Destiny's Star by Elizabeth Vaughan
Hail Storm wiped himself clean, and then treated the body as he would any lover, arranging it on the pallet to sleep and drawing the blankets over its shoulders. “Sleep, little one.” He spoke just loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the tent. “I’ve work yet to do. But I will return, and we shall share again, shall we?”
He gathered up his trous and his dagger, and went to the main room. With a sigh, he looked around at his tent as he dressed.
The large brazier in the center of the room was still glowing with coals. Hail Storm helped himself to the warm kavage, then added fuel slowly, until the flames jumped about eagerly.
“Elder,” a voice came from outside the tent flap. “Sweet Grasses sends word that they are ready for you.”
“Very well.” Hail Storm swept up his cloak and let it cover his shoulders, then took up his staff. With a casual flip, he put the tip of the staff under the brazier, and tipped it over on the wooden platform. The coals made a gentle hiss as they tumbled out, the flames following playfully. A shame, really. This tent had served him well.
He stepped from the tent, letting the flap close all the way behind him.
HAIL Storm had not anticipated that he’d have an audience for this casting. Mist was waiting with Sweet Grasses when he arrived, looking over the arrangements with a eagle’s eye.
The center of the tent had been cleared, and the sod cut away. The earth beneath had been dug down for a hand’s breadth in a circle as large as a man’s height, and lined with leathers that had been oiled and sealed. At the very center sat a large tree trunk, cut so that the top just emerged from the water. Next to that was a large flat stone, also just above the surface of the water.
“So, it represents the Plains,” Mist said. “And the wood is the Heart.”
Hail Storm nodded as he removed his cloak. “The rock is the lake beside it.” He drew a deep breath. “I think I can cast a blessing spell in such a way as to tell us where magic is in the Plains. When the Sacrifice loses control, as he will, there will be a flare of fire in that location. I have warrior-priests ready to sit and watch and wait.”
“A powerful spell, if you can manage it.” Mist eyed him closely. “You think there is enough power here to do this?”
“With care.” Hail Storm moved to the northernmost corner, where a precious wood fire burned brightly. “I would prefer to do this under the bells, Mist.”
“I am sure you would,” Mist replied. She planted her feet and crossed her arms, causing the two skulls on her staff to clatter together. “But I would learn from you, Hail Storm.”
Damned old mare! She’d rattled her skulls on purpose. Hail Storm’s temples pulsed with anger as he set his staff, empty of skulls, against the side of the tent. But there was little he could do. For now. He wondered briefly how much magic he could pull from her dying, but then he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
He started with the fire element, then worked his way around to each corner and each element, chanting softly, pulling the magic from the land as he went, gathering it in his hand. He knew he’d have to move with care, so that the old mare wouldn’t see the source of power at his belt.
Easily done.
Finally, he stood at the southern point and turned to face the center of the room. He knelt, and held out his arms, palms out, fingers wide. He softly chanted the traditional words of the blessing spell, with but the slightest of changes.
Blessing spells watched over the thea camps of each tribe, helping to keep their people strong and fit. In the old times, when the magic had been strong, the warrior-priests had been warned of any sickness or threat to the People.
So Hail Storm changed the words, changed his focus, seeking only to know when strong magic would flare anywhere on the Plains. The Sacrifice would lose control sooner or later, and with any luck it would happen before he could leave the Plains.
Hail Storm lowered his arms, letting his palm brush against the hilt of his sacrifice blade. He didn’t even have to pull—the magic flared up within him. Hail Storm raised his arms again, this time to cross them before his chest and clench his fists. He wove this new power into the spell, and let it settle gently over the water. Only then did he let out a breath, allowing the tension to ease from his body.
“Well done,” Mist said grudgingly. She came to stand next to him.
“There will need to be watchers.” Hail Storm rubbed his face with both hands. “At all times. I cannot—”
Mist nodded. “I’ve young ones waiting. They will keep watch, and we will rotate them so their eyes stay sharp.” She hesitated, giving Hail Storm a careful look. “It seemed to me that the magic surged while you were casting. It had an odd feel to it, a kind of—”
Shouts came from outside. “Hail Storm!” Someone thrust the tent flap open. “Your tent is afire!”
“Go,” Mist said. “I will see to this.”
With a curse, Hail Storm ran from the tent, perfectly prepared to mourn the death of Arching Colors.
NINETEEN
“THE Plains bathed in new life is lovely, Bethral.” Her mother’s eyes were bright as she looked off to the west. “I hope someday you can see it.”
“Horses, Mama? Lots of horses?” Bethral clung to her mother’s trous, and bounced.
“Oh, yes,” her mother laughed. “It’s like a new world that comes to life after the snows. Horses, true enough. But oh, the fl owers, little one. You would not believe . . .”
“I believe, Mama,” Bethral whispered to her mother as she looked about her.
It was amazing. The grasses were filled with color, so many different flowers it was hard to take in. Great swaths of blue and yellow, mixed with the white of the clover. Birds clung to the stems, eating the insects that buzzed about each blossom. The air was sweet with fragrance. The enormous blue sky stretched above it all, the sun warm and welcoming.
Her mother had told her that in the fall, all the grasses turned red and yellow so that the entire Plains seemed to be on fire. That would be a sight to see.
But after four days of travel, she’d had her fill of spring. If she saw one more mare mounted by the herd stallion, or yet another courtship display by hawks, or if the young ones didn’t stop sharing at the top of their lungs every single hour of the night . . .
They had more energy and enthusiasm than Red Gloves.
Of course, Red Gloves would’ve laughed her head off by this time. “Get that itch scratched, Bethral, or it will drive you crazy.”
That’s how Red had always seen sex. As just a physical act, for the pleasure of the moment. Well, that was how she had treated it until she had met her goatherder. Bethral shook her head at the memory. Red had resisted, but Josiah had won her, that was certain.
That was what Bethral wanted. Not just the physical, but the other aspect. Someone who stood at your side, and not just in a fight, but in all those moments that made up life. She’d been close to Red, they’d been sisters in all ways. But Bethral wanted more than friendship. Someone who wasn’t interested just in her body, or how she swung her sword.
Truth was, all this spring was making her itchy.
And it wasn’t going to get scratched anytime soon, Bethral thought ruefully as she looked over at Ezren Storyteller.
He was riding along, surrounded by Cosana, El, Chell, and Arbon. The sunlight picked up the reddish tint in his hair, and with the brown of his leather armor, he looked . . . Bethral turned away.
“Pawn to queen’s bishop five,” Arbon said.
There was a pause, then laughter. Bethral looked back and saw Ezren shake his head. “No, I have lost it. Again.”
“You made it ten moves that time,” Cosana said kindly. “That’s better than before.”
“Not good enough for an entire game, I fear.”
“You truly cannot remember the board?” Arbon asked.
“I cannot,” Ezren said firmly. “But that does not mean that all city dwellers cannot. We are not all the same.”
“
“We have memories,” Ezren said. “And we have writing.” He paused. “I may not be able to remember a chessboard, but I do not forget stories.”
They all perked up at that. “Would you tell us a story?” Chell asked. “Here? Now?”
“Why not?” Ezren glanced around as they brought their horses closer. “I can repeat it later for those on watch.”
He thought for a bit as his horse moved on. “Hear now a tale of the land of Palins, from long ago, when time and tide sat young upon the land,” Ezren started. “This is the tale of the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter, and how the Lady brought Night to the Land.”
“We will remember,” the warriors chorused.
The Lord of Light, God of the Sun, was charged with the care of the lands and the people who were touched by his light. The Lord performed his duties well, bearing the responsibilities of his power and position until he bowed beneath the weight of his cares. Over and over he moved from horizon to horizon, spreading his sacred light and warmth over the lands. As soon as he dipped below the horizon, he rose again, bathing his creation in constant light.
Ezren looked about, making sure he had their attention . But once, as he traveled the sky, his light happened upon a lady fair sleeping in her garden. The light and warmth touched her soft skin, and she awoke with laughter on her lips. He paused for dramatic effect. And the Lord of the Sun paused in his journey.
Bethral listened with one ear as she scanned the rises around them, looking for signs of pursuit. So far, they’d had no evidence that anyone was searching for them, but it had been only a few days. They needed to stay alert, just in case.
Ezren’s voice was husky and mesmerizing. She wondered if he realized how different he sounded when he was telling tales.
The Lady rose from her bed, her skin warm, her nightclothes disheveled, her face alight with joy. She smiled, and held out her hand. ”Come down, Great Lord, and break your fast with me.” Ezren swept his hand up toward the sun. Without a care, she sat at a table bright with berries and sweet cream, fresh bread and soft butter and kavage, dark and bitter.
Ezren paused again and lowered his voice. And the Lord of Light was tempted.
But duty lay heavy on the shoulders of the God of the Sun. ”I cannot, Lady. The press of my responsibilities. You understand.”
“As you wish, Great Lord,” the Lady said with a smile. “But do not waste the day your labors create.”
For just a moment, the God of the Sun felt that he’d appeared to be a pompous ass, instead of the hardworking God that he was. He hesitated, then continued on with his tasks. But even as he did, he thought on sweet cream and red lips . . . red berries. Red berries.
Tenna laughed as the others chuckled. Bethral saw the satisfaction in Ezren’s face as he continued.
When next his rays touched her skin, the Lady was hunting alone in the forest, clad in leathers, bow in hand. She was hidden in a thicket, but his light betrayed her. The stag leapt away when her shadow appeared. The Lady cursed roundly, and with a sigh, unstrung her bow.
The Storyteller’s horse had stopped, standing patiently as he waited for his rider to urge him on. But Ezren was lost in the tale, in the faces of his audience, who had stopped beside him. Bethral listened as well, but kept her awareness of their surroundings.
“Beg pardon, Lady.” The God of the Sun spoke softly. Ezren’s voice changed slightly as he took the role of the God.
With a shrug, the Lady set off toward a nearby stream. “It’s a hunt. Were it a sure thing, it would be a slaughter.” She looked up and gave him a laughing glance. “Next time your light may startle the prey toward me instead of away. It’s a balance.”
“Still,” the Sun God pressed, “I spoiled your shot.”
“Then make amends,” she replied lightly as she paused on the bank. “Come, sit, and talk awhile.”
The Lord of Light, God of the Sun, paused, then spoke with regret. ”Lady, I cannot.”
“The press of duty,” she fi nished for him. “As you will, Great Lord. I will sit in the cool shade, and splash the water with my bare toes. Be about your duty, Good Sire.”
The warriors were shaking their heads at that. Arbon looked up at the sun in the sky, as if to chide it.
The God of the Sun continued with his tasks, but not without a quick look at her lovely toes, Ezren continued. His duties had never been so heavy, or so it seemed to him.
“We need to keep moving.” Bethral hated to interrupt, but it had to be done. “And the others need to be relieved.”
“You’ll finish?” Cosana begged. “Tonight by the fire?”
“I will,” Ezren promised. “And I will repeat it until everyone has heard it.”
They all thanked him, and started to scatter. Cosana rode off, but not without a flirtatious look at the Storyteller over her shoulder.
Bethral looked away. Cosana was a lovely young woman. It had surprised her when the Storyteller had declined the offer of sharing. It had enraged her when Cosana had offered to share.
But if she wasn’t brave enough to offer, what right did she have to jealousy?
None.
Yet she could not bring herself to approach him. The possibility of his rejection—the look of pity in his eyes—she couldn’t do it. He’d avoided her in Edenrich, and now they were thrown together and she would not risk what friendship they had.
In the corner of her eye, she saw the herd stallion approaching one of the mares. Of course.
Another movement, and Ezren’s horse was beside her. There was a strip of bells in Ezren’s hand, and his expression was intent.
“We need to talk.”
GILLA rode at the edges of the herd, watching for signs of warrior-priests. But she was also stalking her prey. Only this time, the prey was information. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was understanding that she sought.
She’d always been a good hunter. Not that she was the best shot with a bow, or quicker than any other. Her success lay in being patient. By stalking, watching, and waiting . . . that was how she’d brought down her quarry every time.
So now she stalked the Storyteller and his Token-Bearer.
Tenna smiled at her, and held out a fresh waterskin. “It’s still cold.”
Gilla took it gratefully, and drank eagerly. The fresh water tasted wonderful.
“How goes the hunt?” Tenna asked, knowing full well what she was up to. “Learn anything more?”
Gilla rolled her eyes. “It’s an easy enough hunt,” she said. “Bethral never lets the Storyteller out of her sight.”
“They are each aware of the other,” Tenna said.
“If longing looks counted as sharing, they’d both be sore and chafed.” Gilla shook her head.
“Maybe we could seal them in a tent, naked,” Tenna suggested.
Gilla arched an eyebrow. “You did see what she did to Arbon, right?”
Tenna laughed. “Oh, yes, which is why you go first.” She tilted her head at Gilla. “Or do you want to contrive another way to get them together?”
“No.” Gilla handed Tenna her waterskin. “I know what I am going to do.”
BETHRAL reached over the sleeping cat perched on her bedroll to dig out her own bells from her saddlebags. She tied them in Bessie’s mane without looking at Ezren. “What would you say?”
“The magic.” Ezren drew a deep breath and continued in his own tongue. “It is growing again. And I feel . . . pulled is the best way to say it. Pulled back to the north.” He looked over his shoulder. “It is a dull ache. As if I have forgotten something or someone important back there. I feel . . . a need to turn back.”
“Damn!” Bethral looked at him carefully. “I think, too, that you are losing weight.”
“Eating like a horse,” Ezren said ruefully. “More than I normally do. But that could be the riding. All this activity . . .” His voice trailed off, then he quirked his lips. ?
“When we were in Edenrich, the magic flared when you saw that warrior-priest,” Bethral said. “It came roaring out, lashing out almost as if it were enraged.”
“Anger.” Ezren’s eyes grew vague. “Yes, I felt anger. Yet there was joy, too.” Those green eyes sharpened and focused on her. “But Josiah said that magic has no emotion.”
“Josiah and Marlon deal with normal magic,” Bethral reminded him. “And they both said that the power you carry is wild magic. I am not sure their rules apply.”
“They knew nothing of the altar and its surroundings,” Ezren said. “Or of the knife.”
“I did not place it in my pack,” Bethral said firmly. “Last I knew, it was in a chest in my sleeping chamber. I do not know how it came to be in my saddlebag.”
“Marlon said it contained no magic.” Ezren frowned, looking down at his hands. “How did it get in your saddlebag?”
“Maybe it’s like Josiah’s goats,” Bethral said. “Linked to you by the very magic that it released.”
“Come to think of it”—Ezren frowned—“those goats do not really make much sense. I mean, if they are magic—and Josiah drains magic from the area around him, then how can they be magic? They never leave his side.”
Bethral blinked. “I never thought of that.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe that’s part of the magic?”
“Circular logic.” Ezren shook his head. “No, there has to be a better explanation than that.” He sighed. “I wish we could ask Josiah or Marlon about this. Or even the warrior-priests. They might actually be able to help.”
“Except they think that you need to die,” Bethral reminded him.
“Yes.” Ezren’s smile flashed. “That is a problem.” But then the grin faded. “It is building up again, Lady Bethral.”
“You want to try to use it?” Bethral guessed, noting the seriousness of his expression.
“Both Marlon and Josiah talked about trying to bleed it off before it built up.” Ezren grimaced. “And we saw what happened when I tried to suppress it using those bracelets that Evelyn gave to me. I thought maybe I could try to start a fire.”