The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling by Roberto Calas Page A

Whitewind’s voice
sounded small and flat.
    Maribrae, awake by only the thinnest
of threads, stirred and mumbled. “You are the blazing star of my heavens.”
    It always surprised Jastyn that she
could speak like this even at the edge of sleep. The layer of poetry that
surrounded her rarely fell away.
    “A star,” he said in the monotone of
impending sleep. “That’s the right of it. I am nothing but …” He wasn’t at
Maribrae’s level, he had to search for the correct words. “I am nothing but a
distant star, a winking light in the distance … something interesting to look
at, but providing nothing, doing nothing. Being nothing. What will be my title
when I am dead? Jastyn the Irrelevant.” He let the words rest in the silks for
a time, considering them. “If I were a candle, I could give light to those in
the darkness. I could … I could bring day to the night. Even a touch of heat. I
could re-light the hearth fire, illuminate a room, help magicians reach great
heights. But a star … a star does nothing. Is nothing. Can do nothing.”
    Maribrae’s hand found his and she
sighed, forcing herself away from the banks of sleep, fighting the panic that
rattled her heart when Jastyn spoke like this. “Fuel of my heart’s fire. You
are the brilliant Western Star. Everyone who looks upon you knows where they
are by your greatness. Your shining example is a guide to peasants and kings
alike.” Jastyn smiled and nudged her playfully. She continued. “The world would
grow colder and darker without Jastyn Whitewind.”  She draped her arm across
the firmness of his chest. “What is a candle, that can be destroyed by breath
or gust? That relies on the frailest patch of wax and thread to live? Even a
distant star blazes eternal, outstaying mountains and civilizations. A candle
brings light to naught but a tiny corner. A star gives its light to the world.”
She kissed his ear gently. “Do they not say that stars are the lanterns of
Eleyria? Do not the immortals hold these aloft to lend light to Blythwynn’s
vigilance?” She rose from the bed, parting the silk canopy and taking his hand.
“Come my love.”
    The two walked across the floor of
the tower, the stones still warm from the dying hearth fire, the faint light
from the sconced candles casting an orange hue on their naked bodies. They
passed the wafting wall hangings depicting the heroes of myth that Jastyn
adored. Past a tapestry of Roebi and Ynnebelle, legendary lovers of Laraytia’s
past. Past wooden plates bearing the images of The Forgotten Heroes and the
Raging Eight. She brought him to the unglazed window, out onto the meager
ledge. There were few lamps or torches on this side of the castle, so on that
clear spring night the sky was absolutely powdered with stars. The moon,
Blythwynn’s Eye, was a smudge in the southern skies.
    “Stare upwards,” she whispered.
“Ignore everything but the canopy above.”
    He stared upward, distractedly at
first, longing for the warmth of his bed. He gazed at the familiar
constellations. The Spike. The Witch. Homunculus. He knew each of the immortals
that made up the points of each constellation. They were as familiar as his
room, or his armor. As familiar as the woman at his side. The peppering of
stars so similar to the dappling of freckles across her body, her face.
    But as he gazed at the dark roof of
the world, he noted new details in those old stars. Shapes and subtleties that
he had never seen, or had seen once and forgotten. Stars that were not
immediately visible appeared. Like tiny forest creatures that peek out
when observers are still and silent.
    He noted the beautiful chalky veil.
The faint smudges and specks that grew brighter when examined, that made the
enormity of the night sky seem even larger, infinitely layered. It was endless.
One could disappear among those stars, lost in a stormy sea of light and
darkness. Murdered by the magnificent beauty, by the mystery and complexity of
it all.