Destiny's Star (6 page)

Bethral swore silently. How to keep him safe?

She glanced at her saddlebags over in the corner. What she did have was packed in there. She’d planned for a night, maybe two, chasing bandits. There was nowhere near what she and the Storyteller would need in the way of supplies in those packs. And all the gold in the world would buy little on the Plains. These people bartered for goods and services. A gold piece was more like to impress the cat than a warrior of the Plains.

Bethral closed her eyes for a moment and cursed again. The idea that Ezren Storyteller, a man of swift intelligence and powerful ideas, would perish on the Plains, far from home and the people who needed him, made her sick to her stomach. There’d been nothing else she could have done—the wild magic had been about to destroy the castle and everyone in it. But now—

Actually, what made her sick wasn’t that he wouldn’t make the Plains his home. It was the idea that he’d be traveling without her. The idea of a journey at his side, sharing . . . whatever he was willing to share, for months . . . made her heart beat faster.

But the harsh reality of the Plains would forbid it, as would her common sense. She knew exactly what to expect.

So—they could trade armor, her weapons. The barding might not fit a horse of the Plains, but these people were scroungers. There’d be some use for it. If Bessie was to travel for long distances, she’d not need to bear the weight of the barding. Bessie would carry the Storyteller easily. Bethral would just have to find a way to get him an escort.

Bethral reached for her saddlebags, tugging them closer. The pain flared, and she clenched her jaw tight and breathed through the agony. She flipped open the first bag and started to rummage around, giving herself something else to think about.

Her spare tunic and trous, a few dishes. A small packet of bandages and some remedies that she’d learned to carry over the years. She set them aside for later.

A few candle stubs, flint, and tinder. A bundle of leather cords, always useful. Trail rations, dried meat, some grain for Bessie. A small bottle of molasses . . . Bethral thought all of it could be used to barter for what they’d need. She’d crammed more in these bags than she’d thought—some of it she’d forgotten about.

Then her hand brushed a leather bundle at the bottom, and she stilled.

She was fairly certain she hadn’t packed that.

Bethral wet her lips, and pulled the package out slowly. She wished she had some bells. Jingling them would keep anyone from entering this area of the tent. But Ezren Storyteller wouldn’t know what they meant, and he was the one she didn’t want to see this. She’d just have to listen for anyone coming close. This couldn’t be what she thought it was—

She pulled back the leather, and then the ragged cloth within . . . and stared.

It was. It was the odd knife that Red Gloves had pulled from Ezren’s chest that terrible day. They’d been ambushed, dragged into the swamp and sacrificed, one after the other, until Red had shown up and killed the blood mage and his men.

When Red Gloves had pulled the knife from Ezren’s chest, the wild magic had been freed, saving all their lives . . . and cursing Ezren’s.

She hadn’t packed it. Why would she? She’d been bound to deal with bandits for a day, maybe two. She’d had this in her room, deep in a chest, with a vague plan of destroying it when she had time. Certainly never to let the Storyteller see it again, not if she could help it.

Bethral felt the hair on the back of her neck stir.

Her sword-sister Red Gloves had been the Chosen of prophecy, or so Josiah of Athelbryght had believed. Red had felt differently, yet in the end she’d fulfilled that prophecy and then some.

Bethral hadn’t felt any particular calling other than the challenge of helping Red. There’d been no touch of destiny on her shoulders, and she preferred it that way.

But Ezren Silvertongue . . .

The chill moved down her arms, as if seeking the stone blade. She quickly twisted the cloth and the leather around the knife, careful not to touch the blade. She shoved it back into the deepest part of the saddlebag.

Bethral stuffed the bag between her and the tent wall, where none could get to it without her knowing. Then she settled back and pulled the warm blanket up to her neck.

Her mother had always said that the dead followed the living until the longest night of winter, when they went beyond, to the very stars. Bethral settled deeper into her pallet with a sigh. She’d follow the Storyteller for as long as it took to see to his safe return.

Weariness washed over her, and she let her eyes drift closed.

She’d go to the snows, but the stars would have to wait.

EZREN shouldered aside the flap of their portion of the tent, his arms full of rolled horse barding. Gilla was just behind him, her arms filled as well. They’d been surrounded by curious young warriors as they removed the armor from Bessie, who had promptly rolled in the grass, to the enjoyment of the young ones. Ezren had been afraid that the horse would wander off without a fence or hobbles, but Bessie had started grazing near the tent and showed no signs of leaving.

The tent was amazing, huge and sectioned off with walls. He’d never heard of such a thing, but then he’d never seen anything like this place.

The young warriors had been of both sexes and many different skin and hair colors. All were armed to the teeth and bore tattoos on both arms. Ezren had used the time to try to learn names and some words. He’d have to ask Bethral about the names, because they seemed to differ depending on who was asking. Some gave their name, some their name and tribes. There had to be a reason—he’d have to ask Bethral. . . .

When she woke.

She was lying on the pallet, covered with a blanket, her long hair spread out around her head. The lines of pain were smoothed away, leaving her lovely face peaceful and serene. The skin of her neck and shoulders looked so soft . . . Lord of Light—she was naked under that blanket.

Gilla jostled him from behind, her load of armor poking him in the back. Ezren stepped aside, and she darted around him, glancing at Bethral and then at Ezren’s face. She gave him a shy smile, then quietly placed her armload against the tent wall.

Ezren added his pile to hers as Gilla slipped out. He knew she’d be back—there was another armload of the barding outside.

He hated to have to do it, but they couldn’t wait much longer. “Lady Bethral,” he called, his voice rasping in his throat.

Her eyes snapped open and she looked around, almost as if she expected trouble. “Storyteller?”

“I need you to ask Gilla for some things, Lady,” Ezren said softly. “We need to set your leg.”

She stared at him for a moment, then frowned. “Unless you have some skills—”

“I do not,” Ezren said. “But I know that the leg needs to be kept straight. If nothing else, it might ease some of the pain.” He looked over at the saddlebags. “Do you have anything for pain?”

“I’m not sure that I should take anything,” Bethral said.

Ezren stared at her. “We have been offered the shelter of their tents?”

“For now. But it’s still just a respite, Storyteller. If Evelyn had been able to find us, she’d have opened another portal by now. We’re on our own.”

Ezren pulled the saddlebags closer.

Bethral struggled up on her elbow, reaching for the bag. “I’ll get it.” The blanket slipped from her shoulders, and Ezren forced himself to look away as it slid down to reveal the creamy skin of her breast.

“Sorry,” Bethral said. “They’re not much for bedclothes.”

“That has been made clear.” Ezren kept his eyes down. “Some of the young warriors were cavorting by the stream when I watered Bessie. They have different ideas about modesty here.”

“And sex,” Bethral said, retrieving a small wooden box from a saddlebag. “You need to understand that—”

A polite cough, and Gilla entered, her arms full of barding. She gave them both a curious look but said nothing as she set down her bundle.

“Ask her for two stout sticks—and strips of cloth,” Ezren said. “As you say, there is little hope of rescue, so we will do what we can with what we have.”

Bethral spoke to Gilla, who replied quickly and then disappeared.

“We will talk,” Ezren said firmly. “For now, let me give you a dose of something for pain and see what we can do about that leg. Time enough for stories on the morrow.”

“It’s important that you understand their ways,” Bethral said, pushing the saddlebags back behind her. “I don’t want you wearing a weapon.”

“Why not?” Ezren frowned. “Everyone else is.” And he meant everyone. Even the younger children were armed with daggers and swords. “I was taught basic skills. I admit I am not a soldier, but I can handle a blade. Not with your level of skill, admit—”

“You need to stand out. To look different because you are different,” Bethral said. “Just—please trust me on this. These people are dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” He looked around. “How so?”

Bethral’s hand came out from under the blanket and wrapped around his ankle. “This is a thea camp—a nursery. They brought the tent to us—they didn’t take us into the camp. When you went out to Bessie, even then I was being guarded. Yes, they have offered us hospitality, but if we were to be seen as a threat, they would not hesitate to kill us.”

Gilla coughed, then entered, carrying two wooden swords that were splintered on the edges and a bundle of rags. Haya followed behind, her bright eyes taking it all in.

Ezren carefully folded back the blanket to reveal Bethral’s lower leg. The toes were at an odd angle, just slightly off. The skin was unbroken, and he thanked the Lord of Light silently for such favors.

Bethral had removed a small bottle from the box and taken a sip. She fumbled as she tried to stopper the bottle, and Ezren reached over to aid her. Her fingers felt cold, and she gave him a startled glance at his touch.

“Tell Haya that you are cold,” Ezren said as he put the box back in one of the saddlebags. “We need to make sure you stay warm.”

Bethral took a breath and then nodded, starting to talk. Ezren settled back on his heels and sorted through the strips of cloth. He watched Bethral’s face as Haya spoke. At one point, a faint blush traced over her cheeks as Haya questioned her. Bethral glanced at Ezren, then away, as she responded. “She’s sent for a brazier and more blankets,” Bethral said. “She wants to watch you heal me.”

There was something more there, but now was not the time to press the issue. “You had better explain—”

“I have.” Bethral’s eyelids fluttered. “But she wants to watch anyway.” She forced her eyes open. “There will be a gathering here later—the evening meal. She invites us both, but understands that I can’t attend.”

“That will be fine,” Ezren said. “And I will be careful. But first . . .”

“Yes.” Bethral nodded. “I’m ready.”

“I am not,” Ezren said. “I would feel infinitely better if I knew what I was doing. But—”

He gripped her ankle, pulled and twisted, trying to line up the toes with her knee.

One gasp escaped Bethral, then she clenched her jaw and pressed her lips tight. Ezren set his own teeth and kept trying, pulling and easing the foot to what looked like the proper position. He moved fast once he had it in place, using the cloth strips to bind the swords to her lower leg while trying to keep the foot still.

Bethral was pale when he finished, and Ezren felt fairly shaky himself, but the limb seemed straighter. “Any better?” he asked.

Bethral gave him a soft, fuzzy smile. “There’s less pain.”

Ezren wasn’t certain if that was the drugs or the bindings, but he was glad for any improvement. He reached for some of the pillows and used them to brace Bethral all around, so she wouldn’t shift in the night. “Sleep, Lady.”

Bethral yawned as he tucked the blanket all around her. Haya said something quietly, and two warriors entered with a brazier of coals and extra blankets. Ezren stayed next to Bethral as they created a second pallet and set the brazier between the two. The room warmed immediately.

Ezren looked down into Bethral’s face. She had cried out only the once, although he had to have hurt her. Such a lovely, brave woman. She’d been hurt because of him. Because of his failure to deal with—

A hand settled on his shoulder. Haya looked at him, compassion in her eyes. She gestured for him to come with her as Gilla held open the tent flap.

His regrets would have to wait. With one more look at Bethral, Ezren rose, and followed Haya.