The Legend of the Morning Star
a fantasy folktale
by Elizabeth McCoy
Copyright 2011 Elizabeth McCoy
Cover art by Elizabeth McCoy
The Legend of the Morning Star
as narrated by Ches, priest of the Wind
Once, before the dragons killed the gods, there was a princess. Well, really, she might not have been a princess as we know them. She might have been a rich merchant's girl. But she was beautiful, and her family was wealthy enough that she didn't have to work in the fields, but could wear pretty dresses and walk about entirely at ease, just to amuse herself. Also, she had a lot of pride. She was beautiful, and she knew it. She was well-educated, and she knew that, too. She was strong-minded, and would never jump and scream if a mouse should happen to poke its nose out at her in a room, nor would she freeze in confusion if a young man became too forward – she'd use her sharp tongue to put him in his place!
She loved to walk about in lush gardens and shady woods, where the sunlight came through the trees to dapple the ground like a patchwork quilt of light and shadow. Don't ask me how she managed to avoid having attendants following her everywhere. Maybe she slipped out. Maybe she was a king's daughter and the woods she walked in were so well guarded by her father's men that she had never a care upon the earth, nor fear that anyone would seek to do her harm.
So one day, as she was walking through those woods, she stepped into a clearing, all sun-lit and sweet smelling, with flowers strewn about it like thick rugs, and the breezes playing about like kittens. As it happened, another thing this princess liked to do was dance. So she hummed a little tune – quite possibly one that'd been caught in her ear and throat all day – and stepped out, and danced with the breezes until she was quite tired, and fell upon the grass and flowers to rest.
The breezes themselves spun away, always dancing as such gentle wind-spirits do, and flew up away into the sky, laughing and gossiping about the beautiful human who danced almost as well as they could. They flew around the earth, they flew between the sky and the houses of the gods, and as always they spoke of things they'd found beautiful – so always they spoke, from time to time, of the lovely princess.
Well, as it happened, there were others who listened to the breezes. One of them was a spirit of fire who served the god of the sun. And one of them . . . was the god of the sun himself, Alyyon.
. . . That's not the name of the god who created the sun, you say? Not the one that your great-grandmother told you? Might be you're right. It's a very old story, and people mis-hear names all the time, or make up ones that sound right to them, or do both. But we'll call the sun's god Alyyon (that's Ally-yon, you scribe over there), because I'm the one telling this story. And we'll call the princess Kasinda – yes, you know that name. And while we're at it, though the spirits almost never have names of their own, we'll name Alyyon's servant . . . Kiro. Makes it easier to talk about people when they have names, don't you think?
. . . If you want to tell the spirits they're not people, go outside to do it, and don't come near me till at least tomorrow. Right, back to the story.
Alyyon was intrigued by the story the breezes told. He sent his servant, Kiro, to spy upon the girl and see if she was as beautiful as the wind-spirits claimed. So Kiro, being obedient to the god – or at least to his cruel power – went riding the sunlight as it broke through the clouds and found himself above a clearing, where a lovely young woman was just standing up and brushing herself off, and tsking about how the grass stains might not come out of her clothes. But, being sensible enough, she said, "I'll just have the dress dyed green, and if that doesn't work, it will be given to the peasants, for it is still a fine cloth that they should appreciate."
Kiro followed the girl, Kasinda, as she left the clearing. He peeped down through the leaves of the tree, as invisible as sunlight himself, as she walked through the woods. When she came to the path to her home, he was still watching her. And though Alyyon had told him to return quickly, once he found if the breezes spoke truth . . . Kiro lingered. He peeped through windows, he watched when Kasinda walked in the garden, he hovered behind her shoulders as she went for dinner, till the door closed between them. In short, he followed her around, spying and entranced, until the sun was setting, and he was pulled away on the last red glimmers of light.
Alyyon was not well-pleased that his servant had taken so long. He stared down at the kneeling fire-spirit and snarled, "Were you so blind that you could not tell at once if the girl was beautiful or not?"
And Kiro . . . Well, he risked a lot, for the gods were petty and jealous, but they could also be sly and careful, and very, very dangerous. Kiro said, "In truth, my liege, the girl moves gracefully, like the wind, but her features are plain and uninteresting. I was searching in the nearby village, to find if there were any girls there who were both pretty and graceful enough to make the wind-spirits chatter, but I found none. The plain, graceful girl must be the one they spoke of. Wind-spirits are notorious for seeing only the beauty of motion and not anything that smolders and burns in stillness."
Alyyon settled back on his golden throne and tapped his sun-white fingers on the throne's arms. "Plain, you say?" he asked.
Kiro replied, "Alas, yes. A shame, for she does move with grace."
The sun's god flicked his fingers. "I have no need to settle for someone who is only lovely in movement. Kiro, my servant, fetch me one of my concubines."
So Kiro did, for the god kept many lovely human women for his pleasure. They were all immortal, in the palace of the sun, never aging, never sickening – but, sadly, they were all of them blinded by the god's sun-white brilliance. And, sometimes when he forgot himself and took too much pleasure with them, his radiance and heat would burn them up entirely, and they died.
. . . I never said the gods were nice, now did I? The dragons killed them for a reason, you know, and even the gentlest of spirits turned away their faces and did nothing to aid their masters.
Well, the next day, Kiro slipped away, and continued to spy on the princess Kasinda. He was entranced by her beauty – of movement, of voice, and of form. Oh, yes, he had lied to the god's very face. Her hair was a glowing, fiery gold, her eyes were like the sunlit sky, and her skin was dawn-kissed if she walked too long in the sun's heat. Fortunately, her nose was quickly cared for every night, and never peeled.
So this continued, day by day, with Kiro following Kasinda around, becoming more and more devoted to her, until finally . . . He pressed himself into the earth, and pleaded with those spirits to aid him. And, as earth-spirits always have, they did, giving him a shell of earth and mud that his flames baked into the flesh of a perfect human man. In that form, then, he came to Kasinda one day, as she was out walking in the woods.
Now, Kasinda was rather startled to see such a perfect, handsome stranger in the woods where never she'd met an intruder. Furthermore, he was quite naked, because spirits frequently forget little details like that. But she was, as I have said, strong-minded, and merely raised her chin and her gaze, and said, "Who are you, stranger, and what are you doing here?"
Kiro said, "I . . . have come here to meet you, beautiful Kasinda. I am a servant of the sun."
"Does the sun's god seek me?" she said, and even she was a little nervous, for though it was a great honor to be chosen as a god's concubine – it meant one would never go home again, nor see one's family, nor even send letters.
"I have told him you are only beautiful when you dance," Kiro admitted. "I did not want him to take you as concubine."
"But are you not his servant?" Kasinda asked.
"I am," Kiro said, "but I cannot bear that you would be taken from your home and family. And I
cannot bear that you would be Alyyon's concubine, and not . . ."
Kasinda said, "And not yours?"
Kiro looked away, ashamed. He said, "I cannot take a concubine, nor a wife, for I am a spirit of fire, a servant of the sun's god. But you are lovely."
The princess dared to approach him. "And what did you intend, coming here in a human form to speak with me?" she said.
He replied, "I am not sure. But if I were to touch you, in my true form, all of you that was not Fire would burn away. And women are more Earth than Fire. And yet . . . I have longed to touch you, and have you know it was not just the warmth of the sun."
Kasinda put a hand to his cheek, and looked into his burning, fire-bright eyes. "You are fevered, it seems. I believe you," she said, and then . . . Well, I believe I have mentioned that she