The Star Shard

by Frederic S. Durbin

  Cymbril peered at him curiously. A draft made the nearest lamp waver, casting shadows across his face. He looked up and down Tinley, at the ceiling above, and into the narrow, nameless corridor of the three storerooms. When he crouched and used his knife to carve an X into the planks of Tinley, Cymbril understood.

  "You've never seen this hallway before," she said quietly.

  Rombol made no answer.

  Magic. There had to be magic at work, hiding the corridor even from the Rake's Master. Of course—now it made sense why no one went into the storerooms and why such wondrous relics were left untouched in the dark. Maybe the musty books didn't belong to Rombol after all. But how could the hallway be secret? Countless times Cymbril had heard the Master boast of how his father Tycho had ordered the Rake built and had organized the guild of merchants, of whom he was the richest and the chief—and Rombol was his sole inheritor. The wagon city had never known any Master but Tycho and then his son. How could it harbor places of which Rombol knew nothing?

  Once in the dim hallway, Rombol had no trouble seeing the doors. Setting Byrni down, he moved to the first, trying keys. None seemed to fit the lock. He rattled the brass knob, then passed along the corridor to where it emerged into Lesser Candleway. All the while he muttered under his breath and ran his hands over the walls, peering often at the ceiling or the floor, which Cymbril now noticed was dustier than the Rake's other passages.

  No one swept this hallway. No one even knew it was here—no one but Cymbril. The thought made her shiver. Why can I see it? she wondered.

  Hearing a furtive, flopping sound, Cymbril jumped and glanced toward the end of the hallway, where it opened into Tinley. The warty fat frog sat there, its throat slowly puffing in and out, its moonlike eyes glaring. Rombol hissed at it and waved an arm. Without hurrying, the frog hopped away, its pale legs flashing. It was so ponderous that its ambulation thumped the deck.

  "These doors are locked," Rombol said to Cymbril. "How did you get in?"

  Cymbril hated to give away her secrets, but she really had no choice. "There are ways to crawl in from above."

  "Hmm," he said, scowling. "You and the cats and the rats." He stuck a thick finger in front of her nose. "Go to bed, Cymbril. It won't do to have you headachy and fainting tomorrow. Yellow dress, gold belt and cape. Don't think you're forgiven, and stay away from the Curdlebrees."

  Clenching her teeth to keep from saying any one of the things she was thinking, Cymbril curtsied and hurried off.

  If only Urrt were aboard tonight ... But her questions for him would have to wait. She could feel weariness overtaking her. Weariness would be worse at first light, when she must struggle out of bed and sing again.

  Another grueling day followed, during which she again sang herself hoarse. The crowds never seemed to tire of "The Mountain Brook," with its endless, dizzying tra-la-la-la-las. Cymbril caught one distant glimpse of the Curdlebree twins on their lunch break. They were holding up dresses at a tailor's stall and fighting each other for the chance to admire themselves in a brass mirror. We're so different, Cymbril thought. She glanced down at her own dress, yellow as the morning light, with gold thread here and there that flashed in the sun. In the markets, village girls touched her sleeves, fingered her pleats and capes with longing. But the finery left Cymbril unmoved. She had a trunkful of dresses that a princess might envy—yet she would trade them all for comfortable, durable clothing such as Brigit had worn, the woman who brought Loric to the Rake. Riding garb, world-wandering garb, the raiment of the forest ... Cymbril thought of lines from the song "The Green Leaves of Eireigh":

  A strong bow of yew and boots of good leather,

  A kindness of sun, the wind in the heather,

  A jerkin of green and a mantle of gray,

  And a steed to carry me far and away,

  A steed to carry me back to Eireigh.

  Under the bright sky, Cymbril thought less about the mysterious corridor and more about Loric, the strange Sidhe boy across the marketplace. How had Brigit captured him? And why, when Cymbril glanced toward him, was he so often gazing back at her? At noon Rombol took Loric indoors and reappeared without him—resting him, Cymbril guessed, for the night road to Corin's Corners.

  There were frightening tales of the Sidhe. A merchant had spoken once of glimpsing three Fey astride great gray horses in the moonlight. A scullery maid had told of a Sidhe boy who had wooed her when she was young, long before she came to the Rake. The silver-haired boy, she said, had played a harp outside her window when the stars blazed. She'd been saved only by the holy symbols her father had set on poles around the garden—but she said the word "saved" in a hesitant way and sighed when she finished the story.

  All agreed that the Sidhe came among humans in secret, most often at night, and chose certain ones to lead away to their hidden realm. The speakers implied that this abduction was a bad thing, but Cymbril had trouble following their logic. When you were a slave in the world of humankind, wouldn't an "abduction" to a land of dancing be more of a rescue?

  Cymbril was never one to keep wondering. Curiosity had to be satisfied, just like the stomach when it clamored for food. One way or another, she would have to talk to Loric.

  In the late afternoon, the Strongarms filed back from the woods, moving half as slowly as the sun. Urrt sat on a boulder and listened to Cymbril's last few songs. Before he lumbered up the ramp, he obliged the crowd, earning a pocketful of coins by lifting a hay wagon over his head. He crawled beneath it, and when he slowly stood, raising his arms, the wagon seemed at first to be floating upward by itself. For another fee, he repeated the performance—this time with the wagon full of bulky farmers.

  Cymbril envied the Armfolk. They were strong and wise; Master Rombol and the crowds respected them and paid them for their work. When some chose to leave the Rake, they went. They were not slaves.

  In her years aboard the Rake, Cymbril had made two attempts at escape. The more recent had been at this city's market the previous year. She'd saved a tattered cloak from a pile of worn-out clothes waiting to be cut up for rags. Having gathered food and a threadbare skirt and blouse, she'd tied them up inside the cloak and smuggled the bundle out into the market with a basket of embroidered scarves. In purple dusk, while the merchants packed up, Cymbril had retrieved her bundle from a hollow stump. With great cunning, she'd sneaked into the forest's edge, where an evening mist coiled among the roots. I'm free! she'd thought, staring into the dark woods stretching away. She took a step forward, and another, even when she heard the far-off howling of wolves. But then, somewhere much closer, a man's deep voice had laughed harshly. Out among the black trees, a man was laughing, and the tone sounded purely cruel. Her heart suddenly full of chill, Cymbril looked back toward the Rake. On a hill, she'd seen Urrt standing motionless, his round eyes searching the distance as if he knew something was wrong. Cymbril let out a shaky breath and dashed back to slavery, getting to the ramp before the last merchants were inside. No one had been the wiser—except Urrt, perhaps, but he said nothing of it.

  As the sun sank among fiery clouds, Rombol swaggered away to a feast with the fur-capped lords of Highcircle. Normally, Cymbril lingered outdoors as long as possible, though she never forgot the evil laughter she'd heard in the forest. She loved to watch twilight fill the hollows, to wait for the first stars to appear. But instead of lingering, she sprang up, determined to take full advantage of the disorganized hour of supper. She could visit the Pushpull Chamber later, but this might be a chance to speak with Loric. She dodged through the jumble of collapsing tents and half-loaded wagons, sprinted up the ramp, and made sure they counted her at the Rake's entrance. Hurrying to the kitchens, she sought out Aubra, a cook who sometimes smiled sadly at her.

  "Please, mistress," Cymbril said breathlessly, "does the Sidhe boy come here for supper?"

  "'Deed, no," said Aubra, sifting a handful of spice into a bubbling pot. "The little 'un eats biscuits and a bowl o' cream and touches no meat. Runa takes it to
'im."

  "Please, mistress, may I take it to him tonight?"

  Aubra smiled, showing dimples, and half lowered her heavy eyelids at Cymbril. "Want a close look at 'im, do you, dear? Well enough—fetch that big tray."

  It was not often that Cymbril questioned the wisdom of something she'd already launched into. But as she left the kitchen, her feet stopped, and she stood still in the corridor for a long moment. A thrill of anxiety coursed through her.

  He's only a boy, she told herself. Boys aren't terrifying, and they're never as complicated or dangerous as girls. Yet this was a boy from beyond the world's edges.

  Her palms were sweating as she forced herself to walk onward.

  Chapter 6

  Loric

  Loric was kept in a tiny, windowless storage space with an ironbound door barred on the outside. Cymbril remembered that the room had once been used to confine a pickpocket who had crept aboard the Rake and been caught by Bale the hound. Bale was much less gentle with trespassers than the men-at-arms were. Rombol boasted that the dog's favorite treat was thieves' fingers. In fact, when the pickpocket had been handed over to soldiers in Windwall, both his hands had been wrapped in bandages. Cymbril never passed this place without remembering that glimpse, and the memory did nothing to calm her nerves now as she set the tray on the floor and laid her hands on the timber beam. The other slaves weren't barred into their rooms. There was no need for it; the wilderness was not kind to travelers on foot, and Rombol had friends in every town. But the Master kept Loric behind oak and iron. Was it only because Loric was an expensive investment—or because Rombol was afraid of him?

  Loric couldn't be much threat if Runa, a little wisp of a girl, brought him his food. Just be on your guard, Cymbril told herself. Taking care to avoid splinters, she slid the beam out of its brackets.

  When she pulled open the door, Loric was sitting on his bedroll, his knees bent and ankles crossed. The heavy iron collar was still around his neck, its chain locked to a ring bolted into the wall. His own clothes must be away in the laundry, because he was dressed now in the patched tunic and trousers of the other slaves. The ragged clothes made him shimmer all the more, especially his hair and eyes, like the moon gleaming behind shreds of cloud. Cymbril's own shadow half blocked her view of him. The only light came from a lantern on the corridor wall. As it flickered, Loric's eyes shifted in color, now liquid brown, now golden.

  He watched her without speaking. She had the sudden thought that he might be comparing her to Runa, deciding who was prettier. She felt her cheeks beginning to burn, and it annoyed her.

  "They haven't given you a lamp," she said.

  "I don't need one," answered Loric in that clear, strangely accented voice.

  Oh, yes. He could see in the dark, like an owl, like the cats. That idea bothered her, too—the image of him sitting in the lightless room, perfectly calm and vigilant.

  Don't gawk, she commanded herself. Don't be like the market crowds. Hair is hair, and skin is skin. He's just a boy.

  "Cymbril," he said slowly, as if it meant more than her name. "You sing beautifully."

  Her forearms tingled. He must have heard her name in the market.

  Smiling, he held out his hands for the tray and bowed deeply to her as he accepted it. "You already know my name," he said. "You heard it when the Master bought me."

  Cymbril felt her eyes widen. "How did you know I was there?"

  "I saw you in the wagon."

  "I was hooded."

  "You think a hood hides you? Here?" He gave a laugh like the trill of a reed pipe, though something in his gaze convinced Cymbril he was not laughing at her but at the very idea.

  She watched him uncover the dishes, the tray laid across his lap. "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "Well, you don't belong here, do you? Any more than I do."

  He knew, then, that Cymbril wasn't the child of a merchant, like the brats who slapped and kicked and ordered around slaves old enough to be their parents. But she felt the strangest mixing of emotions at his words. She was thrilled to hear someone from outside the Rake say that she didn't belong to it. Yet it was the only home she'd ever had. Loric didn't know her—who was he to decide such things?

  Before he ate, Loric crossed his wrists, hands flat against his chest, and murmured something in his own language—a prayer. Then he bit one of the biscuits and studied Cymbril as he chewed. "Would you like some?"

  "No, thank you." She knelt in the open doorway. Probably Runa didn't stay and watch him eat. The hall was empty now, but anyone might wander past. There wasn't much time. "Don't the iron chains burn you?" Cymbril crept closer.

  A mischievous twinkle came to his eyes. "There are ways of overcoming iron," he said. "Try to guess the secret for yourself."

  Cymbril blinked, not sure what to make of his answer. Perhaps she'd have better luck with a different question. "How did Brigit catch you?"

  He regarded her and took his time answering, finishing the biscuit first.

  Cymbril fidgeted, trying to watch over her shoulder.

  "The other girl doesn't ask me questions," he said at last.

  "I'm a different girl."

  "Yes." Again an irritating pause. "The Lady on the horse caught me because I climbed out through the wall of our world into this one, to see if the stars looked or sounded any different here. I was listening to the stars instead of the forest around me. Quite careless."

  Stars—with sounds?

  "Are the stars different here?"

  "Not the ones you can see from these lands," he said, picking up the bowl of cream. "But we can see a lot more from Gorhyv Glyn."

  Cymbril tipped her head to the side. Gorhyv Glyn. "Is that the Sidhe world?"

  "Not all of it. Just the part I'm from." He drank the cream so carefully, it didn't even whiten his upper lip. "Many of the Sidhe—the Dusk Folk—live under the ground now, in deep caverns, ever since the war long ago. My people are the Star Folk. We live in the forests, under the lights of the sky. And Gorhyv Glyn is only one part of the woodland realms. The Sidhe world is very wide, just like the human one."

  "You want to go back," Cymbril said, to be sure. She'd learned to take nothing for granted.

  "I do, yes."

  "Is your family looking for you?"

  Once more Loric fell silent.

  Cymbril clucked her tongue with impatience. "We haven't got all night, you know. If they find me talking to you, they won't like it."

  "Really?" Loric raised his brows. "They don't know you're here?" "No."

  "They didn't send you to bring my supper?"

  She started to shake her head but glared at him instead, feeling her throat and cheeks starting to burn again.

  "Then why are you here?" He looked at her keenly, as if somehow he might see answers whether she spoke them or not.

  "Never mind." Cymbril backed away, brushing dust from her skirt. "I'm not here. I'm gone." She glanced at the wooden beam for bolting his door.

  "Wait, Cymbril."

  He said it so earnestly that she stopped, chin lowered, and watched him.

  "I'm sorry to upset you. You seem sincere, but I have always been taught that the Second Folk are full of guile. Their words may say one thing and their hands another."

  Cymbril frowned, working out his meaning. She put her fists on her hips. "You think I'm asking these questions for Rombol?"

  Loric smiled wanly. "I know he is your Master, as he is mine. I know you have many privileges that other slaves do not. And I wonder why one who sings all day is delivering supper."

  Cymbril was speechless. It had been bad enough when she thought Loric supposed her to be a merchant's daughter. The truth was that he believed her to be a slave who spied for the Master. She wished she'd changed out of the yellow dress with its golden cape and belt—she looked like a bauble, something that belonged on the head of Rombol's cane.

  "If Rombol wanted to know your secrets," she said, "he would twist your arms or beat you with a rod
until you told him everything." She stepped out through the door. "I'll send Runa after the tray. She's more to your liking—a proper slave who asks no questions."

  Cymbril closed the door with a crash. Struggling with the heavy beam, she shoved it through its brackets. A splinter sank into the heel of her hand. With a cry more of ire than pain, she dug the wood sliver out and stamped back to the kitchens.

  Privileges.

  What gave Loric the right to judge her, this boy without a scar or a callus on his hands, who had the leisure to crawl about in the forest listening to the voices of the stars? Wearing an iron collar for a while might do him some good.

  When Rombol's dining party had returned, the Rake rolled again, beginning the overnight journey to Corin's Corners. It was good to sit by Urrt's feet in the Pushpull Chamber and listen to a new song the Urrmsh had woven together during their time in the mossy wood. To Cymbril, though, it sounded exactly like all their other songs—and their tales, for that matter, since she could rarely tell what was spoken and what was sung. Urrt's bench-mate, Arrbha, explained that the makings for this song had come from the birds, who brought news when no local Urrmsh were present. As they sang, some of the Armfolk clicked their toenails in a rhythm on the planks—not for every song, but for this one, which was lively. Those rowers who sat near puddles would sometimes bring down a foot to make a mighty splash.

  Having lost so much sleep the night before, Cymbril had nodded off repeatedly during the singing, her stomach full and her day's energy more than spent. But when Arrbha spoke of birds, Cymbril opened her eyes.

  "Isn't it true that the birds talk with the Sidhe?"