White Star (3 page)

Courage for all. For every man taking up arms against the Usurper. For the children, for the Chosen, for herself. She swallowed hard as pictures of what they’d do to her flashed in her mind. And truth be told, what she feared most was the waiting. It was one thing to face death. It was another thing entirely to kneel in a cell with nothing to do but anticipate what was to come.

She brought herself back, focused on her breathing, tried to ease tense muscles, tried to let the fear go. Tried to pray. . .

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

For the grace to wait, and endure. As long as she had to. For the grace to hide her fears from that man. Lord Blackhart, Scourge of Palins, who’d aided the High Baroness and the Usurper.

Odd. She’d expected him to be tall and brooding when he’d filled the door of her cell. But for the inhuman monster he was reported to be, his eyes held a weariness that she hadn’t expected to see. Those eyes had been dark, grim . . . she’d no hint of color in the dim light, other than the black he wore. Still, it was . . . unsettling. She’d expected cruelty and hate. How odd to think such a monster might have feelings beyond a lust for power.

Was she guilty of that as well? Of assuming that all of her enemies were monsters?

Evelyn’s face grew warm. She’d worked so long to unseat the Usurper, to bring the prophecy to fruition, had she fallen into the trap of blind hatred of an enemy? Was that what took Blackhart down his path of darkness?

As she was lost in thought, the grating of the door took her by surprise. Her head snapped up in an instant. Two men with torches stood in the doorway.

“On your feet.”

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“
Have
your way with her, then, and be done.” Archer huffed out an exasperated breath.

“No,” Blackhart snapped, “no rape.”

“Who said anything about rape?” Archer growled. “I’m thinking she’s as interested as you are.”

Blackhart turned on him, his face filled with anger. “She’s no common whore, to be used for a moment’s pleasure,” he lashed out before turning to stomp off.

Archer rolled his eyes as Blackhart walked away from him along the battlements. Since he’d ordered the prisoner moved the day before, Blackhart had been snapping heads off and growling like a bear at everyone and everything. Archer gave the man’s back a thoughtful look as he followed. “You sure you ain’t bewitched?”

“Mage says not,” Blackhart said. “I’m not stupid.”

“Depends on which head you’re thinking with.” Archer chuckled, then fell silent as they passed a sentry. Blackhart paused long enough to look the man in the eye and receive a nod in return.

They moved on, and after a few steps Archer pressed his point in a soft voice. “There’s none to say you nay, with the Baroness gone,” Archer pointed out. “More than like she’ll wonder that you didn’t when she gets back.”

“
If
she gets back,” Blackhart growled. He stopped for a moment, and looked out over the battlements. “Where the hell is she?”

Archer moved to stand beside him. “No word, I take it.”

“None,” Blackhart said. His face was as grim as his tone.

“Any movement on the border?” Archer asked.

“The rebels are harassing the troops, but nothing else so far. If the Baroness wants us to move in support of Edenrich, she’d better get back here fast.”

“Not that we can offer much support,” Archer pointed out. “We don’t have much left in the way of men.”

Blackhart grunted, but made no response as they moved off. Archer didn’t blame him. It was a mess, and they both knew it.

Archer stayed silent as they walked. Didn’t matter how bad things got; he’d made his decision a long time ago.

They made their way around, checking the walls and the sentries. Blackhart allowed only humans up here, living men smart enough to use their eyes and their brains to spot trouble at a distance. Unlike the undead that guarded the rest of the Keep. Blackhart tended to take these little strolls at random, keeping everyone on their toes.

Blackhart hesitated only once, when Archer caught him staring at the central tower, up toward the window of the room where the Priestess was kept. Archer chuckled.

Blackhart’s back stiffened for an instant, then with a swirl of his black cloak, he moved on, yanking open the door that let them back into the Keep. Archer followed as Blackhart strode down the hall toward his private chambers.

Archer shook his head in mock despair. “You might as well have her, seein’ you can’t stop thinking about her. Not that she’s much to look at, to my way of thinking, with that white hair and all. Not to my taste.”

“What with your taste running to men, and all,” Blackhart pointed out.

“There is that.” Archer gave him a grin. “Use her and get her out of your blood, Blackhart. This is getting old. There’s a nice bed up there— hell, ya chained her to it. She’s probably expecting ya, and wondering why ya haven’t shown up. Hell, we all are.”

“Your sense of humor is going to get you killed.”

“You been saying that for years,” Archer said, “and so far—”

Blackhart yanked open the door, stomped into his sitting area, and strode to the fireplace. There was a fire keeping back the chill of the black stone walls and floors.

Archer followed silently. The chairs were old wooden ones, the padding worn around the edges, the wood scratched and nicked. Comfortable and strong. He set his bow to one side, the quiver next to it, and sat, stretching out his long legs.

Blackhart went to the mantel and took down two cups and a large ceramic jug before settling in his own chair. He splashed a generous amount of wine into one cup and held it out. Archer took the cup with a nod of thanks and relaxed as the familiar dryness filled his throat.

Blackhart settled in the chair next to him, and took a sip from his own cup. “We’re going to die. All of us.”

Archer jerked around, caught off guard by that brutal statement. He gave Blackhart a startled glance, only to see those hazel eyes narrow in satisfaction.

“You’ve been lying to me,” Blackhart growled.

“No more than you’ve lied to yourself,” Archer hedged.

“So we’ve been lying to each other.” Blackhart stared into his cup. “I want your honest assessment.”

Archer sighed, and watched as Blackhart took another sip. The look on his face made it clear he wasn’t going to be the first to speak.

Archer put his head back against the chair. “If we’re being honest, I’m not sure I realized how bad things were until the last few weeks. Then wasn’t sure I was right, and then wasn’t sure how to tell ya.”

“All these years, and you were afraid to tell me.” Blackhart scowled. “What kind of bastard does that make me?”

“You’re trying to protect us, and what is left of the living people of the Black Hills,” Archer rasped.

“The truth. Now.”

Archer nodded, and held out the cup.

Blackhart splashed more wine into it.

“Baroness ain’t been right for about five years, since she sent our mages and some of our forces into Athelbryght. We lost all those spell-casters in that attack, and the only reason Mage wasn’t in on it was ’cause you held him back.”

Blackhart grunted his agreement.

“At the start, the Baroness used the prisoners to make odium, to strengthen our forces. We all thought that was a good idea at the time. We needed the help. And it worked, for a while. But it takes power and energy to control them, and she’s been doing it all for a while now.” Archer pulled his legs in, and leaned forward. “I ain’t sure she can do it much longer. Her power over them seems to be getting weaker, like she’s trying to do too much. Besides”— Archer looked over at Blackhart— “she keeps needing the living to feed the dead, and she’s started using our own people. Prisoners first. Lawbreakers. But now . . .” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, and took another drink before he spoke.

“That Chosen they got, she’s cagey smart. She’s not coming at us direct. She’s using Lord Fael’s men to hold us off while she goes for the Regent’s throat. Might work, too— if we don’t get moving to reinforce them.”

“You ain’t got enough control to order the odium out on your own. And the Baroness ain’t here. And if the Chosen takes Edenrich, the first thing she and the other High Barons will do is come for us.” Archer took another sip. “Ain’t good.”

“Put extra men on the walls,” Blackhart said. “If there’s no word by this time tomorrow, we’ll risk sending out messengers.”

Which meant the talk and the honesty were over. Archer stood, and picked up his gear without another word. But even as he closed the door, he caught the movement of Blackhart’s gaze toward the ceiling.

Blackhart
laid his head back on the chair, and stared at the ceiling as Archer closed the door behind him. He could see no way out of this trap. His men, their families, the people he’d worked so hard to protect. . .

And he couldn’t get the sound of her laughter out of his head.

Blackhart took another drink, and let the bitter wine lie on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed. Dry, bitter— all the land could offer in these times.

The Baroness would return, that bright light of a priestess would be extinguished, and he’d go on toward the end. There was no other way that he could see at this point. All the possible doors were closed, locked, and barred from one such as he.

And one such as she should curse his name. The attraction he felt . . . that was dangerous. He should just forget it— and her. He had other things to worry about.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. Orrin stood, deciding to go down to the kitchens rather than send for something. He could check on supplies that way, yet another concern. Then maybe some of Reader’s brew, to help him sleep.

As he left his chambers, he found himself wondering if the Priestess had eaten.

The
tower bedroom was just as much a prison, but far more comfortable. There were light and air, for one thing. Evelyn sighed as she knelt on the rug by the fire. It was hard not to feel grateful, but she resisted the feeling. It was still a cell, for there was no way out, other than down. The fetter on her ankle was attached to the wall with just enough chain to prevent a dramatic leap from a window.

The flames of the fire licked at the wood, and she basked in the warmth. Warmth, light, air . . . and no rats.

She was still afraid, but it was easier to concentrate now, easier to think. She tested the chain that ran between the manacles; it was strong, but not so short that it impeded her.

Didn’t impede movement, that is. The manacles were still draining her of her magic. She could cast no spell; her hands might just as well have been tied. But the sick feeling had faded a bit. She still didn’t feel right, but she could at least move without wanting to throw up.

If a chance came for freedom, she vowed to take it, whatever the risk. The Chosen would expect it of her, and she’d rather die fighting than not.

Evelyn closed her eyes, bowed her head, clasped her hands, and tried to pray.

The door opened, but Evelyn didn’t bother to open her eyes. Her jailers made a habit of checking on her regularly, so the only precaution that Evelyn took was to cover the silver ring on her right hand with her other hand. So far, she’d been able to keep it, apparently at Blackhart’s command, but that would last only so long. She’d keep it no longer than she’d keep her life.

She’d thought of destroying it; the idea that it might grace Elanore’s hand made her ill. But when she’d gone to pull it off, the star had appeared in the gemstone, and she’d stopped. Where there was life, there was hope. . .

“Eat now. You can pray later.”

Evelyn’s eyes snapped open. Blackhart was seated on a corner of the bed, a tray of food beside him. Evelyn rose slowly, looking at the plain fare. Bread and cheese, butter and dried apples, with a flagon of wine.

“They tell me you aren’t eating.” Blackhart pulled off a hunk of bread and spread it with butter.

Evelyn said nothing, but her stomach grumbled.

“You have my word that nothing is poisoned,” Blackhart added.

Evelyn looked at him.

Blackhart gave her a sardonic look. “Not sure I’d take my word, either.”

“It has nothing to do with your word,” Evelyn said softly. “If you wanted me dead, you’d have no need to use poison.”

Blackhart nodded. “True enough. Still. . .” There was a glint in his eye as he tore off a hunk of bread and took a bite. “Eat,” he commanded, offering her the remainder.

Evelyn sat on the other side of the bed, the chain dragging across the rug behind her. She reached out and took the bread. She held it for a moment, hesitating. “There seems little point—”

“You are hungry. There is food.” Blackhart offered the cup of wine. “Stop thinking, and eat.”

Evelyn looked into the cup. “Is this wine looted from Athelbryght? I won’t—”

“Those bottles are gone, or kept for the Baroness’s private use.” Blackhart grimaced. “This is what passes for wine in the Black Hills.”

There was bitterness in his voice, and Evelyn thought that odd. She took a sip, only to be taken aback by the taste. It was very dry and acidic.

“And this may not be the fine white bread of Edenrich, but it fills the belly,” Blackhart said.

The bitterness was still in his voice. She made no comment, just started eating the bread. It was coarse and dark and chewy, but tasted wonderful.

They ate silently for a moment. Blackhart took a bite of everything, even going so far as to sample each piece of dried fruit.

“Tell me of the ring.” He gestured at Evelyn’s hand.

“The ring?” Evelyn blushed slightly. “It was a gift from a merchant. I healed his son’s high fever, and he gifted it to me. I’m told that by keeping it, I am too vain, too materialistic, but it gives me joy.” Evelyn extended her hand slightly. “It’s a white star sapphire. In certain kinds of light, there’s a star that shines within the stone.”

Blackhart snorted. “Seems a small token for saving a man’s heir.”