by Kate Diamond
Belest set his bag on the ground as a makeshift pillow and curled under the thin blanket in his coat and boots, huddled as close to the fire as he dared. He didn’t expect to sleep much, not on a rough and cold cave floor with an angry smuggler only paces away. Though he trusted that Seres would protect him and Miris if Harsa tried anything to harm them, part of him remained wary. But he needed rest, so he put those thoughts aside, closed his eyes, and waited for morning.
He was hovering on the edge of sleep when a strained voice roused him. Harsa crouched beside him, ears low. He’d removed the bandage from his arm and was worrying it in his good hand; already his claws had pulled threads loose from the fabric.
“The salve. I need more.” And then, “Please.”
But Belest was already reaching into the bag. The desperation in Harsa’s words had been enough. He twisted the lid off the jar and handed it over. Harsa sank to the ground and dug his fingers into the ointment. As he applied it, Belest got his first good look at the burns. Blisters stood out red and painful against patches of bald skin bordered by blackened fur. He shuddered to think of the pain. The small burns he’d gotten from Terthe’s Flames had barely been enough to raise blisters and even those had been agonizing.
They depended on each other now, whether they liked it or not. He and Miris needed Harsa to guide them to a settlement before their supplies ran out. And Harsa needed them, not only for Seres’s protection from the wild Winds, but also for the medicine Belest carried. His stomach twisted at the thought of holding that over Harsa, of denying him relief and leaving him to suffer if it would be useful to them. He did not think Miris would do such a thing, but the idea was there, and surely it had occurred to nem.
“Keep it,” he told Harsa when he finished with the ointment. Harsa stared at him, disbelieving, and then stuffed the jar deep into his own pack as if he thought Belest might try to reclaim it.
And as Harsa retreated back to the other side of the fire, Belest was certain he heard, muttered and low, “Thank you.”
◆◆◆
The sky was barely light when Miris woke, stiff and cold and aching, longing for the Dragonfly, for the thick quilts and warm stove waiting in its hold. For rich stew and hot tea. For the peace of the open sky. For the comfort of knowing where ney was flying to next, and when ney would get there.
Somebody must have gathered more fuel during the night, for there was enough to rekindle the fire. Harsa? Surely only for his own sake, if he had.
The others roused not long after. They ate in silence and packed their meager bedding away. Miris wished ney had thought to bring more pleasant food, but ney hadn’t had much time to plan, and hadn’t wanted to carry anything too heavy. Still, ney wished ney had brought the kettle.
They continued on, Harsa leading the way. Hiking over rough, snowy terrain soon became intolerably tedious. There was none of the space for thought that flight offered, not when nir thoughts were occupied with not slipping on the next patch of ice or with how much nir feet ached or how breathing the cold air scoured nir throat raw. And as if that wasn’t enough frustration, the paths were anything but straight, winding up and down along the edges of the mountains, so that every so often Miris could look back across a ravine and see the footprints they’d left hours earlier. The cold seemed eternal, unending. And this was spring? Miris could hardly imagine what this place must look like in the depths of winter. Ridiculously, ney found nemself envying Harsa his fur.
At least Harsa did not argue today that he was right to sell the Stars. He deserved those burns, for what he’d done. Ney caught him several times casting anxious looks at Seres. He had good reason to fear the Wind. He was very fortunate indeed that the spirit had decided to protect him. Why Seres had done so, Miris couldn’t imagine. But they needed Harsa, if they hoped to learn how he had captured the Stars, and learn who else was involved.
To Miris’s surprise, it was Belest who spoke first.
“How long have you worked this trade?”
“Seasons,” Harsa said, without looking back at them. Not a useful answer by any means. But at least he was talking.
“I joined a trader at Silverpeak,” Belest continued. Why was he telling Harsa this? “A Flamesmith, Terthe nib-Rathen. At Dawning Crest, we bought a box like yours, with ten Stars in it. I didn’t know what they were. I’m ashamed of that.” He took a breath. “I helped nem craft lamps with the Stars inside. I heated the forge and carved the Flamescript tokens.”
“Clever smith, to find such an obedient helper,” Harsa said, a faint smile showing on his face. Miris could have struck him, for that.
“We traveled to Reedriver, to Jinet, to Pyrch. Mostly we sold normal Flame-lamps and pretty goblets and bowls. But the Star lamps attracted eyes to our table, and slowly, they sold, and for a great deal of money each time. And then Terthe told me ney was tired of small markets, and we went to the Summertooth Fair. Miris found us there.”
“At Summertooth, right under our cousins’ noses?” Harsa scoffed, incredulous. “I’d have liked to see that. What a fool. But better than trying it here, where the priests might see.”
Anger rose up. “The southern Kejan might not worship Stars,” Miris said, “but now they know what you’ve done.”
“And you think they’ll guess it’s one of their kind who learned to pull Stars from the sky? Pah.”
That was what Belest had intended. If they could keep him talking…
“Does it matter who they think did it? Everybody at the fair that day, and all the clans of the range, know that somebody is selling Stars. And they will watch for them.”
“They know that such beautiful things exist, desperately rare and theirs for the taking,” Harsa returned, eyes glinting. “They might act outraged, but desire is a far stronger thing in the heart, Kejan and human alike.”
“No. It isn’t. I’ve seen person after person reject your trophies and seek to free the Stars.” Belest had. Arden had. Lyriam and Brena and Kirental and Fanrien and Kasrin had. Ney laughed to nemself at the situation Harsa had put nem in. Wouldn’t Arden be amused, to hear nem arguing his point? Yes, there were certainly people out there like Terthe, who sought Stars for their beauty, or for the high prices they could command at market, or for the chance to cage and own an immortal spirit. But far more would be horrified by it.
“The clans of Summertooth are watching. The guards at Tilsa are watching. The Ruenwin of the northern Aerie are watching. The priests in Brightstone are watching. A friend of mine is on his way to Miren to tell the keepers of the First Temple.”
“You’re lying,” Harsa accused.
“It’s true,” Belest said. “We caught some of your traders at Northford, by the River Kerden. Even having a mercenary with them wasn’t enough.”
Harsa snorted. “I knew Jaret would be useless.”
That told them far more than Miris thought Harsa had intended. If he knew which traders they had encountered, just from the place they happened to stop one night, there couldn’t be that many out there. Relief filled Miris. They might have discovered this early enough to end it before word spread to those who would play Harsa’s game.
“It doesn’t matter,” Harsa added, perhaps having divined nir thoughts. “There are others.”
They came around a bend in the path, unremarkable but for the cracked waypost at the edge of the trail. But Harsa didn’t continue along the ridge. He stepped off the trail onto a rocky slope that led down into the valley. Miris followed, cautious of every step. Nir boots could not grasp the uneven ground as easily as Harsa’s paws, and ney nearly slipped several times, each time sending a shower of stones skittering away down the ravine.
Maybe two or three ship-lengths down the mountain, Harsa vanished into a hidden cavern. Miris scrambled after him, heart pounding, and spotted the crevice. Inside lay utter darkness for maybe a dozen paces, and then the glimmer of lamplight led Miris onwards. The passage opened abruptly into a vast high-ceilinged chamber lit nearly as bright as daylig
ht by a constellation of hanging lamps and fires set into niches in the walls. Harsa was nowhere to be seen, and Miris had no way to know which path he had taken of the half-dozen branching off from this cavern.
Belest hurried in behind nem. “Did you see where-”
“No.” Ney cursed.
A voice rang out from one of the tunnels. A Kejan voice, for few humans could have made that sound. A grey-furred figure emerged from the leftmost passage and studied her guests with bright green eyes. She repeated the word, her ears flicking in interest. A greeting in an unfamiliar language? Or a question? Miris did not recognize the tongue. Neither did Belest, judging by his anxious frown. The grey-furred woman was welcoming regardless. She gestured for them to accompany her back down the path she’d come from. Could they trust her? Did they even have a choice? They walked for what felt like several minutes, following a route full of twists and turns that Miris was certain ney could not trace back to where they’d entered. Ney suspected that was entirely intentional, meant to disorient intruders.
Their guide refused to talk again until they arrived at a round room lined with deep stone benches. A Flame spirit sat in the hearth, filling the room with a warm glow. The stone behind it was engraved with a Flamescript glyph.
“I think that one has to do with light,” Belest whispered when he saw nem looking.
The woman motioned for them to sit, and they did, in cushioned hollows large enough to curl up in. When they were settled, she called something through a curtained doorway, and a few moments later, a black-furred Kejan emerged to serve them steaming cups of bitter tea and hot rounds of fresh bread stuffed with melted cheese. The food and drink was very welcome, as was the hearth. Miris, at least, felt warm for the first time in days.
After several confused exchanges, they finally found a language they shared, though none of them spoke it very well. Slowly, Miris learned that the grey-furred woman’s name was Triset, and she and Welon, the black-furred person, were in charge of… something relating to the entrance cavern. Miris couldn’t determine exactly what. Welon wore no markers of gender, and they seemed close to Triset, though Miris couldn’t tell if they were friends or married or something else. Neither recognized Harsa’s name. Miris tried to explain what he was doing with the Stars, that he had run from them, but either they didn’t understand nem or didn’t believe nem. Miris insisted, repeating the few words Triset seemed to react to. Eventually she grumbled something to herself and then something to Welon, who left the room through the door to what Miris presumed was a kitchen. They returned a few minutes later, leading a woman with striped grey fur and notches cut into her ears. She wore a thick robe the rich blue of the night sky, bordered with half-circles of bright green and silver and gold.
“We shall see if I can make this easier,” she said, taking a seat by the hearth. Miris took a breath, ordering nir thoughts, and told what ney had seen, Belest adding points where needed. It took some time - and another cup of tea - to get through the whole thing. Vessirn, as the woman introduced herself, spoke Arlanan quite well, but found Miris’s Trinetan accent difficult to follow, and several times Miris had to talk around words she did not recognize. Vessirn listened close to every word, and slowly, a story took shape.
“Harsa was a novice, several years ago.”
“Your student? You taught him?”
“No, no. I am a history-keeper. He was to be a Caller, a leader of rituals. His teacher was Daslin. Harsa did not like the work. Daslin became impatient with him. I argued that Harsa could enrich our clan in other ways. He need not be a Caller.” She tilted her head, a slight shrug. “Perhaps he could be a hearthkeeper, like his parents before him. Or something else that his elders had not considered. But Daslin was determined to impress him.” Her voice turned grave. “He showed Harsa the most sacred of our rituals, when Harsa was still too young to rightly witness them. And then sent him away for a year to travel the outlands, hoping he would return eagerly to the comfort of home and the wonder of the Stars. That was two years ago, and we have not seen him since. Daslin thought he had run away or come to harm. I believed he had found a place elsewhere. Somewhere he better belonged.”
“He probably thinks he has,” Miris said, darkly. In that light, all Harsa’s protests about making a living rang hollower still. He could have found his living in any number of places, and yet he did this?
Vessirn shook her head. “To steal Stars from the sky! It is unthinkable. How did he come upon the idea?”
“I’m more concerned about how he does it,” Miris said. “And if any others are working with him.”
“We’ve found some things that seem related,” Belest added. “But we don’t know how they fit together.” He glanced to Miris, as if seeking permission, and then said, “I think it has something to do with the Star rituals.”
Miris stood. “Would Daslin know more? Can we talk to him?”
“No. Daslin will not believe it. And he will not take visitors today. He is preparing. There is to be a Calling tonight.”
“What happens in the ritual?” Belest asked.
Vessirn’s ears dipped. “I cannot tell you that. I am sorry.”
Miris sighed. “Even so, thank you.”
“But,” Vessirn added, one ear lifting, “The Callers will pass by this room on their way to the ritual ground.” She paused, letting the statement hang in the air. “You must understand, the uninitiated and foreigners are not permitted to witness the ceremony. Daslin would be very displeased.”
Miris nodded, hiding a smile. “I understand.”
Vessirn rose and left them, giving a few words to Triset and Welon before she departed.
They rested there until night, or at least Miris imagined it was night. There was no way to tell time from inside the mountain. Seres was out there somewhere, waiting for them. Did the spirit worry? Miris brushed the sign for calm on nir wrist and got no response.
Triset and Welon were excellent hosts, even in these unusual circumstances. When Miris and Belest finished their meal, Welon showed their guests to a steam-filled bathing chamber where warm water ran endlessly from spouts in the walls. A few Kejan were already there, stripped down to their pelts and washing themselves by running damp brushes through their fur. Belest stood back, but ney took the opportunity gladly. The pleasure of the hot water was more than enough to make up for the occasional stares.
Ney dressed again and returned to the guest chamber, where Belest, wearing a somewhat embarrassed expression, offered nem a platter of sweets. The Kejan woman sitting beside him wore an apron and a cheerful smile. Miris took a piece of something chewy with nuts inside. The cook clearly did not understand nir greeting, but even so she offered her own in return. They shared not a word between them, yet her company was nothing but pleasant.
Miris watched Triset and Welon at their work and decided that they must be hearthkeepers of a sort, or lamplighters. Triset came and went from the room carrying torches and candles, and at one point Welon gave the Flame in the little hearth a handful of tokens of the sort Belest had said Flamesmiths used.
One at a time, their hosts finished their work and left them alone in the chamber. The corridors outside turned quiet. Just as Miris was beginning to fear Vessirn had been mistaken, two figures passed by the door, carrying unlit glass lanterns and thick wooden rods. They bore the same ear notches as Vessirn, though their clothing was different. The two priests strode down the corridor and through an archway. Miris recognized it. Fanrien had sketched it, many years ago. It had changed not a bit in the intervening time.
As quietly as they could manage, keeping their distance, Miris and Belest followed. The path wound past several more chambers, and then came a long stretch heading upwards at a slight slope, with no doors leading off, only lamps every so often. Someone had been through recently to light them. A novice? Miris shook off nir curiosity. It didn’t matter. The tunnel was painted all around, from the floor to the curving ceiling, with elegant patterns, stylized images of spir
its, scenes of Kejan that must have come from history or myth.
At last they emerged into the open air at the top of the mountain, in a barren crater maybe four ship-lengths across. At the center, three stone pillars rose into the moonless dark sky, each many times Miris’s height, and all of them carved with twining knots.
The entrance to the caves offered no place to hide, but the priests were utterly focused on their work, and did not glance back to see their audience. They took positions at the feet of the pillars. The first shouted something into the sky. When the last echoes faded, he began to recite something in a deep, resonating voice. A song, long and weighty and slow. The second priest joined in, adding a high melody that bridged the spaces in the first. For a long time, nothing happened. The priests’ song rose into the dark, cold sky. And then the Stars appeared.
First they were only little points of light hanging in the sky far out of mortal reach, but slowly, they drifted closer, growing brighter every moment. The Stars danced lower, lower, until they brushed the tips of the torches the priests held aloft and set them alight with blue flame. The flames leapt down, and everywhere they touched the wands blazed with cold light in winding patterns. And at last Miris understood.
“It’s Starscript,” ney breathed. “The carvings. On the columns, on the arch, on the chest. They’re Starscript. The priests are summoning the Stars.”
The Star-Touched Peak
Starscript! Belest had never thought that such a thing existed. Miris had said humans knew little of Stars. And so they did. But the Kejan priests knew how to talk to the spirits, how to summon them from their cold heights. And Belest knew what Harsa must have done. He had learned this ritual from Daslin, and mimicked it, perverted it, calling the Stars from the sky and using that strange Flamescript to freeze them dormant. The carvings on the case must do something to sustain the cold, or to keep the Stars in place.
The two priests finished their haunting song, lit their lanterns with the torches. The torches went dark as the light transferred to the lanterns’ wicks; the extraordinary color of the flame lingered a few moments and then faded into orange. The Stars drifted away to hang in the air by the tops of the pillars. Were they watching? Waiting? Belest shivered, noticing the cold for the first time.