The Stone of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  Looking down at the snow, she saw that she had not one shadow but two: a faint moon-shadow, and another fainter still. Of course, the second shadow was cast by the Morning Star. Arainia’s blue-white brilliance tonight rivaled that of the half moon. Ailia looked, fascinated, from her faint star-shadow up to the planet.

  But the sight of it set her to thinking of Lorelyn again. She glanced around her. The snow was undisturbed by any tracks, so the girl must have left before it fell. The roofless ruins were utterly still. Ailia walked the snow’s white carpet through still-stately halls and chambers, alone under the high silence of the sky.

  “Lorelyn, Lorelyn!” she called softly, uncertainly. There was no answer. Could the girl have gone up to the cave, following the men? It was just the sort of mad, unpredictable thing she would do. Ailia retraced her steps, looking up at the dark hole into which she had seen the men disappear earlier. She did not like the look of it at all. I can’t go in there! she thought, appalled. I can’t!

  She stood for a moment, trembling and irresolute. She longed so to hear the men’s voices again, feel their comforting, capable presence. They would know what to do about Lorelyn’s disappearance, they would come back and take charge and everything would be all right again. She wouldn’t be alone anymore . . .

  She went back for her candle and scrambled up to the cave mouth, peering in. There was the tunnel: she ventured in, shielding her candle-flame, and followed it until it divided.

  The stone stair could only go up to the Moon Gate. They would not have gone there. After some hesitation, she took the passage that sloped downward.

  She could never afterwards say how long it was that she journeyed downward. Once she called out, urgently: “Damion, Damion!” But the shout echoed from the rock walls around her and died in the darkness. She had always been a bit afraid of the dark, ever since she was a child. Now as she journeyed down into the mountain’s depths, the hand with which she held her candle shook, throwing wild shadows on the walls . . . Steady, now, she told herself, biting her lip. There’s nothing to be afraid of!

  At last when she was certain she must be at the mountain’s very roots the steps came to an end and she found herself in a larger space. She noticed worriedly that her candle-flame burned very low. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of bringing a spare? If she didn’t find the men soon, it would go out and she would be surrounded by darkness . . .

  To and fro she went, in and out of the seemingly endless passageways, calling her companions’ names. At length she came upon the passage that terminated in a wide cave mouth, and she peered inside, then leaped back, nearly dropping her candle.

  She had read about treasure troves, but for once reality exceeded her imaginings. The small timid glow of her candle glanced upon gold and silver and flamed in the hearts of cut gems. She ventured into the great room, going from pile to pile, running coins and jewels through her hand, though she did not pocket any. It was not the treasure’s value that moved her, but the presence of such rare and beautiful things in such staggering abundance. Did the men come here too, before me? Did they see all this?

  “Damion! Jomar!” she called. There was no reply: the chamber was deathly silent. She started forward, her candle held out . . . and tripped on a burned-out torch that lay in the shadows.

  Her candleholder went flying, striking the stone floor with a tinny, desolate sound. The little flame flickered fitfully, guttered, and went out.

  Darkness rushed in upon her like a flood, and with it a terror unlike anything she had ever before experienced. One of the earliest fears of her childhood had come true: she was lost, lost and alone and in the dark . . . In the terrible moments that followed she called, desperately, for Jomar and for Damion—only to stop, frightened at the echoes her voice awoke. How was she ever going to get through those passages and back up that stone stair in the pitch darkness? “Damion—Damion, please hear me!” she called. She expected no answer now, and none came.

  Then as her eyes adjusted, she realized that the chamber was not, after all, completely dark. A faint, pale light shone through the gloom. It looked to her rather like starlight—filtered, perhaps, down to these depths by some crevice high above. Then it occurred to her that the light did not seep down from above; the rays appeared, rather, to come from behind one of the piles of treasure.

  Ailia stumbled toward the treasure heap, instinctively seeking the source of the light. And when she found it at last, lying between the mounded mass and the wall, she forgot everything else.

  It was as though a hole smaller than the palm of her hand had been gouged into the rocky floor—into the very fabric of the world itself. Through this tiny aperture floods of light poured in white, whelming torrents, from some realm of pure radiance outside the world of matter, a universe of light. Ailia gasped and dropped back, blinking. For a moment she could see nothing but the imprint of that radiance on her retinas, a small violet spot such as one sees after looking inadvertently at the sun.

  A small round spot . . . A circle, a round object—could it be . . .

  “The Stone,” Ailia breathed. She dared to look again, and as she did so the light changed, seeming not so much to grow dimmer as to soften, and she could gaze now, without being dazzled, at the small round object at its heart.

  It was a jewel, a little globe carved with many facets, of crystal clear as water. At its center was a core of white light, like a star within its shining halo; from this the tide of radiance poured. Like the Tryna Lia herself, it was a thing of Earth and Heaven: stone and starlight. Its radiance was reflected by other gems in the hoard all around, repeated within their own gleaming centers, until it seemed as though she sat surrounded by stars of a hundred hues. Ailia put out her hand toward the crystal, then snatched it back.

  “No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, I can’t. I couldn’t.” She trembled. She was not afraid that the Star Stone would harm her. Rather, she feared what she might do to it, with her profane and unhallowed touch. She recalled the precious relics in the temple sanctum, sagging into dust and ruin at the travelers’ intrusion. Surely her hand would sully and besmirch this shining thing.

  She folded her hand in a corner of her cloak, making an improvised glove. Then, timorously, she reached for the radiant gem.

  THE STONE ITSELF LIT HER way back, through the long tunnels and up the passageway, casting its unearthly radiance about her. It would tolerate no darkness, but sent its searching beams into every dark corner and crevice she passed, driving out the shadows and Ailia’s fears along with them. It was as though she were not alone after all, but accompanied by a powerful, living presence. Her heart sang as she ran out of the cave into the ruins. “I’ve found it, I’ve found the Star Stone,” she whispered. “And it’s real, it’s everything I dreamed it would be . . . everything and more.“

  Its light filled the guest chamber, so that the walls themselves seemed to glow. But the men were not there. Disappointed, Ailia stood and wondered what on earth to do next. Lorelyn still had not returned either. There was nothing for it but to sit here and wait. “Guardians of the Stone—where were you? Why weren’t you here?” she whispered. “We needed help so badly.”

  Did she imagine it, or was there a sudden brightening of the Stone’s soft radiance? She remembered the legends of the Paladins’ pilgrimages, of the heavenly apparitions that had hovered about the holy gem. “Please—help us!” she begged. “If there are any protectors of the Stone, if you really do exist, then come to our aid—now! Don’t let the Zimbourans win . . .”

  And then she heard it: the sound of many booted feet approaching. Her heart leaped. For an instant she half imagined that her invocation had summoned the guardian-knights out of the dead city. She thrust the Stone into a travel-bag, then sprang up and hurried down the passage to peer out the main entrance. Yes, there were torches in the ruins! She stole cautiously toward them, keeping to the shadows, peering from behind broken walls. Were these friends—or foes?

  A strange voice barked
something, in a language that was neither Elensi nor Maurish. Ailia halted in her tracks, now staring in horror at the group of men standing in the snow—men who could only be Zimbourans. As she stood there, several more appeared—an entire company of soldiers.

  She whirled, fleeing back the way she had come—and ran straight into another armed troop.

  FOR AN INSTANT they were as motionless and startled as she. Then their leader strode forward. It was Zefron Shezzek. “You!” he said in thick-accented Maurish. “No, do not dare to run, little one, unless you want a spear in your back! Tell me where the others are, and we may spare your life.”

  Ailia gave a gasp of pure fright and stumbled backwards. Disregarding his words, she turned and fled.

  No spear or arrow flew after her; she heard only shouts and then the pounding of booted feet. They meant to take her alive. Of course, to make me talk . . . She tore along a passage with many doors opening out of it at either side. But her speed was her undoing: her toe caught on a broken stone concealed under the snow and she staggered with a cry of pain, then fell to her knees. At once she was up again; the shouts and heavy footsteps of the Zimbourans were right behind her. Had they heard her cry? She ducked into one of the doorways, but it led only to a small chamber. She backed into a shadowed corner and huddled there. It was no use: they would find her cringing here, and drag her out. She could already feel their rough strong hands upon her . . .

  Something brushed against her leg, and had she had the breath she would have shrieked: instead she recoiled. In the next instant she saw that it was only Ana’s cat. Greymalkin purred and rubbed her furry sides against the girl’s ankle again, as if offering comfort. Ailia shrank into her dark corner as a man’s harsh voice shouted in the passage, just outside.

  The gray cat suddenly darted through the doorway and into the passage, yowling at the top of her lungs. There was another shout, followed by a spate of angry words from more than one voice, farther down the corridor. And then, incredibly, the booted feet moved away again.

  Ailia sat in a daze, hardly able to believe it. Saved—by a cat! Seeing Greymalkin run from the room and hearing her caterwaul, her pursuers must have assumed that it was the cat that cried out. They were not going to search this room after all. Ailia had a chance now to escape, to flee the ruin, to make her way back down the mountainside in the concealing darkness.

  But what of the Stone? It was in the travel-bag in the fireplace room, in plain sight.

  In slow-dawning horror Ailia now realized what it was that she must do. Greymalkin had shown her, quite unwittingly, how the gem might yet be saved. All it would take was a distraction: as the cat had led the enemy away from Ailia, so she too must lead them out of the ruin, away from the roofed sleeping-chamber where the Stone lay. She was too cold, too tired, to evade the soldiers for long. But the Zimbourans must not find the Stone. There was still time: if she ran now they would follow, not linger here in the ruins.

  She drew a deep breath, feeling the chill air fill her aching lungs. Then she burst from her hiding place.

  At the sound of her fleeing footsteps shouts arose: they were not far away, and she knew that the Zimbourans would soon be close behind her again. She sprinted out of the building’s doorless entrance and across the street. Her chest still felt raw and the muscles in her right side seemed to be pulling apart. But she forced herself on, and on. For the men had seen her now.

  A visceral, animal panic seized hold of her, lending her a swiftness she had never known she could achieve. But she could not sustain it. Within moments the brief spurt of speed was over, and she was near the end of her endurance: her lungs burned with every gasping breath, a painful stitch spread along her side.

  There—the cave mouth in the peak yawned darkly ahead of her. She could hide in there, somewhere: the men would come upon the treasure hoard, and perhaps they would even forget all about her in their greed and excitement at its untold riches. She drew a breath that seared her throat, and scrambled up to the tunnel entrance, feeling her way through its dark maw. Here were the stone steps that led upward. She hesitated. Perhaps she should go up, not down? If she took the lower passage she might be trapped in the cellarlike spaces below: treasure or not, eventually she would be caught and cornered. But there might yet be an escape route at the top of the peak—some little trail or sloping rock-face she could climb down. She half crawled up the stone steps in her weariness, groping for them with her cold-numbed hands. Soon there was a faint light spilling down the stair. It grew steadily stronger as she ascended.

  She emerged from a square hole at the top, into a flat space in front of the portal, or rather what remained of it. The rock floor was covered in shallow drifts of snow, and on a low platform at the far end were the two damaged pillars with dragons wound around them, framing empty air. To one side, near the threshold of the portal, was another dragon, this one of brass or possibly gold. It was curled up in its own coils like a serpent, with its head resting on its tail: and it was huge, larger than the stone dragons, larger even than the living dragons that she had seen fly over the city.

  Ailia threw a desperate glance around the mountaintop. She knew at once she had done the wrong thing in coming here. There was no place to hide, and the light of moon and stars glancing off the snowdrifts lit the whole place. She might conceal herself behind the big dragon statue or one of the stone pillars, but these were such obvious hiding places: it would take the men no time at all to find her.

  Shouts came from below: the soldiers had divided up, and by the sound of it several of them were running up the stairs. She whirled, staring about her. There stood the Moon Gate—but she was not yet desperate enough for the hopeless escape it offered. She heard the heavy boots at the entrance to the stair, and then they charged up through it, yelling in their harsh native tongue as they caught sight of her. She crumpled to her knees in the snow, watching helplessly as they ran toward her, their weapons at the ready.

  Then one man yelled in fear and pointed with his sword toward the platform.

  The biggest dragon statue, the gold-plated one, was moving. There was a rattling of metal on stone as its great coils stirred, its head came up, its folded wings unfurled. Its eyelids opened to reveal cold shining eyes of emerald, their depths luminous in the torchlight. Ailia gaped. Of course: it was a mechanical statue, like the gryphons at the temple door. As the Zimbourans recoiled, howling in terror, the golden dragon gave a grinding roar, its teeth flashing in the starlight like the heads of spears. The men turned tail and fled for the stair. Ailia laughed weakly. She was saved again, this time by a statue. She began to struggle to her feet.

  And then she saw the glistening cave of the monster’s mouth: the long lashing tongue, the breath that mounted up in a steaming cloud. Slowly it uncoiled itself and stretched out its golden length upon the rock.

  Alive—it was alive. Not a statue after all. This was a real dragon, roused from its slumber here on the mountaintop. Ailia staggered back a few steps, and dropped to her knees again.

  20

  The God-King

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE WE RISKED our necks for nothing,” Jomar grumbled.

  They had paused for a moment after wandering for what felt like hours through the twists and turns of the tunnel. Having left their torches behind in the hoard-chamber of the Dragon King, they had only one small candle from Jomar’s pouch to light their way, and they made slow progress. Their fears that the tunnel would come to a dead end had not come to pass, but its rough rocky floor began to show an unpromising downward slant.

  “It never occurred to you to look inside the box first?” Jomar complained as they sat with their backs to the tunnel wall, taking a rest.

  Damion bit his lip. Being trained as a priest of the Faith left one with a small store of available expletives, none of them satisfying. “Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit!” he burst out at last. “I was somewhat preoccupied with a large, dangerous animal at the time—or didn’t you notice?”


  “Well, it doesn’t really matter, anyway. I never cared a straw for that stupid stone. We didn’t find it, but neither did the Zims.”

  “But they still might! If the container was there, the Stone must be too. It’s in that hoard, somewhere—”

  “Well, I’m not going back there! Not with that monster waiting for us! Let the Zims tussle with him if they want to.”

  Damion said nothing for a moment. He did not want to face the dragon again either. He stared into the darkness of the tunnel beyond the candle-glow: it reminded him suddenly of the dragon’s huge dark eye, and in his mind he confronted it again. It was that eye, even more than the creature’s jaws and talons, that filled him with fear: that bottomless pupil, with its glint of malevolent intelligence. For the merest of instants he had seemed to sense behind it a vast inhuman mind, a labyrinth of shadowy caverns and tunnels of thought. He could not rid himself of the feeling that the dragon in its turn had known his mind, perceived his intent, and reacted, not as a dumb brute instinctively defending its territory, but in anger at his attempt to take the Star Stone. Was the Stone there, somewhere in the treasure chamber—and if so, was the Dragon King’s possession of it merely an animal’s mindless fascination with some glittering bauble? Or was it something more?

  “Jo,” he said in a low voice, “you may think this sounds foolish, but—I think the dragon understood why we were there in the cave. Somehow, it knew.”

  Jomar groaned. “Not those faerie tales again! They’re only animals, Damion!”