White Star (9 page)

“No,” she replied with an impish look at Orrin, “he’s naked.”

Cenwulf squinted in the light. “Naked? Does Fat Belly know what you are about?”

Orrin coughed.

“Cenwulf, we’ve talked about that name”— Evelyn rolled her eyes— “but I’ve no time, we have to move quickly. Would you see to the horse?”

Cenwulf grunted as she headed toward the far building. “What do you need in there, lass?”

“Never mind, Cenwulf,” Evelyn said over her shoulder. “The less you know, the better. Hold the horse. We will be quick.”

Cenwulf’s head jerked at that, but he said nothing. He gave Orrin a hard look.

Evelyn pulled Orrin along. “Come.”

They entered a cellar door of the guardhouse that opened into a huge catacomb. Orrin looked around as he was pushed down into a hard wooden chair with a broken back that was close to the door. “Sit here,” Evelyn said. She held up a hand and whispered softly. A golden light appeared, illuminating the area around them.

Orrin sucked in a breath. The floor of the room was covered with men sleeping on pallets. No, that wasn’t right. The sheets . . . the shrouds . . . covered their faces. They weren’t sleeping.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“These are the war dead, not yet identified.” Evelyn’s voice was a whisper as well. “Warriors all, who fell in the battle. We keep them here, using spells to preserve them, until their kin can claim their bodies.” She left the light hanging in the air. “Wait here.”

She disappeared into the darkness, then returned with a small, thin copper box as big as her hand.

She opened it on a hinge, revealing a candle stub on a clever mount that swung out. The entire box sat on end. She lit the candle from a taper, and the small flame flickered, reflected by the copper of the box.

“Keep under the cloak; it’s damp in here. Let me see what I can find,” she said softly, and disappeared once again, taking the magic light with her.

Orrin did as he was told, sitting there with her cloak wrapped around him. He was cold, so cold, as if the world had taken a step back from him, as if he were in a dark well, with only the light of a small candle and the world far away.

He could hear Evelyn moving about, but it seemed unreal, distant. As if in a dream. His vision narrowed to just a pinpoint of light.

Suddenly there was movement near him and a voice, deep and old. “Lass, you best see to him.”

“Cenwulf?” Evelyn’s voice drew nearer, “Oh, no. I should have realized. Orrin? Can you hear me?”

Her face filled his vision and Orrin frowned, unable to explain why the concern in those blue eyes was so important.

“This one’s looked on his own death, and walked back.”

“His hands are cold as ice.”

“I’ll fetch kavage, lass.”

“Orrin!” Her voice called him back, and he blinked. Evelyn was kneeling before him, holding his hands. Her hands were warm, and feeling started to return in his fingers.

She tucked his hands under the thick white cloak, then pressed her palms to the tops of his feet. The warmth they brought startled him. It bothered him that she would do that. It felt good, but oddly intimate.

The next he knew, Orrin had a warm mug in his hands and he was urged to drink. The warmth swept through him as he swallowed the bitter liquid. Evelyn, Lady High Priestess, was kneeling before him, pulling a pair of worn socks onto his feet.

“Evie,” was all he could manage.

She looked up, worry in her eyes. “I didn’t realize how cold you had gotten. Drink that entire mug. I’m going to look for boots.”

With that, she was gone.

When Orrin looked up, the grizzled old man was standing there, looking at him with a neutral, tense expression.

“You know who I am.” Orrin knew that fact should worry him.

Cenwulf nodded. “Drink.” He looked toward where Evelyn had disappeared. “There’s already people searching the streets for you. I’ve heard what she’s done.”

He wasn’t pulling out his weapon, so Orrin kept silent, and drank.

“Cenwulf, I need some help.” Evelyn appeared, her arms full. “We need to get him on his way as soon as possible.” She placed her burden by Orrin. “Are you feeling better?” Orrin nodded.

“That’s true enough,” Cenwulf said softly. “But Lady High Priestess, this is not right.”

Evelyn drew herself up at his formal tone. “Cenwulf, the dead in this chamber are not separated into winners and losers, friend or foe. We only know they are our dead, and we honor them.” She looked back over her shoulder. “You are right, in that I cannot speak for them. But I ask you this”— she turned back, her blue eyes blazing in the mage light— “you fought men and odium. Would you send any man to face his enemies naked?”

Cenwulf stood silent, then shook his head with a sigh. “No. Not even such as he.”

Evelyn nodded, placed a pile of clothing on the floor by Orrin’s feet, and dropped a pair of boots in his lap. “Here’s trous that might fit, and a few tunics. Try them for size. Cenwulf, help me. Where are the old scabbards that we. . .” They both disappeared.

Orrin reached down for the trous, and started to dress. They were worn thin in the seat and crotch, but they were still good enough. No holes. He pulled on the boots, then stomped his feet to check the fit. A bit small, but better than nothing.

Evelyn and Cenwulf appeared one after the other, adding to the pile, then disappearing again. Orrin was amazed. In no time, they had quite a bit of gear for him. Some cook pots and a tinderbox were added to the pile. There were a few daggers and an old crossbow that had seen better days. Cenwulf appeared with a worn scabbard and belt with the Goddess’s holy symbols worked in white thread. Orrin grimaced at the irony of that as he sheathed his sword and strapped it on.

Then Cenwulf came out of the darkness bearing an old saddle and bridle, and Orrin shook his head in amazement.

“Don’t get too excited. The leather’s cracked,” Cenwulf growled.

Evelyn appeared behind him with a horse blanket and a bedroll of sorts. “Worn but clean.” She frowned at the saddle. “Weren’t there saddlebags to go with that?”

There were. Cenwulf went out to saddle the horse while Evelyn and Orrin packed the saddlebags with what they’d found. “There’s one more thing,” Evelyn said. “A cloak.”

“I can’t wear white,” Orrin grumbled, then regretted his harsh words. “I just mean that—”

Evelyn emerged from the darkness with a bundle in her hands. “What about this?” she asked, as she pulled forth a cloak, bright red. She wrinkled her nose as she held it out. “This might suit. It’s heavy and warm, but it smells terrible.”

Orrin stood, and took the cloak in his arms. “You have never served under arms, Lady High Priestess. Were you an old campaigner, you’d recognize the value of this cape. The smell means it’s made of ehat wool. It’s waterproof because of the oil in the wool, but that is what smells so strong. Heavy and warm, it will serve me well.”

Evelyn smiled. “That’s good, then.” She tilted her head slightly. “Besides, red suits you.”

A knock on the door, and Cenwulf put his head in. “The horse is ready, and it sounds like the ceremony is almost over. They’re cheering.”

“I’ve no food here,” Evelyn said as she blew out the candle and picked up the box, closing it carefully. She tucked it into one of the saddlebags, then doused the mage light.

“You’ve done more than enough.” Orrin frowned. “The Archbishop will not be pleased.”

Evelyn shrugged as she headed for the door.

Cenwulf snorted. “As if he knows about this place. As if anyone will tell him.”

“Cenwulf,” Evelyn scolded as they emerged into the courtyard. The mist was heavier now. Orrin strapped the saddlebags on his war horse, which turned his head to sniff at the pathetic bundle.

Gone was the warrior all in black. Orrin knew full well that he looked like a weary mercenary— an unsuccessful one, at that— with his gear all a hodgepodge. Rain started to fall in earnest as Orrin mounted and wrapped the cloak around himself. He drew a deep breath as he gathered in the reins, facing a future he had not thought to have.

“Take this.” Evelyn put one hand on Orrin’s leg, and reached up with the other one to place her silver ring with the white star sapphire in his hand. “I’ve no coin to give you. Sell this when you are in need.”

Orrin looked down into Evelyn’s cold, wet face, and shook his head. “No. The help you have given me is more than enough. I have already cost you far too much, Lady High Priestess.”

Evelyn smiled up at him. “It’s worth a few silvers at best, but you will need it.” She curled Orrin’s hand around the ring and then drew back as the horse shifted. “You’d best be going. I’ll open a portal to Swift’s Port, and you can ride to the border from there.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not headed for the border. I’m headed to the Black Hills.”

«
^
»

Evelyn’s
breath caught in her throat as she looked up, searching his face. “You could not be so foolish as to try to cleanse those lands.”

Blackhart shrugged. “To gain a pardon and a boon? I might.” The horse shifted again. Blackhart looked down at the silver ring and closed his hand around it. “Do you know of a portal in the Black Hills?”

Evelyn tucked her hands into her sleeves, and shivered. “The only one that I know is the one where you seized me. And I didn’t open that portal.” She considered the problem. “There is a shrine to the Lady close to the border of Athelbryght and the Black Hills. I think the village name is Summerset.”

“I know that one. The folk there will not be pleased to see me.” Blackhart’s eyes narrowed. “But that would be better than the one close to the Keep.” He straightened in the saddle and slid the ring onto his little finger. “If you are willing . . .”

Evelyn looked up into his face. It was madness, of course. But Blackhart didn’t look insane. The weariness she’d seen before was gone. Now there was a new determination in that face, a spark that hadn’t been there before.

He looked down at her, and for a moment she was lost in his hazel eyes. But the sounds of cheering from the castle reminded her of the urgency. She lowered her gaze and turned to face the inner courtyard. Maybe this was what the Lady of Laughter had in mind all along, even if it felt as if she were sending him to his death. She lifted her hand and started her spell.

“Best blindfold the horse, if he’s not used to this,” Cenwulf said gruffly. She felt his movement, but kept her mind focused on the spell, on opening the portal between this place and the—

The familiar rush of power and a faint breeze on her skin told her that the portal was open. Experience allowed her to turn to look at Blackhart, even as a part of her mind stayed focused on the spell.

He was still mounted, and his horse was blindfolded. Cenwulf was tying off the cloth. “Think he’ll go for you?”

“He’ll do well enough.” Blackhart patted the horse’s neck, then focused on Evelyn. “I don’t know whether to curse you or bless you, Lady High Priestess.”

Evelyn flashed a smile. “That’s honest. Let me know which you decide on.”

He urged his horse forward a step, so that he looked down into her face.

Evelyn looked up as he drew closer. “I wish you well, Orrin Blackhart.”

Blackhart leaned in the saddle, reached out his hand, and stroked Evelyn’s face. His fingers were cold on her cheek, but his eyes blazed bright. Without another word, he straightened. The big black steed stepped forward, and they disappeared into the portal.

The
portal was closed, yet Lady Evelyn stood there, staring as if she could still see him.

Cenwulf frowned, worried. He’d known the lass a long time, and there was something odd about this. As if she cared for the man.

But no, that could not be. He wondered a bit at the “pardon” for such a man as that, but he’d not ask Evie. Others would tell him the tale. Still . . . He moved to stand at her shoulder. “That one has a long, hard road before him,” he said.

Evelyn nodded. “They’ll pursue him.”

“The Queen’s men?” Cenwulf asked.

“And his own demons, I think.” Evelyn sighed. “Well, the Lady of Laughter placed him on the road, but he has to walk it.”

“Aye.” Cenwulf lifted his head. “Sounds like the ceremony is done. You best be getting to wherever Fat Belly told ya to be.”

Evelyn nodded, shivering slightly. Her hair was covered with droplets of water, lit by the torches in the courtyard. She turned to go, but Cenwulf laid a hand on her arm. “You gave him your old red war-cloak, lass.”

Evie smiled and wrinkled her nose at him. “I did, didn’t I? Not likely I’ll need it in the future.”

Cenwulf gave her a narrow look.

Evelyn moved then, shaking her head. “Don’t worry so, Cenwulf. Damp or dry will make no difference to the Archbishop.”

She walked toward the church proper, and Cenwulf watched her go before turning back to his duties. She’d made a muddle in her haste, digging through the piles. He’d set the place to rights, so’s no one would ask questions. He limped inside slowly, shaking his head at the slovenliness of the young.

And the foolishness of a woman.

* * * * *

Lord
of Light, but Evelyn was a beauty.

Eidam, Archbishop of the Church of Palins, eased his bulk into the chair in his private audience chamber, glad to be off his aching feet. As befitted his rank, the chair was on a dais, gilded and ornate, with a cloth of state suspended over it. The chair was ample, designed to be comfortable for a man of his substance. Behind it, on a thick tapestry, was the sun, its rays extending to the far walls, gold on a field of red. Red and gold, fitting colors for the Lord of Light’s representative and spokesman.

He sat back with a grunt of relief.

If the ceremony had taken place in the church, as was traditional, he’d have had a similar chair, close to the throne, for his comfort and ease. But instead he’d had to stand for hours by the throne, conducting the ceremony, waiting on the young Queen. It had been cursed hot, and he’d sweated all through the ceremony, making his skin itch. They’d shown no consideration for a man of his rank and stature, which had done nothing to improve his temper.