White Star (2 page)

Blackhart grunted, and grabbed a torch. “For all the good praying will do. . .” He opened the door that led to the cells, and headed down the stairs. Archer settled back, and returned to work on the arrow in his hands. The dungeon was a mite close for his taste. Besides, Blackhart could handle one small priestess by himself, now couldn’t he?

Torchlight
danced on the walls as Orrin stomped down the narrow staircase. The heels of his boots clicked on the stones, echoing in the spiral that descended into the depths. The stench filled his nose, leaving an acrid taste in the back of his throat. The men posted to duty in these tunnels claimed that the damp cut clear to the bone.

They were right.

The guard at the bottom nodded him toward the right passage. The dungeon was a warren filled with tunnels and cells. One could wander lost if one wasn’t careful. Done by design at some point, Orrin was sure. Hard to rescue someone when you can’t find yourself, much less their cell.

One of the guards led him to the very end of one of the corridors, and there, in a niche in the wall, sat Mage, wrapped in his cloak against the cold and damp. Mage jumped to his feet with a youthful vigor Orrin envied.

“Sir,” Mage said softly.

“Which cell?”

Mage gestured, and Orrin moved to look through the tiny barred window. The cell held a small candle, and in the center of the pool of light knelt a woman dressed all in white, her head bowed, her white hair glowing in the light.

Orrin stepped back, and kept his voice down. “The spell chains working?”

Mage nodded. “I used fresh ones, just to be sure. She can’t use any magic. Been praying since we put her in there. Thought maybe I’d keep watch, her being a high priestess and all. I mean, so far she’s not trying to cast magic. But the praying . . .” The youngster shrugged. “Not sure what I’d do if her gods appeared, but I thought—”

Orrin rested a hand on his shoulder. “A good thought.”

Mage lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. Orrin suppressed a chuckle, then turned to the guard. “Open it.”

The guard moved quickly, fumbling with his keys. Orrin eased back to give the man room, and waited patiently. Once the door was opened, Orrin handed the torch to Mage, and bent down to enter the cell.

The woman looked up as he entered, regarding him calmly. Her hands were folded before her. The manacles were tight on her wrists, and the chains that linked them dangled before her robes. Orrin noted the chain that ran along the floor and secured her ankle to the wall.

He’d heard the tales, of course, but it was a surprise to find her hair thick and white, and her eyes the barest blue. She was younger than he’d expected, maybe a few years younger than himself.

She seemed to magnify the glow of the candle, but he was sure that was a contrast to the darkness about her and not her innate goodness. Not that it mattered, either way. Innocence would be no protection here.

She endured his scrutiny, studying him at the same time. He knew full well there was a contrast, with him dressed all in black and towering over her.

“Lady High Priestess Evelyn.” Orrin’s voice grated as he broke the silence. “The Baroness will dance when she learns of your capture.”

“No doubt.” Her voice was soft, yet stronger than he expected.

He was caught off guard by the blue of her eyes and the life that sparked there. No despair or fear. Just calm, light blue eyes like a clear sky. Uneasy, he continued. “She will return to the Keep, and then your fate will be determined. Do you know what to expect?”

The Lady High Priestess lowered her eyes, and Orrin noted that the clasped hands were trembling ever so slightly.

“Rape, torture.” She paused for the barest moment. “Death.”

“Yet you do not fear,” Orrin said.

“I fear.” Her voice was quiet. “I fear the pain and rape. As all do.” Orrin caught a glimpse of her blue eyes and a flash of humor in them. “I do not fear death. I suspect I will welcome it.”

Orrin frowned. “There will be no rescue, Priestess.”

Her head came up, her eyes widened, and she laughed, a clear sound that rang against the stones. “Well do I know that, sir.”

Orrin stared at her, still hearing the echoes of the laughter from the surrounding walls, the first honest laugh he’d heard in many years.

The prisoner made as if to rise, but had some difficulty. Without thinking, Orrin extended his hand in its black leather glove. She looked up in surprise, but accepted his hand and assistance. She wasn’t tall; the top of her head came to the level of his eyes.

As she stood, Orrin saw that her white robes were stained where she had knelt on the damp floor. The robes were heavy ones, thick and white with gold trim. There was a flicker of silver on the woman’s hand, a ring of some kind.

She stepped back from him and clasped her hands together again, her face composed. The brief glimpse of humor was gone. “I take it, then, that you are Blackhart, Scourge of Palins?”

“I am.” Orrin gave her a nod. “As you are the leader of the rebellion and the creator of false prophecy.”

Ah, that made her eyes narrow. “Hardly as false as the Usurper and his promises.”

“His title is Regent.” Orrin gave her a grim look. “I’ll not argue the point, Lady High Priestess. I have you, and I’ll use you to whatever advantage I can.”

The lady gave him a thoughtful look. “What advantage can there be to my torture and death?”

He frowned, angry that he’d given away too much. “We’ll see when the Baroness returns.”

The Priestess sighed, looking around the rough cell. “I half hope it’s sooner, rather than later.”

She looked at him then and met his gaze, and somehow he knew that for all her calm appearance, she was doing all she could to hold the terror at bay. He frowned again, suddenly uncomfortable. “Guard!”

The door opened, and Orrin once again bent down to emerge from the cell. He waited for the door to close before he spoke. “This prisoner is to be moved.”

“Moved?” Mage asked. His uncertainty was to be expected, since Orrin himself was surprised at his snap decision. He wasn’t sure where the impulse had come from.

“Am I bewitched?” Orrin asked the lad sharply.

Mage opened his eyes wide, then muttered a few words, casting his spell. His eyes glowed for an instant. “No, Lord Blackhart.”

Orrin grunted. “It makes no sense to keep you down here, watching her. Have her taken to one of the tower bedrooms, and secure her there.” Orrin turned and leaned in, nose to nose with the guard. “The prisoner is not to be touched, and nothing is to be removed from her person. That privilege belongs to the Baroness. Am I understood?”

The guard jerked his head, clearly aware of Orrin’s reputation as a killer. Orrin spun on his heel, satisfied that he would be obeyed, and left the cell, climbing the stairs out of the darkness. Elanore would be pleased, and upon her return the Priestess would die. But in the meantime, she could be housed in a better location, easier for his men to guard. Made no sense to go to great length to capture her, then lose her to illness. No telling when the Baroness would return from her little jaunt.

As he climbed the stairs, back toward the air and the light, he admitted to himself that he felt odd. Suddenly, he longed for something he had not wanted or thought about in a long time.

He wanted to hear that laugh again.

«
^
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She
was terrified.

Evelyn’s hands clenched tight as she watched Blackhart leave. It was all she could do not to fling herself at the door and pound on it, begging for her freedom.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to hold still as muffled voices came through the door. With any luck her captor hadn’t seen her terror. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her mouth was so dry it was a miracle she’d been able to form words at all.

She was exhausted, which made it harder to keep the fear at bay. At the very least, she could die with dignity. After all, she was a priestess, wasn’t she? A high priestess, for all that.

Little good that did her now.

She licked her lips and made herself take in a slow, shuddering breath. Lord of Light, this place stank. Of fear, of the undead these people had raised, of foul fluids and rot. She let the air out slowly and took another breath, trying to relax her tight shoulders. With a grimace, she knelt on the damp floor. Prayer would help.

Not that she truly expected aid, divine or otherwise. She’d brought this on herself. The Chosen had warned her of the danger, but she’d blithely continued on, sure of her path. Evelyn could see her own arrogance now, to her shame. She could only pray that it would not harm their cause, would not prevent the Chosen from claiming her rightful Throne.

Blackhart had surprised her with his talk of a rescue. The look on his face when she’d laughed right out loud— nonplussed was the best way to describe it. There was some degree of satisfaction to that, if a prisoner could be said to have any.

Evelyn rolled her shoulders, trying to relax them, and took another conscious breath. She swallowed, too, to wet her mouth. “Prayer focuses our thought on the Gods, and opens our minds to their will and their wishes,” she whispered, reciting an old lesson her mother had taught her, trying to regain her calm. “Give your heart and mind to the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter, and they will answer, in ways seen and unseen.”

Focus on the Gods. Easy to say, but hard to do when the clawing fear in her gut threatened to take her by the throat.

Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and tried to pray.

Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light . . .

Evelyn opened her eyes just enough to see the flame of the candle they’d left with her. The tiny thing barely held back the darkness of these depths. Of course, it was more for their convenience than her comfort, so they could keep an eye on their prisoner.

Not that she could do anything. Her gaze fell to the manacles around her wrists, gray and tight. Whatever they were, they somehow drained her magic away, leaving her helpless to cast any spell. She had never heard of such a thing, but any power she could summon was gone in an instant, as if pulled into the metal. Its effect could also explain the sick feeling in her stomach, and the headache. Maybe it wasn’t just her fear.

If they removed the chains, it was possible that she might be able. . .

She was fooling herself, and she needed to admit it. Even if she could win free of the chains, there were guards, both human and odium, between her and freedom. It would take precious seconds to cast a spell and open a portal, and they’d probably be upon her before she could escape.

Odium. Her stomach clenched at the thought. She’d never fought them, but she’d seen what they could do to a man. Seen men rended, their flesh torn, seen the horrible gaping wounds that the odium inflicted with tooth and nail.

Soulless ones, the odium were, made worse because they were created from the living, their souls stripped from their bodies. They fought with no need for food or rest. Worse, their filthy hands and rotting flesh left corruption behind in the wounds that they made. A man could survive a battle with but a scratch, and be dead in days when the wound soured and spoiled.

Odium could be stopped only by severing the neck or chopping the limbs. Or killing the one who created it. She shivered. These people created and used them. What would they do to her?

The gnawing fear rose again, and she looked at the candle again. Her father had taught her the first of her spells with a candle. The old lessons helped her to concentrate, and she closed her eyes once more.
Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for forgiveness. . .

For her pride, her arrogance, her stupidity. For putting five years of work and toil at risk by allowing herself to be captured. The fear in her stomach turned to sick worry. Did her fellow rebels know she had been taken? Would any of the High Barons withdraw their support of the Chosen? Their forces were in the field, and there was no turning back now. . .

Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for mercy. . .

For High Baroness Elanore would have none. She had plotted with the Usurper to ambush the other High Barons and, in the confusion, attack the Barony of Farentell, laying waste to the land and taking its people as slaves, or worse. For the Baroness had turned to necromancy, had raised the odium, using slaves and prisoners that Blackhart and her armies had brought her.

With Farentell destroyed, they turned their attentions to Summerford and Athelbryght. Lord Fael of Summerford had fought them off, with the assistance of the armies of Lady Helene of Wyethe.

Athelbryght had been destroyed, its baron left dying in the mud of his farmstead. The memory of finding her cousin, Lord Josiah, there in the mud swept over Evelyn. She’d decided there and then that she’d find a way to restore the Throne.

So many years of work, so much effort. They were so close.

Evelyn should have known that the talk of plague in the hills had been a lure to trap her, but she’d felt compelled to aid those she’d thought in need. The Archbishop had sent her. . .

Who had betrayed her?

There was a scrabbling sound in one of the corners. Evelyn flinched, darting a glance to the side. Rats, probably.

She shuddered, and licked her dry lips.

Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for aid. . .

For the cause, for the warriors, but especially for the children she’d rescued from the Usurper’s schemes. They were safe, hidden in Soccia. She’d protected them, loved them these last five years, and she could see their grief as she tasted her own in the back of her throat. They’d be devastated, and had she thought of that? Had she given a moment’s thought to . . .

Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for courage. . .