Orange Stars at Twilight
To dream is not to wake
Though to the Wise there is little difference.
—Saga of the Third Riddle
The room was small and round; its stone walls had, by their look, known Elder shaping. A window-casement was clothed in dark wood; my glance was drawn to it, unwilling and yet compelled.
“No,” the man standing near the hearth said. The fire in that cavern burned violent, vile yellow, and its heat lay wet upon every surface. “I would not risk a single feather of your plumage, little bird.”
Gold was his hair and rich his raiment, though black as Northern cloth the latter was sewn along Elder lines, comfort and grace evident in every line as he turned from the flames. His hands seemed dipped in living metal—rings were stacked upon every finger, whether of plain ore burnished to a fine luster or bearing jewels both dull and glistering. Some of the gems stared at me, avid eyes drinking in every detail, and those gazes were foul as they crawled upon my skin. Over his knuckles other spider-thin strands were woven, the bands reaching his wrists, vanishing under black cuffs.
My heart beat clot-thick in my throat, the fine hairs standing high and hard all over me. Tiny sounds pattered upon the floor at my feet—broken beads, red coral singing faint high noises of stress before splitting, their cries semi-musical as they landed.
Knowledge trembled behind the thunder in my chest, a whirlpool of horror. For his face was a blankness, a softening mass like clay in warm running water, and I knew this creature was neither Elder nor Secondborn.
“Be not afraid,” he continued softly, and the greater terror was how sweet and reasonable his voice was. “For my Eye hath been upon thee for a long while, and I have anticipated—”
I woke with a start, my mouth full of the taste of rotten ash, like the dregs of burning a diseased tree. There was a deeper thread of plain smoke upon the freshening breeze; at home ’twas a constant tang, for every Secondborn steading must have a fire or two and during most of our travels a small blaze was necessity at night.
Still, I had not smelled burning of branch or log since we left the Mistwood, and perhaps that is why I opened my eyes, staring at a sky not yet entirely drained of daylight.
The dream had fled, though a measure of discomfort lingered. Had Arn been with me I might have tried to name the nightmare, to describe some fragment, but she was not. I felt at my braids with trembling fingertips, for some reason, and was deeply comforted by familiar round or columnar red coral beads.
Why?
In the distance, Elder yet sang. The instruments still hummed, drum and pipe and string resounding, but the rhythm was a little slower. It sounded very much like the lull in a greathall while sleepy littles are taken to bed and older children make their formal farewells, practicing adult etiquette with somber care. Even the hounds would be surfeited upon scraps and finding places to catch a measure of slumber; the pigs would have been long since abed, awaiting morning slops.
I did not know how those of Laeliquaende spun their cloth, for I had seen neither goats nor sheep at grazing while roaming the valley with Naciel. Nor were there other kine, nor pigs or granary cats, and the only hounds I had seen among the Elder had been Caelgor the Hunter’s, in lost Nithraen. There were no pets in this valley, unless one counted the birds Elder sang to in the hedges and groves.
They do not cage the feathered—what need, when wild creatures will approach merely for their asking? The Children of the Star are friends to all free beings, though I thought they often disdained Secondborn too easily. The way of the flint knife, the pit, or the osier cage is not theirs, though we mortals received it from the gods themselves.
I blinked and stretched, the dream utterly vanished. Finally I felt wholly Solveig again, instead of half-dislodged from my own flesh.
The days had indeed grown longer. No stars glimmered overhead, though it could not be long before they appeared; the Moon waned, I knew, and would not show herself until deepnight.
Smoke-scent vanished as I sat up, reaching for the gunwales. Yes, it was evening; Waterstone shimmered in shades of pearl and cloud, snow and bleached linen. Seen from here the city was a floating dream, and when I looked elsewhere the river reflected the sky, her broad back smoothly rippling as distant rapids added embroidery to the music’s long unwinding.
It was beautiful. I rose from the boat, stretching again. At that moment I could forgive anything—being pried from my home, the terrors of our travels, even being held against our will no matter how safely. I was so rarely alone, and though Arn was a familiar comfort I was glad to be a solitary witness to this aching wonder.
The sand gave easily under my slippers. I reached the embankment, and found an easy flight of stone stairs to the small terrace Taeron had stood upon to watch our victory. Perhaps it was ill-mannered to use the vantage, but the thought of seeing the river, its opposite bank, fields and the long shadows of groves starred with Elder lanterns, and the far peaks still holding the last scraps of the day… well, it called to me, and I deliberately did not raise my head as I achieved the balcony. I walked to the iron balustrade, laid fingertips upon its cold support, and only then let my gaze lift.
It did not disappoint. Elder families lingered outside their dwellings amid the blue glitters of their lanterns, and the wind was full of faraway voices. A piercing settled in my chest, sweet and longing at once. The snow-gilded peaks floated silver instead of white, and as I watched they turned shadowed, for the Sun had left upon his nightly journey through the underworld and the star they called Maedroth—the Watchful, like Taeron’s sister-son—began to glimmer over the mountain they called the Protector, Aeredhe-il.
In that moment I loved the valley and its shimmering heart. It happened all at once, a thrill shooting through every nerve, and had I been asked to stay until I died I would have gladly agreed. Especially if I could stand here every year after others won the race, alone and whole, watching the day fold softly, seamlessly into night.
Twilight deepened. My eyes welled, blurring, and the sky was a deep aching blue—not woad and not indigo, but perhaps either dyed fast into good cloth and after a few years’ worth of washing, a hue soft and endless. It looked almost like a summer sky, and I thought it might after all be almost pleasant if Arneior and I were here to see another solstice, a brief bright night full of hay-scent and easy warmth.
Another hint of smoke touched my nose. Suddenly uneasy, I blinked several times. Hot water slid down my cheeks; I wiped it away and rubbed my eyes like a child staving off weariness in order to hear a few more tales at the feast.
Upon the dark mountainslopes, stars appeared.
At first I thought it a new manner of Elder celebration. Then I wondered, for the orange gleams arranged themselves into lines, and were definitely, swiftly moving. Rivers of sparks poured down, and the burning scent upon the breeze intensified.
Fires? Maybe, but… torches? They have the lanterns, why do they use open flame?
I watched, puzzled. I had dreamed of this, yes, and awakened screaming; Arn had dreamt of orange stars too. Perhaps it was merely some strange custom, and yet…
A deep tolling cut across the music, floating uneasily with the smoke upon the back of swirling wind. More orange stars appeared, but larger—smears, instead of pinpricks. They clustered at the foot of the glittering streams, and I realized the rhythmic notes were bells in the city’s towers, sounding in unison. Singing faltered into confusion, and I gripped the metal before me, hands aching.
I began to hear cries among the tents. To arms, to arms! Running feet, shouts, and the clanging of metal. Over it all the bell-strikes mounted in furious cascade, the city sending peals of warning in every direction.
The yellow-orange gleams were flaming brands in the hands of orukhar and other foul things, for the dreams had been a warning neither I nor my shieldmaid deciphered in time.
The Enemy had found Laeliquaende.