The Hidden Stars

by Madeline Howard

  “I see a ship,” said Cathaoch. The sound of his voice, so familiar and ordinary, brought Sindérian out of her trance, into the present.

  She sat back on her heels, breathing hard. What was it that had spoken to her and through her, out of the past? Already, the strange words faded from her mind. Hano? Hanam? No, it was all gone.

  But all the time she had been dreaming, Cathaoch and Curóide kept steadily rowing. Now they had reached the mouth of the bay, and the long waves and deep waters of the open sea lay before them. About fifty yards ahead, a dark indeterminate shape rose up against the deep lavender sky, blotting out the last dim stars.

  Faolein rose awkwardly to his feet and called out a greeting. There was a sudden blaze of torchlight ahead, and the shadowy bulk took on the lines of a ship, one of the light, fleet caravels of the Thäerian navy. Gold glistened on her prow, but the customary line of shields along her bulwarks had been stripped away, her figurehead removed.

  Someone on board returned his hail. “Is that you, Master Wizard?”

  “It is,” said Faolein, his voice sounding thin and shrill against the wind.

  With a dozen strokes of the oars, Curóide and Cathaoch brought the rowboat in close beside the hull. Someone tossed a rope ladder down the side, and the wizard reached out and caught it. Sindérian watched her father ascend into the torchlight. Then it was her turn.

  “Go safely,” she heard Curóide say behind her, as she took the prickly salt-crusted ropes between her two hands, put a foot on the first rung, and pulled herself up. Her legs tangled in her long cloak and full skirts, impeding her progress, but just as her fingers fastened on the top rung, a pale, delicate-looking hand reached out from above, grasped her by the wrist, and heaved her up and over the side with surprising strength.

  A thin, hard arm came out to steady her as she landed feetfirst on the deck; then arm and hand withdrew. She stood blinking like an owl in the glare of the torches, waiting for her eyes to adjust, while indistinct shapes milled around her, dark against the light. Gradually, those figures grew sharper, took on recognizable human features, so that she was able to identify them: some weather-beaten sailors in rough clothing, three men-at-arms in glittering mail, and a slender youth in a long velvet cloak, his silvery-fair hair held back by a golden circlet.

  “We had expected to see your cousin: Prince Ailbhan,” Faolein was saying. He wrinkled his narrow brow, cast uneasy sidelong glances both left and right. “No one told us of this change in plans.”

  The answer came in a musical baritone, unexpectedly rich and deep. “It was my grandfather’s decision that I should come in Ailbhan’s place. Though, in truth, I believe the suggestion came from Elidûc. He had a dream, or a premonition, I know not what.”

  The frown between Faolein’s eyes smoothed out. “Well, then, perhaps it’s a good sign, after all. If a seer so wise and farseeing as Elidûc chooses you for this task—”

  “I fear it was very much otherwise. That is, the wizard had no clear idea who ought to go, he was merely quite certain that my kinsman should not.”

  All during this exchange, the fair-haired stranger looked not at the father but at the daughter, examining her face, and what could be seen of her figure under the long black cloak, with a bold direct gaze that Sindérian thought insolent and impertinent.

  Perhaps becoming aware of the Prince’s interest—perhaps just remembering what was due to the High King’s grandson—Faolein made the belated introduction. “My daughter, Sindérian Faellanëos, Lord Prince. My dear, they have sent Prince Ruan in his cousin’s place.”

  “So I see,” replied Sindérian, making a slight curtsy, then looking away. Of Prince Ruan she knew very little, aside from a reputation for reckless courage and the curious circumstances surrounding his birth. Yet nothing, she thought, could have possibly prepared her for his pale unearthly beauty—or for the bright, disturbing arrogance of his glance.

  “And the other ships?” said Faolein, squinting and peering out to sea. “What has become of the escort we were promised as far as Hythe?”

  “Unfortunately, there will be no escort,” said Ruan, shifting his attention to the wizard. “Just before we parted company, my grandfather received word of a fleet of Pharaxion galleys spotted off Nimhelli. Every available ship but this one has gone to the defense of the island.”

  Faolein looked more and more dismayed. “The entire plan made so hastily and with so little forethought,” he muttered into his beard, “and already it has gone astray!” Watching him, Sindérian felt a twinge of foreboding.

  “We might have waited for the other ships, but already Ouriána’s messengers may be ahead of us. If we don’t hurry, they might arrive in Lückenbörg long before we do, do the Lady some harm, or woo her away with their lying words.” The Prince shrugged. “These are my grandfather’s thoughts I give you, not my own. Even if our enemy knows nothing of this Lady Winloki, Skyrra and Eisenlonde are on the brink of war—may be at war now, for all that we know. There’s no longer any safety in the north.”

  “Nor anywhere else,” said Sindérian, under her breath. Though she did not mean to be heard, Prince Ruan, apparently, had keen ears. His eyes flickered back in her direction, a faint smile played about the corners of his mouth.

  “No, my Lady Healer, nor anywhere else,” he answered softly. “What hope we have is all in haste…and perhaps not even there.”

  The white rim of the sun rose above the horizon; light broadened on the face of the water. With a stiff breeze filling her sails and a bright sky arching overhead, the caravel Balaquendor coasted around the Isle of Leal, now running before the wind, now beating against it. Reaching the northeastern tip of the island, she headed out into those vast watery expanses known as the Thäerian Sea. For two days and nights, by sunlight and moonlight, she skimmed like a white gull over the waves.

  But the winds of that sea are capricious and fitful; they are never to be relied on. On the third day, Balanquendor was becalmed on a sea as smooth and clear and motionless as glass. The air lay heavy and still, the canvas hung slack.

  Late in the afternoon, when the helmsman sat drowsing in the sunlight at the tiller, Faolein and Sindérian appeared from below: he in a drab wool cloak over his purple robes, she in a long black gown of some rich, heavy material. A dusky silken veil, so light, even that breathless air might lift it, floated behind as she walked. While the wizard paced the deck with slow, even steps, her movements were restless and a little erratic. And there was a visible constraint, on her part at least, a series of indirect glances so that their eyes never quite met, which seemed to indicate a continuing dispute, some matter unresolved between them.

  After a time, Faolein turned toward his daughter and spoke, in his gentle, absent voice. “There is no use making yourself ill with anticipation. Even with favorable winds, we’ll not see Skyrra for many weeks.”

  Sindérian released her breath in a long explosive sigh. “I know it,” she said. “I know that very well.” Yet her pale face and her dark eyes, glowing with impatience, gave the lie to her words.

  They continued to walk, he calmly and deliberately; she with an energy barely contained. Clouds hung motionless in the sky overhead; the sun stood fixed in place with a dull sheen like brass. It seemed as if time itself had been suspended. In that great stillness, Sindérian felt all her conflicting desires rise up clamorous inside of her.

  At last she burst out: “It is true. I am half-sick with excitement, at the prospect of seeing my little Guenloie—my sister that should have been! I’ve thought of her so often over the years: where she might be and what she might be like, if she survived. Sometimes I think that I meet her in my dreams, but in the morning I can’t remember what I said to her, or if she even knew me.” Sindérian stopped walking and whirled around to face her father. “But the sooner we complete our business in Skyrra, the sooner I can return to the work I am meant for.”

  The wizard drew back, his usual air of vague bemusement giving way to a vague a
larm. “I was certain you would wish to make this voyage. Níone and I both thought—”

  “I do want to go; there is no question of that.” She made a wide gesture, as though casting aside any attempt to make him understand her. “But what I wish and where I should be—what I should be doing!—are very different things.”

  Faolein bowed his head. “No doubt I am being obtuse again. You must bear with me, my child. I mean well.”

  “No, no!” Sindérian felt a pang of guilt wrench at her heart. She reached out impulsively with both of her hands, took one of his, and pressed it between them. “You are always so patient, so good. Much more forbearing with me than I ever am with you.”

  No one, she thought, could ask for a kinder father—or a more difficult, ungrateful daughter. That he loved her she could not doubt, for all his reserve, in spite of his occasional clumsiness. But the differences between them—of sympathy, of temperament—seemed to be growing as the years passed by. The gap had became so great that she began to fear that no amount of love and goodwill would ever be enough to bridge it. Sincerely grieved at having wounded him, Sindérian lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it remorsefully.

  “I think you would prefer a father less patient, but with greater feeling and a stronger understanding,” he said humbly.

  Tears burned in her eyes; a lump rose in her throat. But before she could make any coherent reply, there came an interruption: a clink of armor and a low rumble of masculine voices as Prince Ruan and his “honor guard” of three appeared from below and moved toward the two wizards.

  Dropping her father’s hand, Sindérian turned away, unwilling to allow the newcomers to witness her discomposure.

  “It would seem that the wind has failed us, Master Wizard,” said the Prince, crossing the deck with his light step. The three men-at-arms—Aell, Tuillo, and Jago—followed just behind him, their bootheels striking heavily against the weathered planks. “Is there nothing that you can do?”

  “There is a time for wizardry, Lord Prince, and a time for caution,” Faolein replied. “‘Go swiftly and secretly.’ That is what the High King told us, and I can think of no better way to announce our presence out on the water than to summon a wind from some other quarter.”

  “Far be it from me to lesson a wizard in his own arts,” said Ruan. “Yet it seems to me, we could hardly give a clearer sign that we’ve something to hide than to sit here helpless while two powerful magicians do nothing at all.”

  His words came out on a light, even breath; it would have been easy to miss the challenge in them. If Faolein did, Sindérian did not. She felt a rush of indignation. Casting the twilight-colored veil over her face, she turned around and stared at the Prince through the thin silken folds, wondering if the challenge had been a serious one.

  But Faolein was already speaking, gravely and quietly. “Perhaps there is something in what you say. Yet any weatherworker would be slow to meddle with the natural order, when he had only been becalmed for half a day.”

  The Prince inclined his head, whether in mockery or deference it was impossible to say. He moved past Sindérian, stood gazing out across the still water. “I sometimes think,” he said, after a time, “we are not wise to depend so much on these caravels and carracks. If we were on a great Pharaxion galley, with two banks of oars—”

  “We are a free people,” answered Faolein. “Without slaves to power her, a galley is just as dependent on the wind as we are now.”

  The Prince half turned, gave the wizard a slanting look. “Free men can row as well as slaves. And with the proper incentive—” But then he smiled and shrugged; something in his face relaxed. “I suppose you are right. The symbolic value of a navy such as ours is beyond calculation.”

  “Galleys do well enough hopping from island to island in the southern archipelagoes,” volunteered Aell. He spoke with the accent of Erios; like many who hailed from the Lesser Isles, he was short and slight, with rough dark hair and clear, farseeing eyes. For twenty years he had fought in the wars. Before that he had been a fisherman. “But ships of that sort were never meant for our wide northern seas.”

  At this, a lively discussion sprang up between the five men. Listening to them speak—hearing them argue the relative merits of cogs, caravels, dromonds, lymphads, naus, and galleasses; debate the advantages of lateen versus square sails, the rudder over the steering oar; and then go on to dissect every naval battle of the last two decades—Sindérian soon grew bored. Seeking distraction, she took a seat on a bale of canvas and continued to watch Prince Ruan through her veil.

  That he was beautiful she could not deny—but what was he, or any handsome youth, to a woman still in mourning? Her first unfavorable impression remained, and she thought he was likely to prove an uncomfortable traveling companion, an uncertain ally. Still he intrigued her, this half-blood son of a Thäerian prince and a Ni-Féa princess, and she studied him for signs of his fairy heritage.

  Though he had a Man’s height and something over, his figure was that of a Faey: slender, wiry, and agile. From his mother’s people, too, came his triangular face, luminous fair skin, and silver-gilt hair—but the strange turquoise eyes were entirely anomalous in their shape and coloring. Trying to make sense of him, she found that she could not. Though he spoke easily and well, without affectation, there was, at times, a faint, contemptuous undertone in his voice—and always a disconcerting directness in his gaze—which seemed to set him apart and at odds with those around him. Did he, she wondered, have the keen eyes and ears of his fairy kindred, the other heightened senses? If so, that would go far to explain his manner, his air of disdain. This ship must smell like a stable to him, and some of the Men on it worse than beasts.

  For the rest, she detected in his posture, in his movements, a tension, an intensity, the promise of an extreme volatility, that was both like and unlike her own.

  So absorbed was Sindérian in studying the Prince, that what happened next came without warning. It was not so with Faolein. His sudden indrawn breath, his cry of warning, came just before the whole ship shuddered from end to end, and a shock of danger thrilled right through both wizards at once. A puff of sulfurous air momentarily filled the sails; then the canvas hung slack again.

  Springing to her feet, Sindérian threw back her veil and ran to the side. She leaned over the rail, scanning the sea from horizon to horizon. There was nothing to be seen, only a slow, heavy swell, which lifted the ship without breaking the surface of the water. Yet every nerve in her body tingled, and her breath came hard and fast.

  Meanwhile, there was activity all around her, as sailors came boiling up from below, and the Master of the Balaquendor emerged from his cabin. Their voices rose and fell, now questioning, now exclaiming, so shrill with confusion they sounded like a colony of gulls.

  Sindérian scarcely heeded them. The swell had subsided, but faint silvery ripples moved across the surface of the water. For all the heat of the afternoon, a creeping sensation passed over her skin, a piercing cold shot through to the marrow of her bones.

  Suddenly aware of Faolein standing beside her, she linked minds with him. Together, they sent their thoughts out over the sea for mile upon empty mile; then down through the crystal waters, past great silvery shoals of fish, mackerels, and tunnies, and eels, like veins of rich ores under the earth; and on to the colder blue of the middle waters, where pods of whales passed to and fro, ponderous and graceful at the same time.

  Where the seabed rose to an underwater ridge, they spied a lost mermaid city deserted since the Change: a maze of broken walls, fallen columns, and empty arches, of streets paved with agate and jade, all crusted over with barnacles or disappearing beneath overgrown seaweed gardens. A little farther, on another plateau, a hippocampus grazed on seawrack and sea lilies, its dark, iridescent mane streaming in an unseen current, black, blue-black, violet, and silver, and a gigantic green turtle, greater than any beast that lived on land, swam through an undulating forest of giant kelp with a ruined castle o
n its back.

  Deeper and deeper still the two wizards sent their thoughts, until they reached a place where no light was, where they were forced to make their own. There are lines on the floor of the ocean, like the ley lines upon the earth, by which currents of power are endlessly generated, along which power flows freely. They followed one of these lines until it met with another, where two mighty forces of nature met and merged at the juncture. And there they found what they were looking for, what they had feared to find, at the foot of a range of underwater mountains: a hole in the bottom of the ocean, darker than the darkness in those sunless depths.

  A hundred yards deep and twice that distance across, it gaped like a mouth with stony teeth. Shards of some clear crystalline substance were scattered over the floor of the crater. Something had been imprisoned there, bound to the rocks with chains of adamant, by the spells of ancient wizards. Something had slumbered there, unable to wake, unable to move for more than a millennium, but once again it was free.

  “What is it you see?” Prince Ruan’s strong, musical voice brought Sindérian back to herself, back to the bright world of light and air under the sky, and broke her link with her father. She realized that her hands were gripping the wood at the top of the bulwarks, and her palms stung where tiny splinters had worked their way in.

  While Faolein went up to the quarterdeck to summon a wind, Sindérian explained to the Prince what they had found. “That is what we felt just a little while ago: when it broke free from its prison. It will be many miles away by now—it must be, or we would certainly have sensed it. But it may come back this way, and they can move very fast, some of them. To call a wind seems the lesser danger now; these waters have become more perilous still, and we dare not remain.”

  “They move very quickly?” said Ruan. “But you haven’t told me, yet, what was imprisoned down there.”

  Sindérian shook her head, blew on her tingling hands to ease the pain. “A kraken, perhaps, or a sea serpent, or a great water dragon. There were many monstrous things that lived in the sea a thousand years ago. Men used to make sacrifices of young boys and maidens in an attempt to placate them, before the wizards of Alluinn killed all those they could and put bindings on the rest.”