Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7)

The tree line ended abruptly at the edge of ruins. Beyond an outer wall of stone lay an ancient fort in the style of the old empire, Dariyan work. The light drew long and late in summer, and the fallen walls and buildings shone with an aura of gold where the sun’s rays pulled across them. Most of the building stone was grainy and dark, but the centermost building—its roof long since fallen in—had been built in a marbled white stone that had a soft gleam. The outer walls of this building had been cleared away to expose its paved, platform of a floor, an ovoid altar stone, and the six pillars that had once supported the roof.

Here Liath and her disciplas had gathered, with four horses tethered nearby. Here, as Hanna and the prince and the soldier walked up, she heard Liath speak.

“Name the seven spheres and their order.”

“The sphere closest to the Earth is that of the Moon!” said Sharp Edge, jumping in before anyone else could utter one word.

They were an unruly lot. Most were young and reckless, although Liath was grateful to have a pair of older and wiser heads among them. It was her own fault, truly. In addition to stamina, strength, courage, and adventurousness, they had to have the patience and wit and desire to learn the art of the mathematici. Sometimes they weren’t easy to get along with. She was just like them.

“The second is that of the planet Erekes, and the third planet is Somorhas, the Lady of Light. Fourth is the sphere of the Sun. Fifth is Jedu, Angel of War. Six is Mok. Seventh and last—Aturna.”

“The realm of the fixed stars,” added Berthold. He was irritated with Sharp Edge, as well he might be. She was a terrible tease, and did herself no favors, but as much as young men hated her for it, they came panting for more. “And beyond all of this, the Chamber of Light, the home of God, and the phoenix.”

“And the ladder by which the mage ascends,” said Sharp Edge, taunting him. “First to the rose, the touch of healing”

“Enough!” Liath braced herself, and pushed to her feet. She was getting ungainly, but she felt good, strong, energetic. Not a day’s worth of sickness with this pregnancy. “Ah, there’s Sibold!”

Lewenhardt groaned.

The other man punched the archer on the shoulder as he swaggered past. “Thought you’d slip past me!”

“Enough!” she repeated, seeing the change in the light as afternoon trickled away into long summer dusk. “Take your places. Shar. Sibold. Get the horses.”

Wood burns when touched by threads of starlight, so no crown of wood would serve her, and they had not the leisure in such troubled times to invest a host to raise the huge menhirs as was done in the days of the ancients. But it transpired that the old Dariyans had copied the ladder of the heavens in their architecture. An oval formed by six tall stone pillars could form a gateway as well as any other crown.

A glow still rimmed the western horizon, but she caught the Guivre’s Eye as it peered over the northeastern rim of the world and wove its thread into warp. She anchored the gate on the Healer’s outstretched arm, rising out of the southeast. Behind her, the disciplas who would learn to do this watched and measured. She had twelve so far, but more would come and more would be born. Eagles were brave souls, and tough messengers, but phoenix could bridge vast distances as long as they had the means and the knowledge to waken the crowns.

A gate flowered over the altar stone.

Her sight had grown keener since the cataclysm, and the current of aether was gaining strength, an upwelling out of the heart of the universe. A road paved with blue fire led straight into the uttermost east, held open briefly by this conjunction of stars. There, as down a long corridor sparkling with light, a veiled Sorgatani waited for the messengers who would come to her.

But there are many roads and many turnings. Sometimes we choose the path we walk on, and sometimes other forces compel our feet onto an unexpected track. Not everything happens according to our will, but neither are we slaves to the law, mere instruments of the mover.

Here we wander in a vast weaving whose twists and turns are like a palace of coils where windows reconnoiter both past and future, a sight denied to mortal kind. Only the daimones who bide above the moon can see in all directions.

We are not the only ones walking the paths.

The goblins hammer in their halls of iron. In the depths, the merfolk excrete a substance that they shape into buildings like pearls, while far above them a slender dragon boat cuts the swells of the Middle Sea. There is Secha, studying an astrolabe!

The path takes a sharp turn. A lion pauses in rocky desert flatlands and looks back, except it is not a lion—it has the torso of a woman—and when it sees her, it spins and pounces, only to vanish in a rush of wings as a pair of golden dragons washes the many threads into ripples of light as they land on a nest cupped into a hollow of hot sand.