Authors: Elizabeth Vaughan

Destiny's Star (12 page)

BOOK: Destiny's Star

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Then Bethral set about her task.

She packed the saddlebags, both hers and the new ones Ezren had been gifted with. She took everything, trying to sort as she went, but she’d leave nothing behind. Everything had a use, even if only to be bartered away. She noticed some odd small sacks but didn’t bother to open them. Everything could be explored later. Right now, she had to be ready to mount and ride in an instant.

As she moved about, she worked her leg, taking the time to stretch the muscles. The absence of pain, the strength in the leg—Ezren had to have healed it with the wild magic. It was the second time her life had been given back to her, and it felt so odd to be healthy again. To have hope again. She’d resigned herself to her own death, but now . . . now, they’d be able to travel together.

Bethral flushed. Not that he’d have any interest in one such as her. A gentle maid of courtly airs, one skilled in the feminine arts, would be more suitable. Still, the Plains were wide and the trip would be a long one. She’d be satisfied to be at his side; to return him to his rightful place in Queen Gloriana’s court.

She noted the guards as she moved about. They were not threatening, but they were there for a reason. Bethral couldn’t blame Haya for her anger. There was no magic on the Plains except what was wielded by the warrior-priests, and Bethral had a firm idea that they didn’t wield fire as a weapon. Otherwise, they’d have guarded against it, wouldn’t they?

She paused in the packing, and considered. Her armor was stacked in the corner.

Packing could wait. She stripped off her tunic and trous, and reached for her gambeson and plate.
Hope for the best. Plan for the worst.

She’d barely finished belting on her weapons when she heard the Storyteller moan. She knelt at his side. He stared at her for a moment, then awareness flooded his face. “I lost control.”

“You did.” Bethral offered him a mug of water and helped him support his head as he drank. “How do you feel?”

“Weak.” Ezren licked his lips. “Sore.” He blinked. “You—your leg?”

“Healed.” Bethral stood and gestured. “See?”

He gave her a blinding smile, but then frowned. “I seem to remember . . . What happened?”

Bethral settled him down as she spoke, and told him what he wanted to know.

Ezren closed his eyes, and his face grew tight. “I killed—”

“Those who threatened us,” Bethral finished firmly. “You defended us and healed my leg in the process.” She paused. “You did not kill anyone who did not threaten us.”

“Why did they attack us?” Ezren opened his eyes. “He deliberately—”

“We have other things to worry about.” Bethral looked over her shoulder, and then shifted to face the front.

Haya, Seo, and the man with the beaded hair stood there. Haya’s face was grim as she took in Bethral’s armor. “You will give my words to him,” Haya demanded.

Bethral stood. “I will give your words to Ezren Storyteller.”

“We called a battle truce, to see to our dead,” Haya looked down at Ezren.

“That is well,” Ezren replied. “Even though they threatened me and my token-bearer, I would not have their bodies dishonored.”

Bethral translated, careful to use his words.

“This is Singer Quartis. He wishes to hear your truths, if you will share them with him.” Haya gestured to the unknown man, who nodded

“The Singer honors me,” Ezren replied, speaking in their language. Bethral gave him a quick smile of approval, but noted his exhaustion. He was coming to the end of his strength. “We will hold a senel tonight, and decide what is to be done,” Haya said.

“Who will speak for us at this senel?” Bethral demanded. “Will no one hear our truths?”

“The senel is for those of the Plains.” Haya bristled. “You still have the shelter of this tent,” she added, casting an eye up to what was left of the top. “We will move you to an undamaged portion.” She hesitated, then continued. “You harmed none but those that threatened you, and there was no harm to the horses or the young. You did not violate our hospitality. However”—she drew a deep breath—“I cannot—”

Bethral felt a tap on her foot. She looked down and saw the Storyteller struggling to sit up. “I missed that,” he said.

She knelt, helping him to stay upright. He listened as she explained what Haya had said. “Tell Haya the safety of the children is first before all else. You and I will abide by the decision of their people, as long as they do not call for our deaths.” Ezren sagged back against the pallet. “Tell her we understand, and we thank her.”

Bethral did so.

“You are tired. We will speak later,” Quartis said. “The senel will be called. We will consider all the truths of all concerned.”

With that, Haya, Seo, and Quartis walked away.

Bethral watched them go, Seo joining the young ones who were clearing the dead. “I do not like this. Not one bit.”

“No choice,” the Storyteller whispered. “If nothing else, we need the saddle she promised . . . and . . . directions.” His eyes fluttered as he fought to stay awake.

“I already know the direction to go,” Bethral said softly as she eased him down to the pallet. “Urte gave it away that first time, when she looked away when I mentioned Palins.”

There was no response. The Storyteller’s eyes were closed, and he was already asleep.

TEN

GILLA held her breath and swallowed hard, trying not to purge her stomach. Thankfully, the others looked like they were having the same problem.

“Breathe through your mouths,” Seo said gruffly as they worked. “It helps.”

She’d dealt with the dead before, but mostly those who had died in childbirth, or babies who had faded away. She’d seen corpses before, but not ones killed in combat. And never one burnt beyond recognition.

Seo had directed them to gather the bodies on blankets. It had been Lander who had nudged her and pointed his chin in the direction of the tent. She’d turned and seen Bethral check Ezren Storyteller. Her face had blazed with joy, and then to see them kiss . . . such passion.

Bethral had caught them staring, and they had looked away, because her expression made it clear that city dwellers were private about kisses, too. Gilla had the oddest notion: that had been the first time they’d kissed, but that was not possible.

Still . . .

They’d turned back to their task, using a bloodied cloak to gather up the burnt ruins of what had once been a warrior-priest. The blackened skin flaked in their hands, and Gilla shuddered, but they rolled it onto the blanket and took up the four corners. The other three bodies were also taken up.

Seo watched as they waited for his command, his face grim. “Bring them,” he said as he started to walk back to the main camp.

“Elder, will we offer them to the earth?” Ouse asked after they had walked for a while.

“No,” Seo answered. “We shall arrange them in a storage tent. They must be seen by the others. When the warrior-priests come, they will decide if it is to be an earth or a sky burial.” He glanced back at the burnt body. “I think there has been more than enough fire.”

Gilla exchanged glances with her friends, each daring the other to ask the questions they all wanted answered. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. “Elder, did the Storyteller actually throw fire?”

“You did not see?” Seo lifted an eyebrow.

“No, Elder.” Lander’s disappointment was clear. “We were focused on our blades!”

“As you should be,” Seo snapped. But then, to Gilla’s surprise, he continued. “No harm in telling, since you will serve at the senel. Yes, the City Singer burned this one with fire.” Seo looked at them each in turn. “You will hear all truths tonight, with the other warriors.”

Cosana stumbled, almost spilling the corpse out of the blanket. “Other warriors?”

“Warriors,” Seo barked. “Warriors who honor the fallen with respect and silence.”

Their grins quickly stifled, the young warriors continued with their task.

SUN Setting urged his horse on at a full gallop, as Grass Fires had commanded. His horse flew over the Plains, running hard.

As he rode, he scanned the grasses for the soft glow of magic. He would need as big a source as he could find quickly, if he was to obey his orders. His heart raced with growing excitement that he would bring amazing news.

The Sacrifice had been found, bearing the magic of the Plains.

On the horse ran, as Sun Setting leaned forward, watching the land ahead. Skies above, let there be a source—

There!

Sun Setting jerked the reins, and his horse turned, bucking a bit at the command. Sun Setting patted its neck in apology and allowed the animal to slow.

The glow was a good-sized area, visible under the new grasses. He’d need all of it, and though the teaching of the Elders said that no area was to be drained, he had no choice.

He flung himself from the saddle, pulling at his saddlebags. He fumbled with his small scrying bowl and waterskin. His horse shook its head, breathing hard.

Kneeling in the grass, Sun Setting tore the grasses away and set the bowl in as level a place as possible. He filled it with water, slopping some over the side. The water trembled in the bowl, his hands were shaking so.

The horse came over to investigate, drawn by the scent. Sun Setting cursed, pushing its head away, then caught himself. He needed to be calm before casting the spell.

He stood, and removed the saddle and halter from the animal. He’d release it to find the water it needed. The casting would drain him enough that he would need to rest. He could summon another animal in the morning.

Once freed, the horse lifted its head to scent the air, then started off, leaving him alone in the grasses.

Sun Setting knelt, and waited until his breathing was under control before invoking the elements. He stared into the depths of the water, placed his palms on the ground, and drained the magic from the land. He started the chant as he concentrated, using the magic to bear his message on the wind.

“Hail Storm . . . I seek Hail Storm. . . .”

The grasses swayed around him as he focused, seeking . . .

The water clouded, then an image appeared, the face of Elder Hail Storm. His face was covered with the traditional tattoos, but the stylized markings around his eye identified him.

“Elder Hail Storm.” Sun Setting barely dared to breathe, for fear of disturbing the water.

“Sun Setting”—Hail Storm frowned—“what is it?”

“The Sacrifice,” Sun Setting said. “The Sacrifice has returned to the Plains.”

WILD Winds, warrior-priest and Eldest Elder of the Plains, shifted in his saddle. Riding was becoming harder and harder with his waning strength.

Even that slight movement caught the eye of Snowfall. She glanced at him sharply, as if assessing his ability to continue. He ignored her raised eyebrow, and settled back down into his saddle.

The day was a fine one, and the Plains seemed unusually fair this season. It would be good to conduct a few Rites of Ascension and celebrate the passage of new warriors to adult status. Being Eldest Elder, he seemed to deal more with the arguments and problems of the Plains than with the young ones. He was looking forward to it. A familiar ritual, and a joyous one.

Provided he had enough strength.

Well, that was easily done. He’d make certain he had enough rest before the rite was held. Even if he didn’t, young Snowfall would. She who did not even have all of her tattoos yet.

It bordered on disrespect, to treat an elder—an Eldest Elder—as if he were the child.

Were she not the best and brightest of his charges . . . Lightning Strike stiffened in his saddle, reaching for a lance. “Rider,” he called out. “Warrior-priest.”

The others reached for weapons as well. Wild Winds shook his head. So this is what they had come to now, with the Council of Elders sundered. Change was sweeping the Plains, and not for the better. Keir of the Cat did not understand that he and his Warprize were—

“It’s Swift Arrow,” Snowfall said. “Wasn’t he with Grass Fires?”

The others did not relax.

The rider came on at a full gallop, not slowing until he was well within speaking range. “Eldest Elder,” he gasped as he pulled his horse up. “The Sacrifice has been spotted. He is on the Plains, bearing the magic within him.” Swift Arrow paused to gasp for air. “There was an attack . . . I do not know. . . .”

“Show me,” Wild Winds demanded.