Your True Love is Right in Front of Your Eyes (Endings 7) Versions 1, 2 & 3

“Got it? Good, let’s go.”

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus’s sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus’s blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

“Pull yourself together,” the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally’s eyes narrowed.

“First battle?” Septimus inquired shortly.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly. He remembered his first battle, if it could be called a battle. He’d been standing by his window, wondering whether he would get the pony he wanted so badly for his birthday. And the voice had broken in on his thoughts. It was the fairest voice he’d ever heard, the sort of voice that his music teacher would have got very excited about.

‘Septimus, Septimus!’ it said urgently, ‘can you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ thought Septimus, though he had a niggling suspicion that he should not in fact be able to hear a voice in his head.

‘I shouldn’t be talking to you,’ said the voice, ‘but I just had to. I've been watching you since you were a little baby, you see, and I just can’t let him do it, I just can’t...’

‘Do what?’ inquired young Septimus sharply, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck in a way he was to learn to recognise all too well.

The voice hesitated.

‘It’s Quartus,’ it burst out, ‘your brother.’

‘Quartus?’ prompted Septimus.

‘Your father’s been a bit... scathing about him lately, have you noticed?’

Little Septimus shrugged.

‘I suppose he has,’ he conceded.

‘Well, Quartus thinks if he’s the first of you brothers to... to murder another, your father will think better of him.’

‘And...?’ prodded Septimus, his hairs tingling like mad.

‘And you’re the youngest, and smallest, so he’s decided to kill you,’ declared the voice.

Septimus bit his lip. That didn’t sound good. He thought of his brother, Quartus, eight years his elder and built like a carthorse. He gulped. He was very young, but he knew in that moment with piercing clarity, that he did not want to die.

‘What can I do?’ he demanded urgently, then, in a moment of sudden, queasy doubt, ‘you do have a plan, don’t you?’

The voice hesitated for the last time.

‘Yes,’ it said. ‘I do. But you must do as I say, and quickly, for the opportunity will not last and I don’t know if I can think of anything else.’

‘What should I do?’ asked the young prince.

‘You must run and find... Secundus. Secundus would be best. And tell him that Quartus is in the ice larder searching for that giant carp he caught in the spring.’

Septimus was sceptical.

‘That’s all? That’s going to save my life?’

‘Hurry!’ said the voice, sounding anguished, ‘run, run!’

Septimus wrestled with himself for a moment. Even at that age he hated taking orders. But the spectre of death loomed before him again, huge and ox shouldered, so he turned from the window and scampered from the room and off down the corridors. Secundus would be lounging in his own room, no doubt awaiting the attentions of his chambermaid. Septimus thought Secundus was really rather disgusting. He was always groping the servants. Yuk.

All the same, he knocked on his brother’s door and hastened inside.

“What do you want?” he was greeted with.

“I just thought,” he said ingeniously, “that you might like to know that Quartus is in the ice larder.”

Secundus looked as baffled as Septimus had initially been.

“What?” he said scathingly.

“Quartus,” repeated Septimus, “is in the ice larder searching for that stupid fish of his. He’s a long way in. Right at the back. He didn’t even notice me looking in. It’s a good job I'm not strong enough to shut the door, or I might have done so by accident, not seeing him. And you know it can’t be opened from the inside.”

Secundus was gazing at him with a look that combined gleeful illumination with nervous apprehension.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Septimus, very interesting,” he muttered distractedly, hastening from the room, “I really must dash...” And he was gone.

Septimus hurried back to his own room and paced nervously.

‘He’s there!’ said the voice at last. Septimus waited with baited breath... ‘Quartus is still in there... He’s shut the door! He’s shut it fast! You’re safe!’

Septimus bit his thumb nervously. He would be safe in however long it took his brother to die.

‘Thank you for helping me,’ he said to the voice.

‘Oh,' said the voice, sounding touched by his sweet-mannered thanks. ‘I had to. I couldn’t just... I really shouldn’t be talking to you, you know; I must go.’

‘Wait!’ thought Septimus, but the voice wouldn’t speak to him again.

“Just do your best,” Septimus said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

“And I shall do mine,” said the prince softly, in a tone of such grim resolve that a shiver went down Tristan’s spine. He still did not exactly trust the man, but he was suddenly very glad to have Septimus beside him.

“Ready?” said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed through the doors side by side, and blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponant, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

“Una?” gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

“Septimus!” exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice. And Septimus remembered another time,

“Septimus!” cried Una fearfully, as she burst onto the balcony.

“Una!” gasped the little prince, from where he struggled in Quintus’ merciless grasp. His older brother ignored their sister and moved to throw him from the balcony, only to stumble back with a cry of pain as a bed warming pan struck him full in the face.

“Let him go!” cried Una fiercely, “Let him go or I'll...”

But Septimus had taken advantage of his brother’s shock to break free, and ran behind his sister’s protective form.

“I'll have you yet, you little brat,” snapped Quintus, and the look in his eyes stayed with Septimus as he let Una shepherd him away...

Later, he sat alone in his room as he reflected that perhaps, he would actually only be safe when Quintus was dead too.

‘It’s so horrible,’ sighed the voice in his mind.

He raised his head, delighted.

‘You’re back!’ he exclaimed.

‘Oh, I never went anywhere,’ admitted the voice. ‘I was just being good and not talking to you.’

‘Please...’ asked Septimus, who had spent a lot of time thinking about this, ‘are you my mother?’

‘Your... do I sound like her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Septimus, crest-fallen at the clear implication in this question. ‘She died when I was born.’

‘I know,’ said the voice sadly. ‘I saw. I'm sorry, I'm not her. I'm just... a friend.’

‘That’s alright,’ said Septimus. ‘Benti, the stableboy is my friend. But I can have two friends. That would be nice.’

The voice gave a little sigh, Septimus wasn’t sure why.

‘What’s horrible?’ Septimus asked, remembering his new friend’s first words.

‘Oh,’ said the voice, sounding miserable. ‘Quintus.’

‘He tried to throw me over the balcony,’ Septimus said. ‘He was trying to kill me.’

‘I think,’ said the voice, ‘he means to finish the job in the morning.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Septimus.

‘Well,’ said the voice unhappily, ‘he’s had his servant sharpen his dagger, and given orders to be woken at four in the morning, and when he left supper early with the supposed indigestion, he was in your room, walking back and forth between the door and the bed, checking for squeaky boards."

The young prince bit his lip, suddenly cold with fear. He remembered the strength of his brother’s grasp, his helplessness... Una? No, Una couldn’t help him with this. She’d had surprise on her side earlier.

‘He can’t kill me at four o’clock if I kill him first,’ he said at last.

He thought he caught another faint sigh from the voice, but it didn’t speak.

‘If he’s asleep,’ Septimus went on, ‘I should be able to do it. Would my sword or my dagger be easiest, I wonder...’

‘Best not use your own weapons,’ said the voice, sounding rather reluctant.

Septimus blinked.

‘You’re right,’ he thought. ‘It’s easier to trace it back to me, and I don’t want the rest of them to know it was me... Quintus has lots of weapons in his room. I'll use one of those.’ He was silent for a moment, then he added diffidently, ‘you seem to see a great deal. Do you think you could let me know when he’s asleep? It would make it a lot safer.’

The voice sighed very heavily this time, and it was a while before it replied.

‘Alright,’ it said sadly at last and Septimus felt much more at ease about the plan.

The moon was full and high by the time the voice told Septimus softly that Quintus was sound asleep. The boy left his room and crept along the corridors, hiding in a broom closet once when the voice warned of an approaching servant. He reached his brother’s room undetected and turned the doorknob with painstaking care, slipping silently inside. Reassuringly, he could hear soft snores coming from the bed, but he did not approach it. Instead, he turned his gaze to the multitude of weapons that lay around and after only a few glances he began to bite his lip in worry. Those broadswords were far too heavy for him to lift, and that dagger was so wide, he’d need both hands to drive it in far enough, and that mace must weigh a ton...

‘The axe!’ hissed the voice, as though it couldn’t help itself. ‘What about the axe?’

Septimus spotted the weapon, hanging in pride of place on one wall. It was very small for a grown man, and highly decorated, an ornamental piece. But about the right size for a small boy. Carefully, he eased up onto a cabinet and lifted it down. Back on the floor, he gave it an experimental swing. The balance was more than adequate. Satisfied, he approached the bed.

Where to strike? The bastard was going to kill him, but still... he’d rather his brother didn’t know anything about it.

‘Head, do you think?’ he asked the voice a little timidly.

The voice sounded just as nervous and unhappy as he felt.

‘Don’t hold back,’ it whispered, ‘or you’ll just hurt him...’ And when Septimus swallowed and adjusted his small hands on the haft, ‘oh! I don’t think I can bear to look...’

‘I'm the one who has to do it,’ pointed out the young prince. ‘Have to. Have to,’ he could feel his determination fading away in the face of his friend’s horror...

“Have to!” he snapped out loud, and swung the axe with all the strength he could muster. It struck home to the very haft and Quintus began to jerk wildly. Septimus struggled to pull it out, to strike again, but it was stuck fast...

‘I've just hurt him!’ he thought desperately to the voice. ‘What shall I do?’ And he looked frantically for another suitable weapon.

‘It’s alright,’ said the voice, weakly, but urgently, ‘it’s alright, really... I think. It’s just reflexes. He’s... he’s dead.’

Young Septimus eyed the twitching body of his older brother. It didn’t look very dead to him. But he wasn’t sure he could steel himself to do any more, so he just stood and watched for a few moments, and by the end of them all was still and silent. He crept away back to his own room and hid under his bedcovers, shivering, until dawn light began to stream through his window.

‘I'm alive,’ he said to his unseen friend.

‘Yes, you are,’ came the bittersweet reply.

‘Please don’t go away again,’ he begged her.

‘I must,’ the voice replied sadly.

Septimus twisted a handful of sheet in his hands.

‘At least tell me your name?’ he implored quietly.

‘Oh,” said the voice softly, ‘Of course. My name is Yvaine.’

‘That’s a pretty name,’ said the boy, and he turned it over in his mind in the long silence that followed.

“Where have you...?” Septimus began to ask Una, incredulity and something suspiciously like joy in his voice. But Una’s eyes had slid past Septimus’s shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

“Tristan!”

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

“Just kill her!” he snarled, as Una cried,

“Run her through!”

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. Fire. Septimus had used fire himself to good affect, when driven to it. It was another of his more unpleasant memories.

He’d been going riding with Benti, as he often did. Benti was the son of one of the grooms, but Septimus didn’t care. Benti was everything to him that his brothers were not. They were best friends. They were going for a long ride, and Benti was holding the horses whilst Septimus tightened the girths. Septimus’s horse was quite new, a little grey mare called Shadow. Septimus was ever so proud of her. He’d only ever had ponies before. Benti had Tertius’s horse to ride. He was a better rider even than Septimus, having been almost born on horseback, and could ride anything. Tertius never took his horse out, so someone had to. Septimus knew that Benti loved to ride it, for it was a very fine beast, so he often told him to take it.

They were about to mount up, when Sextus strolled into the courtyard with a look of supercilious disdain plastered over his face.

“Our sister,” he announced, “bid me give you this.” And he held out a neat little basket of a type Septimus had often seen before. Septimus took it eagerly.

“My thanks,” he said, then added pointedly, “to our sister.”

Sextus merely sniffed and slouched away again.

“Una made us lunch,” Septimus told Benti happily, hanging the basket from the pommel of his saddle.

“I do so like your sister,” said Benti, smiling.

They got so caught up in the ride, exploring a mountainside to the north of Huon, that it was late in the afternoon before they stopped in a clearing, loosened the horses’ girths, and began to explore the contents of the basket. There were the usual dainty little sandwiches, which his sister liked to make herself, two slices of cake from the palace kitchens, a pair of rosy apples, and even one tiny, delicious sweetmeat. Septimus was a little surprised about that. Una usually packed two of everything. She must have only had the one.

The two boys demolished the food in very short order, and finally there was just that marvellous sweetmeat, sitting there on the cloth. Benti was eyeing it with a rather wondering gaze, he’d probably never eaten anything so expensive in his life. As an outdoor servant, he might never even have seen such a thing. Septimus was very tempted by the tidbit himself, but when it came down to it, his savoury tooth was far longer and sharper than his sweet one, and he was trying not to laugh at the longing on Benti’s face.

“You’m as well have that,” he said, stretching out on his back under a tree. “I'm stuffed.”

Perhaps Benti saw through his friend’s concealed generosity, but he wanted the sweetmeat badly enough not to argue. He picked it up between finger and thumb and nibbled and licked his way through it, savouring every taste.

“Umm,” he said when he’d finished. “I think I'd like to be a prince.”

Septimus frowned at the treetop above him.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think you would.”

It was Benti’s turn for tact, and he did not argue. Anyway, he had probably known Septimus for long enough to agree with his friend’s statement.

“We’ve come a long way,” the stableboy said instead, changing the subject. “Perhaps we’ll have to sleep under the stars.”

Septimus’s eyes narrowed in longing of his own.

“I wish we could,” he said wistfully. “But father would have the guard out looking for me. It’s not that far back, in a straight line.”

“Shall we ride on?” asked Benti, “Or should we look at that cave? We could make a fort...”

Septimus cheered up immediately.

“Let’s explore the cave,” he said, leaping to his feet.

Benti jumped up too, but stopped after a few steps and leant against a tree, one hand on his stomach.

“Aw, now I've got tummy ache,” he said. “Sorry. You go on and look...”

“Don’t be silly,” said Septimus sitting down again. “We’ll wait until you’re feeling better... Benti?” he said in alarm, for the other boy had just bent over and vomited on the ground.

“Perhaps I've caught something,” Benti gasped, then another spasm brought him to his knees. “Aw, stars, Septimus, I don’t feel good,” he choked out, and the pain on his face brought Septimus rushing to his side.

“Perhaps the meat was off,” Septimus offered, in comfort more than expertise.

Benti vomited again, and went on heaving, his face twisted in pain. Soon there was nothing to come up but bile... and then suddenly there was blood.

“Septimus?” sobbed the boy, in terrified appeal, as he saw the scarlet staining the ground. Septimus stared at it too. So red, so red it could only be arterial blood... this was no food poisoning... oh stars, Benti!

“Don’t worry,” he told his friend, “don’t worry, I'll get you to a physician, come on...” He caught his friend’s shoulders and had to half drag, half carry him to the horses. It was clear he could not ride, so he got him up before him on Shadow and kicked the mare to a gallop, heedless of the trees.

They tore along, weaving crazily as trunks flashed past them. The forest that had seemed so exciting and mysterious earlier now seemed like a cage, hemming them in, slowing them down. Septimus chaffed at every second lost swerving around trees and leaping fallen boughs. Finally they reached open countryside and Septimus flogged Shadow mercilessly with the reins, wishing he hadn’t let Benti talk him out of those spurs. It wasn’t like he was going to use them unnecessarily and he needed them now, so badly!

Shadow was whooping for breath and beginning to stagger, but Benti was fitting, teeth clenched and mouth foaming, Septimus could barely hold him on the horse and he lashed the mare on.

When the horse stumbled to a halt, head hanging, refusing to go on, Benti had stopped convulsing, but his lips were turning black. Septimus broke a branch from a nearby thorn bush and beat the mare with it until she shambled on again, lurching and swaying. Finally, inevitably, she went down, and Septimus just managed to throw Benti and himself clear of her crushing weight. She kicked for a while, and then she lay still, her eyes wide and blank. Benti’s breath was so faint now; Septimus cursed vilely, tears of frustration running down his cheeks. He looked about him, hating being so helpless... could he carry Benti? It was surely far too far, and there was no time! And then his eyes fell upon Tertius’s horse, just cantering up to them, tail bannering. It had followed, and carrying no weight, it was fresh.

Septimus caught it quickly and heaved Benti onto its back. Then they were off again, the horse’s mighty gait eating up the ground... but they still had a long way to go. The horse was strong, and too big for him, but desperation leant him strength of his own and he barely noticed.

By the time they clattered into the palace stableyard part of him already knew that it was far, far too late, but he could not accept it. He dragged Benti from the horse, breaking his fall as much as lifting him down, and screamed for a physician.

The head groom bent over Benti and made a quick examination.

“The boy is dead, your highness...”

Septimus hurled himself at the man, slamming him into the wall, one hand twisting his collar with all his youthful strength and the other pressing his dagger to his throat. He’d worn that dagger ever since Quintus and the balcony, but he’d never drawn it in anger. Until now.

“Get a physician,” he hissed into the groom’s shocked face. “Get one, now, or I'll slit your spineless throat...”

The groom swallowed. He’d always thought the king’s youngest son a very sweet-natured boy, but looking into those savage golden eyes, he realised he might have been somewhat mistaken.

“Physician,” he ordered an underling frantically, “did you not hear the prince, get a physician at once!”

‘Septimus,’ said a soft, beautiful voice in his head, ‘Septimus, it’s alright, the physician is on his way...’

Septimus sank back on his heels, suddenly feeling sick and exhausted. The hot red fog seemed to clear from his mind and he took the dagger away and shoved it blindly back into its sheathe. Freed, the head groom sidled away and put plenty of distance between himself and the young prince. The physician came, and bent over Benti briefly and pronounced him dead as a doornail, and Benti’s father came and began to weep and everyone stood fussing around the body as though their busyness might achieve something. Septimus stood apart, feeling very detached.

‘Yvaine,’ he whispered in his mind.

‘Yes, Septimus.’ She answered him immediately, her voice sweet and concerned.

‘Benti’s dead.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I'm so sorry,’ she replied.

‘You’re my only friend now,’ he thought numbly.

‘I...’ he could feel her casting around for some comfort to offer him. Finally she said with gentle sincerity, ‘I promise I will never ignore you again.’

It didn’t exactly help with regard to Benti, but nothing would, now.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly.

Una hurried into the courtyard then, her eyes wide and shocked at what she saw.

“Septimus!” she cried, “what happened?”

Septimus looked at his sister, and for once his eyes were closed to her.

“The sweetmeat,” he said grimly. “The sweetmeat was poisoned.”

“What sweetmeat?” asked Una, clearly puzzled.

“In the lunch,” clarified Septimus.

“There was no...” began Una, but he cut her off.

“Sextus,” he snarled, and she had never heard him speak like that before. The fury in his voice was as thick and hot as blood.

“Sextus poisoned your lunch!” Una cried, not slow to understand what had happened.

“I'm fine,” snapped Septimus, shrugging off her searching hand. “I didn’t eat it. I gave it to... I gave it to Benti.” The last words were clipped short, catching slightly in his throat, but his eyes were near manic with anger. He turned and stalked away.

“Septimus?” called Una after him, but he did not look back.

Septimus walked around the ramparts several times until he felt he could act out some plan, rather than just explode in mindless rage. Finally, darkness had fallen, and he leant on a merlon and drew in a breath of cooling night air.

‘Yvaine?’ he thought.

‘Yes, Septimus,’ she replied.

‘Where is Sextus?’ he asked quietly.

There was a momentary hesitation, but then she said,

‘He’s at a whorehouse, down in Huon. I can tell you the street.’

Septimus smiled.

‘Thank you, Yvaine,’ he said.

Septimus had scouted out the building with great care, and thought the plan through carefully. No one should be hurt, save one. He checked the horn fastened to his belt, then took a firm grip on the drainpipe and began to climb. He reached the windowsill of his brother’s room and perched on it, easing the window open a crack, then paused to listen. Septimus had been obliged to share a cabin with Sextus on their recent trip to the Catavarian Isles, and there was no mistaking those rather effeminate snores. He opened the window the rest of the way and looked in, carefully judging the distance to the bed. Then he took the horn from his belt and drew the bung out of the end. A glowing coal nestled inside, and he blew on it gently until it glowed red hot. Then in one quick movement, he tipped it into his gloved hand and threw it onto the bed with great precision.

“Sweet dreams, brother,” he murmured, then he shut the window, slithered down the drain pipe, and was already several streets away by the time Sextus became briefly, and painfully, aware that something was very much amiss.

Septimus’s leather coat scarcely caught and he strode purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that the witch was now Septimus’s opponent, and stepped back a little, wincing as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But Septimus rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand, and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. He smiled in grim satisfaction. With the exception of Sextus, he’d always killed cleanly. It was something he took pride in.

Tristan’s shoulders relaxed in relief, but Septimus glanced his way and moved like lightning, caterpaulting into him. The same speed, in fact, with which he had disposed of Secundus...

‘He can’t be going to choose Secundus,’ Septimus said to Yvaine, ‘he just can’t! I think better of him than that!’

‘The people like Secundus,’ Yvaine replied, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought your father would care about that.’

‘Exactly!’ said Septimus.

Yvaine, or at any rate, her voice, had been his constant companion since childhood. He wasn’t sure how he could have borne Una’s disappearance, coming so soon after Benti’s death, without her. Hardly an hour went by in which they did not speak to one another. Septimus adored her. He had told her so, more than once. And more than once, in unguarded moments, she had admitted the same. Initially, she had been at great pains to remind him that they could never truly be together, and he should try not to think of her in that way, since, if all went well, he would one day be king, and need to take a wife. Septimus had refused to listen to her. He wanted no other woman. An heir was a problem for another day, if he prevailed and lived to see it. If only he didn’t need one...

‘I won’t be safe until all my brothers are dead, will I?’ he’d said to her, after Sextus’s funeral. Yvaine had sighed. It was a truth he had been slow to accept, though she knew how much he needed to do so. Strange that she should have managed to accept it so much sooner than him. But she was a lot older than him.

He’d grown up, and he’d grown hard and cold and pitiless and she’d helped him become so. And though she might sometimes sigh for the sweet, inoffensive child he’d once been, she would not change it. For most importantly of all, he was still alive. And the world might see only the icy, cruel face he turned towards it, but inside his heart still glowed, for her, and her alone. Well, he still sought his beloved sister, but he had never so much as looked at another woman. Not that Yvaine was exactly a woman, but Septimus didn’t know that. Speaking to a mortal at all was a flagrant enough breech of stellar rules, she had never dared tell him more than her name.

Sometimes when he lay in bed at night, he would close his eyes and retreat into his mind, to be as close to her as he could, and he would whisper to her, ‘I love you, Yvaine.’ And on her weaker nights, she would reply, ‘I love you, Septimus.’ He was a lot older now, and there was still passion in the words, but also the comfortable familiarity of an old couple. And as he grew older, there was a tiny note of sorrow, too, as the blind unconscious assumption of youth, that somehow, someday, they would be together, was slowly overcome by the cold truth. But his love was unwavering, and Yvaine couldn’t help worrying. If everything they had strove for all these years came to pass, and he lived to rule, he would need a wife, yet hell would surely freeze over before he took one...

But it was still a problem for another day. He was not king, yet.

‘Septimus!’ Yvaine called to him. ‘Look...’

Obediently, Septimus turned his attention back to the room around him. Secundus had walked to the window, on the king’s orders.

“My kingdom?” he was replying, a smugly hopeful look on his face.

‘No, no!’ snarled Septimus to Yvaine.

‘It’s alright, look,’ replied Yvaine, ‘push him, push him!’

Septimus also read his father’s look aright, and sprang forward...

The breath had already been knocked from Tristan by the impact of Septimus’s dive, and striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus’s weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, then regretted it as the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

“Wolves,” snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince’s face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily, and seeing the slavegirl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus’s failure to kill her himself, and he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

“Tristan, Tristan,” she told him breathlessly, “I'm your ...mother. Your mother!”

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, then noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally’s aid, but she held onto his arm.

“I know my brother, Tristan,” she told him fiercely, “he will not save her! He has an innocent face, but even when last I saw him he’d already killed three of our brothers... If he knows what she is he’ll cut out her heart himself!”

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

‘I get the stone,’ Septimus had said to him, ‘and you get your little star...’

He did know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, but he was his ally... yet if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches did...

Septimus strode forward, all the raging pain and frustration of the past week surging through him, driving him forward. His mind was a seething bed of confusion. He was terribly worried about Yvaine, plain terrified for her, in fact. She hadn’t spoken to him once since his father’s death and he could not account for it at all. With her very last words she had expressed her relief at Secundus’ demise, certainly she had not disapproved, and she had once promised not to ignore him, and she’d never broken her word to him, ever. He was convinced that something momentous had befallen her, yet he had no way of finding her, aiding her, or even learning what it was. He was half mad with his impotence. In fact, there was so completely and utterly nothing he could do about his beloved’s disappearance that he’d done the only thing he could do, the thing he knew she’d have wanted him to do. He’d gone after the stone with everything he had, and when he had learned of the star, the thing that would remove forever the need for heirs... and a wife... well, Yvaine might have been very close-mouthed about herself, but he hadn’t known her for over twenty-five years without picking up on the fact that she herself was as immortal as the star’s heart would make him. So even while suffering the gravest doubts about his love’s safety, he also pursued the thing that would allow them to be true to one another for all eternity.

Yvaine would have sighed at him several times this week, he knew, but still. He’d spared the peasant boy. And witches were always fair prey...

Yvaine lay on the stone slab, bound and helpless. Tristan had rejected her. That had been a bit of a shock, but... it was not that which made her sigh. Last night with Tristan had been... pleasant, yet she’d woken with the nagging, aching certainty that something was not right, not right at all... If only she could remember...

And then she saw him.

Septimus was about half way up the hall when the star caught sight of him. Her eyes opened wide, beautiful eyes, they were, he noted rather dispassionately, and the look that filled them, joy, and understanding, and... it was exactly the look he’d seen in the eyes of an old soldier, wounded in battle, who for two whole weeks had been able to remember nothing about his past life, when suddenly, he had seen something he knew, and it had all come back to him... That was the look the star turned on him.

“Septimus!” she cried, with a peculiar depth of feeling, and he frowned, for there was something just slightly, vaguely, nigglingly familiar about her voice, but he could not quite put his finger on it.

The witch draw out something small... a voodoo doll. She smiled at Septimus, who grit his teeth and mustered every meagre scrap of magic ready to try and withstand her assault. He suspected he was about to... disappear... from the world himself, but after the last week he did not care as much as he should have.

The star was wriggling frantically on the slab, though she did not seem able to get loose. She’d got one hand free, he saw. The witch’s fingers gripped one arm of the doll, tensing. He poured his magic into his equivalent arm, bracing it with all the strength he could muster. The doll’s arm snapped without his following suit, but sweat poured down his face and he shook with exhaustion, his magic already all but exhausted just in withstanding the one assault. The witch cackled with laughter, and slowly, deliberately, mockingly, took hold of the other arm. Septimus poured the last trickles of magic into that arm and knew that it would not be enough. He readied himself for pain...

“Septimus!” cried the star again, and she threw something. He caught it instinctively, and it was only when it lay in his hand, turning blood red, that he realised what it was. The Power of Stormhold. He was king!

He felt the magic surge into him, through him, overflowing from every tendril of the land, filling his being. There was no need to brace his arm with that flow through him. The witch snapped the arm clean off, unease and anger covering her face when it had no effect on her opponent.

“I will kill you, meddling little prince,” spat the witch.

“And the same to you to,” returned Septimus bitingly, but he did not approach her, considering the best way to proceed. Even this witch queen could not now defeat him with magic, but he had no protection from physical assault. Should he therefore stay safely away from her and finish her with magic... he had power but not experience, so it could be a long duel. Or should he close with her quickly, and finish it before she had a chance to realise his physical vulnerability. He thought he would try the second, and sprang up the steps... but the witch found his weak point quite by accident. For, wary of him now, she lashed out, catching him on a wave of her magic and sending him flying into the wall, away from her. Septimus had no time to muster suitable cushioning spells, and the impact drove the breath from him, jarring every bone in his body and leaving him stunned and momentarily helpless. No way to conceal the harm she’d done him, and her lips curved up in a smile of wicked triumph. Giving him no time to recover, she flung him to the other side of the room... he felt a rib crack, but had barely struck the floor before he was flying through the air again. He got his arms up to shield his head, groping desperately for magic, but the power needed commanding, and he simply had not the experience. He struck so hard that consciousness all but left him, and he came around to find himself lying in a heap on the dais, crumpled against the wall. The witch had clearly only paused in using him as a living ball because she was laughing too hard to continue, bony hands clutching her sides.

He dragged himself to his feet; he would be one entire bruise the next day, if he lived, but nothing more was broken. The star flung out her free hand to him.

“Here!” she cried, and since she had already aided him once, incomprehensible as that might be, and he had no better plan, he lurched to her and took it. The witch’s eyes narrowed as she saw him so close to her prize, and she raised her hand again. Septimus winced and glanced at the star inquiringly... unless she had a plan, all hope was lost...

“Kiss me!” cried the star urgently, pulling him down towards her, and quite unaccountably, he found himself obeying. The star’s lips were pure and sweet as midnight dew, and as soft as the night mists...

And the star shone.

Septimus closed his eyes and clung to her, face buried in her hair, the kiss forgotten. The light was blinding... pure... so pure. Too pure for Lamia, for when the starlight faded there was nothing left of the witch but a few specks of ash, stirring in the draught.

Septimus looked about him, stunned... the star’s dainty nose nudged his sharp one and his lips found hers again...

...and then suddenly he was pushing himself up on his arms, horror and self-disgust on his face...

“What am I doing?” he exclaimed vehemently.

“It’s alright,” said the star, smiling sweetly at him. “It’s alright. It’s me. Yvaine.”

“What?” he demanded.

“It’s me,” repeated the star, looking amused by his disbelief. “It’s me. Yvaine. Your Yvaine... Your father knocked me from the sky with his necklace and here I am.” And she reached her graceful little hand up to his shoulder.

He stared at her, unable to believe so easily that that which he had always wanted most in the world, that which he had known he could never, never have, might have actually come to pass...

“If you are my Yvaine,” he said coldly, “then you can answer these questions.” She gave him an encouraging smile, so he began, “Who killed Quartus of Stormhold?”

“Technically Secundus,” she replied, “as the world believes, but you guided his hand to it.”

Septimus was silenced for a moment, shocked by the answer. Secundus would never have admitted his little brother’s part in his one great triumph and the only other living soul who’d known about it was Una and she would not have spoken either. Still, they had both known... a better question, perhaps.

“Who killed Quintus?” he demanded. Only Una knew that.

“You did,” said the star gently. “You were going to use your own weapons, but I advised against it. And after you had struck him, you feared he was not dead but just injured and I assured you otherwise.”

Septimus swallowed, feeling as though he had been kicked in the stomach. She spoke of details known by no one, no one but himself and his beloved accomplice.

“Who killed Sextus?” he snapped, fighting the desperate hope that welled in his breast.

“You did,” said the star again. “With a hot coal. You climbed the drainpipe.”

Septimus swallowed. Una had only guessed at that one, he’d never admitted it to her, and no one had ever managed to ascertain how the fire had started...

“What did you say to me,” he asked, his voice low with half-strangled hope, “last week, at my father’s death bed?”

The star raised a fair eyebrow at him.

“I recall we were chattering on as usual, but I suspect the words you refer to were, ‘look, it’s alright,’ or something like, and then, ‘push him, push him.’

For the first and only time in his life, Septimus thought he might actually be about to faint. It was her. It really was her.

“Yvaine!” he whispered, and claimed her lips again.

When the unfortunate need to breathe separated them once more, he cupped her face in his hands, his eyes devouring every inch of it.

“You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen,” he told her, with rare sincerity. Or perhaps not so rare, since he was addressing her.

Yvaine smiled and blushed, cheeks dimpling in a way he found fascinating.

“You’re just saying that because it’s me,” she said teasingly.

“No,” he said firmly, stroking her hair tenderly. “Perhaps I only think that because it’s you, but I do think so.”

She made no further demur and raised her lips for another kiss. He was happy to oblige.

But afterwards he frowned at her slightly, clearly thinking.

“You’re the star...” he said slowly.

Yvaine might no longer be able to see his mind, but she did not need to. It was quite clear what he was thinking. If she was mortal, like him, he no longer needed her heart... yet eternal life was still eternal life... She was not offended that the temptation should still creep across his mind, since she had spent his entire life honing his will to survive to the sharpest and keenest it could possibly be.

“Are you going to eat my heart, my love?” she asked gently.

Crimson actually stained the king’s cheeks.

“Of course not,” he snapped fiercely.

“Good,” she said softly, “because there’s no need, you know. My heart already belongs to you. You don’t need to cut it out.”

“If I have yours,” he said, “then I trust you have mine. You can hardly do without one.”

She set a feather-light kiss on his lips.

“Never fear,” she replied, “I have yours safe.”

Ending 1

His lips peeled back in a grin of delighted satisfaction. He sat up, and made to draw her with him, then, noting her bonds, he drew his dagger and cut them, sitting her up beside him. She slipped her arms around him and snuggled against him, as though, now they were finally together, she could not bear to be away from him for a moment. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his cheek to her hair. It occurred to him, vaguely, that it might be going to take them a while to get home.

“Yvaine? Yvaine?”

Septimus raised his head. Who dared to call his beloved’s name in such a way?

Yvaine had also lifted her head, a groan breaking from her lips.

“Oh... stars. Tristan.”

“Tristan?” demanded the king, as he saw the boy climbing the dais steps.

“Yes,” said Yvaine, wincing. “I couldn’t remember anything, after I fell to earth, you see. And he was there, and he... helped me. I think something about him reminded me of you... just a little,” she added, seeing Septimus’s offended look. “And, well,” she finished, “he’s ah, rather... in love with me.”

“What?” snapped the king.

“Get away from her!” cried Tristan. “Don’t worry Yvaine, I'll save you,” he added earnestly.

“Yvaine is mine,” snarled the king, his arms tightening around her possessively; she saw the killing fire take light in his eyes and put a calming hand to his cheek.

“Septimus, it’s alright. It’s not his fault. I was so confused... he’s just worried about me.” And when Septimus’s hand stayed still on his dagger hilt and did not draw, she turned to Tristan.

“Tristan,” she said softly, “Tristan, I'm so sorry, but... I don’t love you. I was so confused... I really am sorry.”

Tristan gave his head a little flick as though he could not believe what he was hearing.

“Yvaine,” he said, “It’s alright, you don’t have to say these things, I'll deal with him...”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Yvaine firmly. “I don’t love you, Tristan. I never truly did. Septimus and I have been together since before you were born. Have you seen Victoria yet?”

“I... what? No.” said Tristan, looking confused and shocked by her, to him, harsh words. “I was almost to her house, when I checked in the handkerchief and saw the stardust...”

“Then take her a nice looking rock,” said Yvaine with her old practicality, “wed her, and live happily ever after. Forget me. I can never be yours.”

Tristan stared at her in disbelief. Una had come up the steps behind him, and looked at Septimus and Yvaine in utter bafflement.

“Yvaine, you can’t mean this,” Tristan exclaimed, starting forward, “he’s threatened you... After last night...”

“Last night?” Septimus’s voice was black as midnight. “Just how confused were you?”

“I couldn’t help it,” she told him, uncowed by his anger, but she held up a cautionary hand to Tristan to halt his advance.

“I really don’t think you want to come any closer, Tristan. I think my poor Septimus is feeling a strong need to kill something...”

Tristan squared his jaw and made to step forward regardless, but Una seized hold of his arm and held him back.

“Don’t, Tristan,” she cautioned. “He will kill you.”

Yvaine was working on her beloved’s black mood. She nuzzled him until he seized her and kissed her with such passion that he bore her back onto the slab as though he would take her right there and then and prove his unquestionable right to her.

Tristan stared in disbelief and finally turned to Una,

“Mother!” he protested.

“Tell me, Tristan,” said Una, determined to deflect her son’s attention from any suicidal assault on the king just now enjoying the star’s caresses. “Is Victoria pretty?”

“Victoria?” said Tristan numbly, then, faced with the incontrovertible proof that Yvaine’s heart belonged to another, his own heart, blessed with a somewhat elastic quality, made him speak more warmly as he continued, “why, yes, very pretty. The prettiest girl in the whole county, and it’s not just me who says so.”

“And am I to understand that she wants a star?”

Tristan nodded.

“Yes, she was to marry me, if I brought her one.”

“She is human, she expects a mere stone...?”

Tristan nodded again, but clearly remembering Yvaine’s slightly nefarious suggestion, he said vehemently,

“I will not deceive her...”

“There’s a human meteorite in the palace museum,” said a lazy voice from the direction of the slab. “If t’will get you from my hair, you may take it...”

Yvaine seemed to have defused the king’s anger, much to Una’s relief.

“But...” said Tristan plaintively, “Yvaine...”

“If this Victoria does have some feeling for you,” said Una, “you’d best take her and wed her.” And stop saying Yvaine’s name in front of my brother, she thought to herself, for it doesn’t half darken his brow...

“Shall we be wed at the first temple along the way?” Septimus was asking Yvaine, “or make it a grand affair?”

“Oh, we can have a pageant afterwards,” said Yvaine impatiently, “I say we’ve waited long enough.”

The king’s slightly manic grin said plainer than words that this was the response he’d been hoping for.

“Let’s be on our way, then,” he declared, lifting her from the slab with his hands around her dainty waist, and swinging her around in a full circle from sheer exuberance. He set her down, gasping and giggling, and hand in hand, they ran laughing to the doors.

“If your whelp will have his rock, bring him to Huon with you,” Septimus shot over his shoulder.

Then he had lifted Yvaine up before him and sent his grey mare galloping up the side of the ravine. Yvaine rested her cheek on his shoulder and gold and black hair blew back behind them as they went, mingling together in the wind...

Ending 2

His lips peeled back in a grin of delighted satisfaction.

Tristan, the dazzling effects of the Yvaine’s shining finally wearing off, had made it from behind the witches’ shattered mirror, where he and his mother had taken shelter. He hastened towards the dais as quickly and as quietly as he could. Fortunately, all his uncle’s attention seemed to be fixed on the star that lay helpless before him. He swallowed and gripped his sword hilt tightly. He’d seen Septimus fight the witches, and knew he could never defeat him. He would have only one chance to save Yvaine...

Septimus slid from the slab and stood, making to draw Yvaine with him, but noting her bonds, he drew his dagger to cut them. She beamed up at him, and he was having difficulty taking his eyes from her for long enough to complete his task safely. He certainly wasn’t going to risk cutting her... he applied a bit of willpower to his heart and fixed his eyes firmly on the straps, raising the dagger...

The sword slid through him from behind, coldly and cleanly. Surprisingly cleanly, he thought detachedly, as the tip emerged from his chest and he recognised the blade. More consequentially, his mind was automatically calculating the severity of the wound... a sharp icy pain stabbed from his heart and his legs were already trying to buckle... Two things were utterly imperative and he probably had time for only one.

He forced his leaden arm to move, slicing through Yvaine’s bonds, freeing her, even as her frozen, wide-eyed face began to twist in grief and horror. Then he tried to turn, tried to bury his dagger in the treacherous boy who had slain him... But the move was too much for his stricken body, and he fell, instead, to the ground

Tristan, breathless with nerves and flushed with triumph, skittered back from his uncle’s attempted lunge and gave him a wide birth, skirting around him to the other side of the slab. Yvaine was sitting up, so he grabbed her and tried to pull her with him. He had not the experience to be certain he had killed his dark ally and wanted to waste no time...

“Come on!” he told her excitedly, “Come on, it’s alright, let’s go!”

Yvaine’s breath had been temporarily stopped by shock and dismay. But Tristan’s clutching hands shook some air back into her, and she struggled against him.

“Septimus!” she screamed frantically, “Septimus!”

“It’s alright,” Tristan shouted, “it’s alright, he’s as good as dead, let’s go...”

“Let go of me!” cried Yvaine, beginning to fight him in earnest. Septimus was hurt, hurt so badly, she had to get to him...

“It’s alright, Yvaine,” Tristan said again, bringing his superior strength to bear to hold her. “I killed him, you’re safe now...”

“Let me go!” yelled Yvaine... She had always understood Septimus’s kills executed in cold blood, she’d helped him plan most of them, but she’d never quite understood that murderous red rage that sometimes took him... until now... Her thoughts were a wild tangle of fury and pain and her love’s killer stood between her and him...

She pulled away sharply, freeing her hands and almost breaking free of Tristan’s grasp entirely. Then she snatched up Septimus’s graceful curved sword from where he’d laid it down beside her on the slab. And she drove it, two-handed, into Tristan’s belly and twisted, shoving it upwards with all the strength she possessed and then ripping it out again... She executed the maneuver with surprising ease, but then she had been watching an expert for several decades...

Tristan stumbled backwards, clutching at the gaping wound, utter disbelief filling his dimming eyes. Yvaine backed away as he fell, clutching the slab behind her for support... the red mist had cleared slightly, and she felt a little sick. And very weak, for some reason, but without further hesitation she stumbled around the slab and threw herself down beside the king.

Septimus lay on his back, his dagger fallen from his out flung hand. His eyes were closed, but his chest moved faintly, jerkily, as though he wrestled each breath from the hand of death itself. She leant over to brush a strand of hair from his face.

“Septimus?” she whispered.

His eyelids flickered, opened.

“Yvaine...” he breathed. “I'm done... Careless... so careless... I'm sorry...”

She placed a fingertip on his lips to halt the laboured words,

“Not your fault,” she said, almost choking on the pain that closed her throat and threatened to rip her own heart in two. She reached out a tremorous, investigative hand to the wound, to where the dark stain was covering the scorched remains of his shirt. He was right. The blow had touched his heart. There was no hope.

She took his head in her lap, stroking his hair, seeking to comfort him.

“It’s alright,” she murmured, “It’s alright.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, impatient and faintly irritable.

“I am not some coward who cannot take what he has given out, Yvaine,” he rasped.

His courage tugged at her heart, but she flushed slightly, for how could she have expected anything else? She felt almost dizzy, and shifted so that she could lie beside him, her arms around him. Her mind thrummed with desperation and despair. She couldn’t lose him, she just couldn’t... How could she bear to be alone again? He’d brightened her solitary life in the sky so much; she’d never realised how cold and empty it was before... and now she was mortal... what was there for her if she lost him but to drift through the oh so brief far too lengthy years of her life in mindless misery until finally it ended and she followed him at last... She flinched in terror from her fate and clung more tightly to him. Her head spun, she really did feel appallingly weak...

Her head rose slightly, her eyes widening in relieved comprehension as she understood. ‘My heart already belongs to you,’ she had said, and she knew it was true. A star could truly share her heart with another, and share another’s heart in return. They were bound together by their love, and would never be apart. She laid her head on his shoulder, calm washing over her. She would not lose him. Wherever they were going, they were going together. No need to tell him, she thought, he might not be quite as happy about it as she was.

“I love you, Septimus,” she whispered.

“I love you, Yvaine,” he replied, ever so softly. But then his dull eyes narrowed and his head moved just slightly, as though he tried to raise it.

“I should be dead,” he breathed. “I cannot live this long...”

Yvaine nestled closer to him. An icy coldness seemed to suck at her limbs, numbing them.

“It will not be long,” she whispered.

“Yvaine?” he said in sudden, alarmed enquiry.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, “it’s alright.”

“No,” he snarled in vehement understanding. “No!”

Her fingers moved through his hair, gently, soothingly.

“It’s alright,” she told him, and her own voice was weak now. “Really, it is. It’s better this way...”

His heart lurched under her ear, staggering, failing. She felt so cold, and she pressed to him, he was still warm and alive under her.

Septimus had no more strength for words. He made a supreme effort and managed to tilt his head enough to set a kiss on his beloved’s golden hair. His lips rested there, and he let his eyelids fall again. Exhaustion swamped him and the pain from his chest was piercing sharp. Part of him raged bitterly at this cruel stroke, coming just when life and happiness had seemed assured. But his bleeding heart sang that his deepest wish had been granted; he had held the woman he loved in his arms and she was there still. And a tiny, weary part of him asked how he could hope for anything more, now that he had his Yvaine with him, however briefly. He was even king...

And she was there with him, he could still feel her weight against him, sense her presence... it was hard to feel too sad. Her hair smelt like midnight, he could drift away on a soft bed of that gold, and her night surrounded him...

She was there, and they were together at last, and together they slipped into that shimmering darkness...

Una’s rush forward had ended at the top of the dais’ steps, and there she had stayed, crouched, clinging to the balustrade, her unmoving gaze almost feral with the horror of it all. She did not need to go forward. She could see well enough from where she was hunched. Tristan lay to the side of the slab, his arms outstretched. If she had needed any further confirmation than simply witnessing that masterful sword stroke, she had it in his blank, fixed gaze, for his head had fallen her way.

Septimus and Yvaine lay alongside the slab. Dead star lay half curled over dead king; their heads rested together, black and gold hair fanning out in a dichotomous halo around them. Their hands lay curled together on the hilt of the sabre, forgotten in Yvaine’s grasp. Their eyes were closed; they at least, Una thought numbly, looked as though they had just gone to sleep.

Una could not have said when it was that she finally went forward, she had no awareness of time passing. But finally she did. She could not approach her son’s body, princess of Stormhold she might be, but she had not the strength. Instead she knelt beside her brother and her son’s killer. Yvaine was dead, she could see that in her utter stillness, but she stared down at her in bafflement. There was not a mark to show her death wound. She just lay there, as dead as her companion. But Una was in no state to try and solve this mystery, or to even care.

Something lay in Septimus’s other hand, the hand that still rested loosely around Yvaine. Una reached out and lifted it free and stared at the shining diamond as, for the second time that day, it turned as red as blood.

Ending 3

His lips peeled back in a grin of delighted satisfaction.

Tristan, the dazzling effects of Yvaine’s shining finally wearing off, had made it from behind the witches’ shattered mirror, where he and his mother had taken shelter. He hastened towards the dais as quickly and as quietly as he could. Fortunately, all his uncle’s attention seemed to be fixed on the star that lay helpless before him. He swallowed and gripped his sword hilt tightly. He’d seen Septimus fight the witches, and knew he could never defeat him. He would have only one chance to save Yvaine...

Septimus slid from the slab and stood, making to draw Yvaine with him, but noting her bonds, he drew his dagger to cut them. She beamed up at him, and he was having difficulty taking his eyes from her for long enough to complete his task safely. He certainly wasn’t going to risk cutting her... he applied a bit of willpower to his heart and fixed his eyes firmly on the straps, raising the dagger...

The sword slid through him from behind, coldly and cleanly. Surprisingly cleanly, he thought detachedly, as the tip emerged from his chest and he recognised the blade. More consequentially, his mind was automatically calculating the severity of the wound... a sharp icy pain stabbed from his heart and his legs were already trying to buckle... Two things were utterly imperative and he probably had time for only one.

He forced his leaden arm to move, slicing through Yvaine’s bonds, freeing her, even as her frozen, wide-eyed face began to twist in grief and horror. Then he tried to turn, tried to bury his dagger in the treacherous boy who had slain him... But the move was too much for his stricken body, and he fell, instead, to the ground

Tristan, breathless with nerves and flushed with triumph, skittered back from his uncle’s attempted lunge and gave him a wide birth, skirting around him to the other side of the slab. Yvaine was sitting up, so he grabbed her and tried to pull her with him. He had not the experience to be certain he had killed his dark ally and wanted to waste no time...

“Come on!” he told her excitedly, “Come on, it’s alright, let’s go!”

Yvaine’s breath had been temporarily stopped by shock and dismay. But Tristan’s clutching hands shook some air back into her, and she struggled against him.

“Septimus!” she screamed frantically, “Septimus!”

“It’s alright,” Tristan shouted, “it’s alright, he’s as good as dead, let’s go...”

“Let go of me!” cried Yvaine, beginning to fight him in earnest. Septimus was hurt, hurt so badly, she had to get to him...

“It’s alright, Yvaine,” Tristan said again, bringing his superior strength to bear to hold her. “I killed him, you’re safe now...”

“Let me go!” yelled Yvaine... She had always understood Septimus’s kills executed in cold blood, she’d helped him plan most of them, but she’d never quite understood that murderous red rage that sometimes took him... until now... Her thoughts were a wild tangle of fury and pain and her love’s killer stood between her and him...

She pulled away sharply, freeing her hands and almost breaking free of Tristan’s grasp entirely. Then she snatched up Septimus’s graceful curved sword from where he’d laid it down beside her on the slab and lunged wildly at her captor... Tristan stumbled backwards with a cry of pain and disbelief, clutching at his side as he sunk dizzily to the ground. Yvaine backed away as he fell, the red mist clearing slightly and without further delay she stumbled around the slab and threw herself down beside the king.

Septimus lay on his back, his dagger fallen from his out flung hand. His eyes were closed, but his chest moved faintly, jerkily, as though he wrestled each breath from the hand of death itself. She leant over to brush a strand of hair from his face.

“Septimus?” she whispered.

His eyelids flickered, opened.

“Yvaine...” he breathed. “I'm done... Careless... so careless... I'm sorry...”

She placed a fingertip on his lips to halt the laboured words,

“Not your fault,” she said, almost choking on the pain that closed her throat and threatened to rip her own heart in two. She reached out a tremorous, investigative hand to the wound, to where the dark stain was covering the scorched remains of his shirt. He was right. The blow had touched his heart. There was no hope.

She took his head in her lap, stroking his hair, seeking to comfort him.

“It’s alright,” she murmured, “It’s alright.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, impatient and faintly irritable.

“I am not some coward who cannot take what he has given out, Yvaine,” he rasped.

His courage tugged at her heart, but she flushed slightly, for how could she have expected anything else? She felt almost dizzy, and shifted so that she could lie beside him, her arms around him. Her mind thrummed with desperation and despair. She couldn’t lose him, she just couldn’t... How could she bear to be alone again? He’d brightened her solitary life in the sky so much; she’d never realised how cold and empty it was before... and now she was mortal... what was there for her if she lost him but to drift through the oh so brief far too lengthy years of her life in mindless misery until finally it ended and she followed him at last... She flinched in terror from her fate and clung more tightly to him. Her head spun, she really did feel appallingly weak...

“Yvaine...” Septimus whispered. His face was a ghastly white and he could scarcely open his eyes.

“I'm here,” she whispered back, pressing her lips to his cold cheek.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, Septimus,” she replied, now resting her cheek against his and fighting to retain some grasp on reason in the face of the pain that tore through her.

Then her head rose slightly, her eyes widening in sudden comprehension as she understood. ‘My heart already belongs to you,’ she had said, and she knew it was true. A star could truly share her heart with another, and share another’s heart in return. They were bound together by their love, and would never be apart. She laid her head on his shoulder, calm washing over her. She would not lose him. Wherever they were going, they were going together. No need to tell him, she thought, he might not be quite as happy about it as she was.

But... an idea had just sparked in her mind, blazing like a meteor of hope.

They were bound to one another... and what had they to lose now, in trying? She pushed herself to her feet, or tried to. She made it to her knees, and crawled hastily around the slab to where Tristan lay moaning. She ignored him, ripping open his coat and reaching into the inside pocket, whence lay the stub of the poor Babylon candle, that, when asked to transport them to two places at once, had simply elevated them to its normal travelling height, and gone out. Thankfully Tristan had had the presence of mind to put it away safely. It clearly wasn’t enough to get her home, but still...

She dragged herself back to Septimus, almost beginning to fear that she wouldn’t make it. She placed his arms around her and wrapped her own tightly around him.

“Septimus?” she whispered, hoping he could still hear her. “Septimus, hold me...”

“Always,” he breathed, managing to combine bitter irony and true feeling in that one soft word.

“Hold me,” she said, the candle between her clasped hands, “and picture the evening star. Can you see it?”

Only the very faintest sound of assent came from him, but it would have to be enough, there was no time for more. Already she might not be strong enough...

She brushed a strand of black hair aside with her nose and kissed him, wrestling every scrap of strength from herself, holding back nothing. And she shone. It was nothing spectacular, as stars’ shinings went, but it was enough. The candle burst into life, there was a warmer blaze of candlelight, and they were gone...

Una, blinking away the glaring afterimage of star and candle light, hastened up to the dais. She stared at the place alongside the slab where her brother and the star no longer were, but did not pause until she could crouch beside her son. She pulled aside his already ripped coat and looked at the wound, then sank back on her heels with a sigh of relief.

“Tristan,” she said.

Tristan groaned slightly and opened one eye.

“Mother,” he gasped, “tell my father... tell him... Oh, it hurts...”

Una pursed her lips with a marked lack of sympathy.

“Tristan,” she said more firmly. “It’s a scrape along the ribs. You are perfectly alright. Do sit up.”

Tristan blinked, pressed a hand to his bloody side, and awkwardly obeyed.

“That’s better,” said Una, and calmly began to tear strips from her petticoat to serve as bandages.

“Where’s Yvaine?” asked Tristan, in a tone of mingled hurt and puzzlement.

“Gone,” said Una succinctly. “Gone with my brother. Stars know where.”

“I thought I killed him,” winced Tristan, as his mother bandaged a little energetically.

Una’s lips pressed together, tight with worry.

“I suspect you have,” she said in a low, strained voice. “It did not look good.”

Tristan looked at his feet and asked no more. It was all too painful and baffling, and from his mother’s slight coolness, she felt as confused as he did.

When Una had finished seeing to her son’s scratch she rose suddenly and went to search the ground alongside the slab.

“Damn.” she said at last.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked her.

“They took the stone,” Una replied. “She’s taken him off to die somewhere and he still had the stone.”

“What stone?” Tristan said blankly.

“The necklace Yvaine was wearing,” Una retorted slightly impatiently. “The Power of Stormhold, no less. It should be yours now. Ah well,” she said more philosophically. “You’ll have to do without it. It’s not like you’d be able to do much with Stormhold’s magic, half human as you are.”

Tristan eyed her a little warily,

“Do much of what?” he asked.

Tristan paced the royal bedchamber, his thoughts an anxious whirl. The Catavarian ambassador was threatening war - war would you believe it! - if Stormhold did not make concessions over fishing and coastal rights. And he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. The pride he’d seen in his mother’s eyes the day he was crowned had already faded into uncertainty. He bit his lip. He couldn’t get this wrong. He couldn’t face seeing the disappointment in his mother’s eyes yet again. What would she think of him if he got the country into a war, before he’d been on the throne so much as a year! He would have to make the concessions...

‘The hell you will.’ The voice was very cold and dry and it seemed to speak inside his head. He started and spun around in a circle, looking wildly about him. There was no one there.

“Wh...what?” Tristan tremoured.

‘You will not make any concessions,’ declared the voice, just as firmly.

“Wh...where are you?” stammered Tristan.

‘None of your business,’ responded the voice, and another voice spoke, sounding oddly familiar,

‘You mustn't, you really mustn’t...’

‘Why are you talking to me?’ said Tristan, finally abandoning his frantic attempts to spot the speaker.

‘Because,’ said the voice, with exaggerated patience, ‘you are not making any concessions.’

“But I've got to!” replied Tristan, “They’re threatening to declare war!”

‘So?’ said the voice dispassionately. ‘They won’t do it. These are Catavarians we’re talking about. They have neither the force nor the inclination to fight Stormhold. They simply see a boy on the throne and wish to see if he will dance to their tune. You will go back to the ambassador and you will be very angry. You will talk of the insult to Stormhold and the long years of relative peace between our two countries. You will say that in the light of their appalling threats, you will have no choice but to declare war on them at once...’

“What!” cried Tristan. “I can’t do that!”

‘...at which,’ the voice went on calmly, ‘the ambassador will back down so far that he will scrape and grovel on the floor and you shall wring concessions from him to punish them for their importunity. And you will not need to go to war.’

“Ohhh,” said Tristan uneasily, “I don’t like that plan very much. Surely it’s safer to make a few little concessions and keep everyone happy...”

‘You stupid, mewling, human whelp...’ growled the voice...

‘Be nice...’ broke in the other voice.

‘Why?’ demanded the first. There was a rather feminine giggle.

‘You are terrible. Why do I like you so much?’

‘Someone has to?’ came back the wry suggestion.

Tristan was getting a little irked at being ignored.

“If you’re going to call me names,” he declared, sticking his nose in the air, “then I'm off to make concessions to the Catavarians.”

‘You’re off to take them for everything you can get,’ snapped the voice. ‘Now be a good boy and do as you’re told and everyone will think you a fine king.’

They argued for quite some time, but eventually it was time for Tristan to face the ambassador, and steeling himself, he did as the voice had bidden him.

Una was so proud of him. And as the years passed, and Stormhold became prosperous and powerful, everyone was proud of him. He was a fine king, they said. Who would have thought? they said. So young and yet such a fine king.

Tristan tried to close his ears to the praise. It seemed to scorch his ears. He hid his guilty secret from everyone, even his mother, even his queen. He hid the fact that he was merely doing as he was told. The fact that he was not truly ruling at all. He’d asked the voice many questions over the years, but the one question he had never asked was, ‘who are you?’ He had never really felt he needed to ask. But those first mocking words haunted him through the years. ‘Be a good boy and do as you’re told and everyone will think you a fine king.’ It was almost unbearable.

By the time he was old and grey he truly could not bear it any longer. He had been king so long now, he could and would rule his last years himself. He told the voice so, unequivocally. He’d expected fireworks, expected a fierce argument. So he was pleasantly, if uneasily, surprised when with what was pretty much a verbal shrug, the voice said he could suit himself, but not to expect any more help from him.

At first things did not go too badly. King Tristan had indeed learnt his politics from an expert, and if that expert had truly been able to yield control to him, he would probably have done well enough. It was the other things that went wrong. The harvest failed. Drought followed flood followed tempest. Roads were destroyed in avalanches. Bridges were washed away. The Storm Hold itself suffered more lightning damage in six months than it had in six hundred years. Tristan was soon at his wit’s end.

“Septimus!” he screamed from the balcony one night as a savage storm yet again battered his high home. “Stop! Will you just stop!”

The voice spoke to him for the first time since his little announcement six months earlier. It was as cold and detached as ever.

‘The land knows its king,’ it said softly.

King Tristan pushed tendrils of soggy grey hair from his tired eyes.

“Are you doing this?” he demanded. “Or are you trying to imply that this is simply happening, because I won’t obey you any more...”

‘Does it matter?’ asked the voice, with a touch of dark ironic humour. ‘Will it alter your decision?’

The old man spat rainwater from his mouth and glared at the clouded sky.

“It will not...” he began vehemently, but the voice cut in.

“Peace, whelp. You are upsetting my beloved with your stubbornness and it’s unalterable consequences. Will you not just yield?”

Tristan swallowed. He was cold and his body ached with rheumatism cruelly exacerbated by the rain.

“Don’t you understand?” he whispered. “My whole life has been a sham. Eighty years my praises have been sung, as the finest king in Faerie, yet what have I wrought for myself? In my six months of true rule, all I have achieved is that in one more month all that came before will surely be forgotten, and I shall be remembered as the most accursed king who ever ruled! I control the armies, but you control the lightning... what the hell can I do?”

The voice sighed, a surprisingly soft sound.

‘Yield,’ it said again, more gently than before. ‘I can control the lightnings, as you say, but I have not been doing so. They have been pleasing themselves. Believe it or not, as you will. But yield.’

“No,” said Tristan, tears mingling with the rainwater on his cheeks. “I cannot yield.”

The other voice spoke, low and determined,

‘You can’t allow this to go on, my love, you can’t... the people...’

Tristan raised his eyes to the bright golden star that had appeared in a rare break in the black clouds.

“My entire life has been a sham,” he said again, “I cannot yield. I will die a king.”

‘As you wish,’ said the voice, soft and deadly and with just a hint of regret.

They said afterwards that the bolt of lightning lit up the whole of Stormhold, from end to end. The tale had perhaps grown in the telling, but it was certainly a spectacular end for one of the finest kings Stormhold had ever known. History was kind enough to forget the last few months of his reign, and King Tristan the Halfblood became the first of a very long line of excellent rulers who kept Stormhold a remarkably stable kingdom. There was the odd blighted patch, such as had struck King Tristan, usually at the beginning or end of a king’s (or queen’s) reign, but generally there seemed to be a remarkable consistency in the policy of all its rulers, and the kingdom was much the better for it.

King Tristan’s reign, and the beginning of this period of peace, coincided with the return to the sky, after a brief absence that baffled astronomers within and without Faerie, of the evening star. There were a number of anomalies about its reappearance, for one thing, it seemed to be very considerably closer, for another, it now appeared to be two stars, not one. They nestled together, just touching, an astrophysical impossibility, but one for which the evidence was there before the eyes of anyone with a good enough telescope. In Stormhold, the stars were soon renamed, for some reason that no one could quite account for, as the King and Queen stars. And since few commoners had ever looked down a telescope, the twin star was generally referred to quite simply as The Monarch.

Well, that's the end of the Endings...