White Star (12 page)

“How is she doing?” Evelyn asked, keeping her eyes on the children.

“I am forbidden to tell you that she is doing very well.”

Dominic tossed his head, letting his long, black hair fall over his shoulders. “Vembar is at her side constantly. He has looked ill of late.”

“Ill?”

“More worn than sick,” Dominic said. “Lady Arent has not yet left for her home. And Warder Bethral is watching for any trouble.” Dominic paused. “And Ezren Storyteller.”

“Ezren?” Concerned, Evelyn darted a glance in Dominic’s direction. Had the wild magic flared?

“He’s crafting tales of the Chosen, and keeping the entire Court enthralled.”

“He’s telling stories?” Evelyn asked. “Has his voice returned, then?”

“No, he rarely speaks in public. He writes them down.”

Dominic brushed dirt from his white robes. “I can’t stay much longer.” He gave her a glance. “Have you been visited by any priests of the Lady?”

That surprised Evelyn. Those who served the Lady were usually out on circuits, traveling between towns and shrines, the eyes and ears of the Church. “No,” she said slowly. “I haven’t, come to think of it.”

“I haven’t seen one in over a year.” Dominic rose from the bench. “There have been fewer and fewer reports. And Fat Belly is not upset, I assure you.”

Evelyn rose as well. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know.” Dominic turned and looked into her eyes. “The Archbishop is supposed to be the leader of the Church of the Lord of Light and Lady of Laughter. But more and more, I’ve noticed that the Lady and her laughter are pushed to the side.”

“He called her ‘consort’ when he banished me here,” Evelyn mused.

“Yes.” Dominic nodded. “I’m not sure what is going on. But Fat Belly had best be careful. I may not walk in the Lady’s service, but I respect her position at the Lord’s side.”

“You asked because I heard her voice, didn’t you?” Evelyn said softly.

“I believe you, Evelyn,” Dominic said, reaching out to stroke her cheek. “I don’t approve of what you did, nor do I understand your choice. But I do believe you.”

Evelyn smiled gratefully, but had to ask, “Has anyone heard from—”

“No.” Dominic dropped his hand, his eyes cold. “Even if there was word, I’d not—”

One of the boys fell full length in the pool, splashing water everywhere.

“Enough,” Dominic said loudly. “It’s time we were going.”

The lad stood, his robes dripping, and pulled back his wet hair. The others lined up, shoving each other and giggling, trying to get their heads bowed and their hands in their sleeves. Dominic gestured for them to precede him through the portal.

“Come again, if you can,” Evelyn urged.

Dominic paused. “I doubt that will be permitted, Lady High Priestess.” He saw her face, and softened. “I’m sure the Queen will recall you shortly, Evelyn. Be patient.”

With that, he stepped through the portal and vanished. Evelyn heaved a sigh, looked at all the water splashed about, and went to get her bucket.

Later
. . . much later . . . after she’d mopped up the shrine and put away her supplies, she started a stew by the fire and climbed onto the flat roof of her shelter. From here, she could watch the sun as it sank slowly in the west.

There was no formal requirement that she maintain the regular invocations, but she’d always loved the peace that sunset prayers brought her. So she settled down, arranged her robes about her, and started to compose herself for prayer.

She took a deep breath. The air was sweet and clean, and the breeze was light. All too soon, the leaves would be turning, with winter close behind.

Where had the summer gone?

She smiled, and closed her eyes.

Once her breathing slowed, once she’d emptied her mind of all worries and concerns, she opened her eyes and focused on the sun. The great orange orb was not yet touching the horizon. She began the formal chant, thanking the Lord of Light for the day and welcoming the stars, the gift of the Lady of Laughter.

The words flowed easily, out of long habit. She timed her chant so that the last word left her lips as the orb touched the horizon. Then, as tradition dictated, she sat silent, watched the sun set, and considered. . .

It wasn’t personal gain that had motivated her to start the rebellion. It had been the deaths of the children born with the mark of the Chosen. It had been the small girl who had kicked off her blankets as Evelyn whisked her away to safety. Not to mention the despair in the lives of the common people that the Regent’s rule had caused. It had been wrong, and once Evelyn had the support of Auxter and Arent, she’d decided to do something about it.

If she had gone to the Archbishop. . .

Evelyn drew another deep breath as the sun sank lower. She loved being a priestess, serving the Church, serving those who needed her skills. She’d taken her vows with an honest and open heart. The rituals, the magic, the structure— it was safe and secure. She’d made her choice many years ago, and never once had doubted her decision.

But she’d ignored the part of her vows that required obedience. Obedience to authority, the Archbishop . . . and the Regent.

She’d changed an entire kingdom without asking a single soul for advice and counsel. She’d imposed her vision of what was right on nobles and peasants alike, without so much as a by-your-leave. And if she’d had aid, from within the kingdom and without, she knew full well that without her decision to support the cause, the Chosen would not now sit on the Throne of Palins.

Perhaps she had taken too much upon herself. As much as it would be comforting to say that it had been the will of the Gods that she had succeeded, not once during the entire time had any voice spoken to her. Nor was she aware of any divine aid.

Except for the voice that bade her save one particular man.

The sun seemed to freeze in the sky. For a long moment Evelyn looked her actions full in the face, trying to see them as the Archbishop did: as arrogant, as wrong, as disobedient, willful, disrespectful. . .

The young queen drew herself up to sit tall and straight on the throne. She raised her hands, and started to remove her gloves. “I am the Chosen, restored to the Throne of Palins. But Red Gloves is no name for a queen.” She took off the first glove and began on the second. “From this day forth, I shall be known as Queen Gloriana.”

Joy washed over Evelyn as she remembered Gloriana in that moment. Perhaps she had overstepped her bounds, but she’d done the right thing for Palins. And if that meant scrubbing shrines for a while, so be it.

The sun was sinking below the horizon. The sky was still lit, but the stars were starting to peep out.

Soon, Dominic had said. Well, she could be content with that. She yawned, and got to her feet. Enough woolgathering. She’d eat, and then sleep well this night.

But she paused for a moment and held still, knowing full well that she was imagining things. That she was being very silly. No doubt Blackhart had long forgotten her. But she couldn’t help herself.

She turned her head, and looked to the north.

The Black Hills still glowed with the faint light of the setting sun. She could see their tall granite tops, stark against the sky. There were forests at their base, but at this distance they appeared as dark splotches of deeper gray against the mountains.

Once in a great while, if the sky was clear and the wind was right, she’d think she’d caught a glimpse of a red cloak gleaming like a star beneath the trees.

A star that could be seen only in just the right kind of light.

Foolishness, really. But she prayed to the Lady of Laughter to aid Orrin Blackhart in his quest. She’d probably never see him again, or would only receive news of his death. But here, alone, with only the stars and the Gods to witness, she could dream.

And with that, she was content.

«
^
»

A
week later, Evelyn was no longer content, and her patience had worn thin.

A week with no summons, no news, no word at all. At least the pilgrims had been fewer, but Evelyn was growing more and more concerned. There wasn’t much to do other than clean, pray, and worry.

She had the worry part down to a fine skill. What was happening back in Edenrich? Why hadn’t she heard anything from anyone?

And now, by the sacred flames, there was a small crowd of pilgrims coming up the path to the shrine, and Evelyn’s irritation outweighed her priestly concern for their spiritual well-being. There had to be twenty or thirty of them.

All with dirty shoes, no doubt.

Evelyn rose from her bench and hurried down to greet them at the edge of the shrine. They could just damn well take off their shoes before they stepped onto the white marble. Their adoration of the Lady would be no less if they were barefoot. One could only hope that their feet were a bit cleaner than their shoes.

She paused halfway down the path, and scolded herself. Some attitude for a priestess to have, that was certain. She should worry more about their souls than their soles.

That made her snort at her own joke, at her impatience, at her frustrations. Wouldn’t the Archbishop chide her for her misbehavior, and rightly so?

She drew a deep breath, and watched as the pilgrims advanced slowly. As they grew closer she could see that they seemed to move oddly, staggering as if wounded. She frowned, then continued toward the shrine, now truly concerned for their safety. They might have run into a wild animal, or even a monster of the human variety. She was under a binding as to her magic, but she could heal those with serious wounds, and even portal them to help if necessary. It would feel good to work a bit of magic, especially to meet another’s need.

And if the portal was to the church in Edenrich, and if there happened to be a reason for her to help someone across, well surely there was no harm in that?

In a better frame of mind, she stepped up to the platform of the shrine, and moved around the pool to the far edge, to stand between two pillars. She assumed the proper demeanor of one of the priesthood, standing tall and straight, her hands pushed into her sleeves. She lifted her gaze to the sky for a moment, and focused on the proper mental attitude for one charged with the spiritual guidance of questing souls.

Biting their heads off about the condition of their soles was not appropriate.

Evelyn suppressed a smile, and lowered her gaze to focus on the pilgrims. The first of the group cleared the last turn and came steadily on, looking oddly . . . gray.

Bad food, maybe? But their clothes were tattered and torn, as if they’d been out in the open for some time. She had opened her mouth to greet them when she realized—

Odium. They were the undead, coming fast, faster than she thought they could move. Their faces were gray, with rotting skin hanging and white bone exposed in some places. Any hair was matted and filthy; any clothing hung in tatters from their frames. The stench wafted over Evelyn, causing her stomach to clench.

The first was on her before she finished her thought. It reached out long, clawlike hands, grabbing for her robes.

Fear surged over her. Odium fought tooth and claw, like wild animals. Even if they didn’t tear your flesh apart, the wounds they caused festered.

Evelyn stepped back, her hands raised to ward it off, falling back into her training without making a conscious effort. With a single word, she called the battle magic she’d not used in a decade.

And the magic responded. Fire burst from her hands, burning through the chest of the odium before her. It fell at her feet, its legs still twitching as its skin curled black.

Another took its place. And another.

She moved back again, stepping into the pool, releasing a burst of fire toward the ones in front. But they kept coming, threatening to swarm her. She swept the area before her with flame, trying to keep them back. If she could get to the far pillar, get her back to it, she might—

A sound came from behind. She ducked as an odium reached for her hair, grabbing at her bun. The braid fell down her back. They were closing in. She pulled her fists in close, closed her eyes, and used her fear to fuel her magic. The flames exploded out and around her.

“
Where
is it?” Blackhart snarled as he pulled himself up the rocky trail. “You said—”

Archer followed along. “Save your breath. The shrine’s supposed to be up this goat track. Over the next ridge, maybe.”

Blackhart cursed. “Goats are too smart to use a trail this bad.”

Archer ignored Blackhart’s words, feeling the same frustration. But they’d been told by a shepherd a few miles back that this was the quickest way.

He paused for a moment to look back. The others were climbing as well, spread out on the trail. Sidian brought up the rear, his bald black head gleaming in the sun.

Blackhart had reached the steep crest and was waiting, pressed against the rocks. Archer did the same, crawling on his belly to reach Blackhart’s side. Loose rock shifted under his body and tumbled down the path onto Mage’s hands.

“Wait for the others,” Blackhart breathed. “I saw a building, maybe two.”

Archer nodded, catching his breath, digging in his pouch for his bowstring.

Mage moved up, with the others following. They all took a moment, crouching low, catching their breath. Reader had his dagger out. Thomas and Timothy were pulling their shields off their backs and preparing their maces.

Mage recovered first. “See anything?” he asked, quivering like a puppy.

Sidian grabbed his shoulder. “Head down, youngling.”

“Haven’t looked.” Blackhart glared at him. “It could be that she’s not there.”

A fireball burst from the other side of the ridge, a gust of sulfur and ash passing over them.

“I’m thinking that’s her,” Archer said dryly.

Blackhart was already over the ridge, and gone. Sidian, Reader, Thomas, and Timothy scrambled after him.

Archer and Mage rose to their feet.

“Wish I could do that,” Mage said wistfully as the Priestess scorched another odium.

“Ya do what ya can, kid.” Archer stood, bringing his bow to bear in one swift, strong movement, his entire focus on the targets below.