Pearl of the Stars

A flap of startled wings and the sound of a croaking toad echoed around her as Violet stooped to lay the worn bundle of plants and wrinkled flowers atop Bartha's grave. She stayed there, like that, looking down at the flat unmarked rock. A rock that could easily be mistaken as any normal rock.

Sweeping her hair from her eyes, Violet thought back on the memory of Bartha's old wheezy laughter. And then the twinkle the witch would get in her eyes when she knew a secret, the way her gnarled hands expertly weaved a strand of dried onion-grass. The memories were painful, because they were the only ones Violet would ever have of Bartha. Letting out a sigh, she stood from her devout kneeling and stepped a few paces backwards, away from the grave. Away from where Bartha's marred body lay hidden among the muck of the marsh.

No tears escaped her eyes, but Violet had never been more miserable in her entire life than at that very moment. Because as she glanced back at the unmarked grave of Bartha, and then at the empty marsh around her, she realized that she was all alone.

It was early morning, the first rays of soft sunlight just beginning to poke their way through the leafy canopy above. Violet stared at the faint glimmers of light, clutching the crusty blood-stained dagger in her hand. The hilt of the treacherous weapon dug into her fingers, leaving them white and numb.

Within the single pocket of her apron lay the large cotzu feather, the thing that chained her to this newly haunted home in the marshes. It was as if her feelings and opinions had been flipped upside down, and then stomped into the mud. It was not safe to dwell in the place of a murder. She knew who had done it. Violet gripped the dagger even tighter as she thought of his face, his cold gray eyes and unkempt hair. The peasant boy that aroused too many mysteries to count, uncovering the knowledge of their secrets. Bartha had known too much.

As Violet entered the house once again, she laid the cotzu feather carefully on the table, arranging it perfectly. Like a welcoming gift. And then she closed her eyes shut tightly, slamming the tainted dagger into thick wood. Her fingers grew even more numb as she pulled them away, opening her eyes to find the dagger stuck deep in the table, leaning to the side as if it were offering an unsure little smile. She was returning it to him.

Violet left the room without any second thoughts, slinging her prepared sack across her back. She began to walk into the depths of the boggy marsh, her boots squelching and whimpering against muddy foliage. Her eyes had a glossy hard look to them, as if they were crafted of pearls, and her lips were pressed firm with determination.

She glanced back only once to say goodbye to everything she had ever known. Violet knew that she would not make it back alive, and she would not come back either way. Without Bartha, her home was already gone.

The mist of the marsh hissed at Violet and the branches swooped down around her, but she did not feel threatened. She felt safe. All around her lay the lands that few traveled. The very path she was taking may not have ever met the careful steps of a human before. The thought intrigued her, distracted her. But soon, the trees began to thin and Violet could make out a tiny curl of smoke in the distance.

A'dak lay a few miles ahead, the city that some considered the darkest of all places that rested in The Land of Night. Violet did not know whether the distant trail of smoke was from a fireplace or a bonfire, but it managed to place a knot of nervous emotion within her stomach nevertheless. A'dak was a dangerous city that Violet had visited only once, a long time ago. She remembered clutching Bartha's wrinkled hand as they made their way to the cold-stoned house of Ysmay, a very powerful witch. Bartha seemed to enjoy Ysmay's company at the time, all those years ago, and Violet could remember Ysmay's warm smile. The young witch would surely help her now, when Violet had no one else to turn to.

The curl of hazy smoke grew larger as the hours droned on, and the rays of sunlight grew larger as well, making Violet's hair stick to her neck with sweat. The marshes became very humid near midday. Swarms of bugs gathered around her flesh and the boggy air turned Violet's breath shallow.

But, at last, she reached the borders of A'dak. These borders were marked as tiny houses, stretching all along a crumbled wall. All those years ago, Bartha told her that the very same wall had once been tall and majestic, but now it lay in ruins. Violet now stood at the top of a long, slanted hill, that swooped down to blend into the colors of dark shadow and charred stone. The city itself looked eerie, and was strangely silent. Violet walked slowly down the hill, cherishing the few breaths of sweet meadow air before it turned stale with evil and death.

As she reached a particularly low section of the blackened wall, Violet stood atop the tips of her toes and peered over to look into the city beyond. But the long stretches of wooden houses and winding walls did not look as if they made up a city at all. It was a ghost town.

Everything was damaged by fire, some of the homes leaning to the side and others with half-missing roofs. Violet caught a few shadows flickering in the midst of the city, in the distance, as if people were moving along in the shadows slowly. But the thing that struck her as most odd, was the heavy veil of darkness. In the meadow outside these borders, there was a steady glow of sunlight, but here... there was only night.

Slinging her sack up onto the wall, and then her leg, Violet hoisted herself over the thick jagged stone and fell a few feet to land on the ground below. Everything there was ashen and blurry, as if a large but invisible cloud of dark magic hung over the entire city permanently.

As soon as her sack was back in place against her shoulder, Violet found herself staring at the source of the curling trail of smoke she had been following earlier. There, a few ruined houses and piles of rubble down, lay a giant fountain. But instead of crystal water, this fountain spurted up gusts of thick smoke. Violet became transfixed by the mysterious structure, automatically walking towards it.

Could this be the doings of magic? Violet wondered to herself, reaching out a hand as if to touch the engraved stone of the fountain.

“Get away from there!” Came a muffled shriek, and then a cough. Violet's head quickly turned to stare into the shadows, her eyes meeting with those of an old woman. “Stay away from there, child!” The hag shouted again, her white hair blowing in a sudden breeze, along with a battered black cloak that hung around her wide shoulders. She gestured wildly with a short, gnarled cane for Violet to step away from the fountain.

Violet obliged, tripping a few paces back before running away from the frightening old woman. Her feet carried her farther into the city, farther into the smoky darkness and crumbling homes. Her eyes quickly scanned each house, trying to find one that met a place in her memory. But none seemed to remind her of Ysmay and her warm smile. How could a smile have been warm in such a place? Violet did not remember the city being so destroyed and eerie as this.

Perhaps much had changed throughout those few years.

As Violet quickly rounded another corner, a short scream echoed from her lips and she stumbled. She had come face-to-face with the old hag again. Impossible. “Get away from here!” The mad woman shrieked a second time, her pale eyes rolling backwards slightly.

Violet gathered as much courage as she could, before stepping a bit closer to the old and frail lady. “I will, I promise,” she spoke softly. “But can you please direct me to the house of Ysmay, the witch?”

The hag opened her mouth wide, as if to let out another shriek, but slowly lifted her bony arm to point to the house at the very end of the stone passageway. Violet looked at the tiny house, nestled into the stone. It did not appear to be familiar at all. She glanced back to ask the hag another question, but the old woman had disappeared. Violet felt the first black wave of fear lap against the shores of her mind, but she hurried to push it aside, and anxiously began to step towards the tiny house in the shadows.

The farther along she got in the narrow passageway, the more the air seemed to press down upon her; choke her. As she approached the front of the unstable house, the air suffocated her from every side.

Three knocks on the bolted door, and nothing stirred. Another three knocks... still nothing. After five more knocks, there was an irritated shout from inside. “Let us be, you vipers! We have no spare bread!”

Violet cleared her throat, getting ready to yell a reply to the person inside, when the door swung open suddenly. A long creak and then a steady groan echoed as the door's rusty hinges crushed against each other. The face of a middle-aged man peered out, decorated with murky filth and an untamed beard. Violet could see that this was not the home of Ysmay after all. “What do you want, gal?” His voice was angered and rough, but still handsome in a strange, distant sort of way.

Violet swallowed nervously. “Do you happen to know where Ysmay the witch lives, sir?”

The man's expression altered. He came close to smiling, Violet could tell by his eyes, but his lips refused to move. “Why yes, I do. She's my wife. What business to you have with her?” The bearded man let the door creak and groan open a bit farther as he stared down at her suspiciously. The choking tension slowly began to edge away from Violet, and she felt the courage slowly come back to her. The bravery she normally felt when in a trying situation such as this.

“I... I've come to inform her of the death of a good friend,” she said slowly, carefully, testing each word. Her heart tightened at the thought of Bartha and death together, but she tried to ward the tears away.

“Not another one,” the man muttered to himself, before looking back at Violet suspiciously again. “And what is the name of this close friend?”

“Bartha,” Violet said quickly. “Bartha the witch. She lives... lived on the edge of Felbourne, in the great marshes.”

The man's eyes narrowed, but he pulled the protesting door open even farther, stepping aside to let Violet pass through. She hesitantly entered the dark room. The sound of the noisy door clanging shut behind them thudded dully against her eardrums. But as she carefully stepped farther into the room, Violet saw that it was not so dark inside as she thought.

A lighted lantern sat solemnly at the edge of a carved table, its yellow flames flickering as if they were dancing a wild lament. In one corner, a chestnut cabinet sat and gathered dust. In another corner, there was a once-beautiful violin leaning against the wall. And in the very back of the room, there were many barrels flowing with smelly food and unclean water. Pulled up against these barrels, was a thin bed. And lying in this bed was the sickly body of a woman that looked only vaguely and almost indescribably familiar.

“Who is this, Geoffrey?” A weak voice came drifting over from the bed.

“I don't know,” the man named Geoffrey answered her. “But she's saying that a friend of yours has gone and passed. Bartha, was the name, I believe.” Geoffrey glanced at Violet, as if expecting some sort of assurance.

The woman on the bed sighed, her head rolling to the side so that she could take a look at Violet. “Ah, the you must be the little girl Bartha brought to see me that once. I can see you're almost all grown out now. Such a shame. I knew that ancient woman would have to go someday, though, I suppose.” Her voice was light and blank.

Violet was speechless for a few moments, trying to take it all in. She did not expect Ysmay, such a powerful witch, to be bedridden. And she, at the least, expected Ysmay to understand. “But, alas, it was not a natural death!” Violet cried, her voice filled with passion. “My dear Bartha was murdered. I came here for your help, Ysmay, I have no one else to turn to.”

Ysmay tried to prop herself up farther on the thin pillow, but her body failed her. She groaned, before looking up at Violet and then at Geoffrey. “Murdered... curious,” she whispered to herself. “Did you by any chance manage to discover what the weapon was?”

“Yes! It was a dagger, with a strange design on the hilt... like a sharp-pointed star laced with the wings of some creature.” Violet edged closer to Ysmay, hope shining in her eyes. Perhaps the witch would be able to help her after all.

Ysmay frowned. “So you saw the weapon, then? If only I could have examined it... the symbol does sound mysteriously familiar. And the killer must have been an experienced assassin. Bartha was clever enough, much less powerful enough, to deal with anything less herself. I do wonder, though, if it was by chance... them.” She glanced at Geoffrey, who was now busying himself by carving a little bowl with a slick knife.

Violet swallowed. “And by them, you mean the sorcerers in the castle, correct?”

“No,” Ysmay shook her head. “I mean the royal guard of prince Raphael.”