“But Spiredore,” Azhure said. “Draw your door of light, take us into Spiredore, and thence into—”
“Azhure,” DragonStar said, and leaned across the table to take her hand. “Qeteb has risen, and the Demons now control the wasteland that once was Tencendor. I do not know if Spiredore is safe any more. It probably is, but ‘probably’ is not good enough to needlessly risk your lives. I will go first, and then one or two of the other five who have been through death and can resist the Demons, for a while at least. Wait. Please.”
Azhure nodded, and dropped her eyes. They fell on the cloth-wrapped parcel that still sat on the table.
“Caelum asked us to give this to you,” Azhure said, “if he…if he died.”
She pushed the parcel across the table towards DragonStar.
The Enchanted Song Book. DragonStar slowly unwrapped it.
“We deciphered the melodies, and then the dances,” Axis said. “They were…unusual.”
“They are the key to the destruction of the Demons,” DragonStar said.
Axis stared at his son, remembering the dawn when Caelum had tried one of the dances atop Star Finger. “DragonStar…DragonStar, be careful with them. Caelum—”
“Caelum was not the StarSon—” DragonStar began, but Axis interrupted angrily.
“You have inherited all the damn SunSoar arrogance in its full blindness!” he said. “Listen to me, damn you!”
DragonStar dropped his eyes. “I am sorry, Axis. What happened?”
Slowly Axis described the dance’s affect on Caelum. “It was as if he was consumed by hatred and violence. The dance did that to him…it infused him with whatever malevolence it had been made from.”
“Qeteb was originally trapped by mirrors that reflected his own malevolence back on him,” DragonStar said slowly. “He would never let that happen to him again. The dances, the melodies the book contain,” his fingers tapped the cover thoughtfully, “will have the same action as the mirrors originally did.”
“Maybe,” Axis said, “and maybe not.”
Chapter 7
A Wander Through, and Into, Sanctuary
Faraday, Zenith and StarDrifter were wandering slowly along one of the paths Sanctuary had provided for the comfort, pleasure and exercise of all who sheltered within its confines. It was, StarDrifter thought—and with a distinct, but not entirely successful, effort to avoid couching the thought in unpleasant overtones—just like it was on the Island of Mist and Memory. Me, Zenith…and Faraday’s constant presence between us. Even her physical presence, for Faraday literally separated Zenith and StarDrifter as they walked abreast down the wide path.
Not even Sanctuary works in my favour, StarDrifter thought, for if the path were just the slightest bit narrower, then mayhap Faraday would have to walk behind Zenith and myself, and I could have the contentment of the odd fleeting touch as my elbow brushed the fabric of Zenith’s lavender gown.
And mayhap not, for StarDrifter was sure if the path were narrow, he would be the one left to wander lost behind whilst Faraday and Zenith linked arms—as they had now—and chatted happily without him.
Aye, he thought, this is just like the Island of Mist and Memory, for Zenith feels more comfortable with me when someone else is present. It is as if she only feels at ease relating to me through someone else.
She only laughs freely when there is someone else present to protect the space between her and I.
She only smiles at me when someone else is there to act as a filter for her joy.
She only tilts eyes of love in my direction when there is someone else her glance can bounce off first.
StarDrifter was not feeling happy about the situation at all, but there was nothing he could, or wanted, to do. Zenith had to take her own time in learning to accept her love for him, or there would be no future time for the two of them at all.
The shared strolls through Sanctuary’s soft daytime were bad, but there was nothing as bad as the long velvet nights adrift in his lonely bed knowing that Zenith had been born to share it, but knowing also she refused to do so…because…
…because she found his touch repulsive! StarDrifter shivered in utter panic. How could he ever shift from grandfather to lover in her mind?
“StarDrifter?” Zenith said, and StarDrifter jumped.
“Hmmm?”
“Look, we approach Sanctuary’s answer to the Avarinheim. I wonder which Avar Clan we will encounter first? The JeppelSand Clan were here yesterday…”
StarDrifter truly didn’t care, but he tried his best to summon an outward semblance of interest. They were within a hundred paces of a dark forest, and yet StarDrifter knew that on entering that forested darkness, they would find only space and light and music, just like the original Avarinheim.
And no doubt some Clan that both Faraday and Zenith would insist on sitting down with and sharing some in-depth conversation about the preparation of malfari bread, or some such.
Women! Didn’t they understand that there were other pleasures to pursue?
But now Faraday was pulling back a little.
“I don’t know,” she said, and both StarDrifter and Zenith halted and regarded her.
“Faraday,” Zenith said, and reached out her hand to hold one of Faraday’s. “Isfrael is generally deep within the forest, and even if he isn’t, he is hardly likely to linger about and disturb our morning.”
Faraday did not answer, staring at the forest and chewing her lip. She loved chatting to the Avar, and they just as obviously enjoyed her visits, but the occasional meeting with Isfrael, even the glimmer of his hostile eyes behind the shadowy overhang of a branch, tended to send chills trampling up and down her spine.
“Perhaps you and StarDrifter should go on,” she said, and StarDrifter’s entire countenance brightened.
“Perhaps that’s best!” he said, and took Zenith’s hand to lead her away. “Zenith, Faraday obviously doesn’t want to—”
“Faraday! Zenith! StarDrifter!”
They all turned and looked back down the path.
Azhure was walking quickly—and yet with such lithe grace that StarDrifter’s breath caught slightly in his throat—towards them.
She smiled with exquisite loveliness as she reached them, and now StarDrifter’s breath caught completely, not so much for Azhure’s beauty, as alluring as it was, but for the resemblance to Zenith’s smile on her face.
“Faraday,” Azhure said softly. “Drago…DragonStar has returned.”
Faraday’s face paled completely, and her green eyes widened. She let go of Zenith’s hand, and looked past Azhure towards the distant palace complex. An expression akin to panic flooded her face.
“Go to him,” Azhure said softly. “Axis and I have talked to him, and now, perchance it is your time.”
Faraday’s eyes focused back on Azhure. “You talked…?”
“Faraday, go to him.”
Faraday looked once more at the distant palace. She and Azhure had talked at length in the days that Drago (why did Azhure call him DragonStar?) had remained above in Tencendor. At first, Faraday had wanted to talk Azhure into accepting her son back into her love, but had found it not necessary. Azhure had been won over the instant Drago had looked at her with unhindered love in that dank basement chamber in Star Finger. Instead, Faraday had found herself being lectured by Azhure on accepting her own love for Drago.
She and the Mother must somehow be in cohorts, Faraday had thought at the time.
But she had listened to Azhure, nevertheless, as she had listened to the Mother.
“I must get Katie,” Faraday said. “She’s with Leagh and Gwendylyr in—”
“No,” Azhure said. “Katie can wait.”
“I—”
“Go,” Azhure said, and took Faraday’s hand and pulled her very slightly down the path. “Go.”
Faraday nodded, and went.
Isfrael watched his mother walk down the path with cold eyes, and even colder thoughts.
The
Avar tolerated—nay, welcomed—his presence among them, but Isfrael was ever aware that they regarded him as one of them, not as one above them.
That place they now reserved for Faraday. Their Tree Friend was once more among them. She had returned in the hour of direst danger, and led them to safety.
Better his mother had stayed in legend, Isfrael thought, as he had thought a thousand times since he’d entered this pitiful underground dungeon they called “Sanctuary”.
Better…better if she returned to legend.
Aye, far better.
Isfrael turned his back and walked into darkness. Faraday smoothed the white linen of her gown nervously, tweaking out a fold that had become caught under the Mother’s rainbow sash still wound about her waist.
For a moment she rested her hand on the faint outline of the twisted arrow and sapling that rested in the folds of the sash.
Then she raised her eyes and looked at the closed door before her. Here Azhure said Drago was waiting.
Here, the chamber he had taken as his own. Right next door to Axis and Azhure’s chamber, which Faraday could not help wonder was a deliberate action on his part.
Choose between us, Faraday. My father, or me.
Which door, Faraday?
There was nothing in Faraday’s mind of Demons, or how to restore Tencendor to its glory, or even of Katie. All Faraday could think of was what she should say to this man.
How she could gracefully tell him that, after all her hesitation, all her fright and denial, all her determination not to lay open her body and soul to the betrayal it had suffered with Axis and Gorgrael, she was prepared to do it all over again if it meant loving, and being loved.
The Mother had been right. Her life would be nothing if she refused to dare to love.
Faraday glanced at Axis’ door several paces away.
There was no question of the choice, and maybe Drago knew that, but it would have amused him to have presented her with the mirage of alternatives.
No, Faraday’s major problem now was how to back down with her pride intact from the position she’d dug herself into.
Having denied the man, and her love for him, for months, how could she now turn around and say she’d been wrong?
What superior smile would wrap his face? What triumph?
“None, Faraday,” said a soft voice behind her, and she whipped about.
Drago…no! DragonStar (and now she could see why Azhure had used that name) was leaning against the wall several paces behind her.
Faraday’s entire existence stilled, save for the painful thudding of her heart.
And save for the painful sensation of her desire crawling out of the very pit of her soul, through her stomach and up her throat to offer itself to this man.
Tears filled her eyes. He was glorious. Somehow, somewhere, in the week or more since she’d last seen him, he’d been re-transformed. Transformed into his true self, the self that Azhure and Axis had tried to hide, the self that the power of the Enemy had been successful in returning.
DragonStar was not handsome, nor even physically imposing. The tired lined face and the violet eyes were the same—and yet radically different. Both face and eyes were transfused with such depth of understanding (Faraday did not think she could call it “power”), and such heights of compassion that she thought she might choke on her emotion.
DragonStar half-smiled, acknowledging her reaction, straightened, hesitated, then brushed past her and opened the door to his chamber. “You wanted to speak to me?”
Faraday’s temper flashed.
“Is that all you have to say?” She turned and followed him into the room. “What happened to you? And Caelum? And Qeteb? And Tencendor? None of us have heard—”
DragonStar laid a hand on her mouth. “Hush, Faraday. First, there are other things that must be said between us.”
She didn’t want to. She wanted to hide in the safety of hearing what had happened above. She wanted to tell him about her encounter with Isfrael. She wanted him to know that the Earth Tree had gone, but that was all right, because in her belt she had—
He slid an arm about her waist and pulled her gently against him. “I missed you.”
“Who are you?” she whispered, somehow terrified of this being that Drago had transformed into.
“The same man,” he said, his eyes travelling slowly over her face, “but deeper.”
“Harder?”
He shook his head. “Softer.” His arm tightened fractionally.
“Qeteb—”
“Qeteb can wait. Faraday, talk to me.”
She took a huge breath and closed her eyes momentarily. What had the Mother said? Until you learn to dare, you will never live. Take that risk, Faraday…take that risk.
“I will not betray you, Faraday,” DragonStar whispered, and she realised he was now very, very close. So close that his warmth burnt through the layers of linen between them. “Trust me, trust me…” His voice drifted off and she opened her eyes.
I will never betray you, she heard him whisper in her mind, not for another woman, not for riches or glory, and not for this land.
“I do not require your blood,” he said aloud now, although still in a whisper, “Tencendor does not require your blood.”
And still she had not spoken.
Faraday…
How hateful, she thought, that I have found it so difficult to accept his love.
Faraday.
How hateful that I have found it so hard to accept the Sanctuary of his heart.
Faraday.
How hard that I have found it so seductive to allow myself to remain the perpetual victim rather than allowing myself to live.
Faraday.
She shifted slightly in his arms, exploring the feel of his body against hers.
DragonStar, she whispered back into his mind. And then she smiled, and laughed a little, and relaxed against him, and then laughed a little more at the smile on his face.
“I have loved you forever,” she said, and those were the easiest words she had ever said in her many existences.
Chapter 8
The Ploughed Field
DragonStar’s witches sat in a circle on their straight-backed wooden chairs, their hands folded in their laps, eyes downcast.
Faraday was dressed again in her white linen gown, the Mother’s rainbow sash about her narrow waist holding the entwined arrow and sapling against the womb of her warmth. Her small feet, clad in elegant red leather slippers, were crossed beneath her chair. Her newly-combed chestnut hair tumbled in a restrained but joyous manner down her back, save for the single thick strand which had somehow wound itself over one shoulder and curved against one breast.
She had a tiny and almost secretive smile on her face. The past few hours had been sweeter than any Faraday had ever experienced previously. All fear had left her, all sense of betrayal had gone. All that was left was the warmth and memory of DragonStar as she had left him in the bed.
Leagh sat similarly clad and shod, although her distended belly allowed no encumbrance of sash or belt. Her face was as happy and content as Faraday’s, and glowing and relaxed after her days of rest and good food within Sanctuary. Her thumbs surreptitiously pressed against her belly, feeling the tiny movements of her and Zared’s child safe within.
An infinite field of flowers, Faraday had told her. She was growing an infinite field of flowers within her belly.
A tiny tear slipped down Leagh’s face, but it was the result of joy, not sadness.
The third female witch, Gwendylyr, sat slightly less gladsome than Faraday and Leagh. Her lover and husband still throve, as did Leagh’s lover and husband, Zared, but Gwendylyr and Theod shared the sadness of having witnessed the death of their twin sons. Tomas and Cedrian had passed into the Field of Flowers from the Western Ranges and, while Gwendylyr knew they lived and played among the flowers and paused in awestruck delight atop magical cliffs that thundered down into foamy seas, she still missed them deeply. Sh
e always would, however long she had to live in this existence before she walked for the final time through the gateway (never opened) into the Field.
Even if she and Theod conceived and raised other children, nothing would replace the lost laughter of their twin sons.
She slowly raised a hand and pushed it through her black hair, lifting a heavy wave off her forehead and pushing it further back over the crown of her head. Like Faraday and Leagh, she wore it loose, falling down her back in sliding, silken curls.
The fourth in the circle was Master Jannymire Goldman. He had no luxurious hair to tumble down his back, nor sinuous form to (barely) conceal within heavy folds of white linen. Nevertheless, his attire—a short tunic of a white linen identical to the material of the women’s robes, and feet in red leather sandals—gave him a sameness with the other three.
The serenity in his warm-cheeked face and bushy grey eyebrows gave him an aura of astuteness that few people, witch or wizard or Enchanter, ever attained.
Goldman had discovered mystery and strange philosophies when DragonStar had hefted him through the gateway into the Field of Flowers, and now every hour Goldman found something new to explore, some strange thought that would lead him to even stranger pastures. He spent great lengths in every day seeking out those who would consent to spend even a few moments with him talking of these spiritual puzzlements and intellectual intrigues. Already he had a reputation within Sanctuary of being a man who might one day make the extravagances of the spirit knowable to all and the riddles of the unknown as accessible as a plate of bread and cheese.
Goldman sighed happily and closed his eyes, letting the power of his soul overwhelm his flesh. He was at home.
The fifth of DragonStar’s witches was not sitting in a chair at all, nor was his place part of the circle. DareWing FullHeart lay on his back in the centre of the circle, making himself its focus. His chest rose and fell with great bubbling breaths, his body afire with fever.
DareWing was dying: a second death, which made it all the more painful, debilitating and spiritually draining.