“Zenith!”
Caelum.
“Zenith! Drago, what have you done to her? Let her go!”
“Caelum,” Zenith sobbed, trying to say it was alright, that Drago was helping, not hurting, but the words would not come, and Caelum reached down and literally tore her from Drago’s arms.
“Get you gone from here!” Caelum snarled at Drago, who had backed away, his eyes swinging between Caelum’s face and Zenith, now clinging to her eldest brother.
“I was only helping –” he began, but Caelum reached out with his power and cut off Drago’s words.
“I do not want to hear your excuses! Get you gone from here!”
Drago’s face twisted, trying to form words, but Caelum would not let them come, and with a gesture of half rage, half frustration, he disappeared inside the kitchen door.
“Sweetheart,” Caelum whispered, gathering Zenith more tightly into his arms, and then the music of a Song of Movement rippled about them, and they disappeared from the courtyard.
She came to her senses, still wrapped in Caelum’s arms, but now sitting on one of the commodious couches in the inner private chamber of his apartments.
“Where’s Drago?” she said, sniffing and wiping her nose with a cloth Caelum handed her.
“He fled. Did he push you?”
“No! No, I stumbled from the rooftop. WolfStar … WolfStar was there.”
“Ah! WolfStar! He is truly the bane of our lives. Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Zenith said, but she spoke so hesitatingly that Caelum took her shoulders and pushed her back a little so he could see her face.
“He did,” he said slowly. “He did hurt you. How?”
Zenith probably would have confessed to the first person who showed her kindness, be it Caelum or unknown dairy maid. Words came tumbling out of her mouth.
“WolfStar … on the roof … kissed me … thoughts, images, not mine … crowded me … frightened me.”
Caelum pulled her close again, stroking her hair. “Go on.” His eyes were distant.
Zenith gripped her hands together in an effort to stop them shaking. “He appeared suddenly, and that surprised me, but then I felt as if I was in a … chamber of some kind. The Dome of the Moon. It was very dark. I felt there was something there, clinging to the roof. It frightened me, terrified me, I was there, I saw that place – and yet I have never been inside it in my life!”
She raised her head, enough to look Caelum in the eyes. “I felt as though I was someone else. Memories crowded my mind. Memories that were not mine! Oh, Caelum …!”
And in another flood she told him of the lost hours and the nightmares and the fears. Who was this who crowded her mind, and who sometimes took such possession of her that she could not remember what she had done? Who?
“Caelum, I do not know what to think, what to do!”
“Hush,” Caelum said, holding her tight, stroking her hair, her back, kissing the crown of her head. “Hush.”
Thoughts and memories crowded his own mind, but they were not of someone else’s making. He remembered the time, nine years ago, when Axis and Azhure had handed control of Tencendor over to him. True, there had been a glittering ceremony on the shores of Grail Lake, but there had been a far more private afternoon, when his parents had handed into his keeping some of the most precious items of their lives.
The Rainbow Sceptre, now carefully secreted within Sigholt.
The Wolven Bow, for Azhure had said she no longer needed to ride to the hunt.
The enchanted quiver of arrows, which never ran out.
A Moonwildflower.
And a letter. A letter addressed to Azhure, and written by her long dead mother, Niah.
No-one save Azhure could remember Niah, for she had died when Azhure was only about six. Niah had been the First Priestess on the Island of Mist and Memory when one night WolfStar had appeared to her, lain with her, and got Azhure upon her.
Within seven years Niah was dead, burned alive at the hands of her Plough-Keeper husband, Hagen, in the cursed village of Smyrton. But she had left Azhure a letter, and when Azhure had given it to Caelum she’d told him that one day he must hand it to Zenith.
“You will know when, Caelum. You will know the moment.”
And this was the moment. Trembling, for he had never read the letter, and did not know what was in it, Caelum gently disengaged himself, and left the room.
Zenith sat up straight, dried her eyes, and shook her hair out, grateful for the support and love Caelum had shown her, but wishing she could have explained about Drago.
Caelum was back within a few minutes, holding an envelope in his hands.
“Caelum. Drago was only –”
“Hush. Let us not speak of him, Zenith. Read this. Maybe it will help you understand.”
Puzzled, Zenith took the letter. Across the envelope there was a word scratched in bold ink. Azhure.
Even more bewildered, Zenith looked at Caelum. The writing was in Zenith’s own hand. “Who wrote this?”
“Niah, Azhure’s mother.”
Niah?
“Read it, Zenith.”
Zenith dropped her eyes to the letter. Quashing the sudden wave of apprehension that almost engulfed her she opened the envelope and took the letter out. Hands trembling, she unfolded it and began to read, her eyes skipping over the irrelevant passages.
My dearest daughter Azhure, may long life and joy be yours forever …
Five nights ago you were conceived and tonight, after I put down my pen and seal this letter, I will leave this blessed isle. I will not return – but one day I hope you will come back.
Five nights ago your father came to me.
It was the fullness of the moon, and it was my privilege, as First Priestess, to sit and let its light and life wash over me in the Dome of the Moon. I heard his voice before I saw him.
“Niah,” a voice resonant with power whispered through the Dome, and I started, because it was many years since I had heard my birth name.
“Niah,” the voice whispered again, and I trembled in fear. Were the gods displeased with me? Had I not honoured them correctly during my years on this sacred isle and in this sacred Temple?
“Niah,” the voice whispered yet again, and my trembling increased, for despite my lifetime of chastity I recognised the timbre of barely controlled desire … and I was afraid.
I stood … my eyes frantically searched the roof overhead and for long moments I could see nothing, then a faint movement caught my eye.
A shadow was spiralling down from the roof of the Dome … The shadow laughed and spoke my name again as he alighted before me.
“I have chosen you to bear my daughter,” he said, and he held out his hand, his fingers flaring. “Her name will be Azhure.”
At that moment my fear vanished as if it had never existed. Azhure … Azhure … I had never seen such a man as your father and I know I will not again during this life … His wings shone gold, even in the dark night of the Dome, and his hair glowed with copper fire. His eyes were violet, and they were hungry with magic.
Azhure, as Priestesses of the Stars we are taught to accede to every desire of the gods, even if we are bewildered by their wishes, but I went to him with willingness, not with duty. I wore but a simple shift,