The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  It was this audacity, this rebelliousness, that drew Briony to Lisandre. When Briony had first come to the castle, she had felt very odd and out of place, like a cuckoo bird in a nest of baby hummingbirds. She had never before seen such a grand place, let alone lived in one, and her natural awe of the starkin was honed to a very real fear that they would somehow discover that she had been raised and taught by one of the Crafty. She had seen with her own eyes what the starkin did to those who dared follow the Craft.

  If Briony had been brave enough she would have ignored Lady Donella’s order, slipping away in the night. She knew how strange it would have seemed, though, to decline an offer so advantageous to herself, and how dangerous it could be to thwart one of the starkin. So she had come to the Castle of Estelliana as bid, all her apprehension and homesickness tightly locked away, hidden beneath her grey moth camouflage. Briony was so very quiet, meek and biddable, so very dull, she was virtually invisible. Most of the starkin did not even notice that there was a new seamstress and those who did forgot her the very next instant.

  Lord Zoltan, of course, knew that she was there because he paid her wages. The first time he saw her, sitting so quietly in her corner, her face bent over her sewing, he stopped and asked her how she was settling in, and said he hoped she would be happy at the Castle of Estelliana. To Briony’s surprise, he had spoken in the language of the hearthkin, which they called Adalheid. She hid her amazement, answering colourlessly that she was sure she would be. He had nodded and moved away, never paying her any notice again. She had been secretly impressed with his kindness, however, and had softened her adamantine loathing of the starkin, just a little. After a month observing him about the castle, instructing the servants, sitting in judgement over the courts of law, listening to the reports of the town reeve and constable, and arbitrating disagreements between guilds, she had had to admit to herself that not all starkin were cruel, loathsome beings without mercy or compassion. He was never soft, the old count, but he had been fair.

  The only other starkin to have paid Briony any attention was Lisandre.

  Pampered, indulged, her every need and desire fulfilled by a throng of servants, Lisandre was like a gaudy-winged butterfly, dancing about the court with a swish of silken skirts, a tippety-tap-tap of jewel-studded heels, a trill of merry laughter. Briony was quite prepared to hate her, but found herself fascinated by her luminous vitality. In a court where all affected a languid pose of boredom, Lisandre’s vivacity, her transparency, were striking. Lisandre never felt any need to hide how she felt. When she was happy, she sang and danced and embraced her servants. When she was grieved, she sobbed so heartbrokenly that even the lowliest dog-boy sniffled in sympathy, and everyone sought to please her with little gifts and sweetmeats. When she was angry, she flung vases and pounded her pillow with her fists. Briony envied Lisandre the luxury of self-expression even more than she did her beauty, her wealth, her privilege.

  Lisandre had noticed Briony her very first day at the castle, and had smiled at her, surprising Briony into a smile in response. It was winter and the starkin ladies were all reclining by the fire, picking desultorily at a plate of little cakes and moaning about the horrid weather. Lisandre was wandering about, restless and bored, alternatively running to the window to see if the snow had stopped falling, demanding her mother explain why she was not permitted to go hunting like her brother, and annoying Lady Donella by teasing a kitten with a tangled skein of embroidery silk. The chief lady-in-waiting was always sweet and charming, but the flash of steel in her eyes, the poisoned barb in her voice, would have frightened Briony and extracted instant obedience. Lisandre only laughed, though, and kept on teasing the kitten.

  She soon tired of the game, however, and looked about for something else to relieve her tedium. It was then she noticed Briony and smiled at her. When the drab little seamstress smiled back, she came dancing up and perched on the arm of the chair next to Briony’s, exclaiming over the delicacy of the lace she was making.

  ‘How clever you are!’ she had cried, speaking rather stumblingly in Adalheid. Briony marvelled to hear the faltering phrases coming from the mouth of a starkin princess, and wondered how she knew the language. The Castle of Estelliana was a long way from Zarissa, however, and Lisandre had grown up surrounded by hearthkin servants. Her father might even have encouraged her to learn it, though Briony thought this unlikely, given the attitude of starkin lords towards educating their womenfolk.

  ‘It looks just like a snowflake,’ Lisandre continued laboriously. ‘I would be afraid it would melt were I to wear that on my sleeve.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Briony had said, as tonelessly as she could, and speaking in Ziverian.

  Lisandre gave a smile of relief and slipped back into her own language. ‘You are newly come to the castle, are you not? I hope the other servants are not too formidable. It must be perplexing, finding yourself in a new place with so many new faces. I do not think I would like it at all.’

  ‘Everyone has been very kind.’

  ‘I am glad of that,’ Lisandre said, a little less buoyantly. She asked Briony a few questions about her life but received only monosyllables, all in a colourless voice, with eyes downcast. After a while Lisandre, bored, had got up and flitted away, as pretty and careless as any butterfly.

  The death of her father had quenched all Lisandre’s vivid animation. Her grief had been consuming, a violent torrent of emotion that left her exhausted, blind and mute as a newborn kitten. When at last she began to look beyond her own sorrow and bewilderment, it was to find her life and liberty controlled by Lord Zavion, a man she instinctively disliked and mistrusted. Her rage and resentment were as intense as her grief had been. Lisandre had never before realised how dependent she was upon her father and brother. Starkin women were not permitted to own property, to earn an income or manage a business, or to choose whom they married. They were as much their father or husband’s property as a dog or horse or hearth-kin serf. Lisandre had never given much thought to this before, being her father’s darling and her brother’s best friend. Now she had lost both at one stroke and she struggled desperately against the authority of the Regent, heedless of the consequences.

  If Lisandre had been as meek and demure as Briony, Lord Zavion would have paid her no heed and she could have gone much her own way, for some time at least. If she had used her wit and wiles like Lady Donella, she could well have charmed him into indulging and pampering her like her father once had. Lisandre scorned to cozen him, however. She argued with him, disobeyed his every command and did everything she could to prick him and provoke him. Watching from her corner, Briony had a sudden insight into her character. She no longer saw Lisandre as a bright-winged butterfly, living out a brief, heedless life, but instead as a pupa within a chrysalis, struggling to break free. All Briony’s sympathy was quickened into life and so, although she could do nothing to help Lisandre, she watched and listened with intent interest, aching and troubled on her behalf.

  Now the Regent looked at Lisandre with annoyance, saying rather waspishly, ‘My dear child! We are not stupid ourselves. Of course the serfs were permitted to sleep . . . occasionally.’

  Lady Ginerva looked up at that. ‘Only occasionally? My lord!’

  He frowned. ‘They were treated well enough, I promise you, gentle lady. We gave them food and some sacks to sleep on and if any of them fainted we let them rest in the shade and gave them some water.’

  Lady Ginerva looked distressed. ‘But, my lord, you promised me they would be treated well, and properly compensated for their labour.’

  Lady Donella rose and bent over the dowager countess, patting her hand. ‘Oh, such a sweet and gentle lady you are, to be thinking of those peasants in the midst of all your grief and heartbreak! Do not fear. Lord Zavion is the kindest and most considerate of men and your serfs are strong and healthy with the good life you have given them. And the tower is now finished. They will be able to rest for as long as they like now.’

 
‘Except for all the work that needs to be done in the fields,’ Lisandre muttered.

  Lord Zavion raised his voice so that his words drowned hers out. ‘All finished except for the fitting of the magnifying lenses and that I dared not do by the light of mere lanterns. It has taken weeks for the master glass-blower to perfect them as it is! We shall begin work again at dawn and all shall be ready by noon, when the powers of the daystar are at their height. So you see! Your serfs shall have at least five hours’ rest tonight.’

  Lady Ginerva clasped her thin hands together in her lap. ‘Are you sure, my lord, that the ritual shall work as you expect? Will my darling son truly wake from this cursed sleep?’

  Lord Zavion laid one of his hands over hers. His long fingernails glittered silver. ‘So I truly believe, gentle lady,’ he said, his deep, melodious voice throbbing with sincerity. ‘The tower of stars has the ability to harness immense power and the daystar, the source of all light and life and energy, will be as close as it ever comes to this world. I shall be able to direct all that light and energy into the body of your son. If that does not wake him, nothing will!’

  ‘Unless it kills him,’ Lisandre said.

  Lady Ginerva recoiled with a little cry.

  ‘Horrid child!’ Lady Donella cried. ‘You must not upset your mother so! How can you say such a thing?’

  ‘Why do you not leave the magework to the mage, my child?’ Zavion said, his smile rather strained. ‘I assure you I understand the powers of the daystar much better than you do.’

  Lisandre opened her mouth to argue but Lady Donella laid an imperative hand upon her arm.

  ‘Lisandre, you must learn not to interrupt when your elders are speaking, else you shall have to go back to the nursery,’ she said coldly. ‘Indeed, I think fifteen is too young to be allowed to sit with the adults and listen to their counsel. Certainly you do not show any sign of maturity!’

  ‘But—’ Lisandre began hotly.

  ‘There is no need for you to fear for your brother, my dear,’ Lord Zavion said, showing his teeth.

  ‘But we do not even know why Ziggy sleeps like that!’ Lisandre shouted, her cheeks colouring vividly. ‘Should we not try and find out what happened to him and Papa?’

  Lady Ginerva said miserably, ‘Oh, Lise . . .’

  Lady Donella had her hands to her ears. ‘What a noise! Lisandre! Have you not been taught a lady never shouts? You must try and remember to always address your elders with proper respect. By the heavens! Such a wild, noisy child you are.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s not really your fault, Lisandre. You have lived here at the back of beyond all your life, surrounded by serfs and peasants, with so few companions of your own age and standing. It’s no wonder you behave like a hoyden.’

  ‘I am not a hoyden!’

  ‘Donella . . .’ protested the dowager countess.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisandre, my dear. Of course you are not a hoyden. Are you not one of the starborn, related by blood to the king himself? I just mean that such boisterous behaviour is not what one expects to find among the Ziv. We, who know and love you, understand that you just get a little carried away sometimes. Such impulsiveness and outspokenness would be frowned on at the king’s court, of course.’

  The dowager countess looked troubled. Lisandre scowled and bit her lip.

  ‘I am sorry to have to keep on reprimanding you, Lisandre,’ Lady Donella said with a winning smile. ‘It is just that I know you shall have to be presented at court in only a few years’ time and I do not wish you to be snubbed or ostracised. You are not a little girl anymore, you know.’

  ‘Five minutes ago you said I was!’

  Lady Ginerva sighed and shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘Lise, please!’ she moaned.

  ‘Much as I dislike appearing to criticise you, dear lady, I cannot help but feel your daughter should have been sent to boarding school in the capital city, like other young ladies of her class,’ Lord Zavion said, seizing Lady Ginerva’s other hand and caressing it unctuously. ‘She is badly in need of a firm guiding hand, I feel. And, may I say, at school she would have the chance to make friends with young ladies from the very best families and perhaps, who knows, to come to the attention of their parents. It is never too soon to begin laying the foundation of a suitable marriage, as I am sure I do not need to remind you, my dear lady.’

  ‘Ziggy’s all the friend I need,’ Lisandre cried, perilously close to tears. ‘I won’t go to boarding school, I won’t, I won’t!’

  ‘That’s enough, Lise,’ the dowager countess said faintly, shading her eyes. ‘It is very late, I think it’s time you went to bed. I know these past few months have been unhappy ones but there is no excuse for rudeness.’

  Lisandre gave an angry sob and the dowager countess sighed and looked up. ‘By tomorrow afternoon all will be well and we can forget this little scene ever happened,’ she said wearily. ‘Come, kiss me good night.’ As Lisandre obediently leant forward and kissed her on the cheek, she said, ‘Starry dreams, darling. I will see you in the morning.’

  Lisandre murmured something and went out of the room unhappily, her mother closing her eyes once more within the shelter of her hand.

  FIVE

  Pedrin was roughly shaken awake. He rubbed his bleary eyes, conscious at once of the aches and pains of his body and the sting of whip cuts on his shoulders.

  The overseer was kicking a man opposite to his feet, his whip coiled in his huge hand. Beside Pedrin, Durrik still slept. Pedrin shook him gently.

  ‘Cursed is the son of light!’ Durrik shouted. ‘Cursed the tower shining bright!’

  The overseer spun on his heel, his whip uncoiling. ‘What did that gander-leg say?’

  ‘Naught!’ Pedrin shook Durrik more vigorously. ‘He’s asleep. He’s a-dreaming, that’s all. The light shone in his eyes.’

  The overseer stared at them through narrowed eyes, and Pedrin gazed back with a look of wide-eyed innocence until at last the burly-shouldered man turned away, grunting. Durrik tried to sit up and cried aloud in pain, cringing back down onto his pile of dirty old sacks.

  ‘You got t’stop talking in your sleep!’ Pedrin hissed, with one eye on the overseer’s broad back. ‘I would’ve thought you’d had enough of that gibgoblin’s whip to last a lifetime.’

  ‘Was I talking in my sleep again? What did I say?’

  ‘The same sort of stuff you’ve been a-gabbling all month. Curses and lights shining bright and six together shall prevail. Frankly, I’ll be glad when I don’t have to sleep next to you anymore. You’re about as restful as a bed louse, a-tossing and a-turning and a-shrieking out in your sleep all the time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I s’pose you can’t really help it,’ Pedrin said gruffly. ‘How’s your back?’

  ‘Sore,’ Durrik replied, and struggled up onto one elbow with a wince of pain.

  ‘Mebbe we’ll see Ma today,’ Pedrin said, his voice rising in hope. ‘She’ll know what to do for your back. Oh, thank Liah ’tis the summer solstice today. This has been the longest month of me life.’

  ‘Mine too,’ Durrik said.

  Pedrin put down one hand and hauled Durrik to his feet. ‘I can’t wait to leave this stinking hot cesspit and get back out on the hills with the goats and enjoy what’s left of the summer.’ He looked around him with dissatisfaction.

  Overhead arched the cavernous roof of the warehouse, already thick with fumes that stung the eyes. The only light came from the furnaces that glowed red-hot and hungry, and the orange flare of molten glass being poured onto a pool of seething liquid metal. It hissed and sizzled, sending off thick clouds of black smoke, but slowly settled to float upon the surface. Eventually it would cool into smooth, flat panes of glass. On either side skinny, wan-faced men were rolling great blobs of glass or blowing down a long, thin metal tube so that the molten glass hanging from its end billowed out into new shapes. The master glass-blower himself was twisting the hot, glowin
g, liquid glass with a few delicate tools, creating a sculpture of a man astride a sisika, holding a glass fusillier over his shoulder. Another such sculpture already stood to one side, the transparent wings of the bird amazingly lifelike.

  This dark, fetid warehouse had been Pedrin and Durrik’s home for twenty-one long days. They had not seen the sun or tasted fresh air or smelt anything but burning silica and soda and lime in all that time. They had been allowed only a few minutes to eat a very scrappy meal twice a day, and had not slept for more than four hours straight in all that time. Their eyes were red-rimmed and weeping from the acrid smoke, their skin black with char.

  Worse than the physical discomfort was the psychic distress both boys felt, separated from all that was safe and familiar, racked with anxiety about their families, made to feel their powerlessness more acutely than ever before.

  Pedrin had always spat in the dust when talking about the starkin, same as any other hearthkin man. He spoke of them with derision if he spoke of them at all. Called them air-dreamers, or dandyprats, as he had heard them called all his life. ‘I’d like to see them pull a plough,’ he would say with scorn. Yet his contempt had been artificial, constructed from the half-understood conversations and attitudes of his elders, and very much tempered by an unsophisticated admiration for their grace, their beauty, their sinister weapons.

  Now Pedrin felt his contempt in every nerve and pulse of his body. He was sick with hatred and bewilderment. The starkin had the right to condemn Pedrin and his family to slavery and starvation. Their guards could whip Durrik’s back raw and bloody for stumbling in weariness, his youth and frailty invoking no pity. They could, if they wished, turn every one of the hearthkin into dust and ashes, without fear of retribution or punishment. And for what? A mere folly of glass, a fabrication of sand and air.