Third Starlighter (Tales of Starlight) Read online

  With both genders, however, there is danger. Either one is capable of great harm if he or she rebels against the Creator. The female might turn to collecting the tales of dark sorceresses and learning their ways, thereby corrupting her and making her a powerful sorceress herself. A male can transform his energy-draining power into a means of usurping authority, thereby gaining a crown for himself, and if he draws power from the innocent, his heart will become dark indeed.

  Therefore it is essential that you teach all your children the Code so that they will know and follow the Creator. Otherwise, a dark Starlighter will become a threat that no one in your world who lacks Starlighter genetics can withstand. Only dragon fire can stop such a fiend, but if he is able to avoid the flames and absorb a dragon’s energy, he will be unstoppable.

  Her mouth dropping open, Marcelle lowered the book to her lap. Maelstrom was a corrupted Starlighter! All the evidence fit— his hair, his eyes, his absorbing power as he looked at Philip. That meant the king probably had Starlighter genetics, protecting him from Maelstrom.

  She looked at her hand. And Maelstrom probably couldn’t absorb from her, because she was no more than a collection of dirt.

  Something banged against the wall separating the tunnel from the archives room. The searchers were closing in.

  Pulling her knees up to her chest, she rested her head and closed her eyes. Think, Marcelle! You’ve gotten out of tighter jams than this.

  After a few seconds, darkness entered her thoughts, and the feeling of wetness, as if she were back in the underground chamber on Starlight where the bastra injected her with venom. That was certainly a tighter jam. Yet, this was different. Something rubbed her legs and thighs, as if washing them with a cloth. Little-girl voices entered her ears—soft, gentle, soothing, though no words formed from the whispers.

  A tickling sensation rode up her legs, ending with pressure at her hips. Then, the whispers became words.

  “Her trousers are still damp.”

  “Can’t be helped. They’re clean, though.”

  “I guess they’ll dry soon.”

  “I hope she doesn’t get a chill.”

  “We could put Frederick’s cloak on her.”

  “Good idea.”

  A sudden sense of warmth covered her body from chest to toes.

  “That should do it.”

  “Someone’s coming.”

  Marcelle tried to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t budge.

  A man’s voice filtered in. “You girls go outside for a moment. I need to get this wet tunic off.”

  “What will you put on?” one of the girls asked.

  “I saw Frederick’s cloak in the corner this morning. Where is it?”

  “We put it on Marcelle. She looked cold.”

  “Ah! How very kind of you. But go on now. I need privacy.”

  “Have you seen Adrian?”

  “I think he’s still looking for Frederick.”

  “Should we take Marcelle with us?”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s asleep.”

  “When should we come back?”

  “I will call you.”

  The voices silenced. In a sudden gust of wind, the warmth vanished.

  “I’m sorry, Marcelle, but I have more need of this than you do.”

  She forced her eyes open. Drexel stood with his back turned, a shaft of light from an open door illuminating his bare skin. Multiple scars ran from his shoulder blades to his hips.

  A thousand thoughts stormed through her mind—her mother’s corpse under a white sheet, a coroner lifting her arm, a fingerless hand with a limp thumb. Then her father’s words streamed in. We found a considerable amount of skin under her nails, so we searched the soldiers for someone with a fresh wound. … His wounds would have become scars, and who could discern scars earned through courage on the battlefield from scars incurred while committing a crime?

  Shifting her body as quietly as possible, Marcelle climbed to her feet. Her legs felt so weak! Every muscle ached, and her head throbbed. Yet she had to challenge this murderer, no matter what the cost.

  As Drexel wrapped the cloak around his body, Marcelle spied a sword on the floor near his heels. Just as she picked it up, he spun and faced her. His eyes shot wide open, and he backed away. “Oh … Marcelle. I didn’t realize that you were awake. My apologies for making a false assumption. I hope you were not offended.”

  A barrage of words caught in her throat. As she tried to force them through her lips, only a few managed to escape. “Scars … on … back. … How?”

  “Oh, that?” Drexel laughed nervously. “A fall on the battlefield. I tripped and rolled down a hill.”

  Marcelle looked at Drexel’s wet tunic, now lying inside out on the floor. Something protruded from the inner pocket. A finger? No. Two fingers. Both severed from their hand. And the pocket still held more hidden within.

  Heat roaring through her cheeks, she shouted. “Liar!”

  Drexel leaped for the wet tunic and snatched it up. Holding it in a ball close to his chest, he backed toward the door, trembling. “I can explain. I found your mother’s murderer and took the fingers from him.”

  Marcelle forced the word out again. “Liar!” Then, drawing back the sword, she shouted, “Now die!”

  Drexel dashed through the doorway and into the forest. Seconds later, he ran out of sight.

  Dizziness flooded Marcelle’s mind. Darkness veiled her vision. A falling sensation took control, pain jabbing her elbow and hip. Soon, cool water spilled over her face. She was back in the underground chamber leading to the river beneath the dragon world’s barrier wall, crawling through one of the narrow holes while water funneled through. As before, she squeezed herself into the channel, making her body as small as possible. A scraping sound reached her ears, like metal on stone. Her sword was probably dragging against the sides.

  Soon, the feeling of wetness evaporated. Pressure on her arms and legs returned. Now sitting, her arms were again wrapped around her knees, and her head rested on them.

  She blinked her eyes open and shivered hard. She sat in total darkness. No. There was a light—a small, oval-shaped glow to her left.

  She rose to her feet and walked to the light, a hole in the wall. She peered through it. Something vertically bisected the opening on the other side, slicing her view in half. Several paces beyond the opposite hole, a lantern sat on the floor, its flame sparking green and orange. A book lay nearby, along with a smaller object, too far away to discern.

  She pushed her arm into the hole and extended her hand through a narrow passage, very much like the one she had explored while in Dunwoody’s escape tunnel. She felt for the object dividing the view. Her fingers slid around the hilt of a sword. As she drew it through, a metal-on-metal snick made her stop. A scabbard?

  She touched her belt with her other hand. The sword was gone. She groped past the hilt and came across the strap that fastened the scabbard to the belt. Grasping it, she pulled the entire assembly. The sword’s crossguard scraped within at the top and bottom of the narrow passage, but after a few seconds of twisting and jerking, she pulled the sword and scabbard free.

  With a firm snap, she fastened the belt in place. This was Gregor’s sword and scabbard, not part of the body and clothing she had fashioned from the soil of Major Four. She felt for her mother’s mirror in her tunic’s inner pocket. It wasn’t there. She patted her tunic from chest to waist, but no telltale lump met her fingers.

  She looked through the hole again. The small object next to the book had to be the mirror. It was also not part of the ensemble she arrived with.

  Blinking again, she backed away a step. Just moments ago, she sat next to that lantern with the mirror in her pocket. She had widened this hole in the wall, and now she stood on the other side wearing only what she materialized with when she arrived on Major Four.

  She nodded. This really was a dream. It had to be. Somehow her real self was still in the world of Starlight, and once in a
while she was able to awaken enough to do something there, something vital. Maybe this dream was a way to show her the truth, a crucial fact she needed to know.

  Biting her lip, she clenched a fist. Drexel had to be her mother’s murderer! Her fingers were in his tunic. He had scars, giving evidence that her mother had scratched his back while she battled for her life. He was a former soldier who had enough pull to keep from having his genetics tested. And he was also a conniver who would stoop to murder if he thought it would benefit him.

  Yet, he had escaped. He was probably long gone. And it had seemed impossible to chase him. Since her real self had such a terrible headache, she must be badly hurt, explaining why she kept falling again and blacking out.

  Could she go in search of him? It seemed that she could still connect with her real self whenever she concentrated on rising to consciousness. Was it safe to do so? Might she injure herself again? Should she rather just let the dream play out while her body healed?

  She let her fingers relax. Waiting seemed to be the only reasonable option. In her condition, she could never catch that weasel. At least the dream was interesting, and she could march through it with reckless abandon, knowing no permanent damage could occur.

  With the glow from the hole providing a little light, she looked around. A large pipeline dominated the passage, running parallel to the walls. She touched the pipe’s metallic hull. This had to be an extane conduit. Maybe this would run to the section of wall where she exited the lower level of the dungeon and redirected the gas. If she could find the valve, locating the wall wouldn’t be a problem.

  She closed her eyes and drew a mental picture of the palace. Which way to the rear grounds? She swiveled toward the hole and traced her route back to the main floor, turning her body with each turn in her mind. When her mental image reached the palace’s rear entry, she opened her eyes and pointed. That way!

  * * *

  FOUR

  * * *

  ADRIAN trudged toward the cabin with Frederick over his shoulder. He weaved through the trees, pausing and peering around trunks as he tried to stay out of sight. His legs quaked. Pain throttled his hand, sending spasms up his arm. Yet, he couldn’t call for help. If Drexel heard him, he might grab one of the children and hold him or her hostage.

  He checked the sword wedged between his belt and trousers. It was still there. Soon it would be put to good use—skewering a scoundrel.

  When he drew close, he laid Frederick down in a patch of grass and slid out the sword. Then, gripping it in his left hand, he marched toward the door. Dispatching the likes of Drexel with a left-handed slice wouldn’t be a problem.

  He stopped at the edge of the open doorway and peeked in. A small window at the back added to the light from the door, both illuminating the eight children as they stood or sat around Marcelle. A table abutted the rear wall, and a handmade stool perched atop a large deerskin under the window, but Drexel was nowhere in sight. Tiptoeing in, he whispered, “Where’s Drexel?”

  Orlan stepped forward. “Long gone as far as we can tell.” He touched the head of one of the girls. “Cassandra saw him running out of the cabin, and he never stopped running. When she came inside, Marcelle was lying here just like you see her now, with Drexel’s sword in her hand. Either he moved her, or she moved herself.”

  Adrian knelt at Marcelle’s side and scanned her face and body. Except for the rise and fall of her chest and movement under her eyelids, she lay motionless. Shellinda and Penelope shuffled close.

  “Has she opened her eyes?” he asked, glancing at each girl. “Has she talked at all?”

  “No,” Penelope said. “Nothing.”

  Adrian touched Marcelle’s thumb, still loosely gripping the hilt of a sword. “Drexel’s scared to death of her. He wouldn’t have given her his only way of protecting himself.”

  Orlan pointed at Adrian’s hand. “What happened to you?”

  “I got impaled in Frederick’s pit.” He showed them the stake’s entry point, just below his palm. The shard of wood still protruded a few inches on both sides. “It looks worse than it is.”

  Seven of the children stared, wide eyed, while the girl with the feather hat gazed aimlessly. “We have medicine,” one of the smaller girls said. She then ran out the door.

  “And we’ll need something for bandages.” Adrian laid his sword down and rose to his feet. “Make a bed for Frederick. I’m going to bring him in.”

  “Bring him in?” one of the girls cried. “Is he hurt?”

  “Yes, quite badly.”

  As Adrian walked out, Orlan joined him. “I’ll help. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

  By the time Adrian and Orlan carried Frederick inside, the children had prepared a thick bed of huge green leaves and straw. Adrian laid Frederick on his back, carefully aligning his leg. Since he had already shaved the point off the spike, his leg rested easily, though Frederick gasped with every move.

  One of the small girls set a damp sponge in Adrian’s palm. “Stops infraction.”

  “Infection,” Cassandra said as she laid a wad of cloth strips next to Adrian.

  The girl crossed her arms over her chest. “I say infraction.”

  Adrian smiled. “Either way works for me.” He picked up one of the cloth strips. “Where did you get these?”

  The little girl spoke up. “Frederick goes into the village sometimes and gets stuff.”

  “Is that so?” Adrian eyed the cloth, torn and ragged, but serviceable. “Do you have anything for stitching up wounds? A needle and thread?”

  One of the smaller boys nodded. “Frederick got some the last time he went.”

  “Then please get them. I’m going to need them very soon.” Gritting his teeth, Adrian eased the stake out of his hand, then swabbed both wounds with the sponge. He pressed a wadded strip of cloth over the entry and exit and lifted his hand. “Will one of you please wrap the bandage?”

  Penelope grabbed two strips, doubled them, and carefully wound them around the heel and back of his hand.

  “Tightly now,” Adrian said. “We have to stop the bleeding. Maybe I can teach one of you how to stitch it later.”

  When she finished, he gave her the sponge. “Will you soak this again in the medicine and bring it back?”

  With the children hovering around and running to and fro fetching water and whatever else he needed, Adrian removed the spike from Frederick’s leg, stitched the wounds, and set the bone. He placed a shaved branch against each side of the leg and wrapped it tightly with cloth strips.

  Soon, he was finished. The boys had already moved Marcelle to the bed, and she and Frederick rested quietly side by side.

  “Now …” Adrian lifted his hand. Blood had soaked through the bandage on both sides. “You watched me stitch up Frederick. Who would like to stitch my wounds?”

  “I’ll do it,” Orlan said. “It’ll hurt, though.”

  Adrian began unwinding the bandage. “No worse than it already does.”

  While Orlan stitched Adrian’s hand, the four smallest children introduced themselves and told their stories, though some of the details might have been skewed by their wide-eyed perspectives. Frederick rescued all four from the cattle camp, taking one at a time to the wilderness. He began with Tom, a six-year-old with a birthmark on his cheek, who claimed that Frederick swam upstream under the river’s exit gate and helped him swim back out. Although Frederick held his breath, Tom breathed through a reed until they were out of the guardian dragon’s sight.

  Ariella, a black-haired, brown-eyed five-year-old, told a tale in which Frederick scooped her out of her hovel in the middle of the night and flew her over the wall. How he could have grown wings, she couldn’t say, but she did remember getting a cut on her finger from a claw on one of the wings. Fortunately, as she put it, “I didn’t get an infraction.”

  Regina, the blind girl with the feather hat, was eight years old and spoke with an endearing lisp. She remembered very little, just waking up in Fre
derick’s cabin, warm and cozy, with the smell of stew cooking nearby. She had dreamed of running a great distance in the dark, but her legs weren’t any sorer than usual. She had lost her eyesight a few weeks earlier. Whether the reason was malnourishment or disease, she didn’t know, though both had ravaged her body. Even after Frederick had used all the herbal remedies he knew, parasites and fungi still stubbornly clung to her skin.

  Zeb, a seven-year-old with bright hazel eyes, told the wildest tale. One evening, he was the last in the cattle camp to leave the feeding area. Being scrawny, he rarely won the skirmishes over the meager distributions, so he was grazing the pebbly soil in search of morsels. When the guardian dragon lashed him, Frederick jumped on the dragon’s back and strangled it with its own whip until it fell unconscious. He then scooped up Zeb, climbed over the camp’s thorn-covered wall, and hustled to the cabin refuge.

  Since that evening, Frederick never brought more children, saying circumstances had made rescue attempts too dangerous. If he were to be captured, who would care for the children he had already saved? Besides, he thought he couldn’t feed more than four.

  Orlan and Cassandra told how Drexel helped them escape from the pheterone mine. When they added up all the details, it seemed clear that he orchestrated the deaths of the miners and the other children. If not for Orlan’s skepticism, he, too, would probably have been killed. It seemed clear that Drexel desired to burden his journey with just one little girl, hoping to get sympathy for the plight of the Lost Ones and glory for himself.

  When the last story ended, Adrian gazed at the children. Dressed in patched trousers and tunics, they stared back at him. Orlan and Cassandra, though firm and wiry, were thinner than the original four. Apparently Frederick had managed to care for his refugees quite well. Shellinda now wore a set of clothes that matched the others, though they appeared a bit rattier. Maybe they were castoffs that had been stored in case other refugees arrived.