The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Miryam couldn’t manage the work of the mill alone,’ she said, smiling in remembrance, ‘so we had a day where all we women came along to help out, but we could not be a-figuring how to get the mill-wheel turning. We stood around for an hour before someone thought to open the sluice!’

  Pedrin ate and listened, grinning every now and again, his love for his mother rising up so strong in him he could not have spoken a word. She was so dear and familiar with her worn, narrow face and the great mass of untidy brown hair half-falling out of its bun and her big, wide, flashing smile, and her refusal to give Johan the respect he was used to, so that he was half-embarrassed, half-charmed, as usual.

  When at last he could eat no more, Pedrin rolled over and began to sternly question his little sister about his goats. ‘If Snowflake has lost her milk, I’ll bury you up to your neck in an ants’ nest,’ he said threateningly.

  ‘You’d have to catch me first,’ Mina said, sticking out her tongue. He swiped at her and she darted away, squealing, but Pedrin was too tired and too comfortable to bother chasing her. Soon she crept back and nestled in by his side, telling him with great pride how she had looked after the whole flock of goats, all by herself.

  ‘Ma wouldn’t let me take them up the hill, though,’ she said rather sorrowfully. ‘I had to graze them in our own meadow. Thundercloud warn’t pleased.’

  ‘I bet he warn’t. Did he bite you?’

  ‘Couldn’t catch me,’ Mina said with a grin. ‘Though he tried.’

  ‘He would’ve bitten you if he’d wanted to,’ Pedrin said. ‘He just knew you’d taste awful.’

  ‘I wouldn’t!’

  ‘Yes, you would. Like off meat. Thundercloud’s too smart to take a bite of you.’

  ‘He is not! I would not!’

  ‘Urrrgh, you would. Rank.’

  She pummelled him, and he pinned her down with one arm, chatting to Durrik and ignoring her squeals and kicks and bites. After a while, when her squeals of laughter were beginning to turn tearful, he looked at her in mock-surprise, saying, ‘Oh, you still here? I thought ‘twas a mosquito a-buzzing around and a-bothering me. Off you go then. Go buzz in someone else’s ear.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she flashed and went running off, all long skinny legs and tangled hair. He grinned at Durrik and ate another little honey cake.

  The sun crept higher. The tranquil waters of the lake parted and curled white before the high carved prows of the starkin’s boats. The murmur of conversation died away. All raised themselves on their elbows or sat up to watch the boats cross the lake, their faces sullen once more.

  It was almost noon.

  Slowly the long procession of starkin glided up the new white road to the tower built on the crest of the hill. They did not glance at the hearthkin, who had all scrambled to their feet and taken off their hats. They did not stare up at the tower, though it dominated the day like a searing column of white flame. Their hands were clasped at their breasts, their long robes riffled the dust, their grave eyes were bent upon the path.

  Pedrin did not have to search hard to find the tall figure of the dowager countess’s daughter. Dressed in sweeping robes the colour of old blood, Lady Lisandre walked beside the litter which carried the sleeping figure of the young count, her brother. She looked as if she had been crying. She was the sort of girl that tearstains suited.

  A small sigh from Durrik made Pedrin glance at his friend. He was staring at the starkin girl with a look of such rapt adoration on his face that Pedrin was moved to elbow him sharply in the side. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he whispered. ‘You’re a-drooling!’

  Durrik flushed red and put up his hand to wipe his mouth. Finding it dry, he flashed a furious, embarrassed look at Pedrin and turned away.

  Silently the hearthkin followed the starkin past the statues with their upraised glass spears, through the deep shadowy archway and into the heart of the crystal tower.

  It was like being entombed in ice. Although they could see out, the world beyond was cold and blue and remote. The glass walls soared up all around them, casting an eerie shadow on their faces. In the very centre of the vast chamber was a wide circle of silver, where astrological symbols danced and leapt and galloped and splashed. In the centre of this circle the unconscious boy had been laid.

  Pedrin and Durrik were at the very forefront of the crowd, who had parted ranks to allow the stout figure of the bell-crier through. The two boys had simply followed in his wake and so had an excellent view of the circle. Lord Zavion stood at a high lectern, his hands resting upon a panel of polished steel and stained glass. On the far side sat the dowager countess and the starkin court. The dowager countess looked ghastly. She was even thinner than before and in the bluish dimness her skin was sickly green. Her gown looked black.

  Durrik hunched his shoulders. ‘I don’t like this place. It makes me feel sick.’

  ‘Why should it?’ Pedrin replied practically. ‘’Tis just a tower. You must’ve eaten too much blackberry pie.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘For such a skinny kid, you eat an awful lot. Must’ve hollow legs.’

  ‘I was hungry.’

  ‘So was I. And Ma’s pie is mighty good.’

  Lord Zavion raised his hands dramatically. Silence fell. ‘The daystar reaches the apex of the sky, the apex of its powers. I, Lord Zavion, shall draw upon the powers of the daystar, source of all light and life and energy, and awaken the young count, trapped in this unnatural sleep. Watch and marvel!’

  The crowd of hearthkin shifted and murmured. Pedrin leant forward, wiping his clammy hands on his tunic. Lord Zavion made a sweeping gesture with his right hand, then slowly, delicately, manipulated one of the levers. With a grating noise the spire slowly rotated and then opened out like the petals of a daisy.

  A great shaft of white light struck down from above. It shone upon the young count, blanching all colour from his face. The sun was directly overhead, so bright none could look up at it. Everyone was hot and sticky. The attendants of the starkin ladies fanned them with enormous white fans of sisika feathers.

  Lord Zavion shook back his long embroidered sleeves, then gently nudged another of the levers. The circle of light narrowed until the young count was impaled upon its bright pin. Everyone held their breath. The court astronomer raised his hands and then, with theatrical slowness, pressed a button.

  A flash of blue light dazzled their eyes. There was a reek of smoke. The limp form on the pallet arched upwards for a few seconds, then collapsed back. One hand hung limply. His eyelids twitched.

  There was a sharp exhalation of breath from the dowager countess. Lady Lisandre sat forward, her hands gripped together anxiously. The court physician bent over the boy then stepped back, shaking his head. A low growl from the crowd, a restless surge forward. Durrik made a small piteous sound in his throat. His face was white, his teeth gripping his lip.

  Lord Zavion frowned and pushed the button again, this time not lifting his finger away.

  Another shock of lightning. The young count’s back arched, only his head and heels remaining in contact with the pallet. There was a horrible sizzling sound. His fair hair all stood on end. Smoke curled from his fingertips.

  ‘Stop it!’ Lady Lisandre cried. She leapt to her feet, wrenching her shoulder free of the restraining grip of the chief lady-in-waiting and diving into the circle of searing, dazzling light, trying to reach her brother. Immediately her whole body stiffened. Her eyes and her mouth opened wide. For a moment she was frozen mid-step, her arm flung forward, then she screamed, a terrible high thin sound that echoed around the shadowy chamber. Her knees buckled, she fell to the ground, arms over her head, still screaming.

  ‘No!’ the dowager countess cried. She too leapt to her feet, only to fall in a faint, her blood-red skirts crushed beneath her. Lord Zavion hurriedly lifted his finger from the button but still the blue, sizzling light poured down, the two children trapped within jerking and twitching horribly.

  ‘Stop it!’
Durrik cried. He scrambled forward, his crutch clattering on the glass floor as he threw himself down beside the sobbing, writhing Lisandre. As the hissing blue-white light closed about his body, his mouth twisted in a grotesque shriek of pain, his eyes rolled back in his head, his heels rattled the floor.

  ‘Out, out!’ Lord Zavion screamed. ‘You will overload the mechanism!’

  Smoke wreathed up from the clothes of the three children, who were now all arched away from the floor, jerking about as wildly as fish flapping in the bottom of a boat.

  Although everything happened in just a few swift seconds, Pedrin felt time buckle and stretch so it seemed as if everything happened very, very slowly. He had surged forward, trying to stop Durrik, his fingers just failing to close upon the cloth of his shirt. He heard a long wail wrenched from his throat. His eyes darted, from the three children jerking like broken marionettes in the circle of blazing, hissing blue light, to the heap of red cloth that was the dowager countess, to the avid, frightened, gloating face of her lady-in-waiting, the horrified faces of the other starkin and their servants, the terrified face of Lord Zavion, pounding the lectern, dragging at the levers, and then, flicking as quick as a whip, Pedrin’s gaze followed the Regent’s frenzied glance up at the long funnel of light, magnified one-hundred-thousand-fold through the curved lenses of glass and into this bolt of frizzling, sizzling incandescence.

  With no apparent hesitation, Pedrin thrust his hand within his bag of stones, dragged his slingshot out of his belt, and aimed straight above his head. His pebble spun high into the air, cracked against the curved glass lens above them, and smashed it.

  A hail of glass bombarded them. People screamed as sharp slivers sliced into their bare flesh. Everywhere people ducked down, hiding their faces, as glass rattled the floor, pinging off to score hundreds of little cuts on arms, hands, legs. The blue bolt of lightning vanished, leaving only that bright spotlight, all dazed and drifting with smoke. The three children within collapsed limply.

  Lisandre moaned and curled onto her side. Beside her Durrik lay still, his arms about his head. Then slowly he lifted his face. Blood slid down from his mouth. He pointed one shaking finger at Lord Zavion and cried:

  ‘Cursed is the son of light,

  Cursed the tower shining bright,

  Cursed the land withering in its blight,

  Cursed the people, lost in its night.’

  There was a shocked silence. Lord Zavion lifted his rage-contorted face from the shelter of his silken sleeves. Blood crept in a small, snaking rivulet down one prominent cheekbone. ‘How dare you! Guards, seize the traitor! Kill him!’

  Durrik struggled to his feet, cutting his hand as he used it to lever himself upright. Blood dripped from his palm but he did not seem to notice. He looked very small and frail, standing there alone in the circle of light. His eyes were like pits of darkness, the pupils so greatly dilated none of the blue could be seen. Again he spoke, and although he was only a boy, his words rang in every corner of the great glass chamber.

  ‘Under winter’s cold shroud, the son of light

  lies Though the summer sun burns high in the skies.

  With the last petal of the starthorn tree

  His wandering spirit shall at last slip free,

  Nothing can save him from this bitter curse,

  But the turning of time itself inverse.

  If those long apart can together be spun

  Six separate threads woven into one,

  Two seeking destiny in heaven’s countless eyes,

  Two of the old blood, children of the wise,

  Two iron-bound, that tend the hearth’s red heat,

  Six brought together can the cruel bane defeat.’

  There was a moment’s incredulous silence. Durrik’s voice and manner had been so commanding that none had sought to stop him, not even the Regent, who was livid with rage and consternation. The soldiers stood with their weapons half-cocked, an expression of fear and awe on their faces. As one, the hearthkin struck their right index fingers along their left, murmuring the names of their gods. The sight and sound enraged Lord Zavion further. He pointed one shaking finger at Durrik and screamed, ‘Seize him! Seize them all. The hearthkin shall pay for this!’

  SEVEN

  Pedrin darted forward, seized Durrik by the arm and dragged him towards the great doorway. The shards of glass cut his bare feet cruelly but he did not stop.

  A guard tried to seize them and Pedrin slung a stone at him that caught him full in the forehead. He dropped heavily. Other guards were closing in on them, but with a deep growl and mutter, the hearthkin moved to hold them back. A cautious, deliberate people, the hearthkin were slow to anger but terrible once roused. Now they grappled with the guards, seizing them with their great brawny arms, tripping them over with a well-aimed foot or knocking them down from behind. Pedrin was able to haul along his dazed and frightened friend without interference, while the starkin drew back, trying not to show their alarm, and Lord Zavion shrieked cruel imprecations.

  There was a loud clang just behind them. Pedrin spun on his heels, in time to see Johan knocking down a guard with his heavy brass bell. ‘Run, boys!’ he cried. ‘Run! You must not let them catch you.’

  Then he was seized from behind by two guards, struggling to drag him down. ‘Here, Durrik!’ the bell-crier shouted. He managed to free one arm and threw his bell towards his son. It tumbled over and over, clanging dolefully, and Durrik caught it in reflex. ‘Get away from here!’ the bell-crier shouted. ‘Hide out in the forest or on the mountain. Have a care . . .’ His last words were swallowed as two burly soldiers buried him beneath their bodies. Durrik sobbed aloud, straining over his shoulder to see as Pedrin dragged him away.

  The soldiers dared not fire their weapons inside the crystal tower, in case the brittle, translucent walls came crashing down. So they used their butts to beat down the hearthkin. Pedrin felt his stomach clench in sympathy and guilt, but he dared not stop. With Durrik stumbling along behind, he ran at full pelt out through the entry tunnel and into the brightness of the day.

  Their eyes were so dazzled they could not see but they did not pause, scrambling and slipping down the hill towards the boats. Pedrin heard a loud bang and saw a flash of bright light. He glanced back and saw starkin soldiers levelling their fusilliers at him. He thought he had been running as fast as he could before but his stride suddenly lengthened, the world flashing past in a roar and a blur. Durrik fell and Pedrin dragged him up again.

  There was a shout and another loud bang. Pedrin wondered with strange clarity what it would feel like to be incinerated. Would he feel his skin, his flesh, his bones implode into a white sheet of agony? Or would it be so quick he would feel nothing but a momentary surprise?

  He saw a tree beside the path leap into flame. Instinctively he bounded away, a hot wind scorching his arm. For a second the black skeleton of the tree stood within its halo of flame-blossoms and then it slowly dissolved into ashes that choked his throat. Beside him Durrik was sobbing as he lurched along. Inexorably Pedrin dragged him on. His lungs were labouring, his cut and bloodied feet were smarting cruelly, he had a stitch in his side like a spear, but gravity was pulling them down the slope, they could not have stopped if they tried.

  There was a guard lounging by the boat. He leapt up with a curse, fumbling for his fusillier, but Pedrin put his head down and charged, butting the guard hard in the stomach so that he fell with an oof! of expelled air. Then they were clambering over the side of the boat, the bell in Durrik’s hand jangling loudly. Fire arced towards them. Pedrin flung himself flat, dragging his friend down with him. The fire hissed into the water and was extinguished. Pedrin was able to push the barge away from the shore, poling as hard as he could. More fire spat at them, but they were out of range, shooting out across the water.

  All was tranquil on the lake. The water rose in silken translucent curves on either side of the prow, creamed behind them in a widening triangle of foam. Pedrin struggled to c
atch his breath.

  ‘Tessula’s tears, what happened back there?’

  Durrik shook his head. His face was very white under the smudges of dirt, and the blood from his bitten tongue was crusting hard on his chin and shirt.

  ‘Jumping Jimjinny, Durrik, what were you a-thinking? You can’t go a-telling the Regent his tower is cursed! You’ve started a riot. What was it all about?’

  Durrik shook his head.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You must know! You can’t have made up all that stuff on the spur of the moment. You’ve been a-muttering about it for weeks. And now look at the pot of trouble we’re in!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Durrik said miserably. ‘Really, I don’t know where it all came from. It just sort of . . . came.’

  ‘But you’re always making up riddles and rhymes,’ Pedrin said impatiently. ‘Though I can’t see the joke in this one!’

  ‘Really, I don’t know,’ Durrik said insistently. He swallowed hard, rubbing at his eyes with the back of a very grubby hand. ‘You think I’d dare get up and ask riddles of the Regent? He scares me silly.’

  ‘Silly as a merry mummer,’ Pedrin said in disgust.

  There was a short silence, during which Durrik swallowed his sniffles gamely and the goatherd poled along, frowning. Behind them a fleet of small boats and barges was hurrying along in pursuit, and Pedrin was sweating and panting as he sent their own little boat flying across the lake’s surface.

  Durrik looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, his voice quavering a little.

  ‘Well, that doesn’t do us much good now,’ Pedrin snapped. ‘You’ve told everyone Lord Zavion’s precious tower is cursed and I’ve smashed his precious lens, and now the whole bleeding guard is on our tail. We’ll worry about what it all means later. Let’s find somewhere to hide first!’