Strands of Starlight (48 page)

Mirya and Janet entered Saint Blaise the next day: openly, undisguised. Mirya brought Cloud tot he gates, tossed the penny toll into the basket in front of the astonished guard, and rode on, her red-gold hair tucked carefully behind her ears and her sword at her hip. The man at the gate stared at her as though he had got a fish caught in his throat.

The cries started up before they were fifty feet from the gate.

“Janet Darci! She's back!”

“Fair One!”

People ran to windows. Women stood on tiptoe, shading their eyes against the sun. Men climbed up on wagons to see better. A flower vendor hastened to put together a spray of her finest blooms and presented them to Janet with a deep curtsy.

“Mistress Janet's back! With an Elf!”

Mirya nodded in acknowledgment, but kept to herself, to the stars. She had paid a high price for these cheers, and so had Janet.

The news had already reached the mayor's house by the time they stopped before the door. George and Anne ran to meet them, and Mirya handed the girl down into the arms of her startled father.

“When I asked you to look in on Janet, Fair One,” George gasped, “I had no idea. . . .”

“It seemed the proper thing to do,” Mirya replied. “Janet was not needed in Hypprux anymore.”

“Not needed? What about—”

“There have been some changes.” Mirya considered the sound of her voice, shrugged. “You will be hearing from Roger of Aurverelle soon, my lord. Treat him with respect.”

“But—”

“It is possible to be the friend of a bear,” she said. “One only has to keep one's hands away from the bear's mouth. The Free Towns will be safe. Fear no more.”

George looked as though he had been struck. “But . . . but what happened?”

Mirya did not answer. She looked up at the snowcapped mountains, then down at the people who crowded around her. They were human, mortal, limited in their understanding and their sympathies, but she loved them; and it was so easy to give, to aid, to heal. “I grew up,” she said.

“I don't understand.”

“Nor do I.” She started to move off, but Janet broke away form her parents, ran to her, and reached up. Mirya bent and pressed her head against Janet's, felt soft arms encircle her neck.

“Will you visit?” said Janet. “Please?” Her eyes were bright and blue, and Mirya saw the faint starlight in them. A kinswoman.

She had involved Janet in her revenge, and the girl still suffered from that. How much love would it take to soothe away the violence and the nightmares?

As much as I have to give.
Mirya smiled and kissed Janet's forehead. “I shall. Soon. And often.”

When she passed through the gate again, the soldier was still staring. “Where are you from, sir?” Mirya asked.

He found his voice after a moment. “From Zurich.”

“It might be well for you to return there. Your services are no longer needed in Adria. God bless you.” She rode on, feeling his eyes upon her. The fish was back in his throat.

She spent the night in the forest and resumed her journey in the early morning. She stayed on the hidden path and made good time. With her promise to Janet, the aching had left her stomach, if not her heart, and it was comforting to be under the trees again.

Just at evening, she left the woods and followed the road across the fields to Saint Brigid. The gate was open, and she rode up the street, circled the grass of the common, and came to the house of Kay, the priest. “Wait a moment, please,” she said to Cloud.

Kay opened the door and stood transfixed for an instant. “Oh, dear Lady! You've changed, Miriam.”

“Be at peace.” She entered and looked about. The kitchen was as she remembered it, but though its sense of mortality was tempered by a deep tenderness, it was still a room built by humans, and she needed the forest.

“I cannot stay long,” she said softly, the Elvish accent strong in her voice. “I have come to say good-bye. And to thank you for your kindness . . . and for putting up with me.”

“Terrill stopped in a while back. He said you wouldn't be living here anymore.”

There was acceptance and peace in Kay's voice, and Mirya saw the different in his eyes. The despair was gone. “You have changed, too, Kay.”

He nodded. “I had a Visitor.”

She understood, bowed low. “Blessings upon you this day.”

“And there was a man from Avignon here, too. Clement will give us no trouble. So much for the Inquisition.”

“How is Mika?”

“Fine. She's in bed. She doesn't sleep well yet—bad dreams and all—but she's getting better.”

“I hope the arrangements are satisfactory.”

“More than satisfactory.”

Silence fell as human and Elf searched for words. But words were limited, and in any case, what they wanted to say, Mirya realized, would best be conveyed over time, when touch and tenderness, sympathy and love would transcend any difference of race or lifetime.

“You're . . .” Kay fumbled. “You're not human anymore, are you?”

She shook her head.

“Did you do what you wanted?” He sounded almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I am not sure. I am not entirely sure that I knew what I wanted in the first place.” She laughed at herself, smiled at him.

One last look about the room, then.

“I must go,” she said. “I do not belong here.”

There was a noise in the hallway. Mika was standing there, wrapped in a blanket. “Miriam! I thought I knew you.”

Forgetting the blanket, she ran to Mirya and hugged her tightly. “My girl. You've changed so much.”

Mirya held her, stroked the graying hair. “You were right, Mika,” she murmured. “I did find an ending.”

***

She knew the path well. It shimmered invitingly in her vision, and she followed its twists and turns effortlessly, her soft boots silent on the forest floor. The moon floated in a sea of stars, and its light dappled the ground.

Her ears were burning again, but this time with a sense of coming home to friends and family. With few exceptions, she did not know them, but she loved them, and she was,s he knew, loved in return.

And there was one in particular. . . .

When she saw the firelight ahead, she sent Cloud off to find Nightflame and sweet pasture. Alone, quietly, she entered the clearing. Terrill was there, and Varden, and Natil and Talla, and others. She touched the ground. “May I still claim hearthright?”

Varden stood up slowly. She knew whom he was seeing, and could not say that he was wrong. “It is not necessary for family to claim hearthright,” he said, and he led her to the fire and sat her down beside Terrill. A cup of wine was put into her hands by an Elf maid. Mirya looked up at her.

“
Ele, Miryai,
” said the witch.

“
Manea, Carai,
” replied Mirya. “
Alanae a Elthia
. . .”

Terrill was watching her, the analysis fled form his eyes. Mirya saw fear and knew that he had not looked into the Dance to see what decisions she had made. He was not wearing his sword.

“Did you kill him?” he asked finally.

“I did worse,” she said. The firelight glistened in the clear wine of the cup that she lifted for a moment like a chalice, offering it to the Lady before she sipped. “Worse . . . or maybe better. One of these years, perhaps in the early spring, on a Day of Renewal, I will know which. Until then . . .” She shrugged, looked at Terrill, then at Varden. “But I think I won, finally.”

Setting down the cup, she put her hands to her waist and unfastened the sword belt. Rainfire was light in her hands as she offered it to Varden. “I do not think I will have to wear this again,” she said.

Varden shook his head. “Keep it all the same. Swords have their place.”

She let it rest in her laps. She could see that Varden was still in pain. In fact, now that she was among her own people, she sensed that they all had their own pain, that year by year, they came to know it, to put it into perspective, to understand how it fit into the larger pattern of their lives.

She had taken life, and she had given life, and each action had implied the other. Each action always implied the other. Both were a part of the Dance, a part of the Lady. And though there was pain, there was joy also.

Elthia Calasiuove.

Terrill had been right. She had been ready to fight Roger of Aurverelle, for she had killed him, and yet, in the end, she had loved him.

Her vision was blurring with tears. Terrill took her hand and kissed it gently. She heard Natil begin to play her harp. It was a healing melody, and she welcomed it.

Gael Baudino grew up in Los Angeles and managed to escape with her life. She now lives in Denver . . . and likes it a lot.

She is a minister of Dianic Wicca; and in her alter ego of harper, she performs, teaches, and records in the Denver area. She occasionally drops from exhaustion, but otherwise can be found (grinning happily) dancing with the Maroon Bells Morris.

She lives with her lover, Mirya.

Her short stories have appeared in anthologies by DAW and in
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
. The first book of a trilogy,
Dragonsword
, has been released by Lynx Books, to be followed by a second volume in late 1989. Paradise Music will be publishing a primer she wrote for the wire-strung harp at about the same time.