White Star (15 page)

Archer sheepishly put his spoon back in the bowl.

Dorne set down his knife, and bowed his head. “Lady of Laughter, we ask that you grace this meal with your joy. Remind us that our duties can be leavened with a sense of humor now and again with no loss of efficiency—”

Blackhart snorted.

“— and that a kind word makes a better goad than a pointed stick. Our thanks, gracious Lady of Laughter, and to the Lord of Light as well.”

Archer dug in, and Evelyn wasn’t far behind. The stew tasted as good as it smelled. Blackhart didn’t slack, either, and Dorne settled down next to him on the bench with his own bowl. They all reached for bread, and there was silence as they ate.

Evelyn concentrated on the food. She’d been on simple rations for the last few weeks, and the taste was pure pleasure. The rabbit was tender, and the garlic and bits of onion added to the savoriness.

Archer got up to refill his bowl, and brought back fresh kav. Evelyn filled her mug again, and sopped up the rest of the stew with a bit of bread. She sighed, and noticed Dorne watching her. She smiled at him, warm and content. “That was wonderful, Cook.”

He gave her a smile and a dignified nod. “It’s a pleasure to cook for one who appreciates a good meal.”

“I appreciate your cooking,” Archer protested.

“Bah,” Dorne scoffed. “You’d eat anything. And the way you make kav is a sin against the Lady.”

Archer leaned back and belched. “Needs to be strong, to keep a man going.”

Dorne rolled his eyes. “Not so strong it eats through the mug.”

“Enough,” Blackhart said, leaning his elbows on the table. “Tell me about the new families that came in. How many? Any warriors?”

Evelyn sat and listened as Archer gave Blackhart the details. The kitchen was warm, and she felt tired, but in a good way. The babe had been a joy to work on, setting his little belly and bowels right. She’d check on him again, but she was willing to bet that he would thrive now that the colic had been cleared. She smiled, remembering his dark face and happy eyes.

“Evelyn?” Dorne said softly, his deep voice a quiet rumble in the warmth.

She looked at him with eyebrows raised.

“There is a tale told in Palins,” Dorne said, wrapping both hands around his mug, “of a young mage and a king on a battlefield.”

Evelyn’s eyes went wide-awake, her sleepiness gone.

Blackhart and Archer frowned, both looking at her and Dorne.

“In the story, the King was struck down in battle,” Dorne continued, his voice soothing. “In the midst of the fighting, the mage leaped to cover the King’s body with her own, calling on the Lord of Light and Lady of Laughter to save the King.”

Evelyn couldn’t look away from Dorne’s warm brown eyes as he continued. “The dead King rose to his feet, alive and well, and led his troops to victory. The mage rose as well, and found her hair turned white by the holy power of the Gods as it flowed through her. Mage no longer, but priestess by the Gods’ own hands.”

He paused, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire.

“Was that you?” Dorne asked.

«
^
»

“
It
was,” Evelyn whispered. “But it wasn’t quite like that,” she added softly.

“What?” Blackhart demanded. Archer thought he looked a bit like a man who thought he’d picked up a kitten and gotten a mountain cat instead.

“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have kidnapped ya.” Archer looked at Evelyn sitting there, pale and tired. “Neither time.”

She gave him a wan smile. “The story’s not quite true,” Evelyn continued. She looked down at her mug. Blackhart was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before.

“The best stories aren’t,” Dorne said.

“My father is a powerful mage, and my mother was a priestess, each a member of a noble house of Edenrich,” Evelyn said. “I was raised in a home where magic was like breathing. I chose to become a battle mage, to my father’s joy. But to honor my mother, I also learned a bit of healing and served for a time as an acolyte to the Church.”

“The red cloak.” Blackhart still looked a bit dazed. “It was yours.”

“Everard was struck in that battle.” Evelyn closed her eyes. “He took an arrow to the chest, and I watched in horror as he fell limp from his horse.” Her eyes opened, and she looked at the fire, but Archer knew full well she wasn’t seeing the kitchen.

“I threw myself down beside him, and started a healing chant my mother had taught me. Everard and I were friends, had been since we were children. My hands were covered with blood, and he was so still, so pale. I prayed— pouring all the magic, all my power, everything I had into the chant— as his guard formed around us.”

She sat silent for a moment. “I’ve never been sure if he was dead, to be honest, but he was sorely wounded. I’d closed my eyes; there was a flare of light all about me, and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cheering, victorious army, and Everard smiling at me. My hair was white as snow, and my head was pounding with a horrific headache.”

“Evelyn, Lady High Priestess,” Dorne said.

Evelyn nodded. “I never claimed to have raised him from the dead, but that version of the story would not die. I’d been a minor acolyte up to that point, but the Church insisted that I become a full priestess. I had a leaning that way, so I agreed. The King awarded me the title of Lady, and I entered the Order.”

“Entered? Or fled to?” Dorne asked.

Evelyn looked at him, then looked away. “I’ve magic, both sacred and secular. The Church allows me to use them for the betterment of others.”

“That’s not what I hear. Eidam sets limits on you, doesn’t he? Your gifts must be reserved for the powerful, and not the healing of the sick and the poor?” Dorne’s question had a definite edge to it. “The most powerful healer in the land, who can even raise the dead, is not permitted to use her gifts on just anyone.”

Archer looked at Blackhart, who shrugged.

Evelyn frowned. “I’ve worked hard to do good works among the less fortunate, but then the Chosen. . .” Her voice trailed off, and she put a hand to her head. “I beg your pardon. I’m more tired then I realized. Is there somewhere I could—?”

Blackhart stood. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Evelyn nodded, and followed him out of the kitchen. Archer watched them leave, then turned back to Dorne. He gave the man a questioning look.

Dorne stood, gathering dishes. “Ever see battle magic used?”

“Not before I saw her fry odium like a rabbit on a spit,” Archer said. “It was impressive.”

Dorne nodded. “Magical fire does horrible things to a person’s body.” He turned and headed for the washbasins. “Friend and foe alike.”

“What’s that got to do with her raising the dead?” Archer asked, confused.

“Never mind,” Dorne said. “And don’t even think of sneaking out of here without doing dishes.”

Archer froze, right in the middle of doing just that.

“You eat, you wash,” Dorne growled, “or you don’t eat again.”

Archer sighed, and turned back.

Evelyn
followed Orrin into the large main room, then up the main staircase to the second floor. She sighed as she saw the stairs, and reached out to grasp the railing to pull herself up. “I didn’t realize how big this inn is.”

“Wareington was a major crossroads at one point.” Orrin waited for her at the top of the steps. “From here, you can take the main roads to Edenrich, the Keep of the Black Hills, Summerford, and Athelbryght. This place was quite busy, in its day.” He walked ahead of her, down the hall to a set of double doors. “People came for miles just to stay here.” He pushed open the door, and stepped back to allow her to enter.

“Why did they—” Evelyn stopped dead in the doorway. The room was paneled in a dark wood. A fire crackled on the hearth, warming the room. There were a few chairs there, and a small table. The windows were shuttered, but in the light of the fire, she could see the only other piece of furniture.

An enormous bed.

The bed was huge, spanning most of the room. It was four-poster with heavy curtains hanging from the rods. The mattress was easily big enough for an entire family. She couldn’t imagine how many geese had given up their feathers to stuff the mattress. Light above, maybe an entire gaggle of the creatures, and a year to stuff it.

She stood in awe.

“Behold, Lady High Priestess. The Great Bed of Wareington.” Orrin spoke from behind her. “An attraction for miles around. The innkeeper had it built as a lure for his trade, and charged handsomely for this room. Made a fine profit from it, I am sure.”

Evelyn stepped closer, as Orrin lit a few candles on the mantelpiece. “It’s amazing.”

And it was. The bed was carved with flowers and animals that seemed to be playing in a garden paradise. One of them, a fierce lion on the footrest, looked odd. Evelyn took a closer look.

Someone had carved their initials on its nose.

Evelyn laughed out loud at the sight.

* * * * *

Orrin’s
chest clenched at the sound of her laughter. Even exhausted, she was still so damned lovely in the light, running her fingers over the lion’s face and laughing. He’d done her a disservice, dragging her away from the shrine, bringing her here. He should have made her open a portal, shoved her through, and waited until it closed to make sure she was safe. He should have torn the damn shrine down, so that fat bastard of an archbishop couldn’t send her there again. He should have. . .

She looked at him, and smiled.

“There’s more of that kind of thing all over the bed,” he said gruffly. “People have been carving their names and initials for years. Especially on the headboard.” He looked away. “It’s easier to see in the daytime.”

Evelyn laughed again. “Lady of Laughter, you could sleep six in that bed easily, and still have room for more.” In a flash, he pictured her naked on the bed, her white hair spread out like a glory over the pillows, filling his hand as he—

Orrin shuddered, forcing himself to speak. “You’ll sleep here. Your things are behind the screen, with water for bathing. You’ve but to call if you need else.”

“And tomorrow?” she asked. “You said you need my help.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Orrin said firmly. “You’ll go back to Edenrich, where it’s safe. It was folly of the worst kind to bring you here.”

“But not folly to ride three days to rescue me,” Evelyn said.

Orrin’s mouth went dry at the idea of her dead or injured or taken by those things. “That was no folly. I paid my debt, that’s all.”

“And once I was helpless, unconscious, how did you transport me?” she asked softly, moving closer to him. “In my arms. None but mine.”

Evelyn stepped closer. He could smell her, the scent of her hair, the softness of her skin. He stepped back, but she followed, reaching to place a finger on his throat. Orrin froze, feeling his pulse beat against her finger. Evelyn looked at him, and then he felt a slight tug. She’d captured the leather cord that lay under his tunic, and slowly pulled it clear of his shirt.

Her ring dangled from the leather, caught between them, the white star sapphire gleaming in the light.

He heard her breath catch in her throat. She stood there, not moving, the ring suspended between them.

“I couldn’t sell it,” Orrin said softly.

“It’s not worth a great deal,” Evelyn whispered back.

“It is to me.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips curled in a soft smile. She tilted her head, moving to kiss him. He felt the heat of her, her warm breath on his cheek.

He stepped back, pulling the thong from her fingers.

“No.”

Evelyn looked at him, puzzled. “But—”

Orrin felt ill. “I am a bad man, stained with blood and darkness. You are”— his voice cracked— “you are the opposite in every way. Why are you still here, Priestess?”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I rescued you,” Orrin growled, suddenly angry. “And you have at least one way of leaving any time you want. Open a portal. Jump on a horse.”

Evelyn looked at him with a smile, and reached into her sleeve. She withdrew her hand, and held it open. There on her palm was a small clay cylinder with a cork in the top.

“What is that?” he asked.

“A summon stick,” Evelyn said gravely. “You open it and break the stick within, and it summons help. My father gave it to me.” She tucked her hand back in her sleeve.

“It opens a portal?”

“Probably. Knowing my father, it would open one in the church sanctuary.”

“Your father, the Lord High Mage of Palins.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said softly.

Orrin drew in a deep breath, looming over her, as dark and as threatening as he’d ever been with his men. “Why are you still here?”

“The Archbishop forbade me—”

He spoke through a clenched jaw. “Why. Are. You. Still. Here?”

Evelyn grew serious, looking at him intently. “There’s something between us, Orrin. I felt—”

“Sympathy,” Orrin lashed out. “Or worse yet, pity for one—”

“Love.” She looked him in the eyes, steady and strong.

“Love isn’t something that I can control, Orrin, even with the powers at my command. It’s an emotion, a feeling, one that—”

“Love.” Orrin’s heart clenched in his chest at the word, but he forced himself to scowl at her. “Love is nothing. It can falter, it can die. Let it.”

Evelyn shook her head. “I can’t explain, but I—”

“No.” Orrin stalked to the door. “I’ll not stain you, Lady High Priestess.” He threw open the door. “In the morning, I’m sending you back to Edenrich. Through a portal or tied to a horse— one way or another, you are leaving.” He slammed the door as he left, and stomped off, muttering curses all the way down the hall.

“
Loving
you isn’t a sin,” Evelyn said as the door slammed behind Orrin.

She loved him. A man who by all rights was an enemy of all she’d fought for. And yet here he was, struggling to put things right when he could just as easily mount up and ride away.

She stood in the silence of the room, listening as Orrin stomped down the hall, cursing.

She sighed, too tired to figure out the conversation they’d just had. She was fairly certain that she’d confessed her secret and been brutally rejected.