The Hidden Stars

by Madeline Howard

  Whether by chance or design, his sorcery took effect too late to prevent the Prince’s ship being separated from the others and blown back out to sea. Driven by fierce winds, pounded by colossal waves, the galley was soon swamped. The Master stood on the afterdeck bawling out orders that no one could hear, and even the Prince and the gentlemen of his household took their turns at the pumps. By dint of furious pumping and bailing, they managed to keep afloat—though how long they might be able to do so was anyone’s guess.

  For a day and a night, the storm continued. Cuillioc was often on deck, lending a hand wherever he could, feeling the agony of the ship as though it were his own, as she was pounded by the wind and tossed from wave to wave. His face lashed raw by the gale-driven rain and his eyes streaming with salt tears, his voice grew hoarse and his lips chapped, yet he continued to work right alongside the other men. Again and again, he felt the ship raised high by a monstrous grey wave, then dropped through the air to hit the sea with such force that the galley shuddered from stem to stern. It hardly seemed she could continue to suffer such abuse without breaking up.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had sprung up, the storm died. The clouds parted, flooding sea and sky with warm amber light. Wind and wave subsided; air and water went utterly still.

  Rolling a red-rimmed eye at his nearest companions, Cuillioc went below, cursing his luck. First storm-tossed, now becalmed. He began to doubt whether he would ever see Mirizandi at all.

  Meanwhile, with the sails hanging slack and the ship floating motionless on the sun-shot face of the water, the Master gave orders to break out the oars. Down in his cabin, the Prince heard the by-now-familiar rattle and thump of oars slipping into place. Then the drum took up its monotonous thud-thunk, like a weary heartbeat.

  The slaves kept at their backbreaking labor for hour after hour in the relentless heat, faces red, muscles straining, skins slick with sweat, until word came down from Prince Cuillioc to drop anchor and give the men a rest.

  A short while later, the shipmaster, going in search of the Prince and finding him sprawled, sick and exhausted on his bed, was moved to protest. “Great Prince, there was no need. It’s not my place to question your orders, but in all truth the men were good for a long time yet.”

  Cuillioc put his hands behind his head, scowled at the man across the candlelit cabin. “We’ll not reach Mirizandi any sooner by killing the oarsmen.”

  The Master shuffled his feet. “They’re able to do more than you may think. And even if we lose a man here and there, I promise you, Great Prince, it will hardly matter. The ones that survive can be urged on to greater efforts, being that much stronger.”

  “In common humanity, then. And in recognition of their mighty labors working the pumps during the storm.”

  The man goggled at him. “In common hu—The oarsmen are slaves—criminals snatched from the gallows.”

  But Cuillioc had made up his mind. He had seen what happened when galley slaves were pushed too hard, the way the bodies of the dead—and sometimes of those too weak to continue rowing—were commonly thrown overboard to lighten the load. He had no wish to leave a trail of waterlogged and fish-eaten corpses behind him, all the way to Mirizandi.

  “We will wait here until sunset. If the wind doesn’t rise, the men can row all through the night, when it is cooler.”

  Shaking his head, the Master withdrew. The Prince rolled over on his side, pulled a pillow over his head, and lapsed into a restless doze, from which he woke a short or a long time later, trembling, sweaty, and hagridden.

  He reappeared on deck just as the sun was hovering on the horizon, about to dip into the ocean. A large flock of seagulls flew overhead, heading for the land. Cuillioc leaned over the rail, watching them grow smaller and smaller until they finally disappeared in the dusky air. A waxing moon was already high in the sky.

  Just as the sun went down, a stiff breeze sprang up. There was activity in the rigging, the sails were set, and soon the galley went skimming across the water far more swiftly than the men could have rowed her.

  Cuillioc went up to the afterdeck, where he stood sniffing the air. There was, he decided, a distinct scent of sorcery on the wind. Nor had he any doubt as to the origin of this highly convenient change in the weather. His heart swelled within him.

  Looking in the direction of Phaôrax, he folded his arms and bowed his head in the ritual salute accorded the Empress. “Thank you, Mother,” he said under his breath.

  And feeling that he had somehow been unaccountably returned to favor, he turned around and went below with a light step and a satisfied smile on his face.

  13

  The cell where the two guardsmen Jago and Aell languished was in a dungeon buried deep beneath the hill. How deep it was impossible to say, for the way they had been hustled—and sometimes carried when they refused to walk—had involved many long flights of stairs, spiraling down and down, to the very bowels and fundament of the earth it seemed.

  But perhaps that perception was exaggerated. Jago had an idea that his own furious attempts to break free, and the rough handling these had provoked, had greatly prolonged the journey. After a while, someone or something had hit him over the head, sending the man-at-arms into peaceful oblivion…until he woke in this place with an aching skull and Aell stretched out beside him on the dank stone floor, looking as bruised and battered as he himself felt.

  The charity of their captors had been scanty enough: two squat tallow candles, one wooden cup, and an earthenware bottle half-full of water. No other refreshment was offered, though hours passed.

  But at least, Jago recalled, there was beef and ale in the barracks before some mysterious order came down—before we were attacked and taken prisoner. He wondered where the Prince was, and the two wizards. Dead, maybe, all three of them. Even the powerful could be taken by treachery; no one was immune to that, perhaps the wizards of Leal least of all.

  In Jago’s experience, two sorts of men were most vulnerable to trickery: those who were treacherous themselves, and those so honorable that they never dreamed of betraying a trust. The middle sort like himself, essentially honest but highly practical, tended to see the world as it was, for whatever good that was likely to do them, being sworn, as often as not, to serve one or the other of the other two kinds and share in their troubles.

  The cell in which he found himself now was rough, unfinished stone, smelling of earth and stagnant water: more cave than cell, except for a stout wooden door with a barred window and some rusty iron chains dangling from one wall. Otherwise, there was not a bone or a rag to tell about previous prisoners. Even the rats had abandoned this place, even the spiders. Perhaps it had not been used for a long, long time.

  On waking, Jago and Aell had pulled themselves up off the floor, and they sat huddled together on a rough cot on which someone had placed a musty old mattress stuffed with moldy hay. It seemed warmer so, sitting back to back, or at least more companionable. But after a while the cold of the place wearied the soul, it sapped the spirit. Seeping past iron rings and padded jacks, it crept into the very marrow of the bones, turning the blood to ice. And they were already using the second candle. Soon, even that tiny spark of light, that meager warmth, would be gone.

  “I wonder,” said Aell, “if it might be morning yet—and of what day?”

  Jago nodded morosely. All hours were the same here. Sometimes, they could hear the echo of footsteps a long way off. But it was as difficult to judge distances as it was the passage of time; sound bounced off walls, repeated itself again and again and again. And whenever he or Aell left the cot to pace the cell, walking from one end to the other with restless, impatient movements, their own footsteps seemed to die underfoot, as though the floor absorbed them. “This place is uncanny. Why don’t they just kill us and be done with it?”

  “We have a duty to live and to reach that place we were going to—if we can,” said Aell.

  Jago pondered that for a while, sitting with his chin in his hands. �
��Perhaps we do,” he replied at last. “Though what we expect to accomplish there without the great ones to speak their piece and do all the persuading, I don’t know.”

  They both knew they stood very little chance of finding out. Barring the survival of Ruan or one of the wizards to effect a rescue, their own prospects looked dim.

  Whenever an earthquake struck and the walls shook, Jago wondered idly whether he and his old friend would live to be murdered on purpose, or maybe were fated to be buried alive accidentally.

  “This cell has been here for hundreds of years, and Saer has been shaking like this every month since the world Changed, and maybe before that,” said Aell, as if sharing the same thought. “I don’t see us being entombed alive, I really don’t.

  “Not,” he added, shifting his position so that the cot creaked, “not that this isn’t a regular burial vault. I suppose if they just abandon us here, it will come to much the same thing.”

  Jago rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It will be quicker and more merciful, though, if the hill falls down on us.”

  Perhaps their voices covered the sound of approaching footsteps. When a key scraped in the lock, that was all the warning they had. Aell sprang up at once, and Jago (larger, heavier, and always a bit slower) lumbered to his feet an instant later.

  So they were standing braced for battle—prepared to sell their lives dearly, weaponless though they were—when the door slowly swung open and a willowy pale-haired figure strolled into the cell carrying their swords. With a brief courtly bow over the hilts, he gestured toward the open door, as though inviting the astonished prisoners to step through.

  “And who might you be?” asked Aell, hanging back with a suspicious look. But Jago, ever the more impulsive, reached out and retrieved his weapon, fastening the sheath to his belt.

  “I am the one who is going to lead you and your friends to safety, the Fates willing,” said the stranger. He looked to be about nineteen and was dressed as a squire or a page in Saer’s livery, yet his hair, which he wore in a long braid down his back, was purest silver in the flickering candlelight. Though not much taller than Aell, he gave the impression of being long-limbed and peculiarly supple.

  The men-at-arms exchanged a bewildered glance. They were not so gullible as to accept this astounding offer at face value, though cudgel their brains as they might, neither man could come up with a single reason why the offer should be made at all if not sincerely.

  “You’ve been overlooked so far,” said the stranger, cocking his head and watching them slantwise out of luminous yellow eyes. There was something about him that reminded Jago of Prince Ruan—and a great deal not. “But when Dreyde and Thaga get over the fright they have given themselves dealing with the two wizards and finally remember your existence, I fear that things may go very badly with you. Do you mean to stand there and stare at me forever, or will you allow me to rescue you?”

  Aell reached out and took his sword, drew it from its sheath. He inspected the blade carefully, then nodded, one short, quick movement before heading for the door.

  “Oh, we’ll allow you to do it,” he flung over his shoulder as he left the cell. “But perhaps you won’t take offense if we’re just a little uneasy accepting your help, under the circumstances.”

  Sindérian and the Prince had somehow managed to elude their pursuers. But the fortress was so vast and so complex, and parts of it were so long-abandoned and empty, it was no difficult task to lose someone or something, or to become lost oneself.

  In order to avoid a meeting with Dreyde’s guardsmen, they had descended several flights, scraping their heads passing through a low doorway all but hidden in the shadows, then stumbled down a long limestone passageway into an uninhabited part of the castle. Once she was certain that no one was following, Sindérian dredged up the strength to conjure a little werelight: a lighter-than-air sphere of blue-grey phosphoresence that promptly attached itself to the hilt of Ruan’s sword, as the nearest bright object.

  And there it had remained, providing very little in the way of illumination, though it seemed to be enough for the Prince, who could apparently see like a cat, so long as there was even the tiniest glimmer of light. He moved ahead with a long, confident stride, and Sindérian trailed obediently behind him: through ancient dining halls and pantries and sculleries, through a sour-smelling room full of wine casks turning to vinegar—too heart-weary and sick to challenge his leadership or ask any questions.

  Until something about the pattern of cracked tiles on the floor in one of the greater rooms struck her as somehow familiar, and she glanced up and said with a frown: “We have been this way before!”

  “Yes.”

  Sindérian shook the hair out of her eyes. “We have been walking in circles for some time.”

  “Yes,” said the Prince, resting one hand on a harp that was strung with cobwebs. “I am afraid we are lost.”

  Nevertheless, they had no choice but to continue on.

  At the next place where two corridors met, Ruan chose to turn right where he had gone left before, which brought them into a series of abandoned bedchambers and wardrobes, where doors hung loose on broken hinges, where great four-poster beds clothed in embroidered hangings were mildewed and rotting, and everything lay under a thick pall of dust.

  Sometimes, they passed below an air shaft, and a rumor of distant voices came down to them, faint and echoing. Sometimes they entered a room where the walls had been plastered and frescoed, though the paintings, whatever they were, had long since been obscured by woodsmoke and patches of damp. Once, they stopped to catch their breath in an old armory, where knives and swords and hand axes still hung in rusty ranks upon the walls.

  “Saer,” said the Prince, looking pensive in his circle of dim blue light, “must have housed a vast multitude of people, once. Before the catastrophe, perhaps as recently as before the war. It must have been like a small city here, above and below the ground.”

  Sindérian nodded wearily. Now it was like nothing so much as a catacomb, a great tomb, if not full of moldering bones, at least full of dead hopes and dead dreams. Goslin, she remembered, had lost both his valiant young sons and all three of his brothers in the war with Phaôrax. Undoubtedly, much else had been lost as well.

  Ruan reached out and, with a light touch on her arm, directed Sindérian down another passageway. His manner toward her had been stripped of all arrogance and grown strangely gentle—though there were bruises on her wrists where he had held her before, rough in his haste and his concern for her safety.

  Is this pity? she wondered dully. If so, she did not like it, did not want any part of it, yet she was much too tired to resist it actively.

  Her eyes burned with tears and sleeplessness. Sometimes she walked in a daze, mindless, empty, beyond grief. Sometimes she remembered; then rage and hatred flared up, filling her emptiness with a single purpose:

  If it should be that Thaga crosses our path, I will kill him.

  “This way, I think,” said the Prince. They had stopped, indecisively, at the foot of a broad staircase, the first stair leading up that they had seen in a long time.

  Sindérian gathered up the heavy skirts of her wine-colored gown and followed Ruan up two flights of shallow stairs, then through a soaring archway.

  They came out into a wide lofty hall, its distant ceiling upheld by massive white pillars that glowed with a faint pearlescent light. On the farthest wall there was a line of tall windows in deep embrasures, looking out on the night.

  No, not the night but the morning, Sindérian realized when she drew closer to the windows. The moon had set, the stars had faded, and the sky was all purple and gold with dawn.

  Prince Ruan unlatched one of the leaded-glass casements, threw it open, and stood looking out. He remained there so long that Sindérian grew curious. She joined him in the alcove, leaning out across a windowsill wet with dew.

  These windows overlooked the road leading up from the valley. Even so, it was a l
ong way to the ground. By craning her neck, she could just see a section of the ramparts as well as the gatehouse.

  “Had we a rope,” said the Prince, mentally calculating the distance to the road, “we might perhaps descend.”

  Sindérian blinked at him incredulously. “And be shot at by Saer’s archers while we dangle in the air?”

  Ruan merely shrugged. It was a moot point; they had no rope, and no way of getting one.

  They heard voices down below, a jingling of harnesses in the courtyard, and the noise of many men riding in company; then the gates swung open and a large party rode out. From their vantage point at the window, Sindérian and the Prince had a clear view of the horses and their riders: about a dozen men in dull black cloaks, some of them armed, and two in heavier mantles of scarlet brocade, who rode with their hoods thrown back and their white hair streaming behind them in the morning breeze.

  “Furiádhin!” Ruan hissed between his teeth.

  Sindérian’s heart gave a painful leap. The breath caught in her throat, and for a moment it seemed she would pass out with the intensity of her emotions, the hatred and loathing that welled up inside of her.

  One of the priests was slight and bright and flamelike. Dainty ivory horns grew from his brow, and he sat easy and graceful in the saddle. Yet he was not effeminate; his boyish face was ascetic, and the ardor of a fanatic burned in his strange silver eyes.

  Beside him rode one whom it was impossible not to notice: in Sindérian’s eyes, everything about him spoke of wounded grandeur, the ruin of something high and splendid, a great man, a great mind degraded. He was tall, very tall, with a lean, powerful face, its inherent nobility marred by a look of ineffable sorrow. One of his hands was withered to a claw, but the other, which held the gilded reins, was beautiful, with strong bones and long, tapering fingers. In the pearly dawnlight his skin and hair glowed softly—somehow, there seemed to be more light about him than any of the others.