The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Tell . . . Sedgely . . . to fly down . . . to the tree again,’ Lisandre said in an odd voice.

  Pedrin wrenched his attention away from the sight of the sisika bird crouched on Snowflake’s body, his curved beak dripping with her blood, the nanny-goat’s entrails spilling out of her torn flesh like loops of blue sausages.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell . . . Sedgely . . . fly down.’

  He realised with a sudden drop of his stomach that she was lying slack against him and that her voice sounded very strange indeed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his voice ascending abruptly.

  ‘I . . . scratched myself,’ she answered and lifted her arm to show the skin from her wrist to her elbow gashed open and bleeding profusely.

  Pedrin could not move, paralysed as he was with grief and horror.

  ‘I have to . . . cut the branch. Tell . . . Sedgely . . . quick!’

  Numbly Pedrin obeyed. The old river-roan made a visible effort, heaving his weary body higher, his wings beating. They came so close to the starthorn tree, one hoof caught a branch, setting the whole tree swaying, but Lisandre leant forward and calmly seized the topmost branch with her bloody hand, slicing it off with a single slash of the silver knife. She then lay back limply against Pedrin’s chest, the precious bough of flowers cradled against her.

  ‘Ziggy . . . now,’ she whispered.

  ‘Up there, Sedgely,’ Briony pointed, her voice shaking with tears. ‘That room with the little balcony is the count’s room. Can you be a-flying that high, you poor old dear?’ She patted his blood-smeared shoulder affectionately.

  His sides flecked with foam, Sedgely laboured to lift his heavy load higher into the air. They reached the casement of the count’s bedroom and once again the big old horse hovered, his wings beating steadily.

  Pedrin swallowed. With a great effort, he swam up out of the cold, dark depths of his grief, though he was trembling in every limb. He tried to think about what had to be done now, despite Snowflake’s dreadful death, and the lifeblood now pumping out of Lisandre’s arm with every ragged breath she took. He had gone over their plan so many times in his head he was able to unhook the coil of rope at Sedgely’s shoulder and drop one end down to the balcony despite all his movements being as clumsy and slow as a sleepwalker’s.

  Slowly he tried to ease Lisandre away from him, but she was limp and heavy. ‘Lise, I need you to sit up. Can you sit up?’

  She nodded and sat up, casting him one wild, desperate glance out of eyes that were nearly black with pain and shock.

  Pedrin slid off Sedgely’s back, clinging tightly to the rope that was tied round Sedgely’s belly like a saddle-strap. Quickly, not looking down, he slid down the rope and onto the balcony.

  ‘Lisandre,’ he called. ‘Slide down. I’ll catch you.’

  Lisandre risked a glance down, then shut her eyes and shook her head, wishing she had not. Pedrin looked down too, and saw the soldiers were all running into the castle, while the garrison leader pointed up at them, gesticulating urgently.

  ‘Quick!’ he cried. ‘We haven’t much time!’

  Lisandre nodded, her face very white and smeared with blood. She handed down her knife and the spray of blossom to Pedrin, then, with Briony’s help, managed to swing down onto the rope. The goatherd reached out his arms, seized her about the waist and swung her in. She fell against him rather heavily, and he held her steady, her blood soaking his shirt.

  Durrik leant down from the river-roan’s back, saying rather shakily, ‘Keep safe, won’t you? Look after milady.’

  ‘I will,’ Pedrin replied as confidently as he could.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Mags asked anxiously.

  Pedrin could only shrug and try to smile.

  In a matter of heartbeats, Briony was beside them, swinging down as nimbly as any wood-sprite. As soon as her foot touched the balcony floor, Sedgely beat his wings strongly again and soared up towards the battlements, Thundercloud at his heels.

  ‘Is the . . . starthorn blossom . . . safe?’ Lisandre panted, holding her bleeding arm against her body.

  Pedrin nodded, shielding it carefully from the gusty wind. Briony seized Lisandre’s wrist and examined the wound anxiously, then pulled the pot of healing ointment from her sack and slathered it on generously. She then bound Lisandre’s arm tightly with a strip torn from her own skirt. ‘That should stop it bleeding,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Keep breathing in the perfume of the starthorn blossom. Mebbe it’ll heal your arm as well as wake your brother.’

  Lisandre nodded, though her face was white and pinched with despair. She bent her head over the spray of blossom, breathing in its sweet, faint scent. When she raised her face, she did look a little better, though the bandage was already seeping blood.

  Somewhere an alarm bell was ringing.

  ‘We shall have to be quick,’ Lisandre said, bending over and picking up her dagger. She had to stand still a minute to keep from fainting, and bent her head over the starthorn blossom again, breathing in its restorative scent. Pedrin put his arm about her shoulder anxiously and she gave him a wan smile and unlatched the window. The wind caught the white curtains and sent them billowing inside. One by one the three children scrambled over the windowsill.

  Inside all was still and quiet and dark. Count Zygmunt slept peacefully under his white satin counterpane. Firelight flickered on the stone walls, illuminating his thin, pale face, his smooth fair hair.

  A tall figure rose from the chair by his bedside.

  ‘Ah, so you have arrived at last,’ Lady Donella said. ‘I have been expecting you.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  She smiled sweetly at them, holding a long dagger in one hand. She looked so elegant in her sweeping robe of amethyst silk, her hair piled high within the silver filigree of her cornet, that the glittering dagger in her hand seemed somehow even more menacing.

  Pedrin, Briony and Lisandre stood frozen in shock.

  ‘What, nothing to say?’ Lady Donella said. ‘Lisandre, my dear, that is not like you. Do not tell me you have learnt discretion during this madcap adventure of yours? That would be ironic, would it not?’

  ‘You!’ Lisandre hissed.

  ‘Oh, my dear, how very melodramatic. Yes, it is I. Did you think I would not know of your coming?’

  ‘But. . . but how . . .’

  ‘The crystal tower, of course,’ Lady Donella purred. ‘My dear Lord Zavion only thinks to use its far-seeing lens to scan the starry skies. I, however, could see a much more appropriate use for it. He may believe you to be devoured by wild beasts or drowned in the mire, but I knew we could not be rid of you so easily. So I ordered the guards to keep a close watch on the Perilous Forest and was justified in my caution when they called me to the tower this morning. I was most disappointed that you managed to evade the welcoming party I sent to greet you. But, my dear, dear Lisandre, what a shock when I saw you! What have you done to your hair?’

  Lisandre’s colour rose. She put one hand up to her halo of unevenly hacked, windswept hair.

  ‘And the outfit! You look like a horrid little hearthkin brat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lisandre said defiantly, her cheeks burning. Although she was rather unsteady on her feet, she made an effort to stand up straight and proud, determined to show no weakness before this woman who had murdered her father.

  ‘But come. Enough idle chit-chat. Why do you not hand me that very sharp-looking dagger you are carrying. Not at all an appropriate plaything for a lady of the Ziv. And you! Goat-boy. Throw down any weapons you might have. It will only take a moment to plunge this knife of mine into Count Zygmunt’s breast, if you do not obey me exactly.’

  ‘Would you not find that rather difficult to explain away?’ Lisandre said sweetly.

  ‘Not at all. I would just blame the goat-boy. Lord Zavion has already charged him with treason and sedition, after he smashed the lens in the crystal tower. It cost a great deal to replace that, particularly since so many of
the peasants have had to be confined in gaol to prevent them mounting an insurrection. That dirty little boy caused a great deal of trouble and displeased my Lord Regent very much.’

  She cast Pedrin a look of distaste, as if he were something she had stepped on in the stable, but he could only stare back at her, sick with dismay.

  ‘No-one will find it hard to believe he murdered Zygmunt in some ill-judged attempt to overthrow the rule of the starkin,’ Lady Donella continued, smiling. ‘The whole castle saw you arrive in his company, on the back of a flying horse, of all things. It is clear you have fallen into the hands of witches and wildkin. They will just think you ensorcelled. The goat-boy will be drawn and quartered and you, my dear, will be locked away in a tower room for the rest of your life. Any accusations you make against me will be thought the babbling of a poor, deranged fool.’

  Pedrin swallowed with difficulty, his mind too full of visions of himself being drawn and quartered to think about obeying her command to discard his weapons. With one swift, graceful movement Lady Donella pressed the point of her knife into the hollow at the base of Count Zygmunt’s collarbone. Lisandre threw a pleading glance at Pedrin and very reluctantly he threw down his slingshot and bag of stones, his hands clenched into fists.

  Lady Donella laughed. ‘Very wise. Now what is that you carry there, in your other hand? Throw that down too.’

  Very carefully Pedrin laid the flowering branch on the floor. Lady Donella looked at it and a triumphant smile spread across her face. ‘I see. Starthorn blossom. So you know the truth about the dear count’s unnatural sleep. Yes, such a shame. He must have only tasted the apple-ale I prepared so carefully. I had thought my little goad about him being too young would have driven him to drink as deeply as any of the men, but young Zygmunt was ever an unnatural boy, immune to such mockery.’

  She stepped forward gracefully and gathered up all their weapons, then ground the blossoms into the floor with her high-heeled shoe. Lisandre gave a little cry and started forward, but Lady Donella menaced her with the knife and she recoiled.

  ‘Now what am I to do with you?’ Lady Donella mused. ‘Your brother will die quietly now and your mother soon after, and no-one will question their deaths. But you, Lisandre, and your lowborn friends pose a trickier conundrum. If only you had been more discreet in your arrival! I could have killed you all quietly and none would have been the wiser. Now I must dispose of you all without raising too much of a fuss. You, I think, shall die protecting me from your hotheaded goat-boy, who seeks to murder all those of starkin blood. Your little spinner friend can be killed in the struggle. But what about the others? There was another horrid hearthkin brat with you, and the boy that started all this trouble, the son of our one-time bell-crier, now rotting in prison where he belongs. Where are they?’

  ‘They’ve gone to rescue the bell-crier and all t’others, me ma and sister too,’ Pedrin said defiantly. ‘They will have set them free by now, and there’s naught you can do to stop them!’

  ‘Is that so?’ Lady Donella said, frowning. She tapped her foot impatiently, then said, ‘I will deal with you later! First I must send the soldiers to prevent the prisoners being released. It would not suit me at all to have a crowd of angry hearthkin barging about, accusing me of murder! Quickly, sit down all three of you, back to back. I see you have a great deal of rope with you. Most thoughtful of you.’

  They obeyed, exhausted, enervated with a sense of failure and futility. Lisandre was so unsteady on her feet she almost fell, and only the supporting arms of the others helped her to sit upright. Lady Donella rapidly began to tie them up with Briony’s rope, so tightly the circulation to their hands and feet was cut off. It was then that she noticed the bloodstained bandages binding Lisandre’s arm from wrist to elbow, and the little involuntary jerks of Lisandre’s limbs.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked softly, bending down and touching the red, sodden bandages with a gentle finger. ‘A cut that bleeds and bleeds and will not stop?’ A laugh illuminated her beautiful face. ‘Do not tell me, my dear Lisandre, that you were foolish enough to pick the starthorn blossom yourself?’ She gave a peal of silvery laughter. ‘I need not trouble myself in wondering how to dispose of you myself now. Do you not know the thorns are deadly? There is no cure for their poison.’

  Lisandre cast an involuntary glance at the mangled twig of starthorn blossom and Lady Donella laughed and kicked it under the bed. ‘Maybe a cordial distilled from bucket-loads of the flowers would help, but a few broken old flowers like that? I’m afraid not, my poor dear child. The poison is too virulent. It will not be long and you’ll be sunk in as profound a coma as your beloved brother, though a lot less peaceful, I’m afraid. The only comfort I can offer you is that death will be swift thereafter.’

  A shudder ran all through Lisandre. Pressed tight against her, both Briony and Pedrin felt the involuntary trembling in her arms and legs. Lady Donella checked their bonds were pulled cruelly tight then, her skirts swishing, glided from the room, closing and locking the door behind her.

  Pedrin bowed his head. He felt numb with defeat. They had come so far and suffered so much, yet only a pace or two away from the sleeping count, they would lose everything. He would have wept if he had any tears left in him but he was dry and empty as a seed husk.

  Lisandre was feverish with desperation. ‘Briony, how long will your rope last? Will it turn back to thread soon?’ She squirmed against the rope with all her strength.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Briony replied miserably. ‘Me magic seems to be a-getting stronger, and the rope’s a-touching me. It could be hours.’

  ‘We do not . . . have hours!’ Lisandre panted. Her whole body jerked as if she had been stung by a bee. ‘Can you not . . . unweave the rope? Please?’

  ‘If me hands were free,’ Briony said. ‘But me hands are a-tied so tightly I can’t hardly move a finger.’

  The three children all struggled against the rope but it was no use, Lady Donella had tied them all too securely. At last they desisted, Lisandre sobbing in pain and frustration.

  ‘If only she had left the knives behind, we could’ve found some way of cutting the bonds, we could’ve, I know we could’ve,’ she cried. ‘And look what she did to the starthorn blossom! Oh, we came so close to saving Ziggy, I cannot believe we should fail now.’ Her sobs grew more bitter.

  ‘I have a little pair of scissors in me sewing kit. Mebbe . . .’ Briony said.

  With a great effort, they shuffled sideways across the floor, using their legs to propel their bottoms along. Lisandre left a red smear behind her as blood dribbled down her hand and onto the floor. Pedrin could feel his sleeve growing sticky with it. She was panting heavily now and muttering under her breath, her movements growing more frenzied. Pedrin had no confidence in their ability to cut themselves free, but Lisandre was so hectic with hope and desperation that he was willing to try anything to soothe her.

  At last they reached the sack, which lay where Briony had dropped it. It took more contortionism to get the sack open and tip the contents out. Briony then had to drag her boot off with the other foot, before groping through their belongings with her toes. She managed to extract the scissors but it was too difficult to wield them with her hands tied behind her back and they were too small and blunt to even shred a strand of the rope.

  Defeated, they slumped back against each other. On the bed, the sleeping count lay as still as if he were dead. The firelight flickered over the satin canopy, picked out gleaming threads in the gilt embroidery, glimmered upon something that lay on the floor near Lisandre’s foot.

  She leant forward. ‘My mirror!’

  With a burst of wild, unnatural energy, Lisandre brought both her boot heels smashing down upon the mirror so it shattered. Swift as an eel, she wriggled forward and seized a large piece of glass in her fingers, propping it up against her leg. With the others craning their necks to see, she pulled her wrists as far apart as she could and began urgently to rub the rope back and forth aga
inst the edge of the glass. Every now and again she winced as the glass cut into her skin, and once she drew in her breath in a long, shuddering sigh of pain and misery. At last the rope frayed and parted, and she could drag her chafed wrists free.

  For a moment she slumped forward, her head resting on her arms, her body shaking with suppressed sobs. When she raised her face it was slick with perspiration, and her eyes were unfocused. Pedrin murmured some kind of reassurance but she did not seem to hear, moaning and letting her head drop down again.

  Briony seized the jagged piece of broken mirror and began to quickly try to cut her own bonds, crying aloud as she sliced her fingers. When she was at last free, she shoved the glass at Pedrin and crawled hastily under the bed, seeking the twig of starthorn blossom. Snow howled against the window, and all was dark and quiet in the room.

  Pedrin managed to free himself, though he had cut a couple of fingers almost to the bone in his haste. He sucked them tenderly, kneeling beside Lisandre and examining her arm with a sense of despair rising in him like bile. The bandage was wringing wet, her hand as red as if she had dipped it in a vat of blood, her fingernails black crescents. A pool of blood was slowly spreading out below her.

  ‘Here!’ Briony said, thrusting the starthorn twig at him. ‘Hold this under her nose. See if it rouses her. I’ll try again t’ease the bleeding.’

  Pedrin obeyed. The faint scent of the blossoms roused Lisandre enough for her to lift her head and open her eyes blearily, though she looked at Pedrin without recognition. Her face was damp and fiery-red, and the involuntary twitch of her limbs had intensified so that she jerked every few seconds as if someone was sticking her with a pin.

  Briony unbound her arm and looked at the gaping wound. Released from the bandage, it spurted blood that sprayed across Briony’s face. Briony gave a little sob and pressed both hands over the wound. ‘I don’t know how to stop it!’