Kissed by Starlight

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “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. Boad
ach 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.

  Best of all, there was no incredibly handsome man standing over her.

  Felicia sat up, shaking her hair so that it brushed over her back. This was her own room, not the dark asylum she’d feared in her dreams. The curtains of her bed were drawn back to show the pale blue walls and framed engravings of Grecian scenes her father had chosen. The winter sunlight sifted through the white damask curtains over the windows. She also saw a servant asleep in a comfortable chair near the banked fire, her cap askew.

  “Miss Liza?”

  The woman snorted and startled. “You awake, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell mistress.” Her flat, wrinkled face showed no emotion, neither pleasure nor distaste. Yet Felicia knew the woman disliked her, had hated her from the day she’d come, taking her tone from Lady Stavely. Even at ten years old, Felicia had understood why.

  Nevertheless, she was daughter of the household whereas Liza was just a maid. She would call her “miss” since Lady Stavely insisted, but she would not forget who was the maid. “Please send one of the others to me first,” Felicia said quietly. “Mary or Rose. I want to wash, and I’m hungry.”

  When the woman had gone, Felicia threw the covers aside as always. She hated to lie in bed, drowsing away the morning. How much better to jump out, bounding into the day!

  Felicia found she had little bounce this morning. As soon as she stood up, her head spun sickeningly. She sat down again, noticing that the feather bed did not shift under her weight. The mattress had become very compacted over the last few ... hours? Days?

  Taking stock of herself, Felicia realized it must have been days. Her hands, as she looked at them, seemed claw-like. Pushing back her sleeve, she saw the bones of her wrist, while her legs not only felt like sticks, they’d noticeably shrunk. She thought about crossing the room to peer in the glass, but it suddenly seemed very far away.

  A timid knock at the door diverted her attention from herself. Lady Stavely wouldn’t knock timidly under any circumstances, and well-taught servants don’t knock at all. “Come in, Clarice.”

  “You are well! You are!” Clarice ran in, her face aglow with relief. She jumped up beside Felicia, rocking the bed, and threw her arms around her half-sister. “They wouldn’t let me see you. They said I might get sick too. As if I ever fall ill!”

  “No, you are never ill, dearest.” Felicia returned Clarice’s embrace warmly, though her arms seemed to have little strength. At least holding on to the girl slowed the vibrations in her head.

  “I told them you weren’t going to die! Cook and that Mrs. March that brings the geese—they said you were going to die like Papa, but I flew out at them and told them you weren’t. That Mrs. March! She turned white as snow when I shouted at her. I screamed and screamed until she went away.”

  Knowing Mrs. March, the tale had probably spread clear to the Cornish border by now. “You must have frightened her, Clarice.”

  “Good! I wanted her frightened. They frightened me, so that’s as it should be.” Clarice gave a little nod as though to defy argument of this fundamental point. Then, like a darting bird, she was dashing off at a tangent. “You’ll never guess what happened! Go on, try!”

  “I’m sure I can’t. Why not tell me.”

  “Oh, you’re slow, Felicia. The kitchen cat had five kittens . .. two ginger, one black, one striped, and one little tabby cat that Cook says shall be all mine! The others must be drowned if no one will take them, but I’m sure I can find someone who will! After all, Mrs. Binns was just saying how her cottage is overrun with mice and with all the stables our friends have, surely someone needs cats.”

  “Are you going to ask them?”

  “Mother says I may, if I take John Groom with me.”

  Clarice jumped down from the bed and dashed to the window. “Oh, and the snow’s been grand, Felicia. What a bore that you’ve been too sick to play! But you’ll come out today, won’t you?”

  “Not today, dearest. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “You’ll have to see Doctor Danby first, I suppose?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I like him. He gives me peppermints.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Clarice’s thinking jumped around as easily as she did herself. “Cook is keeping some cake for you since you didn’t have any after Papa’s funeral. I’m glad we shan’t have a funeral for you, though the cake was really very good.”

  “I’m—I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  The girl looked toward the door. “Uh-oh, that will be Mary with your breakfast. I was told not to trouble you until Mother said it was all right. I’d better hide!”

  “No, dear! Not under the bed. Sit over there and you can talk to me while I eat.”

  “Oh, that will be jolly! I can tell you about the snow fort! Collie is so clever.”

  To look at, Clarice Stavely was a beautiful girl of sixteen. She had an oval face of such regularity that it might have been Botticelli’s favorite dream. Her golden hair, caught back in combs, rippled over her shoulders as though curled by a master hand but was entirely natural and the despair of anyone who tried to tame it. Her brows arched delicately over eyes that were literally sapphire blue, set at a slight, exotic angle. They were the only exotic things about her, her being in all other respects a perfect English “roses and cream” beauty.

  She had a young, budding figure too. Though not tall and given to eating too many sweets, she stayed slender by vigorous exercise. If she was not playing with the servants’ children, she was climbing trees, going for long “bug-hunts,” or playing battle-dore and shuttlecock with her mother’s maid until Miss Liza collapsed with exhaustion. Clarice had ridden too, loving her horse, until the day she’d not returned as expected.

  Since that day, three years earlier, she’d been in all respects a child.

  Lord Stavely had found her up on the moor, weaving a daisy chain while her horse cropped the lank grass nearby. Her head was unbroken, showing not even a bruise. Clarice herself had given no explanation. She did not remember setting out that day. She had no remembrance of falling from her horse. In fact, she remembered nothing of her life after age seven or so.

  Clarice’s quick ears had indeed heard the maid laboring up the stairs with a tray. Mary came inside the door and stood there, tray balanced on a generous hip, her hand pressed to her bosom. She still had breath enough to scold.

  “Now then, Lady Clarice, you know better than to disobey your mother, now. Be off with you and don’t come botherin�
�� Miss Felicia, and her no more than this minute out of bed!”

  Clarice pulled a charmingly freakish expression of exasperation. “I haven’t tired her,” she protested. “Indeed, I haven’t... have I, Felicia?”

  “No, dearest, not a particle. But if your mother says you shouldn’t be here now ...”

  “She’s just afraid I’ll take sick from you, but I won’t. I never get sick....”

  Clarice had, ever since her “accident,” fallen into a trick of repeating herself. She could repeat an entire conversation as though it were for the first time. Felicia couldn’t face that now. “You should go if it is your mother’s wish.”

  The girl’s full lower lip quivered. “You said I could stay while you ate!” She pushed herself out of her chair and stamped her foot. “It’s sc unfair! Why doesn’t Mama want me to love you?”

  She ran from the room, all flailing arms and legs, her skirt rustling. Lady Stavely tried to dress her daughter as befitted her true age, but the long silken skirts and fine linen fichus only became wretchedly battered. In desperation, she’d begun to dress Clarice in simple fabrics, though never in fewer than three petticoats.

  Mary sighed as she put down the tray on a table between the windows. “There now,” she said, coming to Felicia’s side. “Don’t be overdoin’ yourself, Miss Felicia. Been hard for the poor lamb, zo it has. We were all afeard we’d lose you too. Even Doctor was afeard. I zee him shakin’ his head when he come out of here no more’n yestiddy.”

  She helped Felicia get back under the coverlet and plumped up her pillows to support her back. “Now just bide you still. Not a bite nor sup have you had since the day you was struck ill—nor much before, I’ll be bound.”

  “Perhaps not,” Felicia admitted. “But I do want to eat whatever it is that smells so good.”

  Mary brought the tray across to lay over Felicia’s knees. Taking the cover away, she stood by while Felicia breathed in the savory aroma. Felicia’s mouth watered at once. But when she groped for the spoon, it was to find that her hand trembled so much that to dip it in the soup was to risk drowning.