Kissed by Starlight (2 page)

So close to him, she could see that his hair had light streaks through the brown, as if his years in the sun had brightened it. A prickle of beard caught the sunlight, a golden shadow. His mouth had lines of sorrow etched deep into the corners. His eyes held a remote expression, as though deep within him the stone still lingered.

“Who are you?’’ she whispered.

“I am Blaic, Prince of the Westering Lands. My liege lord is Boadach the Eternal, King of the Living Lands and of all the Realm Beyond the World that Dies.”

“Prince Blaic?” Her head was aching fiercely. His titles sounded like nonsense. Perhaps it was not she who was mad but him. That was it. During her momentary weakness, a madman had sprung from the bushes. It was only her dazed state that led her to think a statue had come alive.

She glanced over his shoulder as he began walking toward the house. Behind them, the top of the Dartmoor granite plinth stood as bare as one of the ancient stone dolmens that dotted the moor like so many giant tables. There was not even an unweathered patch to show where the statue had once stood.

He went on speaking, but there was a roaring in her ears as the tide of her blood rose dizzyingly. Making a great effort, she caught at one word. “Fairies?”

“So the ignorant title us. ‘Fairies, ‘elves,’ ‘sprites’ ... tchah! Such folly sickens me. I am of the People. Call us the ‘Old Ones’ if you must have a name, but ‘tis better that you do not, for any such is an insult.”

He sounded as though he’d given this point much thought. Felicia couldn’t be bothered to argue it with him. Her head seemed almost too heavy for her neck. She let it sag against his broad shoulder. She could feel the heat of his body against hers and she shivered, but not with the cold. Then she looked again behind them, down toward the snow.

All along the path, the smooth crust of snow sparkled in the sunlight as though someone had carelessly scattered diamonds like birdseed. She had not come this way, so she had left no footprints in the snow. But neither had Blaic.

His boots left no mark at all on the pristine crust.

This fact took a moment to penetrate the fog of grief and confusion that swirled through Felicia’s mind. Then it forced itself on her attention. He was a big man. She weighed at least nine stone. He should have been able to carry her, but the footprints left behind should have been sunk deep into the snow. Even when William the Footman brought in the firewood, his shoes sank into the mud or snow to a greater depth than when he went unburdened. Perhaps the crust was frozen hard.... Felicia dismissed this notion in the next instant.

Looking forward, Felicia realized they were approaching the house by most unorthodox means. The sun shone brightly on the windows of the house, which blazed as though fires had been set in all the rooms. It dazzled her eyes as Blaic paused to open a window and carry her into her room, a full story up.

* * * *

Blaic stood over the unconscious girl. Though human women did not attract him in the least, he owed this one a debt of gratitude for her tears. Her face was thin, with shadows under her blue eyes like finger marks. Surely nature had never meant her cheekbones to be so sharp. Yet it was the shadows at her temples, there where the mortal life beat so near the surface, that spoke most eloquently of her pain.

He owed her a debt which he could never adequately repay. That rankled. He did not wish to be beholden to a slip of a mortal creature. It was like a tiny chain on his freedom, nowhere near enough to hold him, yet galling.

She moved restlessly on the bed. Her hair, a deep, rich brown, was no longer smoothly bound back from her brow. She called out a meaningless jumble of syllables and Blaic noticed that her lips were dry.

A white jug of water stood by a basin. He pressed a cloth into the water, then wrung it out. Laying it over her forehead, Blaic was careful not to touch her face with his fingers. He did not like her pallor. This was more than illness. Pain and grief racked this young mortal. He judged her to be no more than twenty years old. Too young, he thought, to look so!

Curious, he started to reach for her thoughts. Yet his quick ear caught the sound of people coming up the stairs on the other side of the door. He extended his consciousness to see them. Middle-aged, plainly dressed, those floppy caps on their heads ... maids?

“So I zay, ‘If be not yer plaizure, why I’ll please my own self, Mr. Mann.”

“You dared not!”

“Did I not? Aye, and snapped my fingers beneath his long nose, zo I did.” She demonstrated, to her friend’s openmouthed amazement.

Blaic sent a mental image of Felicia, restless and sick, into the mind of the sharper of the two maids. He faded his body away as the door swung open a moment later. “Oh, the poor miss. Her ladyship’ll niver be happy ‘bout this. Best to tell ‘un quick.”

“Oh, Mary! I could not....”

“You mind Miss Felicia, then, Rose. I’ll be tellin’ the old besom. An’ if Miss Felicia don’t have what took away his lordship, I’ll turn harlot, zo I will.”

The bolder of the two girls went out. Indistinguishable from the paint on the wall, Blaic watched as the more timid one put her fingers on the back of Felicia’s hand to test her temperature. What must it be like to be able to touch without paying a price? he wondered.

“There now, Miss Felicia,” she said in answer to a mutter. “Mary and Rose’ll watch over you. If they’d let us care for your blessed father instead of that old ... she’d not be a widow today. Shh, shh.”

Satisfied that the girl was in capable hands, Blaic stepped out the window. Since the world still spun on its axis, the nearest door into the Living Lands would still serve. He’d pay his respects to the high-king, showing him that the curse he’d laid so long ago was broken. Then he’d away to his own lands and his own king, Morgain his father.

Once upon a time, he’d seen many of his own kind, slipping across the Hamdry lawn with revelry in mind. Not for years, though, had he heard the wild music playing on the high hill behind the manor. How long had it been?

He’d had no need to ask the human woman for the date. He had kept an accurate count of every bitter year. Six hundred and forty-eight years of weary mortal time had passed since he had last known the bliss of those who dwelt in the Living Lands.

In the beginning, he’d wondered if his semi-awareness had been the final refinement of cruelty on the part of the king that had cursed him. If he’d been nothing more than a statue, he would not have known grief for his loss. Yet as it was, the slow roll of years had brought their torment.

Sira, his once-love, and the mortal mate she’d chosen had been kind to him. They’d placed him in the garden where the sun and moon could shine on him, their beauty the same in both worlds. The tiny daily changes of season had been entertainment when not blasted and destroyed by the folly of man.

Sira would come at times to speak to him, to show him her children. They had cared for him too after she had taken the way that all mortals must, sooner or later, tread. After she came no more, he had lost all interest for a long, long time. When he took notice again, even the children’s children of those who had known his story were all dead and the tale had lost much in the telling.

Nothing he had seen in all the years since had improved his poor opinion of the human kind. Their lives were so brief and seemed so pointless, filled up with racing hither and yon to no purpose. He watched them when he could, bitterly envying even their limited opportunities and, at the same time, scoffing at the way they wasted their lives. Sometimes children under a benevolent tutor or governess would learn their lessons in the garden. Under the hot summer sky, Blaic learned some of what went on in the outside world—wars, great and small; kings and cardinals; and the rise and fall of this house of Hamdry.

He stepped through the portal without a backward glance.

Even nearly seven centuries meant little in the Living Lands. Here, nothing changed. The long houses, their roofs bright with the dropped feathers of countless birds, were havens of peace and beauty. The very grass glowed a welcome while the great pavilions of brilliant silk hummed in the cool breeze that bore scents of both sea and meadow.

Yet...

The vast white silk tent, all oversewn with jewels, dazzled no eyes but his own. The People were not crowded there to hear the words of Boadach.

Nearby, the Gathering Pavilion was laid for a banquet of two hundred, every wooden plate smooth as glass after centuries of being washed by the strong arms of the wyrcan maids. Yet where were the guests? Where were the wyrcan? If there was to be a feast, the cheerful workers of the People should be at their labors, singing and laughing as they created their homely magic.

His heart beating hard, Blaic ran out into the center of the wide field. Perhaps they had all gathered in the Great Hall to hear the harp masters play and sing. How many times had he stood there, listening to the music yet knowing nothing of its shimmering beauty, for before his eyes stood the yet more glorious beauty of Sira, daughter of the king?

“Depend on it,” he said, and the sound of his own voice was startlingly loud in the reverberating silence. “They are all there.”

Yet when he arrived, it was to the same feeling of having come to a feast only after all was over. The Fire of Assembly leapt and danced in the stone-surrounded pit, making the intricate carving on chairs and stone walls seem to writhe with life. But it was no more than a mockery.

Blaic sank down into a chair. He rubbed his face and tried to think. For nearly six hundred and fifty years he had been alone. Was he now to be even more alone?

He heard a scraping sound and looked up eagerly. A small table inched its way over the stone flags to his side. When it reached him, he touched it and felt it shake as though someone had just let go of it.

A red pottery jug flew out of the shadowed distance and landed on the table, a splash of beer leaping over the edge as it came to rest, followed at once by a wooden tankard.

“Many thanks,” Blaic said as he poured himself a drink. The beer had the indescribable flavor that only the wyrcan could brew. Was his invisible helper some maid whose cheek he’d patted long ago?

Before he’d lowered the tankard, a plate with a loaf of bread and a ramekin of cheese came to rest beside the jug. When he broke the loaf, the steam rose from the soft white bread, for it was that fresh. The scent made Blaic dizzy. No exotic fare could have been a more welcome first meal than that fair loaf.

After he’d eaten, he found his way to the rooms that had been his when, as a visiting prince, he had stayed in Boadach’s palace. As he walked through the corridors, he believed he heard a few voices, muffled and far-off. Though he hastened on, calling, they never came near.

His rooms were also unchanged. He put off his clothing and bathed, standing for a long time under the hot waterfall. He washed his hair five times, knowing that he’d left the bird-slime behind when he changed back to flesh, yet it was a long time before he felt rid of it. Slowly the stiffness left his limbs and the last of the fog cleared from his mind.

He lay down and slept. He dreamed of the past.

Blaic watched with mingled pleasure and bitterness as Sira declared her everlasting love for Conn and the human world. Then a cold thrill told him that he was no longer alone. Knowing fear for the first time in his long, long life, Blaic turned his head with infinite care.

“You have betrayed me,’’ King Boadach said. He stood there in mortal form, burly and strong. Yet his eyes held the yellow gleam of the hungry wolf and Blaic knew himself to be the prey. Beyond him stood the others of the People who were first and eldest. Cuar the Harpist, Forgall the Wily, and Anat, companion to Sira. Her face was wet with tears, but there was no more mercy in her than in a stone statue wet with rain.

Useless to deny anything. ‘‘ Yes, I have betrayed you. But I have done what was right for her.’’

“That was not for you to decide!’’ The beastlike growl became shriller. Then the king caught the tail end of his control. “You betrayed not only me but your People. For that, punishment must be meted out.’’

“You cannot kill me,” Blaic reminded the king. “You can banish me back to the Westering Lands—no more.’’

“Kill you? Nay. You will keep your immortality. Much good may it do you.’’

Blaic felt it first in his feet. A heaviness, as though he could not move them if he tried. There was no sensation of cold, only of unbearable weight. It moved up his legs, slowly at first but gaining speed moment to moment. Blaic looked down, saw the gray stone spreading, and knew in moments he ‘d never move again. He wrenched his head up as his spine solidified. Let his last sight be of Sira‘s happiness!

Then it was done. Within the stone, Blaic’s consciousness was but a flicker, like a candle flame that burned on despite every wind that blew. Boadach laughed cruelly with a coldness greater than the north wind’s. “There let him stay forever!’’

Behind the king, Anat spoke in a soft, soft voice. “Is it not against the Law to condemn with magic and not to leave a loophole?”

“What?” The king swung about on her.

Forgall stepped in front of Anat. “She is entirely right. The Law is clear.’’

Boadach breathed heavily. “Very well. Forgall, cleverest of all my People. Think of a loophole. Something unlikely. “

The second-eldest of the People thought, rubbing his chin. “Very well. Speak these words, o king. “ He conjured a scroll, complete in every detail, from the wax seal to the small red tassel.

Boadach laughed as he read the words aloud. “Nevermore be flesh until a woman weeps over you as Anat weeps. Nevermore return to your home until you betray her as you have done your king. Nevermore be with your people until you are wise as Forgall. Nevermore be free until you sing like Cuar.’’ The king laughed as he vanished in a great swirling wind, followed by the others.

Blaic awoke, the king’s last words still ringing in his ears. “Nevermore,’’ he whispered, and shivered.

Chapter Two

When Felicia awoke, she felt deliriously free of pain. Her head had ceased to ring like an anvil in use, while her limbs no longer felt as though the rack had come back into fashion. Her shift did not cling to her body with chilled sweat and she could open her eyes without crying from the pain of the light.