The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Yes, a heroine,’ he agreed, wiping his nose on his sleeve and clearing his throat.

  ‘What about Thundercloud? Is he with Pedrin?’

  Durrik looked about him, only then realising he had not seen the billy-goat in some time. His heart sank like lead. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Though if Thundercloud’s gone in search of Pedrin, ’tis because he thinks he’s in trouble.’

  Mina gave a little sob of fear and Durrik remembered she was not yet nine. Silently he castigated himself, reassuring her with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, though his own stomach was twisted up with apprehension.

  ‘Let’s hurry!’ he urged Sedgely, and the old man nodded and went up the stairs at a gallop.

  ‘We have to get back to the count’s bedroom,’ Durrik explained as they all hurried back towards the main building. ‘We’re a-feared the Regent will try to harm the count once he realises he’s awake. Also Pedrin and the girls are there all by themselves. They may need help!’

  ‘Girls?’ Maegeth asked, quickening her step. ‘What girls?’

  ‘Briony and Lisandre,’ Durrik said.

  ‘Lisandre? Not Lisandre ziv Estaria, the count’s sister?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Durrik said, getting a little short of breath.

  ‘Jumping Jimjinny,’ Maegeth breathed. ‘That sounds like trouble ahead.’

  They hurried through a doorway and found themselves in a long hall, with a rough wooden table and benches running its length. Coming in through the door at the far end was the chief huntsman Adken and his men, all tall, wiry men with weather-beaten faces and hands greatly calloused from wielding spears and bows.

  There was a long moment of tense silence, as the two groups of hearthkin men regarded each other down the length of the hall, weapons at the ready. Although the former prisoners were armed with fusilliers, they were all so thin and weak and sick that the huntsmen could have overpowered them if they had so desired. They made no move, however, looking to Adken for instructions. The chief huntsman was fingering his beard, frowning at the ragged bunch of escaped prisoners from under heavy brows.

  ‘Well met, fellers,’ he said at last, just as Johan was gathering together the courage to tell his followers to fire. ‘Looks like you’re in a mighty big hurry to get somewhere?’

  ‘Indeed we are,’ Johan responded. ‘There’s a plot afoot to murder the young count and confirm Lord Zavion as ruler. We’re rather keen to foil it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Adken murmured. ‘Lord Zavion seems to think that you lot are the plotters and he’s your prey. We’ve been given orders to shoot you on sight.’

  ‘We do have a mighty big bone to pick with his preciousness,’ Galton Granite-Fist admitted. ‘First things first, though. It’s the little count we be a-worrying about.’

  ‘We have no argument with the young count—’ Aubin the Fair said.

  ‘Yet,’ another of the men muttered.

  ‘Nah, it’s Lord Zavion we want to argue with!’ cried another, with a low growl of agreement from the others.

  Aubin continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘—His father treated us fair enough, for a starkin lord, and his young lordship seems like a nice enough boy. Whatever, he’s our count and we can’t be a-standing by and a-letting Lord Zavion have him murdered out of hand.’

  ‘So, Adken Hunter, whose side are you on?’ the foreman Burkitt said. ‘You planning to argue with these?’ He raised his fusillier menacingly.

  ‘Nah,’ Adken said. ‘Do I look like a tomfool? We’re the count’s men, same as you fellers. A suspicion of a plot to murder him? Obviously we’re duty-bound to investigate before we go making any hasty decisions that might end up with someone a-getting hurt. Nah, nah, I think we’d best find out the truth of what you say, don’t you agree, boyos?’

  The huntsmen all nodded and murmured in agreement.

  ‘So you won’t try to stop us?’ Johan said in relief.

  ‘Stop you? I’ll lead the way meself!’ Adken said, his grin widening.

  True to his word, the chief huntsman led the hearthkin swiftly through the bewildering maze of halls and corridors until they reached the main body of the castle. Even though they passed a number of servants and men-at-arms, no-one challenged them, thinking they were all in the huntsmen’s custody. At last they came to the entrance hall with its grand staircase leading up towards the solar and the ziv Estaria family’s living quarters. Men-at-arms stood on guard on all sides.

  ‘All right, men, let’s try and keep this civilised,’ Johan said. ‘Remember what Aubin said—whatever happens we’re a-going to have to face the king’s justice one day and we want our account to have the power of right on its side.’

  The men grinned and one spat eloquently. They hefted their fusilliers, pumped them full of fuel, and charged out into the hall, firing at full speed. Blue lightning lashed out, blasting chairs, tables, tapestries, crystal bowls of fruit, china figurines, gilded candlesticks, musical boxes, and ornate silver and crystal lanterns to smithereens. The men-at-arms shrieked and dropped their weapons, cowering down to the ground as all the expensive follies of the starkin lords imploded into dust and drifted down to cover them in a soft, grey coating.

  Silence fell. Smoke drifted away. One of the men-at-arms looked up through his fingers.

  ‘Take us to your count,’ Johan said in his deep, slow, pleasant voice. ‘Please.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Lisandre staggered to her feet, cradling her injured arm against her.

  ‘Ziggy?’ she cried. ‘Oh, is he . . . does he still live?’

  She half-fell against the bed as Briony bent over the sleeping count, frowning. The wildkin girl could find no pulse and the young count’s face was as still and cold as if carved from marble, with no twitch of the eyelid or flutter of breath to show if he still lived.

  Lisandre sobbed and covered her face with her blood-drenched hands. She was very weak from the loss of blood, and the occasional tremor still shook her, though her eyes had lost that dreadful glaze of incomprehension.

  Briony leant her cheek over the count’s mouth for a long moment, before straightening with a tired smile of relief. ‘He breathes still—though only just! Pedrin, the starthorn blossom. Gather up as many of the petals as you can find. We may still be able to save him.’

  ‘Oh, please, please,’ Lisandre sobbed, laying her head down on her brother’s chest.

  Pedrin knelt, gathering up the broken starthorn branch and carefully picking up every bruised and crushed petal he could find. A sweet, faint scent rose to his nostrils and he breathed in deeply, finding new hope and courage filling him. He carried them to the bed and gently dropped them into Lisandre’s waiting hands. She managed to smile, a very faint, wearied curve of her mouth, then slowly, almost fearfully, held the fistful of starthorn blossom under her sleeping brother’s nose.

  For a long moment it seemed as if the pitiful handful of mangled flowers would not be enough. Then, suddenly, his nostrils flared and his chest rose as he took in a deep breath. Again he breathed in deeply and then again, and slow colour crept up his ivory cheeks. His fingers flexed, then he yawned and stretched, opening his eyes.

  ‘Lise!’ he said with a tired smile. ‘What, have I overslept?’

  Then he saw her cropped head, her blood-smeared face, the great red stain down her white dress. His smile died away. ‘Stars and moons, what has happened? What is wrong?’

  Lisandre sobbed and laid her head down on his chest again. He hugged her tightly, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw Pedrin and Briony across her back, both as filthy and bloody as Lisandre.

  ‘By the heavens! Lise, what is all this about?’

  Lisandre did not move. Count Zygmunt tried to lift her away from him. She was too limp and heavy. He called her name in distress and lifted her face. It was chalk-white under the smears of blood, and her eyes were closed. Below her was a great crimson stain as the blood again pumped steadily out of the ragged gash in her arm. Pedrin felt a sudden, sick
ening drop of his stomach. He had seen this before. He threw himself down by the bed, lifting Lisandre into his arms.

  ‘Lise!’ he cried.

  He saw fresh tears well out of Lisandre’s eyes and sat back, nauseous with relief.

  ‘You’re not dead,’ he said stupidly. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Of course I’m not dead, you asinine fool,’ Lisandre said in a muffled voice. She lifted her hand to scrub at her eyes. ‘Not yet anyway. I’m . . . oh, it’s just that I’m so happy!’

  Suddenly she pushed her head into Pedrin’s shoulder, both her arms tight about him. Pedrin put his arm about her, feeling rather weak and light-headed himself. He watched the blood pulse out of her arm, and wondered how it was that he could feel both wholly glad and utterly miserable at the same time.

  ‘Please, will someone not explain to me what all this is about?’ the count said haughtily, leaning on one elbow. ‘Who are you, sirrah, that you dare lay hands upon my sister? Do you not know she is of the Ziv?’

  Lisandre laughed rather damply. ‘I think he’s rather gathered that by now,’ she said, sitting up. ‘Oh, Ziggy, I am so glad to see you!’

  The count’s affronted look softened a little, but he said with a dangerous crispness in his voice, ‘I’m glad to see you too, Lise, though I would very much like to know what that hearthkin boy is doing with his arm about you. May I suggest he removes it before I remove it for him?’

  Pedrin rather selfconsciously took his arm from around Lisandre’s shoulders and she blew her nose vigorously on her rather grimy handkerchief. ‘This is my friend Pedrin, Ziggy, and that is Briony. Oh, they are the very best friends anyone could want. They have helped me so much, and you too, Ziggy. You would not be alive now if it was not for them, and Durrik and Mags and Sedgely, and Thundercloud and poor little Snowflake too.’

  The count looked over her head to Pedrin. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain, boy, given that my sister seems to be delirious?’

  Lisandre laughed, with an edge to her voice that made both Briony and Pedrin stare at her in grave concern. ‘I am delirious. You see, I’m dying. I scratched myself on the starthorn tree, picking the flowers to wake you. Look, that’s my lifeblood you see on your counterpane. And here on my dress. And look! On Pedrin’s shirt too. And all over the floor. Blood, blood, everywhere!’ She laughed hysterically and suddenly gave a convulsive shudder, her eyes rolling back in her head. ‘Oh, I feel sick,’ she muttered. ‘Pedrin, Briony, are you there?’

  Savagely Pedrin squeezed his fingers till fresh blood came welling out of his cuts and then he pressed his hands over her gaping wound again, smearing the wound with as much of his own blood as he could. ‘Briony!’ he cried.

  Briony followed suit, both of them rubbing their blood into Lisandre’s wounds as if it was the most magical of unguents, which it was.

  The count stared at them in horror. ‘Heavens above, what do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Trying to save her life,’ Pedrin snapped. ‘Oh, Durrik, where are you?’

  The count drew himself back against the headboard. ‘What foul witchcraft is this? Who are you and what have you done to my sister?’

  It was a difficult tale to tell, particularly with Lisandre slowly sinking back into a restless, feverish sleep, muttering under her breath and occasionally calling out in terror. Although Pedrin and Briony constantly anointed her with their own blood or held the mangled starthorn blossoms under her nose to try to revive her, the poison was inexorably gaining ground.

  Perhaps it was the sight of Lisandre sunk in fever, her eyes rolling, her limbs twitching, the stain of blood below her slowly creeping out. Or maybe it was the obvious love and anxiety in the faces of the two children who tried so desperately to tend her. Perhaps the story was so very strange that it seemed impossible it could be anything but the truth.

  Whatever it was that convinced him, Count Zygmunt was at last persuaded to believe they were giving a true telling. He went through the whole gamut of emotions first, from incredulity to grief to anger, and back again. At last, though, he threw back his bedcovers, saying with a ring of command in his voice, ‘Help me get up! Where is Lord Zuma, my father’s . . . I mean, my cup-taster? And Lord Zustin, my spear-carrier? And the gentlemen of the chamber? Have I been left completely unattended?’

  ‘I suppose they attend Lord Zavion . . . he’s Regent now, remember?’

  ‘Not now that I am awake,’ Zygmunt said with determination. ‘Come, if it is the blood of your friends that will save Lisandre, then we must find your friends and quickly too!’

  Just then there was a soft grating sound. Briony swung around with a cry of warning.

  Lady Donella stood in the doorway, a corked jar hanging from her hand. At the sight of the four children crouched together on the bed, her eyes widened and then narrowed.

  ‘What nuisances you are,’ she said, coming in and locking the door behind her. ‘How in heavens did you get yourselves free? And I see you have awoken my lord count. Greetings, my dear Zygmunt! I am afraid I would be less than truthful if I said I was glad to see you looking so well.’

  ‘Lady Donella!’ Zygmunt said with a rush of blood to his face. ‘So it is true what they have told me. I can hardly believe it!’

  Lady Donella sighed. ‘Alas, it is all true! And if it had not been for these meddling nuisances, you would be dead now and my dear, dear Lord Zavion would be count. I think I can say with some assurance that it would not have been long before I was countess, a position much worthier of me than a mere lady-in-waiting. Of course, I would have preferred to have been countess of an estate closer to the king’s court. However, I’m sure I shall have no difficulty in persuading my loving husband to spend most of his time—and money—in Zarissa.’

  As she spoke, Lady Donella had glided across the room to the table, where she set down the ceramic jar. She turned to survey them, standing so close they could have reached out and stroked the rich fabric of her dress. Instead they all instinctively cringed back.

  ‘Now, what am I to do with you all? I have no desire to lose everything I have worked so hard to accomplish. I have made too many sacrifices to lose all now.’

  ‘Sacrifices? What sacrifices have you made?’ Count Zygmunt cried bitterly. ‘It was my father and all his men that were sacrificed!’

  Lady Donella waved her hand nonchalantly. ‘You must see what hindrances they were to me,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Lord Zavion may have been born of the Ziv, but he had no prospects of his own and was already out of favour at the court. Why do you think he was mouldering all the way out here? I could not marry a man with no estate of his own, no matter how nobly born. So what other choice did I have?’

  ‘What other choice?’ Count Zygmunt was suffused with colour, his hands clenched beside him. ‘You murdered my father and all his men, and you tried to murder me!’

  ‘I may yet succeed,’ Lady Donella said, whipping her knife out and holding it against his throat, gripping the young count by his long, smooth fair curls. Count Zygmunt yelped in pain and Lady Donella dragged his head back further.

  ‘I see I need not concern myself anymore with your troublesome little sister, which is most gratifying as she was always a horrid little brat, very much lacking in respect. You, however? It does not suit my plans at all to have you wake up at this point of time. Now, you have a choice, my dear Ziggy. Either you drink the delicious apple-ale I have prepared for you and die a happy, drunken death, or I slit your throat and you bleed to death beside your dear, sweet, departed sister.’

  Her voice was very light and agreeable and, as always, she was smiling. A watcher from afar would have thought her a loving and affectionate aunt, genuinely concerned with the count’s health. Yet her words struck a chill of horror into them all. Pedrin’s legs trembled. The whole room seemed to have suddenly swelled so it pressed hot and dark against his eyeballs, against his lungs, against his inner organs. He could hardly breathe. He could not have taken a step or spoken. His
ears were filled with a roaring sound, like a raging fire. He turned his head and looked at Lisandre, who lay peacefully, her hand lax, her eyes nearly closed, only a thin white slit of eyeball showing within. Blood had ceased to pump from her arm.

  ‘No!’ Count Zygmunt cried, only to yelp again as Lady Donella pulled viciously at his hair. Lady Donella turned her wrist so the knife slid along his throat. A red line welled up in its wake.

  ‘I must assure you, my dear count, that I shall have no hesitation at all in slitting your throat. I shall blame the goat-boy, of course. Really, the stars are smiling on me today, delivering you all into my hands in such a neat, tidy way. Lisandre would always have been a danger to me if she had lived, once she knew the truth, and you too, goat-boy. Really, I could not ask for things to end in a more satisfactory way!’

  Her face was too perfect. It looked as if it must have been crafted from a piece of old ivory, the mouth carved in a perpetual curve. Even her eyes, as violet-blue as her gown, shone with the hard brilliance of a jewel rather than the changeable hues of a human eye. There was no doubt in any of their minds that Lady Donella would, without hesitation, slash her knife across the strained cords of the count’s throat.

  Count Zygmunt swallowed and said, very faintly, ‘Very well, give me the apple-ale to drink. If I must die, let me die dancing!’

  A tiny grating sound caught Briony’s ear. Very slowly she turned her head and glanced toward the door. As Lady Donella smiled and lifted away the knife, Briony saw the door silently open. An old man in the Estaria livery stood outside, his finger to his lips, a key held in his other hand. He pushed the door open a little more and Briony saw Thundercloud leaping forward, horns low.

  In a swift, sudden move, Briony seized a pillow from the bed and swiped at Lady Donella. Startled, the lady-in-waiting spun, slashing out with her knife and ripping the pillow so feathers burst everywhere. The count flung himself down to the ground and Thundercloud soared over him, ramming into Lady Donella and knocking her flying.