“WingRidge?” SpikeFeather said, raising his eyebrows at the captain of the Lake Guard. Like everyone else, he was tired and dirty, soil smudging his face and dappling the skin of his hands and arms.
WingRidge did not raise his eyes from the circular maze. “I do not know it,” he said, the fingers of one hand absently tracing the golden knot on his tunic. “Knots—mazes—may take a thousand varied forms, and this one is very different to the Maze beyond the Gate. I cannot understand it.”
If WingRidge expected SpikeFeather to be disappointed, he was wrong. The red-plumed birdman simply shrugged, and asked everyone to stand outside the circle.
“It will be simple enough to decipher,” SpikeFeather said, and walked slowly over the maze.
“Ah!” he exclaimed after only a few minutes. “Here is where it begins!”
He began to follow a pathway over the maze, his body swaying with the natural rhythm of the Icarii.
“What is he doing?” Zenith said, finally moving to stand next to StarDrifter.
He did not answer, and Zenith looked at him. StarDrifter was frowning, staring at SpikeFeather, but Zenith thought she could see just the faintest glimmer of excitement in the pale blue of his eyes and the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones.
“StarDrifter?”
“I don’t believe it!” he whispered. “I can’t believe we have all been so stupid.”
Then he strode into the circle, grabbing a startled SpikeFeather by the elbow.
“Out,” StarDrifter said. “Let me, SpikeFeather. Please, let me do this.”
SpikeFeather almost objected, then stopped himself. StarDrifter had once been a powerful Enchanter, second only to Axis and his family in strength. He would do this far better than SpikeFeather could. So he nodded, and left the circle, joining Zenith and the other Icarii grouped about her.
StarDrifter moved to the spot where SpikeFeather had originally said the pathway began, and stood completely still, his golden head bowed, his luminescent white wings spread across the stone behind him.
Zenith frowned herself, and laid a soft hand on SpikeFeather’s arm. “What is happening?”
SpikeFeather caught WingRidge’s eyes, then glanced briefly at the other Icarii standing about, as puzzled as Zenith.
“I found the entrance to the Maze Gate by executing a dance,” SpikeFeather explained. “The pattern of the Maze here describes the pattern of a dance, a dance that will open the doorway into Sanctuary.”
Zenith jerked her head back to StarDrifter. A dance? A pattern?
An enchantment?
Now StarDrifter commenced the dance. He used his entire body, wings, arms, legs and torso all twisting and dipping in exquisite deliberateness that described the movements of the dance.
Zenith stared at him, everything else forgotten. All she could think of was how stunningly beautiful StarDrifter was. She saw the strength and beauty in the line and swell of muscle over his naked arms and torso, the indefinable air of mystery that clung to the chiselled bone structure of his face and saved it from arrogance, the pale, fine skin, the golden hair, and the sheer loveliness of his long-fingered hands, now sweeping slowly through the air.
Stars! Why couldn’t she allow herself to enjoy him as a lover?
For the first time, Zenith realised that that was what she wanted above all else. She wanted StarDrifter as a lover, but she did not know how to accept him as a lover. He came with too many complex confusions and emotions.
Why couldn’t he be my cousin, or even uncle? Anything would be better than grandfather. Anything.
Tears filled Zenith’s eyes, and she felt SpikeFeather place a hand on her shoulder. She glanced at him, and he nodded and gave her a small smile, and even though Zenith knew he couldn’t possibly know her dilemma, she let herself be comforted nevertheless.
StarDrifter moved ever more deliberately into his dance. He proceeded slowly, and with precision, but with such supple fluidity no part of his body was ever still. Feet, hands, wings all followed the movement prescribed in the stone patterns before him.
Now he increased the tempo of his dance slightly, and Zenith realised he was repeating the pattern.
And then…then StarDrifter began to sing.
As an Enchanter, when he’d had the use of the Star Dance, StarDrifter had been renowned for the power and beauty of his voice. Now, even though he no longer had the use of the Star Dance, his voice was still beautiful and utterly compelling.
Zenith felt the tears slide down her cheeks, feeling the waste of her life to this point. She had sat in her chamber in Sigholt, and done what? Nothing, save use her power to frivolous ends. Meanwhile, StarDrifter, who had enjoyed only a fraction of the power of Axis’ brood, had studied the beauty and mystery of the very air about him.
The SunSoars had squabbled and plotted and torn their lives to shreds. StarDrifter had learned to understand the rhythms of life itself, and had enjoyed life.
Had any of his grandchildren?
StarDrifter twirled and dipped, his voice soaring into the gathering dusk, his arms fully extended, his wings catching the final rays of the sun to send slivers of silvery light scattering about the clearing.
Zenith put a hand to her mouth, unable to stop herself from crying. She cried for the waste the SunSoars had made of their lives, she cried for the beauty that StarDrifter was forcing her to witness, and she cried for herself that she could not allow herself to love the man she had been born for.
Now StarDrifter twirled, so fast she could hardly distinguish individual movements. She sensed the warmth as someone halted behind her.
“All my life I have heard stories of StarDrifter,” WingRidge whispered, one of his hands now on her other shoulder. “I had heard of his self-absorption and selfishness. Of his quests and lusts for women. Of his pettinesses. But no-one ever told me…no-one ever told me that he was a Master.”
At that precise moment StarDrifter’s song and his dance soared to a climax, and he came to a halt, flinging his arms and wings out.
Somewhere a bell tolled, its rich melodious tones reverberating about the clearing. Individual stones started to move, sliding silently to one side.
StarDrifter rose into the air on his wings, twisting higher and higher in an ecstasy of joy, then dropped down to alight before Zenith, SpikeFeather and WingRidge.
“Don’t you understand?” he cried, and, seizing Zenith by the shoulders, he pulled her from WingRidge’s and SpikeFeather’s grasp.
She did not object.
“Don’t you understand?”
“StarDrifter?”
“Zenith, you are lovelier than the very stars themselves, but must I shake you to move your thoughts into coherence? My darling girl, don’t you understand what I just did?”
She stared into his eyes, too consumed by emotion to speak.
“I just used the same enchantment to open the door into Sanctuary as I used to open the rock door before the Nordra door to the Underworld. Don’t you understand?”
Now StarDrifter looked over Zenith’s shoulder to all the Icarii standing behind her.
“I did not use music at all, but—”
“But dance!” SpikeFeather cried.
“Yes,” StarDrifter said, quieter now. He dropped his eyes back to Zenith’s face, and she felt his hands tighten on her shoulders.
“Music and dance are but patterns, Zenith. Icarii Enchanters once wove the pattern of music to channel the power of the Star Dance. I just used the pattern of dance.”
“But…how did you use the power of the Star Dance?” Zenith said. “It has been cut off.”
“I…I don’t know. Perhaps—”
“You did not touch the power of the Star Dance,” WingRidge said, “but the power of the craft themselves.” The power of the Star Dance that had infused the craft during their millennia in space. Then he grinned. “And I do not think it would have required the power of an Enchanter to open the Sanctuary door. SpikeFeather would have been as successful.?
??
He laughed. “And had a beetle crawled about in the right pattern then the door would have opened for it, as well.”
But no-one, thought Zenith, could have used that power or executed that dance with the grace and beauty of StarDrifter. Still excited, StarDrifter slid his arm around her shoulders, and Zenith did not object.
The patchy-bald rat scrabbled its way through the darkness, embracing the foul scents and dampnesses of the sewer.
This was home, and it was where he would eventually launch his revenge on the two-legs who had harried him and his kind all their lives. He paused, and listened. Ten thousand claws scrabbled behind him, and this was only one sewer. Many other sewers, ten times a thousand sewers, were filled with the sweet sounds of scrabbling, gnawing revenge.
And hunger.
It was not only revenge that drove the patchy-bald rat. His masters wanted those who sheltered in the tenements above…but they’d promised him his fun, first.
There, another voice probing his mind. The badger, checking on the rat’s progress. The rat quivered in delight at the thought of the slaughter ahead. As he burrowed and tunnelled and probed underground, so the badger and his every-growing crowd of beasts and demented two-legs thronged and probed the sheer walls of Carlon.
The city was surrounded by increasing numbers of Demon-controlled animals. While the guards might lean from the walls and worry about the deranged cattle and sheep and pigs that humped and bumped against the stone, and shudder at the foulness of their human cousins shifting among the beasts, they did not think for a moment of what might be crawling under their feet.
39
The Mother of Races
“The Enchantress?” Faraday said. “But…but I thought…” Urbeth waved a paw lazily in the air, admiring the way red shards of firelight glinted from her talons.
“You thought what?” she asked.
“I…I thought…”
“All who know of you,” Drago said, “believed you long dead. Or just a myth, or legend.”
Urbeth laughed softly, but her humour was edged with cynicism, and neither Drago nor Faraday smiled with her.
“And of that you would know much, would you not?” Urbeth said, addressing Faraday rather than Drago. “For were you not virtually forgotten in but forty years? I have had some fifteen thousand years of forgetfulness, of being consigned to legend.”
She almost spat the last word.
Faraday bowed her head in understanding. “And yet I have managed to escape my entrapment in the flesh of a doe,” she said, shooting Drago a glance, “while here you still linger in the flesh of a—”
“Bear!” Urbeth cried. “A bear. But you don’t understand.” She waved a languid paw over her form. “I enjoy this form, and I wear it by choice. Now…”
Urbeth slapped her paw on the floor in a business-like manner. “Noah sent you north to talk with me, yes, and thus we must talk. First, I would tell you a little of myself, and of my purpose in life, and perhaps that will allow you to realise the significance of the Story of the Sparrow.”
The feathered lizard peeked from under the bed covers, then slowly crawled out as the bear continued to speak.
“My name is Urbeth, and has always been, although legend has assigned to me the title of Enchantress. Bah! It is a glib title, given how it has been bandied about these past years.
“I was born to loving parents into a world heavy with magic.”
“Wait,” Drago said, then apologised for his interruption. “I thought that magic only came with—”
“With the Icarii. And their Star Dance.” Urbeth grinned. “Learn the first lesson, Drago. This land itself is invested with magic—you should know where it comes from—and it does not need the tinkling accompaniment of the Star Dance to work its wonders.
“Well, to continue. I was entranced by the magic, and captivated by it. It used me to its will, and from my body issued forth three sons, three sons who founded the Icarii, Charonite and Acharite races.
“The sparrow founded the Icarii race, and perhaps it is more than enough time that they should learn his humility.”
“And the Charonites?” Drago asked.
Urbeth glanced at the lizard, which had now crept down to the very foot of the bed, his eyes bright upon her.
“Who fathered the Charonites has no bearing on this tale,” Urbeth said, and shifted uncomfortably.
“But he was of undoubted magic,” Faraday said, “for he fathered a race of magicians.”
“Quite so,” Urbeth said. “I chose my lovers well. All of them planted enchanted seed.”
There was a silence.
“All?” Drago asked softly. “But the Acharites have no magic at—”
Urbeth snarled. “Are you not listening?”
“Urbeth, who fathered the Acharite race?” Faraday asked. Her voice trembled slightly.
Urbeth took her time in answering. When she finally did, her voice was heavy with memory, and perhaps even love. “He was the best lover of all. I would have kept him more company, save that he lived in a place I could not share.”
“Noah,” Drago said suddenly. “Noah fathered the Acharite race.”
Urbeth nodded. “He did.”
“And the Acharites are magical?”
In answer, Urbeth looked to Faraday. “Faraday. You carry only Acharite blood. Tell me, are the Acharites magical?”
Faraday opened her mouth to answer in the negative, but then she slowly closed it again, remembering. Besides herself, there had been others with certain skills, hadn’t there?
“Goodwife Renkin,” she said. “She was infused with magic, but I thought it a product of her association with the Mother.”
“Mostly, yes, but Goodwife Renkin came from a long line of Goodwives who were able to somehow tap into a tiny portion of their ability,” Urbeth said. “Women who muttered spells over their newborn children, and their husbands’ corn-blistered feet. Women who knew the right paths to keep the sheep from harm. But there is more, Faraday, and you know it.”
Faraday stared at her. “Noah gave me power—”
“No!” Urbeth snapped. “He gave you nothing. He merely awoke your latent powers.” Her voice softened. “He is, after all, and in a manner of speaking, your father.”
She turned back to Drago. “The TimeKeepers destroyed all the Icarii power that your mother had buried, boy, you know that…but what of your Acharite blood?”
Drago did not answer her, but merely stared.
“I can see that I shall have to explain more, and tell some of my own tale,” Urbeth said, and settled herself more comfortably. “Throw another log on that fire, Drago. It is not often I get the chance to toast my belly so efficiently.
“Ah, that’s better. Now, as you related in the Story of the Sparrow—ah! he had a wit rarely found!—I bore three sons. The eldest, who eventually founded the Acharite race, I cast from my door, and turned my back on all his pleas for love.”
“You favoured the younger two,” Faraday said, trying to think it through. “The founders of the Icarii and Charonite races. Magical races. And yet you said that the eldest son had as much magic…”
“As much potential magic,” Urbeth replied. “I cast him from my door and from my heart because he denied his heritage. He found the very word ‘enchantment’ distasteful, let alone the concept and the power itself that lay in his breast.”
She shot Drago a significant glance, and Drago averted his eyes.
“The Acharites have ever been distrustful of magic,” Faraday said. “Thus the Seneschal were able to attain such a tight grip on their souls.”
“Aye,” Urbeth said. “My eldest son was a fool. He had so much! And yet he denied it. He buried it deep, and refused to allow its presence. When I realised that he would never accept his heritage, I grew angry, and cast him from my heart and my house before I gave in to the overwhelming temptation to eat him.”
Urbeth paused, and bared her teeth in a silent snarl, as if she coul
d see her eldest son standing before her now—a tempting meal.
“The pain must have been the greater,” Faraday said very softly, “for that the son was fathered by he whom you loved most. To lose a child made in such great love…”
Drago shot an unreadable look at her. Did she think of Axis all day? And long for him all night?
Urbeth chose not to comment on Faraday’s words. “So my son wandered onto the plains,” she said, “and interbred with the humanoid peoples he found there. From his loins sprang the Acharites, a breed hatefully resistant to all forms of magic, a breed given to murdering all wielders of magic they encountered, and yet a breed who carried the seed of profound magic within their breasts.”
“And what does this magic consist of?” Drago asked. “How may the Acharites use it?”
“Ah,” Urbeth said. “Thereby lies a problem. Both you and Faraday have managed to touch the magic within, and with investigation and acceptance, you will learn how to use it, and to what uses it may be put.”
“Thus our ability to withstand the ravages of the Demons,” Faraday said.
She turned to Drago, her eyes bright with excitement. “All the Acharites will be able to—”
“No!” Urbeth barked, and Faraday turned back to her.
“No,” the Enchantress repeated more softly. “Hear me out. My eldest—I can no longer bear to utter his name!—rejected his heritage so completely that the ability to use it has now virtually been lost to all Acharites. There is only one way that a person of Acharite blood can touch his or her enchantment. A process they must experience that can shock their power to the fore. Faraday? Drago? What experience did you both share, what shattering process, that enabled both of you to touch your power?”
They sat in silence for some moments, and when Drago spoke, his voice was peculiarly flat.
“We have both died,” he said, “and been reborn. Recreated.”
“Yes,” Urbeth said. “The only way you can use the heritage your ancestor chose to deny for you is to die—and then somehow manage a re-creation.”