Proceed to Chapter 3
“Your Grace, this is no laughing matter,” Queen Laeleena’s voice was like ice: adamantine and cold. “Every day, the Demonspawn invade another hamlet. There have been hurrok sightings…harpies…even spidrens. These are immortals, Duke…this is no longer some adolescent wargame that you are playing. I need a plan, and I need one soon.”
His Grace the Duke of Shiilynn kneeled, head brushing the floor in the elaborate bow used only for the one of the Seven Queens. Raising his head ever so slightly, so that he gazed at the Queen’s silver-encrusted slippers, he addressed her formally. “Your Majesty, I assure you that I think of our nation’s danger as far more than mere child’s play. You have my oath that I shall find a way out of danger and the shadow of the demons, and into light.” He rose, stiffly due to an old war wound. Placing one hand to the hilt of his sword, he bowed from the waist and backed out of the throne room, limping slightly.
Left alone at the head of the seven-pointed star, Her Majesty the High Queen of Laeleentirr sighed, letting her face fall into her hands, her façade of strength shattering like broken glass. Her shoulders crumpled as she whispered hoarsely, then shouted, her voice echoing in the eerie silence of the Throne Room, “Oh, Kaatiina, why, my daughter? WHY?”The Duke’s horse pranced, excited by the commotion of preparation surrounding her. Christophe whispered in the mare’s ear, stroking the silvery mane that had earned her the name Luminous. She calmed at his touch, nuzzling his traveling shirt in search of treats. “Not now, Luma,” her master chuckled. “I want you to be hungry when you first meet our new traveling companion. No need for you to put it into your stubborn mind to dislike the poor child.” His horse whickered in reply, then turned deliberately away from him, swishing her tail in Christophe’s face, much to the Duke’s amusement.
Lyss ran down the hill to the meadow afore the inn, kicking up pebbles and dirt in her wake. The night’s weeping forgotten, her heart was filled only with anticipation as she sprinted, her skirts catching about her feet as she flew. “Curse these clumsy things,” she muttered. “Boys have all the luck.” Skirts were hot in summer, cold in winter, and the bane of her existence. Always Lyss argued with her Mistress about them, begging to be allowed to wear breeches, as some of the slaves who traveled in the caravans did. What was it Mistress Minn was forever saying? Oh, yes… “a woman, or a girl, who walks about in no more than her pantaloons is no better than she ought to be, and no slave of mine will go gallivanting about in such a fashion.” The rebuke always ended with a slap or an ear-boxing. Lyss shivered, remembering the many times she had gone to bed black-and-blue. Mistress Minn had been kind at heart, but her blows were heavy and hard. They were an effort to remind her slave that she was but an orphan, bought out of the mines and into servitude, no matter how much her powers grew. No, Lyss reminded herself, she was free now…the mark upon her ear no longer bound her. Christophe had removed it, healing over the scar and drawing out the poison that would have been automatically released had she attempted to escape.
All thoughts of freedom and slavery disappeared from her mind when she glimpsed Luma. She skidded to a stop, staring at the mare and her shimmering mane. Lyss walked slowly towards the horse, eyes rapturous, hands outstretched. Never before had she seen something so beautiful.. Everything about her reminded Lyss of a moonstone, like the ones the dwarves showed her when she picked lungwort by their forges. Her coat shone with a pearly glow, and the silver of her mane and tale seemed to be spun of the moonbeams themselves. She was a true daughter of Celia, the sixth of the Queens, whose power was that of the moon. “Oh,” Lyss whispered. “Oh, oh…”
“Lyss, Luma can be a bit jumpy at first, so perhaps you shouldn’t…” Christophe stopped as he stared at his often skittish mount, who now stood quietly, gently nudging his small charge. “Laeleena bless us all,” he muttered. “Will wonders never cease?”
Lyss, oblivious to her guardian’s incredulity, tore herself away from Luma for a moment to ask, “Are we ready yet?” Waiting as Christophe-she had just accustomed herself to calling him anything but “Duke”-adjusted Luma’s saddle girth, she fingered her left earlobe impatiently. She blinked, freezing for an instant and then laughed. “It feels so odd not to have the slave’s mark. I keep thinking that I’ve done something wrong-tried to escape or joined the Demonspawn or suchlike. Not that I don’t appreciate your healing it over…not at all…it’s simply…odd. Will I be marked at ElvenHall, too, so I don’t disobey?”
Christophe stood up, abruptly, his strange eyes flashing with anger. Lyss drew back, covering her face with her hands to protect herself from the blow that she knew would soon fall. Christophe only stared at her, this tiny girl in a worn dress, waiting to be hit by a man nearly twice her size. All the fire went out of his eyes, to be replaced only by pity. Lyss, though a child, remembered that pity, tucking it away in her mind to be puzzled over when she had the time and the place for it. Trusting, she allowed him to gently remove her hands from their shielding position, and wrap them around his neck. She relaxed there as he lifted her up into his arms, rocking her back and forth. Mistress Minn had never hugged her, never shown the love that she might have given to a daughter. And yet, she understood that this Finder wished to comfort her, though why, Lyss couldn’t understand. He had been upset, and she had tried to avoid being hurt, as the people who sometimes came to Mistress Minn’s cottage hurt her, in the midst of their drunken, angry hazes.
Lyss could feel Christophe breathe in as he began to speak, searching for words within the air. “I wasn’t angry at you, Lyss…I was angry at the people who branded you, who made you think that you would again be branded again at ElvenHall, and angry at those who hurt you, that you feared my anger. But even if I were upset, I would never, ever beat you, nor will anyone else as long as I have the power to prevent it. This I promise, Lyss, I swear it. Do you understand?”
Lyss nodded, feeling Christophe’s muscles relax with relief. Flicking one of her long blonde braids back behind her face, he smiled. “Come, little one,” he declared. “Let’s be off.”
The Elvin Star:
Prologue | 1
| 2 | 3 | 4
| 5 | 6 | 7
| 8 | 9 | 10
| 11
Short Stories:
For Robbie
Poems:
Wizard | White
Witch
©1999-2002 Lizbeth