The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3) Page 136

“I found out for myself when I saw a daimone,” she said bitterly. “I heard its voice calling me—” Then, abruptly, her expression changed; she had thought of something else, not daimones at all, something she did not want to speak of. She had never mastered concealing her thoughts; to him, she was transparent. It was one of the things about her that he found so attractive, the impulsive way she had, as if she could never help herself.

“The Lost Ones,” said Anne. “They seek the gateways.” She turned away from Liath. “So, Prince Sanglant. Will you walk with us when night comes and we open the gate?”

“The Lost Ones,” he repeated, dumbfounded, and knowing he sounded like a fool. “But they’re gone. They vanished long ago, even before the old Empire. The old Dariyans, the empresses and emperors, they weren’t even true elves, they were only half-breeds.”

“Like you.”

“Like me,” he said harshly. “But nevertheless the Aoi went away so long ago that maybe they’re just a story.”

“Except for your mother?”

He closed his mouth on an angry retort. On such a field, she would rout him. He knew when to shut up.

“Where did they go, then?” asked Liath. Abruptly Sanglant understood what she concealed with her expression: She didn’t want her mother to know that she had spoken with an Aoi sorcerer, that she had passed through one of the gates and returned. Where had she traveled on that journey?

“Where, indeed,” said Anne, echoing Liath’s question. “In Verna, where we have some measure of protection, you will see what answers we have come to.”

Twilight came and, with it, stars, like exclamations, each one unseen, unspoken, and then suddenly popping into view. Ann rose, shook out her robes, and took the reins of her mule. Sanglant made haste to get Resuelto and the other mule while Liath brought up the rear. Just before entering the stones Anne knelt and began to diagram in the dirt, using her staff to draw angles and lines. After a bit she rose and considered first him and then Liath.

“This may damage your eyes,” she said at last, and she found cloth with which to blindfold them.

“But I want to learn—!”

“In due time, Liath. You would not want to go blind, would you?”

Liath fumed, but Anne waited until it became obvious that they would go no farther this night unless they acquiesced. Sanglant had to crouch for Anne to reach him, to tie the cloth over his eyes. The procession made a complicated skein: one pack mule at the front where Anne could reach it, he behind holding Resuelto with Liath mounted on the gelding, holding in her hands the lead for the other mule and the reins of the mare. In this way he waited. He heard Anne’s staff scratching in the dirt. A thrumming rose from the ground. The dog whined, ears flattening. The horses stirred nervously, although the mule merely stood with stubborn patience, waiting it out. Even through the cloth he thought he saw light flickering.

Without warning, the mule started forward. He kept one hand on its girth and the other on Resuelto’s reins and managed to move forward into the stones without stumbling. The ground shifted under his feet, disorienting him. The night air had a gentle touch, like spring. His ears buzzed, and it took him a moment to realize that he was hearing voices, like the servants’ voice, but many more and all in a jumble.

Shapes brushed past him. Fingers pinched his body. At once, he tore off the blindfold. The night sky shone clearly with no trace of cloud except for huge dark shapes that were not cloud at all but mountain. Three figures were walking up a path to greet them, but he could not see their faces. Anne walked down to speak with the people below, who had halted on the path. He saw now the shimmer and dance of aery spirits flocking around him, and shying away from Liath.

“She drew down the power, from what she read in the heavens, and opened a pathway,” breathed Liath. She had also pulled down her blindfold. “Da spoke of it, but he never attempted it. Sometimes I thought it was just a story he made up. But it is true. There are threads woven between the souls of the stars. The sage Pythia said that if you listen closely enough, you can hear the song made by the spheres as they turn. Each one striking a different note in relation to the other, always changing. An endless melody.”

“Hush,” he said softly. “I hear them.”

“The music of the spheres?” She strained, listening, but obviously heard nothing, probably only faint sounds of wind and small animals rustling in the leaves.

“The servants.”

She had dropped the reins of her horse, leaving it to explore the luxuriant grass, and now she touched his elbow, began to speak as she peered around her, trying to see them. But he touched a finger to her lips to still her.