Lythia looked up at Catania and smiled. The firelight gleamed in her chestnut eyes, shining under the shadow of the brown hood that covered her hair.

“Greetings, Cat.”

Catania felt she should kneel, but somehow she could not. She could never have explained why she was suddenly frightened, but fear tightened on her heart and she trembled.

“I don’t understand,” she said softly.

“I do not understand fully yet,” Lythia answered.

“But. . .” Catania stopped. She took a step nearer, cautious as a wary doe. She looked down at the tiny, pink face nestled against Lythia’s faded red kirtle. The sight made her breath catch in her throat. How many years has it been since I saw a child?

“Is he here to deliver us from the humans?” she whispered.

Lythia smiled sadly. “No, Catania. He shall be king of the humans too.” Catania thought she saw her glance at her husband beside her. “He is here to deliver us from ourselves.”

Catania opened her mouth to ask how anyone could need to be saved from himself–but stopped as she remembered the previous night. The hopelessness she had felt, the haunting regrets. She felt her knees resting on the straw and the sobs constricting her chest. What if he could satisfy that longing? Indescribable hunger filled her heart, still shadowed by dark doubts. How is it possible? She took a step back. She remembered watching Tyre fall to his knees, seeing the tears run down Jéru’s face. The haughty centaur had bowed down to this child. The stars celebrated his birth. The Creating One sent his servants to announce it. And He had sent them to a elfin slave boy whom nobody wanted. A swineherd. His mother had smiled at a ragged fugitive she had once called friend. Lythia was still willing to accept her–Catania knew that. If Catania ever called anyone king, it would be this child. Tears gathered in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered again, as they began to creep down her cheeks.

Lythia bent down and kissed her son’s forehead. “You will. Someday, we will all understand. Someday the Creating One will show us everything; I believe that. For now, we can only trust.”

Catania dashed the tears off her face, and brushed away a stray tress. Did she dare risk trusting someone? Had she dared since her father died? She could not remember. She could not think clearly. Jéru and Tyre had both been told–why had Catania not been? But Jéru came to me. Moth and Horbrid found this place too. How? The stars told of it–anyone can see the stars. Is everyone gathering here? She suddenly wondered if Lord Nightseer or Lord Daniel would suddenly appear. The thought made her shudder. But here they had all come, in the dark forest, gathered around a small pine fire and a newborn baby. Catania had nothing to live for–if not this.

Such a prince deserves a gift. Jéru had nothing but a shepherd’s flute, but he had played it.

Tyre had spoken as if he were in a dream, but Catania was fully awake, fully aware of every movement, as she slipped around the small fire and laid her bow down before Lythia. She knelt before the strange child, hearing the pine needles crackle under her. One of her knees struck a stone, and the smooth, ungiving surface reminded her of the flagstones in the road–the last place she had knelt. When she lifted her eyes from her weapon that lay on the ground, there were tears on Lythia’s cheeks. Maylock came to kneel beside his wife.

“Who are you?” he asked gently.

“She lives here,” Lythia answered. “She was my friend.”

“You live out here?” Maylock asked in surprise, looking down at her gift. “Take your bow, Cat,” he said, smiling. “You can serve Him with it. It will be many years before he can draw a bow.”

“Perhaps he will not fight with such a weapon,” Lythia said gravely. “Who can say? Go back, Cat. But we shall see each other again, I think.”

Catania reached for her bow. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the child’s face.

When she stood and turned to go, she was suddenly confronted by Jéru standing at the edge of the clearing. He was smiling. She went to him.

“You listened,” he said.

She nodded.

Jéru nodded at Lythia over Catania’s shoulder, and turned to walk beside her. Catania wondered what he had done with the swine and why he had come again. Was it just to see if I had come? They walked around the city and across the road together in silence. She went west toward her creek, and he followed her. Catania wondered what time it was. It was still dark, save for the pale light of the star.

“I’m hungry,” she said quietly, hardly thinking what she said.

“‘Tis hardly past midnight,” Jéru said skeptically. “When do you usually break your fast?”

“I have not eaten since noon of yesterday,” she answered, suddenly realizing her midday meal before her disastrous conversation with Tyre had been her last.

Jéru laughed and shook his head. He lifted a small parcel that hung at his belt and pulled a piece of flatbread out of it. He tore it in half and handed her one crescent shape. “Eat that!”

Catania hesitated as she took it.  Bread. Slowly she put the unfamiliar wafer in her mouth. It was surprisingly hard to tear with her teeth, but it softened and melted away on her tongue.

A shepherd’s flute and a meager lunch–Jéru had so little. Yet he seemed willing to give so much. There was something about him Catania could not understand. Has he changed this night–or has there always been something different about him?

They came to her trench and walked along it to her home. She smiled at Jéru, put the last bite of bread in her mouth, and jumped down. He hesitated at the brink, then turned away. She watched him go, then went to her tree. She pulled herself up onto one of its great roots, then into the high branches. She climbed up until she broke through the canopy and clung to the thin branches, feeling the chill wind brush her face and play with her hair. The sky above her was still as dark as the surface of a deep pond. Shining down from the eastern sky was the star, gleaming, drowning out a thousand others with its brilliance. It shot soft rays of white light down from heaven towards the dark forest and sleeping city, but its heart glowed with a red fire. At the far edges of sight, the distant sky was speckled with smaller stars, out of the reach of its light. Catania stared up at it, letting her tired body relax against the slender tree bole. She slid her bow off her arm and fingered it, thinking of the child’s face, and the tears glistening in Lythia’s eyes. She hoped they stayed long in the forest.