Strands of Starlight (29 page)

“What kind of rumors?” Kay tried to keep his face blank.

Louis chuckled and shook an uplifted finger in the air. “Aha! The gossip in us all! The simple village priest has a human failing!”

Hoyle looked up appraisingly. Bartholomew grinned. They had said nothing since they had entered save for a murmured
thankee
or
God bless
when handed food, and their watchful silence was unnerving.

“The rumors, though.” Louis folded his hands in his lap. “Interesting. Hmmm. The general sentiment expressed is that Alban was the victim of elven magic. That he, as it were, spent the remainder of his days gamboling about on four feet—or rather hooves.”

“That is quite a story,” said Kay. His hands were still steady. “Do you believe such tales?”

“I'm—” Louis cleared his throat. “Augustine is looking into it.”

“I believe I've heard the same fables as you, Brother Louis. Ovid might have believed in such pagan transformations, but I hardly think you and I need to.” Kay thought of the years he had spent studying for the priesthood, and as he had watched his tongue then, so he watched it now. “Alban disappeared sometime before I was summoned to this cure, so there's no way I could have firsthand knowledge of the event. From what some of the villagers say, though, Alban was a bit of a pig even before he disappeared, no matter what his eventual fate.”

“But it is precisely in his fate that I am interested,” said Louis. “Do you realize what has happened, Kay? A priest, like yourself, a servant of Holy Church, has possibly been attacked. Are we to stand back and allow this? By no means!” He lifted a hand as though preaching. “There is a great evil in Malvern. Augustine is aware of it, I am aware of it, and certainly Aloysius Cranby is aware of it. The Free Towns are, I daresay, innocent of any wrongdoing—poor Aloysius; how disappointed he will be!—but they might be unaware of what is happening in the dark shadows of the forest.”

Kay forced himself to nod evenly. With studied precision he lifted his mug. With absolute control he sipped.

“There have also been reports of a notorious witch in this area,” said Louis matter-of-factly. “A girl named Miriam.”

The mug slipped out of Kay's hand and shattered on the tiled floor.

The friar looked form the broken crockery to Kay's face. “Perhaps you've heard of her?”

“I . . .”

“Short. Black hair. Unpleasant-looking wench.”

“My housekeeper is named Miriam,” said Kay, his resolve firming. “But she doesn't look anything like that.”

“We would like to meet her.”

Kay met his glance levelly. “She's away right now.”

“But she'll be back soon, won't she?”

“Perhaps.”

“You should keep a closer eye on your housekeeper, Kay. Women are weak vessels. Left to themselves, they can get into all sorts of . . . mischief.”

Kay began to clean up the broken mug, feeling three pairs of eyes on him. “Will you and your companions be needing lodgings while in Saint Brigid, Brother Louis?”

“We had hoped to stay with you, Kay. This is such a fine, large house. I'm sure you have a room or two for us.”

“Yes . . . of course . . .”

“And it will give us a chance to become acquainted with Miriam. Your . . . housekeeper.”

Kay had to suppress a smile. Given the friar's description of Miriam and his apparent certainty that the village priest's house was being kept by a witch, the maiden's entrance was going to be amusing.

***

Miriam had finished her housework before dawn that day. Her need for sleep was still dwindling, and she had much time to spend alone, with the village asleep and the streets deserted.

She had practiced the intricate dance on the common, taking time to work on her form, forcing herself to concentrate on the actions in the abstract. Perfection was her goal at present, not the eventual fight. When she had finished, she had stood, straight and motionless, letting the energies settle slowly back into the earth, into the stars.

It was still dark, and would be for several hours, when she—clad as an Elf, her movements silent and unnoticed—climbed over the locked gate of the town. Dawn found her among the trees, and she listened to the rising song of the birds as the sun grew round at the edge of the world and the forest awoke.

She spent the day in the company of the trees and the people of wings and of four feet who made their homes there. At times, she thought she was coming close to understanding their speech, and they in turn listened to her words attentively. There was almost communication, but not quite. She had more to learn, further to go, before she finally became—

She stopped in the middle of a cluster of aspen trees, felt the sunlight, the soft air. She looked at her hands. Day by day, the shimmer about her had grown brighter. When she had first been transformed, it had flickered in soft hues of violet and lavender, but now it had changed to the same silver sheen that surrounded Terrill and his people.

Further to go. But how far? She looked to the patterns among the stars, but they were hideously complicated, a huge knot of maybes and could-bes lying in the very near future. What did it mean?

She was thoughtful as she returned from the forest, but when she set foot in the tilled fields, her head jerked up and toward the town as though she had been pulled by the nose. There was a definite sense of wrongness about Saint Brigid. Something had changed, had changed drastically.

She examined the plexed futures, but the cause of the sudden increase in probabilities eluded her. She reached further into the knot of probabilities, yielding a little more to the ocean of starlight that flowed through her mind as she felt through the strands of choice and action. For the space of a heartbeat, she though she detected a familiar face, a known voice, but fear awoke, and with a gasp, she brought herself back to the sight of field and village.

Her heart was racing, her hands trembling. Give herself to the starlight? Impossible. So much further to go.

She crossed the fields and entered the village. Francis hailed her from the forge. He told her of the strangers.

“Dominicans?” said Miriam.

“Aye,” said the Smith. “They looked peaceful, but—”

“It's the Dominicans who are the inquisitors,” said Miriam. Her stomach knotted. “They call themselves the 'Hounds of God.' Most of them are rabid, I think.” She looked up the street in the direction of the church. “Have you heard anything from Kay?”

“Nay. Maybe ye'd best stay wi' Hester and me, Miriam.”

“Why?” She remembered clearly her last encounter with the Dominicans, and the anger that she had so carefully banked began to sputter back into life. Had they tracked her this far? They would be contending with more than a frightened little girl this time. “I'm not letting a bunch of fat clergymen drive me away from my home.”

She bade the smith a good day and continued down the street. But as she started across the common, she recalled that she was dressed as an Elf, and she entered the church instead, making for the door in the south transept that connected with the house. The late-afternoon light shone in through the stained-glass windows and lit the altar and the carved panels behind it. Alban's fate glowed in reds and blues.

As she turned toward the door, she saw the statue of the Lady and stopped before it. Again, she saw beyond the wood, into the stars, into the face and being of a Woman whose robes were blue and silver. In her mind, the knot of futures pulsed, flickering, minutes away. She would have to enter it, make of it what she could, seek blindly for the best choices. The thought of the task was frightening, and she looked for reassurance and strength in the calm gray eyes that watched her.

“Lady,” she said softly, looking into Her face, “You've never asked anything of me. But You helped me. I trust You. And . . . and I'll serve You, if You'll take me.”

She bowed low for a moment, touching her hands to her forehead and opening them wide in the manner of the Elves. And then she took the short corridor to her room and changed into a simple gown.

As she went toward the kitchen, tying her belt, she heard a voice that she remembered well, one that had, months before, condemned her to prison and to torture, She froze, listening to Aloysius Cranby.

“We have it on good authority that George Darci of Saint Blaise has particular friends among the Elves,” he was saying. “This is most disturbing. You must understand, Kay, that if Augustine of Maris is to be able to accomplish anything at all, you must tell me everything.”

“I . . .” Kay sounded dubious, but Miriam knew that he had placed a good deal of hope in his letters to Clement and to Augustine. “It's rather complicated. . . .”

Futures were shifting, strands of starlight branching into potentials that terrified her. She ran for the kitchen.

When Miriam stepped into the room, Kay fell silent as though relieved. But Miriam was looking at the middle-aged man who, clad in the habit of a Dominican, was just lifting his hand as though to admonish a refractory village priest.

Aloysius Cranby, bishop of Hypprux. She wished that she could kill him where he sat, a piggish look of bland astonishment on his face.

But forcing itself through her anger was an awareness of the patterns that were forming and reforming. There was a safe passage through this encounter, but it did not lie in exposing herself or in attack. She had to be calm. The stars shone within her, and she reached for their light. Slowly, Cranby became a problem to be solved rather than a temptation to rage.

“I am Miriam,” she said evenly, not forgetting to drop a curtsy. “Kay's housekeeper.”

“Miriam,” said Kay, “this is Brother Louis, and his companions, Brother Hoyle and Brother Bartholomew. They've been sent by Bishop Augustine.”

Miriam cast a quick glance at Kay. Did he really believe that?

The priest looked noncommittal and slightly afraid. “They'll be staying with us for a week or two.”

A week or two? In the same house? She began to wish that she had indeed killed Cranby on the spot. She stifled the thought.

Brother Louis grinned. “A fine woman you have here, Kay. I can see that you are not without taste. Ha-ha! A simple village priest . . . more human than simple it seems!”

Kay blushed crimson. Miriam took a deep breath.
Go ahead and play, you bitch's whelp.
She glanced at the friars, felt through the potentials that now surrounded her, sensed the thoughts of the Dominicans. Although they were surprised by her appearance, there was also an element of lust in their perceptions. She set her jaw. “Do the good brothers have need of anything?” Her contralto was firm, soft.

“Attend to our horses, woman,” said Louis abruptly. “Because of your absence, they've stood outside all this time.”

The anger welled up, but the potentials held it back as though their message were written in letters of flame:
Say nothing. Do nothing.

“As you wish . . . Brother Louis.”

“And bring our baggage in,” Louis continued. “Kay, will you show us to our rooms? There will be time for more talk later on.” He glanced at Miriam. “Why are you standing there, girl? I told you to attend to our horses.”

Miriam did not reply. She merely walked across the room and went out through the front door. Behind her, she heard Brother Louis' voice: “Is she simple, Kay? Or does she only understand the uncultured patois spoken down here?”

She shut the door behind her. Perfectly balanced, the futures hung before her, intricate and treacherous. Cranby was exploring, assuming the guise of a not-so-humble Dominican friar so as to find out what went on in the Free Towns. When he returned with a Church court, he would know exactly which questions to ask, and of whom to ask them. If he even bothered with such formalities.

Does Kay know?

It took her only a minute to lead the horses to stable, unburden them, and set them to feeding. They were fine beasts, rather gentle, and she could not but smile as she stroked the strong back of the dapple gray. If their masters were evil, the horses could not help it.

But she was fretting: she had to talk to Kay, she had to warn him. If he did not realize the identity of his guests, he might at any moment say something unfortunate.

She had no clear idea of what she was going to do, only a pressing need to do something. In the same manner in which she had once found a skylark in flight above the forest, she now cautiously allowed her awareness to envelop the priest's house. Slowly, a new perspective took shape around her: she could see the kitchen as though she stood on the tile floor, and she passed into the corridor, following the sound of voices that came to her as though from a great distance.

“There's probably some truth in the rumors, Brother Louis,” Kay was saying. “Rumors have to start somewhere, after all.”

“But what truth, Kay? As I said, you must be willing to cooperate with Augustine.”

She felt the baldness of Louis's lie as she peered into the guest room. Augustine was dead. Kay's letter to him had been intercepted. She knew it as surely as she knew, months ago, that Roxanne was pregnant.

But Kay had started to speak, and she sensed that he was going to say something about Varden and the Elves.
Kay,
she shouted in her mind,
that's Aloysius Cranby! Don't tell him anything!

And, abruptly, in the middle of his first word, Kay shut his mouth, looked a little astonished, and made an excuse for leaving the room. The friars did not appear to have heard anything.

In the stable, Miriam sagged against the wall, frantically pulling her awareness back into herself. The vision had taxed her, and her physical sight was still blurry when Kay burst in.

“I heard—” He shook his head as though to clear it. “Was that you?”

“Aloysius Cranby,” she whispered. “That's him.”

Kay stared. “Are you sure?”

“Dammit, Kay, that bastard tried and sentenced me!”

The priest was fumbling with his thoughts. “But what's he doing here?”

“What do you think?”

“O dear Lady!”

“We need to warn the villagers. The Elves too. And it would probably be a good idea to get Charity and Sana away.”