David Gemmell: Morningstar

You know me then? I thought so. It is rare for travelers to journey to the high lands at the start of winter. What are you — a scholar, an historian, both? I know you are no magicker, and you appear to be weaponless. Ah, a storyteller! Well, there is honor in that.

I have been a storyteller for sixty-eight years. Aye, and a magicker of some talent. Not great talent, mind you. But I could work the Dragon’s Egg. Not many could do that right. Have you seen it? Well, perhaps it is not as popular as once it was. But I could make the dragon break clear of the egg, without the shell turning to dust. First the head would come clear, then one tiny, beautiful wing. At last he would ease himself from the shell, and then devour it with tongues of fire. It required great concentration, but I could never get the scales right; they would shimmer and fade.

I cannot do it now, of course. The power is almost gone from me.

So, what stories can I give you?

The Morningstar? Everything is known of him — his courage, his battles, his rescues. There are no new stories.

The truth, you say? Now that is novel. Perhaps unique. Why would you be interested in the truth? Of what use is that to a storyteller? Your listeners will not want the truth. They never do, and they never did. They want heroes, boy. Men of wonder, handsome and tall, men of honor. The Highlanders of legend. They would sweep the truth from the table and stamp it beneath their feet like a beetle. Truth has an ugly face, you see.

There are few still living who remember the Morningstar. Some are blind, some senile. Whisper his name in their ears and you will see them smile, watch the strength flow back into their limbs. That is real magick.

No, you don’t want the truth. And neither do I.

Do you like my house? It was built a half-century ago. I wanted to be able to see the sun rise over the eastern lakes, to watch the new pines grow on the flanks of the mountains. Mostly I wanted a home surrounded by trees — oak, beech and elm. It is a simple house. At least by your standards, for you are a nobleman. How do I know? Your boots alone would cost two years’ wages for a working man. But this house is comfortable. I have three servants, and a local farmer supplies all my food. He charges me nothing, for his grandfather marched with the Morningstar, and his father once sat on the great man’s knee.

Each year at the Harvest Feast, I sing for my supper. I stand at the head of the farmer’s table and I speak of the old days. Do I tell the truth? After a fashion. What I tell them is a history they all know. It is comfortable, it fills them with pride. There is no harm in that.

But the truth? Like a poisoned dagger, boy.

Yet still you want to hear it…

No, I will not speak of those days. You may stay here the night and join me for breakfast in the morning. Then you will go.

Do not be disappointed. I am favoring you with a kindness, though you cannot understand it. You see, the world knows the Morningstar. He lives in the hearts and souls of his people.

You know the song-prayer:

Do I believe that? Of course. I wrote it.

Midnight. A time for memories. My visitor is abed, his disappointment shrouded by sleep and the dreams of the young. There is a log-fire behind me, filling the room with warmth and a golden glow. Shadows flicker by the rafters like old ghosts.

It is an effort but I push open the window, dislodging the snow from the sill. The cold, skeletal fingers of winter reach in, whispering against my shirt. I shiver and stare out over the bleak glens to the ice-covered lakes and the mountains beyond.

Steep snow-covered peaks are silhouetted against the moon-bright sky, and I can just make out the trees in their winter coats of fallen cloud. And there is a mist — a Highland mist — stretching into the distance, covering the ice-filled gulleys and the silent glens.

Oh, the Highlands. The people have forgotten now that I ever was Angostin. After sixty-eight years they treat me as if I was born into the old nobility. And I, for my part, have learned all their customs: the Dance of the Swords, the Blessing of the Oak, the slashed palm of Brotherhood. At the celebrations I always wear the war-cloak of the Raubert clan, given me by Raul himself ten years ago.

I wonder sometimes what my family would think of me, were any left alive to see me now. There are no sword dances among the Angostins. So serious are my southern kin, excelling only in battle and in the building of monstrous fortresses of grey stone. A dour people are the Angostins, with an uneasy dislike of song and laughter.

Somewhere a wolf howls. I cannot see him from here.

The truth. How could I begin to tell it? Yet there is a need in me to speak of it, to release it into the air. There is a deep armchair by the fire, covered in soft leather, filled with horsehair. It is a comfortable chair, and I have spent many a long hour in its depths,my head resting on its curved cushions. It is empty now. But I will use the remnants of my power to fashion a listener. I will create a ghost of the future. He shall hear the true tale of the Morningstar.

I do not wave my hands, nor speak the words of power. That is for fire lit evenings in taverns, entertaining the gullible. They like to see a magicker perform. But this is no performance, so I will merely concentrate. There he sits, sculpted in light, crafted from magick, silent and waiting. I have given him an intelligent face, with keen grey eyes, like the nobleman in the guest-room upstairs. And he is young, for it is the young who shape all tomorrows, and only the old and the weary who twist our today’s — stunting them, holding them back,making them safe. There he sits, waiting, ghostly and transparent. Once I could have dressed him in purple, and any who saw him would marvel at his appearance. Now he shifts and fades. But that, I suppose, is how a ghost should look.

Where shall I begin, spirit? What would you like to hear?

Naturally he does not answer, but I know what he would be thinking, were he able to think.

Begin at the beginning, storyteller. Where else but Ziraccu?

It is all ruins now, but back then, under a younger sun, the city walls were strong and high. There were three sets of walls on different levels, for Ziraccu was an ancient settlement, the first of its buildings raised during the Age of Stone, when Neolithic tribesmen built their temples and forts on the highest hills of this Highland valley. Hundreds of years later- perhaps thousands, for I am no expert on matters historical — a new tribe invaded the north, bearing sharp weapons of bronze. They also built in the valley, throwing up walls around the four hills of Ziraccu. Then came the Age of Iron, and the migration of the tribes who now populate the mountains of the north. The painted warriors of Bronze were either killed or absorbed by these fierce new invaders. And they too built their homes in the high valley. And Ziraccu grew. On the highest levels dwelt the rich in marble palaces surrounded by fine gardens and parks. On the next level down dwelt the merchants and the skilled craftsmen, their houses more homely yet comfortable, built of stone and timber. While at the foot of the hills, within the circle of the lower walls, were the slums and tenements of the poor. Narrow streets, stinking with sewage and waste, high houses, old and dilapidated, alleys and tunnels, steps and stairways, dark with danger and bright with the gleam of the robber’s blade. Here there were taverns and inns where men sat silently listening for the Watchmen.