Destiny's Star (37 page)

The warrior-priests reacted in various ways, some running away from the stone, some standing and waving their arms so that the horses would dodge around them. But the spirit horses made it their business to cut between the Heart and the warrior-priests, forcing them away.

Ezren and Bethral stood at the center as the horses swirled around the edge of the stone, pushing the warrior-priests farther and farther back. The thunder of their hooves seemed to fade as Ezren’s voice cut through the noise.

 

 

HAIL Storm watched in horror as the spirit horses charged through the crowd, aiming for him.

He scrambled back, barely dodging the cold, glowing hand of Arching Colors as she reached for him. Then she swept past, and the real horses followed, forcing him back and away from the stone. They continued to swirl around, thundering past, but Hail Storm’s attention was caught by the figures in the center of the glowing stone.

“You Warrior-Priests have wanted it all, and all for yourselves.”

The man, Ezren Storyteller, was digging in the roan horse’s saddlebags, and he pulled forth a bundle of rags. He stripped them away, revealing a sacrifice knife with stone blade and horn handle. Skies above, where had he gotten that?

The Storyteller held it up for all to see, and his voice echoed over the horses. “I bear the wild magic, by no choice of my own. But this was never the kind of power that I wished to possess. All I ever wanted was the power to tell stories, moving the hearts and minds of those that heard them, and learning the truths that are found in all tales.”

The Storyteller paused, and glanced at the woman at his side. “That, and the magic of Bethral’s love are all I need in this life, and the next.”

Once again he brandished the sacrifice knife, holding it high. “We will give you what you want. . . .”

The blade in the Storyteller’s hands seemed to grow blacker somehow, as if the stone was absorbing the light.

The Storyteller continued, his green eyes glowing with light. “. . . But may all the Gods, and all the elements, grant that you get exactly what you deserve.”

 

 

EZREN turned to Bethral. “Give me your hand, beloved.”

Bethral took off her gauntlet and tucked it into her belt. She looked beyond the horses that protected them, at the rise where they’d left the others. She smiled, extending her hand to Ezren, then took a deep breath, at peace with this decision.

“Blood of the Plains,” she announced, hearing the echo of her words. “Willing sacrifice, willingly made.”

Ezren sliced her palm, and blood swelled from the cut.

He held his own hand up, and cut his palm. “Willing sacrifice,” he repeated, his words echoing as well. “Willingly made.”

He grasped the knife hilt with his bloody hand, and reached out. Bethral put her hand over his, also touching the hilt. Their mingled blood dripped to the stone below.

Bethral felt it then, felt the joy and anticipation of the wild magic. It danced over their hands, little sparks of light. It tingled, and left her breathless with its power and its promise.

But when she looked in Ezren’s eyes, there was no regret. He was at peace with this choice. He meant what he had said about their love. This life, and the next.

She smiled and nodded, willing to follow his lead.

There was a shriek, and Hail Storm was visible for a moment, his face filled with horror. He was trying to dodge through the ring of horses, trying to prevent—

“You want power?” Ezren asked. “Well, we want justice. For us.” He knelt, and Bethral knelt with him.

“For the land.” Ezren lifted the knife high as their blood flowed down the blade and added to the pool below.

“FOR THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAINS!” Ezren and Bethral shouted together, and their joined hands plunged downward and shattered the stone blade against the Heart of the Plains.

The world around them disappeared as the light flared bright, white, and forever.

GILLA cried out as the glowing Heart exploded with light. Ezren and Bethral disappeared from sight.

The power flared straight up from the stone, like a needle piercing the night sky. It towered over them, swirling around and around, like one of the deadly windstorms she’d heard about but never seen.

The horses were still circling, and the warrior-priests that surrounded the Heart were staggering back, covering their eyes.

The bright needle swirled, linking the land and the stars. A bell tone sounded again. Gilla blinked against the glare, and saw a circle of light pulse from the Heart, expanding outward. The thick band of light looked like it was traveling under the earth, illuminating the grasses from below. Moving fast, it climbed the rise and passed through their group.

Gilla turned to watch it go, bright and visible far into the distance. A second followed the first, with the same bell tone resounding through her bones.

She turned back and saw a third, and then a fourth pulse issue from the Heart. As the fourth band of light and sound raced away, it was joined by the horses moving away from the stone in all directions, scattering the warrior-priests.

But the warrior-priests around her were staring at their hands and the ground, tears streaming down their faces. “The magic,” she heard one whisper.

Ouse gasped. His hands were glowing, strong and bright.

“Cosana!” Lander shouted. “El!”

Gilla jerked around and saw the spirit horses galloping straight up the rise toward them. Cosana was laughing, her hair filled with flowers. El looked sad as he rode past, his hand held up in farewell. Gilla raised her hand in return, and then he was gone with the other spirit horses. Her heart ached in her chest, but she knew he’d ride with her until the snows.

One last spirit rider came up the rise, headed straight for the Eldest Elder, a warrior-priestess with a very intent look, as if stalking prey.

 

 

WILD Winds couldn’t quite see all that was happening, but the needle of light nearly blinded him. He felt the warmth of the waves of magic as they flowed over him even as the last of his strength faded.

His knees weakened, and he sagged in Snowfall’s and Lightning Strike’s arms. It would not be long now.

Another grasped his arm. “Stand, Wild Winds. Stand and see.”

Wild Winds frowned, blinking at the sight of Twisting Winds at his side. “Elder?”

Twisting Winds nodded, his wise eyes concerned. “One last lesson, young one. Magic is a blade that cuts both ways.”

Confused, he felt a warm body tuck itself under his other shoulder. “Stand, Wild Winds.” Summer Sky’s face was filled with both joy and regret. “One last dance, my friend. That which was taken is restored. That which was imprisoned is now freed.”

“Stand, Wild Winds,” Stalking Cat commanded, both hands on Wild Winds’s shoulders. His fierce eyes forced Wild Winds to raise his head. “One last battle, Warrior-Priest. Embrace the old. Preserve the new.”

“Oh, that’s helpful,” Wild Winds grumbled, but Stalking Cat just gave him a fierce grin and shifted slightly. Wild Winds drew in a sharp breath as he saw Arching Colors racing toward him on horseback, her hand reaching out for him.

 

 

GILLA watched as the two who were supporting Wild Winds cried out as the warrior-priestess rode right through him. The woman threw her head back as the horse surged on, holding up something in her hand, her mouth open as if crying out her success in the hunt.

The two supporting Wild Winds lost their grip, and he slowly slid out of their hands and collapsed to the ground.

Gilla looked back at the Heart. The needle of light was still there, swirling, towering. The warrior-priests below were now running toward it. Just as one reached out to touch it—

It was gone.

Gilla blinked at the spots before her eyes, staring at the center of the Heart of the Plains. But it was empty, the stone once again gray and dark.

Ezren, Bethral, and Bessie were gone.

Gilla choked back a sob as Chell wrapped her arm around her shoulders. Lander and Ouse came over and hugged her tight. “Tenna and Arbon live, Gilla.”

Gilla cried that much harder.

The darkness had descended, but the torches and firepits were still lit around the Heart. The female warrior-priest knelt at Wild Winds’s side, but the male was pointing down at the Heart. “Look. Something is wrong.”

The warrior-priests that stood about the Heart of the Plains were acting oddly. Some were standing, staring at their staffs. Others were kneeling, and crying out. Faint sounds of anguish rose in the air.

“Skies above!” The female by Wild Winds rose to her feet. “Their tattoos! Eldest Elder, their tattoos are gone.”

Wild Winds started to laugh, a strong, healthy sound.

 

 

BY dawn, they were all crammed into Wild Winds’s tent, everyone eating and talking excitedly.

Gilla’s friends had plunged her into the stream. She scrubbed every inch of skin twice as they sat on the bank and told her everything that had happened. They’d brought her gear, so she donned a fresh tunic and trous as Lander and Ouse set up her tent for her.

Now they sat around her, all of them tucked tight in the front corner of Wild Winds’s tent, at his insistence. He’d wanted to hear everything they had to say about the events that had led up to this moment.

For the warrior-priests and priestess that had followed him up the ridge had all been gifted with magic the likes of which they’d never seen. They were all eating fry bread and roasted gurtle, and drinking strong kavage. They were excited at their new powers, but there was also a deep worry about learning to use these new gifts. Wild Winds had asked Gilla and her friends to describe how Ezren Storyteller had torched his enemies when he’d lost control of the powers. As a warning, he said, of the dangers involved.

The tent buzzed with talk and joy, for Wild Winds sat on his chair before them all, sat tall and straight and strong. Healed, whether by the magic or by Arching Colors’s touch was a subject of much speculation and anyone’s guess.

Gilla sighed, her belly full, her friends close. The future held many possibilities, but right now she just wanted to curl up in her tent and sleep.

One of the guards entered the tent and spoke to Wild Winds softly. Wild Winds frowned, then nodded. The guard went out, and a moment later the tent flap opened to admit an older woman. She was dressed in trous and her hair was in dreadlocks, but her face and chest were as pale as a babe’s.

The tent went silent. Gilla craned her neck to see, but Lander squeezed her hand. “It’s one of the other warrior-priests,” he whispered. “One that lost her tattoos.”

 

 

“MIST,” Wild Winds said gently, looking with sadness at his old friend’s naked breasts and bare skin. It was so odd to see her without her tattoos. “Enter in peace.”

Mist took two steps closer, the staff in her hand bare of decoration. She made no move to sit.

“Your skulls?” Wild Winds stared at her staff.

“The skulls shattered the moment the tattoos disappeared,” Mist said calmly. “You have magic?”

“You can’t see it?” Wild Winds gave her a sharp look.

“No,” Mist said, “nor can the others.”

There were gasps at that, but Wild Winds raised a hand for quiet.

“The ground glows with power,” Wild Winds said. “The Sacrifice has been made, and magic has returned to the Plains. But it appears that there are new questions now. New responsibilities.”

Mist gave him a sharp look, taking him all in. “You are well?”

“Yes,” Wild Winds said simply. “A gift of a future.”

Mist nodded. “One I will not share.”

“I am sorry, Mist,” Wild Winds said. “But you and the others will have to live with the consequences of your choices. Perhaps with time you can relearn—”

“We will not live long enough,” Mist said.

“Eh?” Wild Winds raised an eyebrow.

“We can no longer summon horses.”

Wild Winds stared at her, dumbfounded. The young ones around him gasped.

“See for yourselves.” Mist gestured outside. “They are trying again, even as we speak. A small herd, down by the Heart.”

Wild Winds nodded, and the young rushed the flap, leaving him alone with Mist.

“We cannot call them. If we catch one, it will not let any of us mount. If we manage to mount, the horse is uncontrollable,” Mist said, her face grim.

“The Spirit of the Horse . . .” Wild Winds shook his head. “You have offended.”

“We cannot hunt, cannot ride.” Mist sighed. “The Sacrifice has his vengeance. Many have already sought the snows.”

“He sought justice, not vengeance,” Wild Wind reminded her. “What of Hail Storm?”

“Cursing in my tent. He claimed to have other ways of wielding magics, but we have listened and have rejected his ways.”