The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

A young woman with hair as black as obsidian, almond eyes, and the broad cheekbones and dark complexion of the eastern tribes kneels on grass like a slave instead of the princess she obviously is. She wears a gown woven of gold thread so sumptuously rich that it shimmers as she shifts. Her head is bowed, but her gaze, looking up at the creature that stands before her, is bold.

The creature is like nothing he has seen before, but he knows what it is, one of the Bwr people, the fabled ones who live in the deep grass. She is a woman, or a mare; she is both, and neither. She wears her coarse hair in braids, and a coarse pale mane runs down her naked back, and it is also braided, twined with beads and tiny mice bones. Her face and upper body are striped with green-and-gold paint. Her body below the waist is that of a fine mare with a coat so magnificently gray that it almost seems silver.

“Come back to me,” the creature is saying, “when you can bring to me these things. The claws and grease of a bear. Mole’s teeth. The bones of a mouse, with none missing. Threads from a dead man’s shroud. A dragon’s scale. The shed skin of a snake. The ashes of a fire that burned on the night of a full moon. Two coals, still burning, from the hearth of a pregnant woman. One amber bead. Lapis lazuli carved in the shape of a god. An owl’s feather. The shell of a—”

She breaks off and at once he understands that she is aware of him. She moves her left arm out of shadow to reveal an owl perched like a falcon on her wrist.

“Go,” she says to the owl. It takes wing abruptly and silently.

Kansi-a-lari wrenched him away so painfully that he gagged, gasping for breath. Spasms racked his stomach, just under his rib cage. His left elbow throbbed.

“You will ruin everything,” she said harshly. “Do not look through the gate of Shagupeti again.”

They climbed on. The path was all stairs now, winding up around the hill with the towering walls on either side, the endless walls, he never saw any break in them from this side, no trace of dwelling places or ladders or paths or halls or wells or of any kind of animal or bird, not even ants and spiders. The fort was empty, except for the three of them, she, he, and the horse; except for the visions.

The sun shone, but he could not see it as he trudged up stair after stair. He tried to count them but could not. He was too thirsty to count. She gained ground on him, impatient with his sluggish pace, and got out of his sight, but he was just so tired and his knees hurt and he knew he would catch up to her in time because there was nowhere else he could go.

When he came at last upon her again, she stood motionless before the sixth gate, both of her palms pressed against the gleaming green banded stone, like malachite worn so thin that it had become no thicker than a veil.

She spoke and, speaking, received an answer. He crept closer to listen.

“Be cautious, Cousin,” said a voice through the veil. “We are not the only ones walking the paths. New gateways have opened, although this was not unexpected. Walk cautiously in the world of humankind. You are a long way from home, and the paths grow increasingly more unstable. Do not take too long about your errand, or you will not be able to return.”

rias stares, astounded, as the king scratches his beard thoughtfully, not angry, merely considering. He would never have known her by her face alone, for she has changed over the years since he last saw her, grown up and filled out. But the memory of her voice lies forever lodged in his deepest heart; so much of what he remembers is words and voices.

Who would have thought it? She was such a bold, scrawny girl. It is his sister, Hathui, wearing an Eagle’s cloak and standing at the right hand of a king.

The king’s horse is brought up. He mounts and rides away.

“Ah,” said Kansi-a-lari beside him, the same sound a person might make who has finally pulled a thorn from her foot. She set her right hand on her left shoulder as though to say, “I greet you,” as though to say, “I am resigned to my unhappy fate.”

She walked on, and he walked beside her. The fourth gate had the luster of amber, but because she did not hesitate, he did not stop; he did not want to be left behind. The steep lane became stairs, steepening as they made their way up the hill. He understood now, finally, that the path was a spiral one, curling in toward the top.

The fifth gate surprised him. It gleamed like amethyst, washing the scene behind it of sea and night sky with a brush of palest violet. There was no moon. He couldn’t make sense of the stars, all topsy-turvy and in the wrong place. Disoriented, he stumbled and fell against the horse. Jostled, he braced himself against the rock, but his hand slipped to the slickly damp surface of the gate just as Kansi-a-lari cried out a warning.

“Do not look!”

But he was already gone.

A young woman with hair as black as obsidian, almond eyes, and the broad cheekbones and dark complexion of the eastern tribes kneels on grass like a slave instead of the princess she obviously is. She wears a gown woven of gold thread so sumptuously rich that it shimmers as she shifts. Her head is bowed, but her gaze, looking up at the creature that stands before her, is bold.

The creature is like nothing he has seen before, but he knows what it is, one of the Bwr people, the fabled ones who live in the deep grass. She is a woman, or a mare; she is both, and neither. She wears her coarse hair in braids, and a coarse pale mane runs down her naked back, and it is also braided, twined with beads and tiny mice bones. Her face and upper body are striped with green-and-gold paint. Her body below the waist is that of a fine mare with a coat so magnificently gray that it almost seems silver.

“Come back to me,” the creature is saying, “when you can bring to me these things. The claws and grease of a bear. Mole’s teeth. The bones of a mouse, with none missing. Threads from a dead man’s shroud. A dragon’s scale. The shed skin of a snake. The ashes of a fire that burned on the night of a full moon. Two coals, still burning, from the hearth of a pregnant woman. One amber bead. Lapis lazuli carved in the shape of a god. An owl’s feather. The shell of a—”

She breaks off and at once he understands that she is aware of him. She moves her left arm out of shadow to reveal an owl perched like a falcon on her wrist.

“Go,” she says to the owl. It takes wing abruptly and silently.

Kansi-a-lari wrenched him away so painfully that he gagged, gasping for breath. Spasms racked his stomach, just under his rib cage. His left elbow throbbed.

“You will ruin everything,” she said harshly. “Do not look through the gate of Shagupeti again.”

They climbed on. The path was all stairs now, winding up around the hill with the towering walls on either side, the endless walls, he never saw any break in them from this side, no trace of dwelling places or ladders or paths or halls or wells or of any kind of animal or bird, not even ants and spiders. The fort was empty, except for the three of them, she, he, and the horse; except for the visions.

The sun shone, but he could not see it as he trudged up stair after stair. He tried to count them but could not. He was too thirsty to count. She gained ground on him, impatient with his sluggish pace, and got out of his sight, but he was just so tired and his knees hurt and he knew he would catch up to her in time because there was nowhere else he could go.

When he came at last upon her again, she stood motionless before the sixth gate, both of her palms pressed against the gleaming green banded stone, like malachite worn so thin that it had become no thicker than a veil.