The Star-singer II
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Lines in a void, luminous though it, illuminated nothing but itself. The script was unintelligible, shifting, warping, changing hues on a whim, obeying no rules. It had no reason to be. It just was.
“I do not understand.”
Where had the voice come from? The timbre was faintly recognizable. A faded memory that clung to the mind like a revenant refusing to be forgotten but incapable of elaborating.
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The script morphed into something new, something approaching comprehensive language. It was rough and lacked grace, like a child learning their letters for the first time.
“I do not understand.” She said, pleading to the darkness.
Here and there, it snaked its way across the infinite expanse of nothing, leaving stars in its wake. They blinked into life and moved into place. Constellations. She was looking at constellations!
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She saw The Twins, standing vigilant on their eternal watch, guarding The Gate. With its gaping maw, The Dragon awaited those who dared to challenge its dominion over the sky. The Fleeing Maiden, whose torn dress left a trail for The Hunter to pursue. And lastly, The Pilgrim, arms outstretched towards the heavens, prepared for God’s embrace.
She knew these things. Their lore and knowledge lived within her. A frame of reference had been provided, and at the moment, the script held meaning.
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Madalynn awoke slowly, her vision hazy, her senses sluggish. Her ears felt just as unfocused as her sight. A pair of hushed voices were talking amongst themselves, and the sound of wood crackling in the hearth complemented the conversation. The topic of discussion was unknown, but judging by her condition, it was most likely about herself. What were they saying?
“There is no trauma to her head. Her heart beats, and she still draws breath, but I cannot do much more. We have leeched her and given her potions, but her soul appears to have wandered somewhere we can not follow.”
“Unacceptable. Her time is yet to come. It will not be like this, or you shall follow her departure from this mortal coil.”
“We will continue our treatments, but-”
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A dry, strenuous cough pierced through the hushed voices, putting the conversation to a much-needed end. There would be no more haggling over the life of an old woman, not while she still had a mind to say something about it. Madalynn clutched the ends of the quilt that enveloped her body. They were warm but cumbersome, and it felt like a cat or small dog sat upon her chest.
“Mother!” Baetriz said, her typical stoic demeanor slipping for but a moment.
Her daughter rushed to meet her, grabbing Madalynn’s arm and helping her sit up. Madalynn coughed once more before speaking.
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“How long?” Madalynn said, her voice gruff and dry.
“No more than a few hours, my lady. It was as if you were asleep,” The Apothecary stated with a matter-of-fact tone.
“Fetch her some water.” Commanded Baetriz.
The Apothecary bowed, red robes folding in a cloth pool at his feet, then was off.
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Baetriz made to sit beside her aged mother, ringing out a small towel soaking in a bowl beside the bed. The wooden nightstand that held the bowl greedily drank up the droplets of water that fell from the towel. Madalynn licked her cracked lips and tasted blood. The Apothecary returned, flagon in hand. Baetriz snatched it from him and poured her mother a glass of water. Madalynn drank it all in just moments asking for another. Once she felt her tongue no longer sticking to the roof of her mouth, she was prepared to engage with those around her.
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“What of the Temple?”
“The east-facing window is shattered. Apart from that, no more damage has been noticed.” The Apothecary said.
Madalynn made the sign of the Yosifien Cross, uttering a quick prayer at the news. Baetriz placed the warm towel on her brow. The water had grown lukewarm since they last brought it. Madalynn pushed it away, suddenly agitated by her daughter's constant caretaking. She needed a moment to think, to breathe, to remember.
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“Baetriz, Holy Mother of the Tree, please cease this constant barrage. I can not think!”
Baetriz halted, her face a mask. She rose, one hand on her swollen belly and the other on the mattress to steady her rise.
“As you wish. I will leave you in the care of Medico Dúlmonic. I have to oversee the final touches for the Gathering. Be well, Mother.” Baetriz said with no warmth.
She left in such haste that her dress sounded like a flag whipping to and fro in a storm.
The Apothecary said nothing, hardly looking up from his flasks.
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Madalynn had a vision. Yet it was unlike any she had had before. In the typical tradition of Star-singing, one could sing to them, and if they so felt, a vision of the future was granted. The clarity of which depended on the number of singers participating and the choir's skill as a whole. Few could garner a clear vision with their voice alone. However, Madalynn was one such. The images would appear as faded memories or disjointed dreams, a series of visuals, often lacking context or even sounds to accompany what was being seen.
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Conversely, the greatest of these could appear as natural as waking life. If one had the skill but lacked the discipline, it was not unheard of for singers or even whole choirs to end up mad, lost in a world that had yet to pass. Yet what she had seen, the luminous script, the constellations, these were not visions nor DreamSpeak. This was something novel. Something yet unseen or experienced by her, and it scared her. Something was calling out to her.
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She failed to retain what she had read in that mystical void. All that was left was a feeling, a fleeting sensation akin to waking from a nightmare only to have the events turn to mist, with the only evidence of it having happened as a lasting impression of terror. The ambiguity of the premonition was simply unacceptable. Madalynn required answers.
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“Library.” The word came out as a whisper so faint Medico Dúlmonic lifted his eyes from his work, unsure if he had heard anything.
“My Lady, did you say something?”
“Library.” Her response was curt.
Madalynn pulled the quilt and sheets off of her. They had stripped her down to nothing but her nightgown.
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“I require a change of clothing. Send for my handmaids at once, Dúlmonic.”
“My lady, you are still too weak to,”
Madalynn cut him off, weaving a spell into her speech to emphasize the volume of her voice.
“I am NOT in the habit of repeating myself, Medico! Handmaidens, NOW!”
Dúlmonic left at once with no further protest. She stumbled out of bed, breathless and haggard. The minor enchantment had worn her out considerably. ‘The apothecary speaks true. I am still too weak.’ Yet she must needs go to the library to find the answers she sought.
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They had dressed her in a long, flowing sky blue and cream-white gown with cuffs and trims embroidered using silver thread. The shawl draped over her shoulders was an earthen brown, lined with alpaca wool on the underside to stave off the cold and keep in the warmth. Madalynn would need it for where she was going. The library resided in one of the Keep's undercrofts carved into the mountain's body. During the warmers seasons, they were cool and quite pleasant but held a frigid bite this time of year.
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“Does my lady require assistance to the library?” A young handmaid asked.
“No, dear. However, you can tell the Keeper to prepare the hearth for my arrival. I do not wish to do my reading in the cold.”
“At once, my lady.”
The youngling hurried away, soon vanishing from sight. It would take the old woman some time to go down the flight of steps and through the various halls before even entering the wing that held the undercroft.
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Daylight cast through frosted windows made opaque by the morning's chill. It diffused the sun's rays and scattered the yellow light throughout the hall, illuminating all. ‘How good it feels to bask in the light again.’ In the void, there was no true light. Sure, the stars and script illuminated themselves but radiated no warmth. They were inert, dead things. Facsimiles of the Aether and human language. A copy without understanding, or so that was her instinctual comprehension. Madalynn hoped there would be a slab, scroll, or tome that would either confirm her suspicions or provide further context.
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“Abúla! Wait!” A voice shouted from behind Madalynn down the hall.
She turned to meet the speaker and saw that it was Najara. Her granddaughter rushed toward her, both hands full of her skirts.
“Medico Dúlmonic said you left in haste. You should be abed, resting, and saving your strength.” Najara said through shallow breaths.
“Medico Dúlmonic is wise in the matters of the body but not the soul. He can not provide aid for what truly ails me, child.”
“Abúla, what do you mean?” Najara said. She grabbed ahold of her arm gently but with a firm grip. The child was clearly distressed.
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Madalynn ceased walking, looking into the eyes of her granddaughter. They were big, brown, and glossy, tears brimming at the corners threatening to spill over at any moment. ‘She thinks me mad, the poor child.’
“Najara, dear. I do apologize. I know you worry.” Madalynn said. She took Najara’s hand into her own and kissed it. “I feel well enough to move. I-”
“What happened?” Najara said, “The stained glass was shattered, shards scattered everywhere. Lucynda said you were singing. To whom?”
“Lucynda cannot tell a star song from a hymn. The child performs her duties well but lacks wit.”
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Najara’s grip tightened, her eyes wide. ‘The girl knows I lie.’ With a small laugh, Madalynn kissed her hand again and said, “I was praying, is all. The wind rose, and something must have crashed into the window. It frightened me so greatly that I fell over.”
Najara’s grip loosened, falling for the falsehood or perhaps purposefully deceiving herself into believing in the blatant lie. Madalynn could not tell which. Her granddaughter looked down, tears falling atop the old woman's wrinkled hands.
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“I was like one of those goats, you remember, don’t you, sweetling?” Madalynn said, looking down and searching for Najara’s eyes. She smiled and continued. “Oh, how they would fall over stiff if you frightened them. Even a poorly timed hello would have them toppling over the silly little creatures. I'm old, my dear, but I am well. Even Dúlmonic can confirm I took no harm to my person.”
Her granddaughter looked up, eyes wet from crying but fierce. Something was burning within her.
“What did you see?” Najara asked her question cutting through pretense.
‘Clever girl.’ Madalynn let go of her grandaughter's hand.
“A vision and then….” The words came out slowly “....Then I am not sure. Yet I believe I have been contacted. I must go to the library and seek the wisdom of my betters.”
“Contacted? By whom? Was it DreamSpeak?” Najara asked, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief she kept in the fold of her belt.
‘Was it Dream-Speak?’ Madalynn experienced three premonitions consecutively the day before.
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DreamSpeak would only account for the last of them if it had been employed.
“These are questions I wish I had answers to. Yet the only way for me to do so is by consulting the library.”
“Then I will assist you. If you can guide me on-”
Madalynn cut her off.
“I can not, though I wish I could, sweetling. Out of all peoples in this castle, I trust you most in the matters of the Great Mysteries. Yet this is a quest of mine own. Go about your day, attend to what needs attending to. I will be fine. And once I have answers, I promise you will be the first to know.”
“Promise?” Najara asked, her voice low, almost a whisper.
Madalynn said nothing but embraced her only true grandchild, planting a kiss upon her brow.
“Now go, sweetling. I shall see you for supper tonight.”
Najara returned the kiss in kind and left.
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Pine logs crackled over the blaze in the hearth, filling the undercroft with warmth and the smell of nature. The Keeper, a middle-aged, bald, almond-skinned man with proud brown eyes, stood by the entrance as still as a statue. The library seldom had visitors, yet The Keeper maintained the place all the same. The shelves were dusted frequently, the tables seen too almost daily, and the various slabs, scrolls, and books expertly conserved. There was pride behind his work, which showed through the undercroft's condition.
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Madalynn had a trove of documents set out before her now, unsure of where to begin. A book bound in a leather hide dyed red opened to a page about constellations, and the hymns associated with them seemed a suitable place to start. Several papyrus scrolls lay flat against the dark mahogany table. All bearing ancient ritualistic sigils painted across the surface. Perhaps the power they held would aid in her attempt at deciphering the indecipherable. Beyond both scroll and tome, splayed in a row, lay three small stone slabs that possessed esoteric knowledge written down in some language of a bygone age.
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In her youth, she was made to study and learn such letters, but the years dulled her abilities considerably, and if she was going to consult them, they would have to come last. She settled for the book, pulled it closer, and leaned in to read the page. 123Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDtWCus3vef
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The Pilgrim sits in the east and is bordered
by The Gate to the northeast, The Hunter
to the southeast, The Dragon to the south,
The Twins to the north, and The Fleeing
Maiden to the northwest. Covering 602
square degrees, The Pilgrim is amongst the
largest of the 97 constellations.
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She skimmed the blurb, already aware of the knowledge therein. Flipping the page, Madalynn came across an illustration of The Pilgrim, painted in hues of greens and blues and black. Skimming the rest of the pages, it became clear that she would find no answers in a tome full of novice wisdom. She closed the book, the thud echoing across the undercroft. The Keeper broke his motionless vigil to peer at the old woman, more concerned with his books than her.
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Reaching for a papyrus scroll, the page whispered along the table's wood, and The Keeper once again peered over. ‘He’s more vigilant than the guards who patrol throughout the Keep.’ Madalynn raised the scroll, looking back at the Keeper to assure him his treasures were being handled carefully. He gave a slight nod and went back to his statuesque position.
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The scroll held several depictions of Ritual Sigils, circles of power that called back to the days of yore when magic was young and immensely influential in the world. Though The Mysteries still swayed the course of men's lives and the fate of nations, especially the art of divination, it was a shadow of what it once was and could be. As to why the torrent of mystical energies slowed to a babbling brook, none could say, though many held their own notions. And these scrolls imbued with the ancient wisdom of yesterdays would shed no light on an enigma such as that.
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She started at the top of the scroll, attempting to read the first description. It was in an archaic form of Stoyish, one that held little influence from Úntaerese and none from Tuyatec, the language of the people native to these lands. It took some time for her eyes to adjust, but the reading went along once she did. The first passage spoke of the powers the Sigils possessed and the stars associated with them. It provided instructions on the hymns that should be sung, the time of day one should perform the incantation, and in which direction the Spellcaster should face. Some required even more than a magic circle and song. Some rituals required the spilling of blood.
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The powers of the Mystical arts were inherently ingrained in the blood of all living things and could be used as reimbursement in exchange for power and hidden knowledge. Madalynn licked her lips. Wicked and abnormal though it may be, she could not deny the opportunity these rituals held. Such incantations were dark, eldritch crafts that no woman of God should trifle with. She flung the scroll aside, disgusted by the methods of spell-weaving required and her temptation.
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Reaching for the other, this scroll was still rolled, lightly tied with thin yarn. The ticket dangling off the side read, “Luz Nobrus y Ubona del Seres Arternu,” which translated to “The Names and Locations of Eternal Beings,” in modern Stoyish. Her hand grew slick with sweat, and her heart thumped hard within her, blood rushing to her head, causing a wooshing sound in her ears. Her tongue went limp and numb in her mouth. Would this cast a light in the shadow of her ignorance? 123Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdEt8GlCxI7
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The string slipped off quickly. Unrolling the papyrus, she saw a myriad of pictographs, each one more deranged and absurd than the next. A writhing mass of tendrils was drawn in red ink, reaching out blindly in all directions. The Blood Worms of Külthos read the description; under that, it’s Sigil of power. The Jabbering Yoggiths of Pleaaldrez read another; next to that, The Consecrated Molder of Kadáth. Each had a pictogram, a mound of gaping maws and gnashing teeth, and a multi-limbed abomination with arms uncannily human-like, respectively. The list went on, Quazym of Bui, The Nine Sisters of Akahloña, The Brute from Olkibeth, The Bastard God of Archoncor, and on and on it went. A list of horrors without end.
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The words, the sigils, and the grotesque pictograms pulled Madalynn in as a whirlpool might to a ship. The page's dimensions were naught but a suggestion as the text grew. Hundreds, thousands, millions of words spreading ad infimum until Madalynns vision became a whirlwind of black and red ink, losing herself in a world of ancient lore. Her muscles stiffened when she tried to sit upright, her lower back cramping. The text had ensnared her gaze, holding her hostage. The symbols flashing before her now were unrelenting, changing, morphing, and scrolling past faster than a diving falcon.
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Something was coming. Madalynn could sense its approach as a bird discerns the coming of an earthquake or like a fox growing hysterical at the advance of some natural disaster. She was a horse wild and frothing from the mouth at the sight of fire. Some malediction was en route, and she could not stop its advancement.
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The old woman placed her hands on the lip of the table, her arms shaking from the effort, attempting to break free and failing. She wanted to scream, but when she opened her mouth, all that came through was a pitiful croak. Breathing became taxing, moving laborious, and even blinking was an arduous task. Just when she thought her fate would be written upon the face of the scroll itself, a voice broke through the madness.
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Madalynn jolted from her chair, retreating from the scroll as if the papyrus were a mountain lion baring its teeth and her a lone hare, wide-eyed and dumb with fright. She looked up at the Keeper, back down to the scroll, and then back at the Keeper, slack-jawed and stupid. His typical stern countenance was replaced with abject concern. He held out a hand as if she were the lion and him the tamer. ‘Fool, can he not see I am not the danger here!’ She pointed at the scroll, still unable to form words. The Keeper looked at the page and then slowly back at Madalynn. His demeanor remained unchanged.
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Could he not see? Was he blind to the veritable cyclone of words and symbols rushing to and fro about the page? She turned away from him, stifling a slap, and approached the scroll. Beads of sweat trickled down her wrinkled features, and her mouth felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton. Each step felt like a singular note of some frightful dirge.
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Standing over it now, it looked like an ordinary thing. Yellowed from age and dry as a desert. It, in fact, was not changing or morphing or even displaying any signs of mystical trickery as before. All that showed on the face of the scroll were the pictographs, sigils, and text. It looked exactly as it did before, except for one detail. At the bottom was a line of text that had not been there before.
“Where lies mine estranged kin, Wisdom hast ten-thousand eyes.” Madalynn read the words aloud.
She knew these words. They hung in the air like a foul smell. Even the Keeper wrinkled up his face, bewilderment treading across his features. There they stood in silence. The only sound was the wood popping from the blaze inside the hearth.
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“Lady Madalynn, the Wisemasters have arrived. They seek an audience.” The Keeper said in hushed tones.
“What? What time is it? Who are you?” Madalynn said, backing away from the man. Her eyes widened, scanning her environment as if it were her first time there.
“What place is this? Who are you?” Madalynn said again, backing away further.
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The Keeper kept his distance, his voice a soothing salve.
“I am Furnandé, The Keeper of the Books. You are in the library, and the hour is late.”
What library? She knew no library. As a matter of fact, she knew no Furnandé either. This place, his face was all strange to her.
“Where is Baetriz? Where is my little girl? Who are you really?” Madalynn shouted, agitated by the man's deception.
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The Keeper took one step forward, both hands raised, and said, “I am but a humble servant. Do you wish me to fetch your daughter, my lady?” He bowed low and deep.
She leered at him suspiciously before answering.
“At once. Go! Go now!”
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The Keeper fled from the undercroft, leaving Madalynn alone, afraid and confused.
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