Destiny's Star (38 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Vaughan
“He is still a danger, then.”
“I doubt it,” Mist said. “The wounds on his arms are swollen and puffy. There are red streaks growing up his arm very quickly, and he is fevered. He may not see it for what it is, but I do. If the fever does not claim him soon, I will give him mercy before I seek the snows.”
“Ah.” Wild Winds stood. “I am sorry, Mist.”
“Do not be. I made a choice, and I live with the consequences. My decision is made. But I wanted to see how you were before I chose that path.”
Wild Winds pulled her into a hug. Mist stiffened, then melted against him for a moment.
“You could share my tent. I would care for you,” he whispered into her hair.
“No.” She pulled away and stepped back, her expression implacable. “I’d offer you my skull, old friend, but I doubt my wisdom would aid you.” She turned, and headed out of the tent.
Wild Winds followed. “I think the customs of the warrior-priests must change, including that one. But we shall see.”
They walked to the rise where the young ones had gathered to look down at the Heart.
“It’s true,” Snowfall said as he stopped beside her. “The horses will not aid them.”
Mist joined them and looked down at the group struggling to get mounts. “Do you know what happened to the Sacrifice and his Token-Bearer?”
“No.” Wild Winds sighed. “They vanished. But I wish them well, wherever they may be. As I wish you well, Mist.”
“Send your people to our camp later this evening,” Mist said calmly. “No need for the tents and supplies to go to waste.”
“I will,” he said. “Safe journey to the snows, Mist. And beyond.”
“May the elements be with you, Eldest Elder.” Mist walked toward the Heart, and Wild Winds silently watched her go.
GILLA couldn’t believe her eyes. No matter what they did, those warrior-priests could not summon a horse. They had all stood and watched as that woman talked to Wild Winds, and then started to walk toward the Heart.
Wild Winds had watched her go, regret etched on his face. But then he shook his head, and turned toward them all.
“We all need sleep this day,” he said. “We will finish our meal, and set watches.” The others nodded, and turned back toward the tents, talking among themselves.
Wild Winds held up a hand as Gilla and her friends started to move. “Wait, Warriors.”
They paused, darting looks at each other at being addressed as warriors.
“I would ask that you remain with us for a time, before you make any decisions about your paths. The spring challenges will be held soon, and those who will challenge for warlord status will arrive shortly. I’d learn more from you about what happened here, if you would.”
They looked at him, then Lander pushed Gilla forward.
Gilla nodded. “We would stay, Eldest Elder.”
“Good.” Wild Winds turned back to the tents. “Let us talk as we eat. The rest can wait until later. Although”—he pointed ahead with his staff—“maybe sooner than I think.”
There were riders before his tent, warriors of the Plains. Gilla blinked to see the one at the front, one of the largest, blackest men she had ever seen. He was dressed in fine chain mail, his sword on his back. His dark eyes flashed, and the gold earrings in his ears caught the morning light. “Wild Winds,” the man said, his voice booming.
“Simus of the Hawk.” Wild Winds strode up and stood before the man, planting his staff next to him. “How may I aid you?”
Those dark eyes flashed under raised brows. Gilla had the impression that Simus had noticed the lack of skulls on the staff. And the presence of young warriors in the group of warrior-priests. But the man said nothing about that.
“An explanation would be a good start,” Simus said. “My evening pleasures were interrupted by a needle of light that pierced the sky, and a singer with an itch of curiosity.” Simus shot a glance at the man next to him. “I had no choice but to leave my bed and seek you out.”
“Joden of the Hawk.” Wild Winds nodded at the big man with the broad face and light brown skin. “You are a singer now?”
“No, Eldest Elder.” Joden shook his head with resignation. “Not yet. I—”
“Pah,” Simus said. “A small matter.” He fixed his gaze on Wild Winds. “Well? What was that all about?”
“Please, Simus of the Hawk,” Wild Winds said, “you are welcome to my tent. We have a tale to tell, one long in the telling.”
“You will tell it?” Simus demanded.
“Yes,” Wild Winds said.
Simus pulled his head back in surprise, then frowned.
Wild Winds lifted an eyebrow. “What, is Simus of the Hawk struck speechless?”
“I am waiting for the sky to fall on my head,” Simus retorted.
“Which is how the tale begins, if you would hear it.” Wild Winds said.
Gilla smiled as Joden dismounted immediately.
“You think that warrior-priests cannot change?” Wild Winds asked Simus. “Come and hear the tale, or not. As you choose.”
“Keir is going to gut me,” Simus grumbled, but he dismounted and joined his friend.
Wild Winds paused, and looked back at Gilla and her friends. “You are welcome, but you can also choose to sleep, if you wish. Your part in this tale can be told later.”
Lander and Ouse followed Wild Winds, but Chell turned to Gilla, who was already yawning. “I’ll see you to your tent,” she said as she took Gilla’s arm. “You had the worst of it.”
Gilla nodded, and together they walked toward their part of the camp. She sighed, letting her tiredness overcome her. “Do you think Ouse will become a warrior-priest?”
Chell shrugged. “Who’s to say? But if he does, I am glad it’s Wild Winds that will teach him.” She looked back toward the tent. “I’m glad Simus of the Hawk is here,” she added. “I would serve under him.”
“Oh?” Gilla arched an eyebrow.
Chell flushed. “He is a fine-looking man. And rumor has it that he is amazing in—”
“That can all wait for tomorrow.” Gilla yawned, her jaw cracking. “I just wish we knew what had happened to Ezren and Bethral.”
Chell shrugged. “Maybe we will someday. Who knows what story may come our way?”
Gilla sighed. “I just want to know the end of that tale.”
“Here we go.” Chell lifted the flap of the tent. “Sleep as long as you want, Gilla.”
Gilla nodded absently, then crawled in. The blankets looked so inviting, but there was a lump in the middle. “What?”
A head lifted from the blanket, which was rumpled and gathered together. Yellow eyes blinked at her, then a mouth yawned, showing sharp teeth.
“Cat!” Gilla said with delight. “You—”
Tiny mewing sounds came out of the blanket. Gilla reached over and pulled back a fold. She crowed with delight at the sight of five tiny bodies, each struggling to suck at their mother’s teats.
“Cat, you are a warrior of the Plains now.” Gilla reached over and carefully scratched its . . . her . . . head. “I just wish you could speak as to the fate of the Storyteller and his Warlord. What happened to them, eh?”
THIRTY-FOUR
EZREN lost all sense of time and self, as if the light was endless and eternal within the core of his being. The power danced through him, joyous and gleeful. There was a deep feeling of gratitude and urgency. As if he had to choose.
That was easy. He wanted his lady and his stories. More than that, he would not ask. The rest, they would build together.
There was a pause . . . a question . . .
His voice. The scars.
Ah. He hesitated. . . .
No. His choice was made even before he had thought it through.
Change nothing
, he thought firmly, trying to make sure the wild magic understood.
Bethral loves me as I am, and those events made me as I am now. Change nothing.
Change nothing
, he thought firmly, trying to make sure the wild magic understood.
Bethral loves me as I am, and those events made me as I am now. Change nothing.
Laughter then, a wonderful, happy sound, seeming filled with an acknowledgment of wisdom hard-won. Then the light and power twirled, and Ezren felt as though he was being tossed and twisted by the wild currents of time.
Slowly, his senses returned, and the world righted itself. While he still could not see, he felt Bethral’s hand in his.
He tightened his grip, and her fingers clutched at his just as tightly.
The blindness faded, and as the world came into focus, he could see her next to him, her blue eyes wide. “Ezren,” she said breathlessly.
“I am here,” he said, pulling her close, their hands still clasped tight.
The light surrounded them, covering them with a soft aura. Bethral seemed to sparkle, her armor glittering in the light. “Are we dead?” she whispered.
“If we are,” he said just as softly, “we are together.”
But then Ezren felt cobblestones under his boots, and the glow faded away. He was facing Bethral, who looked dazed and confused, and beautiful. Bessie was behind her, shaking her head with a jingle of harness and barding.
They were standing in the center of the courtyard of the Castle of Edenrich, the sun blazing above them in a cloudless sky.
Ezren could not believe his eyes, but his lungs filled with the scents of the city, the familiar smells that spoke of civilization.
Awareness hit Bethral’s face as well, and she stared at him in disbelief. “We’re back?”
Ezren swooped her up with a great laugh, lifting her high in his arms, plate armor and all, swinging them both in a circle. “The triumphant heroes return!”
“Ezren,” Bethral gasped, staring at him. “Are you well? The magic?”
He stopped and stood there for a moment, bracing himself against her weight. “Lord of Light . . . it’s gone.” He grinned at her. “It’s gone!” He spun her around once again, in the opposite direction, laughing with delight.
Bethral laughed as well, her hands on his shoulders, her hair sweeping through the air. He rejoiced at the happiness in her eyes. With care, he set her on her feet, keeping his arms around her waist. “I am going to peel you out of that armor and—”
Someone coughed.
Ezren jerked back, then spun, finally focusing on the people around them.
Queen Gloriana stood close to the back wall of the courtyard, holding a bloody sword in her red-gloved hands. Ezren narrowed his eyes at the sight of the gloves that were to be worn only in times of dire threat to the kingdom.
Gloriana’s eyes were wide as she stared at them, her sword held defensively. “Bethral?”
Oris lay on the ground behind her, his face slack. Alad was next to him, propped up on an elbow, blood staining his chest. He was panting, his hand pressed over the wound, his face filled with fear and astonishment.
Bethral shifted, drawing Ezren’s attention behind him.
Five men stood there, weapons out and ready. They were spread out, blocking all exits from the courtyard. Armed and well-armored, they all stared with the cold eyes of killers. Behind them stood a figure taller than the others, wearing a dark, hooded cloak.
The figure’s eyes flashed in the depths of the hood. “What in the name of—”
“Gloriana?” Bethral asked, her hand going to the handle of her mace. “Who are these men?”
“Bethral?” Gloriana breathed, as if not daring to believe. “Ezren?”
“They’re traitors,” Alad gasped from the ground.
“Good enough,” Ezren said, and stepped back. “My Lady?”
Bethral leapt for Bessie’s saddle. With one swift move, she raised her mace and turned Bessie to face the foe.
“Kill them,” the cloaked man shouted, pointing at Bethral.
“Idiots,” Ezren muttered, backing closer to Gloriana. Her face was grim, and she jerked forward, as if to join the fight. “No.” Ezren put his hand on her arm. “Don’t get in Bethral’s way.”
Gloriana grimaced, but stayed where she was. Ezren knelt by Alad and eased him flat, frowning at the amount of blood. The blond tried to push him off. “Lady Bethral.” Alad struggled to rise. “She can’t hope to—”
“Yes, she can,” Ezren said, glancing over at his lady.
Bessie snorted as Bethral settled in the saddle and they charged the first man to move.
The fight exploded around them. The five men tried to meet Bethral’s charge, their shields and swords held high. But the warhorse crashed into the group, knocking one man to the ground, then using her hooves to make certain he would not rise again.
Bethral swung her mace as Bessie pivoted and kicked, a whirlwind of death. Two more joined the man on the ground, helmets dented, clearly unconscious. The other two started to move back, eyeing the open gate.
There was a scrabble of boots on the cobblestones as Gloriana ran forward, charging straight for the leader.
The figure in the cloak backpedaled, shouting orders to the remaining men. “Attack the Storyteller,” he snarled.
They started to obey, turning their backs on Bethral and running toward Ezren.
Ezren just stared at them, shaking his head. “Fools!”
A bloodcurdling scream, and the nearest one stumbled and fell, a lance of the Plains piercing his chest.
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