The Star Shard (25 page)

"Our freedom," Cymbril said, "for this stone."

"More deception," Rombol said. "I know the elf stone will not leave you. It always comes back to the hand of its little mistress."

"It will remain yours if I give it to you." She extended it toward him. "You can make sure of it before we go."

The Star Shard illuminated tears on Loric's cheeks.

"It is a great treasure of my father's people," Cymbril said. "Well worth two slaves who will never serve you happily."

Wiltwain's eyes narrowed as he looked keenly from her to Rombol.

The Master snatched the stone from her. Cymbril gasped as it went. She curled her fingers on emptiness. She would never hold it again, never half glimpse her parents' faces behind its glow.

Gone.

Rombol rubbed it on his shirt, held it up toward one of the torches, and studied it with one eye shut, then the other. "Well," he said at last, shrugging, "it
is
a pretty rock, obviously Sidhe, clearly magical. But not of perfect shape and not all that rare." He looked down sideways at her. "This stone will buy freedom for one of you. Do you have any other deals to make?"

He was thinking of the hairpin, trying to get it as well. "I have nothing else," Cymbril said, still flexing her hand. "I had to give up my hairpin to open Loric's collar. It's gone."

"So is the lock," said Rombol. "And believe me, it did not come cheap. That's destruction of my property. There's been an awful lot of that tonight."

Anger rose within Cymbril. "That one stone is worth much more than you paid for both of us. You know that! If you want it, you must let us go!"

"Must?" Rombol's lip curled, an expression matching Bale's. He looked at the guards, and a few snickered obediently. "You've made your offer," said Rombol. "You've heard mine. Choose now. Does one of you leave the Rake, or do you both come back and learn to be content?"

Cymbril pressed her lips together. The breeze knifed through her wet clothes. She would have to buy Loric's escape. Then she would go back to the Rake, back to punishment—probably chains. And she would no longer have the treasures to comfort her.

"Quickly, girl," said Rombol, "before we all catch our deaths of cold. What will it be?"

She tossed her bedraggled hair. "It will be Loric. Let him go."

"No," said Loric. "I won't go."

Rombol nodded, raising his brows. "Fair and done. Go home, Fey boy. The Rake will manage without you. Swamp travel was not one of my better ideas."

A few guards smiled. None laughed.

Loric started to protest again, but at that moment a bird swooped over his head, twittering. With a curious light in his eye, he fell silent.

"On your guard!" said Wiltwain. "He's up to something."

The soldiers snapped to attention, scanning the woods. Bale sniffed the air.

Cymbril hardly cared what was happening. She'd lost her dearest possessions, and the days ahead seemed as dark as if the sun would never rise. Like a sleepwalker, she got to her feet. Would sunlight feel warm on her face? Would she ever again have the heart to sing?

"There!" Wiltwain pointed to the top of the bank. "Something's coming."

Rombol drew a short sword. The Star Shard's light leaked out through the fingers of his other fist.

The bushes divided. Into the firelight plodded Urrt. Cymbril's heart leaped. She'd never been so happy to see him.

"You are all still here," Urrt said, waddling to the ravine's edge. "Very good, very good."

The night bird sang again from a high limb. Cymbril watched Loric's face. Clearly, he understood what the bird was saying.

Behind Urrt, another of the Rake's Urrmsh trundled out of the forest—and another behind that one.

"What is your business here?" demanded Rombol. His men looked increasingly uncomfortable. Their worst fear, Cymbril thought, must be a rebellion of the Armfolk.

More of the Strongarms appeared, dozens of them, lining the top of the bank. "The kindly bird tells me," said Urrt, "that our Cymbril has just made a purchase from you, Rake Master. Her precious family treasure for the freedom of this Sidhe lad."

"Yes," said Rombol. "And what is that to you, Master Strongarm?"

There were now more than a hundred Urrmsh on the ravine's edge. Cymbril had never seen them move so quickly.

Urrt scratched his warty jaw. "It seems today's marketing has begun early. We are here to do some buying of our own."

At the line's far end, a Strongarm held up a large empty leather sack. From his belt purse, he took a handful of coins—which, when measured by an Urrmsh hand, was a mound of copper and silver. The Strongarm dropped it into the sack and passed it to the next Urrmsh. That one also tossed in money, earned from wages, from feats of strength in the markets—and handed the sack along.

"Nothing is forgotten in the songs of the Urrmsh," said Urrt. "We remember exactly how much you paid for little Cymbril: one hundred pieces of gold. A generous price to offer a starving old woman who would have taken less, but you always strive for fairness, Master Rombol. You knew at first sight that Cymbril was someone extraordinary." He smiled his uneven smile, and the sack came along the line, getting heavier.

An ache rose in Cymbril's throat.

"For Cymbril's freedom," Urrt said, "we offer you the equivalent of one thousand gold pieces—in small denominations, such as we have. Ten times what you paid, for she's developed many qualities since then. It's not nearly as much as she's worth, since our sack isn't big enough. Nor is your vault."

Wiltwain grinned until Rombol looked his way.

"I wasn't really thinking of selling her," the Master grumbled.

"Were you not?" asked Urrt, turning his gaze meaningfully upon the Star Shard.

Rombol might have haggled under the sun in an open market square, Cymbril thought. But a thousand gold pieces was a dazzling sum, and Rombol surely knew he needed the Armfolk much more than they needed him—even he couldn't afford enough horses to pull the Rake. "Fair and done," the Master said.

When Urrt had added his coins, the huge sack bulged, swinging in his grasp. None of the Rake's men would be able to lift it. "I'll carry this for you," said Urrt. "And as a token of your goodwill for the morning's favorable business, perhaps you might send for Loric's clothes. And Cymbril's wardrobe, too, so she can wear her dresses to remember us by."

Cymbril hoped the Urrmsh could see the thankfulness in her eyes. Even if she lived to be older than Mistress Ilda, she'd never be able to repay the Armfolk.

"All agreed," said Rombol, sighing impatiently. "Now, I've had quite enough of the wet and the mud. We have a market to open, and I should like to be dry by then." He turned to Cymbril. The anger was gone from his face. It was not yet daylight, and he'd already made two profitable deals. "I'll have your clothes delivered right there, to that flat boulder on the slope." He looked around into the leafy, gurgling shadows. "So the stories are true. The door to the elf country is in this wood. I suppose you know your way from here?"

"Yes, Former Master," said Loric.

"Well, then," said Rombol. "Goodbye." Cymbril offered her hand. He grasped it briskly, then strode away, Bale at his heels, the great boots and paws churning the stream. And that was all with him—no sentiment, no backwards glance. Cymbril guessed one must have a hard heart to become as rich as Rombol, but she was glad to be free of the world he ruled.

Wiltwain crouched on one knee, right in the current, and gripped Cymbril's shoulders. "Well bargained."

"Like Brigit?" she asked hopefully.

"Well ... yes," he said. "But don't strive to be like her. You're much better off as Cymbril." His eyes twinkled, and she saw that he'd forgiven her. She studied his weathered face, strong but deeply lined, his hair beginning to show flecks of gray. She would worry about him, she knew, in the days ahead—about how he would oversee a Rake where witches lurked. Wiltwain had no ferials to help him. At least he had the Armfolk.

"We heard a report just before we found you," he said. "You were right about a wild beast on board. It's apparently dead now, a huge smoldering carcass. Did you see how it was killed?"

"Not exactly," she said truthfully. "We didn't do it."

"Of course not. Well, the Master will be looking into the matter."

"A nargus," Cymbril said, allowing herself a grin that said
I told you so.
"It was called a black nargus."

"You're a walking bestiary," he said.

"Be careful of the two old women. They mean none of us any good." She almost added that Ranunculus was back but thought better of it. She'd already caused the magician enough loss. Let him reveal himself when and if he chose.

"I think we'll meet again, Thrush of the Rake," Wiltwain said. "And I'm certain I'll hear of you."

"I'll come to the markets now and then. When the witches are gone."

He laughed softly and nodded. "Come and sing for us anytime. You name your wage."

A lightness tickled her insides. She could do that. She was free now to do anything ... to go anywhere her feet would carry her, to stay wherever the stars or the breezes seemed kind.

The guards followed the Master and the Overseer up the steep bank. One by one, the Urrmsh vanished into the forest. With the bag of coins straining over his shoulder, Urrt waved a giant hand.

At last Cymbril and Loric were alone, except for the bird, who seemed overflowing with things to say.

Loric took Cymbril's hands and fell to his knees. Diamonds of water shimmered in his brambly hair. "I haven't thanked you for saving me in the swamp. Now I'll never catch up."

She pulled him to his feet and glanced toward the dark archway into Gorhyv Glyn. "Oh, yes, you will."

They hurried forward. The dim tunnel, scented with sweet, wild growing things, led toward a distant grove of floating mist. Though still piercing, the water no longer made Cymbril shiver.

"I'll find you another Star Shard," said Loric, wading beside her. "I'll never stop looking until I've found just the one."

She slid her hand into his. There were many things she wanted to look for, both in the Fey realm and in the world of humankind. She was born of both. That was another treasure from her parents, one that truly could not be taken or given away.

The tunnel opened into a forest—the trees familiar, yet ancient and tall, leaves rustling in an early breeze. Among the roots spread a carpet of green-gold flowers for as far as Cymbril could see. They shone with their own light, as if the mossy ground were a mirror of the night sky.

The sky! The stars were growing pale, winking out, but she saw more of them than she would have thought possible. No wonder their shards fell to Earth—the heavens hardly had room for so many.

Away beyond the trunks, golden lamplight flickered. Loric and Cymbril climbed onto the stream's bank.

Now from the shadows on every side, dozens of people stepped into view. They were slender, graceful, and fair of face, their clothing of the same shades as the wood and the dusk. Like Loric, they had hair that glistened with the light of stars. They called out in pleasant voices, and Loric answered. Though Cymbril couldn't understand the words, the language seemed as musical as the song of the water.

Cymbril heard her own name several times. The Sidhe smiled at her and offered warm, strong hands to help her onto firmer ground.

"They're keepers of the gate," Loric explained, "guards of our country's edge. The seers of my people have been watching our journey from afar. They knew we were coming."

At the beckoning of a Fey man in a long green coat, his belt glowing like the moon in silver mist, they started along a path that wound to and fro among the trees. In the limbs high overhead nestled houses like giant baskets woven all of branches, blanketed with moss. As Cymbril watched, Sidhe appeared in the windows of some, waving down at her and Loric with pale, lithe hands.

Branches swayed. A man and a woman came along the path to meet them. Their hair was long, the woman's twined with blossoms.

"My parents!" cried Loric, pulling Cymbril forward. She felt a happy relief at the kindness and love in their eyes. Laughing, Loric's parents swept him into their arms, and without even knowing who she was—or maybe they did know—they pulled Cymbril in, too.

In the tree limbs, a bird warbled on and on, fluttering from perch to perch. Cymbril couldn't hold back a giggle at the bird's wild excitement. "What is he singing about?"

"Oh, you know birds," Loric answered. "All sorts of things in a jumble, not finishing one thought before he starts another. Mostly, he's repeating 'The sun is coming up! The sun is coming up!'"

Rose-colored light grew in the east. Cymbril stood bathed in its glow, the darkness flowing away. The bird was right.