Starman

  “Is this it?” she asked. “Is this all there is?”

  StarDrifter turned and stared at her, his face alive with power. “A temple can be built of many things, Azhure. Sometimes of stone or wood. Sometimes of brick and mortar. Sometimes of blood and the hopes and fears of those who would worship within it. Sometimes of ideas. And sometimes…sometimes a temple can be built of light and music.”

  18

  NIAH

  That evening, after she had rested and eaten, Azhure sat with the First in her bare apartment. A single lamp burned on the desk between them, the shadows flickering over both women’s faces, momentarily lending one the beauty of her youth and the other the serenity she normally lacked.

  “Will you tell me of my mother?” Azhure finally asked.

  The First paused, then inclined her head. “Yes. I have no choice.”

  “What do you mean, no choice?”

  The First smiled, but there was little humour in it. “Your mother told me that one day you would sit here in this room and ask me questions.” She laughed, the sound harsh. “I did not believe her. But I should have. I should have.”

  Azhure leaned forward, her hands on the desk. “Tell me!”

  The Priestess’ hands stole to her sash and fiddled with it. “Your mother came to the Temple as a child for her schooling, as did so many Nors children. But she loved it here, and asked to stay once her schooling was completed. I was five years her junior, in mid-school as she entered the novitiate of the Order, but I remember those days well…as I remember everything about your mother.”

  “She was very beautiful, and kind, and she loved me.”

  “Yes to all those. More beautiful than you are now, but perhaps you have yet to grow into your true beauty. Kind, certainly, and she knew how to love. But I see these qualities in you too, and, in these shadows, I think that perhaps it is her sitting before me, not her daughter.”

  “Her name is…was Niah.”

  “I knew of her name,” the First said, “but, child, you must know that all priestesses give up their names once they enter the novitiate. She never had a name to me…but she was everything to me.”

  She paused, and when she resumed her voice was heavy with sadness. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Azhure bowed her head. “Yes. She died when I was five. She…she…”

  “I do not want to hear it!”

  Azhure’s head jerked up, her eyes suddenly hard and angry. “Niah’s death has been too long lost in pain and denial, priestess who claims to have been her friend! If you respected her, if you loved her, then witness her death! Do that at least for her!”

  The Priestess’ eyes widened and her hands stilled as she looked over Azhure’s shoulder. In the dim recesses of the room she could see movement, hear voices, and then she saw…she saw…

  She saw the man bent over the woman’s struggling form, saw him hold his hands to her throat, saw him shake her and curse her. She saw him thrust the woman’s head into the flames, and then saw the flames flicker and burst over the woman’s entire body. She heard the woman scream and grunt with pain, and she heard her cry out to the little girl huddled terrified in the corner.

  “Azhure! You are a child of the gods. Seek the answer on Temple Mount! Aaah!”

  And again the woman screamed.

  “Azhure!” Her voice crackled horrifyingly from the ball of flame that engulfed her entire head. “Live! Live! Your father…Ah! Azhure…Ah! Your father!”

  “Oh gods!” the First screamed, and covered her face with her hands. “Oh gods!”

  “Thus died Niah,” Azhure whispered, her eyes now still and calm. “Thus died my mother. And thus here I am, seeking the answers to why she died. Tell me!”

  Eventually the First lowered her hands and raised her grief-stained face to the woman who sat opposite her. “She said that she had to leave. But I did not know where she went. I did not know why she…” Her voice broke, and she spent some time composing herself. “She never sent word, and I often wondered about her. How she was, what kind of child she had birthed, whether she was happy.”

  “But you knew she was pregnant when she left.”

  “Yes.” The First’s hands fluttered at a drawer in the desk and her face was grey in the lamplight. “Azhure…” She took a deep breath and abruptly opened the drawer, withdrawing a sealed parchment. “Your mother left this for you. Read it. I will wait outside. Call me when you are ready.”

  For a long time Azhure sat and looked at the square of parchment lying on the desk. When she eventually reached for it, her hands trembled so badly that she had to clench them into tight fists to regain some control over their muscles.

  She had not expected this. Not this.

  She turned the square over. It had a single word scratched boldly across it in dark ink. Azhure.

  Still trembling, Azhure picked it up, broke the seal, and began to read.

  My dearest daughter Azhure, may long life and joy be yours forever, and may the Stars that dance in their heavens dance only for your delight.

  I write this caught fast in the shade of the waning moon and, as it fades, so I feel my life falling ever deeper under its shadows. Now I feel the prospect of my death keenly. Five nights ago you were conceived and tonight, after I put down my pen and seal this letter, I will leave this blessed isle. I will not return—but one day I hope you will come back.

  Five nights ago your father came to me.

  It was the fullness of the moon, and it was my privilege, as First Priestess, to sit and let its light and life wash over me in the Dome of the Stars. I heard his voice before I saw him.

  “Niah,” a voice resonant with power whispered through the Dome, and I started, because it was many years since I had heard my birth name.

  “Niah,” the voice whispered again, and I trembled in fear. Were the gods displeased with me? Had I not honoured them correctly during my years on this sacred isle and in this sacred Temple?

  “Niah,” the voice whispered yet again, and my trembling increased, for despite my lifetime of chastity I recognised the timbre of barely controlled desire…and I was afraid.

  I stood, and only my years of training and discipline kept me from running from the Dome. My eyes frantically searched the roof and for long moments I could see nothing, then a faint movement caught my eye.

  A shadow was spiralling down from the roof of the Dome and, despite my fear, my mind had a moment of wonder that the god could somehow have squeezed through the delicate lacework of the Dome—but he was a god, and I should not have been surprised.

  The shadow laughed and spoke my name again as he alighted before me.

  “I have chosen you to bear my daughter,” he said, and he held out his hand, his fingers flaring. “Her name will be Azhure.”

  At that moment my fear vanished as if it had never existed. Azhure…Azhure…I had never seen such a man as your father and I know I will not again during this life. He took the form of an Icarii birdman, his naked body as alabaster as the statues of the birdmen that they say stand about the great circle of the Star Gate. His wings shone gold, even in the dark night of the Dome, and his hair glowed with copper fire. His eyes were violet, and they were hungry with magic.

  Azhure, as Priestesses of the Stars we are taught to accede to every desire of the gods, even if we are bewildered by their wishes, but I went to him with willingness, not with duty. I wore but a simple shift, and as his eyes and fingers flared wider I stepped out of it and walked to meet his hand.

  As his hand grasped mine it was as if I was surrounded by Song, and as his mouth captured mine it was as if I was enveloped by the surge of the Stars in their Dance. His power was so all-consuming that I knew he could have snuffed out my life with only a thought. Perhaps I should have been terrified, but he was gentle for a god—not what I might have expected—and if he caused me any pain that night I do not remember it. But what I do remember…ah, Azhure, perhaps you have had your own lover by now, but do you know what it
feels like to lie with one who can wield the power of the Stars through his body? At times I know he took me perilously close to death as he wove his enchantments through me and made you within my womb, but I trusted him and let him do what he wanted and lay back in his wings as he wrapped them about me and yielded with delight and garnered delight five-fold in return.

  I do not know your father’s name, for he would not speak it, but I have no doubt that he was one of the gods of the Stars—perhaps the sun god, for he burned with fierce and virulent power and his pale skin was hot under my touch.

  I feel blessed that he chose me.

  Even as he withdrew from my body I could feel the fire that he had seeded in my womb erupt into new life. He laughed gently at the cry that escaped my lips and at the expression in my eyes, but I could see his own eyes widen to mirror the wonder that filled mine. For a long time we lay still, his body heavy on mine, our eyes staring into each other’s depths, as we felt you spring to life within my womb.

  Even now, as I write, I can feel the fire and the magic of your being within me. My enchanted, sacred daughter—be all that you promise to be.

  After a long while your father spoke.

  He told me you are to be born in the village of Smyrton, far to the north-east. He told me you are to grow there. He said that there you will eventually meet the StarMan of the Prophecy of the Destroyer—your father said he already totters on baby feet—and that you will be the axis upon which his entire life will turn. Your father said your early life will be one of pain and misery—and I cried when he told me that, but then he wiped away my tears and said that you will walk through the shadows into bright light and find the happiness that I will have to sacrifice.

  Your father is gentle for a god.

  Before he left he loved me again—and this he did for me, as inadequate thanks for the daughter I will bear him.

  I know that I will die in Smyrton, and I know that the man your father sends me to meet and to marry will also be my murderer. I know that my days will be numbered from the hour that I give you birth. It is a harsh thing that your father makes me do, for how will I be able to submit to this Plough-Keeper Hagen, knowing I will die at his hands, and keep a smile light on my face and my body willing? How can I submit to any man, having known the god that fathered you? How can I submit to a life dominated by the hated Brotherhood of the Seneschal, when I have been First Priestess of the Order of the Stars?

  Your father saw my doubts and saw my future pain, and he told me that one day I will be reborn to be his lover forever. He said that he had died and yet lived again, and that I would follow a similar path.

  He said that he loved me.

  Perhaps he lied, but I choose not to think so. To do otherwise would be to submit to despair. His promise, as your life, will keep me through and past my death into my next existence.

  I hope that Hagen will allow me enough time with you for you to be able to remember clearly how dearly your mother loved you.

  Know that I love you and will love you past death and into the forever that your father has promised me.

  Niah

  By the time she had finished, Azhure was trembling so violently and her eyes were so blurred with tears that she let the letter fall to the floor.

  “Damn you!” she cried. “Damn you, WolfStar, for lying to Niah so badly!” She leaned her face into her arms and wept.

  After a long, long time she sat up and wiped her eyes, picking up the letter and folding it carefully before slipping it into a pocket in her robe.

  Outside the First Priestess was waiting. She reached out for Azhure, but the woman stepped back. “What do you know of my conception, First Priestess?”

  The Priestess’ eyes were bright with compassion. “Only what your mother told me. That a god came to her in the Dome and that he wanted her to leave this isle. That is all.”

  Azhure’s shoulders stiffened. “And when you sit in the Dome, First Priestess, in the fullness of the moon, has a god ever come to you?’

  The woman lowered her eyes. “No. None has ever come.”

  “Then be grateful,” Azhure said bitterly, “that you have been so blessed.”

  StarDrifter started, wakened by the opening door and the soft footfall. “Azhure?”

  He heard her take a tremulous breath, and realised she had been crying. He sat up. “Azhure? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She sat down on the bed beside him, and for a very long time she did not say anything. He took her hand and stroked the hair from her forehead, and she seemed grateful for the contact.

  “StarDrifter?”

  “Yes?”

  She was quiet for a very long time. “May I stay the night with you?”

  “Azhure!”

  “Please,” she said, tears trickling down her cheeks, and StarDrifter gathered her into his arms and his wings. “Please, just hold me, StarDrifter, and tell me that you love me.”

  19

  PLANTING

  From the Silent Woman Woods Faraday moved slowly north-east towards the Ancient Barrows, finally planting out the Enchanted Wood. Within days she was sore and tired and lonely beyond belief. She was almost constantly nauseous, and at night when she sank to her knees, exhausted, she could hardly force herself to eat. The warmth and comfort of the Silent Woman Keep seemed a lifetime behind her.

  She had not thought that the planting would demand so much of her physical and emotional strength.

  Each night Faraday spent tossing and turning, spending her dreams between Ur’s nursery and dark, uncomfortable places that she could not recognise. Each morning she woke to find herself surrounded by several hundred tiny terracotta pots, every seedling brimming with zest and cheerfulness. Faraday was not entirely sure how they reached her, but she thought that she must spend much of her sleeping hours moving between the Sacred Grove and this world, carrying the pots two by two. No wonder she woke more exhausted than when she lay down to rest. She would struggle up and smile wanly at the seedlings, force herself to eat a few mouthfuls of food, and then begin yet another day of planting.

  The morning Faraday had left the Silent Woman Keep, she had walked outside to find only one of the donkeys laden with its saddlebags. The other was harnessed to a small, blue, flat-trayed cart. She was puzzled by this, until the first morning she woke to find herself surrounded by hundreds of tiny pots. If not for the cart, she would never have been able to carry them.

  Faraday spent all day and most of the twilight hours transferring the seedlings into mortal land. She moved in a daze, sometimes not truly sure what she was doing, sometimes almost completely disorientated and detached, relying on the strength of the Mother to give her the heart to keep going.

  She planted the seedlings far apart, usually at least a hundred paces, in a great swathe from the eastern edge of the Silent Woman Woods. She would stumble along, often holding onto the mane of one of the donkeys with a bleeding hand for support, until instinct and the cry of a seedling told her the time was right.

  Calling to the donkeys to stop, Faraday would reach for the seedling that cried out, and sink to her knees on the ground. Her fingers aching with the need to dig, she would set the seedling to one side while she scratched frantically into the hard-packed soil. Then, her fingers bloodied and bruised, she would gently tip the seedling out of her pot, speaking softly to her, calling her by name, encouraging her to find the strength to grow tall and strong, telling her that her wait was ending, and that the final transformation was at hand.

  Once Faraday had patted the soil about the seedling she would reach for the wooden bowl which rested on the back of the tray, and was constantly filled with life-giving emerald water. Although where it came from Faraday did not know, for she never filled it herself. Carefully, she would pour a few drops over the seedling and about its base, singing the Song with which she and StarDrifter had woken the Earth Tree so long ago, when the Avarinheim groves had been under attack by the Skraelings.

  Faraday prayed the str
ength of the Earth Tree could reach this far south and somehow infuse will and strength into her tiny daughter. Then, for some minutes, she would kneel and look at the seedling, waving bravely in the cold wind of the northern Tarantaise plains. The plant looked so small, so vulnerable, that she often wondered if the seedlings would survive their first critical months.

  And how long would they take to grow? Faraday was no gardener, but she knew that trees took almost a human lifetime to stretch their branches to the sky. Did she have a lifetime to wait for the Enchanted Wood to take root and thrive? Did Axis? Did Tencendor?

  Then she would sigh and struggle to her feet, and leave the seedling humming quietly to herself as she stumbled further and further north.

  The end of the day was always the worst. It took Faraday till twilight to plant all the seedlings for the day. Yet when she looked back to the land that she had planted, she could see nothing but the waving grasses of the desolate plains. Somewhere out there were several hundred seedlings, several thousand after two weeks, yet Faraday could not see them, and even their gentle humming had long ago been lost in the lonely plains behind her.

  Were they still there? Would they survive the cold nights? The driving rain of the not-so-distant winter? The covering of several handspans of unforgiving snow?

  Faraday had thought the planting would bring her more joy. But there were only ever the rolling plains and the constant pain in her fingers and back and legs. And, in the morning, several hundred more seedlings waving gently at her as she opened her exhausted eyes.