Pilgrim

by Sara Douglass

  “We need some twenty to thirty of your men,” one of the women said, and Zared’s mind was now so choked with unspeakable thoughts he could only stare at her. She was young and comely, with a clear creamy complexion and dark, wavy hair cascading down her back. She was dressed in a smoky-pink hip-length tunic with a pattern of clam shells embroidered about its hem, and brown leggings and boots.

  “Layon,” Isfrael said, “of the ClamBeach Clan.”

  Layon? Zared opened his mouth to say something, anything, and then was startled by Leagh’s voice speaking behind him.

  “ClamBeach Clan?” she said, and walked to stand close by Zared’s side. “Do you live along the Widowmaker coast?”

  Facing both Zared and Leagh, Layon inclined the upper half of her body and placed the heels of her hands on her forehead. “Yes, Queen Leagh.”

  “Then you have travelled far to help us,” Leagh said, and smiled, stepping forward to take Layon’s hands. “Will you introduce me to your companions?”

  Zared stepped back and managed to re-order his thoughts as Layon introduced Leagh to the other women. He turned to Isfrael, and was silenced by the look of cynical amusement on the Mage-King’s face.

  “No doubt,” Isfrael said, “you wonder exactly what these Clan wives need with your men?”

  Zared nodded, and then turned slightly to speak with Herme. “Um, Herme, perhaps you can fetch thirty men to aid these women.”

  “Make sure they are strong, Earl,” Isfrael said as the Earl turned to go. “Their constitutions will be sorely tested by—”

  “Oh for the gods’ sakes, Isfrael,” Zared snapped. “What are you going to do with them? I need shade, not innuendo.”

  “‘Twas not me who first thought the innuendo,” Isfrael said softly, and then spoke normally. “The forest is replete in materials that can be woven to form mats. These women can show your men how.”

  Zared stared at him, then smiled himself. “Now I have heard of everything, Isfrael. Do you think to give my army weaving classes?”

  It was exactly what Isfrael proposed. For the rest of that day, and all through the next, teams of men hunted through the forest for what the Avar women called the goat tree. It was a variety of beech, but with a peculiar stringy bark that the tree continuously shed. Once a tree had been located, men spent an hour or two pulling as much of the fine, fibrous bark from the tree as they could, sweating and grunting as they climbed into the heights to reach the finest bark.

  “As long as the men do not pull the under-bark free from the trunk of the tree, it will not be harmed,” Layon explained to a curious Leagh who trailed after the woman from work site to work site.

  “What do you normally use the bark for?” she asked.

  Layon paused to give a soldier carrying a massive bundle of the bark across his shoulders directions back to the main camp, and then turned back to Leagh. “It is useful for weaving into a rough fibre. We use it, as you shall, to provide summer shelters, although it does not provide much protection against the rain. Once sufficiently prepared and cured, it dries out to become very easy to work and then to carry as a woven cloth.”

  “Do we have that long?”

  Layon shook her head. “Not unless you want to waste two weeks or more waiting for the fibre to dry out completely. It is workable now, and will dry out further on your trek west. Each man will be able to carry enough on his horse to provide them both with shade, and yet not have it prove too heavy a burden.”

  They walked in silence for a while as they moved back towards the campsite. Leagh, as so many “Plains-Dwellers” before her, was overawed by the forest, especially by the sense of light and space and music within it.

  “I do not envy you your trek,” Layon eventually said softly. She did not look at Leagh.

  “I fear it,” Leagh admitted, equally as softly. “Not only the march west, but what we will find on the plains, and in Carlon itself. I, as Zared and every man with us who has a family and loved ones left behind, worry each moment we are awake about their fate. And at night our dreams…”

  Layon looked about her, lifting her eyes to study the forest canopy so far overhead.

  “The forest remains a haven,” she said. “But for how long? The Demons grow stronger each day…and even when relatively weak they still managed the murder of Shra.”

  Leagh’s eyes filled with tears at the grief in Layon’s voice. “We will prevail—”

  Layon turned to her, anger in her face and voice. “We will what? Prevail? And at what expense? This Drago tells us that we must watch Tencendor be turned into a complete wasteland. What does that mean? The destruction of the forest?” Layon waved a hand about her. “That this should burn? I cannot believe that!”

  “We must all endure—” Leagh began.

  But Layon now let the Avar’s well-tended harvest of bitterness swell to the surface and would not let Leagh finish. “You Acharites know nothing of endurance,” she said. “Nothing.”

  After that there was not much to be said. They walked in silence back to the camp, and then separated, Layon to one of the groups of Acharite men under the instruction of an Avar weaver, Leagh back to her husband.

  Zared was standing in their personal camp, a bridle hanging from his hands. His face was set in a frown as his fingers struggled with a particularly stiff buckle, and he cursed and dropped the bridle as his fingers slipped one more time.

  “You are too impatient,” Leagh said, and bent to retrieve the bridle. “Look, work it gently, so, and…lo! The strap slips through easily.”

  Zared grinned wryly, and then noticed Leagh’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated, then threw the bridle down on top of a pile of tack and stepped into the protective circle of his arms. “I am afraid.”

  “So am I,” he said. “Leagh?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to stay within the forest. Who knows what we will encounter—”

  “No.”

  “Leagh—”

  “No!” She raised her face to his. “Twice no, Zared. First a no because I refuse to let my husband ride off without me—and you know what will happen if you do that.”

  Zared grimaced, remembering how he’d left Leagh in charge of Carlon, only to have her ride off to Caelum’s camp.

  “And a no because, as you taught me, I have a duty to my people. I am not only Leagh. I am Queen Leagh, and I, as you, have a people to put before my personal desires and wants.”

  Zared grinned down into her face, unable to be cross with her. “I shall remind you of that next time you start to whisper your personal desires and wants into my ear late at night.”

  She returned his smile, then leaned in close against him, resting her cheek against his chest.

  “But, for my sake,” he whispered into her hair, “keep safe. Keep safe.”

  “And you,” she said. “And you.”

  They stood and held each other, both silent.

  Once the fibrous bark of the goat tree had been stripped, separated and then combed—a process that took the best part of a week—then every man was given the task of weaving his own shelter.

  Some took to the work better than others. Many among the army were sons of craftsmen, or were craftsmen themselves, and they quickly sat down to the job, whistling as the fine fibres spun through their fingers.

  Others needed persuasion…and much instruction. The Avar women, now numbering almost fifty, moved among the army, bending over shoulders, laughing and scolding, and correcting fumbling fingers. Zared, Herme and Theod sat in a circle, with Leagh hovering on the outer amused that the highest nobility of Achar could use man-welded weapons to destroy with ease, and yet could not use the fingers they’d been born with to create.

  “I wish I had a court painter with me now!” she said, amongst her laughter, “so he could record this scene for posterity.”

  All three men looked up from the knotted and uneven weave in their laps and scowled at her, but their eyes danced with merr
iment also.

  “One day,” Zared said, “I am going to see how well you wield a sword.”

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, and winked at him. “Not half as well as you do, I am sure.”

  All three men laughed, and Zared shook his head slightly as he looked back to where he’d managed to knot his left thumb between four strands of fibre.

  Still others, although few in number, bent to the task of weaving their shade with deep resentment. Of them all, Askam harboured the deepest bitterness. Even if every man within the camp, commanders and nobles among them, were, like he, bent to the task of weaving, it did not help Askam’s sense of self-worth. He’d effectively lost all he had ever commanded, and the man who had stolen it from him, now had him sitting cross-legged in a forest assisting to weave a damned shade-cloth!

  “Wait,” he murmured so that none about him could hear. “Wait.”

  19

  The SunSoar Curse

  During the mid-afternoon of their third day out of the Silent Woman Woods, Zenith and StarDrifter stopped to exchange news for malfari bread and honeyed malayam fruit with a band of Avar, then flew until the dusk penetrated the forest canpoy and flight was no longer enjoyable, let alone safe.

  “How far do you think we have come?” Zenith asked StarDrifter as they cleared a space beneath a whalebone tree and sat down.

  He glanced about him, wincing as a twig stabbed into his back, and readjusting his position slightly to accommodate it. Then he pointed to a shrub huddling close to the small stream that ran eastwards.

  “See that kianet shrub? They only grow near the Bogle Marsh. So we have not done badly for three days’ journey.”

  Zenith nodded, and handed StarDrifter his share of the honeyed malayam on a thick slice of malfari. A fair distance indeed, but if they’d been able to fly direct to the Minaret Peaks they would only have another day’s travel, if that. Forced to keep to the sheltering forests, they were swinging in a great arc to the east. Tomorrow, perhaps, they could swing back west.

  “I have a hankering to spend tomorrow night in Arcen,” StarDrifter said as he broke away some of the fruit and ate it.

  Zenith glanced at him sharply. “Why? We can overfly it and continue straight on. There’s no point—”

  “Zenith, what difference will a half-day make?” StarDrifter said around his mouthful. “That’s all we’d lose, and I confess myself tired of these beds of pine needles and sharp-elbowed twigs.”

  Zenith grinned and tore herself off a slice of malfari. Aha! StarDrifter was missing his comforts! It seemed an age since they’d been on the Island of Mist and Memory. StarDrifter had gone with Axis to the Ancient Barrows to try and strengthen the Star Gate—a useless exercise, as it turned out—and Zenith had travelled north with Faraday in the blue cart drawn by the donkeys.

  “It has been a rare long time since I’ve had you to myself,” StarDrifter said, and Zenith smiled softly again, and replied without looking at him.

  “Have you recovered your Enchanter powers then, StarDrifter, to read my mind so?”

  StarDrifter did not reply immediately. He stared down at his fruit and bread, turning a crust over and over in one hand.

  “And I find,” he said, very hesitatingly, but encouraged by her response, “that I do so very much enjoy this time spent alone with you.”

  He looked up. Now Zenith was staring at the food in her hands. Again StarDrifter hesitated, but he was not a man for leaving unsaid that which needed to be shared.

  “I also find,” he finally said, “that I resent every moment that I must share you with someone else. Dear gods, Zenith, I adore Faraday, but she trailed so happily—and so damnably consistently!—about after us on the Isle of Mist and Memory that I could have thrown her over the cliff face!”

  StarDrifter stopped, wondering if he had said too much. But, curse it, it needed to be said! And so, having come this far, StarDrifter leapt over the cliff himself.

  “It is the SunSoar curse that our blood calls out so boldly for each other,” he said. “But I find it no burden, and no curse, to love you as I do.”

  There, it was said.

  “StarDrifter—”

  “Let me say one more thing,” he said, in gentler tones. “I know WolfStar hurt you, and that the introduction to love you suffered at his hands has likely scarred you for life. But—”

  “Now is not the time to be talking of this,” Zenith said. Her voice was very brittle.

  StarDrifter raised an eyebrow. “Now, in this gentle companionship under the trees, is not the time to be speaking of ‘this’?”

  She looked at him steadily. “The TimeKeeper Demons are tearing this land apart. Surely there are more important things we should be—”

  “Don’t evade me, Zenith.”

  Zenith’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and she jerked her gaze away from StarDrifter’s face.

  “Zenith…” StarDrifter reached over, took the now damp and useless food from Zenith’s hands, put it to one side, and clasped her hands very gently in his own. “Please, talk to me.”

  She took a deep breath. StarDrifter had been courageous enough to speak of the bond that both knew had been developing between them, and she knew she should be as well. “RiverStar…RiverStar always chided me for not taking a lover. She said it was not the SunSoar way.”

  StarDrifter grinned mischievously, his eyes twinkling with undemanding humour. “She was right.”

  Zenith allowed herself to be reassured by his grin, and half-smiled herself. “I always told her I wanted to wait for the right man, she always said it was mother’s Acharite primness showing through.”

  Maybe RiverStar was right, StarDrifter thought. And maybe it was just that Azhure, like Zenith, had preferred to wait until she found the man she loved.

  “I wish,” Zenith’s smile faded, “I wish that I had succumbed to the blandishments of some Icarii Strike Leader, or Enchanter, during those wild Beltide nights that I spent watching from beneath the safety of the trees. I wish that I had, because then I would not have been left with WolfStar as my only memory of love!”

  “Shush,” StarDrifter said, disturbed by the emotion in Zenith’s voice.

  Zenith took another deep breath, calming herself. “But…but I waited, because I felt that somewhere was the one man that I could love more than any other.”

  StarDrifter’s heart was racing. Why would she have said that, unless…unless…“And have you found him yet?”

  Zenith stared at StarDrifter, wishing he had not forced this conversation, and yet relieved beyond words that he had. Had she found the man she could love beyond any other? Yes, she had, and she’d known it for a very, very long time. Why else had she been so frantic to know if he’d survived the Demons’ push through the Star Gate?

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Strange, StarDrifter thought, strange that I do not feel overwhelming triumph at this moment. Ever before when a woman has looked into my eyes and whispered “yes”, all I have felt was triumph. Now? Relief. Sheer relief.

  He leaned forward to kiss her.

  Zenith jerked her head away, her eyes round and fearful, and StarDrifter pulled back as if he’d been burned.

  “Why let WolfStar ruin your life? Love does not have to be what he showed you. Zenith, do you want WolfStar to colour your perception of love for the rest of your life?”

  “No,” she whispered, and StarDrifter nodded slightly.

  “Good.” He leaned forward, very, very slowly, giving her every chance to move away if she wanted, and then, having hesitated as long as he was capable, he kissed her.

  Zenith tensed as his lips touched hers, but he was so gentle, and so tender, that she forced herself to relax and to accept his kiss. Feeling her muscles lose their rigidity, StarDrifter drew back slightly, his eyes searching Zenith’s face, then he drew her close and kissed her again, this time with more passion, and more insistence.

  The kiss of a lover.

  Zenith’s initial reaction was a
bsolute immobility. She’d admitted that she loved him, but Zenith still found this sudden metamorphosis of grandfather into lover a profoundly unsettling experience. She was shocked by the warmth and taste of his mouth, a potent mixture of sweetness and maleness, and she was shocked by his insistence.

  It reminded her far too much of—

  “No!” she said, and pushed him away.

  StarDrifter stared at her, remembering himself. Remembering the feel of Azhure in his arms, and the delight of her mouth, when he’d kissed her in the training chamber of Star Finger so many years ago.

  She’d pushed him away, too, and he’d acquiesced.

  And lost her to Axis.

  What would have happened then if he’d insisted?

  StarDrifter’s face closed over and he turned away from Zenith. Rape. That’s what would have happened. And whatever else StarDrifter was, and might be capable of, he could not now insist with Zenith. He could not be a WolfStar.

  “I’m sorry!” Zenith was crying, feeling the burden of guilt and uselessness. What kind of woman was she? She owed StarDrifter more than this. “I’m sorry! It was just that…just that…”

  “Hush,” StarDrifter said, and gathered her into his arms as he would have gathered a child. “Hush. We have time, and I think we have love between us, and I think that we will eventually manage.”

  Zenith clung to him, grateful that the lover had transformed (for the moment) back into the protective grandfather. Did she love him? Yes, she did, but nevertheless…

  “Just give me time,” she whispered, leaning her head against his chest and letting herself be comforted by the beating of his heart. “I just need time.”

  Above her head StarDrifter’s mouth twisted wryly. He was heartily sick of being the understanding grandfather.

  20

  Sicarius

  Axis sat his horse—a fine roan stallion—and wished he had wings with which to fly. Perhaps he should have taken up StarDrifter’s long ago offer to coax his latent wing buds into growth. Too late now.