Pilgrim

by Sara Douglass

  “Yes!” Raspu screamed…and then lunged at StarLaughter.

  She pulled back instinctively, her arms tight about her son, but Raspu was far too quick and far too strong for her, and he yanked the baby from her arms.

  “Yes!” he cried again, and tossed the baby towards the pool of blood.

  The child arced through the air—and then fell, hitting the pool with a sickening heavy-wet splash.

  Blood splattered out in a great circle where he had hit the pool, covering both the Demons and the nearest crystal trees.

  StarLaughter cried out in horror, her hands to her face. Her child had gone! Disappeared!

  “Wait,” Raspu said, his voice now calm. “Wait.”

  Every one of the Demons was now still, tense.

  Waiting.

  Suddenly there was an agitation within the pool of blood, as if it were being stirred by an unseen hand, and then something floated to the surface.

  A child.

  But an infant no longer. A toddler of perhaps three or four. A boy, his hair thickened and clotted by the blood in which he floated, his eyes closed under gelatinous clumps of the stuff, his pale skin made rosy by the blood running off him.

  “DragonStar!” StarLaughter cried, and waded into the pool.

  She sank to her thighs almost immediately, but she struggled on, the blood rising up through her pale blue gown and soaking her breasts and wings. She lunged for the boy, missed, lunged again, and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him to her.

  “DragonStar,” she whispered this time, and drew the boy to her, offering him her slimy, crimson breast.

  The nipple plopped out of his unresponsive mouth, but there was a difference in him—and the difference was not only his size.

  StarLaughter looked up to the Demons anxiously standing at the edge of the pool.

  “He is warm,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “He is warm!”

  WolfStar watched from his hiding place twenty paces distant. He lay flat along the forest floor, his head raised only enough so that he could see through the transparent roots before him.

  This was his first sight of the Demons—and of his wife, StarLaughter.

  He was shocked that after four thousand years she could still rouse emotions in him. There she stood, so dark and beautiful, her coagulating robe clinging to the body he still remembered, could still feel.

  And in her arms, their son.

  DragonStar.

  No, he thought, trying to drive down his feelings for StarLaughter—

  —remember the nights they had shared? Remember the love and the laughter?

  And remember also that she plotted to take your place on the throne, and conspired with our unborn son to that purpose.

  —no, not DragonStar. Qeteb. Born and yet unborn.

  StarLaughter was willing to let a Demon inhabit the body of their son.

  WolfStar’s lips drew back in a silent snarl. No wonder he loathed her. She had deserved her death, and he wished she’d been made to suffer more than she had.

  Perhaps he could still arrange it.

  The Demons grouped about StarLaughter, drenched in clotted blood and now standing out of the pool. As their hands patted at the boy, and their faces bent to kiss him, WolfStar slithered carefully forward, one hand dragging the tiny corpse behind him.

  There. Again! Raspu thought, sharing it only with the other Demons.

  Who?

  What?

  Where?

  WOLFSTAR!

  Yes, Raspu nodded to the others. WolfStar.

  StarLaughter, unaware of what was going on about her, crooned and laughed at her child, one hand trying to wipe the clots of blood from his body.

  What should we do? What is he doing?

  They considered, their jewel-like eyes sharp.

  Watch, Sheol thought, and the others silently agreed. Watch—and learn what it was that WolfStar did here.

  Raspu laid a hand on StarLaughter’s arm and pulled her gently back up the slope.

  “It is time to leave, Queen of Heaven,” he said. “Time to move to the next site.”

  “Yes.” StarLaughter had a great smile of happiness on her face. “Yes.”

  As they moved off, Barzula lagged behind, concealing himself with power and keeping his senses focused on the blood pool.

  Thus he was aware when WolfStar furtively ran forward to the pool, now considerably smaller in circumference than previously, and threw in his own still corpse.

  A tiny girl bubbled back to the surface, as still as the male-child had been, but just as warm.

  Barzula frowned, only barely repressing the urge to confront WolfStar—how dare he use the pool!—when he stopped himself, and smiled.

  They could use this. Indeed they could.

  And so he hurried after the other Demons, formulating his plan as he ran.

  Drago pulled Faraday back down to the ground when the Demons emerged, sheltering her with his body.

  Both drew in shocked breaths at the appalling sight of the bloodied StarLaughter carrying a toddler.

  “Look!” Faraday whispered. “Look!”

  Drago nodded, his face composed but thoughtful. “Their first goal is achieved. Qeteb now warms.”

  “And they? The Demons?”

  “Will be stronger now. More confident. They have braved and won the first of the obstacles. They will know they can win through the others, as well.”

  StarLaughter sat, the child in her lap, completely absorbed in him. Her eyes shone soft and happy.

  A few paces away the Demons stood huddled, talking urgently.

  “WolfStar?”

  “He had an infant that he threw in?”

  Barzula nodded. “The corpse of a girl-child. I do not know what she means or is to him that he so dares.”

  “And she…?”

  “She was…warmed.”

  “How dare he?” Rox seethed. “How dare he—”

  “Wait,” Barzula said, and laid a hand on Rox’s arm. “We can use this.”

  “Use? How?”

  And Barzula spoke.

  After a few minutes all the Demons nodded, their eyes glowing with satisfaction.

  “And StarLaughter?” Sheol asked.

  “She will not like it at first,” Barzula said, “for she aches for revenge. But she will accept, and then she will approve. Think how much sweeter the revenge will be!”

  Sheol gurgled with merriment, startling StarLaughter into looking up.

  All the Demons were laughing, and clapping their hands. They must be pleased for her son, she thought, and smiled at them.

  Sheol quietened as she watched StarLaughter. She turned to her companions. “Is it time?” she asked. “Should we?”

  They considered the possibilities, finally nodding.

  “A little,” Raspu said. “Not too much.”

  “Just enough,” Sheol agreed. “Enough so she can be useful—”

  “—but not a threat,” Mot said.

  StarLaughter, her head once more bent to her son, looked up as she heard the TimeKeepers approaching. Their faces were gentle, their jewel-bright eyes loving.

  “When you originally came to us,” Sheol began softly, “we promised you power for your help.”

  Her eyes shifted to the boy-child in StarLaughter’s lap. “Now we are on the final path, our goal is in sight, and we have come to fulfil our promise. Stand.”

  StarLaughter obeyed, her eyes hungry. Rox stepped forward, and took her shoulder in his hands. “Beautiful woman,” he whispered, and kissed her full on the mouth.

  Power flooded through StarLaughter. Her mouth gobbled at his, desperate for more of the sweet stuff, but Rox pulled away, laughing.

  Barzula stepped forth, and offered StarLaughter his mouth. She clung to him, drinking in as much power as he was willing to give her, and then almost fell when he pushed her back.

  StarLaughter regained her balance, and clung to each of the other Demons in turn as they let her feed from th
eir mouths.

  As Sheol, the last, pushed her away, StarLaughter tried to understand the power that now flooded her. It was not Icarii power, and not tied to the now-silent Star Dance, but something far different—and far, far more exhilarating.

  “I thank you,” she whispered. “Now I shall be a true mother to my son.”

  The Demons smiled.

  Faraday swallowed her revulsion as the Demons gathered StarLaughter to them. Once they had done, they mounted their dark horses, moving back through the Silent Woman Woods.

  “Drago,” she said, “it is time we went. Noah told me that we could find a way down through the Keep—”

  “No.” Drago laid a hand on her shoulder and pushed her gently back down. “You stay here. I want to do this by myself. Please.”

  “But how will you—”

  Faraday never finished. With a low cry the feathered lizard stuck its head out of the neckline of Drago’s tunic, looked about, then scrambled forth.

  Drago almost fell over with the strength of its exertions, and grabbed at the nearest tree for support.

  The lizard scuttled for the border between the Woods and the crystal forest, and then jumped between the first two of the crystal trees, its feet scrabbling on the slippery surface.

  Drago looked at the lizard, looked at Faraday, then shrugged helplessly. “It looks like I will have some company after all.”

  “Be careful,” Faraday said.

  Drago stood looking down at her, very still. Her face was upturned to him, her eyes bright with concern.

  Hesitantly Drago reached out a hand, then stopped it before his fingers touched her face.

  “Wait for me,” he said, then turned and walked between the first trees of the crystal forest, one hand now on his sack, the other hefting his staff.

  11

  GhostTree Camp

  Fleat was an old, old woman. She had seen more than seventy Beltides, she had seen her daughter and her husband’s second wife, Pease, torn to pieces by Skraelings, and she had seen this man who sat before her now drive the Destroyer and his minions from Tencendor.

  She had thought to be able to die in peace, but that was not to be. Now another force invaded, far more vile than anything the Destroyer had thrown at them, and this man before her was utterly helpless.

  Her eldest son, Helm, was now the leader of the GhostTree Clan. Grindle had died twelve Beltides ago, and since then Helm had done his father proud. Now Helm was watching his wife, Jemma—eight-months pregnant with a child that would surely be born into darkness—serve Axis and Azhure with malfari bread and the flat-backed fish she’d caught earlier in the day.

  Both accepted the food, bowing their heads in thanks, but refrained from eating until Jemma had served Caelum, a little further about the fire, and sat down herself.

  The twenty men and horses were camped fifteen paces about a bend in the path. Helm had not felt comfortable with them so close, and had wondered how Minstrelsea could tolerate their weapons.

  Maybe, Fleat thought, the forest thought the weapons a lesser evil than the one that currently slithered through her southern skirts. Well, and wasn’t that the case? Even weapons were palatable when compared to the TimeKeeper Demons.

  Helm lifted his fish, slicing it open with a thumbnail, and laid layers of fish on his malfari bread.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Azhure fingered her bread, unable to bear the thought of eating it, but knowing that not only did she need the strength, Jemma would be gravely insulted if she left it.

  So she broke off a piece, looked at Fleat, remembering how the GhostTree Clan had once taken her in when no-one else seemed to want her, and responded to Helm’s question.

  “We travel north,” she said. “To Star Finger. The Maze Gate,” Azhure briefly explained what it was, “has told us that Caelum is the one to defeat Qeteb.”

  She put the piece of bread into her mouth and discovered to her astonishment that she was ravenously hungry. She began to chew enthusiastically.

  “How,” Fleat asked, her voice still strong despite her age, “if the Star Dance is gone?”

  “We will find a way,” Axis said. He looked about the circle of faces, lingering on Caelum’s. “You must all believe that. We will find a way.”

  Some of the tension among the Avar of the GhostTree Clan dissipated. Axis had always found a way previously, and he would again this time.

  Helm swallowed his mouthful of bread and fish. “There has been word from the southern borders of the forest, StarMan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Shra is dead. Slaughtered by the TimeKeepers.”

  Azhure cried out, her hands to her face. She locked eyes with Axis, who was as horrified as she. Both of them remembered the day they had first met, that scene in the cellar of the worship Hall of Smyrton. Raum, half dead; Shra—a tiny child then—almost completely dead. Touched beyond words, Axis had gathered Shra into his arms and had instinctively sung the Song of Recreation over her. Then, he’d been BattleAxe of the Seneschal, committed to fighting against the “Forbidden”, and had no idea he was of Forbidden blood and an Enchanter himself.

  Shra was—had been—very special to both of them.

  “How?” Axis said.

  “Isfrael and Shra confronted the Demons, for they could not bear it that they so boldly walked the paths of Minstrelsea. They threw all the power they could command at them, and it was not enough.”

  Axis and Azhure shared another glance, then one with Caelum. If Isfrael could not touch the Demons…then it would all be left up to Caelum.

  “The Demons tore Shra apart,” Helm finished.

  “And Isfrael?” Azhure asked. A tear trailed down her cheek.

  “He lived. The Stag intervened, and saved him.”

  Azhure nodded. The White Stag. The most magical beast in Minstrelsea. The creature that had once been Raum.

  “Drago killed Shra as surely as if he had plunged a knife into her heart himself,” Axis said savagely, and Azhure laid a hand on his arm. She had little love for Drago, and none for the harm he’d done her family and Tencendor, but she wished Axis could move beyond his all-consuming enmity for their second son. What good would that do them now? She glanced at Caelum.

  “Where is Isfrael now?” Caelum asked. Even if Isfrael had failed in his own attempt against the Demons, he would be a valuable—and powerful—ally later.

  “I am not sure,” Helm said, “although forest whispers have him moving westwards through the trees. Perhaps to the Cauldron Lake.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t think to attack the Demons there!” Azhure said. Isfrael was not of her blood, but she had raised him until he was fourteen, and loved him as much as she did Caelum.

  “Mother, be calm,” Caelum said. “Isfrael is no fool, and I am sure he has a purpose to his movements. Trust him.”

  Later, they lay curled in each other’s arms, not talking, listening to the other’s breath and heartbeat, and to the sounds of the Avar camp settling about them.

  After a while Azhure lifted her hand and ran it softly down Axis’ cheek, letting her fingers brush against his shortcropped blonde beard and then down his neck to his chest. How she loved this man! She leaned down and kissed his neck, and then his chest.

  “Think you to make love here and now?” Axis asked.

  She grinned in the dark. “I was remembering Beltide.”

  He smiled also, his hand stroking her back. “A long time ago, my love.”

  “Perhaps we ought to recreate a little of its magic now. It might comfort us.”

  Axis’ smile died. “There is no magic to recreate, Azhure.”

  She lifted her head to study his face. “We will persevere, Axis.”

  He was quiet a long time, his eyes distant. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that, even as close as she was, Azhure had to lean yet closer to catch his words.

  “If I had known that day in that rank cellar,” he said, “that Shra’s life would have been so ne
edlessly wasted then I may never have—”

  “Hush.” Azhure laid her fingers across his mouth. “Shra’s life was not needlessly wasted. She lived to a full age, and even if the manner of her death was…”

  “Vile.” Axis’ voice now had a hard and dangerous edge to it.

  “Even if the manner of her death was dreadful, then do not deny her life because of it.”

  Axis was silent again for a few minutes, thinking.

  Azhure thought she knew the trail of his mind, for his body had tensed. “Axis, nothing we did was useless.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Axis’ voice was very bitter. “Wasn’t it? Was all the death, all the pain, all the suffering that I dragged so many men, that I dragged Tencendor, through, ‘worth it’?”

  “Yes!” Azhure said. “Yes!”

  “Damn you!” Axis said, angry not with her, but with the pain that had now been visited on Tencendor. “Damn you, Azhure! Between us we bred the son that is solely responsible for—”

  “And between us we have bred the son who will be solely responsible for Tencendor’s salvation!” Azhure said.

  “If we can find a way to give him the power to do so.” And the confidence, Axis thought, but did not voice it.

  His despair and anger was deepened by the knowledge that, once, Azhure would have caught that thought with her own power.

  No more.

  “We will!” Azhure said. “Axis, with something so deep inside me that I cannot tell what it be, I know that Star Finger holds the key to Qeteb’s defeat! I know it!”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  Azhure raised herself on one elbow and looked her husband full in the face. “If it doesn’t, then our task will be to witness Tencendor through its dying. And if that is fated to be our task, then let us do it gracefully.”

  “Stars, Azhure…” Axis said brokenly, and she leaned down and stopped his words with a kiss. He resisted an instant, then his arms tightened and he pulled her close to him.

  Even after forty years, even in the midst of this disaster, his desire for her had not slackened.