Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (25 page)

Light crept over the top of the stairs, a silver light that popped and glistened, hissed and brayed, flooding down upon the tower. Moth stepped out onto the roof. He stared up at the enormous cloud-thing in bewilderment. The Redeemer’s cold claw gripped his shoulder.

“Look!” she said, her voice dripping with awe. “Artaios comes!”

Finally, Moth could see the whole thing clearly. The clouds were creatures, horselike things with vapors for tails and long, smoky limbs that pawed at the air. Sparks shot from their nostrils and fire from their hooves, yet they looked so insubstantial that a strong wind might blow them away. There were four of the beasts, and behind them a vessel, tethered to the horses by golden ropes.

A chariot,
realized Moth, peering through the haze. The translucent carriage had no wheels—at least none that Moth could see. Smoke swirled around it, revealing hints of bronze and inlaid jewels. Slowly the thing floated down toward the roof. The horses—if they were horses—appeared and disappeared in the mists. The chariot hovered at the edge of the roof, wrapping the tower in vaporous tendrils.

“Down,” the Redeemer commanded. She fell to her knees, pulling Moth with her. “Do not look at him,” she said, “not until he speaks to you.”

Moth still didn’t know who or what had come for him, and keeping his eyes down was impossible. He lifted his chin just as a figure stepped from the mists.

It was a man, and yet not a man, dressed in white linen with one bare shoulder and naked, muscular arms. Gold piping trimmed his tunic and the lacings of his sandals snaked around his calves. Light surrounded him, pouring from his chariot—or was it he himself that gave the light? His hair was a golden waterfall, his skin like polished bronze. A blade gleamed at his side, a long sword of pulsing metal.

The being stepped from the mists, pausing a few feet from where Moth knelt with the Redeemer. As if to explain what he really was, two gigantic wings fanned out behind him. The wings folded gently forward, encasing the man in downy feathers. His sparkling eyes beguiled Moth.

This is what Esme must look like
, he thought. But he refused to cower. Defying the Redeemer’s order, he stood up.

“Great Artaios,” stammered the Redeemer. “Here is the boy I promised you. A stupid boy! He hasn’t even the sense to kneel!”

“Artaios,” said Moth. “That’s your name?”

“Silence!” shrieked the Redeemer. “Don’t you dare speak!”

Moth ignored her. If he was going to die, he’d do it like a man. “You’re a Skylord, huh? I heard Skylords were beautiful. Someone I once knew told me that.” He put out his chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Artaios the Skylord looked Moth up and down. He studied his face, then his old, wrinkled coat. He sniffed at his dirty hair and grimaced at his fingernails. Finally, he looked down at the Redeemer.

“
This
is the one who commands the Starfinder?”

The Redeemer nodded quickly without raising her head. “Yes, great Master. He’s the one!”

Artaios’ bright eyes widened. He looked young to Moth, though Moth knew he must be impossibly old. “I have never seen a human child before,” he said. “And never a living thing but a Skylord who could command the Starfinder.”

“I can,” countered Moth. “And I’m not a boy. I’m thirteen.”

“Thir . . . ?” Artaios laughed. “Thirteen
years
?” His white wings fluttered. “You’re right. You’re not even a boy yet. You’re an egg! But I’ve never seen an egg command the Starfinder either, so that makes you remarkable.” Artaios kicked at the Redeemer. “Get up.”

The Redeemer flew to her feet. “I serve you, Master.”

“This boy is in rags. He looks starved. Have you fed him?”

“No, Master, no,” said the Redeemer. “We waited, is all.”

Moth couldn’t help staring at Artaios. His youth and golden hair reminded him of Skyhigh, but his voice was more like thunder, and his skin like mirrored bronze.

“Are you hungry, Egg?” asked the Skylord.

“Yes,” answered Moth hotly. “And my name’s not Egg. It’s Moth.”

“Moth? Like an insect?” Again Artaios laughed. “If you’re hungry, you will feast.”

Moth hesitated. He expected an execution, not an invitation. “Where are we going?”

“To the Palace of the Moon,” said Artaios. He gestured to his chariot. “I’ve seen your wretched airships. Floating junk. Come with me, Egg, and I will show you what it means to fly.”

FIONA AWOKE WITH A SHOUT. The dream she’d been having fled from her mind. She lifted her head from the pillow of grass, heart pounding, and tried to recognize her strange surroundings. The fabric walls, the smell of clean air, the unfamiliar scene through an unshuttered window—all these things bewildered her. Then like a knife came the one thing she remembered.

Pain.

It throbbed in her skull, driving her down to the pillow again. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and sobbed, hoping someone would hear her.

“Hello?” she called, but it was a kitten’s voice that spoke, and no one answered.

Fiona turned her head, spotting a giant archway with a curtain for a door. The fabric was left open, but she couldn’t see what was on the other side. When her fingers clawed her bedding, she realized she wasn’t in a bed at all, but sprawled out on clean, soft straw and tucked into a blanket.

Heaven had beds, or maybe even clouds, so Fiona knew she wasn’t dead. She remembered the river. And drowning, too. She remembered . . .

“Moth!”

Her cry startled someone in the other room. The sound of heavy footfalls came closer. Fiona pulled her blanket to her chin as a big shadow darkened the doorway. A face peered around the corner, first puzzled, then lighting with pleasure as it noticed Fiona.

“You’re awake!”

Fiona squinted her blurry eyes. The face was pretty, with the complexion of cream and gemstone eyes. A woman’s face. A tall woman, Fiona decided, until she rounded the doorway on the four legs of a horse. Instead of hair, a white mane rippled down her shoulders. Pointed ears twitched with excitement. Her hooves clopped closer. She smiled at Fiona in the bed of straw, bending as if to coo at a baby.

“Look at you!” chirped the woman. “Now don’t be afraid. Just lie still and catch your breath.”

Fiona forgot her many pains. She sat up, gaping in disbelief. She knew horses and she knew humans, but the thing staring at her was both. From its withers on up was the body of the most stunning woman Fiona had ever seen, with skin as soft as a teardrop and long, snowy hair that touched its equine shoulders. Her coat was white as well, looking like velvet to Fiona, her back draped with scarlet fabric tied to her tail with a golden braid.

“Nessa,” said the woman softly. She pointed to herself, repeating the word. “Nessa.”

When Fiona didn’t answer, the creature frowned. “Poor thing.” She knelt down on her forelegs, running human fingers through Fiona’s tangled hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you to speak.”

At last Fiona said, “You’re a centaur!”

Startled, the creature jerked back. Then she laughed and said, “You understand me! Oh, I knew I was right about you! I knew you would speak!”

“Yeah, I can speak,” said Fiona. “I’m a person. I . . .” She put a hand to her aching head. “Where am I?” She glanced down and noticed her clothes had changed, replaced by a soft, baggy tunic that looked like a nightshirt, tied around her waist by a belt of fabric. “What happened to my clothes?”

The centaur pinched her nose. “Phew! They were rags.”

Fiona looked under the blanket. Her legs and feet were naked. “My boots! My stockings . . .”

“Mended,” said the centaur. “And dry now. Sit back . . .”

Fiona’s head was spinning. She felt like a mess and knew she looked it too. She lay down again, staring up into the creature’s remarkable eyes. “Tell me what happened. Where am I?”

“Pandera.” The creature lightly touched Fiona’s bruised head. “How does that feel?”

“Hurts.” Fiona winced. She felt the bruise again, this time detecting bumpy threads. “Oh my god, stitches?”

“You were in the water with the rocks,” said the centaur. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I was with somebody . . . a boy . . . my friend Moth.”

The odd face grew gentle. “Only you made it through the mountains.”

Fiona thought hard, yanking memories from the darkness. “Pandera,” she said. “I saw you,” she remembered. “On the sand. You saved me.”

“Tyrin found you,” the creature corrected. “He was hunting when he saw you on the bank. The river must have carried you under the mountain.”

“Tyrin. Okay. And you’re Nessa?”

“Yes.” The centaur smiled.

“And this is Pandera. I remember now. We were running. I fell into the river. Someone was chasing us.”

“Who?”

Fiona glanced away. A dragonfly had chased them. Her grandfather. If Moth wasn’t dead, then surely they’d caught him.

“Moth,” she whispered, trying not to cry.

She felt sick. Her dry throat threatened to retch. Nessa saw this and hurried a nearby bowl to her lips, but Fiona pushed it away.

“I have to go,” she groaned. “Maybe he’s out there somewhere. Maybe he needs me.”

“You have to rest,” Nessa insisted. “A few more days at least.”

“A few more? How long have I been here? What is this place anyway?”

“You’re in the house of Jorian,” said Nessa. “You’ve been here three days.”

Fiona felt panicked again. Merceron had sent her and Moth here, she remembered, so they’d be safe. But three days?

“I have to see him,” said Fiona. “I have to see Jorian.”

“You will,” promised Nessa. “When you’re well enough.”

“No,” said Fiona. “I have to see him right now!”

Nessa shook her mane. “Child, Jorian keeps his own time. Jumping up and down won’t make a difference.” She patted Fiona’s chin. “I should know. I’m his wife.”

 

When Fiona woke again, the sunshine through her window was gone, replaced by pearly moonlight. Her head was clearer, too. It still ached, but she could remember things better now. She rolled over, comfortable in her bed of straw, expecting to see Nessa watching over her, but the room was empty. Peaceful, too.

Fiona relaxed, unafraid this time. She listened and heard noises coming from outside the home. A sniff brought the scent of cooking fires.

She sat up, combing fingers through her knotted hair and wondering what to do. She needed to find Jorian. She needed to find Moth, too, and hoped the centaurs would help her. But her side ached and her head still throbbed, and she doubted she could get very far.

“Lucky to be alive,” she whispered, remembering Nessa’s words. She tossed aside the blanket, hoisting her long shirt to study the bruises on her legs. The rocks had beaten her up. The river had almost drowned her. “But they didn’t,” she said defiantly. “I beat
them
.”

Carefully she got to her feet, testing her wobbly legs. The straw and cool stone tickled her naked toes. Nessa had taken her stockings and boots, but Fiona couldn’t spot them anywhere. The noise outside grew to a commotion.

“Nessa?” Fiona called. “Hello?”

The noise and the smell of food lured Fiona toward the doorway. She peered into the connecting chamber. This one was similar to her own, with walls made of fabric and mortared stones. Heavy shelves with tools and cooking utensils stood near a wooden table, where a candle burned in a dish. Fiona saw no chairs, though, supposing that centaurs had no need of them. More importantly, she saw another doorway, this one leading outside. Fiona tiptoed toward it, not wanting to hide but not really wanting to be discovered either. When she reached the threshold she peeked out into the night.

Her eyes grew wide at the sight before her.

A hundred centaurs had gathered in the center of a village, laughing and running, lying and eating around an enormous well of fire. Moonlight flooded the valley, revealing their colorful coats and fine, brocaded clothing. Some had weapons, some were naked, and some were as small as ponies, with little chirping voices that sang out as they played. Some were white like Nessa, others every shade imaginable, from shining onyx to honey gold, all with dancing manes and long, swishing tails. Around the flaming well burned smaller fires used for cooking, where spits of fowl and joints of meat turned slowly and greasily. A big, bare-chested male chugged wine from a jug, splashing it across his bearded chin.

Awestruck, Fiona stepped out into the warm night. In the distance she saw the mountains, towering around the valley. Trees and green hills spotted the landscape. Supple grass yielded beneath her toes. She put a hand to her chest, feeling her racing heart.

Fiona slipped closer to the centaurs, ducking first behind a thatched fence, then a short stone silo. A thunder of hooves suddenly clamored through the village. Two centaurs galloped furiously toward each other, their shoulders tucked like battering rams. Around the flaming well the other centaurs watched, cheering the combatants. Fiona strained for a better look. An enormous crack echoed out as the centaurs collided. The smaller, brownish centaur tumbled backward. The victor, his charcoal skin glistening, beat his chest and howled.

Fiona stepped out from her hiding place. The dark centaur was Jorian. Somehow, she was sure of it.

“Males,” scoffed a voice from behind. “Such show-offs.”

Fiona jumped. There was Nessa, shaking her head with mock disapproval.

“You move quietly for someone so big,” said Fiona. “You following me?”

“I saw you leave the house,” said Nessa. “You needn’t hide. I told you—you’re safe here.” She looked Fiona up and down with a motherly eye. “Your color’s better than before. You’re well enough to skulk around at least.”

Fiona could tell she wasn’t really mad. She turned back toward the center of the village. “That’s Jorian, right?”