Sinner. Sara Douglass
of those she’d had when she was much younger. Nights when she’d woken screaming, nights when the only way she’d agree to go back to sleep was sandwiched between the comfort of her parents. Axis had always questioned her closely about the dreams, but Zenith could never remember their details – maybe didn’t want to remember – and Azhure had refused to let Axis use the Song of Recall to summon them from her murky subconscious.
“Leave the child be,” her mother would say softly, stroking the hair back from Zenith’s brow. “She doesn’t need to remember them, only to be reassured of our love.”
And somehow that love had helped Zenith through. The dreams had begun to fade when she was eighteen or nineteen, and were gone completely by the time she’d reached her majority.
Although there was still the problem of the lost hours.
This was something she’d never told her parents about – why, she could not say. But some days she would suddenly find herself in a distant part of Sigholt, or even in a nearby valley of the Urqhart Hills, and have no knowledge of how she had arrived there. Hours, sometimes even half a day, would have been lost to her.
These episodes had also lessened as she grew older, but Zenith still had one or two a year.
And, in the past week, three.
This was the reason she’d hesitated when Caelum had suggested she go to Carlon.
What if she “lost herself” somewhere in Spiredore and came to her senses sitting on an icefloe in the Iskruel Ocean? How would she explain that to Caelum? How could she explain it to herself?
Zenith hesitated in the centre of her chamber, a stunningly beautiful, slim birdwoman, robed in scarlet that contrasted vividly with the darkness of her wings and hair.
Taking a huge breath, Zenith tried to calm her nerves, wrapping herself so deep with magic it literally blurred the outlines of her figure.
An image formed before her: her grandfather, StarDrifter. It was a memory only, not the actual person; StarDrifter lived far south on the Island of Mist and Memory, devoted to his duties among the priestesses of Temple Mount.
This was a memory that Zenith had carried with her for some thirty years, a memory of a day when she’d been staying with her grandfather on the island, and had found herself wandering the southern cliff faces of Temple Mount with no idea how she’d got there.
She’d been young then, and she’d been growing her wings only a year. They’d still felt strange to her, and she still fumbled on her infrequent flights, so that suddenly coming to awareness at the crumbling edge of a thousand-pace drop had been terrifying.
She’d screamed, sure she was going to die, and then StarDrifter was there, wrapping her in his arms and wings, pulling her back, holding her and singing to her and telling her she was safe, safe, safe.
From that moment on Zenith had adored StarDrifter, treasured him beyond the usual love of a granddaughter for her grandfather.
Now she recalled the image of StarDrifter, his beautiful face full of love, a gentle hand cupping her chin so he could look in her eyes.
“I’ll always be there to catch you,” he’d said. “I’ll always be there for you.”
“Always …” Zenith whispered, and the image faltered and then faded.
“Very pretty.”
She whirled about, furious that anyone should have seen the vision.
Drago was leaning nonchalantly against the doorway that led into her private washroom. His thin face was unreadable, his eyes narrowed, his arms carefully folded across his chest.
A towel was tucked over one arm, and Zenith noticed that Drago’s coppery hair was damp and newly combed back into its tail in the nape of his neck.
“Why not use your own chambers to wash?” she snapped.
“I’d been down in the stables,” he said, standing up straight and throwing the towel back inside the wash room, “helping Stephain with the grey mare. She foaled tonight. Difficult birth.”
“But that doesn’t excuse why –”
“I would have used my own chambers, save that Caelum is stamping and striding about the upper-floor corridors, and frankly the last thing I needed tonight was to run into him. So I thought I’d ask you if I could use your washroom. You weren’t here, so …”
He shrugged, walking over to stand before Zenith. “I heard you come in just as I was finishing up. If you’re concerned, I didn’t stand and watch you change. I may be many things, sister mine, but I am not a voyeur.”
“Yet you saw my memory of StarDrifter.”
“I thought I heard his voice – it made me come to the door. Zenith, I like him too … remember?”
Zenith was rapidly losing her temper which, truth be told, was mainly a product of her shock. And Drago did like StarDrifter. She was unsure about so many things regarding Drago, but his genuine feeling for StarDrifter was not one of them. As a child, Drago had enjoyed his months with StarDrifter almost as much as she had. For some reason StarDrifter had been able to reach the uncommunicative youth in a way Axis and Azhure could not – or could not be bothered to.
She looked at her brother, and for an instant emotion threatened to choke her. What could he have grown into if he had been given love instead of rejection? Their parents had, if not ignored him, then favoured all their other children before him. His punishment for plotting against Caelum had left him with little of his rich Icarii heritage: his coppery hair, still thick but kept pulled back into its tight tail, and his violet eyes, although they had faded with age. Against his vivid and powerful siblings he was just a thin, rather plain man, age and frustrated life marking his face with deep lines.
Drago had done wrong, no-one could deny that, but Zenith often wished their mother could have found some other way to punish him that would not have resulted in the destruction of so much potential, the annihilation of so many dreams.
She caught herself before Drago thought to ask why she took so long to respond.
“Well, if you don’t want to run into Caelum – and he is in a fearful temper – then you can use my bed for the night.”
Drago arched an enquiring eyebrow.
Briefly Zenith told him what she and Caelum had learned.
“And so now, good girl that you are, you go to do StarSon’s bidding.” Drago yawned theatrically. “Well, off you go now. That bed does look inviting.”
Not trusting her temper, Zenith stalked over to the door. Just as she reached it, Drago said softly, “That was a beautiful memory you conjured up into flesh, Zenith. I wish I had that skill.”
Zenith turned and stared at him, not knowing how to take his words. Was he expressing resentment that he no longer had the power to do similar feats, or was he expressing genuine regret?
But Drago gave her no clue. He’d dropped across the bed, his face away from her, and so Zenith left the room, not knowing whether to feel sorry for him, or angry.
By the time Zenith reached the courtyard Drago had slipped far from her mind. Instead she felt the first tingle of excitement. It was good to get away, even if only for a day or so.
The guards at the massive gate in Sigholt’s walls nodded to her, and then Zenith was through and on the short space of roadway leading to the bridge that guarded Sigholt’s entrance.
“A good evening to you, bridge,” she called softly as she stepped onto its cobbled carriageway.
“And a good evening to you, Zenith,” the bridge said in her deep, melodious voice. No-one ever understood the bridge, what she truly was, or what magic had created her. She simply existed, and her sole purpose in her existence was to guard all entrances into Sigholt. All visitors, whether by foot,