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“The Dariyan astronomers called the Rose Star by the name Aturna, the Red Mage. It is a lesser light than the Blood Star but of a truer cast. Aturna is one of the traveling stars, also known as the erratica, or planets. It rules the seventh sphere, whose upper surface is tangent to the orb of the fixed stars beyond which lies the Chamber of Light. Its lower surface is tangent to the sixth sphere, that ruled by the planet Mok. Aturna takes twenty-eight years to travel along the path of the twelve Houses of Night.”
They stood in the clearing, trees below, the rocky verge of the hill above. The grass, growing hard now that spring had come, reached their knees. Behind, on a level terrace of ground, the cottage sat dark but for a faint red glow, the hearth fire glimpsed through the open door and window. It was a perfect night for viewing: There was not a trace of cloud in the sky.
“Name the seven spheres and their order,” said Da.
“The sphere closest to the Earth is that of the Moon. The second is that of the planet Erekes, and the third is that of the planet Somorhas, also known as the Lady of Light. Fourth is the sphere of the Sun. Then comes the fifth sphere, which is ruled by the planet Jedu, the Angel of War. The sixth sphere is ruled by Mok, and the seventh—and last—by Aturna. Beyond Aturna lies the field of stars each of which is a fire burning bright before the Chamber of Light.”
“And the seven ladders known to the mages, by which the learned can ascend as if through the seven spheres to the place of wisdom and mastery?” He turned over the book he held in his hands but did not open it. Three partridges, shot by Liath, hung on a line from his shoulder. They had been out hunting and came back late, but since they always—always—carried book and astrolabe with them, they could observe the heavens anywhere.
Liath hesitated, shifting bow and quiver on her back. This knowledge was new. She and Da had traced out the stars, fixed and traveling, since she was old enough to point at the heavens. But only last month had he suddenly begun to teach her the secret lore of mages. Last month, on the feast day of St. Oya, saint of mysteries and secrets, he had remembered—as if the turning wheel of the stars in the heavens and the progress of days on the Earth had taken a sudden, unexpected forward leap—that she would turn sixteen on the spring equinox, first day of the new year. St. Oya’s Day was indeed an auspicious day for a girl to have her first woman’s bleeding, and Da had taken her down to the inn for the traditional celebration.
Liath had enjoyed the feast and the songs, but she had felt no different except for the changes in her body. But ever since St. Oya’s Day Da treated her differently: He made her read and recite and memorize at a furious pace, like heaping wood on a fire and expecting it to blaze brighter and hotter.
Yesterday, by the reckoning of days and years she had learned at Da’s knee, had been the first day of the new year. She had turned sixteen. And this year when she and Da had gone to the village church for the celebration of Mariansmass—the name the church gave to the day of the spring equinox—she had sung in the congregation as a young woman, no longer as a girl at the children’s benches.
“Liath?” Da waited.
She bit at her lip, wanting to get it perfect because she hated to disappoint him. She took a breath and spoke in the singsong voice she always used when she first memorized the words and sequences her father taught her.
“By this ladder the mage ascends:
First to the rose, whose touch is healing.
Then to the sword, which grants us strength.
Third is the cup of boundless waters.
Fourth is the blacksmith’s ring of fire.
The throne of virtue follows fifth.
Wisdom’s scepter marks the sixth.
At the highest rung seek the crown of stars,
The song of power revealed.”
“Very good, Liath. Tonight we’ll continue our measurements of the ecliptic. Where is the astrolabe?”
The instrument dangled by its ring from her thumb. She lifted her arm out straight before her and sighted on the delicate cluster of stars called “the Crown,” now descending into the west. It was so clear this night that perhaps she could see the seventh “jewel” in the crown of stars; usually only six were visible, but she had keen enough sight that she could sometimes make out the seventh. She was about to calculate the altitude and rotate the brass rete when a movement caught her eye. An owl took flight from a tree on the edge of the clearing. She followed the bird with her gaze, up, its wings pale against the night lit only by stars and a crescent moon. And there, low in the east—
“Look, Da! No, there. In the Dragon. I’ve never seen that star before, and it’s not one of the planets. All the other stars are in their rightful places.”
He peered into the sky. His eyes were no longer as keen as hers, but after a moment he saw it: a star out of place in the constellation of the Dragon, Sixth House in the Great Circle, the world dragon that bound the heavens. It was of middling brightness, although even as Liath stared she thought it grew brighter; the light it cast wavered as if it were throwing off sparks.
“Lady’s Blood,” Da swore. He shivered, although it was warm for a spring night. A white shape swooped past them. The owl struck not ten paces from them, and when it rose, it bore aloft a small, struggling shape in its claws. “So descends the greater upon the smaller. Let’s go inside, daughter.”
“But, Da, shouldn’t we measure its position? Shouldn’t we observe it? It must be a sign from the heavens. Perhaps it’s an angel come down into the lower spheres!”
“No, child!” He pulled his cloak tight and turned his face deliberately away from the sky. His shoulders shook. “We must go in.”
Clutching the astrolabe, she bit back a retort and followed him meekly inside their cottage. It was really too warm inside, with a fire still roaring in the hearth. But the fire always roared, and Da was often cold. She remembered being a little girl, when he could with a single gesture call butterflies of rainbow light into being for her to chase through the herb garden. All that—if they were true memories and not illusions brought into being by her own desire—had died with her mother. All she had left were memories clouded by the years and by the endless miles they had journeyed, across the sea, over mountains, through new lands and strange towns. That, and a fire always burning in the hearth.
He barred the door behind them and suddenly bent over, racked by coughs. Recovering, he placed the book on the table and threw his cloak onto the bench. Went at once and poured himself ale.
“Da,” she said, hating to see him this way, but he only took another draught. To her horror, his hands shook. “Da, sit down.”
He sat. She set the astrolabe on the shelf, rested bow and quiver in the corner, and hung the partridges from the rafters. Placing a log on the fire, she turned to watch her father. As she shifted, the plank floor creaked under her feet. It was such a bare room. She remembered richer, but that was long ago. Tapestries, carved benches, a real chair, a long hall, and wine served from a pitcher of glass. They had built this little cottage themselves, dug out the ground, driven posts in, sawed planks from felled logs and set that planking over the cellar, caulked the log walls with mud and straw. It was rough but serviceable. Besides the table and bench that doubled as their clothes chest, there was only her father’s bed in the darkest corner and their one luxury—a walnut shelf, the wood polished until it shone, its surface carved with a pattern of gripping beasts curling down the sides, their eyes painted red.
