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anonymity
was assured by ritual and law; he existed above and beyond all authority, all
retribution except the Queen’s.
    Starbuck
turned, gazing over the rim of his drink at the incongruous clothing laid out
on a shelf along the mirrored wall by the mirrored door: the calculated black
silk and leather of his formal court attire, and the traditional hooded helmet
that masked his real identity, that made
Herne
interchangeable with a dozen other ruthless and power-hungry predecessors. The
helmet crested in a set of curving, steely spines like the antlers of a
stag—the symbol of all the arrogant power any man could ever want to wield, or
so he had thought when he first settled it onto his head. Only later had he
come to realize that it belonged to a woman, and so did the real power—and so
did he.
    He sat down
suddenly on the turned-back covers of the long bed; watched his endless
reflections in the walls mimic him mindlessly into infinity. Seeing the rest of his life? He frowned,
pushing the image away, running a hand through the thick black curls of his
hair. He had been Starbuck for better than ten years now, and he was determined
to go on being Starbuck ... until the Change. He wielded power and enjoyed it,
and it had never mattered to what end, or where the real source of the power
lay.
    Didn’t matter? He looked down at the heavy strength of his
arms, his body still hard and youthful, thanks to privilege. And the butchering
of mers ... No, the slaughter didn’t matter at all, as an end it was only the
means to a greater end. But the source, yes, that mattered. She
mattered—Arienrhod. All the things that had the power to move him were
hers—beauty, wealth, absolute control . eternal youth. In the first moment he
had seen her at audience in the palace, with her former Starbuck at her side,
he had known that he would kill to possess her, to be possessed by her. He
imagined her body moving against his own, the bridal veil of her hair, the red
jewel of her bitter mouth ... tasting power and privilege and passion incarnate.
    And so it
did not strike him as incongruous that he moved unthinkingly from the bed to
his knee, as the door opened and made the vision reality.
     

3
    “... The time of Change is upon us! The Summer
Star lights our way to salvation ...”
    Moon stood
hugging herself on the dock in the shrouded dawn, shivering with a chill born
of cold mist and misery. The breath she had held in until she ached puffed
white as she exhaled, dissipated into the gray fog breath of the sea like a
spirit, like an escaping soul. I will not
cry . She wiped at her cheek.
    “We must prepare for the End, and the new
Beginning!”
    She turned, looking back past Gran along the fog-wrapped tunnel
of the pier as the insane old man’s roaring broke like a wave over the sand
castle of her self-control. “Oh, shut up, you crazy old ...” She muttered it,
her voice quivering with the helpless frustration that made her want to scream
it. Gran glanced over at her, sharp sympathy etched on her weather-worn face.
Moon looked away, ashamed at feeling resentful, resentful at having to feel
ashamed. A sibyl didn’t say those things; a sibyl was wisdom and strength and
compassion. She frowned. I’m not a sibyl
yet .
    “We must cast out the Evil Ones from among
us—we must throw their idols into the Sea.” Daft Naimy threw his arms up, shaking fists at
the smothered sky; she watched the ragged sleeves of his stained robe tumble
back. Dogs barked and bayed around him, keeping a cautious distance. He called
himself the Summer Prophet, and he roamed from island to island across the sea,
preaching the word of the Lady as he heard it, distorted by the echoing of
divine madness. When she was a child she had feared him, until her mother had
told her not to; and laughed at him, until her grandmother had told her not to;
and been embarrassed by him, until her own growing understanding had taught her
to endure him. Only today her endurance