Starlighter

  Elyssa pushed her shoulder under Tibalt’s arm. “I’ll help you.”

  As the baying drew closer, Elyssa and Tibalt quick marched down the path and faded into the darkness.

  Jason rubbed his cloak on the leaf-strewn path and dragged it to a maple tree. After shinnying up the branches and stopping at a dizzying height, he tied the cloak to a limb and crawled out toward an oak that mingled its branches with those of the maple. The limb bent down, and the wind blew every branch into a tempest.

  A thick branch from the oak hung close by, but with both nearly leafless trees swaying, the branch shifted constantly, first jerking up and down and then back and forth.

  Jason reached for the oak branch, but it slapped his palm and slipped away. The baying dogs drew closer. Soon he would be in range of a crossbow or a photo gun. He had to make his move.

  He stood on the maple limb and leaped for the oak’s branch, closing his eyes to protect them from the twigs. As clawlike scratches dug across his forehead and cheek, he grasped the branch with a two-armed vise. It swung down and then back up again, but the swaying soon eased.

  He opened his eyes. Below, two bloodhounds sniffed the rain-dampened trail, followed by two men, each holding a leash and leaning back as the dogs strained to break loose. They veered from the path and headed straight for the maple tree. One dog let out a low howl and bared its teeth as it looked up into the branches.

  “Can you see anyone?” one of the men shouted.

  As the dogs’ howls reached a crescendo, both trackers scanned the treetop. The rain increased, forcing them to shield their eyes. Lightning crashed nearby, and an earth-shaking thunderclap rocked the maple.

  “Something’s flapping up there,” the other man said. “Is it a cloak?”

  Jason’s hands began to slip. He swung his legs up, climbed to a prostrate position, and embraced the branch, now underneath his body. The strengthening gale continued to buffet the branches, tossing him in all directions. Driving rain soaked his clothes, making him heavier and the branch as slick as ice. With his feet pointing toward the trunk of the oak, and his head aiming at the maple, all he could do was hang on and hope.

  The first man pointed at Jason’s cloak. “Take a shot. He killed your father. You should have the honor.”

  The other man raised a crossbow to his shoulder, trembling. “But he has had no trial!”

  Jason squinted at the two dark forms. He killed your father? Is one of them Randall?

  “Did he give your father a trial?” the man barked. “Just shoot him! One arrow isn’t likely to kill him anyway.”

  Randall’s arrow zinged into the tree and disappeared. “I hit the cloak,” he said, “but I can’t tell if I hit him or not.”

  The other man pushed a gun into Randall’s hand. “Then use this. That’ll light up the target.”

  Randall extended the gun and took aim. A ball of blue flame shot out, its streaming tail wiggling behind it. The ball splashed against the cloak, and, with a loud snap and whoosh, the material burst into flames.

  His whole world jumping in rhythm with the branch’s dance, Jason hung on and watched. In the midst of fire and loud sizzles, an aura of blue and yellow lit up the tree and the flapping, burning cloak. The dogs, now silent, backed away from the flickering light.

  “It’s just tied there,” Randall said.

  “A diversion.” The other man pulled his dog farther from the tree, though the rain had nearly doused the fire. “Let’s go. It’ll be hard to pick up the trail now.”

  The two trackers lugged their dogs back to the path. With their wet ears flopping as they strained against their leashes, they resumed their desperate howls. After they passed under the oak, the dogs returned to sniffing, apparently picking up a new trail farther away.

  As they faded out of sight, Jason slowly pulled his arms from around the branch and grasped it with his fingers as he tried to scoot backwards toward the trunk. Suddenly, lightning struck the oak. Like a blast from a photo gun, a streak of fire shot through the network of branches and sent a jolt through Jason’s body. His limbs stiffened. His fingers grew rigid, and he rolled off the limb and dropped.

  Branch after branch slowed his fall until he thumped against the ground and rolled sideways to his back, his limbs still rigid and horrific pain shooting from head to toe. Huffing in shallow breaths, he pushed his hand down to his sword, forced his stiff fingers around the hilt, and drew it out.

  Needle-sharp raindrops stung his face and drained into his eyes. Mud streamed around his saturated body, so hot from the lightning that vapor rose from his chest. With almost total darkness blanketing the area, he tried to look down the path. Had Randall heard him fall? Or had the thunder and rain drowned out the noise from his plunge?

  Blinking away the water, Jason rolled his body to the side. That was better. The wind was now at his back, keeping the rain out of his face, and he could see if the two trackers were returning. At this point, it might be better if they found him. At least Elyssa and Tibber would be safe, and he could get some medical care and maybe escape later…if they didn’t hang him first.

  A new streak of lightning flashed, for a brief second providing a glimpse of a lone silhouette coming his way. Lurching again, Jason sat up. His limbs continued to loosen, but every bone felt like it was on fire.

  Once more lightning shot across the sky, this time lasting longer as multiple streaks branched out from cloud to cloud. A man drew closer. He seemed to be alone, but it was impossible to tell who he might be.

  Bracing himself on one side, Jason pushed himself to his feet. His legs shook like the tree branches, and his heart thumped erratically. Running was out of the question, and fighting didn’t seem much better, but it definitely beat swinging at the end of a rope.

  In the midst of a series of lightning flashes, the figure finally came into view. It was Randall, his cloak drenched and dripping and his scowl displaying a determination he had never shown before.

  “You’re alone,” Jason said as he raised his sword, fighting to keep the blade steady. “You know you can’t beat me.”

  Stopping out of reach, Randall pulled a photo gun from underneath his cloak and aimed it directly at Jason’s face. “Drop your sword.”

  Seven

  Koren tiptoed out of her room, leaving the gentle snoring of her fellow slaves behind. Carrying a lantern turned to its minimum setting, she padded through the main living chamber. All was silent. Arxad and Fellina had always been quiet sleepers, not like wicked old Yarwen, Koren’s mistress during one of her previous Assignments. She had blasted like a crimped flooter horn all night. And with all the fire she spewed, waking her up for breakfast had been a dangerous game of dodge-the-flames. Yet she had always flown into a rage whenever Koren failed to get her up on time.

  After scooting through the exit tunnel, Koren emerged into the cool night air and took in a deep breath. That was the easy part. Now she had to walk into the center of the village, break into the Separators’ domain, and look for clues that would reveal the answers to all the mysteries. And she had to do it all without raising any suspicions.

  It wasn’t unusual for humans to skitter from place to place at night. Some village slaves performed various nighttime duties, like baking bread for morning meals, sharpening axe and saw blades for the next day’s lumber cutting or drill bits and chisels for the mines, washing work clothes in the community laundry, and taking care of patients of both species in the village infirmary.

  Koren shed her nightgown and wadded it into a loose bundle. The best plan would be to walk confidently, as if she were one of the normal nightshift workers, but would her nightgown be enough to convince anyone that she was hauling a load of laundry? Probably not.

  She pulled off her skirt, leaving her with shorts that covered her legs down to her knees, and piled it on top of her nightgown. That should be enough, especially considering how dirty the skirt was.

  Since Arxad’s cave lay near the edge of the main village, she h
ad to walk up a stony path that led to the massive rocky plateau, the foundation for the enormous structures that housed various dragon functions. The buildings and their entrances had to be big, of course, for dragons to walk or fly through without banging their heads or wings against the doorframes, walls, and ceilings. And the towering structures might be helpful to her cause. Maybe no one would notice a human girl sneaking into a smaller entrance somewhere.

  When she reached the plateau, the path smoothed out and widened. Tall buildings loomed in front as well as to her left and right, while one-story edifices nestled in between. A human walked from the butcher shop, carrying a dressed lamb over each shoulder, but he paid her no mind.

  As she passed by the Zodiac Cathedral, crisscrossing shadows from its twelve spires darkened her path, cast by the three moons. She shivered. Even though Arxad served there as Priest, and he had always been kinder than most dragons, that place never failed to bring a chill. Every now and then, screams from within its gold-plated walls pierced the night. Sometimes they sounded draconic, sometimes human, but Arxad explained that these were cries of ecstasy from “spiritual transformations.”

  When she asked for more details about the transformations, he would never answer with anything but “That is not for you to know.”

  Fortunately, the “transformations” never occurred during triple moons, only on the nights when Trisarian, the single moon with three dark craters, ruled the skies.

  A light flickered from somewhere within the Zodiac’s deep recessed portico. Someone was at work, studying the stars, their positions, their movements. Was it Arxad? Had he been unable to sleep? It wouldn’t be unusual. He often wandered the corridors of his cave and sometimes journeyed back to the Zodiac if something troubled his mind.

  She skirted the semicircle garden that acted as a gateway to the infirmary and glanced at the red and yellow flowers, which replaced the usual cacti during these cooler days. Such plants were a pleasant diversion for sick or injured humans staying there. Dragons never kept living plants in their caves. Most didn’t care for anything green, except emeralds and green-eyed slaves.

  Soon she arrived at the black iron bars that bordered the courtyard leading to the Separators’ Basilica. Unlike the Zodiac, where dragons conducted religious ceremonies, this building housed judges and law enforcement officers, the secular authorities in the land.

  She pressed her forehead against two cool bars and peered in between. A semicircular apse lay at the far end of the high-roofed building, the Separators’ meeting place where, according to the theories of some slaves, they determined Promotions and many Assignments. Behind that, a lofty dome with a central belfry towered over the rest of the building. The bell inside rang at midday and also whenever a Promotions ceremony had ended. Now it was time to find a way in to see all these mysteries for herself.

  “Excuse me, Miss.”

  Sucking in a breath, Koren spun toward the voice. A tall man stood in front of her, so close, his long scratchy cloak brushed against her bare legs. She looked up at his face, a stern, gaunt face, yet not menacing. Moonlight shone on his bald head, revealing several purplish age spots and a scar along the right side of his scalp.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I have not seen you out here before. Have you recently changed Assignments?”

  She tried to back away, but the bars kept her in place. “No. I have dirty laundry and—”

  “Oh, you are from the slums. I will help you.” Before Koren could protest, he slid his arms under her load and pulled it away. “Only two items?” he asked as he lifted her skirt from the pile.

  She touched her shirt. “This is dirty, too, so—”

  “So you cannot take it off until you get there.” His friendly, formal tone glided from his pursed lips. “I understand. Many of the poorer folks have to do the same, which is why males are forbidden to enter the laundry room after dark. I can carry it only as far as the vestibule.”

  Koren nodded. “Thank you, but I can carry it myself. I—”

  “Nonsense. I am the night keeper. It is my duty to help wherever I am able.” He walked parallel to the iron bars, away from Koren’s home. “My name is Lattimer, and I am on duty thirteen nights and off one, so you must be new, or else I would have seen you.” He chuckled. “Unless you go to laundry only once every two weeks.”

  Koren followed the kindly man. He seemed polished, certainly possessing more education than one might expect from a night keeper. It made more sense to play along than to try to avoid him. She could always return later. “I’m not new. I had a difficult day, so I didn’t wash them earlier at my Assignment’s cave.”

  “So you are not from the orphan pool.”

  Koren cringed. Those words revived so many bad memories. Fortunately, her days in that place were few. There was no way she would ever go back. She would escape to the wilderness first. “I am an orphan,” she replied. “But Arxad bought me.”

  “Ah! I see. But that is no surprise. It is well known that Arxad has a soft spot for orphans. He is the most…well…human dragon I know.”

  As they passed by the main gate of the Separators’ Basilica, she slowed her pace and scanned the locking mechanism and the dragon guard on the other side of the bars. The keyhole set in the middle of a black metal plate seemed normal, but the dragon was far from normal. With bright, flashing red eyes that followed her as she passed, and powerful wings stretched out to fly, he seemed ready to transform her into a human torch at the slightest provocation.

  Lattimer turned. “It is best to march quickly past that gate, young lady. The guardians here are not to be trifled with.”

  Koren hurried to catch up. When they passed the iron bars and entered a side courtyard, she whispered, “Have you ever been in there?”

  “When drugged,” he said without looking at her. “I hear that only promoted humans are allowed while in their right mind.”

  “Have you ever seen a promoted human come out?”

  Lattimer stopped and bent over to look at her eye to eye. “Why do you wish to know? Are you on the Promotions list?”

  She shook her head. “A friend of mine is.”

  “I see.” After staring at her for a long moment, he looked at the load of laundry in his arms. “You have not come to wash your clothes, have you?”

  Pressing her lips together, Koren shook her head. “I’m trying to help my friend.” She studied his kind gray eyes. Would he understand? Could she trust him with her story? Maybe if she told it with all the passion in her heart, she could raise some sympathy for her cause. After all, storytelling was her greatest gift, and this night keeper might know some of the secrets of the Separators.

  She folded her hands at her waist and rocked back and forth on her feet, altering her voice to that of a little girl. “Can I tell you a story?”

  “Most certainly.” He nodded toward a bench at the far end of the courtyard. It sat next to a low hedge that encircled most of the yard’s stony red surface. “Come. We will talk there.”

  He strode to the bench and laid Koren’s clothes at his side. “Now,” he said, setting his hands on his knees, “tell me your story.”

  Koren took the skirt off the pile, wrapped it around her waist, and fastened it in place. Her legs were chilled, but the real reason for putting it on wouldn’t be apparent to Lattimer. It was a crucial prop. Not only would its twirls help with the story’s captivating effect, a kind man would be no match for an orphaned waif in a dirty skirt.

  She looked up at the three moons. Although their distances from Starlight differed greatly, they arced across the sky in a straight line from one horizon to the other. They seemed to aim three beams right at her, a perfect stage for her tale. As the details raced into her mind, she sighed. This wouldn’t be a tall tale. Every word would be true.

  She spread out her skirt and offered a curtsy. Lattimer smiled, gave her a nod, and folded his hands in his lap. Apparently he recognized her formal presentation and her position as a rac
onteur. He was ready to absorb the glow.

  Looking him in the eye, Koren stretched out her arms. “I was born to Orson, a stone-mover of courage and integrity, and Emma, a woman of purity, compassion, and inner beauty, who helped him cut the timber to make the rafts upon which the stones would ride. They worked side by side, always in love, and always with patience, even during the hottest of days and under the cruelest of whips.”

  With a half spin to the side and a twirl of her skirt, she hugged an invisible person. “Orson was my beloved daddy. We played together, sang together, and even danced in spite of the wounds and scars he earned from his labor.” As she let her imagination run wild, she saw a man appear in her arms—tall and strong, yet dirty and bloodied. Could this be a long-lost memory of her beloved father?

  She pulled back, releasing him, and he faded away. “But, alas, I knew him for only five short years. After losing both legs under a felled tree, my father could no longer move stones, so the dragons cut his rations, and he soon died. Later, the dragons made lovely Emma a…a…”

  Tears spilled from Koren’s eyes as she lamented. “I cannot even say the word. No, no, I cannot. It is too tragic…too terrible.” After wiping her eyes, she took in a deep breath and continued in a steady voice. “Two years later, my dear mother died in childbirth, and I was left an orphan. At the age of seven, I was transferred to a cattle camp where I was put in charge of ten children even younger than I.”

  She interlaced her fingers and looked at the dark sky. “Oh, Lattimer, it was so awful! The squalor! The hunger! Every night I prayed for help, but every morning I rose from my bed of stone and straw to a new day of torture.”