The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘It certainly is,’ Pedrin agreed fervently. ‘And we’re starving.’

  ‘’Tis me experience that young ones like you usually are,’ the old man said, his moustache twitching again.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘The count and his men were all in a merry mood,’ Sedgely said, a leg of roast pigeon in one hand, a wooden cup of goat’s milk in the other.

  ‘They came up the path along the river, a-talking and a-laughing, the dogs a-barking and a-rushing about with their noses to the ground. Such a noise they made! I could’ve told them ’tis asking for trouble, to be a-making such a noise in the heart of the Perilous Forest. But I doubt they’d have listened.’

  He sighed, shook his head sadly and took a bite of pigeon leg. Lisandre urged him on, saying, ‘So what happened? Was it the moon-cursers?’

  He chewed ruminatively, then took another great mouthful. Lisandre gripped her hands together in frustration. ‘I’d eat up, little missy,’ he said. ‘I daresay it’ll be a long while before you get a good meal like this again.’

  It was indeed a feast he had spread out before them. Five plump roasted pigeons, coal-baked yams, some crunchy green beans, and a bowl full of tiny fried fish, no longer than Briony’s smallest finger but very tasty indeed. The others were all eating steadily, but Lisandre was too overwrought to eat. As if sensing her tension, Snowflake lay beside her, rubbing her horned head against Lisandre’s leg.

  Sedgely waited until Lisandre had picked at the laden plate before her, then said, ‘The starkin lords were all cheerful because they thought they were hot on the trail of the gibberhog boar, but roundabouts here the trail suddenly turned cold, Old Tusky being cleverer than they gave him credit for. So they set up camp, not a-wanting to try to climb the rocks in the dark, which shows some sense, at least, I suppose. It was a clear, moonlit night, though bitter-cold and with a nasty nip to the wind. I could’ve told them it would snow before morning, if I’d thought they’d listen . . .’

  Lisandre gave a little sigh of impatience. Sedgely took a deep drink from his wooden cup, looked down into it and sighed also, though his was a sigh of the deepest regret. ‘Milk again,’ he said. ‘I must say, kind as ‘twas of you to leave me a little present for all the fish and berries you’ve been a-taking, I would’ve liked a nice drop of apple-ale for a change. You should’ve thought to provide yourself with some, but there you have it. No foresight, the youth of today.’

  Pedrin let his pigeon leg drop as he stared at the old man, sitting all hunched by the fire with his long bony face surrounded by a wild halo of snarled and knotted hair. ‘So it was you who drank the milk,’ he said. ‘But I thought it was for . . .’ He bit back the rest of his words but saw how both Briony and Sedgely looked at him. The tips of his ears turned red. He took refuge in his pigeon leg.

  ‘The count and his men had a barrel of apple-ale but they did not think to leave out a cup for me,’ Sedgely said sadly. ‘No manners, those of starkin blood. I’ve often noted it.’

  Lisandre turned a deep crimson. ‘I’ll have you know the court of the Ziv is renowned for its courtesy and chivalry.’

  ‘Is that so, little missy? Well, I’ve never been to the court of the Ziv so I can’t comment, but I do know those starkin lords never gave a thought to any poor thirsty soul that might have appreciated a small drop of apple-ale. I don’t know what you starkin consider good manners but I reckon if you traipse all through someone’s home and help yourself to their larder, the least you could do is offer them a nightcap.’

  This time it was Lisandre who took refuge in her pigeon leg. Sedgely sighed and stroked his tangled beard. ‘They drank deeply, those starkin lords, of the apple-ale. They were very merry then. Most of them danced, all by themselves in the darkness, a-stamping down the snow, a-leaping over the fire, a-shouting and a-singing. The noise they made! I could’ve told them the Perilous Forest is not the place to be a-making such a ruckus . . .’

  The children looked at each other, surprised. Hearthkin men always danced by themselves, with great vigour and pride, but the starkin thought such behaviour uncivilised. Starkin men danced only with starkin women, moving with slow and stately grace, no part of their bodies touching but their hands. It was most peculiar to hear of starkin lords dancing by themselves, in darkness, in snow, singing.

  ‘Your brother didn’t dance,’ Sedgely said. He shot Lisandre a glance from under his shaggy eyebrows. She was listening intently, her hands gripped together tightly. ‘He sat and listened and smiled, with the singing egg a-turning in his hands. They offered him a cup of the apple-ale too, with much a-laughing and a-teasing, but he drank only a spit’s worth.’

  ‘Ziggy does not much like apple-ale,’ Lisandre said with a little gulp of breath. ‘The men were all teasing him about it as they were getting ready to fly out on the hunt. They said he’d be drinking it by the barrel-full by the time he came back, with the gibberhog’s head on a spike. His first kill would make him a man, they said. Lady Donella told them to stop teasing him, for he was just a boy still. It would be a long while before he developed a taste for it, she said.’

  Sedgely shook his snarled white head. ‘Fancy not having a taste for apple-ale.’ He gazed sadly down into his own cup, raised it to his lips and drained the last drop with a little grimace. ‘Ah, milk just does not quench a man’s thirst.’

  He sat staring miserably into his cup for such a long time that Lisandre rose to her knees and offered him the bucket. ‘Perhaps some more would help?’ she asked.

  Briony, Pedrin and Durrik all exchanged glances of incredulous delight. They had never seen Lisandre lift a finger to help herself, let alone anyone else. Whoever this strange old man was, he seemed to have a knack for humbling the proud starkin princess.

  ‘Mebbe another cup will help,’ Sedgely agreed, though so gloomily it seemed clear he did not really expect so. Lisandre dipped his cup in the bucket and passed it back to him.

  ‘So what happened next?’ she prompted as he drank again.

  He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Naught,’ he replied sadly. ‘They fell asleep. But in the morning they didn’t awake. Snow had fallen in the night and covered them up like a rug. Icicles sprouted in their eyebrows, and hung from the ends of their noses. Oh, it was a-cold! One of the dogs was a-howling and a-howling, loud enough to wake the dead, you’d have thought, though it didn’t.’

  Lisandre was weeping. ‘But how? Why? Was it the cold?’

  ‘And them all in their rich furs and velvets, and a fire high enough to burn an oak?’ He swept out one hand, indicating the great burnt-out patch in the clearing behind them. ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

  Lisandre hunched in on herself, looking sick. ‘It was here? This is where it happened?’

  ‘Of course. Didn’t you ask me where I’d found the singing egg? It was here.’ He pointed with one long bony finger. ‘It must’ve fallen from your brother’s hand and been covered with the snow, for I didn’t find it till the spring thaw. By that time the other starkin had come and shot the howling dog and gathered up the bodies and taken them away, and the moon-cursers had looted everything that was left. All I found was the singing egg and a gem-studded goblet, and that I don’t like t’use.’

  Lisandre was too upset to wonder why, but Pedrin always had to know the why and the what and the wherefore, and so of course he asked instantly.

  ‘I’ll show you if you like,’ Sedgely replied. He got up stiffly, with a groan and a hand to his back, and dug around in the hollow end of the fallen log. He pulled out a golden goblet, all set with flashing diamonds and sapphires. Within was a black stain and corrosion, so that the goblet’s lip was almost eaten away on one side.

  ‘What could’ve caused that, I wonder?’ the goatherd said softly, touching the corroded metal with one finger.

  ‘Surely apple-ale wouldn’t?’ Durrik replied. The eyes of the two boys met.

  ‘So was it poisoned? But what sort of poison would eat away gold like that? And who’
d want to do such a thing?’ Pedrin gave a little shudder.

  ‘Lord Zavion would,’ Lisandre said miserably. ‘He’s the closest male heir. Already the king has granted him the Regency and once Ziggy dies he’ll be declared Count of Estelliana. And he’s in love with my mother, I know he is. This way he gets both my father’s crown and my father’s wife, without having to get his lily-white hands dirty.’

  ‘Very quick you are to label a man a murderer,’ Sedgely said, lying back with his head pillowed on his hands. ‘Why, you called me one after you’d only known me for five minutes. ’Tis a black label to fix to a man, on so little evidence.’ He yawned widely. ‘You shouldn’t be so hasty, little missy. But that’s the youth of today. Always in too much of a hurry. No time for reflection or repose.’

  He fell silent. After a moment of waiting politely for him to speak again, they realised he was snoring gently. His beard waggled with every snore.

  Lisandre turned the corroded goblet in her hands. She gave a little heart-rending sob, and then covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. Durrik and Pedrin tried to comfort her as best they could, but she was inconsolable.

  ‘Not fair . . . my papa . . . no-one . . . How can I . . . and Ziggy . . . I wish . . . oh, I wish . . . why? Why?’

  Briony got up and went to kneel beside her, hugging her gently. Lisandre, forgetting her repugnance for someone who liked to cuddle spiders, pressed her head into Briony’s shoulder and sobbed heartbrokenly.

  After a long moment she sat up, hiding her face in her hands. Briony got her a cup of water and Lisandre drank obediently, her sobs finally subsiding. Briony handed her a handkerchief, and Lisandre wiped her eyes and blew her nose with great delicacy. Even with her eyes and nose all red and swollen, she looked so pretty that both Durrik and Pedrin were wrung with helpless pity.

  After a while Pedrin said awkwardly, ‘I don’t have a pa anymore either, y’know. He died a few years back. Killed by a gibgoblin.’

  ‘And I haven’t got a mother,’ Durrik offered, though he coloured hotly, looking down at the tip of his crutch as he dug it into the ground.

  ‘I might as well not have,’ Lisandre sighed, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, by now very crumpled and grimy. ‘Since my father died, she’s been in another world. It’s like not having a mother at all.’

  ‘What happened to your ma?’ Pedrin asked Durrik, having never thought to ask before. ‘She died when you were a baby, didn’t she?’

  ‘She didn’t die,’ Durrik replied curtly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. ‘She left us. I don’t know why. I never knew her.’

  ‘I never knew either of me parents.’ Briony’s soft, shy voice fell into the silence. ‘I was abandoned—or lost—or stolen. I don’t know what.’

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ Lisandre said awkwardly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘At least you knew your father,’ Briony said. ‘And you had him for fifteen years. You knew he loved you.’ This time the silence stretched a long time. ‘And there’s still hope for your brother,’ Briony continued. ‘And for your mother too. Grief rarely kills.’ There was a sardonic edge to her voice, the first time they had ever heard her sound anything but timid and demure.

  Lisandre stirred restlessly, crushing her handkerchief into a little ball. ‘But Lord Zavion’s crystal tower only made things worse. And I’ve come all this way . . . and had all my hair cut off . . . and I hurt all over . . . and for what? I’ve discovered nothing. Nothing!’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Durrik said comfortingly. ‘We know your father and brother drank some kind of poison. That’s something.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do now?’ wailed Lisandre.

  ‘There’s still the Erlrune,’ Briony said hesitantly. ‘She might have the answer, I s’pose. She’s meant to be able to see many things in that pool of hers. They call it the Well of Fate, for if you look within you can see what was, what is and what shall be. Or so they say.’

  ‘Or so who says?’ Pedrin asked, eyeing her curiously.

  Briony went crimson and did not answer, dropping her eyes. After a moment, and with obvious difficulty, she said, ‘The Erlrune may help us in deciphering the prophecy too. For don’t you think it interesting we now number five?’ She nodded towards Sedgely, fast asleep on the far side of the fire.

  Lisandre and Pedrin both looked baffled, but a grim shadow fell upon Durrik’s face. He turned his head away, staring out into the night, and Snowflake crept closer to him, bleating gently. He rubbed her soft white ear between his fingers.

  ‘Do you not remember? Durrik said summat about six separate threads, woven into one. Six different people, brought together. Milady and I set out on this adventure, just the two of us, and then we met you two boys, and now Sedgely . . .’

  Lisandre was staring at her incredulously. ‘You mean you take all that stuff and nonsense Durrik was spouting seriously? It was nothing but a bag of moonshine! His brains were fried by that bolt of lightning. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

  Durrik stared at her angrily. ‘My brains weren’t fried! I don’t know where it all came from but ’tis not stuff and nonsense, that I do know!’ His voice rose defiantly, yet his face was still set in lines of misery and uncertainty. Durrik had not once spoken of the cryptic prophecy he had made that day in the crystal tower and, troubled and uneasy about it himself, Pedrin had been careful not to bring it up.

  Now he glared angrily at Lisandre as the starkin princess, always unheeding of other people’s feelings, said contemptuously: ‘How do you know? Do you have any idea what it is all supposed to mean?’

  ‘I can figure some of it out,’ Durrik said defensively. ‘The first few lines seem obvious, really.’ His eyes fixed dreamily on the flickering flames, he quoted softly:

  ‘Under winter’s cold shroud, the son of light lies

  Though the summer sun burns high in the skies.

  With the last petal of the starthorn tree

  His wandering spirit shall at last slip free,

  Nothing can save him from this bitter curse,

  But the turning of time itself inverse.

  ‘The son of light is your brother, obviously. Everyone knows that’s what “Ziv” really means. The children of light.’

  ‘Actually,’ Lisandre said coldly, ‘it means “those that brightly shine”.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Durrik said rather huffily. ‘It obviously still means your brother. And when the last petal of the starthorn tree falls, that means the end of autumn and the beginning of winter. ‘Cause the starthorn tree is all backwards. It blooms in autumn and is fruitful in winter, when all t’other trees are bare. So that means we’ve only got until the end of autumn to be a-finding the antidote, ‘cause that’s when the last petal shall fall.’

  ‘The antidote?’ Lisandre sounded bewildered.

  ‘Antidote,’ Durrik repeated loudly. ‘To counteract the poison.’

  ‘Poison?’

  ‘Yeah, the poison.’ Durrik stared at her, surprised, and jerked his thumb at the goblet with its black corroded stain.

  To his surprise, Lisandre’s face crumpled again and she began to cry quietly. She really was the only girl he had ever seen who could look pretty while crying, even with her face all dirty and her fair hair sticking straight up like a duckling’s down. He looked at her in consternation, and patted her arm ineffectually.

  ‘So you . . . really think . . . we can find a cure for . . . Ziggy?’ she hiccuped.

  ‘Well, don’t you think that’s what it means? That bit about the “turning of time inverse”? ’Tis a bit obscure, I admit, but couldn’t it just mean a-finding the antidote to the poison, and returning Count Zygmunt to the way he was before? “Antidote” kind of means “going back”, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it could mean that,’ Pedrin said rather doubtfully. ‘Though it seems too easy.’

  ‘Well, ’tis not going to be easy to find the antidote to the poison, because we have no idea what the poison was,’ Durrik
said.

  ‘But maybe this witch could tell us,’ Lisandre said excitedly. ‘Witches know all about curses and poisons and things, don’t they?’

  Unconsciously all three turned and looked at Briony, who flushed miserably and looked away.

  ‘Well, from everything I’ve ever heard about the Erlrune, ’tis not just a matter of knocking on her front door and saying, “please, can you tell us how to break the curse on the count?” She doesn’t exactly welcome visitors, does she?’ Pedrin spoke quickly.

  The others all looked back at him, Lisandre with consternation. ‘Why, what do you mean? I am of the Ziv. Surely she would welcome me gladly?’

  ‘Yeah, with open arms,’ Pedrin said sarcastically. ‘Really, you are such a cabbage-head sometimes! ’Tis not just the moon-cursers who hate the starkin, you know. Why, the Crafty used to be well-respected and even powerful before the starkin came. Now they are outlawed, and have to live in hiding and ply their trade in secret.’

  ‘They are nothing but frauds and charlatans,’ Lisandre replied hotly. ‘They dupe the credulous with their talk of being able to see the future or talk to ghosts. It is the starkin’s responsibility to protect those less fortunate from their own folly—’

  ‘And milady of the Ziv expects the Erlrune to welcome her gladly?’ Pedrin said.

  Lisandre thrust out her jaw stubbornly.

  ‘If you think the Erlrune is a fraud and a charlatan, and her Well of Fate naught but trickery, why do you seek to consult it?’ Briony asked gently.

  Lisandre crimsoned. ‘I thought perhaps it was some kind of machine,’ she answered lamely.

  The others all laughed at her, and her jaw thrust out further still. ‘I’m willing to try anything to save my brother,’ she said angrily. ‘Even if she cannot really see anything in that pool of hers, this witch may be able to tell us what sort of poison it was. She may even know the cure. It certainly makes more sense to go and consult her than it does to believe in a whole lot of gobbledygook. Durrik may think he understands the first half of his little rhyme but the rest of it makes no sense at all!’