White Star (11 page)

“Bella.” Blackhart crossed his arms over his chest, preparing for battle. Bella had been in one of the first villages they’d come across, guarding a group of children who’d lost their parents. She’d been armed with a fry pan and not much else.

“Any deaths?” she asked as she adjusted the babe, making sure the rag was well placed before she started to pat its back.

“None,” Orrin replied.

She nodded, rocking the child slightly. “Sidian and Reader brought in three more families this day.” Bella continued to pat the babe. “Dorne has the details.”

“Good,” Blackhart grunted. “Any more warriors?” He watched Dorne look his way and rise from his stool, to the dismay and protest of the young ones.

“No, but word is spreading of your promise,” Bella said softly.

Might as well get it over with. “I’m told the older children are asking for swords.”

Bella gave him a resigned look. “Aye.”

“We’ll see to some training,” Blackhart said.

Bella sighed. “With any luck, there will be more warriors in the next week.”

The babe on her shoulder burped, spitting up on the rag. Bella shifted him again, wiping his mouth. The babe stared at Blackhart, then his eyes started to drift shut as he yawned.

“Luck,” Blackhart snorted. “Might as well pray, too, for all the good it does.”

Dorne heard his words as he came closer. A small, dark man with olive skin and a paunch, dressed in black with a small silver brooch pinned to his tunic. He raised an eyebrow. “And doesn’t the Lady of Laughter bring us good fortune?”

Blackhart looked at the priest. “So you believe. I, on the other hand, believe in making my own luck through work.”

“Of course.” Dorne took Blackhart’s elbow, leading him back out the door. “The Lady expects us to do our fair share. Come, there is venison stew tonight. Let me tell you of our newest recruits.”

Bella hummed to the sleeping baby, and closed the door behind them.

Blackhart followed Dorne down the back stairs and into the inn’s large kitchen. One of the kitchen maids was still working, and she dished up stew and bread, then left them alone.

“Three families, twenty total,” Dorne said. “The men are farmers, only too glad to shelter here, and willing to fight. All are healthy, and only one has a babe in arms. Two of the lads are old enough to swing a sword.” Dorne tore at his bread and dipped it in the stew. “We’ve housed them and got them food. They’d a few cattle and sheep with them, and wagons.”

“Wagons?” Blackhart scowled, talking around a mouthful. “They were told to bring nothing with them. Things we have aplenty, but—”

“The wagons were filled with seed corn,” Dorne said with a smile. “When we can plant—”

“If we can plant,” Blackhart growled.

“When, Orrin. With the aid of the Lady.” Dorne leaned back. “Hasn’t she already shown you her favor?”

Blackhart kept eating. He’d told the story, of course. Had to, since Archer had thought he’d been raised from the dead when he’d appeared out of the dark. If this was to work, this second chance, he’d need an army to deal with the odium. And where better to find it than among his own men?

“Some favor, Priest,” Blackhart said. “A sword, a horse, and a chance. Not much more than that.”

“A pardon for yourself, if you can do this,” Dorne reminded him. “And a boon that allows you to keep the promise you made to them.”

Blackhart took a drink of ale. That was the one thing he had to offer. He’d passed the word as best he could. Any who would aid him, he would ask their pardon as his boon. They’d be free men, forgiven their actions, and free to start new lives under a new baron. Free to use their real names and rebuild their lives.

“I am a priest of the Lady, sworn to her service,” Dorne said softly, touching the silver brooch shaped like a half-moon. “I came to the Black Hills thinking to minister to people in despair. You, my lad, have given them the only hope they have.”

Blackhart looked down into his bowl. “A thin chance, that.”

“A chance, nonetheless,” Dorne said firmly.

The
rain was heavier when he finally left the inn. Blackhart drew the red cloak over his shoulders as he splashed through the muck toward the blacksmith’s. He’d claimed the building as his own quarters. It was dry, and though it wasn’t as warm as the inn, it was easier for men to report to him there. Nor were there busy ears about.

He mounted the stairs, and looked about the small loft. A simple rope bed was there, with an old wooden bench nearby. Enough for his needs. The mattress was stuffed with straw, and he’d heaped the blankets high.

A full stomach made him yawn; he’d sleep well this night. He dropped his cloak on the bed and sat on the bench to work his boots off his feet. With any luck, in another week or so they could stop hiding and start going on the attack. That suited him just fine.

Boots off, he started to remove his weapons, leaving them within easy reach. One of the first things he’d managed was a bigger pair of boots. His armor, too, which was a bit better than what the Priestess had scrounged for him.

Blackhart had to shake his head. That Lady High Priestess had dared much for him, taking him into the morgue to sort through the leavings of the dead on his behalf. Amazing, really. He hoped that fat Archbishop hadn’t been too harsh. Blackhart remembered her bright blue eyes and that laugh. . .

There was a sudden sense of warmth under his tunic, and Blackhart smiled as he set aside his leathers. Leaning over, he rummaged in his saddlebags and pulled out the copper candle box. He opened the box, and lit the small stub within. The flame flickered, then grew, reflecting warm light off the copper.

Carefully, he tugged on the leather cord around his neck. It came up easily, displaying the silver ring with the white star sapphire.

Blackhart placed the ring in his hand and stared at it. A star gleamed on the surface of the stone, moving over its surface as he moved his hand. Mage had checked the damn thing and assured Orrin that it wasn’t magic. But he knew different. The ring glowed, almost as Evelyn had glowed in the darkness of that cell. That damn bit of sparkle danced on the stone as if with a quiet joy.

Mage might not be able to see it, but Blackhart knew there was magic in the thing.

He couldn’t sell it. Not that it was worth much, a silver ring with a flawed stone. But it made its owner seem closer, somehow. Blackhart had a fancy that the ring glowed when Evelyn was thinking of him, but it was a fancy and nothing more. Stupid, really. She’d said herself that she was sending him to his death.

Still, a man who redeemed himself and cleared an entire barony of odium might be able to approach an archbishop and declare for the hand of a certain lady high priestess. After asking the lady herself, of course.

Blackhart snorted at himself. The entire idea was incredible, of course. Unlikely. Hopeless. Pathetic, actually. Not to mention damned near impossible. But so was the idea that he was still alive.

It was a dream, nothing more. Hells, not even that— the barest of hopes. There were months of fighting ahead, even if he could figure out where the damned odium were coming from. If the people he was trying to save didn’t rise up and kill him in his sleep.

Blackhart shook his head, and blew out the candle. He was a fool, that was certain.

Still, he carefully put the cord over his head before he settled back onto the bed, and pulled the red cloak over the blankets for extra warmth.

Even one such as he could dream.

«
^
»

Peace
and quiet wear thin after a while.

Three weeks was more than enough, as far as Evelyn was concerned.

She sighed, eased back on her aching knees, and threw the scrub rag in the bucket. The white marble of the shrine of the Lady glistened under the afternoon sun. Which was a good thing, since her own white robe was gray with dirt. This particular shrine to the Lady of Laughter was an open affair, a shallow pool on a white marble base with two rows of four pillars each. At night, the pool was intended to reflect the stars and the moon, and the white marble had been chosen so that it gleamed in the moonlight. Evelyn could also attest that it showed every smudge of dirt tracked onto it.

She rose off her throbbing knees, and picked up the bucket of dirty water. As lovely as the marble was, as patient as she was supposed to be, if one more penitent soul showed up with muddy feet, she just might scream.

Not that there had been a lot of penitents at this remote place. But so help her, just one more. . .

Stretching, she looked down the rough path that led up through the hills to the shrine. As far as she could see, there was no one on the path. Which meant that she’d have no visitors this night.

She turned to walk up the path to her shelter, bucket in hand, when a portal opened on the platform behind her. She turned, raising an eyebrow. The Church delivered supplies once a week, usually by mule. The regular delivery was overdue. With any luck, this would be— Dominic came through the portal, his long black hair whipping in the breeze. Head held high, he stepped into the pool.

Evelyn laughed. “Dominic!”

Dominic looked down at his robes floating in the water around his ankles. “Lovely.” He stuck his head back through the portal, and she chuckled at the tongue-lashing she was sure he was giving some poor mage.

Dominic reemerged, his nose pinched in disapproval.

He looked every inch the proud half-elf as he walked through the pool and stepped over its narrow rim. “Apprentices,” he snorted, shaking out his wet sandals.

Evelyn smiled. “It’s not easy to learn to cast the spell, much less move a portal once it’s in place.”

“So I am told.” Dominic’s face relaxed as he looked at her. “You look well, Evelyn.” One eyebrow raised as he took in her robe and bucket. “The unkempt scrubwoman disguise suits you.”

Evelyn snorted, and was about to reply, when more people arrived. They were acolytes, the newest members of the Church. They were all laughing and giggling, their robes hiked up in their belts to avoid the water, their feet bare.

They were all carrying parcels— her supplies, no doubt. With the awkwardness of youth, they splashed through the pool, then gathered to bow to their elders.

“Where do you want—” Dominic asked.

“The one at the very top of the path.” Evelyn gestured up the hill, and they started running up the rocky path to ward her shelter.

“Have a care,” Dominic called after them. “Slow down.” They slowed a bit, but still jostled into each other as they disappeared with their loads.

“Come,” Dominic said, as he started toward one of the benches. “Sit with me.”

“You can stay?” Evelyn followed him up the path, taking care with the bucket.

“Not for long,” Dominic said softly, giving her a warning look. He kept moving, and raised his voice. “Your father sent an apprentice who needs to practice holding a portal open.”

The acolytes piled out of her shelter, almost running down the path. The group gathered on the path and bowed to them again, their hands tucked in their sleeves. “Did you break anything?” Dominic asked. As they shook their heads, he gave them a nod. “Very well. Go and play.”

With laughter, they moved down the path and to the shrine.

Dominic sat on the bench. “These children have been at their studies too long, and need to run a bit. They also need experience with portals. So I have charge of them for the afternoon.”

Evelyn sat at the other end of the bench and placed her bucket at her feet. “They also make good witnesses.”

“Why, Lady High Priestess”— Dominic gave her a side long look— “that almost sounded cynical.”

The boys and girls had produced bean sacks that they started tossing back and forth, and through the portal.

Evelyn saw it waver slightly as they dashed in and out, splashing through the pool. Their laughter was loud and joyous.

“Your father asked me to give you this.” Dominic handed her a small ceramic cylinder, corked at one end.

“He said you’d know what it was.”

Evelyn took it from his hand. She smiled to see the familiar container, but had other concerns. “What news?”

she asked softly, as she tucked the cylinder in her robes. “I’m forbidden to say.” Dominic looked straight ahead.

“I’m forbidden to give you any information. I was told that you are to concentrate on the condition of your soul and your vows to the Lord of Light and the Church and your superiors. I am not to distract you with worldly matters.”

He turned his head slightly, and looked at her. “Fat Belly told me that himself.”

“Dominic!” Evelyn looked at him, eyes wide. “You’ve never called him—”

“The man’s an ass. A fat, bilious ass,” Dominic growled.

“But as much as I hate to admit it, he may have been right in one respect. You do look better, Evelyn.”

“Well, I confess that when I first got here, I seemed to sleep the days away,” Evelyn replied.

“Magic, both of the Gods and the secular, comes at a price,” Dominic pointed out. “Not to mention the pressures of your plotting with the Chosen. Perhaps a retreat was in your best interest.”

“I could have rested in Edenrich,” Evelyn snapped, “and still been available to the Queen, not to mention my regular duties.”

Dominic gave her a steady look.

Evelyn tightened her lips and looked away.

Dominic turned back to the children, hard at play, and raised his voice. “Semeth, mind your robes!”

The lad stopped long enough to pull his robes back up through his belt before he rejoined the game. Dominic shook his head, and gestured as if speaking about the boy.

“So I am forbidden to tell you that Fat Belly went to the castle for the first meeting of the Council, and presented himself in your place. And I’m forbidden to say that the Queen was upset that you were not available, but she courteously refused his offer, indicating that your place would be held until your return from your ‘retreat.’ ”

“Did she?” Evelyn couldn’t help a chuckle.

“His face went purple when the Queen and Vembar questioned him closely concerning the nature of your exhaustion and retreat,” Dominic said. “They are pressuring him very subtly to recall you. I suspect that pressure will get stronger as the days go by. Queen Gloriana can be very insistent.”