He called me Stardrinker—spat it out, like a curse.
She rolled the word across her tongue, tasting it. I never thought of myself as someone who might inspire such hate.
Sanshief shifted in the bed. Everything she had known was starting to fall apart. I have had too long to think, trapped here. She stared down at her hands, still swathed with bandages, even now, weeks later. She closed her eyes and tried to will her fingers to move, but her hands would not obey. They sat in her lap, dumb, like weights affixed to the ends of her arms.
Perhaps it's for the best. Sanshief opened her eyes and sighed, remembering the few occasions the healers had begun to coax feeling back into her fingertips. For those brief moments, her hands felt as if they were still burning, as if they might burn forever.
* * *
The journeyman took her long, brown fingers and turned them over so he could study her palm.
“You're from Taraque,” he said, his lip quirking upward. The movement was disconcerting, but strangely appealing.
She pulled her hand back. “How did you know?”
“It's written here,” he answered, taking her hand again and tracing his fingers across the bulb of her thumb. “This line, here—“ he paused, looking up at her. “See how it resembles the western coast.”
She turned critical eyes to her palm. “I don't see it.”
He laughed. “No, it was a jest,” he admitted. “In truth, it's your accent.”
“You've been to Taraque?” she wondered, a little surprised. The new journeymen were supposed to be from the League's temple in eastern Jendarth, a fair distance from her home state. She studied him carefully. His hair was as black as hers; it often was, among the people of the Free States. His nose, though, is not Taraqi—she considered. He's lighter skinned than I, and his ears—the lobes long, the tips curved, like the fishermen of the eastern coast. She nodded to herself. “You look Jendarthi.”
He met her scrutiny with a simple smile. “Yes,” he affirmed, “I lived there for many years.” He looked down, an apology. “But it seems an age ago; I haven't been back in a score of years.”
“Where were you?”
“Near Lishan. On the river, where the branches bend down to the water. Like hands,” he said, glancing down at hers. “So beautiful.”
“The Nektat is beautiful,” she agreed, relaxing, unaware she had been holding her breath until she exhaled. He's flirting with me. She looked at him again, considering. He's not so young as most of the journeymen. There's youth to his face, but age around his eyes.
Her skin prickled, and Sanshief glanced past the young mage. It was Ralkir, who had paused in some errand. His typically staccato stride stilled as he glared at them.
She fought her smile. He's jealous.
The smile broke through as she turned back to the man in front of her. He sensed the change and glanced around to look for its source. She turned her radiance on him, suddenly more willing to dazzle this newcomer. “What is your name, Journeyman?”
“Narat,” he answered. “And I am yours, my lady.”
His smile made her feel as if she were the sun itself.
* * *
“Sanshief.”
She turned, irritated by Ralkir's voice. “Yes?” she snapped.
He pivoted, and glanced up and down the stone hallway to be certain they were alone. He's always so dramatic.
His voice was low. “What did that journeyman want?”
She lifted her eyebrow and kept her voice casual, a slap in the face of his deliberate intensity. “Nothing of consequence. What is it to you?”
Ralkir folded his hands over his chest, drawing attention to the new, obsidian star set at his throat. Sanshief felt herself distant, calculating, analyzing how he was underscoring his words with the authority of his new promotion. Oh yes, Ralkir the Important. Ralkir the Busy. She smiled slyly. He is jealous. The thought warmed her.
Unexpectedly, he reached down and caught her left hand, turning it over so he could study her palm. She tried to pull back, but his fingers tightened around her wrist. “What did he see?” he sneered. “Your future?”
What gives Ralkir the right—? The fact that I've bedded him? She felt her fury rise and dug the fingernails of her right hand into his arm until he let go. They silently exchanged stony glares.
“My past,” she finally spat, turning away from him.
“I don't trust him,” Ralkir called to her as she walked off. Her shoulders stiffened. I will not turn around. I will not give him the satisfaction. She took pleasure in the sharp sounds her shoes made against the flagstone and at his silence to her back.
Sanshief followed the corridor to the main hall by the entrance, her mind still buzzing with the encounter with Ralkir. The sound of her own name made her stop and look up.
The hall hummed with activity, stirred by the arrival of the new journeymen who electrified the normal measured pace around the tower. She scanned the crowd, but could not tell who called her.
She again heard her name, as if across a distance. Now Sanshief caught the flash of yellow and jet robes of a figure at the far corridor.
She knew then who had summoned her: Lady Tikkari, one of the Seven, who had no need to shout to make her wishes known.
Sanshief hurried across the hall, nearly bumping into two men carrying an oversized black trunk. She apologized and disengaged herself from the crowd. She didn't want to keep her mistress waiting.
“My lady,” she breathed apology when she caught up with the tall woman.
Lady Tikkari motioned for her to walk beside her. Sanshief fell into step. They continued in silence well along the eastern corridor before the adept spoke.
“Have you considered what I asked you when you ascended to Master?”
Sanshief's footsteps faltered against the stone. She had wondered at the time what her mistress had meant by that cryptic question. Have you taken Usendi into your heart?
“My lady, I told you then.” She swallowed and tried to make the words sound decisive. “I have.”
“You lied.”
Sanshief glanced over, thrown off by the woman's sharp tone. Lady Tikkari's face was hidden in the shadows of her cloak, but small gems woven in her hair glinted light out of the pool of darkness. They seemed like stars set into a night sky. She was reminded of the god himself, Usendi who had drunk the light of the southern star so that he himself might enter the heavens.
“I don't understand,” the younger mage faltered.
Lady Tikkari stopped and put a jeweled hand out to touch Sanshief's arm. Her voice softened. “You do not truly believe. You have the devotion a child might have for her god, the comfortable one born of bedtime stories and ritual. But you have not opened yourself to him fully, taken him in as you might take in a lover.”
Sanshief could see the adept's eyes now—eyes that lowered suggestively. “The way you might take in one such as Ralkir.”
A flash of anger rose through Sanshief. She clamped her mouth over the words that threatened to spill from her lips. She could not let her temper threaten obedience to one of the Seven. I would be demoted, or even expelled from the League for such insubordination.
Amusement sparked in Lady Tikkari's eyes. “Ah, yes. Your fondness for him has waned, has it not? I did not mean to anger you, only to elaborate. Usendi's is a physical presence, one you have not yet felt.” Her voice grew more serious again. “I heard that you might wonder why Ralkir was promoted and you were not.”
How did she know that? Sanshief stared at the adept. I told no one. I am no child, to confide such things in anyone.
The Seven, an inner voice reminded her. The Seven know all things. There are no secrets from them.
“Sanshief, know this. The followers of Usendi are not without enemies, and we need you in the full flower of your talent that your strength might help us repel them. But you will not proceed until you feel the presence of your god and take him into your heart.”
Sanshief stood alone in the corridor as Lady Tikkari's sharp footsteps receded. I don't know what she means. I don't know how I can do what she asks.
* * *
Sanshief glanced around at the assembly. All the master-class mages had been gathered. Erialis said there would be an announcement, something important. Sanshief blew out a breath. If she can be believed.
Lady Tikkari stood with another of the Seven, an older man with light brown hair and grey-flecked beard. Lord Forlaphe, I think. His beard moved up and down as he talked. She sighed. Nothing important yet. He's been at this ritual for a quarterglass. Some unannin about the mission of the League, she thought, lapsing into the slang patterns of her youth. She smiled at how easily the word had come back to her, and wondered if her time with Narat was waking long-buried memories. He had asked how the League had recruited her to Usendi, ages ago, when she was a child. That's odd, she realized as she mused, he never told me how he himself was converted. I'll have to ask him again.
With an almost physical effort, Sanshief wrenched her thoughts away from the journeyman. She tried to focus, tried to appear dutiful. Then she saw Ralkir.
With his new status, he sat near the front. As if he sensed her eyes on him, he turned without surprise to meet her stare. Sanshief returned his gaze, a challenge, until he finally looked away. Only then did she look at her hands. She could almost see the hot points that remained from the night before, when she had held them out for Narat to kiss. Only my hands, for now. She smiled to herself, pleased with the memory, pleased with the way she had given him only a little.
Sanshief thought she heard her name and looked up quickly. Lady Tikkari's face met hers, her eyes dark and piercing. Sanshief felt her unspoken criticism like a blow. Perhaps my mind did wander, she thought, her breath quick, her focus scattered. Perhaps this is what she means—that the business with Usendi was really her way of chiding me for my lack of discipline. She felt absurdly shamed, like a child caught daydreaming out the window.
Lord Forlaphe's drone finally ended. Lady Tikkari moved forward, her voice thin and sharp, like the points of jet studding her robes.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, her voice rising as she continued. “And indeed, as Lord Forlaphe has reminded us, the League of the Dark Star does have enemies. Enemies who press against us from all directions.”
The adept paused. “We already have removed one enemy, as you know, as you have studied. Trees grow thick in the rubble of their school. They thought to eliminate us, but we had ways of seeing into their hearts. Usendi warned us of their treachery. Usendi protected us.”
“But now a new enemy is rising, strong and terrible. It is for this reason, to guard against them, that I have brought you together. Your help will be needed to spare the youngest followers of Usendi the pain of their attack.” Her eyes roved the assembled mages, meeting each of them in turn. When her gaze met Sanshief’s, she lingered for a moment, her expression unreadable.
“It is the Path who plan this,” Lady Tikkari said, but Sanshief barely heard the words, caught up in the overwhelming feeling of being judged. “Their mages would have us fall, we who are strong, we who hold the keys to the firmament. But we will not simply prepare to meet them when they make their move. No, we will take the battle to them; we will destroy them before they can destroy us.”
* * *
Sanshief left the meeting in a daze, her mind working through the plans of the attack. We are to accompany the Seven. She shook her head. So much to prepare. So many spells. Wondering if Lady Tikkari ultimately would allow her to participate, she trailed Ralkir without realizing it. As she rounded the corner and started for the long stairs, her skin prickled. She heard Ralkir raise his voice, a command.
“What are you doing here, Journeyman? You are not permitted on this level.”
She craned her neck and saw his target: Narat, his face serene as he considered his obsidian-throated rival. She expected him to back down from the confrontation, to defer to Ralkir's higher status. And indeed his greater power. No journeyman could take on a master mage and win, not without skill, creativity and no small measure of luck. Narat's face found hers; he smiled and uncrossed his arms.
Without a glance for Ralkir, ignoring the greater mage entirely, Narat addressed her. “Sanshief, I've been waiting for you.”
His boldness warmed her. The unease she had felt in Lady Tikkari's presence melted away, and she moved toward Narat's outstretched hand. He plays a good game. I wonder how Ralkir will handle this move.
Taking the cue from the journeyman, she avoided Ralkir's glance, ignored his muttering of protest. She felt the heat of his gaze like a fire, and she shut herself off to it.
Narat wrapped her hand in his arm and held her next to him as they descended the stairs. “Let's go someplace more private,” he whispered quietly in her ear.
“Outside,” she suggested.
He paused for only a moment. “I have a better idea,” he murmured.
“Narat—“ she began as he whirled her off the stairs at the next landing and led her down one of the seven-spoked corridors. She jogged behind him, only dimly aware of where he might be taking her. His eyes roved left and right. When they were halfway along the hall, he began checking doors. He seemed a little distracted. Most were locked.
He paused toward the end. There was only one door left. He turned to her with a chuckle. “Perhaps I miscalculated,” he started, reaching for the door, hovering his hand over it for a dramatic moment.
The handle turned, and the door opened.
She felt herself laughing, a high giddy sound, and let him lead her into the room. It was dark, and he closed the door behind them without releasing her hand.
“This is mine, is it not?” His voice was deep.
“My hand is yours,” she murmured, and closed her eyes as he lifted it to his lips.
She felt something, a murmuring deep within her. It seemed to stir first in her belly, then spread like heat to her face, into every root of her hair, which tingled, into her very fingertips, burning.
She opened her eyes, shocked, and snatched her hand away. What she had felt was not comfort, nor arousal; it was a warning.
“Where are we?” she hissed.
Narat sounded confused. “Sanshief? What's wrong? Was it something I—“
His words died as she thrust out her hand to summon light. The room came into oily yellow focus. It was a storeroom of some kind, small and narrow, filled with shelves of dusty objects. They were steeped in magic; they radiated it. Old magic. Magic not of the League.
The journeyman breathed, “What are these?” He stepped away from her and picked up an object on the nearest shelf, a dark metal globe that filled his cupped palms. His wrists tensed with unexpected weight.
Her jaw sagged. “Artifacts. These are artifacts, of the Scientists.” Her voice sharpened. “Works of the ancient mages. Put that down—and don't touch anything else.” She glanced around quickly. “We shouldn't be here.”
She started to open the door when she heard Ralkir's voice distantly, down the corridor. Her hand froze.
Did he see us? Her heart thudded in her throat. She took a deep breath. No, I don't think he did. He was too far behind us. She closed her eyes to concentrate, listening intently. He's talking to someone. The words came faintly. Oh—
Sanshief almost laughed.
He must have been following us and was cornered by that know-it-all, Erialis. She's fancied him for years. This is delicious irony; he can't stand her.
Ralkir sounded annoyed. She wants him to show her—what? Something related to the Path, I think. I didn't quite catch it. Sanshief heard the sound of two footsteps, one muffled as silk, the other staccato, moving away from the corridor, toward the stairs.
More luck. Bless Usendi.
She took Narat's arm and pulled him out of the room, banishing the magelight with a gesture.
* * *
Temperamental. That's what men are. Sanshief considered the dirt under her nails and decided to leave it there. Dusk settled around her as journeymen hurried toward the tower. She leaned against the tall structure, glancing upward. Fingers of orange sunlight caressed the top, making it look as if the very surface of the building had turned to molten rock.
She sighed. Narat had taken offense to her reaction in the room with the artifacts and had lost no time in stalking off toward the woods. She had refused to follow him. What is he to me, anyway? A diversion. Sanshief chewed her lip anxiously, glancing around despite herself.
The moments lengthened, and sun traveled up the darkening tower. Sanshief grew nervous. He hasn't returned yet. It will be bad for him if he does not attend the ritual.
The last figures reached the great door, moved through and pulled it shut. Everyone inside, all the mages at any rate. She could see the forms of guards moving along the road, near the entry to the forest. The sun will set soon. If I don't hurry, Narat won't be the only one to miss the Greeting of the Stars.
She was just turning to go when something caught her eye toward the edge of the forest. In the deep shade, a longer shadow disengaged itself and slipped away from the trees. It was nearly opposite the road and hidden from the guards; if she hadn’t been leaning against this side of the tower, she never would have seen it.
Narat? But the figure didn't even glance toward the door. She stayed perfectly still, suddenly aware that she herself was invisible in the shadows of the building.
As the figure moved out of her view, she slipped quietly along the wall, heading east. She slowed down, not entirely sure why she was being so cautious.
If it's Narat, why doesn't he say something? She slowed. Unless he did see me, and hopes to sneak around the long way to the door, to avoid me.
Irrational anger flooded Sanshief at the thought that he might be avoiding her. I will teach him not to play those games with me. She stepped around the corner decisively, glancing down the length of the south wall. The figure was moving away from her, not to the west as she expected, but further south, toward the southern line of the forest that encircled the tower.
Low against the wall to her right, a light started to flicker, softly, but with growing intensity. She was distracted. Sanshief wanted to follow the person who was nearing the trees, but something else moved inside her, banished the anger and drew her like a lodestone to the base of the wall where stone met solid earth.
An orb lay there, dark, but lit from within by shimmering lights. These lights began to pulse, creating a dim red pattern that seemed to be cast from the object's very center onto some inner surface. She could see through the metal as if it were glass. Sanshief recognized the globe immediately.
The artifact Narat found. It's been activated.
She knelt over the throbbing orb, uncertain, puzzled. She could see delicate lines of lightning tracing its surface and felt its power building, slowly but steadily.
It feels wrong, somehow. I think it must be a weapon. Holding her hands over it, she realized she didn't have enough time to summon Lady Tikkari, or any of the Seven. Desperate, she reached into the depths of her memory for anything, any spell of holding, or ceasing, or binding. She muttered first one, then another incantation, her panic rising, sweat trickling down her brow as the actual temperature around her also continued to climb.
It's going to explode. She closed her eyes. Everyone is inside the tower for the ritual—the best mages in the League, almost half of the Seven. This relic can shatter stone. She felt it like certainty, a knowledge that entered her like a hot wind. This could destroy us.
Usendi, help me.
Something moved through her. It was like the crest of a burning wave. At first, she thought the globe had exploded, that she was locked in some kind of slow death, but then she realized that she still could see the artifact, intact and throbbing inches below her hands.
The warmth moved down her arms, pushed her closer to the orb. Her hands connected.
There, a voice seemed to say. Press there.
Her hands were fire. Pain shuddered up her arms, but the force inside her kept her moving, fingers inching around the circumference of the globe until she felt it: a hollow, a depression. She pressed.
The burning ceased, and she collapsed. Even as fog rolled over her eyes, understanding filled her. It felt like a lover's embrace. It spoke to her, gently, in the very deepest corners of her mind, the whispered words like stars studded against a midnight sky.
Narat. Narat set the artifact to destroy us. To destroy my beloved Usendi.
As if through a veil, she heard Ralkir's voice. His face was hovering over hers, voiding concern.
She managed to croak the traitor's name before she gave in to darkness.
* * *
“They caught him.”
Ralkir's voice sounded different, somehow. Sanshief struggled to open her eyes. She tried to move, but her arms felt leaden. She blinked. “What?”
“Narat. They caught him.”
The obsidian star swam into focus. Ralkir hovered over her, not touching her, as if he was afraid she might break. She realized that what sounded different about him was a humility that had not been there before.
“You saved us, Sanshief.” There was wonder in his voice, and no little awe. “Lady Tikkari—“ He looked away momentarily, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dark red gem, set into a brooch. Instead of handing it to her, he set it on the table beside her. “For you, once you are well.”
She wanted to reach for it, to examine the symbol of her new promotion. But her hands sat folded on her chest. Sanshief looked down, then gasped.
She could not feel them. It was as if her arms simply ended near her wrists. Her hands were swathed in thick white bandages; they were like strangers to her.
“What happened?” she finally asked, trying to maneuver so that she could sit up.
“I found you.” Ralkir reached over to help her. “I couldn't leave you. Lord Forlaphe and Lady Tikkari—they caught Narat. You were right. He set the artifact. He—“
Ralkir swallowed, as if he had swallowed something bitter. A trace of anger underscored his words. “He's of the Path, Sanshief. He was playing us the whole time, a spy. He's—Usendi curse him—he's an adept, not a mere journeyman. He cloaked it well. The Seven,” he continued, “They might have known—would have known what he was, had they ever seen him. But he was clever and he avoided them completely. I don't know how.” Ralkir made a defeated gesture, “Lady Tikkari said only an adept of his power could have triggered that artifact. That only an adept,” he met Sanshief's eyes, “could have disabled it.”
Sanshief barely heard Ralkir. Her mind was grappling with Narat's treachery. The door, she thought suddenly, seeing again Narat's hand paused over the door handle. He must have disabled a magelock on that door, and I didn't sense it. Memory was returning to her, snatches of vibrant images strung together out of order: Narat, on the stairs, spying on the meeting; Narat, kissing her hands; Narat, a dark shadow against the forest; Narat, in the closet of the artifacts, pocketing the globe while her back was turned; Narat, turning her palm up and tracing the lines on it with his thumb.
She could not feel her hands. But she did feel the anger that rose within her.
“I want to see him.”
* * *
A guard unlocked the door. Narat, his face a mask of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut, was chained to the far wall. Sanshief felt the power radiating from his shackles. More than one of the Seven must have set that spell. He won't be able to break them, adept or no.
He did not see her at first, and she stood over him for a moment, her bandaged hands held close to her body like injured birds.
His good eye cracked open, then narrowed. “I smelled you come in,” he said, and she didn’t recognize his voice. It was Narat, but she had never before heard his tongue so thick with hatred.
She tried not to wonder what she had meant to him, tried not to think about how he had used her. “I trusted you,” her voice was low with accusation. “Why? Why did you betray us?”
“Betray?” Narat laughed, a broken, painful sound. “I discover that you intend to destroy the Path, my people, and yet you ask why I choose to defend them?” His voice rose as he continued, “Your precious League has a history of blood and death—or did you not know? Your god himself is a murderer. You remember the tale, don’t you?” He sneered, “Usendi sucked dry the southern star to slay the son of Pashtar. To enter the heavens.”
His voice softened for a moment, as if he were speaking only to himself. “It was only a matter of time before you turned to us; we long have understood this. It is your heritage. But still, how could we threaten you? We have sworn off killing. We do not fight.” Narat coughed, and a fleck of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
She took a step back. A voice deep inside soothed her. Lies. All he has ever told me are lies. “You who claim you have sworn not to kill, you would have murdered us,” she countered quietly. “Had I not stopped you.”
His face twisted. “I had no choice. I will have to atone for my decision.” His good eye fixed on her, then looked away, toward the wall. He studied a crack in the stone as she waited silently, the moments lengthening. Without turning his head, he finally spoke, and she knew this would be the last thing he ever said to her. “You're one of them now. You reek of their god. Go away and let me make my own peace before I die.”
Narat's last word hung on the air. “Stardrinker.”
©2006, M. Frost
First published on Quantum Muse, March 2006