The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  Ast climbed off the staircase onto a flat that bore a single compound situated eighty feet out from the trunk. A doorless wooden gate stood before a house-sized structure with a high, conical roof. Behind it, a couple of long, single-story buildings stretched into the wild profusion of leaves. A lone man was in front of the main building, broom rasping as he swept debris to the side of the platform. Watching dust and leaves swirl over the edge, Dante understood why the higher the loft, the richer its residents.

  Ast stopped and turned to them. "This is a Shrine of Dirisen. The monks are famed for their lore. Please treat it as you'd treat any other temple."

  "Are you sure you wouldn't rather I use the spittoon?" Cee said.

  Ast gave her a dubious look, decided she was probably joking, and continued. As they neared, the monk stopped sweeping and turned to face them, resting his fists on the top of his broom and his chin on his fists. Ast spoke to him in Third. The monk glanced across the rest of their group. The two men conversed for a moment, then the monk padded inside the shrine.

  "He's checking with the others," Ast said.

  "What did you say to him?" Dante said.

  "That we are pilgrims from a far-off land searching for stories of the Black Star."

  Dante nodded. It was closer to the truth than he preferred, but at this point they had few options. Sooner or later, they would have had to lay it out for someone. Considering how difficult it had been to locate information in their homeland, perhaps "sooner" was preferable than "later."

  The monk came back after a few minutes. He shook his head and shrugged at Ast. Ast frowned at the smooth bark coating the ground. "He says he's never heard of it."

  "But this is where the Hanassans told us to go," Dante said.

  "They told you to go to the Shrine of Dirisen in Corl?"

  "They said the answers would be in Weslee."

  Ast kept his expression neutral. "Weslee sprawls for hundreds of miles. It's little smaller than Gask. And Spiren is just one corner of it."

  "He's never even heard of it?" Dante said. Ast shook his head. Dante gritted his teeth and glanced at the confused-looking monk. "The Black Star? Cellen?"

  The monk could only shake his head. But a face poked through the doorway behind him. The second man was older, white whiskers spangling his face. The first monk glanced at him and immediately stepped aside.

  "Cellen?" The old monk's gaze bore into Dante. "Where are you from?"

  "Kirkit," Dante said, drawing on their cover story.

  "A Kirkitian speaking Gaskan in Weslee."

  Dante locked up. Because the man was speaking Gaskan, too. The old monk raised his eyebrows at the first monk, who blinked, then disappeared inside.

  The man walked into the daylight fighting through the leaves. "You get one chance to tell me the truth."

  Dante nodded slowly, buying himself a couple of seconds to think. Flies buzzed in the leaves. The moment had come out of nowhere and sounded too good to be true. Like a trap. But Dante had no choice—not if he wanted to find the object that might let him live forever.

  Or so he convinced himself.

  "Gask," Dante said. "Narashtovik."

  The man's eyelid twitched. "Why have you come so far?"

  "To find Cellen."

  The monk's face was as motionless as the trunk of the loren. "I don't know," he said, loudly and in Third.

  Like many of the tree people, he wore baggy trousers and overshirt, but his wrists and ankles were cinched tight, presumably so they wouldn't snag when climbing around. He reached into his left sleeve and produced a small scroll of parchment and a charcoal pencil.

  He said something else apologetic, still in Third. As he spoke, he spread the scroll on his left palm and scribbled without looking down. He removed the pencil and the scroll snapped shut. He held out his hand. Dante shook and palmed the paper. The man bowed and went back inside the shrine.

  Heart thudding, Dante walked back toward the staircase. He resisted the urge to open the note until he'd climbed enough stairs to put a screen of leaves between them and the shrine. The note was written in Gaskan, but given that its contents were directions around the unfamiliar city, it may as well have been in Eighteenth (Weslean).

  Ast asked to see it. "He wants to meet. Tomorrow, midnight. Another flat on the Fourth Loft."

  Dante took another look at the scroll. "Can we trust him?"

  "The Dirisen Order is trustworthy. That particular monk? Your guess is as good as mine."

  "Meaning worthless."

  "Eager to speak with us," Somburr mused, "but frightened to be heard by others. The smell of legitimacy—or the false skin of a cunning traitor."

  "Cunning as he might be, he won't expect to be dealing with anything like us." Dante squinted into the branches. "I will go with Ast. Somburr, Lew, and Cee will cover us from a higher flat."

  "Sound thinking," Somburr said.

  "That sit all right with you?" Dante said to Ast.

  The tall man nodded. "Agreed."

  The afternoon waned. Before it closed, they found lodging at an inn that was essentially a long row of shacks strung wall to wall along one of the flats. A common building was set at the intersection of the flat and its major secondary fork. They took dinner there: a mash made of lorbells, a stew also made of lorbells, and skewers of bird meat interspersed with cubes of lorbell marinated in spices and melted fat.

  They digested as the sun set. A chilly breeze tousled the leaves. The flat swayed a bit, but not enough to threaten their footing, let alone the integrity of the inn.

  Once evening had fully dethroned the day, they returned to the staircase. Ast claimed they sometimes kept the toll-gates raised after dark, but the flat where the monk wanted to meet was on the same loft. They climbed to the flat above it to get a look. Below, the flat narrowed to the point where it wasn't terribly practical for buildings. There was still plenty of space to walk around in, however; the place appeared to be the Spirish equivalent of a park, complete with benches. It was remote, but the overhanging flat made for an excellent firing platform.

  They returned to the inn and retired to their one shack, which was all they'd been able to book. Between the snoring and the knowledge he was suspended two hundred feet above the ground, Dante's sleep was not restful.

  He kept a low profile the next day, less than eager to draw attention when such a promising lead was so close. To make the most of their time, he and the others wandered around the Fourth Loft in search of libraries and similar repositories of history. They found none, but did buy an hour's talk with a traveling storyteller, who didn't know anything about colored lights in the sky, but was more than capable of telling them tall tales about the far-flung corners of Weslee. His stories were even more outrageous than the bards of Mallon, but the tree-cities of Spiren made everything feel less impossible.

  After dinner, Somburr departed to make his way up to the platform above the meeting spot, where he'd hide via shadowsphere if necessary. Lew and Cee departed around 10:30 that night. Lew carried nothing but a knife and the nether; Cee had an unstrung bow and a quiver concealed beneath her cloak.

  Twenty minutes before the meet, Dante and Ast left the common room and walked to the staircase. The flat where they were to meet the monk was deserted. Dante gazed up at the branches, trying to pick out the silhouettes of the others, but saw nothing. Either something had gone terribly wrong, or they were doing exactly what they were supposed to.

  A few minutes before midnight, feet sounded on the stairs. Dante turned. The flat jiggled faintly. Instead of the monk, eight soldiers walked down the branch, carrying long spears and clad in studded armor.

  "Hello, strangers." One of the soldiers stepped forward, smiling in a manner that wasn't entirely friendly. He spoke Third, but his words were simple enough for Dante to understand just fine. "The Minister wishes to see you. Now."

  18

  Minn paddled along the surface, staring down at the forest of kelp beneath her. Out to her rig
ht, from the open water, a sleek gray missile soared toward her, twelve feet long if it was an inch.

  Blays thrashed his arms, but she was ahead of him, beyond sight. He popped his head above water. "Shark! Shark!"

  Without waiting for a reply, he dove and kicked as hard as he could toward her. She righted herself, sticking her head above the surface and treading water; in that position, with the sun glinting on the waves, she wouldn't be able to see the shark at all. Blays thrashed forward. She was thirty feet away, but even with the fins, he could swim no faster than a fish would be able to walk if it wore fake feet. The shark arrowed closer.

  Blays moved to surface so he could yell at her, but she dropped below the water to see what he was up to. He pointed frantically. She turned, legs trailing behind her. Her scream warbled through the water, bubbles gushing around her head. The shark's face distended.

  Thrashing, bubbles, a sudden bloom of red. Blays kicked forward, spear in hand. The long shape curved away, blood swirling from its jaws. Minn struck wildly at the water with her spear, kicking at a monster that was no longer there. Blays angled to put himself between her and the shark. The gray missile swam directly away from them, unhurried, undulating through the gloomy water. And then it disappeared.

  He surfaced. "You've been bitten."

  She gaped at him. Salt-scraggled hair hung around her paling face. "I'm fine. It's gone."

  "It bit you in the leg." He fought to keep himself calm, but he could hear the quaver in his voice. "We need to get you to shore right now."

  She glanced down at the water, staring blankly at the spreading cloud of red. "That's not me. It must have gotten a fish."

  "Hey!" He grabbed her by the collar and pulled her to face him. "Swim to shore. Right now. Once we're on dry land, you can show me you're fine and swat me on the nose. Deal?"

  Doubt flickered over her brows. "You're going to feel pretty stupid."

  Despite her protests, she kicked toward shore, swimming on her side. Blays' throat felt choked. His heart ran harder than it ever had. He glanced nonstop between her and below the water, whipping his head around at every glimpse of motion, sure the shark would be back. Once, he looked directly at her leg. Her calf trailed pale scraps behind it. He had seen worse on the battlefields a hundred times before, but something about seeing her skin wafting in the water, the blood drifting as carefree as a summer cloud, flowing from the person who was, at this moment, his only friend in the world—he grew faint. While she kicked ahead, he had to float in place and take deep breaths until the feeling passed.

  They reached the surf and waded to shore. When they were nearly clear of the water, she turned to give him the eye, lifting her right leg clear, then her left. A raw hole dribbled blood down her calf. Her jaw dropped and so did she. Surf hissed over her body.

  "Minn!"

  He tried to run to her, but staggered on his fins. He pulled her from the water and braced her against his body so he could yank at the straps of his fishfeet. He got them loose and hurled them above the tideline. Then he carried her there as well.

  The wound was bad. Not quite as big as he'd feared, given the size of the shark, but she was missing a generous handful of flesh and what was left bled freely. He wiped saltwater from his eyes and grimaced toward the northeast. The black cliffs of Pocket Cove hung on the horizon like a storm.

  There would be no help from them. Even if he had a loon connecting him straight to Ro, Minn's friends wouldn't be able to arrive quickly enough. She was capable of patching herself up much better than he could, but she was out cold. It was up to him.

  He stripped off his shirt and tore it to shreds, twisting the longest strip into a cord and tying it below her knee as tight as he could. As he knotted it, her eyes fluttered open.

  "Wake up!" He tapped her on the cheek. "Minn, can you hear me?"

  Her eyes were wide and frightened, her breathing fast and shallow. "Am I going to die?"

  "The nether's all around us. I need you to put it to use. You know how to heal yourself, right?"

  Her dreamy voice sharpened. "It's one of the first things we learn."

  "Then do it. Right now. Quit lying there staring at me like a lamb and get to work!"

  She blinked, clearing her eyes of fear. She sat up, chin trembling, and forced herself to look at her leg. The tourniquet had reduced the flow of blood to a trickle, but that left the damage all the more apparent. Her eyes rolled. He reached to slap her, but her eyelids snapped open. She was whiter than dead coral. She calmed her expression. Nether flowed to her from all sides, thirstier than a lost traveler. She sent it to her leg.

  Nothing happened. Blays forced himself to look beyond his eyes, focusing on the shadows themselves. They moved inside her flesh, smoothing out torn vessels and capping them. A moment later, the angry red hole began to shrink, fresh pink skin growing from all sides. The growth slowed in moments. She was good, but not nearly as strong as Dante.

  He could only watch in helpless frustration. As soon as she finished, and new skin covered the wound—though a deep chunk of her leg was simply gone—she passed out in the sand.

  Between his adrenaline and her warming spell, he hadn't noticed the cold, but he began to shiver violently. Minn breathed evenly but was otherwise still. He got on his shoes, pulled on his cloak, wrapped her in hers, and carried her back to the cabin. Inside, he put her to bed and went to work on the fire. They'd put it out before heading to the beach and it took him some time to get a spark to catch. He huddled in a blanket and sat over her, but the exhaustion hit him well before the sun had set.

  He woke to darkness. Minn slept on, breathing in and out in steady, slow breaths. She was still asleep as morning broke. Blays didn't leave the cabin except to bring in more wood and once to catch fish from the creek. The following morning, he glanced at her and saw her eyes were open. She groaned. The first thing she did was pull the blankets from her legs and examine the divot in her calf. The second thing she did was run outside, still half dressed, to use the bathroom.

  Back inside, she pulled on warm clothes and sat beside the fire. "Found a kellevurt yet?"

  "When would I have done that?"

  "Don't tell me you wasted—how long have I been asleep?"

  "A day," he said. "I wasn't about to leave you to hunt snails."

  "I just needed to rest. I'll be fine."

  "You're sure? Because your leg looks..."

  She smiled wryly. "Like it has a bite taken out of it?"

  "I was going to say something less horrible, but yes, it looks exactly like that." He glanced out the window for a look at the light. "Are you hungry?"

  "Extremely."

  He fried a couple fish. She stared at the pan the whole time. Once he got them out, she ate both, so he dipped into their supplies, which were dwindling quicker than he liked.

  "We could wait here," he said. "Wait for the others to come back."

  Minn looked at him like he'd suggested they might swap genders. "We're here. We have no way to get them to come sooner. Why would you throw that time away?"

  "You can't possibly be thinking of getting back in the water."

  "Will you?"

  "Sure," he said. "In another day or two. But I'm not the one who nearly served as floating breakfast."

  She snorted. "I was careless. It won't happen again. So long as I'm not bleeding, what are the chances of being attacked twice on the same trip?"

  "I don't think chance works that way. In fact, I believe it delights in screwing people over just when they think they can't be screwed any worse."

  "You will resume your search. That is my order as your mentor. There will be no argument."

  He was all right with that much. She did seem to have recovered enough to look after herself while he was swimming. "Tomorrow, then. I think you could use more rest. Anyway, we're low on food."

  She agreed, but insisted on helping him fish. She walked with a hitching limp and occasionally winced. By and large, however, he had to admit she lo
oked healthy enough to stand on the banks and trick clueless trout into swallowing hooks. That night, she made another effort on her leg, darkening the cabin with wings of nether, but Blays saw little improvement. Unless Ro could do more, Minn was likely to be left with the gouge forever.

  Before he headed out in the morning, she warmed him up with nether. He carried his things down to the beach, donned his gear, and, tightly clutching his spear, stepped into the sea. The tossing of the waves made them opaque and he was horrified by what might be swimming within. The only solution was to get his face under water so he could see. He threw himself forward, hovering below the surface to look in all directions; once he'd determined it was safe, for now, he paddled out beyond the surf to resume his hunt for the kellevurt. Even then, he spent more time glancing out to open sea than he did scanning the ocean floor.

  As noon neared, he got hungry and cold. He turned back to shore and saw Minn standing on the sand. He crawled out of the water, fins flapping.

  "No luck?" Minn said. "Well, that's about to change: I brought you lunch."

  She'd found and roasted wild onions and tubers to go with the fish. It was a nice change.

  "See any sharks?" she said.

  He shook his head. "Just a bitty one. Couldn't swallow your pinky toe."

  He took a quick nap in the sun, then returned to the hunt. By the end of the day, he'd searched far enough that the water beneath him was twenty feet deep. It was difficult to make out details. Every time he dived down for a closer look at a suspicious bit of black or white, pressure squeezed his ears so hard he thought his head might pop.

  The day after, he moved down the beach to shallower waters, splashing around over a bed of slimy kelp. Since the shark, he'd been rigorous about avoiding rocks, coral, and anything else that might cut him, but as he swam over a pillar of coral, a swell fell out from under him, scraping his left arm across the hard, rasping growth. A small cloud of blood drifted from the wound. He swore and turned straight for shore.