The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

‘You aren’t a-going to die,’ Pedrin said, his voice coming out much too high. He blushed, coughed and said, now much too low, ‘We’ll figure summat out, Lise . . . milady, I mean. We’ll be mighty careful and make sure you a-keep yourself safe.’

  ‘Sure, of course we will,’ Lisandre said with forced cheerfulness, and rolled over so that no-one could see her face. The other four children all exchanged miserable glances and then lay down to sleep as best they could on the cold, stony earth, with their hearts and minds all filled with scrabbling thoughts like a box full of scorpions.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  For the next three days, Sedgely followed the sinuous gleam of the Evenlode as it wound through the forest. They flew over the tall, white waterfall where they had first met Sedgely, all growing tense and quiet when they saw the black ashes of the starkin lords’ fire below. That night snow began to spit at their heels. Lisandre was so anxious and restless, they packed up camp at the first dull gleam of light and flew on, the goats labouring to keep up.

  Their final night in the forest, hunched in their coats against the bitterly cold wind, the five children made and discarded plan after plan. All were tense and edgy, so that the discussion deteriorated many times into quarrelling.

  ‘Don’t be such a cabbage-head!’ Pedrin snapped. ‘Your brother’s been asleep for months. Even if we manage to wake him and convince him we’re not mad as merry mummers, the castle garrison aren’t going to listen to him. He’s naught but a boy himself! They’ll do what Lord Zavion tells them to do.’

  ‘But he’s the Count of Estelliana!’ Lisandre hissed. ‘They will not dare disobey him.’

  ‘With Lord Zavion there, a-telling them your brother’s still sick, still weak, still confused?’ Durrik asked.

  ‘But Ziggy is the rightful count . . .’ Lisandre faltered.

  ‘Tell that to Lord Zavion,’ Pedrin snorted, bending his head over his knife which he was sharpening with the whetting stone.

  ‘We need to know whose side the castle guards are on,’ Mags said. ‘Do they like Lord Zavion or would they rather do your brother’s bidding?’

  ‘Of course they’re loyal to my brother!’ Lisandre cried. ‘Lord Zavion is cruel and ruthless and manipulative. How could anyone like him?’

  ‘But they do,’ Briony said quietly. ‘They all do. You were the only one to mistrust him, remember? Everyone else admired him and were a-swayed by his charm. Even the men.’ As she spoke, the wildkin girl was swiftly weaving a cat’s cradle net from a piece of thread, knotting it and tying it without the need to look down at her hands. ‘Don’t you remember? They all began to wear their hair like him, and to talk like him, in that weary way like they were bored to tears. It’d be easy for the Regent to say that Count Zygmunt was still ailing, and not in his rightful mind. No, no, Pedrin’s right, we have to free the prisoners first and make sure they have weapons and stuff so that we have some kind of support.’

  ‘But Ziggy could die in the meantime,’ Lisandre cried in frustration. ‘And what if we fail in releasing the hearthkin? We’ll be captured ourselves and all will be lost. I say we must save Ziggy first and worry about the prisoners later.’

  Once again they began to argue vociferously. Briony tried to calm them but she could not make her soft little voice heard over the babble. Sedgely snorted and pawed the ground irritably, and Thundercloud gave a low growling noise in his throat but no-one listened. Briony had to beat on the frying pan with a spoon before they all quietened down and turned to her, cheeks hot, eyes blazing.

  ‘We mustn’t fight like this,’ Briony said in a rush. ‘Are we not kin now, blood brothers and sisters? How about this? We split. Three of us go to waken the count, t’other three go and rouse the hearthkin. One of them will have to be Mags, for she’s the only one that can pick the locks. T’other had best be Pedrin, I s’pose, for there’ll be guards and he’s the only one that’s any good a-fighting . . .’

  Pedrin hesitated, glancing quickly at Lisandre and then down at the ground. The starkin princess frowned and looked as if she wanted to protest, and then bit her lip and coloured, saying nothing.

  ‘No, if Pedrin’s the best fighter he’d best go with you and milady, to wake the count,’ Durrik said unexpectedly. ‘We’re a-going to need stealth, not strength, to rescue my pa and t’others, anyhow, so it won’t matter so much that I’m no good a-fighting or a-running.’

  They all looked at him in surprise.

  ‘All right,’ Pedrin said gruffly. ‘Mebbe you’d better have me knife. I’ll have me slingshot and I can’t be using both at once. Lisandre has the knife the Erlrune gave her if we need one.’

  Durrik nodded and gingerly took the fishing knife with its sharp, notched blade, sheathing it carefully in its leather scabbard.

  Lisandre gave a little shudder. Mags leant forward and touched her arm lightly. ‘Are you sure you want to be a-cutting the branch yourself? You know I’m good a-climbing trees, I’ve been a-doing it all me life. Mebbe you lot can distract the soldiers while I’ll climb the starthorn tree and—’

  Lisandre was almost in tears. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘But how can I let you? No, I have to do it. Ziggy’s my brother and besides, why else did the Erlrune give me the knife? I have to do it. I shall just have to be very, very careful.’

  Everyone was silent. There was nothing more to say. They knew what they planned to do was virtually impossible. How could five children and an old river-roan hope to storm the Castle of Estelliana by themselves, with only a few knives and a slingshot between the lot of them? All they could do is hope the starkin soldiers felt the same reluctance to shoot their fusilliers at Lisandre as they had shown all along, and that the element of surprise would be enough to sweep them through.

  ‘Well, we’d best chuck out anything we don’t really need,’ Pedrin said in his most matter-of-fact voice. ‘Sedgely’s a-carrying enough weight already and we’re a-going to want him to be nimble and fleet. We’ll take only our clothes and our weapons, we can stash everything else here somewhere and come back for it when we’ve won the day.’

  Everyone nodded and began to rummage through their belongings. Mags sat for a while with the red silk dress billowing over her lap, stroking its sensuous fabric, her face very reflective. Then she sighed, folded it up briskly, and shoved it into the pile of things to be left. ‘Where would I wear it, anyways?’ she asked of no-one in particular.

  Briony was having as much difficulty leaving her ragdoll and an old, battered-looking book. She sat with them clutched to her chest for a long time before brusquely putting them on the pile.

  Rather to his surprise, Pedrin felt the same reluctance. The dented frying pan, the toasting fork, the whetting stone, the stubs of candles, they were all he had left of his home. Discarding them somehow made the little cottage by the river seem a very long way away, when he was in fact closer to it than he had been in months. He did not allow his reluctance to show, though, tossing them all into the pile with a show of insouciance and suggesting they find a hollow tree in which to stuff them.

  ‘I’ll take the frying pan,’ Mags said, picking it up and hefting it in her hand. ‘I can see that a-coming in useful!’

  ‘I’ll keep me sewing kit and the little jar of stuff I made,’ Briony said, very softly. ‘Though I do hope I won’t be a-needing them.’

  ‘I need my mirror and comb,’ Lisandre said pleadingly, one hand tugging at the irregular ends of her hair, which had grown to just past her ears. ‘I cannot let Ziggy see me like this.’

  Mags rolled her eyes but said nothing, fingering one of the diamond rings which she had slid into her pocket without anyone noticing. They all had their own vanities.

  No-one slept well that night. Pedrin’s mind went round and round like a mill-wheel, churning the same doubts and fears over and over again. Despite the cold, his palms and feet were sweaty, his head was hot, he felt like he could not breathe. His heart was hammering so loud he worried the others would hear it and know how desperately afra
id he really was. Snowflake was lying close beside him, as she always did. She bleated quietly in reassurance and love, and nudged his face with her soft nose. He rolled over, flinging an arm across her back and burying his hot face in her snowy white coat. He must have slept then, for it was grim, grey light when next he opened his eyes. Briony was busy spinning a rope with her drop-spindle, though the others were still all asleep.

  ‘I thought I’d best make as much rope as I can,’ she whispered, her eyes as grey and miserable as the sky. ‘We’re a-going to need it.’

  He nodded and got up to stoke the fire and rummage through the panniers.

  ‘We might as well have one last feast and eat most everything that’s left,’ he said. ‘No point a-leaving all the food for the wildkin.’

  Briony nodded. ‘Though I don’t feel much like eating,’ she said. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  ‘Me too,’ Pedrin said. ‘Have to, I s’pose, if we’re not complete cabbage-heads.’

  She smiled wanly and coiled up the rope and put away her drop-spindle. ‘Let’s wake t’others. ’Tis a-snowing again. I think we should be on our way just as fast as we can.’

  In a few hours they had reached the edge of the Perilous Forest. The sight of the rolling brown fields beyond gave them all new heart. The wide surface of the Evenlode scudded with clouds, glinting with stray beams of sunshine. As Sedgely flew above it, Pedrin saw the blurred reflection of wings and his heart gave a sudden, unexpected lurch of excitement. He had never dreamt of such a grand adventure. Until Durrik had made his pronouncement in the Regent’s crystal tower, Pedrin had expected to be nothing more than a simple goatherd all his life. The world seemed much bigger now, filled with more menace and grandeur than he had ever imagined.

  Hearthkin in the fields saw the flying horse and dropped their tools, pointing in amazement. The children waved to them and they waved back wildly. A strange sort of exhilaration filled them all, a sense that it was too late now to turn back.

  ‘Not far now,’ Lisandre cried, her short blonde hair flying in the bitter wind. ‘Are we all ready?’

  ‘Yeah!’ the others cried, gripping their weapons.

  They soared over the curve of a hill and saw before them the great sweep of the lake, all grey and moody under the ominous sky. The crystal tower stood tall upon its island, its walls reflecting the sky with even greater clarity than the water. Lightning suddenly flickered down towards its pinnacle like a white-hot lizard’s tongue, and they saw the quick zigzag reversed in the gleaming length of the walls.

  The castle towers rose high above the roofs of Levanna-On-The-Lake, trailing tattered banners of cloud. Snow lashed Pedrin’s face and he turned to look anxiously at Lisandre. Her cheeks were pale, her teeth gripping her lip. The scene was so like the one in the Well of Fate, where they had seen the young count’s body being carried down to the burial ground, that their triumphant courage ebbed away.

  ‘Oh, let us be on time,’ Lisandre muttered, and dropped one hand down to the dagger at her waist, clutching the hilt with tense fingers.

  Aaaark! Aaaark!

  The air was filled with the harsh screech of sisikas. They all cried aloud in alarm and Sedgely neighed defiantly. A drove of the great white birds plummeted down from above, great black talons outstretched. On their backs rode starkin lords, all gripping long spears, their fusilliers still strapped to their backs. Four of them flung their spears simultaneously. Sedgely folded his wings and plunged towards the ground, the spears whizzing over the children’s heads. All five were hunched down as low as they could get on his broad back, their eyes closing involuntarily.

  Sedgely’s hooves hit the ground, and he galloped away as fast as he could, his mane and tail flying. The sisika birds followed, screeching loudly. As one plummeted down with talons spread, the river-roan swerved and launched back into the sky. The sisika slammed into the ground, screeching with pain and tossing its rider over its head.

  Sedgely soared up past the other birds, who had to wheel about to pursue him. Briony leant forward and cast out a little tangle of string that spread out into an enormous net that captured three of the birds, sending them crashing down to the ground.

  Using his black wings nimbly, Thundercloud butted a starkin lord from the back of another bird. He fell screaming, landing with a thud that made all the children wince and turn their faces away.

  ‘Gruesome,’ Durrik muttered.

  Sedgely beat his wings strongly, endeavouring to shake the remaining birds off, but they were strong, swift flyers and harried the flying river-roan all over the sky. Three times Sedgely was not quick enough to avoid a cruel swipe of beak or talon, so that he was bleeding from deep gashes on flank and shoulder. Pedrin’s shoulder was lacerated too, and again Mags almost fell off Sedgely’s back as he swerved unexpectedly.

  The two goats were darting nimbly about the sky, enraging the sisika birds with their antics. Snowflake had lured one away from the phalanx and was darting about its head, butting it with her curving black horns. The soldier on the bird’s back had already lost his spear and so he had unstrapped his fusillier and was now trying to aim at the nimble little goat, who was almost invisible against the snow drifting down from the sky.

  Trying to swipe Snowflake with its talons, the sisika did not notice the ground hurtling up towards it. The white bird crashed to the ground, crushing its rider beneath it. The bird screeched in pain and rage, trying to lift a broken wing. Its rider managed to crawl free of its weight and, although obviously badly wounded himself, raised himself to examine the injury. The sisika turned its head and slashed at him cruelly with its beak.

  Three more sisikas were circling Sedgely, tearing at his wings with their talons. The river-roan soared high into the air, and quickly Briony cast out another net, entangling all three of their pursuers. They fell heavily, crushing and injuring their riders. Cries of pain and loud screeches of rage filled the air. Although Sedgely’s flanks were heaving and his coat was damp with mingled perspiration and blood, he valiantly beat his wings and flew on.

  ‘Well done, Briony!’ Durrik cried. ‘I knew those nets of yours would come in handy.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve only got one left,’ Briony said. ‘I didn’t think I’d be a-throwing two before we even got to the castle.’

  ‘Oh, well, you have plenty of thread left,’ Lisandre said comfortingly. ‘You can always weave another if we should need it, you’re so quick and clever about it.’

  The castle walls loomed up before them. Sedgely and the goats flew up and over the soaring towers, descending inside the castle walls. Guards on the outer wall ran, pointing and shouting in amazement. One or two threw spears, though there was no chance of impaling the river-roan at that distance.

  Below them was the central courtyard. Soldiers ran out of the guardhouse, pulling on their armour. Lisandre drew her knife. ‘Carefully, Sedgely, old thing,’ she said, patting his shoulder. She was unnaturally calm, her face set with determination, her fingers clenched white on the hilt.

  Below them the starthorn tree lifted its black, thorny branches to the leaden sky. New apples were burgeoning within the clusters of fresh, green leaves. There was only one spray of blossom left, the petals drooping. A gust of icy air swirled past, flurrying with snow. It caught the blossoming branch, shaking it, tearing away a whirl of white petals. Sedgely hovered just above the wicked-looking thorns, his wings quivering with strain.

  Slowly, slowly, Lisandre bent over and reached out one hand for the branch, the knife glinting in the other. Pedrin held tightly to her waist.

  ‘Too . . . far . . . away,’ Lisandre panted. ‘Closer, Sedgely . . . please . . .’

  Sedgely beat his wings and rose high again, before swerving down and hovering once more just above the tree. The courtyard was now filled with soldiers but the river-roan was too high for them to reach him with their spears and the garrison leader was obviously reluctant to shoot the king’s second cousin down from the sky with a fusillade of blue lightning.


  Once again Lisandre leant over. Very carefully she seized the branch, placing her hand between two of the cruel, curving thorns.

  At that very moment there was a great whoosh as a sisika bird plunged down from the battlements. All the children ducked, and Lisandre screamed. The rider had a long spear in his hand. He took careful aim, then flung the spear with deadly precision straight at Sedgely’s breast. The old river-roan was already labouring to keep himself and the five children hovering so close to the starthorn tree. He did not have the strength to rise or swerve, and if he folded his wings and dropped, all six of them would be entangled in the venomous barbs of the starthorn tree.

  It all happened so quickly the children had no time to do more than gasp and clutch their legs tighter to Sedgely’s sides. He neighed and strained his wings, trying to swerve, but the spear was too swift and he was too heavily laden.

  Then Snowflake darted between the spear and the river-roan, so that the spear plunged straight through her, emerging on the other side a mere handspan from Sedgely’s heaving chest. She gave one plaintive bleat and then fell, crashing through the black barbs of the starthorn tree, tumbling and cartwheeling, her soft white coat torn to shreds. She landed with a sickening crunch on the cobblestones and lay still, the spear protruding from her side.

  Pedrin gave a great shout and lunged forward, as if he meant to throw himself down beside her. Briony held him back with all the strength in her thin arms, though she was weeping herself, her mouth open and gasping with shock. All were trembling and dumbfounded, unable to do more than stare down at the crumpled figure of the goat.

  The sisika bird screeched loudly in triumph and, despite all the attempts of his rider to drag his head around, glided down to crouch on Snowflake’s body, tearing at her stomach with his beak and feasting gleefully on her entrails. Briony and Mags both hid their faces. Pedrin stared down numbly, watching a great red stain creep across the snow.

  Thundercloud folded his wings and dived at the sisika’s head, maddened with rage. The soldiers all readied their spears, glad to have a target they finally had a chance of impaling. Pedrin screamed for his billy-goat at the top of his voice. So high and shrill was his cry that it penetrated even Thundercloud’s fury, causing the billy-goat to swerve and soar away again, even though he was bellowing with rage and anguish.