When the Wind Speaks (Starstone Prophecies Book 1)

by Corinne Kilgore

  “Two?” Dnara asked, not exactly sure if Athan had the money to spend on lamps.

  “One for us,” he said and began pushing his way to the front. “And one for Tobin and Penna,” he said before the mass of people swallowed him.

  Dnara debated diving into the crowd after him but decided to step back from the throng of people instead. The more she looked at the crowd, the more it looked like a single, writhing mass. If anything, they looked less like people and more like that thing Penna had hacked up. Revolted by the thought, she made her way to the calm side of the courtyard and sat at the fountain’s edge to wait for Athan to emerge.

  A few pewter ginny and one copper nelly glinted in the sunlight from the fountain’s tiled bottom. Even those desperately poor would not dare to steal offerings to Faedra, whose likeness captured in gilded marble sat atop the fountain, a graceful ivory hand tipping her life-giving chalice to fill the fountain. The rippling water warped the statue’s smiling reflection and hair full of carved flowers. Dnara leaned over the water to stare at her own distorted reflection and caught a glimpse of an approaching shadow spreading across the water as its owner drew nearer. She thought it Athan, so paid it no particular heed as it stopped next to her.

  “Did Phineaus try to raise the price again?” she asked, hoping for an amusing answer.

  “That unscrupulous braggart always tries to raise the price,” replied a man’s voice that was not Athan’s. “I heard his bellowing from down the street, ruining what had been a pleasantly quiet morning. I hope it has not ruined your morning as well, my lady?”

  Tensing to withhold a startled flinch, Dnara cautiously moved her gaze from the fountain to the man standing next to her. Shiny black riding boots were met at the knee by finely tailored pants in a rich mahogany. The clean, new looking pants led up to a silk shirt as white and unsoiled as the day it had been made, its ruffled front pressed and its billowy sleeves unwrinkled. A heavy velvet half-cape dripped from the man’s shoulders, held there with medallions and chains of fine silver. Even the inside of the cape was lavish, a brocade of gold florets set against a deep maroon background. A nobleman, Dnara assumed; a strange sight to see in a small town like Lee’s Mill, contrasting with the life-worn crowd of people surrounding Phineaus.

  As her gaze raised further, she met a pair of light blue eyes set within a young face, clean shaven and pale with a prominent, thin nose. One of his eyebrows raised high and he tilted his head in contemplation at her silent perusal. Sunlight danced over satiny, honey colored hair that had been pulled into a ponytail by a maroon silk ribbon behind his neck. After a thought, he smiled at her with thin lips. Nothing about the man nor his smile felt friendly.

  Knowing he must be waiting for her to speak, she did her best to greet him without falling into an old habit of bowing her head to any sign of high stature. No longer a slave, she would not cower before opulence. “I still find the morning pleasant, sir. The sun is warm and there is a nice breeze.”

  “So there is.” His smile lifted into an amused little smirk that only served to harden the sharp contours of his face. “I have not seen you in town before, and I make it a point to know everyone.”

  “I have only recently arrived,” she said, which was mostly true. “From Lambshire,” she added, feigning confidence behind the words.

  “Is that so? And does the lovely lady of Lambshire have a name?” he asked.

  “Dnara,” she replied, left with little choice. “And you?” she asked, hoping to distract with talking of himself so that her name would fade into unimportance and later, hopefully, be forgotten entirely.

  He seemed pleased by her apparent eagerness to learn his name. Pressing one long-fingered hand to his chest, he gave a courtly half bow. “My lady, I am-”

  “Garrett!” Athan called out as his boots swiftly closed the distance across the courtyard between crowd and fountain. “I didn’t know you were back in the ‘Mill.”

  Garrett grimaced at the interruption but quickly regained his noble composure as he stood straight to address Athan. “I wasn’t aware I needed to check in with you upon my arrival, forester.”

  Athan’s quiet chuckle was no more friendly than Garrett’s smile. “No, but I do have the item you requested over two weeks ago, and I’d like to get it out of my bags, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Item...” Garrett thought on it for a moment then gave a flippant cast of his hand. “Ah, that. Keep it. I no longer have use for it.”

  Athan’s hand fisted at his side. “But, you’ve already paid for it, and I’ve already spent the coin.”

  Garrett glanced down to the two glass and dark brass lanterns Athan carried by the circular rings toping each lamp. Garrett’s smile grew smug as he pointed to the lamps. “Yes, I can see how you’ve spent my good coin on Phineaus’s junk.”

  “Better to be spent on junk that may prove useful than wasted on drink that sours before it hits the glass,” Athan replied, to which Garrett’s mouth clamped shut in a tempered scowl.

  As the two men engaged in a war of stares and unspoken history, Dnara took one of the lamps in hand and slipped its ring from Athan’s finger. Within the masterful metalwork and inlayed stain glass, there were engraved runes which Dnara recognized immediately. “Phineaus spoke true. These are Elvan crafted.”

  “Oh?” Athan sounded relieved.

  “Are you some scholar?” Garrett sounded skeptical. “An expert on things Elvan?”

  Dnara’s face heated, and she regretted having spoken her revelation out loud. “No, sir. I’ve merely read about them. It is said that if you place an Elvan Everbright lamp in the sun during the day, it will light your path by night.”

  “Good news, then.” Athan gave her a confidence boosting smile when he caught her discomfort at Garrett’s skepticism. “We can’t cook with it, but at least we won’t have to steer Treven in the dark.”

  Garrett scoffed. “Still using that mule, forester? Honestly, you should’ve bought an old hag mare with my coin instead of those lamps. Would’ve been better than your stubborn beast that won’t even let you ride it like a proper master.” Without giving Athan time to offer a rebuttal, he changed topics. “So, I see you know this maiden by the fountain. Why am I not surprised that it would be you who would bring a beautiful rose into Lee’s Mill and not share.”

  “She’s my new apprentice,” Athan woodenly replied.

  As Garrett’s blond eyebrow rose skeptically higher, Dnara stood next to Athan in solidarity. “I’m a friend of the family. Athan has graciously agreed to teach me the trade of foresting so that I may help support my family back home in Lambshire.”

  “Ah.” Garrett gave her a longer look over, stopping at the bandages on her arms just visible past the line of her cloak. “Shame to have such a rose covered in mud, and I see our forester has already neglected to keep you from harm.”

  Athan blistered. “Garrett, you-”

  “It was my fault,” Dnara interjected before Athan’s growing agitation drew curious glances. “Poison oak,” she explained as she held up an arm. “I reached right through a patch to get at some fresh dragon’s wart, and well... It’s a mistake I won’t be making again.”

  “Poison oak, you say?” Garrett asked with rhetorical cynicism. “I do believe I have a balm for that back at the house, imported all the way from Ka’veshi. If you were to come over for tea, or-”

  “We’re busy,” Athan interrupted.

  “I wasn’t inviting you,” Garrett fired back. “Just her.”

  “She’s busy,” Athan said before Dnara could get a word in.

  “I also wasn’t asking you,” Garrett replied, his glacial eyes looking to her. “Doesn’t tea sound better than traipsing through whatever muddy swamp or briar infested grove Athan has in mind?”

  “Well, I-” she started but found herself once again cut off before finishing a thought.

  “Ah, Athan,” an old man’s voice spoke on approach, his hand outstretched in greeting from the folds of a
long, pale yellow robe intricately embroidered in green. “Thank you so much for coming. And this must be her? Wonderful, wonderful! Thank you so much for coming, Mageraetas.” The old man’s bald head dipped low.

  “Mageraetas?” Garrett made an odd little noise, as if he’d been squeezed too tightly by the well fitted vest around his waist.

  “Elder Rellius,” Athan took the old priest’s hand and quickly began directing him back towards the temple steps. “Good morning to you. I do hope Beothen relayed the need for discretion regarding her identity?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Rellius nodded, his smile wide and trusting. “But, doesn’t Garrett already know?”

  “No,” Garrett said as he made to follow, his eyes glancing at Dnara as she kept pace. “Garrett does not already know, and furthermore, I should’ve been informed the moment I returned to town.”

  “Why?” Athan asked. “Last I checked, you were the mayor’s son, not the mayor.”

  Garrett flushed. “And who do you think has been running Lee’s Mill these past weeks? I’ve been the one managing our trade, keeping our treaties, assuring our security and oiling our alliances while my father has been spending night and day in this temple.” He turned to the priest then as they reached the top of the stairs. “I must speak with my father.”

  “I’m sorry, my boy,” the priest kept the same peace laden smile. “But he wishes not to be disturbed.”

  Garrett let out a perturbed huff. “You’ve said that for the past two weeks.”

  Rellius nodded and spoke with the patience of age. “And for the past two weeks it has been his wishes. All his energy is directed where it should be. Perhaps you, too, should stay a while at the temple and offer up your voice to Faedra?”

  Garrett’s eyes began to roll northward, but he caught himself and gave a stiff smile to the priest. “As much as I would love to kneel before a statue for three hours, I have matters I must attend too, like making sure Lee’s Mill doesn’t become completely shrouded in darkness by the end of the festival.”

  “Ah, of course,” the priest acquiesced, but not without one last word of advice. “But do not forget, in times of great darkness, Faedra will always offer her light to the faithful.”

  “Yes, of course.” Garrett offered a stiff bow of respect to match his ever stiffer smile.

  “Are you certain you would not like to visit her?” the priest pressed.

  Garrett’s pale complexion grew gaunt at the thought. An unspoken longing passed through his eyes, but in the end he merely shook his head. To this, Elder Rellius nodded and gave no further argument, as if it had been the expected answer. Garrett let out a slow, uneven breath as the priest walked onward into the temple.

  Garrett straitened his vest and looked to Athan with a cautioned glance past Dnara. “We should speak later. In private.”

  “I’ll check my schedule and let you know,” Athan teased before growing more serious. “Don’t tell anyone about Dnara.”

  “And strike a match in a town already primed to burn in the fires of desperation?” Garrett replied, sounding offended. “You truly do think me an idiot.”

  “Well,” Athan shrugged.

  “Jerk.” Garrett muttered then eyed Dnara with less cold aloofness than before. “Be careful,” he whispered cryptically before making his departure, his gaze skirting the temple entryway’s shadowy recesses. “The statues have ears.”

  17

  The numerous statues dotted throughout the temple did indeed have ears, as one would expect, but Garrett’s warning followed Dnara as she and Athan followed Elder Rellius into the temple. From the steps outside, they passed under a carved wooden archway and into a great stone cathedral. Having seen it all before, Athan and the priest walked on, but Dnara’s steps paused as she took in a breath within the sacred space. In this place, even sunlight looked different, filtered and scattered by decorative clear and stained glass windows to illuminate the cathedral in angular strokes that touched marble statues, wooden pews and etched stone columns with the soft embrace of whispered secrets. The vaulted ceilings called for quiet, lest your words be echoed, and those coming to and from the pews moved with hushed, reverent steps, more like ghosts than people. Along each wall were carved murals depicting stories or lessons for those faithful who were unable to read the teachings written around the borders. Standing between the murals were the statues, and Dnara felt as if they were all looking right at her.

  All but one. One had its back turned to the cathedral, its face lost in the shadows of its alcove. In one hand, it held a long knife raised to the sky. The other hand held nothing, its empty fingers curled around an unseen weight. Dnara stepped closer to it, past Retgar and his sharp axe, past Faedra and her central place of the most honored, past Brodan the Betrayed, Valda the Silent and Thalisa the Just. Each statue’s beautifully carved details crooned for her to stop and express devotion, but Dnara’s gaze never strayed from the shadows of her destination, the lone statue kept separate from the rest, face hidden from those who may pay it attention. She wanted so desperately to know its face.

  “Dnara?” Athan’s hand settled on her shoulder. Dnara’s startled gasp echoed upwards into the high rafters, causing a lone, trapped ashbird to take wing. “Sorry,” Athan said, removing his hand. “I looked behind me and you weren’t there.”

  “Sorry,” she said in return after catching the breath that had been scared out of her. “I didn’t mean to wander, but... I’ve never been in a temple before.” And as she spoke, she leaned forward in an attempt to peer around the backwards statue. Another surprised gasp escaped her when she realized the statue had no face, only an uncarved flat surface where one should be. “It has no face.”

  “And no name worth speaking, some would say,” Athan replied. “This is Demroth.”

  “This is the Shadow King?” Dnara leaned back to take in the rest of the statue but found its limbs too decrepit and its back too hunched to be Demroth. “What have they done to him?”

  “What do you mean?” Athan sounded as surprised by her words as she by Demroth’s lack of a face.

  She looked to him, confused by his confusion, then shook her head. “Nothing, it’s just... Perhaps I need to stop expecting things to be exactly as I have read about them in books.”

  Athan’s brow knit together and his mouth opened to speak, but Elder Rellius called quietly to them from a doorway. “This way.”

  “Yes, Elder,” Athan replied respectfully. “Sorry for tarrying.”

  “Never apologize for lingering within the presence of the gods, dear boy,” Rellius said with a patient smile. “Though, I would advise to not linger so closely to that one. Many have become lost within His shadow, tempted by the secrets He holds. But see, there, how He offers those secrets with an open hand whilst holding a dagger in the other? When wandering close to Demroth, one must always remember that His offerings always come at a price, and it is a price most men cannot bear to pay.”

  Athan nodded at the elder’s words then headed for the open doorway. He stopped there, waiting for Dnara as the priest moved on. She stood, staring at the offered, empty hand, wondering what secrets it held and what price Demroth expected in return. This craven, broken man covered in ragged robes was so far from the Shadow King she’d read about. Then, she noticed the chained shackles clamped around his bony ankles, above bare feet walking on harshly carved, jagged stone. The circle of flesh beneath the scarf around her neck stung.

  “Dnara?” Athan called softly to her. “We should keep up. It’s a maze of halls and rooms back here, and Elder Rellius is fast for his age.”

  Tearing her eyes away from the shackles, she looked to Athan’s easy smile and waiting, open hand. Leaving the faceless god behind, she took Athan’s hand and accepted his guidance down a long hallway lit on one side by leaded windows. Their quickened footsteps were tempered by slate floors, and they reached Elder Rellius as he turned down another long corridor, this one’s stone walls broken by countless wooden doors. One door had b
een left ajar, and Dnara caught a passing glimpse of a man wearing a brown robe, kneeling in silent reflection before an open book. For a moment, it reminded her of the hours she would spend in her room in the tower, engrossed in the pages of a book she’d snuck back from her keeper’s library, alone and in silence but for the stories and secrets each page revealed. The main difference, she supposed, between her and the faithful monk was that she had been unable to leave the tower, and he was free to go, wasn’t he?

  “This way,” Elder Rellius directed. “Just up these steps.”

  The stone staircase spiraled upwards along a narrow passage, the climb made easier by handholds cut into the outer wall which had been worn smooth by countless hands. One small window of bubbly frosted glass illuminated the path with a somber hue and glossed over heavy script carved into each riser. Dnara, going last, trailed behind a bit to read each word as Athan’s foot stepped on the matched tread.

  Kindness. Charity. Humility. Courage. Piety.

  All but the last seemed to fit his character. He’d questioned the existence of the gods, calling them regular people who had held great power and had become legends who had become gods through nothing but the passage of time and the retellings of man. No, she most certainly wouldn’t call Athan a pious man, at least not in the sense that the carver probably intended.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked as he reached the landing and found her several steps behind with a smirk on her lips.

  “Nothing.” She swallowed the grin and hopped up the remaining steps. “Just a passing thought.”

  “A good one, I hope?”

  “Yes,” she answered, having decided that Athan’s questioning of the gods was akin to her learning to question all she’d read from books. “I believe so.”

  “Almost there,” Rellius said and motioned down the hallway that greeted them at the top of the stairs. “Third door on the left.”