’s face. And he looked as if he had aged a decade. There was no more of that anger which had kept him going on th
e Honour of the Unforgotten. He had been cleaned of the blood and his wounds had been healed. The wounds that could heal, at least.

  The elf queen squeezed his shoulder and then stood up straight. She was tall. Most of the elves were. She topped Brett by a foot. Unhunched, I could now clearly see her face. I was shocked to see that she had been crying as well. But why? Could it be for Ironfoot’s sake? Tears of sympathy? Or some sort of empathy?

  I knew that many fae were magically empathic. Was the elf queen the same?

  The ship approached port and did not need to be guided in as it smoothly slid beside a quay. I had looked towards the quay and city for a second, not noticing as Allandrea arrived by my side. Soundlessly.

  “You do not share your spirit companion’s awe, Kat Drummond. But you are surprised. Why?” she asked, a formality in her voice that could only be performed by royalty.

  “I did not expect to ever come here,” I said, honestly, but leaving out my main surprise. That the city was still so human despite its elvish conquerors.

  “And did not expect to see human structures intact?” Allandrea asked, a hint of a mischievous grin on her lips as she looked at me knowingly.

  I shifted uncomfortably, looking away from her. “Are you a mind reader, your majesty?”

  “I am not your queen. You are a guest. You owe me no fealty. Call me Allandrea. And, as to your question. No, I am not. But I have lived a long time. And I have learnt to read people during this time. And to surmise what they may be thinking. Please do not worry. Your innermost thoughts are secret. The only secrets I can see are those you truly wish to share.”

  I must have shown her a puzzled look as she smiled, winked, and then departed.

  A gangplank descended from the ship and Ari led us to the exit. Allandrea waited for us. And, at the end of the gangplank, looking like he had a storm trapped in his britches, was Lianthorn. His ship was a speedier design. Designed for chasing down and fleeing enemy vessels. It was expected that he would get back before the queen’s heavier, passenger ship.